“I will wipe from the face of the earth every living motorcyclist I have made” –Genesis

I’m starting to get used to dirt roads.  The country still has over 30% of its roads unpaved, a statistic I gleaned from Clemente Salvadori in Rider magazine.  I was definitely off the beaten path, and its a bit lonely out here, none more so than today in Kentucky.  I heard the faint chirping of Dueling Banjos strummed, and the two local shirtless, bearded locals, walking with a pitbull on this strip of asphalt whisper something they said to Ned Beatty on a canoe trip.  Trafalgar still had about 3/4 tank of gas, don’t fail me now old girl.  I observed a contrast between the goat path backroads in Ohio versus the goat path backroads in Kentucky: Kentucky’s are much narrower and have more patches than a Key West Pirate Day parade; Ohio has more dirt and ninety-degree angles.  I saw some houses (a dramatic exaggeration) on the Kentucky trail that were something off the Deliverance movie set, cobbled-up, run-down, cluttered, and defining “rustic.”  I felt a sense of guilt tearing at me, I wanted desperately to take pictures of these places, but they were people’s homes, and no matter how deplorable they might be, they were some man’s castle.  For the first time, I wish I had a banjo or mangy 70 pound mutt on the back of the motorcycle to assuage the fear of falling into a squeal-loving clan.  Suddenly, I popped out into a sort of back alley, behind a general store, in some small town where the school varsity team is first through twelfth grade, and the baseball team bat boy is the kindergarten class.

The houses improved and obviously newer, most built in the last fifty years.  The road remained twisty and narrow, and prevented me from really challenging the curves in fear of any opposing traffic.  When that occurred it was like squeezing out through a crowded church pew on Easter Sunday.

“$50 dollars?  I’m here to check your lifejackets and flares.  I can see it just fine from here, thank you.”  It was $10 for parking and $40 admission, the area was very apparently still under construction.

The Ark, is a new theme park being built around a reproduction of Noah’s Ark in the rural town of Williamstown, Kentucky.  The wooden vessel didn’t look much different than the many large dry-docked ships I’ve seen in my career, save for the fact that its entirely made out of wood and it’s high-and-dry in the middle of an ex-farm field.  A little constructive criticism, if Mr Ham is reading, put something on her wood hull to withstand the weather and install some RADAR for safe navigation.  As if I was a two-bit actor on the set of this biblical play, the rain came right on cue.  I put away my camera and followed the GPS direction.  I got about a mile down this back road, in the midst of a sharp turn, when the road came to an abrupt end, like the asphalt was cleaved off and someone inserted a well aged forest barricade.  I almost went over, braking so hard, leaned over mid-turn.  WHISKEY *&$%ING TANGO FOXTROT?  And then, as if the special effects crew hit the smite button, the downpour began.  Screw this, I got on the interstate, with only about 50 miles to Frankfort.  What a stupid decision that was.  The rain came down with such force that it was like driving through the surf line at a North Shore beach, but I had to do over 70 mph so I wouldn’t be eaten by the semi trucks barreling down the highway.  I got off at the first available exit, the relief was like Jerry the mouse that made his hole in the wall, after a 14 mile chase through the kitchen by Tom the cat.  I tried pulling off my soaked leather gloves, but I might as well have been trying to pull off a layer of skin.  I couldn’t see the small writing on my Kentucky map in the tank bag window map pocket, and so punched my GPS for information, get me to Frankfort, please?    I dared not take off my helmet or riding suit, I was relatively dry inside my space suit, but the rain was pounding against the helmet like a machine gun.  The route was calculated in my TomTom but the roads were flooding.  I pressed on, hydroplaning on some back roads through a blurry landscape with lots of fences, probably thoroughbred farms, but I couldn’t see underwater that far.   I continued all the way to the Buffalo Trace distillery.  I dismounted and wore my helmet and gear, complete, all the way to the visitors center.  I took a tour, still with my helmet and gear on, all the while hoping the rain would subside.  Noah’s Ark must be floating by now.  Unfortunately, I was on the motorcycle, taking a distillery tour was about as exciting as a Catholic priest in a Philippine brothel.

Tour over, the great flood still at biblical proportions, I trudge out to the parking lot and climb on old faithful.  I hydroplaned back into town and stopped at the first decent hotel I found, a Best Western.  Tomorrow I hope the Noah play is over and we move onto to Mose’s story in the desert.