I woke up in Chicago this morning with a temperature of 50 degrees and a looming threat
of rain, and thought to myself, I think I’ll go for a motorcycle ride. Actually what I thought was, “This weather stinks but I already told my friends that I’d go on this ride with them and if I don’t show up they’ll all call me a Nancy-boy wienie. So I hopped on my trusty Harley Davidson Electra Glide and met my riding partners. We were headed for the Great Smoky Mountains 700 miles away.
The ride started out in good fashion along Route 66 in Illinois where I saw the giant Rocket Man . I don’t know why he’s here but I took his photo anyhow. We turned east and headed into Indiana and that’s when all hell broke loose. Even though it was very cold when you’re on a bike doing 60 MPH, I told myself the I could handle the cold as long as it wasn’t raining. Then it started to rain. It didn’t drizzle, it rained, not dissimilar to the proverbial cow peeing on a flat rock. Welcome to Indiana.
I don’t know what it is about bikers, but when it rains, they stop to encase themselves in waterproof outerwear and then keep riding…in the rain. I guess we’re like golfers in that way, why stop what you’re doing just because of a torrential downpour. Plus, we figure, if we keep moving, lightning will never hit us.
We rode for about 200 miles in the Hoosier state and saw a lot of interesting sights. There was corn, more corn, and the occasional road kill. But Indiana is a very important state because if it wasn’t there, Lake Michigan would run into Kentucky.
We did see some interesting places that I have to make a point to revisit. There was Bone Gnaw Park, probably a popular barbecue place, and Big Bone Lick, which really speaks for itself. I’d have stopped to take pictures of these places but remember, it was raining and my phone is not waterproof.
After a long day of wetness, we arrived at our first stop, Florence, Kentucky, which should never be confused with Florence, Italy even though the people there seemed to be talking in a foreign language. I don’t know what it is about a southern accent but it just makes everybody sound like cast members of The Andy Griffith Show.
All in all, I had a comforting night’s sleep interrupted only by the sounds coming from the room next to mine. I can’t describe the sounds other than to say that they too had a southern accent.
The next day we all got on our bikes and headed to the nearest gas station to fuel up and that’s when I knew that I was really in the south. There were a couple of pick-em-up trucks flying confederate flags and all of the radio stations played country music, except the one that played the “best in gospel.” Welcome to Kentucky.
(Next, The Great Smoky Mountains)
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