In Georgia, like in most places, the times when the weather is spot-on perfect are brief and fleeting. A few days in spring, a few days in fall. Yesterday was one of those days. Morning broke around 60 degrees, with a forecast high of 79. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and a light breeze moved the trees.
Perfect motorcycling weather.
Suzanne and I mounted up late morning and headed for a couple rumored ghost towns southeast of us. As it grew more rural, street signs became scarce, and we found ourselves in places unexpected and unknown. So I threw some GPS coordinates into my phone, and let Google guide us to where we were supposed to end up.
This turned out to be the best idea I’ve had in some time.
Turning down a narrow, two-way road, we found ourselves in a place of jaw-dropping beauty – a road with sweeping curves through rolling hills of farmland. Deep greens as far as you could see, unmarred by humanity. Small cow herds quietly munching away. The only sound to be heard was the engine and the wind. It was five miles of transcendence, in a place we never expected to find it.
I didn’t stop to take a picture. I wanted to be immersed in it completely.
This morning, I awoke a couple hours too early. My head started spinning with work – things I thought I needed to do, things I might have forgotten, people I needed to talk to. I stopped myself, knowing I’d never return to sleep if I kept down that road. I put myself back in that place – the sound of the engine, the rush of the wind, the sun shining on the green hills.
And I slept.