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Boomer Chronicles: The Road to Nashville

Story and Pictures by John "Hollywood" Creveling 
 
While most people preparing for an eight-day vacation would be hauling out the jumbo-sized luggage, I packed a 12” by 18” shoulder bag: Eight rolled up T-shirts (check). Two pair of jeans plus the one I would wear (check). Swimming trunks (check). Eight pairs of underwear (check). There’s no wasted space on a motorcycle ride to Nashville. 
  
This was my tenth such trip. The other riders (we say “rider” instead of “driver”) were my uncle and aunt, who go by Rastas and Becky, and a fourth whose handle is Mildew. Becky and RastasThey call me Hollywood. In my youth, I bore a resemblance to a particular actor, and someone thought it was funny. Our motorcycles have distinctive names too: mine is a Road King Classic (My wife, Chris, calls it a “Road Queen.”), Rastas and Becky travel in an Electra Glide Classic with a sidecar, and Mildew’s bike is a Softail Deluxe. In spite of her name, she is always cleaning it, even when it looks spotless.  
 
No lightweights, these bikes. Since they are built for long distances, they’re called “touring bikes” or “muscle bikes.” Each weighs more than 800 pounds before accessories, special equipment, luggage, or rider. There’s no automatic transmission, reverse, or air-conditioning. You’re exposed to the elements, and you pray it won’t rain.
 
Once, as I rode to Milwaukee with Rastas and Becky, it rained so hard that when we stopped to seek refuge, I removed my boots just to pour out the water. On another long solitary outing, I left Philadelphia early on what seemed to be a beautiful day and ended up in South Carolina on the periphery of Hurricane Floyd. When I called home that evening, my wife wanted me to end my days on a motorcycle right there.  
  
Silent Prayers  
 
I’m over 55, and my uncle is in his early 70s. In the ten years we’ve been riding together, I let him take the lead. Not only has he been riding motorcycles for 50 years; his former occupation as a long-distance truck driver has given him limitless knowledge of highways around the country. There were times when we seemed to be lost on a perilous road to nowhere, then, thanks to Rastas, we’d turn a corner and end up exactly where he said we would be.
 
We took two days to ride the more than 800 miles to Nashville, stopping about every 150 miles to eat and quench our thirst. In hot weather, keeping hydrated is essential, so we each drank lots of water and Gatorade. The downside to all these beverages is that we needed to stop more frequently for bathroom breaks – a sensible trade-off when it’s hot. At night, we looked for clean motels with a safe place to park and lock our bikes.  You want to be able to see your bike from your room; it’s the only transportation you have.
 
On the second day we passed a sign for Virginia Tech. I had an unexpected ache in my heart and couldn’t help crying. I imagine everyone passing this region is reminded of the lives that were lost. At a rest stop down the road we looked at each other and shared a silent moment before asking, “Did you see?” We each saw, we each knew, and we each prayed in our own ways.  
 
Motorcycle Courtesy
 
The farther south we rode, the more we seemed to be raising our hands to acknowledge other riders. It’s a motorcycling thing. As you pass another biker, you often greet each other by a wave of the hand. I like to give the peace symbol. What could be better than that? Many motorcyclists will point an index finger at you, as if to say: “I’m cool. You must be cool too.” Some will extend a hand as if to give a high five. But try waving your hand to motorists, and they’ll look at you with disdain and disgust like you’re wacky.
 

For the better part of the trip we traveled major highways with few delays. The only exception was near Knoxville, Tenn., where the traffic was backed up for miles. In an air-conditioned vehicle, you might be thinking, no problem. But when you’re on an air-cooled bike, and the engine between your legs is radiating heat, you don’t want to be motionless for long. That day the asphalt felt like a stifling 100-plus.
  
While in Nashville, I’m elated to tell you, I sang at the Country Music Hall of Fame. Well, OK. It was in was in the cafeteria, when a solo guitarist came to our table. Becky even managed to have her photograph taken with the renowned Porter Wagoner, who brought Dolly Parton to fame.
 
We also visited Studio B, where Elvis, Roy Orbison, Dolly Parton, Don Gibson, and the Everly
Brothers made their early hits. Considering that almost 40,000 tunes were recorded there between 1957 and 1977, one might expect the studio to be big. Quite the opposite. It’s three small rooms with one larger room where the artists sang. If not for the famous sign outside and the tours that go there, you would ride right past.
  
 
 
 
Defying Gravity
 
On the fourth day in Nashville, we watched a touring group of young expert motorcyclists do things with their bikes that challenge the imagination. How they managed to stay on while flipping mid-air and passing each other is beyond me. Me, I’ll stick to the highway.
 
But there was still plenty to see without taking my bike off the ground. Nashville and its suburbs are a beautiful integration of young and old. Modern skyscrapers rise among historic buildings, and somehow it works. And what I loved best about visiting was the Southern hospitality. That phrase doesn’t even begin to convey the warmth of the people who live there; they taught us each to be friendlier.
 
I wish I could say that we ended our trip without rain. Alas, not so. As we left Nashville, it began pouring, and it rained all the way to Natural Bridge, Va., some 465 miles into our return. That night we went to bed sapped, with little conversation. The next day was bright.  
 
Back on the road.
 
Creveling lives in Philadelphia. When he isn’t on his motorcycle, he is a career and leadership development coach and a virtual career guide for Coming of Age. He and his wife Chris (Aztec is her biker name) are co-founders of Career Resources Management LLC