Driving the Parkway

I made the trip to Florence, South Carolina, where all of my long-distance traveling adventures by car have begun (excluding the bicycle trek from Asheville) for the past year. We headed out for West Virginia first at the recommendation of a friend of my travel companion's brother who worked on the Darlington raceway for twenty years, as well as did much work as a trucker. It didn't yield much enjoyment for myself, but my friend enjoyed it. There was a mountain wall that stretched from horizon to horizon. I had never seen anything like that before. A tunnel had to be constructed to make it through. Charleston, West Virginia was the perfect sad little town, listening to Gillian Welch. Dirty town, coal town, river town. We got a very late start on the Parkway. It really put a strain on the car. I had to drive it very fast and very long distance without much stopping. Virginia was surprisingly beautiful from the knife's edge of a mountain ridge. The May wind and sun brought pinks and pastel colors out of the trees on the gentle mountaintops in the higher ridges -- a kind of reverse autumn. It was something I had dreamed of as a child but never thought I'd actually see. 

My friend was constantly anxious of my driving. I would see a stretch of straight road, accelerate to eighty, and slow up on the hill, but only to fifty-five and make smooth turns just at the edge of the tire's ability to keep full hold of the pavement. I remember missing making Boone, North Carolina by dark by two and a half hours. The night time I believe is the best time for the mountains. Things were so non-stop during the day. I looked up to God's stars, it cooled my mind down. Things slowed. We were in the foggy wet valley, about forty miles either way between high parts of the parkway. It was a starry, though hazy, night, behind the old marby mill, enjoying the rushing water. There was a thunderstorm rolling in the distance. Things are so open around here, it could have been a hundred miles away. I think of how modest the houses along the parkway in middle western Virginia, humble homes and simple fields. So simple, so clean, so good. Things got a bit crazy after Boone, North Carolina. It was the craziest driving I've ever done in my entire life. Like Neal Cassady, driving cars to breaking, but driving them with near-perfect mastery. I remember when dashing up a hill, seeing two bikers suddenly with their bright lights, and, not prepared, hitting the brakes hard, skidding down it, releasing the brakes (to regain friction) with the wheel turned to curve of the road. One tire had a small leak in it. We made sure to keep it in good pressure and check it often. In Boone, we visited an old friend of mine who was working in a breakfast cafe that morning. It was so good to see him, and we enjoyed some organic local breakfast food, anything besides our bagels. We of course spent far too much time there, but I let my friend have the wheel for a little while, all the way down to Mount Mitchell. I was completely freaked-out excited listening to Jim VanCleve and my train mix. It was so much better being a passenger than driving. Black Mountain, just as during LEAF, but viewed from the north end, gained my worshipful awe. How can it be claimed that a mountain of that sort is not alive? It was very very powerful, and it gave utterance. It was brown and ancient and six-thousand feet tall. It was a burnt umber cathedral in the sunlight, kingly and unwavering in the mighty air. The section that I bicycled was like stepping back into time. My driving terrified my friend. He yelled at me and I felt bad. I didn't slow down though, I just got better. The detour from the chunk of close parkway that had been closed since October required driving back up 276. It was annoying hot and time consuming. Driving up the part of the parkway where my bicycle was stolen, I could name all of the look out points. The Pounding Mill sign was gone. It was a race from that point on. From the highest part of the parkway unrolled dozens of miles of mountains, each ridge and valley ascending over the horizon. It completely blew my mind. The day continued to get hotter along the way to Cherokee. It was making the both of us drowsy. Cherokee was the biggest tourist trap I've ever seen, and I'm surprised the Cherokee people allowed all of it for the sake of profit gain. Seems that "progress" is appealing even to these ancient Americans. Their gods would certainly be infuriated at the prospect of desecrating their holy mountaintops with our roads. Things are so different now. America is so un-virgin. The Great Smokey Mountains Expressway was very nice but we were tired. It was a good three hours from here to Florence. The car broke down two thirds of the way home. There was an oil leak. The tow truck came, and it was quite a way to end it all. I pushed that car so much.
Another drowsy morning in Magic City. Everyone was unavailable to get me back to Charleston for work. Today was a throw-away. The moments and mountains are still filtering down my mind and heart. It was entirely worth it.