I got word from back home that a nor’easter was starting to brew. After a full day of rain in the south, I was already dealing with one storm system and hoping that whatever was 700 miles north of me would be gone by the time I got there. Looking out my hotel window, the weather didn’t look much better here. Clouds ruled the sky, and according to the weather gods, rain was going to follow quickly.

Hendersonville, North Carolina isn’t necessarily on the way to Vermont, but I wanted to stop here for two reasons. First, the riding just west of here is spectacular, with the Tail of the Dragon, the Cherohala Skyway, and many other famous southern Appalachian squiggles of asphalt. Second, this is the North American headquarters of Wunderlich America, which is simply the Disneyland of BMW motorcycles. They have literally built everything the factory chose not to for your bike.

So what brings me to Disneyland? I’m looking for case liners so it’s easier to grab my stuff at the end of the day. It’s a small thing, and it could certainly be done more cheaply with a set of reusable grocery bags, but Wunderlich makes really good stuff. I mean really good stuff. I met Rob walking into the showroom. I’d venture that 99% of their business is mail order, but occasionally a random like me walks in. Plus, buying in person means no shipping charges and waiting. Rob also let me know about the 10% discount for BMW MOA members. Score!

I used to think “sales” was a dirty word you’d find at a used car lot. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to appreciate the art of great sales: low pressure, informative, and value driven by focusing on my pain points and the product’s value. Rob and I talked through the case liners, the fact that they’re form-fit to my bike, and the waterproof liners that come with them should the rain truly get the best of me (I’m not doing well here). He even followed me out to the bike to check that my risers weren’t pulling too tightly on the brake lines and electrical wires.

Thank you, Rob.

I remember the news reports when Hurricane Helene hit western North Carolina. What I wasn’t prepared for was the level of disruption and destruction that storm left in this area. As a kid, I remember Hurricane Opal terrorizing North Georgia, but Helene was a whole different level. My preferred route was closed, and the secondary highway became a tertiary highway, which then became a barely paved gravel road deep in the Appalachian forest.

As the rain started in earnest, I came across a section of forest entirely covered in kudzu. I wanted to stop. I really did. Something about the rain and the overwhelming presence of plant life tickled something in me. But I was on a narrow, steep mountain road that was doing more duty than it was ever intended to, and stopping in the middle of the rain didn’t seem like the right call, especially 2000 miles from home.

I chose to join the more major thoroughfares, and the lemmings and I made my way toward Charlotte. US-74 squiggles through the North Carolina foothills, with open grasslands and gently turning highway. I stopped at a small-town Mexican restaurant for a burrito bowl to warm my stomach.

While it wasn’t a high-mileage day, I wanted to stop just north of Charlotte to see a longtime friend from high school. It’s been almost 15 years since I’ve been out here, and we spent the evening catching up on everything in between. A solid chunk of this trip’s value is seeing people I care about in places I didn’t normally travel when I was working.

The next morning, fall clearly started knocking on my door. Savannah had been in the high 80s two days earlier, and now the dash read 57 degrees, with a yellow leaf plastered to my seat as proof. I was also running low in a way the thermometer didn’t explain. Days of rain, long hours in the saddle, and a late evening of catching up had added up, and I climbed on the bike with less in the tank in me than I’d like to admit. I filed it the way I file the fuel light: fine for now, worth watching.

Crossing from western into central North Carolina continued the theme of mountains giving way to coastal plain. The hills got smaller and wider, the turns went from tight to gentle, and the steady rain continued. I try to be judicious about when to use the heated gear, since I’d rather be a touch cold than too warm. Too warm means sweat, sweat means cold, and cold means a set of wet clothes. I don’t always get that calculus right, and by the time I rolled past Village Corner Comfort Kitchen and Bar, I was cold and sold on whatever they were selling. All the value was in the word “comfort.” I needed a brick of warm in my stomach, and just from the look of the sign from the highway, I knew I was going to have a good meal.

The chef delivered. The blackened salmon tasted like it came out of the north Pacific, the grits had the right mix of goodness, and the fries were decent enough to earn a passing grade.

In eastern North Carolina, my former colleague Brian opened up his home on the farm. I’d seen his property for years in Zoom backgrounds, but it wasn’t anything like walking the grounds in person. Coming in, I overshot his driveway and had to U-turn in a neighbor’s.

Unfortunately, that’s when it happened. At the apex of the U-turn, my front wheel dropped into a crevice and clipped a rock, knocking the bike just far enough off balance to go from light, to heavy, to pavement.

From head to toe, I could feel the fuuuuuuudddge…

I know these bikes are engineered to fall over. I’ve watched them do it in Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman’s Long Way Round, Long Way Down, Long Way Up, and the latest, Long Way Home. But it’s different when it’s your own bike. At least it wasn’t the yellow and black West Coast pride and joy. I keep some distance between my heart and this bike here. It’s a functional bike, not one to love, which in theory makes it easier. I hadn’t dropped a bike in over 225,000 miles, but I guess it comes for all of us at some point. I didn’t even follow the basic instructions from off-road training at the 49er rally back in California: put your boot on the cylinder head and get a picture with you smiling and the bike laying on the ground!

I killed the engine with a long press of the starter button, pulled off the top case and side bags, and lifted it. The side cases and crash bars did their job protecting everything else. The only fluid on the pavement was rainwater the bike had collected crossing North Carolina. The only real damage was to my pride, which ate a whole lot of humble pie in front of Brian.

Once the bike was upright, Brian walked me around the property, and both horses wandered over to say hello. I was somewhere between surprised and spooked, since I don’t have much experience around large animals. I held out my hand and gave each of them a rub on the face and a scratch behind the ears. Brian let me know what they really wanted was to be fed, but my road-weary self had nothing to give. They seemed fine with that and followed me around the property anyway.

Brian made some phone calls in anticipation of my arrival and found two more people from the team free for food and beer that night at Carolina Brewery. One thing I appreciate about my career is the culture this team built. These folks aren’t just colleagues. We built a business together and found a community in doing it. Thank you, guys, for the work, the fun, and the community inside and outside the office.

North Carolina had been wet, cold, and a lot longer than the mileage suggested. But between an old friend, a former teammate, and a table of people I hadn’t seen in years, it had also given me exactly what I needed.

Now it was time to move on to Virginia.