The road is a strange place. It is filled with bad fast food, people who never know what to make of you, and a lot of gas stations. I have never gone on a real motorcycle trip before, but it has always been a dream of mine. Perhaps we do a few things in our lifetimes that can be retold as legends to our kids, and perhaps such a trip is such a thing.
I have traveled around our world, but nowhere feels better than the U.S.A. for a road trip. Here the asphalt speaks of dreamers, pioneers and lost souls who drudge through life from one cheeseburger to the next. All of them have stories and Americans are an amazing people – in their own country.
Pennsylvania hinted at the lives of coal miners in the fields of wreckage while Pittsburgh is a city in full hipster revival. From the first ever Picklesburgh event to our night out drinking Salinger Sidecars with locals who had stories to share about where they thought America was, the first 25 hours of the adventures was life-affirming.
We have ridden about 1000 miles so far, with another few hundred before we reach our turnaround destination of Nashville by 4pm. From the Hatfield-McCoy landscape through West Virginia to the bootlegger roads of the Kentucky hills, this country whispers and screams to be heard. America is a ghost story wanting to happen. As I continue writing my novel in progress, I listen, if only so that I can share what siren songs I have heard whispered to me.