We wrapped up our long weekend in Staunton late Sunday afternoon and packed the Liberty for the drive south and home. Instead of joining the madness of Interstate 81, we opted for U.S. 11. For most of the trip, only a few cars and motorcycles shared the road and we drove by the lush fields, horse farms and tranquil beauty of the Shenandoah Valley.
Just north of Natural Bridge, sculptor Mark Cline’s Foamhenge stood atop a hill on the right, joining the eclectic collection of dinosaur parks, zoos and roadside attractions near the Bridge.
Tubers and canoeists floated on the James River in Buchanan, where Amy insisted on stopping to window shop the Antique Stores while I stretched my legs — still tired and sore from two days of riding a crapped out Buell Blast in the Riders Edge-Motorcycle Safety Foundation’s safety course.
Traffic picked up as we neared Roanoke. We turned onto U.S. 220, then Virginia 419, stopping at Ruby Tuesdays to grab some dinner before heading up Bent Mountain on U.S. 221 for the final leg home.
Arriving home, we found six pissed off cats that wondered where the hell we’ve been for the past three days although they still had plenty of food and water laid out from before we left. I stretched out on the couch to catch the late news and never made it to the first commercial break — sleeping soundly until a few minutes ago.
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