On the road to somewhere out in the middle of nowhere

Note: This week’s column necessitates a disclaimer. As a church-reared child, I was warned against running off with another woman’s husband. The pastor preached this pew-squirming sermon during several Sunday morning worship services. Just so you know, I had his wife’s permission. With that said, here’s my tale of me and Merle.

I was “wheeling and dealing” the day I met Merle. In fact, I was in mid-sales pitch when Merle’s motorcycle pulled into the graveled parking space outside of my Dispatch cubicle window. Springing from my seat, I motioned to the motorcycle while mouthing to my newfound friend, “I want to ride that thing!” Minutes later, following a spontaneous “I’ll call you right back” to the caller on the other end of my phone line, I joined Merle and my co-worker, his wife, by Merle’s Harley.

“Go for a spin,” my co-worker laughed while I mounted Merle’s motorcycle for the first of many whirls around town. Helmet latched and eyes shut tight, I screamed as we scooted down Chestnut Street that autumn afternoon. Yet, somewhere along N.C. 39, my shrieking ceased. And while Merle’s motorcycle steered my work stress away, I had to agree with John Denver that “sunshine on my shoulders” made me happy, too.

Nearly two years later, and I assure you with his wife’s blessing, we embarked on a day-long motorcycle mountain trip. Me and Merle.

Merle mapped our trek into the Virginia mountains, deliberately dodging highways for rural roads — few marked with yellow-painted lines. And only hours into our journey, we’d crossed into rural territory that made Epsom seem city-like.

That’s when we wayfarers came to a stop sign, where some serious head scratching started.

“Do you see 639 anywhere on this map?” Merle asked, while he and I scanned his N.C. state road map for the lone road that stretched before us.

Nodding my noggin “no,” I stared straight ahead at the wooded wilderness, and then looked both “left” and “right” at our only onward options, save the unthinkable act of turning back.

Now, I’ve seen similar situations in movies — two stranded souls in search of an oasis, while desert sands stretch as far as the eye can see. That’s about how we felt that Friday. Me and Merle.

And akin to those motion pictures, a marvel manifested itself that morning.

From afar, I heard a buzz. And then a putter, putter, putter.

The buzz … putter, putter, putter persisted until, against all odds, a banana-yellow moped turned the bend of that remote road.

“We’re saved!” I cheered, while a map-waving Merle hustled towards the bumble bee bike that buzzed with a putter, putter, putter towards us.

I’m not sure which of us understood our unfortunate fate first. Perhaps it was me, standing spectator to Merle as he beckoned the elderly driver atop that yellow moped. Or maybe it was Merle, whose road-side assistance request was rejected as the old man “made tracks,” never stopping for us two baffled bikers.

Buzz … putter, putter, putter … crept the little yellow moped, as it disappeared down the trail we’d just traveled.

And with arms still suspended as distress signals, there we stood. Me and Merle.

All roads lead to somewhere, even if they’re out in the middle of nowhere. And so together, we found our route that day — from Alta Vista to Smith Mountain Lake — and from Smith Mountain Lake to Mabry Mill — and from Mabry Mill to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Me and Merle.

Motorcycle riding’s a risk, no doubt. But the experience it grants is a gift, indeed. And so I breathed in the crisp mountain wind that whipped my face, while on two wheels I rode 400 miles of Virginia countryside with my biker-bound comrade. As all adventures begin, they too must end. And as sunset hung its head over South Boston, we savored those last miles of serenity, found in the revving roar of that Harley’s engine.

Me and Merle.


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