There was drama at the ‘Bates Motel’, I didn’t sleep well, trying to ignore my neighbour pleading with his recent ex on the phone to have him back, I dozed off into dreams of mechanical calamities. In the morning one of not so good not so old boys, that had wandered off into last night, was back with distressed tales of cruelty. The other was apparently locked up in the cells. As the story went the pair had departed to view a property that the jail bird allegedly owned however that still entailed climbing in through a window. There was further craziness as the erstwhile homeowner turned psycho resulting in the tearful survivor calling the cops having recorded some of the violent threats on his cellphone. He was genuinely distressed and I empathised even when some of the details, including the cops coming to the motel and knocking on every door, didn’t quite hang together. I packed and gave the key back to dressing gown lady.
I don’t know whether it was the lack of sleep or the altitude or the strangeness of it all or the absence of breakfast that caused my dream state to continue into the day. I was confused as to which trail I was on and my normally scatty memory deteriorated to goldfish like abilities. I knew that I had to get to a tyre shop but the limited cell coverage on the ridgeway played havoc with my digital planning. Eventually I settled on Wilkesboro on the Yadkin river, miles off the route but offering multiple outlets of pneumatic bliss. My first hit was EastSide Performance, that turned out to be a very cool drag racing garage where this gentleman redirected me to a chainsaw shop with a sideline in motorcycles.
At the shop I waited while the proprietors gently explained to the punter in front of me that the chain only works when fitted in one direction and that might be the reason for his saw’s poor performance. Dwain was assigned to attend to my rear tube (no sniggering at the back) and made such a good job of balancing the wheel, old-school on a frame, that I asked him to do the front as well. It was shockingly out and explained the shaking handlebars that had troubled me to date, I’ll be having words with a certain North London tyre specialist if/when I get back.
I returned to the ridgeway and was confused, partly by my continuing dream state and partly by the direction that it took, winding south. Fortunately I met these two guys and one dog, they gave me water and set me straight
I headed on but my head was all over the place, the route is hard to find and Google Maps, when there is a signal, insists that there is a better way on more well trodden/rolled paths. Eventually I bailed into the oasis that is Blowing Rock (any more sniggering and it’s detention for the lot of you). I stuck a pin in the digital map and got lucky, the Homestead Inn is a quiet clean motel with genial welcoming hosts, Rob and Caroline, near to a suitable Pub, the village Inn, with Helles IPA and Cuban sandwiches.
Le Mans man 