We set off early Sunday morning, riding south on I77, in warm sunshine, low humidity, with clear blue skies overhead. Our adventures usually involve six of us: Paul and I, and four of our good friends. This time we were short two people since they stayed behind to deal with a last-minute family responsibility. Hoping they would be able to join us in a day or two, we started off, reluctant to leave them at home.
Traveling by motorcycle brings much more input to all the senses than traveling by car. The smell of fresh-cut grass and aromatic blooms along the road enhance what would only have been a visual pleasure if seen from inside a closed and air-conditioned automobile. The sound of the wind rushing by, an airplane overhead, a roaring truck from three feet away, bring visceral sensations not possible when insulated inside a car with the radio cranked up. Instant perception of dropping temperatures when passing under tree limbs or riding up mountains to the higher elevations yields relief from the heat on a warm day; conversely, on a cool day, riding into bright sunshine brings warmth to chilled limbs and stiff fingers. While riding in the rain can be a trying experience, smelling the fresh moisture and virtually hearing the thirsty earth drinking it in, compensates for much of the discomfort. Driving in a car is a means to an end. Riding on a bike is the end in and of itself. Every part of the journey is the experience as a whole.
We pulled into Weston, WV about 4 hours later, savoring the wonderful weather. The upside to having a lot of lousy weather, something all Ohioans can relate to, is the heightened enjoyment of those rare perfect days.
In the lobby of our hotel was a scene worthy of Norman Rockwell, with a twist. To say they were rotund would be a vast understatement, a man and a woman, sitting like motionless bookends, beside a luggage cart piled high and wide with bags, boxes, a hot pink cloth animal carrier, doggie training pads, and various and sundry other props for the tiny pooch perched atop the gentleman's ample belly. He stood there like Sir Edmond Hillary on Mt. Everest whilst his owner sat, unmoving and silent, in an easy chair strained to its limits. The female version, so like the big round man she could have been his twin, but I suspect was his wife, overflowed her own easy chair. I'm not sure what they were waiting for, but they sat unmoving, staring straight ahead, all three of them. I wanted to stare back. I wanted to photograph. I wanted to laugh hysterically. I squelched all these desires and tore myself away to the desk to wait for my room key.
There is something so satisfying about unlocking the door to a beautiful, clean hotel room and anticipating the start of a much-needed vacation. Our room looked out over the town, it's economic depression not so noticeable from this distance as it had been up close. With a picturesque view and the prospect of seven days of relaxation ahead, I breathed in a deep sigh and felt my weariness recede.
We settled in our rooms for a short rest then went in search of a place to eat supper. The clerk told us the steak house across the way was a good place to eat so off we went, trusting to her judgment. We shouldn't have. It was a buffet with steam rising above the serving areas. The food looked appetizing and was obviously hot. That, it turned out, was not enough. Everything there came straight from a can with no attempt at disguising the total lack of freshness. I‘m not convinced the green beans were real. The potatoes certainly were not. And neither of them had ever seen butter. Or salt. The mashed potatoes were like wallpaper paste. No insult intended to the paste. The macaroni and cheese were like great golden globs of molten mush. And it went downhill from there. Small wonder that people who visit Holmes County are in awe of the Amish cooking. We left feeling strange rumblings within, wondering if food poisoning had just happened and how bad the consequences might be.
One thing I've learned over the years: shady experiences lend themselves to much more mirth and memory than perfection.
No comments:
Post a Comment