Since Brevard is east of the TAT and I live west of Brevard, I make the decision to stay the night at the best bed & breakfast in the country. So I point the bike toward the house via a mixture of forest service roads and the Blue Ridge Parkway. The weather for the start of my grand adventure could not be more perfect — low humidity and warm, not hot, temperatures. No doubt I will be spoiled by it.
I haven’t quite figured out how to let go of the homesickness. I know many adventurers are eager to leave their wives and families to gallop over the horizon. I think for me there will be some sort of radius, a geographical point, where I am far enough away from home to make it “official.” I think at that point, I will settle into the idea of the Trans America Trail, but while I am headed to the house, I don’t think treating the symptoms with the cause is quite the right prescription.

Traffic on the Parkway is light. In fact, I have the Highest Point on the Blue Ridge Parkway Motor Road to myself long enough to put a drone in the air and take a selfie.

Once home, I unpack the bike and relax in the best bed & breakfast in the country. I consider and reconsider just staying, but that would become a monumental regret. The next morning, she readies herself for work and I ready myself for the journey. Resetting the things that need to be more streamlined and they are few. I packed pretty well and things are pretty much good to go.

I stop by her work for one last good-bye and roll out. This time for real. The excitement mixes with all of the other emotions.

“What’s that noise? Is that new?”

“Hope this bike makes it to Oregon. Heck, I hope it makes it out of the state.”

“You sure about this?”

“What’d I forget? There has to be something.”

Settling in to any journey like this takes a little while. Fumbling with unfamiliar set-ups, figuring out better configurations for simple things, these are all things that take time and real world application. Finding the most efficient way of doing things comes with the daily struggle. It’s part of the journey. In trips past, by the time I had streamlined everything, I was pulling back into the driveway, disappointed that the adventure was over. I get the feeling this ride will be different.

The first day brings more perfect weather and some familiar but good dualsport riding in WNC and east Tennessee. Forest service roads through the Great Smoky Mountains are beautiful and the riding is great. It’s home turf so it can be hard to get fired up about.

The loaded motorcycle is handling poorly in loose, big toe-sized gravel – especially uphill. Obviously all the weight is on the back of the bike, squashing the rear spring, and relaxing the head angle enough to have a detrimental effect on handling. I had tried to add some preload to the rear, but for some reason, no matter how hard I hit the adjusting collar, I couldn’t get it to turn in either direction. Standing up helps and the giant peg extensions that I was given a lot of grief over turned out to be sound upgrades. The other issue with the soft spring is, the kickstand is too long. It makes parking the bike a chore and it makes me glad I added a Ram Mount ball to the kickstand as a catch for my boot to raise and lower the stand. I’d be sunk without it.

I decide to stop by Wheeler’s in Robbinsville, NC. He’s a good friend and riding buddy and world-famous for salvaging vacations. A sign on the wall in his shop claims, “My mother says I can fix anything and I’m not going to disappoint my mother.” He’s a real mad-scientist kind of guy. If he doesn’t have a tool, he disappears into his full machine shop and reappears with one.

He has the same trouble with the adjusting collar that I have. It doesn’t respond to solid taps with a punch and hammer. The soft aluminum notches are getting deformed and still not moving enough to stiffen the spring. We make the decision to remove the shock to get a proper tool onto the collar. With bolts removed, linkages disconnected, and even a slight modification of the obstructive bashguard, we discover the dogbones won’t swing far enough out of the way to drop the shock out the bottom. Terrific. Apparently the shock has to come out the top. This means removing the subframe (gas tank on this bike) bolts, rotating the tank down and bringing the shock out the top. Add to that the removal of the cargo rack before you can get to the tank. Obviously, Wheeler could do that, but not within the constraints of my time table. I decide to suffer with it, adapt to it, and ride it like it is to Salida, CO where I will have access to a garage and tools and one of the best KTM guys I know of. Pumping up the compression and rebound helps slow the bouncing down enough to mimic some preload and settle the bike down. It could in reality be me that is settling into the bike. Adaptation – it’s important.

The rest of the day is spent in the beauty of WNC and ETN. Lots of roads I have ridden and some I haven’t. Using the GPS tracks exclusively has a strange effect on the experience. It seems to allow me to immerse myself into the remoteness of the regions I am passing through. Most of the time, I have no idea where I am in relation to places. I just know so long as I see the little motorcycle on the light blue line, I am not lost. I give myself a chuckle when, in my helmet I say, “I have no clue where I am, but I am nowhere near lost.”

As the day winds down, I am searching for camp. While preparing for the trip, I spent hours in Garmin Basecamp adding various points-of-interest to the route. At the end of the day, the next nearest marked campsite is too far to make, so I’m now looking for a bootleg campsite or dispersed camping. Suddenly, as if by request, Lost Creek Campground appears. Deserted and free – perfect. Next to a mountain stream I set up the hammock just after dusk and go over the day in my mind. A month plus of this?