Ben Franklin once wrote, “Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.” At the time, he was referring to immortality in the world of literature. He expressed that to be remembered, one either had to write something worthy of people’s attention or do something that inspired them to tell others about it. I think in the right context, that statement can serve as a guide to one’s decision-making. If you had two days to yourself, would you rather tell people about how many chores you crossed off around the house, or how many states you crossed off with your motorcycle? You see, some should see this statement as a charge to truly live that life of freedom and adventure. What’s stopping you? We should be telling others of the great adventures we’ve been on. But first, we have to go on them. To help further fan the flame and inspire the wanderer and explorer inside, we’ll be starting a new series called, “The Campfire,” dedicated to telling those grand tales of adventure and freedom. “The Campfire” seemed like a fitting name as we wanted to capture the essence of bikers swapping stories after a long day of riding. As we hear stories worth telling, we’ll throw them here. As we make our own stories... you’ll find them here too.
To kick this series off, I found it only fitting to tell a story from one of my favorite motorcycle camping trips, my Outer Banks run. In April of 2021, some friends and I wanted to kick off the Summer with a weekend-long ride from Raleigh to Manteo, down the entire Outer Banks, and end up in Wilmington before heading back to Raleigh. What we thought was set up to be the perfect trip, ended up becoming the most memorable. It was a pretty young, but also experienced group of riders on a wide variety of bikes. While the Harley-Davidson Sportsters were certainly represented, we had everything from a Honda Grom to a CVO Road Glide (rocking that 110 Screaming Eagle Twin Cam). Courtesy of a cinder block on I-40 about a month back, I was running a borrowed Milwaukee 8 107 Street Glide from a relative.
As kickstands were making that ever-familiar sound they do to alert everyone of some serious riding ahead, I was already in New Bern to pick up the aforementioned Street Glide. The crew of riders rode fast down 64, but I rode faster up 17. I merged onto 64 around Williamston and had to figure out if I was going to high tail it East to catch up or take my time to let them catch up. I found a church, with a paved parking lot, just off the highway where I took the time to check where they might be. One of the members with more foresight than I had shared their phone's location with me that day so I could see they were about 30 minutes behind me. Satisfied with my timing, I cruised on to our original rendezvous of Mackey’s Landing in Jamesville. It boasted being one of the largest firearm stores around so we figured there would be plenty to check out as we waited for the slower party. After another 30 minutes of waiting around at the meet-up, I heard the thunder off in the distance that could only be a group of Harley-Davidson’s (and a Grom). One by one, after the unmistakable Tequila Orange Fat Boy, each bike, with luggage more suspiciously tied on than the one before it, rolled into the landing. After warm greetings and everybody stretching their legs for a few minutes, we rolled out to the beach.
As the one with the most “sophisticated” navigation, and the least navigational skills, I took the lead. We rode East on 64 where we stopped for gas in Manns Harbor just before crossing the bridge into Manteo. This was my first extended trip on an actual touring bike and I was certainly able to see the advantages. Riding with Sportsters, I only had to tank up at every other gas station, as my 6-gallon tank was twice the size of theirs. I also realized I needed to slow down a little bit. Behind the batwing fairing with the radio blasting, it was easy for me to cruise at highway speeds, but not so much for the smaller bikes with no wind protection. With full tanks, we headed across the bridge and onto Bodie Island. Eager to find a place to set up camp before dark set in, we headed on south down the island. It was just early enough in the season that the roads were pretty quiet but still nice and warm. With an afternoon of riding between dunes wrapping up, we found a campsite South of Rodanthe in Waves. We unloaded some luggage, pitched out tents, and rode to a nearby cafe for dinner. After a good burger, we headed back to the campsite. The beach access was a 5-minute walk, so we were sure to get our feet wet. Thinking the night was almost done, I got a call from a relative back in New Bern.
They warned, “you guys know the ferries are closed, right?” I confirmed that we were not aware of that information. I thanked them for the heads up and others confirmed with a quick internet search that due to shoaling, the ferry system was suspended where we needed it. Around the picnic table, the map and flashlights came out. We all took a look at it and voiced places we wanted to visit. Still wanting to see some lighthouses, we planned to continue South to Cape Hatteras, then instead of ferry hopping to Ocracoke Island, we would head back North to Manteo, and travel South inland to a campground near Havelock in the Croatan National Forest. Satisfied with our new plan, we retreated to our tents to rest up for the long day of riding ahead.
Fortunately, the night was rather uneventful and left most of us pretty well rested. Except of course for the ones that thought the concrete pad would be the most comfortable place for a tent. Gear went back into bags and bungee straps came out. We got everything secured (enough) and headed on our way. The straight stretch of 12 between Salvo and Hatteras has to be one of my favorite roads. There’s nothing but dunes and beach accesses for most of the way. It’s very tempting to race through there but ill-advised. Eventually, we made it to the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse.
We walked around for a bit and got our pictures taken. Once that was accomplished, we searched for a restaurant. I tried to be fancy and use the onboard GPS to find a restaurant, but when we got there it was an empty lot. On the way to the second best choice, I realized that was a good lesson on the importance of keeping the maps updated. We found a nice spot with outdoor seating to accommodate our party. It was a rather peaceful lunch to end our time on the Outer Banks. From there, it was a quick rip back North and across the bridge to Manns Harbor. Only this time, we headed South down 264 to Belhaven. Now, this part of 264 is one of my favorite rides in Eastern, NC. It was a good stretch of flat road with grassy wetland and logging woods on either side, with very minimal traffic allowing us to open it up a little bit. The free ferry offering passage of the Pamlico River let us cross ferry rides off the list.
Riding a motorcycle on a ferry has always been fun. You can put your kickstand down and walk around to enjoy the boat ride. So far as the weather was concerned, we had been pretty lucky so far and only hit sunshine. The dark storm front that appeared to be chasing our boat looked like it sought to change that. As the ferry got closer to land, we all agreed we needed to make the 35-mile stretch of 306 from the Aurora Ferry to Minnesott Beach as quickly as possible. I think the ferry operators could tell what we were about to attempt because when we filled the ferry with the sound of motorcycles, they waved us on up to the front to get ahead of the rest of the cars. With that raw anticipation in our guts and the primed motors below us, one could have easily forgotten they were on a ferry and instead in the pit at a drag race waiting for that green bulb to flash. When the gate dropped and the man waved his arm, he might as well have been waiving a green flag. We (respectfully) left the boat, got on the road, and let it eat. Like bats outta hell, we raced across Pamlico county (never exceeding 55 mph of course). We ran like we had a ferry to catch and there was a storm on our tail, because, well, there was. While not for lack of trying, the group was just too late to catch the first ferry, but another one was only a 30-minute wait. We cut the bikes off to let them catch their breath and waited for the rest of the party to make it. Slowly and one by one they all made it to the Landing.
This next ferry ride was a little bit more relaxing than the previous one because it looked like we had finally put some distance between us in the approaching storm. From there it was a shorter ride to the campground we were aiming for. I had heard of the Oyster Point Campground before and had not been there in several years but it seems like that would be our best option for a place to stay. However, I had completely forgotten just how long their gravel road was. Unpaved roads didn’t bother us too much but this was probably one of the trickier terrains I’ve seen. This was freshly grated sand and rock with deep sand pits in it, so we were certainly going to have to be a little more cautious on it. A handful of the guys took off down the road in a cloud of dust while I, on a borrowed Street Glide, took it much slower. As I saw all the dust piling up on the clean red paint of the bike I knew its actual owner would not be too happy with that so I decided to keep it going pretty slow to avoid laying it down in any of the deep sand pockets. It seems like the best option was to keep it slow in some tire tracks. I remember thinking distinctly that there’s no way somebody doesn’t drop their bike on this. Then sure enough as we rounded one of the turns I saw one of our members standing his bike back up as he just tasted some sand. I found a somewhat stable spot to throw my kickstand down and go render aid but fortunately, it didn’t look like there was any serious damage. His crash bars and foot controls were mildly bent, but other than that everything seemed well enough. Apparently, Fatboy tires don’t do too hot on deep sand. Once he was good to go we went ahead and pushed on the last little bit to the campground to see if they would accommodate us. Surprisingly they seemed pretty full and didn't have a spot for us. One of our members was more educated on places you can camp. He recognized that we were in a national forest so in theory should be able to camp anywhere. Having been at that spot before, I knew there was a hiking trailhead nearby we could follow until we saw somewhere to pitch a tent for the night. As we surveyed our options, I was already getting eaten alive by mosquitoes so I can only imagine how it would be that evening.
One of our more vocal members proclaimed “I’m not sleeping in no woods.” Knowing I had some relatives only a half hour away, I offered to call them. The idea of sleeping under a roof, having food, and a garage to do a full check on the bikes was enough to have the majority favor that option. Once we had the go-ahead from our future hosts, we headed back down the dirt road for New Bern. I still owe our hosts greatly for taking in these refugees, but I could tell they were excited when our rag-tag group rolled through the ‘quiet’ neighborhood late that night. We got the damaged bike into the garage and began to check it out. The bars, foot controls, and engine guard needed a little “adjustment” but after that, it was good as new, minus a couple of scratches in the “one-year paint.” With that bike squared away, we sat around the fire pit, helping ourselves to some pizza, and were finally able to relax a bit, before we all found somewhere to sleep.
It was nice being inside as I heard the rain that night, but I didn’t love the wake-up call I got in the middle of the night. I was sleeping as soundly as one can on the kitchen floor when I heard screaming from the couch. I sprang up and ran over there to find one of my crew holding their knee, screaming “OH GOD MY KNEE OH GOD.” We woke them up, and they just groggily asked what was wrong before rolling over and soundly going back to sleep. The next morning, we asked them about it but they had no memory of doing such a thing. The crew, confused, but still wanting to hit some beaches, left all their gear with the hosts and rode down 70 towards Fort Macon State Park.
Stretching our legs, and enjoying the sights, we strolled around the fort. If you’ve never been, I’d highly recommend checking it out. It’s a gorgeous ride down the beach to the Fort and overall a cool place to hang out. As nice as it was, we were still eager to eat up some miles. We rode down the whole island from Fort Macon to the Bogue Inlet where we checked out the pier before making a quick stop for lunch.
It was at the lunch spot where the crew began to have talks about wrapping up the trip. It was the last official day so many members were ready to head back to Raleigh. Not wanting to drag anyone farther than they wanted to go, we took some nice twisties back to New Bern. I punched the address into the onboard GPS with the option enabled for curvy roads, and it did not disappoint. I wish I could remember what roads it took us on, but they were pretty fun for Eastern NC. Eventually, we made it back to New Bern and as everyone began loading their bikes up, a handful of us still wanted to push on to Wilmington. After all, we didn’t have anywhere to be the next day, and my buddies were still available to host us at their house in Wilmington. The group parted ways and most headed on back to Raleigh. While they rode on West up 70, 3 of us partied on South down 17 to Wilmington.
This would have been a flawless leg of the trip if my tail bag hadn’t fallen off the bike through downtown Wilmington. I could feel it getting a little loose but I knew there wasn’t much further to go so it just had to hold on a few more minutes. One of the trio rode up to me indicating something was wrong. I didn’t notice it had slipped off, as the Street Glide had a backrest for the passenger so I was never touching it besides occasional checks. I found a church to pull into where I could figure out how far I needed to go and grab the bag. Before I could rip my bike back to retrieve the bag, my buddy on his Nightster said he’d grab it and took off back the way we came. In just a moment, he came roaring back down the road with my runaway dry bag on his lap. This taught us bungees will almost always be superior to ratchet straps. I secured the bag, better than last time, and we rode the last few miles to our hosts.
Our hosts were exceptionally hospitable and had dinner with us at the Mellow Mushroom. With a much smaller crew and no real agenda anymore we adopted a much more relaxed attitude. The next day, we had some breakfast and discussed where to ride. We had two hosts but only one of them rode. Not wanting the other to be left out I threw them on the back of the Street Glide with a spare helmet. My bike was equipped with a backrest for both the rider and passenger so we could both be comfortable and enjoy the separation. They were a little hesitant at first but wanted to tag along. I told them as little as they weighed and as well as the Street Glide performed, I wouldn’t even notice they were back there. The Street Glide was a heavier bike than the Softail I was used to, but once the weight gets moving it just disappears. Once all 4 riders and my new passenger were set, we rode down 133 to the Oak Island Lighthouse. That was the first time I had ridden with my Wilmington friends and as fresh as they were, they rode fantastically. We cruised right onto the lighthouse where we parked and checked out the scenery. It was the first time I had seen this lighthouse and I was not disappointed. While it lacks the fame and luster of Cape Hatteras, it was very special in its own way. While we were getting back to our rides, there was a family parked beside us getting ready to leave. I remember there was a younger kid right beside us that had just gotten strapped into his car seat when he tried to strike up a conversation with us. He informed us of his thoughts on online school before he proceeded to single out one of the Sportster riders by asking if it was an 883 or 1200. Regretfully, he replied that it was an 883. The kid, still talking tall, told us that it was too small of a bike and wasn’t a real motorcycle. For our sake, the minivan finally drove off to spare my crew from being bullied by the 8-year-old anymore.
With our spirits intact but dignity laying on the sand, we rode that beautiful stretch of 133 back to Wilmington where we all parted ways and officially ended the trip. In total, we put about 1,000 miles on the bikes which certainly wasn’t bad. I enjoyed being able to put a new touring bike through its paces on a long trip to see how it would perform. The power and performance of the 107 Milwaukee 8 certainly did not disappoint. I was very fond of the hard, locking saddlebags allowing me to securely leave my more valuable gear on the bike. I saw the advantages of having a tour pack, and properly attaching additional luggage. Most importantly, I saw how plans can be great to have, but staying fluid and being satisfied with wherever you end up is even more important. While the mountains of NC have some incredible riding, I would highly recommend racking up miles on the coast. Maybe just check the ferries before you go!
If you'd like to share your own adventures from the open road for our blog please email Casey@TobaccoRoadHD.com
