minutes we were beating off a strafing so persistent that we had no choice but to take to the highway. We immediately blew our navigation and found ourselves on the interstate, where any speed less than 70 mph spelt dire danger from overtaking trucks.
Iâd been concerned about how Roz would cope with the higher velocities that sooner or later must come, so I encouraged her to lead on the divided road so as to make the pace. Speed feels like the proper thing on a motorbike. No sound and wind insulation shields the rider, who is almost literally flying through the air. Thereâs no defence if the bike runs out of road either, which, I suppose, is why going like a banshee is such a blast.
In charge of a car, Roz is more than competent. I once sat in the passengerâs seat as she drove a huge Pontiac at an average of almost 100 mph through the winter forest night across the backwoods highway from Maine to New Brunswick. Fear at speed isnât normally part of her curriculum, yet the bike was definitely having some subliminal effect on her, because so far she had resisted all my attempts to crank our speed above 55. As we hit the interstate, she wound herself on an extra 10 mph but it was not enough. At 65 mph, Roz faced a dilemma. Either she cranked up to a strategically safe 75, which still felt faster to her than a motorbike ought to go, or she settled for her âcomfort zoneâ speed and risked being flattened by the traffic. Neither alternative appealed, because she turned off at the next exit and gave me a hard time for taking her on there in the first place.
Thoroughly rattled, we rode onwards in search of rest and quietness down one of the forgotten routes that often run parallel to the interstate system. Within ten minutes, the highway madness was far behind as we slipped into the country road again like a comfortable overcoat. On a site close to where, 130 years before us, Stonewall Jackson had crossed the ridge with 25,000 men on the way to his last fatal clash with the Yankees, we discovered a cameo from a bygone era.
The Greenwood Motel was a throwback to the 1950s. It sat on rising ground by the lazy highway that, in the heyday of them both, had carried much of the east-west traffic of the nation. Two single rows of rooms with metal-framed, plate glass windows, flanked a taller, shingled house. Back on the highway, a neon sign proclaimed âvacanciesâ, though no guestsâ cars were in evidence. We ventured in, curious as to what the price might be. The $60 or more per night demanded by the average Days Inn was way over budget.
Still wearing my leather jacket, I propped Black Madonna and knocked on the door. There was a longish wait and we had just decided the place had closed down when a curtain twitched and a face peered out. I stepped back to minimise my intimidation factor as the door opened.
âHave you a room for the night?â I asked the shortish, middle-aged man who opened the door.
âYou guys from England?â
I said we were and he nodded absent-mindedly, glancing at the shining Harleys.
âNice bikes,â he said, rubbing an unshaven chin, âcome on in.â The office desk stood under a high ceiling at the base of a heavy staircase, but it was hard to take in anything but the ticking. I once saw a movie whose central figure lived in a room surrounded by clocks, but the actuality of the ones in the Greenwood Motel outnumbered the fantasy of the scriptwriter by three to one. There were grandfathers with steady ticks like scythes shearing dry wheat, frantic cuckoos whirring up to their half-hourly flurry, elegant French carriage editions marked the minutes discreetly on a mantel shelf, and busy office clocks from a slower age strode through the hours in contempt of the wage slaves who had toiled in their thrall.
As we filled out the guest forms, something approximating to the hour came up. Carillons played tunes, Westminster chimes sang out, miniature
Iâd been concerned about how Roz would cope with the higher velocities that sooner or later must come, so I encouraged her to lead on the divided road so as to make the pace. Speed feels like the proper thing on a motorbike. No sound and wind insulation shields the rider, who is almost literally flying through the air. Thereâs no defence if the bike runs out of road either, which, I suppose, is why going like a banshee is such a blast.
In charge of a car, Roz is more than competent. I once sat in the passengerâs seat as she drove a huge Pontiac at an average of almost 100 mph through the winter forest night across the backwoods highway from Maine to New Brunswick. Fear at speed isnât normally part of her curriculum, yet the bike was definitely having some subliminal effect on her, because so far she had resisted all my attempts to crank our speed above 55. As we hit the interstate, she wound herself on an extra 10 mph but it was not enough. At 65 mph, Roz faced a dilemma. Either she cranked up to a strategically safe 75, which still felt faster to her than a motorbike ought to go, or she settled for her âcomfort zoneâ speed and risked being flattened by the traffic. Neither alternative appealed, because she turned off at the next exit and gave me a hard time for taking her on there in the first place.
Thoroughly rattled, we rode onwards in search of rest and quietness down one of the forgotten routes that often run parallel to the interstate system. Within ten minutes, the highway madness was far behind as we slipped into the country road again like a comfortable overcoat. On a site close to where, 130 years before us, Stonewall Jackson had crossed the ridge with 25,000 men on the way to his last fatal clash with the Yankees, we discovered a cameo from a bygone era.
The Greenwood Motel was a throwback to the 1950s. It sat on rising ground by the lazy highway that, in the heyday of them both, had carried much of the east-west traffic of the nation. Two single rows of rooms with metal-framed, plate glass windows, flanked a taller, shingled house. Back on the highway, a neon sign proclaimed âvacanciesâ, though no guestsâ cars were in evidence. We ventured in, curious as to what the price might be. The $60 or more per night demanded by the average Days Inn was way over budget.
Still wearing my leather jacket, I propped Black Madonna and knocked on the door. There was a longish wait and we had just decided the place had closed down when a curtain twitched and a face peered out. I stepped back to minimise my intimidation factor as the door opened.
âHave you a room for the night?â I asked the shortish, middle-aged man who opened the door.
âYou guys from England?â
I said we were and he nodded absent-mindedly, glancing at the shining Harleys.
âNice bikes,â he said, rubbing an unshaven chin, âcome on in.â The office desk stood under a high ceiling at the base of a heavy staircase, but it was hard to take in anything but the ticking. I once saw a movie whose central figure lived in a room surrounded by clocks, but the actuality of the ones in the Greenwood Motel outnumbered the fantasy of the scriptwriter by three to one. There were grandfathers with steady ticks like scythes shearing dry wheat, frantic cuckoos whirring up to their half-hourly flurry, elegant French carriage editions marked the minutes discreetly on a mantel shelf, and busy office clocks from a slower age strode through the hours in contempt of the wage slaves who had toiled in their thrall.
As we filled out the guest forms, something approximating to the hour came up. Carillons played tunes, Westminster chimes sang out, miniature
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