I remember looking west often, growing up on the East Coast, seeing the green interstate signs for Interstate 20. “Birmingham” in white letters, with a mileage number that seemed impossibly large. I didn’t know much about it as a teenager. It was some other place so far away, beyond the world I knew. In ways it represented going west—the mythology of heading out, leaving home, finding something different. It was the first stop on the way to the great beyond. Going east from home never had the same draw.

The only time I actually set foot in Birmingham was shortly after college, when I had to quickly meet my uncle and then return home after delivering a package sent by my family. A few hours in town, barely enough to form an impression. A few years ago, a good gay friend of mine moved here. When D announced it, many of us grabbed our San Francisco Bay Area pearls with a big gasp. You’re going there? Alabama? Do you know what they do to people like us over there? You won’t have all of the protections California gives our community members. You’ll find yourself ostracized! What if Republicans get in power at all levels of government? What if? What if? What if?

Now that it’s been two to three years, he’s settled in, and I’m on the East Coast. I’m finally heading to Birmingham – the long way.

Georgia 39

After two good days on the farm in Southwest Georgia, it was time to head north to Birmingham. I wandered up Georgia 39, a small South Georgia back road that tickled the gently sloping land. Unlike some of the bigger highways like US 27 heading into Atlanta, I was heading just enough west and solidly north to map myself onto secondary highways through some smaller and some forgotten towns along the way.

Georgia 39 is a simple highway. No cars, no four lanes, no drama. Just clean smooth pavement bordered by shoulders so perfectly manicured I spent the first twenty miles wondering who was out here maintaining them.

Then I saw the mowers up close.

Every property down here has a zero-turn the size of a small aircraft carrier — Bad Boy, Dixie Chopper, Hustler, John Deere. Machines that could do my entire 1,300 square feet before the engine even reached operating temperature. Back home I have small walk behind that I push for ten minutes and feel accomplished. Out here that would get you openly flogged at the feed store.

Highway 39 connects towns that remained decidedly rural—places where the gas station doubles as the grocery store and the post office sits on an ironically small piece of land. The land rolled gently, covered in pine forests and occasional fields of cotton or soybeans. Every few miles, a small church with a white steeple would appear connecting the community to it’s God-fearing roots, surrounded by its cemetery and a gravel parking lot.

It’s the kind of road that doesn’t demand much from you as a rider. No technical challenges, no dramatic elevation changes. It was miles of uninterrupted pavement heading north through a landscape that hasn’t changed much in decades.

First Crossing into Alabama

My first crossing into Alabama was at Eufaula, a small town right on the Chattahoochee River that represented vacation on the way to Florida as a kid. We’d crossed through this town as the first shift into a different land. One state down, one to go, as we would say.

This trip, much the same.

As I crossed over into Eufaula, I could see the town suffering from some level of decline. It isn’t necessarily obvious—but as smaller cities have seen urban migration over the years, things looked less modern, less renovated. But I don’t think that’s necessarily even a primary judge of a town’s character.

I was looking to find some of the antebellum homes that Eufaula is known for. Making a modern real-time decision against an antebellum backdrop, I keyed “antebellum homes” (I didn’t know what else) into Google Maps and it pointed me toward the Seth Lore and Irwinton Historic District—apparently the largest historic district in East Alabama. I ran into a small construction crew fixing some city utilities on one of the tree-lined streets. Traffic slowed to nearly a stop, and I caught the smile of a very large African American man working in the crew. I returned his large smile with a hello.

I don’t find these sorts of interactions with regularity back home, and it isn’t lost on me. I mean, I was just some dude on a bike passing through, but it’s a cultural fabric in this area to say hello and to make people feel welcome here, even across cultural boundaries.

As I rounded the corner onto North Randolph Avenue, I could see the large antebellum homes towering off in the distance. The district spreads across the oldest part of Eufaula with over 700 structures on the National Register—Greek Revival, Italianate, Gothic Revival, all carefully preserved under massive oak canopies. The original town layout was designed to spell out “LORE” with the street names: Livingston, Orange, Randolph, Eufaula. (I love details like that.)

They were relics from an era passed by in a nation that is racing towards the next—even if we don’t know what it is.

Columbus

Lunch was further north in Columbus — another crossing of the Chattahoochee, back into Georgia. I remember this town as a small dot on the map heading into Florida, where my father often got lost in Fort Benning with a few choice words and no GPS. My sister said it had really modernized. She wasn’t wrong.

The Riverwalk runs along the river for miles — a zipline crosses state lines into Alabama, which feels very on-brand — and enough green space that families were spread out on blankets in the late afternoon. Smart use of a riverfront, I thought. I walked it for a bit, grabbed lunch, and didn’t notice how much time I was burning until I was already back on the bike. Birmingham was further away than I’d given it credit for.

What I didn’t realize was how quickly time was passing for me—even if I would gain the hour back heading into Alabama. My buddy and I had a leisurely morning on the farm, and I didn’t get on the road until at least ten thirty. Birmingham clearly was further away than I had given it credit for.

Auburn

I wanted to see Auburn. It was one of the campuses I fell in love with as a junior in high school and was relatively on the way. The red brick buildings, the tree-canopied quads, the Southern college town feel—it all clicked for me during that first visit years ago. I never ended up going there (life took me in a different direction), but I captured a magnet from the alumni bookstore, and eventually seeing it on my wall back home seemed like this was the right detour.

I meandered around the historic district, I could see why this place stuck with me. The consistent red brick palette, the scale of the buildings, the mature trees creating shade across the pathways. It’s a campus that feels rooted in time without being stuck in it.

Temps were warming up and I had another two and a half hours to go on US 280 toward Birmingham. Miles to go before I sleep…

My buddy at the farm mentioned US-280 was a beautiful drive—but I saw four lanes and traffic lights from here to Birmingham. We had different ideas of a pretty drive.

In the beginning of the drive, it felt like any other major four-lane highway that just didn’t quite have the buy-in to become an interstate. Strip malls, chain restaurants, the occasional car dealership. I always had to keep my eyes open for people turning left from every direction, remembering the basics they teach you in the Motorcycle Safety Foundation course: always look at a car’s wheels to see if they move.

As I got further from Auburn and deeper into Alabama, the highway did open up a bit. The commercial development thinned out, replaced by longer stretches of pine forest and the occasional small town with a single stoplight. But it was still fundamentally a four-lane road with traffic—not the twisty back road my farm buddy probably had in mind when he said “beautiful drive.” Fair enough. His version of motorcycling and mine don’t always line up and that’s ok. Us riders are a picky bunch.

Sylacauga (sil-a-caug-ah)

As I approached the small town known as Sylacauga, this sky truly opened up. I don’t think I’ve seen rain on this entire trip like I did for those twelve miles. My gloves were clearly not sufficient to keep my face shield clear of water, and the dark squall line didn’t seem to let up. I was just about to pull over, and then the rain started to slow and fall behind me.

As I was riding down the freeway, I passed another biker on what looked to be a Harley Davidson that didn’t quite have the branding I expected on closer inspection. We waved and I kept going down the freeway.

A short while later, I came over the hill and caught the eye of the Alabama State Patrol and instantly pulled over to the right-hand lane and followed along with the rest of the cars. The state patrol pulled into the freeway going my direction upon inspection in the rearview mirror. But for whatever reason, he didn’t turn on his lights. As more miles passed, the shock of the initial sighting seemed to fade as it didn’t seem like he wanted to pull me over for whatever infraction I may have done.

I didn’t quite have enough gas to get all the way to Birmingham from Auburn, so I pulled over in the town of Sylacauga (it’s taken me, like, three times to get the pronunciation of that town right) to fuel up.

Who pulls up? It’s none other than Stray Away Dave , the local video blogger I passed on the highway a half hour earlier. We had a fun chat for sure. He’s a video blogger. I’m a text blogger. He had stickers. I need to get stickers. Stray Away Dave has the first sticker on the new bike.

He gave me a few good tips on where to head for good riding in Birmingham, and I decided to follow him all the way back into town to keep me legal and learn a few things along the way. I wasn’t looking forward to more traffic lights heading into Birmingham. He smiled and said, “Let me show you Highway 119 that gets you up to Interstate 20 before you roll into town.”

Thank you, Dave. Thank you, Dave. And did I say thank you, Dave? That was a good call.

I’m going to be off the bike for about six days here in town. And while I love riding, I’m okay with that. (smiling)

Route: