From Wilmington to Charleston

From Wilmington to Charleston

Wilmington, North Carolina was a stopover, a place to hang our helmets for the night before the ride to Charleston.  On our way to Route 17 we drove through the historic downtown district, with block after block of beautiful and elegant Victorian-era homes and historical markers touting the celebrated people and events. Unfortunately, I couldn’t read or take pictures fast enough.

When we left Wilmington, it was under the bluest and brightest skies we’ve seen this week. The sun was radiant and the few clouds that floated lazily above were whisper thin. While it was a perfect day weather-wise, the ride to Charleston wasn’t distinguished by any breathtaking landscapes, rolling hills or perfectly manicured farms. The ride along the Carolina coast is low, straight and occasionally marshy.

And then we got to Myrtle Beach.

Route 17 through North Myrtle Beach is a two lane highway traversing mile after mile of retail repertoire included any number of elaborate miniature golf establishments, all-you-can-eat seafood buffets, pancake houses, golf gear outlets and bargain price beachwear superstores. It reminded me of Branson, Missouri without the tacky glitz.

We stopped at the first of four Harley stores we knew were in the area just to stop the madness.

As we neared the fork that determined if our route would continue on 17 through Myrtle Beach (proper) or via the bypass, Jason leaned back and said more than asked, “By-pass?” to which I heartily agreed. I’ve never been to or through Myrtle Beach before, but after the visual assault of its sister city, I was afraid my credit cards would simply melt in my wallet, and I just couldn’t take that chance.

The Boys of Summer are out in force in the south, or so it seems, as much of the ride from Myrtle Beach to Charleston was lined with orange cones and white hard hats.  It creates a bit of tension and stress for Jason to stop, idle and go on a regular basis, and at ninety plus degrees, it can feel a bit like sitting in a baking pan in a hot oven.

Our hotel is located in Charleston’s historic district, a different and much more pleasant sensory overload for me. I had planned a few things for our two days here, but as Jason handled the check-in process, I wandered to the wall o’advertisements, and pulled a dozen colorful brochures.

Decisions. Decisions.

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The Experience vs. The Ride

The Experience vs. The Ride

There is one main difference between Jason and I when it comes to doing anything on the Harley, especially these two-week vacations. For him, the experience is the ride. For me, the ride is the experience.  When I announced my observations to him last night, he looked at me, laughed and then dared, “ Explain THAT in your blog!”

It’s really quite simple.

For Jason, the essence of the trip is about the ride itself – rocketing the bike down straight roads, coaxing it through sharp turns, cajoling it around gentle twists and curves. It’s about man versus machine and being in control, literally and figuratively, of more than 900 pounds of metal and steel in motion. 

For me, it’s about the experience – the changing landscape, the places we visit, the things we see, the pictures I can take and the stories I can tell. The perspective on the back of the bike is unlike anything else.

Today was more about the ride than the experience.  We headed off to Wilmington, North Carolina and made another unexpected stop on Roanoke Island, part of the infamous Outer Banks, and the location of The Lost Colony, the first English settlement here in America. Over 100 men, women and children settled here in 1587. A few days after the colonists arrived, Virginia Dare, the daughter of Ananias and Eleanor White Dare, became the first English child born in America. The initial attempt at colonization was a disaster and within three years, the settlement vanished with hardly a trace. To this day, archaeologists and historians have theories, but no definitive answers as to what really happened.

We headed west on Route 264, which traverses through miles and miles and miles of thick and protected marshlands, including the more than 152,000 acre Alligator River National Wildlife Refuge.  Despite careful scrutiny, little wildlife was observed, except for a few turtles and a few circling birds of prey. The monotony of the black swampy water paralleling the road, the thick clusters of pine trees and bushes, native grasses and other vegetation gave way to a whisper of civilization carved into acres of cornfields - houses of all varieties, from farmhouses well maintained and proudly generational to trailers perched on cement blocks to ramshackle dwellings one strong wind away from destruction. The landscape returned to marshlands and I thought I might scream, except there was no one around to hear me.

The most exciting event of the day was the siting of a young bear lumbering across the road about 100 yards ahead of us. I was able to snap a few pictures, more to verify it was a bear, and not a really big dog!

We eventually exited the refuge without the need for screaming and continued on to Wilmington under blue skies and teasing sunshine, stopping at three Harley dealers along the way.

Tomorrow we head to Charleston, and hopefully the experience will be as exciting as the ride.

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