Northern Georgia is as deep south as it gets. Relics of the Civil War litter the countryside. Battlefield monuments here, old cannon displays in town squares there. It’s a part of what shaped the nation and for most southerners, it’s a part of their family history. As the losers, it’s hard for some to let go of the grudge. There are many Confederate battle flags here – flying in front yards, tacked onto the sides of all manner of homes, stuck on tailgates of old rusted out pick-up trucks, even hand-painted versions made of plywood just leaned up against a fence post at the entrance to a sketchy looking driveway. The South never really got over losing the war. It’s a good thing she did lose though. Imagine if she’d won and been allowed to exist as the Confederate States of America. She’d be a third-world country.

The riding in Georgia is a mixture of pavement and gravel. The paved sections for the most part are fun, wavy, twisty sections that would be great on a motard, but still fun on a fully loaded dirtbike. The weather is again warm, but not too hot and the humidity is low. The dewpoint is for the most part the most important number for me. If the air is dry, it can still be hot and yet comfortable. The wind from the bike can evaporate your sweat and cool you off if it is dry. When it’s muggy, it’s miserable at any temperature.

Looking for gas I pull into a mom n’ pop joint that looks like it’s seen better days. It’s just off a state highway and looks like it’s a local stop. The place could use some paint and maybe a fulltime maintenance guy. While I’m taking a break in the shade, a older fella pulls up in a pick-up. In the back of his truck is your garden variety lawn equipment – a weedeater and push mower and a rake, etc. He hops out and gives me a nod. He’s tall with short, white hair, a medium build, a clean, light blue polo shirt and blue jeans. He’s got a wide-brimmed hat on and a big grin on his face. As he’s pulling his gas can out he looks my way. “Great day for a ride!”

“Yessir. It is.”

“Man, that looks like the kind of bikes I grew up ridin’.”

“Yea?”

“Man, yea! When I was a boy, I had a (insert alpha-numeric soup here) and we used to ride straight up that mountain over there,” he said, pointing at the barely perceptable ridgeline to the south. 

“Heck yea, man! Bet y’all were hell on wheels.”

“Shoot yea we were! Used to be dirt and we’d tear it up up there, till someone called the law, then we’d spread out and try to make it home without getting busted. Hell, the sheriff knew who we was, so we were just prayin’ he didn’t rat us out to our folks.”

“Well, I’m trying pretty hard not to cause any trouble with the law.”

“You’re loaded pretty heavy. Where you goin?” 

I am asked this contantly. The luggage on the back of a dirtbike is a great conversation piece, even if sometimes you don’t want the conversation. “Oregon,” I say this time. It’s becoming the standard answer.

“WHAT?! You gonna ride that thing to Oregon?!”

“Yessir. I hope to.”

“Ain’t no way I’d ride somethin’ like that to Oregon!”

This is the typical conversation with curious strangers. Some get it. Some do not. Then when you try to tell them about the 85% dirt part, it takes a different turn. 

“Dirt roads? Heck they’re pavin’ everything. How you gonna find dirt roads?”

Then it’s explaining the whole concept of the Trans America Trail. It can be fun so long as you’re not sweating your jewels off in the sunshine trying to explain the whole thing. 

The kind stranger finishes getting his gas and bids me a safe journey. I suit up and roll out for another 100 miles or so of north Georgia countryside before the next gas pump conversation. Each stop is teaching me exactly what I had hoped to learn – generally, people are good. Anything else you hear is a lie designed to sell you something.