Yesterday took more out of me than I expected. My tank was low again, and I’m not referring to the motorcycle. It bothered me how I’d been treated and how that felt, and I wanted to change the trajectory. I wanted more connection, but I’m also coming to understand that some of that requires putting more into the world myself. I want the people around me to smile. I want to bring some positive energy into the interactions I have, and if I have to work a little harder that’s ok.

From what I knew of West Virginia, Morgantown also had a very different vibe than Charleston and some of the other parts of the state I’d been traveling through. In my head, it was something like the Austin of Texas, the Birmingham of Alabama, or the Atlanta of Georgia.

To that end, I decided to take the freeway and find some food for the soul in Morgantown. A little research suggested that picking a restaurant with a bar, ordering a meal, and talking with the bartender and the people around me was a reasonable way to find some conversation. I figured, what the hell. I didn’t have much to lose, and I certainly wasn’t going to miss having another meal by myself.

I hit the freeway and settled into the fact that today was going to be about time and miles. Somehow I’d imagined that I would ride twisty roads everywhere on this trip, but I wasn’t in the headspace for that today. I was also realizing that I couldn’t cover the distance I wanted to cover while taking such a high-resolution view of every community along the way. There are days to wander around the mountains looking for the perfect road, and there are days to get somewhere. Today was going to be gas, riding, gas, and more riding.

My first gas stop was in Clendenin, West Virginia. As I took the exit, I saw one gas station to my right that had seen some hard times and another to my left that looked like it had seen fewer, so I turned left. After filling the bike, I walked inside to grab something to eat since lunch was going to be late and started down what had become an all-too-common path for me here: being held at a distance. The cashier must have been in her late seventies. I looked her in the eye and said, “How are you?” She looked down and muttered, “I’m okay.” Instead of leaving it there, I shared with her, “I came from California because I really wanted to see West Virginia. The roads and the scenery are beautiful here.” Eventually she looked up, smiled, and said, “That’s pretty cool.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something. Yesterday I might have taken her first response as another example of the wall I’d been running into and walked away frustrated. Today I leaned in a little more, and eventually I got a little warmth back. I was learning that warmth is worth leaning into, even when it takes a little work to find it.

As I was eating my late-morning, early-afternoon snack, a large diesel truck from a local contractor rolled into the station. It was full of four burly construction workers, and given my track record in West Virginia so far, I wasn’t entirely sure how this one was going to go. The diesel exhaust was large enough to put my entire head into, and the truck growled like an angry pit bull before going silent. All four doors opened and the guys piled out. Uh oh.

The driver, whom I assumed was the head contractor, looked directly at me and asked, “Where are you from?” I’m thinking, this is a hella complicated answer. I’m sure California isn’t particularly popular here. I’m not really from the South anymore. And standing there in motorcycle gear next to a loaded BMW, I certainly didn’t look like anything from West Virginia. I swallowed and went with the simple answer: “California!”

He raised both hands over his head, pointed at me, and bellowed, “Welcome to West Virginia!” with a smile that could cross the state.

Finally!

The West Virginia ice was starting to thaw. After a few minutes, one of the other guys walked over. He must have been in his late fifties or early sixties and had a bit of a Billy Bob Thornton look about him. He leaned in, looked me in the eye, and said, “I’ve been watching them TikToks seeing gas is all expensive in California. Is that true?”

I pointed toward the big pricing sign over the pumps and asked, “Do you see that diesel price?” He nodded. “At home, that green number is $8.99.” You could almost see the math running through his head as he thought about how much fuel a truck like theirs consumes. I’ve since learned that the better answer is probably, “I couldn’t afford to drive a truck as nice as yours back home.” That gets a smile, a laugh, and a little empathy rather than turning the conversation into California versus West Virginia.

They were great dudes. These were the people I’d been hoping to meet when I came into West Virginia—the people underneath all the things I’d heard and all the things I’d seen from the road. Maybe yesterday was just yesterday. Maybe today was different because I was putting more into it. Either way, my frustration with my surroundings was easing, and I was looking forward to Morgantown even more.

As I got closer to Morgantown, I was surprised by how much traffic had materialized. Just about every other part of West Virginia had seemed to come with empty roads, so the steady flow of cars felt like another sign that I was entering a different part of the state.

I walked into the Iron Horse Tavern unsure on the inside but confident on the outside and planted myself right in the middle of the bar. The place had an old-town mountain feel to it, maybe even a little Western, and it felt comfortable almost immediately. I met Dani behind the bar, and we hit it off just as quickly. She was in her late twenties, full of life, and seemed to have a relationship with everybody sitting around her. She moved across the bar with the kind of energy that draws people in, talking to one person and then another, making the whole place feel a little more alive simply because she was in it.

She reminded me of someone I’d met in Birmingham, around the same age and carrying the same kind of fire. Dani loved West Virginia, but loving it didn’t mean she thought everything about it was fine. She carried the energy of I want to change things, I want to make this place better, and I’m willing to rage against the establishment to make it into the place I think it can be energy. It was infectious. People at the bar clearly loved her for it, and after the difficulty I’d had getting people to engage with me the day before, I couldn’t get enough of it either. She was one of those full people who seems genuinely interested in the world around her and has more to say than you have time to hear.

I told her about California and the journey that had brought me into Morgantown. When I asked her about West Virginia, she had plenty to say. We talked about the food, West Virginia history, the differences between Morgantown and Charleston, and the people who come into Morgantown from all sorts of places. She talked about how the university brings many outsiders into the city and how that exchange of people and ideas changes the place. In Dani’s telling, Morgantown was decidedly not Charleston. People here were friendly, engaging, and welcoming, and she understood the colder interactions I’d run into farther south.

Then there was the food. Oh my gosh, the food. I didn’t need another brick in my stomach, but man, I wanted it. The burger arrived with a side of macaroni and cheese that looked less like a side and more like its own entrée. It was outstanding, but I could only make it through about a third of the mac and cheese before declaring victory and defeat at the same time.

Dani was awesome. Not because she somehow resolved West Virginia for me or proved that yesterday had been wrong, but because this was the kind of conversation I’d been looking for since crossing into the state. I wanted to hear somebody talk about the place they lived with some complexity—with affection for what was there and energy for what could be better. The day before, I’d been trying to see the people underneath everything I’d heard about West Virginia and struggling to find my way in. Sitting at that bar, I finally got a glimpse.

I didn’t really want to leave. The conversation was good, the food was good, and after spending much of the previous day trying unsuccessfully to break through with people, I’d finally found a place where connection seemed effortless. But I still had miles to cover and Pittsburgh waiting for me before the end of the day. I’d like to come back to Morgantown with more time, especially with the fall color starting to arrive. There was more here I wanted to understand.

I’d found a link to a motorcycle event in southwestern Pennsylvania and figured I’d check it out. Interstate 79 became gently traveled country roads, which became smaller country roads, which eventually became roads that made me wonder how far off the beaten path I was willing to go for this thing. By the time I arrived, I’d invested about 45 minutes in the detour and pulled into the event with some mixed reservations. I knew the type of gathering I’d found almost immediately, although the event invitation hadn’t made it obvious. Every motorcycle in the parking lot was either a Harley or an Indian. A heavy metal band was playing well above a reasonable volume. I parked the BMW and walked along the row of bikes. There were some genuinely neat machines there.

I’m pretty comfortable walking into groups of riders I don’t know, and motorcycles usually provide an almost effortless opening for conversation, but I also know when the chemistry isn’t going to work. A few people turned away from me. I’d ridden 45 minutes out of my way specifically because I wanted to talk with some other riders, and within a few minutes it was pretty clear that this wasn’t going to be the place where that happened.

I did have a quick conversation with the restaurant’s bouncer, who wasn’t connected with the motorcycle crowd at all. He was a really neat guy, and we talked about bikes, Pennsylvania, and California. He picked up on the fact that I wasn’t much of a fit for what was happening in the parking lot, and we both smiled and shrugged. You got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em. I knew when to walk away, and this was a run.

Of course, the 45 minutes I’d spent getting there didn’t magically disappear just because the event wasn’t for me. I repeated the same cadence in reverse, tiny country road becoming a larger road, waiting for the freeway to materialize. Somehow it never did. Instead, the roads turned into a sea of red lights through progressively more downtown parts of Pittsburgh. To add insult to injury, near the end of a long day I found myself at the top of a hill staring down a cobblestone road with plenty of sharp rocks thrown into the equation. Ef me.

I finally reached the hotel just about dark, and I’m starting to notice the northern latitudes taking daylight away from me. As I was coming in, I met one of the housekeeping guys who had just finished his day. He noticed the bike and wanted to hear about the journey, but he didn’t have time to stay and talk. “Please let me know if you’re around tomorrow,” he told me. “I’d love to chat.” After a day spent deliberately putting myself in places where interaction might happen, there was something nice about someone else being the one to open the door. Maybe tomorrow.

The plan for Pittsburgh had included an Uber for a bar night. On paper, it was exactly the kind of place I’d been looking for all day: somewhere I could sit down, have a drink, and hopefully talk with people. By the time the motorcycle was parked and the sun had dropped below the horizon, though, I didn’t have enough energy left to get myself there.

I was done for the day.