Alone in The Rider's Workshop
Dedicated to The Prince of the Parkway
by Jim Ford

Continued
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I query, “So you’ve had the bike since new?” “Right out of the crate” said he. Again, Big Grin. At the time, I had about 130,000 on my bike. After this very nice conversation, we shook hands in implicit appreciation of high-mileage motorcycles, curvy roads and easy motorcycling fellowship. We promised to hook up.
Over the years, Dan and I would hook-up along the fabulous Blue Ridge Parkway at a crossroad named Meadows of Dan. That’s where he lived. We’d rendezvous at one of two places: either at a motorcycle friendly mountainside store, The Poor Farmer’s Market, where Dan shared a cosmic connection with the owner, a graceful filly named Felecia, or at Willville, a T.W.O. (Two Wheels Only) campground. The owner, Will, hand-built it for us motorcycle types to enjoy. Will’s a very cool guy, a Connecticut Yankee sort, who gave up the Eastern “fast lane” to settle in the mountains. Anyway, we’d meet and greet and share a cup of Joe. Two Big Grins. Then we’d wheel our ponies around and in a blue puff of smoke be gone. Dan’s style was smooth. Never overly fast, he’d pick a line and hold it rail-like through hundreds of crooked Appalachian curves. He had a unique look too. As he’d lean that R-bike over, his helmet would remain ramrod along the longitudinal length of his body. His head wouldn’t tilt. His entire being would lean clean.
Maybe you’ve heard the saying that “it’s more fun to ride a slow bike fast.” It’s true. Dan’s 100S had a 65 hp engine. Yet through the curves, the confluence of skill and experience trumps raw horsepower, and I’ve seen many pilots on much newer, bigger-bore bikes flag, unable to keep up.
Like a couple of mountain sprites, we rode miles together...
… But God does in fact work in mysterious ways, and now our friend is gone. Only memories remain to be shared by the friends who knew him.
That gets me to John Zurowski’s “Dedication to Dan” iron butt, which was inspiration indeed.
See, I had a small problem with a 1000 in 24. It seems most Iron Butt routes favor the Interstate, and like I say, I’m a curve junkie. I compare motorcycling to riding a two-wheeled snow ski, so riding the Interstate is like schussing a bunny slope, a long bunny slope! It’s not my style. John’s inspiration solved my routing dilemma, and I determined to complete exactly the same ride.
After some important pre-ride planning, I arrived at my point of embarkation at 5:30 one recent afternoon and pressed the stopwatch. I had 1000 miles to ride in less than 24 hours. The math was a cinch: Maintain 50 mph for 20 hours, and I’d cover my distance. In daylight I would have no problem; after dark would be a different story.
Motorcycling on the street is never about speed of the excessive kind. Riders often get that confused. Motorcycling on public roads is about being smooth. As I’ve written before, a motorcyclist riding a road is like a musician playing a song. The good ones play smooth, not fast. Do you think Stevie Ray, God rest his soul, played “Cold Shot” or “Pride and Joy” fast? No. Or how about “Crossroads?” Do you think Clapton ever speeds through such a fine piece of song? I don’t think so. A song has a groove to it. So does a road. The musician feels the groove and lays it down smooth. Together, the musician and song mesh and real music is made. It’s the same thing with riding a great piece of road.
My piece, 469 miles one way, demands meshing, no questions asked. So as I start to motor, I do my best to set down a smooth groove. It’s not a mental thing as much as a kinesthetic thing. I feel the groove with my whole body. I’m feeling the engine reverberate; I’m feeling the quality of my shifts; I’m feeling how smoothly I roll on and off the throttle; I’m feeling the tires’ traction; I’m feeling my lean angles. I’m determining whether I’m smooth in all phases of motorcycling, all the time. Sometimes I’m pretty good, other times I’m not. I can always be better.

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