Blue Ridge Parkway, all the way (Day 1, continued)

Previous post.

From the map, it was clear that after I entered Tennessee (at Johnson City), the tedium of riding on a busy freeway will be a thing of the past, and I will be traveling through forests and hills.

But Johnson City was another 140 miles on I-81south.  By now my butt was getting a little sore.  I had been riding for more than 6 hours, after all.  I wondered about the IronButt association's honors for relentless riding, some of which are:

1. SaddleSore and BunBurner: 1000 miles in 24 hours, or 1500 miles in 36 hours.
2. SS2000: 2000 miles in 48 hours or less.
3. 50CC: Coast to coast on a motorcycle in 50 hours.

When I was around eight, my dad took my sister and me on his scooter from Patiala to Dehradun and Rishikesh.  It was "only" 200km, but since a scooter could only average 35kmph or so on the tricky Indian roads, we were on the saddle for 5-6 hours on day one.  After about 3 hours of riding, my sister and I were jumping up and down on the scooter seat to relieve some pressure on our butt, even if momentarily.  That annoyed my dad, since the scooter wobbled out of balance every time we did it.

In a rare prank, he dropped us both near a river bridge, and rode off.  My sister and I both started crying.  In a few minutes we saw him coming back toward us.  I don't know if we loved him or hated him at that instant.  After that incident, we merely tried to wiggle our butts without leaving the seat.  But it was mighty uncomfortable.  It was our mini-BunBurner ride.

But this time it was only me on the motorcycle, so I had full freedom to wiggle, to lift my butt for a few moments, and do other amusing manouvers.  They helped somewhat, but I realized I needed to take rest stops every couple of hours.  I stopped for gas after an hour or riding at a village aptly called "Rural Retreat", and had another stop for sipping some iced tea another hour later in Bristol.

I finally exited I-81S onto 26-East, and it was a welcome change.  Now the scenery was lush forests on both sides of the road, with ominous clouds looming low.  The air was cool and moist, and smelled of damp soil and grass.  Up ahead on the horizon the clouds were dark and I wondered if I would be able to continue to ride without getting wet.  About twenty miles in there was a "vista point", and I stopped for a few minutes to admire the view.  Here's a photograph of the motorcycle from the top of the vista point:

It was a beautiful spot, but as you can see, the storm was gathering up ahead.  I climbed down and was back on the highway.

Not ten minutes had passed that drops of rain started hitting my helmet visor.  It was just a drizzle, and I felt confident that I could ride on.  Oh but soon the drizzle turned into a downpour, and I was getting soaked.  The leather jacket and the helmet were protecting my upper body, but the raindrops hitting my legs (at 60mph) felt like darts.  It was so bad that I wondered if there was hail and not raindrops.

Thankfully there was an underpass up ahead, and I exited the highway to shelter under it.  I must have been there for almost three quarters of an hour.  But it was fantastic to see the torrent come down.  It was almost 5pm and those who lived nearby were going back home from their places of work.  Every few minutes a car would pass me while I was just standing around watching the rain.  It was Friday evening, and I imagined that these people must be looking forward to the evening and the weekend.

Twice it happened that a woman driver passed by me and slowed down to take a better look.  One of them even missed the stop sign and had to reverse her car.  I allowed myself to think of a poetic and romantic turn of events befitting a Wong Kar Wai film.  I imagined a woman stopping to ask me if I was fine, and inviting me to her abode for a cup of hot chocolate.  And then, we would part ways and think of what could have been, never to see each other again.

Suddenly there was a cacophony of sirens.  Three, four and then five emergency vehicles went by me on to the eastbound highway.  I was alarmed that an accident must have happened due to the rain and the slippery road surface.

Soon the rain slowed down and the sky became a little lighter and some birds came out.  It was time to be on the road again.

To be sure, a few miles down the road there was a bad accident involving two cars, one of which had gone off the road into the median.  There were ambulances and fire engines and I hoped nobody was injured too badly.  Just a mile from there another car had gone off the road about thirty feet down into the grass valley.  I tightened my grip on the handlebars (but not too tight, as the motorcycle safety foundation will tell you!) and became even more alert and cautious.

But the raindrops were again increasing in intensity.  At that speed, the front wheel of the motorcycle was throwing back the water on the road on to my lower legs and my feet were soaking wet in the squishy socks.  The road was good, and the traffic was fortunately light.  After about ten miles the dark clouds gave way to a lighter sky.  I was in Asheville.

Another hour or riding, and I was off the highway onto country roads.  I had rode such a long distance, that it was perplexing to me when an expected exit wouldn't come, and I had to check my GPS a few times to make sure I was going in the right direction and on the right road.  Finally I saw Lake Junaluska and "Maggie Valley" on the signboards, and heaved a sigh of relief.  The lake was not too big but it was pretty, and here's a picture of it:

I reached the quaint "Clarketon motel" at around 6.30pm.  The man at the reception desk had no clue how to handle a check-in (he was filling in for his sister).  He forgot to give me the room key.  He allocated me the room right next to the road, and when I asked for a better, quieter room, he said there was a better room which cost $15 more, but I could just pay him $5 cash if I wanted it.  In the first room, he asked me not to sit on the bed or anything.  I complied.  I was shivering with the cold and with my feet still soaking wet, and as soon as I entered the "more expensive" room, I turned on the heat and changed into dry clothes.

The room was, um, interesting.  The ceiling was around seven feet high, and it had a kitchen sink instead of a washroom sink.  Well, never mind.  The heating was working and the bed was king-sized.  I went out for dinner, got soaked again, filled up the gas tank for tomorrow's great ride, came back, closed the curtains, and went off to sleep.

Outside, the motorcycle's trip-meter showed 525 miles traveled that day.

The day wasn't over yet.  I woke up in the middle of the night and wanted to check the time.  The room had no clock, so I had to go get my phone which was getting charged.  The room was dark, pitch dark.  As I gingerly and groggily trudged toward the phone, suddenly I hit something metallic, and hit it hard, near my right eye.  I winced in pain and crouched on the bed, cursing silently and not understanding what I had hit.  I switched on the light, and it was a badly positioned TV stand at eye level, with metal edges jutting out.  It could have taken out my eye had I been walking an inch to the right.  I inspected the injury in the mirror and it wasn't bleeding, but it was swollen.

Cursing the room, but grateful for my still intact eyes, I went back to sleep.  But before I did so, I made sure the curtains were open just a little, to let in some light.

What a day!

Blue Ridge Parkway, all the way (Day 1)

There is a strange but undeniable charm to riding a motorcycle through desolation.  Riding a motorcycle for long distances can be uncomfortable, and requires endurance and alertness.  But one is also much more intimately in touch with the environment and the road.  The texture of the air and the smells, the road surface, navigating the curves, the exposure to the wind and the sounds, ... It is perhaps this closer connection to the elements and being a more involved part of the ride that attracts the adventurous to this form of transport.

It is somewhat riskier than driving a car, but that doesn't hold anyone back.  In fact, cars have become too comfortable.  Heated seats, automatic everything, seat belts and silence, are comfortable, but also insulate the driver from the experience of the journey.  Motorcyclists in the US euphemistically call car drivers as "cagers" - people trapped in a metal cage looking out through their window - while the motorcyclist is "free".

My last long ride was in California.  From Orange county, I went through the deserts and the western Sierra mountains to the Devil's Postpile national monument, and on to Mammoth Lake.  It was a great ride.

After I moved to Virginia, winter set in and the motorcycle had to go into hibernation.  A few weeks into the spring, and I was longing for another long ride.  I asked around, and almost everybody, and every website, recommended a ride on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

The Blue Ridge Parkway is a national park.  Interestingly, the road itself is the national park.  Hundreds of trails, scenic overlooks, historical places, cultural artifacts, mountains and lakes are scattered on both sides of the road.  The road starts near Cherokee, NC and meanders 469 miles before ending at the entrance of the Shenandoah National Park near Waynesboro in Virginia.  The speed limit on the road is a leisurely 45mph.  It can be done in one day, but obviously that would make one miss out on pausing to enjoy the scenery and the side attractions.

I decided to take a Friday off, travel to the South end and then ride the parkway all the way to the North.  Many riders preferred the ride from South to North as the sun wouldn't be in one's eyes for most of the day.  And also, after finishing the ride, the long 500 mile ride back home on the busy high-speed freeways, with trucks and all, wouldn't be something to look forward to.  To do that (relatively humdrum) distance before the ride would be psychologically more canny.

For me, the parkway ride would therefore begin at milepost 469 (the south end) and end at milepost 0 (the north end).  From the north end, it is 120 miles to home.

The weather forecast showed scattered showers during the Saturday and Sunday in that region.  I decided to take a chance.  If it starting raining too heavily, I could always stop and wait.

I booked a night's stay in Maggie Valley, NC (about 19 miles from Cherokee), and another near Meadows of Dan, VA (milepost 180 or so).  I decided to go the whole way to Maggie Valley (almost 500 miles from Northern Virginia, where I live) on day 1.  Then cover almost 300 miles each during the next two days.  It proved to be a good plan.

There are no gas stations on the parkway.  Not even a stop sign or a traffic signal or a sign showing where to get gas.  So I had to plan the stops with my motorcycle's fuel range in mind.  Suzuki C50 has a gas tank capacity of 4.1 gallons, with each gallon contributing around 50 miles.  I chose the parkway junctions with other highways where I wouldn't have to go too far to get gas.

It was Thursday evening.  With the planning and bookings done, it was time to get physically and mentally ready.  I packed my backpack (to be attached to the bike using bungee cords), made sure to carry some warm layers of clothing, filled my water bottle and the travel-ready flask of Vodka, and went to sleep.  I planned to start early the next day.  It was going to be a long, long ride.

I started around 7am.  It was almost 65 degrees F, pleasant and not too warm.  I kept the warm layers packed, and after a quick breakfast, proceeded to ride to my first stop: to have coffee at Harrisonburg, 120 miles from home.

Earplugs in, jacket and helmet and visor and gloves on, all systems go!

It was an uneventful ride.  Continuing on the interstate 66 East, I soon came to its junction with the notorious (too may trucks!) but beautiful intestate 81 South.

At Harrisonburg, I stopped for gas and coffee.  I was so cold that I could not stay indoors in the air-conditioned cafe, but had to come out into the sun.  That told me I needed to wear some more layers.  As I was finishing my coffee, a man came to look at my motorcycle and remarked that he too was the owner of a C50.  We chit-chatted, and he wished me luck.  Interestingly, there was a "spa" right next to the gas station.  It looked shady.  Why would there be a "spa" near a truck stop?  I googled it and my guess proved right.  It was an establishment of "pleasure".  Hmm... I guess the truckers do need a good massage.

Continuing South, I tried to take the parallel, lower-speed US-11 for a more relaxed ride.  81-South has a speed limit of 70mph.  That means most traffic, including a LOT of 18-wheeler trucks, are hurtling down at 75mph or more.  It is fast, but also not too enjoyable.  It turned out that the side-road, US-11, had too many stop signs or stop lights.  From being relaxing and leisurely, it quickly became bothersome.  I decided to get back on 81-South.

The traffic wasn't too bad.  There were quite a few trucks, but I was cruising at 75mph in the right lane, and thankfully they kept their distance.

It was getting warmer and warmer.

Soon I was near Blacksburg, and it was lunchtime.  The Virginia Tech University was nearby, and I decided to try the country restaurant chain "Cracker Barrel".  I had never eaten there, and had heard good things about it.  First thing I ordered was a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade.  It was heavenly.  And it came with endless refills.  So I had another!  I ordered a big sized burger with all kinds of country seasonings, and almost couldn't finish it.  There were easy chairs on a porch outside, and I lounged around for a while, while looking at retired folks (it was Friday, a working day) coming for their lunch.  All white people.  No Asians, Blacks or Hispanics.  No students.  And mostly couples.  It was quaint.  The Cracker Barrel restaurants have a country "store" next to their dining room.  They sell preserves, quilts and chairs, and other "country" stuff.  Oh well...

I had traveled almost 260 miles.  Only half-way done.

(to be continued)

The Ist and the Ine

Ist and Ine were sisters.  Ine was beautiful, charming and self-effacing.  Ist was different.  She was more of a rebel against norms and rules.  While both Ist and Ine were their father's darlings, their mom was worried about Ist's future.

When Ist and Ine were of marrying age, there was no dearth of suitors.  But all the suitors preferred Ine over Ist.  Instead of respecting their choice, Ist became bitter and even more strident in her opinions.  She started hating mankind as being only interested in superficiality.

Ine was soon married and in a few years, had two beautiful children.  Whenever she visited her parental home, she was beaming with contentment and joy.

Ist hadn't found her calling yet.  She had been drifting in and out of employment, and regarded the world as a cruel place.  She had joined many a organization working for the downtrodden.  She felt a strange kinship with the oppressed.

But her experiences and associations didn't offer her security or a good man.  She cursed the unfairness of it all, and wondered if she and her persona was to blame.  But one can curse only for so long.  She started thinking of men as pigs, and that they were unworthy of her.  That it was a blessing in disguise that she hadn't gotten married to a "chauvinist".

Everybody who came across her praised her on her face.  They admired her independence, and given her sad lot in life, tried not to criticize her.  A few well-meaning ladies tried to hint that she would do well to pay some attention to her appearance, but in adulthood, such hints have to be subtle lest they be considered intrusive. 

Through the years, Ist had gradually stopped caring to look good.  If good men did not want to come to her, she would convince herself that the reason was her refusal to wear make-up and colorful dresses, and that she could always get them if she wanted.

But of course, she never got down to becoming more attractive to men, and neither did any man express a desire to marry her.  It was a vicious cycle.  The more men rejected her, the more anti-men she became, and the more walls she put up against anyone trying to court her.

She started a movement exhorting young ladies to not "need" men in their lives.  She wrote pamphlets and books extolling the virtues of financial and social self-sufficiency.  She railed against industry, medicine, science, sports, ... She even wrote against video games which she felt had made men into commitment-phobic adolescents.  She wrote bitterly against women like her sister Ine, calling them sellouts and house-slaves.  She - and more bitter women soon joined her - would rather that a woman worked for a boss instead of taking care of her home.


To have a husband and children was not to be a woman's goal in life.  According to Ist and her cohorts, the only worthy goal was to realize one's full potential in the job market or by living life to the fullest.  Living life to the fullest meant to them a no-holds-barred, no-strings-attached series of affairs and hookups.  To not have to be slender, charming or have domestic skills, but to have tattoos, piercings and short hair.

It is said that Ist and her group were the single largest factor in the growth of the pet stores nationwide.

The Atlas of Life

The sun was bearing down oppressively on the caravan.  The desert was seemingly endless.  Occasionally a scorpion or a snake slithered from under the sands, and soon disappeared.

The caravan was carrying children, thousands of them.  It was being propelled by haggard animals.  The adults sometimes rested on the carriages with their children, but most of the time they too were walking alongside the beasts.

The journey had been contninuing for many thousands of years.  As the children came of age, they were forced to jump out of the carriages and to assume the roles of adults.

And the adults were distressed, but found pleasure in their eating and copulating.  That it only led to an increase in the burden on the carriages was well-known but disregarded.  There were a few who were appalled at this absurd journey, and they took vows of celibacy and broke away from the caravan.  But they too could not drift too far into the desert.  The few mad ones who did, died of the heat.

The caravan had been traveling for many thousands of years.

A child in the caravan, barely eight years old, had been observing this macabre scene unfold before him.  He saw children becoming adults, adults producing more children, and then being burdened with them, with the only aim of keeping the caravan moving.  He could not see what they were destined for, and nobody seemed to know.

One night, that child lay wide awake, looking at the stars.  The stars were twinkling from a fathomless distance, and the cold desert seemed to extend into eternity.  A stellar mist was visible in that clear night.  Maybe it was a constellation, maybe a cluster of gas.  But he could not avert his eyes from it.  He was afraid to close his eyes, scared that when he woke up, it would be morning and he would miss that beauty before him.

He looked around at the sleeping, groaning, snoring caravan.  Mothers tending to crying babies, feeding them, trying to comfort them.  The men sleeping fitfully and dreaming of rivers and geysers.  The animals, listless and hungry, stoically waiting for the morning when they again would be put in harness.

Suddenly the child saw a shooting star.  It was a brief sight, ephemeral and momentary.  For a moment, something blazed, went through a trajectory, and disappeared.

The child stood up with great energy, shouted to his mother, dusted off the sand from his body, and started running toward the horizon, to catch the beauty of that star.  He was heartbroken that something so beautiful could just disappear into nothingness.

He ran and ran, but eventually the night passed and the sun rose, and the sky lightened up and the stars disappeared.  Crestfallen and angry, he trudged back to his caravan.

As he again settled in the carriage, with his eyes dry from tears which flowed no more, he looked at his mother and spit out the words: "I could not catch the shooting star.  Life is pitiless."

The mother was nursing her youngest, and affectionately answered him: "There will be another shooting star tonight.  Its child.  And so on tomorrow night.  And till eternity."

The caravan had been traveling for many thousands of years...

Suicide and its "abetment"

The dictionary definition of "abetment" is: To approve, encourage, and support (an action or a plan of action); urge and help on.

Abetment to Suicide is a crime under Indian law.  The law states:

"306. Abetment of suicide.—If any person commits suicide, whoever abets the commission of such suicide, shall be punished with imprisonment of either description for a term which may extend to ten years, and shall also be liable to fine. "

Indian courts and police have been routinely arresting and prosecuting people under this law when all they did was do something which caused another person a lot of agony - enough agony to commit suicide.  A husband having an affair, a boss transferring an official, a father refusing the demands of his son, a teacher failing a student, etc. are all situations in which the person at the receiving end can undergo an emotional upheaval.  If the upheaval cannot be contained by the person's inner or outer support systems, a grave outcome might result.  Such a person might harm himself or harm others.

But it is clear (to me at least) that doing "something" that another person strongly dislikes should not be a crime.  Even if the dislike is so strong that it leads to a suicide.  If that "something" is a crime in its own right (e.g. nepotism, theft, rape) then there are enough laws to prosecute the person for that act.  

But to prosecute a person because his acts pushed someone to kill themselves is a travesty.  Because emotional immaturity of one person should not be held against another.  Because otherwise, to indulge in something unpopular or offensive (not criminal per se) would be fraught with danger.  Because otherwise, any act can result in a person being jailed.

Suppose a woman has two lovers.  She ultimately decides to marry one of them.  The other man falls into depression and commits suicide.  No person in their right mind would criminalize the choice made by the woman.  But how is this situation significantly different from a husband who has an affair which pushes his wife into depression and suicide?

A non-criminal act which is not intended to hurt anyone but which ends up being unacceptable to someone does not thereby become a crime.  The law cannot be subject to emotion.

Emotional agitation of others must not be a factor in criminalizing someone.  We call a region a "police state" when people live in fear of being randomly prosecuted because someone in power disliked them.  Similar is this kind of "abetment state" where you have to be careful lest someone harm themselves because they felt bad about something you did.

Abetment of suicide must only mean a situation wherein a person actively encouraged someone to kill themselves, or helped them with the means for ending their life.  Merely doing something offensive is not the same thing.

I wish Indian courts and the Indian police understood this.