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Three days, six states, 1000 miles
That’s exactly what we did in the spring of 2007 for the annual Biker Dude Weekend – an informal gathering of pals from the Keystone and Garden States. The direct route from the Jersey Shore to Scranton is via Philadelphia, the Schuykill Expressway and the Northeast Extension of the Pa. Turnpike. A motorcyclist would rather stick needles in his eyes. (There’s a good reason locals call the Schuykill the “Sure Kill.”) We were on rider time, anyway. No hurry, find the good roads. So we headed north on the Jersey side, enjoying blueberry farms in Atlantic County, peach orchards in Cumberland and scrub pines in Burlington on our way to Trenton. In Trenton we skirted around the city on 29 (a scenic riverside highway) and zipped over the Calhoun Street Bridge to Morrisville. This one of those wonderful, old, narrow 19th century iron truss bridges, one of several that cross the Delaware in this part of the world. Two reason for crossing the river. First, it’s fun to freak yourself out by looking down at the rushing current through the steel grid deck. Second, Route 32 – the River Road on the Pennsy side – is particularly pretty in spring. It did not disappoint. Then, back to Jersey over the even more narrow bridge at Washington Crossing. It’s fun to watch the bloated SUVs try to negotiate this bridge without losing a mirror. Next to one of the nicest motorcycle roads in Mercer County, Harbourton Road, which linked us north to Route 31 on our way to Buttzville. (Yeah, that’s really the name of the town.) Route 31 is a good alternative to superslab when finding your way north to the Poconos and Delaware Water Gap. But development has changed it quite a bit in recent years. What used to be farms, mom-and-pop stores and the occasional school is now chain pharmacies, grocery stores and burger joints in places. Fortunately the bulk of the plastic mess is confined to Flemington in Hunterdon County. North of there it gets scenic and uncluttered again. 31 links to 46 in Buttzville. We had just made the turn when Steve pulled his Heritage Softtail off the road, shaking his head like a wet dog. He was almost staggering when he got off the bike so I hopped off the bike and rushed back to check on him. He was having some sort of massive allergic attack – sneezing and eyes watering to the point of near blindness. He felt better after a few minutes out of his helmet and was happy to hear we were only a mile from lunch, where he could get some water on his face.
Dogs, fries, birch beer and buttermilk are the four basic food groups here. A tidy little playground beckons kids at the edge of the burbling Delaware – and the grub hits the spot. It’s busy year-round: mountain tourists in spring and summer, hunters in fall, skiers in winter and motorcyclists anytime. Johnny died in ’94 – his daughter Patricia keeps the dogs flying these days. And you can tell the family often swaps the spatula for the scrubrush. Johnny's always looks like it just got a wash and a fresh coat of paint. Put this place on your list. Fortunately clean water and cold birch beer made a new man of Steve and he was well recovered by the time we had swallowed the last of our sodium-laden road treats. Now we had some choices to make: the direct route to Scranton is via superslab – and one you’d probably rather not ride, I-80. I-80 is nice to look at but can be a horror show of trucks and speeders. And in this stretch, there’s no shoulder which can make having a mechanical problem a life-altering experience. Gassing up north of Johnny’s, we chatted with the attendant and she recommended 611 on the Pa. side. So we crossed the river once again at Portland and worked our way to Stroudsburg. The approach was stellar – sweeping curves and not too much traffic around the Water Gap (where the Delaware cut its way between the mountains). That changed drastically when we got to Stroudsburg, where it seemed every resident of northeastern Pennsylvania were riding around in their SUVs. Stroudsburg is a cute little college town so at least we had something to look at while crawling along. The traffic kept getting worse, though we were hours from ‘rush hour’ in any other town. Apparently rush goes practically around the clock here. Finally we got through and then tried to find a good route to Scranton. Only moderately successful, we ended up on the slab anyway, battling a ferocious headwind on I-380 as we rolled the miles. It wasn’t too bad in the final analysis – less than an hour of slab, then to friends, family and hot pizza awaiting our arrival at Keith’s (Road King). That was some damned tasty pizza after a full day of saddle time. Our bellies stuffed with pizza and Keith’s garage stuffed with motorcycles, we bedded down for the night, planning an 8 a.m. start. Saturday dawned clear and Pennsylvania-crisp. 31 degrees on Keith’s backyard thermometer. We bundled up and headed to the Dunkin’ Donuts rendezvous with Joe (Heritage Softtail) and Todd (Yamaha Virago). Greetings, warm dough and hot coffee gave the sun time to rise a bit and by the time we cranked ‘em started it was almost balmy. Destination: Front Royal, Va. As superslabs go, I-81 in northern Pennsylvania is quite nice. Gentle curves, hills, pretty countryside. It was a most enjoyable jaunt. Trouble is, it leads to Harrisburg. The state capital is a hornet’s nest of activity and lots of 18-wheelers are headed that way. You have not lived until you have experienced – from the seat of a motorcycle – the turbulence, eddies and sucking drafts around a barreling semi. In all, though, the drivers are pros. They were courteous and careful around us. We didn't do anything stupid and they appreciated it.
The T-Rex is an unusual vehicle. Three wheels, but more car than bike – it seats two in sports-car fashion with crazy styling and hot performance engineering. Check ‘em out. You can put one in your garage for a mere $40,000 US. We chatted with them briefly and got the lowdown – friendly guys – then wished them luck and hit the highway. At the next gas stop – a moment of Zen. A motorist approached and asked if we knew how to get to the Harley dealer. We were an appropriate group to ask. “Funny you should ask,” I replied. Now the non-Harley rider had his chance to out-Harley the Harley heads. I had recently added the Harley Davidson Ride Atlas to my saddlebag and I was able to give them the exact address and phone number – all HD dealers are listed. Not five minutes later, as we were gearing up to go, another motorist approached. “Do you guys know where the Harley dealer is?” Peals of laughter. Back to truck-dodging on 81. What had become a sunny and mild spring day changed practically the minute we crossed the Mason-Dixon Line. Dixie was in the shadow of dark clouds. The temperature dipped but it stayed dry so we weren’t complaining. At one point, the group accelerated dramatically. I thought ‘who let Joe go up front?’ Sure enough, I recognized his helmet at the helm. Then I saw the other reason we were getting so zippy. We had crossed into West Virginia – highway speed limit, 70. A true speed wimp, my thought was “we’re screwed.” Fortunately for me at least, West Virginia lasted all of 20 minutes. We crossed the border to Old Dominion and moderate speed limits returned. Now the sky was looking more ominous. Front Royal was damp, but we had yet to see any serious rain, so we continued to our destination – Skyline Drive and Shenandoah National Park. The day's ride plan was to barrel down 81, get to the park by mid-afternoon, ride the Drive southbound, then head to reserved hotel rooms and a hot meal in Staunton. Mother nature had other plans.
The climb began. It was rather pleasant – not too cold, not too rainy. Visibility so-so but it’s such a fun, twisty road – nobody minded. Then we reached the summit and things got a lot more interesting. Serious fog. Pea-soup, can’t see across the street fog. We slowed to a crawl. The leader pulled into the first available lookout and we pulled on rain gear. The fog cleared every now and again so we decided to keep going. Somebody voted me leader for this leg and I pulled off as quickly as I got on. I could see nothing. Like looking into a bale of cotton. The fog outside was one thing, the fog inside my helmet was another. And I could not ride with the visor up since that would have left my eyeglasses to fog. I was the target of a three-way fog conspiracy. We had done maybe a quarter of the Drive. Now we had to decide whether to turn back and go out the way we came in or press on to Rt. 211, that bisects the park on the northern end. We flagged down a passing pickup truck and asked how it was heading south. “Well, it doesn’t get any worse than right here,” was the reply. Done – we’d press on. The Harley Boys were a godsend in this soup. Harleys have four-way flashers and there were times that they were practically all that could be seen. A new rider took the lead and we crawled southward – Harleys flashing, rice burners following. We reached 211 and started downward. As soon as we began our descent, conditions improved – and this was the best riding of the day. 211 twists around hairpins and switchbacks, with smooth pavement the whole way. The road was wet so we did not take it very aggressively – but it was a blast. In the valley, 211 remains drop-dead gorgeous. Four lanes and a grassy median, all nestled between incredible rolling hillside farms and inns. Lush is the best way to describe Virginia in May – waves of soft meadow grass in shades of green worthy of Ireland. And in the rearview – our foggy adversary is apparent. The mountaintop is obscured by one long, magnificent cloud. 211 goes through Luray and past the famous cavern. We pressed westward to New Market in search of fuel. At the gas stop we reconnoitered and planned our route. Unfortunately since our Skyline ride was two-thirds short – we still had a lot of miles to cover to Staunton. The rain did not let up and we had no alternative – too late to cancel the hotel rooms in Staunton. Onward and ‘wetward.’ We’re real bikers, we can handle it. It was near dark when we pulled into town and figured out how to find the hotel. When we pulled in we were wet, tired and a mess. Happy to see dry beds and hot showers. We unpacked and threw wet gear in the coin-op dryer and enjoyed some well-deserved down time before seeking refreshment and the official day’s end – debriefing around the dinner table. (This is among the best parts of the rider’s day.) Sunday dawned breezy, chilly and crystal clear. Steve and I bid the Pennsy boys farewell – they were taking the north route home, slowly and we had to head east, fast. We had a boat to catch.
We retraced yesterday’s route, back to the Skyline Drive. 211 on the way up was just as fun as it had been on the way down. Even better, since it was dry. This time, the mountain was most enjoyable. Windy but clear – amazing views, dry pavement. We took only an hour or so to hit a few lookouts and snap some photos. The lion’s share of the Skyline Drive would have to wait for another day. We barreled East, with three major waterways to cross: The Potomac, the Chesapeake and Delaware Bay. We made it to Fredericksburg in time for lunch – but without time to absorb the incredible Civil War history of the area. Planned a route to Annapolis off the Interstate. Got a bit lost but picked up the scent again to 301. Our goal was to avoid D.C. en route to the bridge that takes Rt. 301 over the Potomac, then to 50 over the bay. The wind had us worried about bridges. But both the Potomac bridge and the bay bridge were OK – here we were thankful for the headwind. Annapolis to Rehoboth seemed endless. We rode to our limit – finally stopping for fuel and a brain-break. The wind made it fatiguing and we did not want to make any deadly mistakes. But it was obvious we were going to miss our target ferry, the 6:15. No safety net – we had to make it in time for the last boat, 7:45, or be stranded in DelMarVa. I called to make a reservation – cost an extra $10 but worth it to save time in the event we arrived at the last minute. Maryland became Delaware and the road rolled on. I was watching my clock – growing pessimistic by the minute. We did not want to miss that boat but the risk of speeding was worse. So we kept going – as fast as the signposts would allow. Every red light was an hour long. Every 10 miles was 15. I was sure we missed the boat. Friendly as they are, the crew of the Cape May–Lewes Ferry won’t hang around to wait for latecomers at the end of their workday. Finally, the last mile, the beach and terminal. I braced myself for the inevitable – a locked iron gate. But wait. It’s open! How can that be? The boat’s at 7:45 and it’s almost 7:40. They should have finished boarding 10 minutes ago. We breezed through the check-in (reservations – woo-HOO!) There were even vehicles behind us. We rolled over the gangplank, backed the bikes into position and the crew chocked the wheels. Relief. We were heading home the short way.
We’d done it. Over 1,000 miles, six states, three days. No time for sightseeing – just riding. We stopped riding to eat, stopped eating to sleep, stopped sleeping to ride. That’s a biker’s holiday. – Sal Emma, Editor, May 2007
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