It was a dark and dreary night... uhhhhh... OK, so that's already been done once, but it WAS a crummy, drizzly, cold night out in the garage Wednesday night packing for the trip. Even with the doors closed and the wall heater pumping out forced heat, the garage was damp and seemed to be warning me to just stay the hell home. I'm the first to admit that clear spring-like weather sure makes for the best of trips, but when Mother Nature dumps on ya, I've found some of the most interesting rides unfold.

Huckleberry, my '99 Ultra-Glide Classic - the words Harley-Davidson emblazoned clearly on the gas tank as well as on several pieces of chrome and decals and mufflers, is uncharacteristically gleaming from the detail wash I paid some neighbor kids $20 apiece to do for me, (they damned near said they'd do it for free just to work on my Harley). Generally, it sits unwashed with the hard-earned bugs still smashed against the Plexiglas windshield, cut down to give me an unobstructed view of the road, but high enough to deflect the majority of the wind and all but the heaviest of bugs.

These 'night-before-the-ride' packing sessions have become routine. I prefer an early departure on the first day of my rides, so I do the final packing the night before. With over 46,000 miles on this '99 model, I've done quiet a few of these rituals - honing in the routine to the point where everything has a designated spot in the multitude of bags and pockets and racks.

I pay close attention to the weather-related basics ... Rain suit, clip-on visor, a coupla extra plastic bags… that kind of stuff. I just added a few extra fire-starter sticks and a small bottle of Coleman Fuel - hey! ... I don't HAVE to do the Boy Scout thing here, I want FIRE!

The weather called for rain nearly the entire trip, and nobody enjoys a camping trip in the rain, but this is more than a simple campout - this was my annual solo winter camp. It's not supposed to be pleasant. I added a second tarp to the growing pile of crap bungeed to the tour-pak, a few dozen more feet of cord and a second bottle of Butane for the camp-stove (which doubles as a more-than-dangerous tent heater).

It still surprises me to realize I've just turned 48. Always thinking of myself as twenty-something, recent aches and pains have brought me back to reality. Even sitting cross-legged on the carpeted garage floor, wiping down the rear fender, presents more pains than ever before. Passing the rag over my license tag, issued to me several years ago by the State of North Carolina, I remember how I got the handle, which is personalized on it - "MUTHUH."

It was back in the late 80's. Sprawled out on the bed in one of the bedrooms of a rented four bedroom house in Daytona Beach during Bike Week, I slowly become conscious of someone shaking me awake, calling me every obscenity in the book. I was tired, hung over, sunburned and half asleep. I regained my hearing right about the moment I was being called a "Big Muthuh Fuckuh Son of a Bitch." Raising my head a half-inch, I felt every bottle of Budweiser I had drunk the night before, opened one of my eyes and stared into the four-day old beard and blood-shot eyes of my riding buddy, Tony.

I opened my mouth a half inch and slowly - but with great conviction - told him, "If you call me a 'Muthuh Fuckuh' one more time, you'll never be able to straddle a motorcycle again without thinking of the pain I am about to cause to your nuts." Taking that as a challenge but still being a bit cautious, he called me "Muthuh" for the rest of the trip. Being 6'4" and 250 lbs, the handle stuck over the years.

I rub my hands over the few scrapes and dings on Ol' Huck, remembering where each one of 'em came from. The deep gash in my tour-pak lid caused when a careless forklift operator in the Denver, Colorado's dealership ran into it. The dime-sized paint chip in my fairing when a box dropped on it in the back of a moving truck when it was shipped back to the East Coast in '99. The hardened glob of plastic still on the exhaust shield from the heel of a backseat rider during the Myrtle Beach Rally. Everything has a story.

With that all done, I do one more check on the Internet at www.weather.com - which didn't seem to help improve the forecast any - and climbed the steps to the bedroom to crash for the night. It wasn't visions of sugarplums that danced in my head that night!

After waffles and OJ, sending the kids off to school for the day, and Kim, my wife of 24 years, off to work, I'm surprised to find the morning cold but still dry. It's FAR preferable to get camp set up before the rains set in, so after the second cup of coffee. One last check of the business emails, and as the early morning light leaks into the garage, I don my chaps, heavy gloves and 3/4 helmet, straddle the bike and back her up so the exhaust faces the neighbor on the left. I hit the starter and wait while she warms up... popping the throttle from time to time for effect.

Mentally, I go over my list of stuff... camera, batteries, laptop, phone, GPS, MP3 player...god dammed, this looks like a rolling Circuit City here. On the other hand, from the outside, it probably looks like a dumb sumbitch heading off for a campout on a rainy weekend. But from where I sit, it's Ol' Huck and me heading off on another adventure. Screw what it looks like to the rest of ya. I toe-kick the shifter into 1st gear, pop the throttle one last time and ease her out of the driveway, on alert for the slightest misfire or hesitation as she gets to a comfortable temperature.

Ya know ... for years I would take the long way out of the neighborhood to drive by at throttle-up past a buddies house who rides, too... (we called it a salute to each other, but in reality, it was more like a neener, neener, neener ... he'd do the same past my house). He's been gone for over a year now, but I go that way out of habit now, imagining somebody along the way takes a deep breath and wishes they too were on their bike for the weekend.

With two or three days ahead of me and not a long way to go, I take Hwy 70 West instead of the shorter ride on I-85. In less than a mile my eyes are tearing up from the temperature change, streaming trails of cold backwards on my exposed face and distorting my vision. I wait till they well up a bit and, instead of trying to wipe them dry, I simply squint real hard - which forces the tears down my cheeks…I've found that to be the best solution. Within a couple miles they're used to the cold and my cheeks dry.

This is always a great part of any ride - still warm from the heated garage and wrapped in leathers, fingertips not overly chilled yet, and familiar roads blurring past me in the blue-gray morning light. Ironically, it's also the moment I usually regret because before I know it, I'll be riding down these same roads from the opposite direction … home-bound.

With less than 10 miles under my belt, I'm laying the bike over on its kickstand (this time I remember to put the kickstand down first) at a little Mom n' Pop diner known to have great coffee and biscuits...uhhhhh, ok, and cute waitresses, too.

Acutely aware that these black leather chaps make your ass look funny when wearing faded blue jeans (unless you're a lady of course, then they make you ass look REALLY good!) I strip them off before going inside, looking for a seat in the cute waitresses section. I'm in luck.

It's gotten to be a tradition on my trips - and what good is having time off for a road trip if ya don't follow traditions, right? … that I stop at the beginning of my ride at a non-franchise diner for a good breakfast. (I won't stop at a diner if it has a name I recognize, except for Waffle House, and diners with ladies names in it are preferred). After black coffee, eggs, grits, bacon and a jelly biscuit, I am hopping on the scooter with a much better attitude.

It's interesting to observe reactions at a place like this. The waitresses, of course, always come over and giggle and tease with ya, but it's the other patrons that are fun to watch. The old guys'll come talk to ya, usually about their old riding days - wish I had some of them write down their road trip stories. The kids'll wait till Mom or Dad gives 'em a nod of the head… permission to go look at the motorcycle. Half of them will agree to sit on the bike for their picture if their folks have a camera... and on occasion, the 4-5 yr olds are a hoot to watch as you show them which button to push to fire it up. (Note to self: remember to have it in Neutral when ya do this.)

I have yet to find the stray 18 yr old honey that wants to ride off into the sunrise... maybe that's why I, on purpose, don't bring an extra helmet - too tempting to make the offer I suppose.

Anyway - so here I am westbound on the two-lane rural highway between Durham and Burlington, in the central piedmont of North Carolina when the first sign of drizzle sets in. The sky was overcast to start with and the weather.com radar showed I was likely to get wet as I drove off this morning, but I was hoping to get to camp first. However, even after two hours of riding, snaking my way to Danbury, near Hanging Rock State Park, my clothes were relatively dry - with only my bootleg jean bottoms showing signs of wetness, and my glasses misted over.

About 8 miles from the park the roads got pretty twisty and hilly, making the light rain, now lying on top of the oil slicked centerline, bring out the adrenaline in my system. At times doing 5mph going around the hairpin turns south of town, the cagers behind me seemed impatient as hell and right on my bumper, but nobody had honked at me yet. (Might have something to do with a big guy on a big ol' Harley with the license tag "MUTHUH" on the back...)

In any case, I rumbled into the entrance of the State Park and climbed the long twisty hill to the top, veered off into the family camping section and found it nearly empty of campers... nearly.

I don't care how many campers I find in a campground; I always make one or two circuits around the loop to mentally note the best sites. This morning I find that I and one other tent were the only people taking advantage of the State's hospitality. It was a small blue dome tent, one of those folding chair-in-a-bag things sitting near a smoldering fire pit, a 6-pack-sized Styrofoam cooler...and a 50's-ish Panhead FL leaning way over on its kickstand with a prominent spot of fresh oil on the gravel under it.

I make one more loop around, finding several better sites. But after a short ponder of the situation; I pull into a site across the road from the Pan. Anybody interested in a winter camp on an old Harley in the middle of nowhere has got to be someone I'd like to drink with around a campfire. The pile of wood at the fire pit, my wood starters and soon-to-be-bought adult beverages might make for a nice evening.

A brief glimmer of hope that this might just be someone of the female persuasion was dashed when a wide-grinned, tanned faced and wavy headed dude stuck his head out of the tent and nodded in my direction.

With the bike backed into the parking space of my site, bags and duffels tossed in the general direction of the tent pad and pipes crackling as they cooled in the now quiet and deeply-forested campground, I set out to make camp.

Before I had a chance to completely set up a suspended tarp over the bike and intended tent spot, the Pan rider unzipped his tent, and nimbly uncurled from the small doorway, stretching nearly to my height, but considerably, uhhhhh, less big-boned than I. Flashing the grin which betrayed rather good dental habits, he strolled over to my side of the access road. Ten feet before reaching me he put out his hand saying, "You must be Muthuh. My name's Lance… Lance West."

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