Almost Heaven, West Virginia

My cell phone rings after hours of “no service.”
“Where are you?” asks the First Runner Up.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
“Well... what state are you in?”
“The state of confusion,” I reply.

The run between Mr. Jefferson’s hometown and the Football Hall of Fame is familiar and easy. The interstate highways that I usually travel cut across the Shenandoah Valley and climb through the Blue Ridge and Appalachian Mountains. The drive is glorious no matter what the season, but in late spring it is spectacular. I expect an uneventful and pretty ride as I swing my car west.

My first hint that this ride will be different comes when my GPS system tells me to head north on I-81. Huh? North? Is it sure? Shouldn’t I go south and then continue west on 64?

“NO!” Ms. GPS tells me. “You are going to travel by US routes to The Heart of it All. The interstate route is miles longer.” “Listen to me,” she implores. “I’m going to save you time!”

I ponder the wisdom of this decision. It is Sunday. I’m making this trip in response to a medical emergency. Less time is good. Less stress is better. Sleep has been in short supply, it is midday, and I am already weary. I am alone, without a back up driver, and Ms. GPS wants to lead me through a remote area of West Virginia. Would there be fuel there? Food? Potties??? I am unsure if a joyride in uncharted territory is in my best interest. I resist the idea until I hear Robert Frost’s words echo in my head. He faced two roads that diverged in a yellow wood. He took the road less traveled and that made all the difference. I head north.

Thirty miles later I leave the security of I-81 and plunge into the George Washington National Forest. The single lane road winds around and rolls up and down like a rollercoaster. Sunlight has a hard time penetrating the dense canopy overhead. I back off the throttle to take a tight turn. Then another. I experience a moment of déjà vu. I have driven a road like this before in a Penske box truck. My mind flashes back to last summer’s high wire act out of Lake Tahoe. The switch backs come closer together. I promised myself in Tahoe that the next time I climbed a mountain it would be in a two seater that hugs the ground. I have kept that promise. I gear down my SLK to take the next corkscrew turn.

The bikes emerge as a blur out of the dappled sunlight. The helmeted riders hunch down and lean precariously far over into the turns. The high pitched whines of their engines remind me of angry bees. A dozen or more fly by me in coordinating touring outfits. The hum fades away and it becomes quiet again. I continue to navigate the twists and turns. Another swarm of fashion savvy bikers buzz by me. Ms. GPS tells me my average speed is 26 mph. She also tells me my maximum speed of the day was arrest worthy. Ms. GPS is a nag. I consider pulling her power supply but I am utterly dependent on her navigation. I decide to ignore my Techno Companion for now and look out at the world around me.

Oh my! Except for the paved road beneath me the world is untouched by human beings. Craggy granite ridges run along the mountain tops. These huge ragged monuments are a testament to this place’s antiquity. I cannot safely look far beyond the next turn but I know I am surrounded by beauty. It settles around me in a soft focused spring green. When the road finally straightens out I pull over.

Below me is a deep unpopulated valley flanked by nearly vertical mountains. A hawk soars effortlessly before me, hanging at eye level on the wind currents that rise from the valley below. It gives me a fierce look before letting out a piercing cry. I reach to call The First Runner Up to tell him how awesome this bird is but cell phones do not work here. I am unplugged from everything except the satellites that guide me. The hawk screeches again and then wheels downward in a compact spiral. I lose it against the trees below. I climb back into my car and it gives me a throaty growl as I pull back out onto the narrow road.

I drive for three hours and see only what God has made. There are no fast food restaurants and no rest areas. As I swing around another impossibly tight turn I am startled to find a place to stop. Marie’s Pork Palace is a rambling and ramshackle building that sits in the middle of a small parking lot filled with motorcycles. I do not see a place to park my car and the road is too narrow to just leave it off to the side. I wonder why someone would establish a biker bar/barbeque joint in the middle of the wilderness. I also ponder if the people inside are wearing outfits that coordinate with their bike’s styling. I think about my bladder capacity. To stop or not to stop? I’m tempted, but with an average speed of 26 mph I will never make it to Ohio while there is still daylight. Ms. GPS differs. She has my ETA calculated to the minute. She can even figure in my potty time should I decide to take it. I press on with the intent to get my average driving speed up to 30.

As I suspected before beginning my journey on US 33 W, there is no turning off. I have no alternative route through the mountains. Fatigue hits hard in the 6th hour. My fingers tingle, my bottom hurts, and I need a nap. I see a crossroad up ahead and the hint of a building. I pull into Mean Gene’s Burgers. A sign on the door announces that restrooms are for customers only. Gene IS mean! I ask for the washroom as I buy a bag of peanuts and a Diet Pepsi. The sullen man behind the counter (could this be Mean Gene?) tells me that it is out of order but there is a gas station about 15 miles up the road. Fifteen miles! At speeds that barely reach 25 mph, 15 miles will take forever! I contemplate returning the purchases but realize that I could use the caffeine infusion. I drive on and feel myself descending to the low lands below me. The road opens up and straightens out as I zip past rushing streams that cut through emerald fields dotted with yellow and white wildflowers. I feel as though I’m racing along. Ms. GPS tells me that my average speed is 31.5 mph. HA! Goal met! Next goal: Potty and 40 mph!

The gas station is at the end of my mountain trek. I tumble out of the woods to find civilization. There’s a Wal-Mart and a highway! Wal-Mart! God I love that place! I take a quick pit stop and drop the top for the rest of my ride. The wind rushes past me and my need for a nap fades. Ms. GPS tells me I have an hour and a half left of straight as an arrow highway driving. What a breeze!

Aerosmith is screaming for me to walk this way as I whip into The First Runner Up’s driveway. Ms. GPS is shouting above the aging rockers that I have arrived at my destination. I look at the time. Eight hours have passed since I left America’s Eden. I chide Ms. GPS that miles were saved but not time. I took the road less traveled but there was no difference! She and Frost were wrong!

Or were they?
A hawk conversed with me. The world was serene and beautiful. I was unplugged and unassailed by news or need. I had the luxury of my own thoughts for splendid mile after splendid mile. It was work but it was worth it.

I lift my glass and The First Runner Up clinks it. “Slainte,” he says as I throw the shot of Jameson’s back and chase it with a mouth full of Guinness. The First Runner Up grins at me. He has taken me to an Irish pub. He knows that I am at home in dark pubs drinking even darker beers. I tell him how we need to make the drive through the mountains together. He’s an outdoorsman. He would love it! I forget the tingling fingers, the potty deficiencies, the Biker Bees, and the Mean Gene’s who populate the forest. I tell him about the rocky peeks and the vistas that spread before you as you turn every corner. I tell him it’s the perfect ride to make with a friend. He looks at me knowingly. “Yeah,” he says, “you just want me to do the work.”