Somewhere in Middle America

10 November

Columbia is the state capital of South Carolina, and a very neat, prosperous little place it is too. So much so that the secretive Michelin mafia have visited and awarded commendations — not stars, but a recognition of quality nonetheless — to two restaurants. One of these is the stylish Motor Supply Company.

As the name implies, it’s repurposed, light-industrial space with a keen eye for classic retro design, right down to the Crittall windows and repro “Kennedy” chairs, originally the work of Danish designer Hans Wegner. It all reeks of quality, including the pared-back, provenance-obsessed New American menu, where staples such as a simple blue-cheese salad followed by a double pork chop are elevated to more than the sum of their parts. The formula works as it’s full at 07:00 p.m. on a Sunday evening with a line of hopeful walk-ins.

Back on the road the next morning, the landscape becomes more opulent. Neat farms line the highway; glossy, spoiled-looking horses pose behind white picket fences, gilded by the flattering late-autumn sun against a perfect blue sky of the deepest hue.

As 321 North sways this way and that, with waves of golden leaves blowing across it, I can understand why Harley-Davidson motorcycles are so right for this land. While European bikes tend towards the blindingly fast, with handling that rewards extreme cornering, Harleys have neither the power nor the geometry to encourage such antics. So you just sit back, in that on-the-throne riding position, and let the engine gently putter as you make your way at a stately 50 or 60 mph, admiring the landscape and taking every bend in your stride, without drama.

So synonymous is Harley with the dream of America that everybody — not just bikers — wants to chat at every stop. I got used to this last year and assumed it was my UK number plate that drew the curiosity, but not so, as this bike carries a Virginia one. Mostly (though not all) men between forty-five and seventy, they mostly look as if they’ve just been in a fight. Half-closed eyes, busted-up noses, deeply scarred faces — and the teeth, oh my God, the teeth.

Blackened, yellowed, chipped, or missing completely; vampirically-fanged, ground-down stumps, or oddly crenellated; oriented at all Euler angles. The late A.A. Gill’s theorised that Americans are only so gushing about English history and tradition as they think this is fair consolation for us Brits having so few orthodontists. I’m not aware if A.A. ever made it to North Carolina or up-country Virginia, but I suspect not. The people here can also be a bit difficult to understand, as the accent gets more impenetrable the further from the cities you venture. But I think I’ve been quite rude enough about such genuinely nice folk already, so I’ll say no more.

The cold front is moving in, so after a much-needed, warming retro lunch of chicken Parmigiana over spaghetti in the ossified town of York, I roll into the strange town of Gastonia. I’m one of only two guests at the slightly austere, turn-of-the-century Esquire Hotel that towers over the rest of the two-storey, Main Street vernacular of downtown, complete with a vintage theatre from the ‘Atmospheric’ school. It’s the film set of a lost Raymond Chandler novel, the setting for one of Tom Petty’s narrative songs, an Edward Hopper painting made real — or any one of innumerable other clichés. I rather like it.

11 November

With a low of –7°C forecast for Galax, where I’m heading (that will feel like –17°C with wind-chill), I go for some extreme layering: Dainese base layer; thick T-shirt; Rukka Outlast micro-fleece; Rukka thermal puffer jacket; Klim Zephyr Windstopper; Furygan Outlaw leather jacket; and a Scott fluorescent waterproof for yet more wind protection. All good kit, as any biker will attest. It works. Even at freeway speeds, only my hands get slightly cold, although I’m now nursing a crick in my neck as movement was somewhat restricted.

Leaving the Interstate and ascending towards the Blue Ridge Parkway, the colour temperature heats up further as the sun dips in a sky that turns indigo. It bathes an unremarkable landscape in an ethereal glow. I’m reminded of Lester Burnham’s narration in American Beauty: “Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world, I feel like I can't take it, and my heart is just going to cave in.” The feeling of immense serenity and privilege continues right up until I see where I’m staying for the night. I know I said I wasn’t doing sub-prime motels again — but it looks like I am tonight.

But… a 14-minute walk away sits the Creek Bottom Brewing Company, and, lo, yet another two locally brewed IPAs to try, which are predictably excellent. They also do food, and from the too-long menu (not usually a good sign), I ask the barmaid what she recommends.

Barbecued beef brisket, shrimp, and pulled pork are the things around here, apparently, and they have mini tacos featuring all of them, served in lots of three. Nine will be too much, I’m advised, so I go for three shrimp and three brisket. Against the odds, they are as tasty as anything I’ve had this week and the damage is a steal at just $37 all in.