I rode five thousand miles to meet my new nephew. The Atlantic was a bonus.

Back in 2008, I was just past 30, the V-Strom had about 30,000 miles on it, and my sister had a baby boy in Savannah I hadn’t met yet. Flying would have taken five hours. I decided it would take a bit longer than that.

So I pointed the bike east. US 50 carried me across Nevada on the loneliest road in America, then came a V-Strom rally in Cedar City, four days of Utah red rock, and Monarch Pass at the Continental Divide. Kansas was a thousand miles of nearly straight riding with a crosswind that had me leaning the bike just to stay in my lane. A day of storms locked me in a motel room in Eureka Springs, the Natchez Trace held me to 50 mph, and somewhere around Atlanta a stye, a worn-out tire, and a dying battery all took their turn trying to end the trip. None of them won.

The trip ended in Savannah, where my sister handed me Anthony for about two seconds before deciding I needed a shower, and then on Tybee Island, where US 80 runs out of road at the Atlantic. Eighteen years later, I’d start Life at the Pace of Sweet Tea from that very same spot.

These are the posts I wrote from the road that spring, typos, bad fajitas, and all.

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