Pittsburgh Rides: Traveling or a journey?
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Couple holding hands with a motorcycle in the background
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Years ago, I was bitten by the motorcycle bug, and over time, it has grown into a passion. My wife has ridden her own bike in the past, but her view is far more practical. It's transportation, nothing more. She tolerates my fervent single-mindedness about the bike and the ride, instinctively understanding how fundamental it is to my enjoyment of life.
I'm all about the journey. When I go on a joyride, it's almost never with a specific destination in mind. She, on the other hand, is driven by destinations. If we go for a ride, we must stop someplace and do something, otherwise, why go? Lately, I've tried to anticipate that requirement, but rarely successfully.
One Saturday, a glorious early fall afternoon, we rolled out of Somerset bound for my favorite destination, "Who-Knows-Whereburgh." I went south, heading in a vague way toward western Maryland. As the tree-lined road flashed past, the idea crystallized in my brain to go to Deep Creek Lake.
My wife was quiescent during these ruminations, occupied with her romance novel. Yes, she reads while we ride, which is better than falling asleep, which she used to do with disturbing regularity. When I felt the hard thump of her helmet between my shoulder blades, I put one hand on the bike, the other on her.
Welcome to Pittsburgh Rides, our regular feature on motorcycling. Here we bring you the latest in rides, trends and events, but we need your input. We're looking for voices from the local biking community willing to share (in roughly 500 words) your experiences on the road and what you think is hot on wheels. Send your story or pitch to Weekend editor Scott Mervis at smervis@post-gazette.com.
I missed some turns, entering West Virginia at one point I didn't mind the backtracks. After all, I wasn't really going anywhere. But she began to ask with increasing asperity, "Where are you going?" I told her where, and that seemed to satisfy her. After all, we now had a destination.
I stopped at a vegetable stand north of Friendsville. It was a marvelous little place with tables covered with the colorful harvest bounty. Corn, flawless golden pumpkins, gourds of every conceivable shape and color, fat red tomatoes and apples. It was a fall cornucopia that would've inspired Norman Rockwell.
First Published October 14, 2010 12:00 am
