FALL 2016 ISSUE 02 / VOL. 01 |
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Not knowing how far to ride or what size town I would encounter next, that’ s just how I felt. Lost.
It’ s a recurring theme throughout Appalachian history, music and folklore. Songs mourn the loss of loved ones. Stories tell about lost ways of life, livelihoods and values. Whenever the description of a place in Appalachia begins with“ Once thriving...” you know the rest of the story. It’ s been lost.
I snagged the last room in Harlan, Kentucky, and reset plans to launch my unscripted trek from there. Recalling previous runs, I vaguely remembered one back road out of Harlan that would bring me to a small coal town on the border between Kentucky and Virginia. I’ d never taken it. I’ d settle that tomorrow.
I wouldn’ t be surprised if Route 38 out of Harlan was once used for smuggling hooch into Virginia. Probably still is. After bolting straight out of town for a few miles, it bobs and weaves through heavy forest like a moonshiner dodging shots from a revenuer in hot pursuit. Under dazzling blue skies, my Honda ST1300 found its way effortlessly through the esses, popping over a ridge in the Black Mountains where a roadside vantage point reveals endless waves of blue-green hills— the perfect spot to consider what challenge to mount next.
Rides like this are well suited to the ST. It’ s not a light bike by any means, but disguises that heft well, especially at speed. Shod with stock Bridgestones, the bike feels confident over Appalachian secondary roads that tilt and twist in unpredictable ways. A weekend’ s worth of gear
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stuffs easily into the saddlebags, leaving the top case for gear I like to have at hand, like a camera or a quick snack. The few improvements I’ ve made over the years have focused on improving long-distance comfort, such as highway pegs and a backrest. But for the task at hand, the emphasis was clearly on the sport side of the sport-touring equation.
Winding down the backside of the mountain, the route intersected Virginia State Route 160 just outside Appalachia. Route 160 between Appalachia, Virginia, and Cumberland, Kentucky, is one wild ride. It features 25 miles of stacked switchbacks with no guardrail, so the 55 mph speed limit is both generous and self-enforcing.
Arriving in Appalachia, I cruised through a mostly deserted downtown on my way to Derby. Company towns like Derby were built in isolated areas where transportation was limited and resources were rich and worthy of exploitation. Derby was the last of its kind, built for workers by the Stonega Coal Company in the 1920s. From photographs I’ d seen in its early days, Derby provided well for its original inhabitants with all the trappings of a vibrant small town. Pictures depict a beehive of commerce tucked away on a strip of flat bottomland in a narrow hollow filled with turn-of-the-century architecture and busy streets. Churches and theaters. Barbers and banks. I was curious to see what remained.
Traveling up Route 78 from Appalachia, I hung a left on Derby Road and followed it to the end. Rows of identical homes lined the road to Derby, some neatly kept, a few collapsed and returning to the earth. Near the end of the road, the few remnants of Derby resided in crumbling foundations and rusting bits of machinery. The
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Contrary to its name, the New River is one of the oldest rivers in the world.
This is all that remains of the town of Derby, Virginia.
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An engineer tends a Shay locomotive in Cass, West Virginia.
A former post office and store in Burkes Garden, Virginia.
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Scaling the mountains near Norton, Virginia. |