My plan quickly spread. Several friends were headed to Eureka Springs Arkansas to live off the tourists and their own artistry. Another just wanted to get away like I did. As I sped down my old home road, I paused to stop by his house. Sure enough, Chuck was there with his bag packed. He hopped on the back of the bike and I struggled to turn around with the new found weight on my back.

It felt like my front wheel would raise up and flip us over.

Steady as she goes, I gassed it bravely up onto Interstate 95 and headed north into Georgia and the unknown.

We quickly slipped into a steady pace with the road rushing by at our feet and the multitude of squares in their sedans. As we passed them they stared with mouths slightly open "Damn Hippies!", they would say in silent mouthings to their passengers. We kept big smiles at seventy miles per hour, nodded occasionally at the pretty ladies, shirts flapping in the wind. It was hot but we were cool. And soaking up life.

Soon the usual late afternoon thunderstorms pelted our skins until we felt raw. Continuing on for at least twenty miles we finally stopped under a bridge. It was getting dark and the rain was insisting on staying a while. We spied a sign offering "clean comfortable rooms" at $6 per night.I pulled in around the back of the Motel and left Chuck in the rain while I idled up to the office. Dripping wet, cold and shivering I asked "Do you have a room for the night?" The little old gray haired lady looked at me and my motorcycle out front. Laying a soaked $10 bill on the counter. I accepted my change and a room key. Chuck and I flipped a coin as to who would get the hot shower first and I lost. So I went for beer and we slept like dogs.

Only 100 miles from our old homes, we took off the next morning late but determined to make some miles. Three hundred miles under our feet we were still in Georgia and the interstate bridge looked inviting after our expensive stay at the Holiday Motel. Parking the bike out of site, we carried sleeping bags up to the crevice of the bridge and settled for the night.

As we laid down we realized how hungry we were. Chuck walked up the road that passed over us and came back in about 30 minutes with a shirt full of potatoes. He proceeded to slice and dice them into tasty little raw potato sticks. We ate them, swilled down the remains of last night's warm beer and fell asleep.

"This ain't no Holiday Inn!" exploded the silence. We jumped up to sitting attention, "I'll be back in five minutes and if you're still here we'll take a trip to the big house." A shiny Georgia highway patrol car was screaming at us. We packed up the bike in one minute flat and were off into the morning sun.

We drove into the night and the air began to chill. We stopped and bought a bottle of Peach Brandy. It was, after all, the "Peach State". We warmed up and rode deep into the night until we were exhausted. Stopping a Motel 6 we rented a room and proceeded to the bar to get drunk. Four Scotches later we were singing in the rain. I tried to move by bike under shelter, but did a comical jump onto it, slowly kept going, and rolled it over on the ground and my leg. Chuck couldn't stop laughing so I struggled it back onto it's kickstand. "Damn it" we went back to our room and snored the night away.

Next Stop: Arkansas

Previous Stop: Long Black Ribbon