BMW National Rally - 2003

West Virginia Almost Heaven Rally

View from the top of Seneca Rocks. Photo by Tamra Stallings	Lots of Beemers at the Rally. Photo by Keith Carr
Camping at the Rally. Photo by Keith Carr	Eat in My Restaurant! Photo by Keith Carr
Sunset over the Kannawha River. Photo by Darrell Hoemann	EC Riders at Rally. Photo by Darrell Hoemann

I had never done a ride like this before July of 2003. For me, the Almost Heaven National BMW rally in West Virginia was a completely different kind of motorcycle rally. Either I had committed an unforgivable sin or I discovered an entirely new way of enjoying my motorcycle. I’m still weighing the merits of each of these possible interpretations and it could be that both are true and that each should be savored equally for their potential to move me out of my world taken for granted. You see, on Tuesday morning, July 6 I rolled my R1100S onto a little snowmobile trailer and drove it, my family, and myself about 650 miles from Urbana, Illinois to Cabins, West Virginia. It’s interesting even in the absence of other club members, each ride is already always a group affair. How could I not hear the myriad voices from EC Riders and beemer riders in general speaking to me over the years at dozens of BMW rallies about those chrome-loving, V-twin aficionados who don’t actually ride to rallies but secretly trailer them or haul them in their pick up trucks, unload them at a safe distance, and then have the audacity to ride into the bike event as though they are heroes? Still, with a few mental gymnastics, I put it out of my thoughts even though I had to check constantly the status of my immobilized two-wheeled pride and joy. Our ride on I-74 to I-70, then I-79 into West Virginia was uneventful and straightforward. No storms befell us, no construction work obstructed our progress. We simply rolled across Indiana and Ohio, chewed off bits of West Virginia and Pennsylvania, and then entered the Mountain state with more commitment and found our way to highway 33 heading east. We remained true to our chosen path up into the hills to Elkins, then Seneca Rocks, and finally to our destination, Cabins, WV.

The cabin in Cabins was a delight. An A-frame construction whose appearance only hinted at what early settlers might have built, it faced the North fork of the south branch of the Potomac River. This particular name conjured up visions of the Grand Armee of the Republic marching off to do battle in Virginia but of course, all of that happened much farther down its course a long, long time ago. We also had a view of a beautiful rock structure that seemed to have been lifted straight up into the sky eons ago by powerful tectonic forces, and we could see several pleasing West Virginia hills that surrounded us on all sides. I include this because even though it doesn’t have much to do with the Almost Heaven rally, it provided me with a front row seat of state route 55. Loads of our fellow MOA members chose this route to make their way to Charleston and every time one passed, I wanted to join them on their ride. The sun and clouds took turns either warming or dousing the pilgrims, the majority of whom were suitably attired for the possibility of precipitation. Anyway, while we enjoyed the cabin we saw the world’s longest ribbon stalactite in nearby Smoke Hall Caverns (oooh, ahhhh!) and we scaled up Seneca Rocks for incredible views of the valley below. Lots of our brethren also stopped at the Seneca Rocks attraction in the surrounding Monongahela National Forest. The town named Seneca Rocks has a very appealing little general store and gas station at the corner of SR 33 and SR 55, filled with the labors of taxidermists and set up like stores of yore.

The Ride to the Rally.
On Friday morning I woke up, made breakfast for the family, and slowly got ready for my ride to Charleston. Oddly, I was a bit nervous perhaps because I hadn’t yet really ridden in West Virginia except for a short get acquainted ride the previous day. I got everything taken care of and then I couldn’t find my key. I drove my family crazy looking for it for about an hour when Tamra found it underneath my riding gloves on the picnic table in front of the cabin. She was happy to see me depart and the S purred as it climbed SR 55 towards Seneca Rocks. A shower had dampened everything only minutes before but seemed to be moving away from my location. Still, the roads were wet and that curbed my enthusiasm a bit. But, the pavement was smooth, clean, and free of debris and other imperfections. In other words, smooth and it felt good to be on the S. Those first 100 miles fulfilled my fantasies concerning West Virginia and motorcycling. The sinuous and winding byways carried me through sunshine lit valleys, past postcard-quality farms, and through endearing little hamlets filled with well-maintained homes from other periods of our country’s history. Traffic was almost non-existent and what little there was quickly vanished as I rolled on the throttle. The curves were a special delight as I tried out the suggestions made by David Hough and Nick Ienatsch in their books on safe riding and sport riding. I filled my tank in Green Bank and continued on toward Marlinton and Richmond. The road got a little rougher here, I spotted three deer and several turtles (Fear the turtle!). I also began encountering more and more beemer riders. What a treat to see so many others enjoying the ride! I knew I wasn’t making quick time but I was enjoying the ride, at my own pace, on really great roads with only a hint of a threat of rain. Still, the road alternated wet and dry throughout the many forested stretches, particularly those that were shaded, and I tried to keep in mind what I knew about traction and rear tires. Perhaps because I wasn’t pushing hard or in a hurry, I felt no slipping at either end of the machine and I continued to enjoy my journey. The road became SR 39 and I followed it to SR 60 where I enjoyed a water fall in the company of about 20 other rally goers. After some gas, I made my way quickly into Charleston and found the Civic Center, registered and somehow couldn’t bring myself to spend any money at what seemed to be one of the best vendor displays I can ever remember at any rally or motorcycle show. I really should have bought a mesh jacket but I just wasn’t in the mood.

The Rally
I hung out for a while thinking I might run into someone I knew but such was not to be and I got directions to one of the several campgrounds. Since I didn’t know where any of the EC Riders were camping, I figured the beer tent provided the best hope of finding one of my compadres and so I headed off across the river. I made the mistake of assuming the fellow I was following knew where he was going but instead of finding the University of Charleston, we got a tour of the bluffs overlooking the Kannawha River. We eventually rolled into the university and what seemed to be, if not the heart of the action, at least a very good part of it. I did a little tour, got myself a beer and ended up talking with someone named Fritz from North Carolina. We sat staring at the golden capital dome and watched the barges and pleasure craft float past. The sun shone brightly even as the ground around the beer tent was wet and mushy. Fritz told me all about how a strong gust of wind on Wednesday had picked up the beer tent and knocked it down. I also heard that several people were hurt and that quite a few tents were converted into temporary watercraft. Not good, and I hoped there wouldn’t be a repeat performance even as several clouds darkened themselves seemingly to intimidate those of us enjoying the festivities. Another beer and I wandered back to my bike and set up my tent. After a tour of the bikes in the parking lot, I found a spot I liked better and I moved the tent. I chatted with a tent neighbor and Rick and Margie walked past. I shared my thoughts about securing a faculty position at a school like this with such wonderful nearby roads. Rick told me the whole gang was at the beer tent and I went in search of same. I found Don, then Keith, and finally Jon. We talked and laughed, drank and laughed, talked some more and bothered several people nearby by laughing still louder. Then it was very late and I decided I needed to get some sleep, so I walked out of the snack area of the university. It had rained again while we exchanged pleasantries, seemingly quite a bit. Except for a few sporadic and brief night-time showers, no real further damage occurred. I had arranged to meet Keith at breakfast and found him the next morning in the gym. I always seem to wake up early when I camp so I didn’t worry too much about getting up on time.

Ride with Keith
Trains roared past the university most of the night and woke me around 6 am. I staggered out of the tent and got in the mile-long breakfast line. I had a nice conversation with the person next to me and noticed Dan Morris from the Peoria gang up ahead. We had ridden together to New Mexico and Colorado a few weeks earlier with 3 other guys over a period of 10 days. It had been a great ride and it was nice to re-connect. Keith found us and somehow I managed to eat a little. I thought the food did a good impression of penitentiary fare but others seemed to like it better than I did. I packed up my tent and Keith and I made plans to ride over to Webster Springs. We headed out on 119 and then got on SR 4. 119 wasn’t anything special but SR4 was really nice. It presented us with an on-going series of very wide double-apexed curves. As far as I know, it’s still legal to enjoy each and every one of these as many times as you like and then some. Traffic was a little thicker than I like but we seemed to manage it. We stopped for gas in Ivydale and exchanged a few comments like, ‘damn, that was good!’ and then we met HIM. Every trip inscribes at least one character into your mind like ancient hieroglyphics and here he was. He drove over in a beat up old pick up truck with a scraggly dog in the back and stuck his head out of the window. We no longer controlled the airwaves and he pelted us with a rapid fire, unrelated string of anecdotes. Somehow, he accomplished this with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Keeping both hands on his steering wheel, cigarette dangling from his lips, we heard in a mountain drawl about how a woman crashed into his Pontiac GTO as he careened seemingly out of control at 150 miles an hour. We discovered that this broke both his back and his ‘ass.’ We were entreated to follow him to a nearby gas station to diagnose his early ‘70s Honda 750 with carburetors that ceased to function ‘all of a sudden’ with no warning. He asked about BMW motorcycles and whether they were any good among lots of other topics. At this point, not recognizing that this character might be one of the motorcycling gods in human form sent to assess the quality of biker’s souls in West Virginia, we departed and found roads even better than those we had been riding up to that point. The wide double apexes continued and after coming as close as we would to a very wet ride, we stopped for lunch in Webster Springs. The raindrops were big and juicy and it seemed inevitable that we would need to put on rain gear. Somehow, it never happened but, instead, the ride just got better and better.

After a nice rest and a slow lunch, Keith took off in an westerly direction while I headed east. I’ll let him tell you about slippery railroad crossings. My ride was pleasant all the way home. The ride past Snowshoe mountain took me into a 20-30 mile stretch of tight, 20-25 mph curves. More deer and turtles and it seemed as though I stayed just 500 to 1000 feet ahead of a shower. After getting back to the cabin, we went out to dinner and back over 50 miles of the same route that had brought me home. It was wet and steaming in bright sunshine! I beat it! Hah. Not a bad ride. Not a bad rally. Next year the national will be held in Spokane. I’m looking for a cabin in nearby Idaho. Ought to be something up in the mountains. Hope to see you there!!!