Seven hundred miles on a motorbike has a way of taking the fight out of even the most ardent germophobe, so I twisted the throttle and sped toward the weak lights of the hotel up ahead. A dim-lit sign above the marquee read $39.99, which looked like a deal to my road-weary eyes. And though the risk in cheap hotels was real, dirty sheets to bed bugs, I hadn’t the energy to poke around some Tennessee town I didn’t know for something better.

The room appeared clean, but it had thin walls and cheap windows, so the sounds of the street’s hustle and bustle came through loud and clear. After a shower, I kicked back in bed and clicked the television on to drown out the street noise. The Weather Channel warned of a trough carving deep down into the southern states for tomorrow that promised rain and a winter-like chill once the front passed through. Great, I thought. Maybe I won’t be riding tomorrow.

I woke early, packed my saddlebag, donned my riding clothes, and headed to the front office.

A woman of perhaps seventy years old stood behind the counter. Her white-haired presence in that place spoke of someone who either planned poorly for retirement or was bored with it and just wanted something to do. “Hi Hon, how can I help ya?” she said with a friendly southern drawl.
“Hi, I’m just checking out of 143, but I might be back if the weather doesn’t cooperate,” I said and plopped my helmet down with my key.
“Where are you headed?”
“California.”
“Oh, now there’s a ride.”
“It’s a long one but I’m not too excited about having to ride in this rain they’re predicting.”
She looked at me as if I smelled like sour milk, “Well, you know what you do in the rain don’t ya?”
“Um no, not really, what?”
“You ride through it.”
“Yeah, but…”
“But nothing Hon—it’s what we do!”

An endless ice cream headache would be a more pleasant experience than the hours of cold, wet hell I rode through that morning, but heck, it’s what we do!