With God on my side
13 & 14 November
My overnight stop is Staunton (pronounced Stanton), home to the American Shakespeare Centre, Mary Baldwin University (historically a women’s college), and my friends Lauren and Bob. It’s an artistic and cultural locus in the midst of a pragmatic farming community, reminiscent of a historic English market town.
Later, at Zynodoa, the menu is the antithesis of Alexander’s the night before. It’s all sharing plates, ‘concept,’ and a farm-to-plate manifesto that champions local producers of everything, right down to the wine. It’s a great advertisement for a militant local terroir philosophy, and you can feel the elemental goodness and nourishment with every mouthful.
I can’t tell you how much it cost, as Bob whisked the bill away on presentation and refused any contribution. They tell me it’s the best place in town, and I’m not surprised — it would be the best place in most towns with fewer than 100,000 people, and Staunton has 24,000.
The next morning, Bob calls by the hotel on his box-fresh 1200cc Triumph Bonneville for a trundle through the rolling Virginian farmland. The destination is the mid-19th-century farmhouse he has painstakingly renovated over the last five years, respecting all the original features and blending modern conveniences into sympathetic additions to the point of invisibility.
After coffee and the weepingly beautiful view over the valley the house enjoys, Bob leads me to the start of Skyline Drive, and we say our goodbyes. Skyline takes over where the Blue Ridge Parkway (BRP) ends and, 108 miles later, completes what must be the best continuous 577-mile motorcycling road there is.
Starting from the south (recommended so you’re not riding into the sun for the best part of the day), you tackle the tributaries of BRP first — Tail of the Dragon, the Cherohala Skyway, Moonshiner 28, The Gambler, and others — before the epic journey north. And there is more than just roads: Asheville has become a go-to food and music destination; the Biltmore mansion is nearby for those without an eye on the budget. But on the evidence of this past week, there is no need to overplan, as every overnight destination has yielded unexpected charms.
That leaves the practical issue of where to start and finish if you’re renting a bike or car. Something tells me Nashville is the place… OK, there is one soul-destroying day on the freeway at the start and two at the end to get back, but you can crunch huge distances in good time in this country. Starting and finishing in Washington would work equally well. Two nights in either city (both fabulous in their own way) make for a great beginning to a fortnight. And if you’re renting a bike, both cities have options: Eaglerider, for example — a company I’ve used a few times and always found excellent — has locations in both.
Towards the end of Skyline, clouds close in, and the golden autumnal light takes on a blue chill. Winter is coming, to coin a phrase, as the sun breaks through one last time near Hogback Mountain. I promise I’m not making this up.
As with last year, this more modest trip has effortlessly exceeded all expectations. And while a surprising number of Americans seem convinced they are living in their Dark Ages, the civility of everyday encounters remains the gold standard for the First World, with only the occasional exception.
Yesterday, at the Great Valley Overlook on the Blue Ridge, I pulled over to let the expansive view of Grindstone Knob (no sniggering, please) seep in. Also stopped were two people of indeterminate gender, both dressed in canary yellow windcheater hoodies, tracksuit bottoms, clogs, and Andean knitted hats — chullos, I think. They sported long, dank, greasy hair and wore glasses that looked as if they’d been fashioned from the bottoms of old milk bottles. Both were unapologetically ugly, demonstrating that androgyny is not the exclusive preserve of the shockingly beautiful.
The man — I think — stood by the view, celebrating the vista by reading aloud a supremely vague and seemingly irrelevant passage from a prayer book, while his partner — female, perhaps, though mute — looked on forlornly. Unusually, in this most welcoming of countries, they offered no chat and had the air of people who long ago gave up on social pleasantries. And as they presented as — frankly — mad, I couldn’t be arsed to talk to them, fearing the loss of minutes of my life I would never get back. But their unexpected public display of genuflection would give even the most cynical, card-carrying agnostic pause for thought.
Taking in that view — the journey behind me, the improbably perfect conditions, and my outrageous good fortune to experience it all — I found myself wondering: if God really does ride a Harley, as legend would have it, does He choose the Blue Ridge Parkway or Skyline Drive on days like these?
