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"This can't be good," I said to my wife, Jane, as the two of us sat astride our Honda CBX motorcycle on the side of a road in southwest Montgomery County.

Moments earlier, we had been leading a group of six motorcycles on a spirited run through the countryside. The day was overcast and wet. The roads were slick in spots, with some gravel patches. I was moving at my typical pace with a string of headlights bobbing behind me as viewed in my rearview mirror. What caused me to stop was that the headlights had vanished.

This was the first ride scheduled in a three-day event, a motorcycle rally for this particular Honda model. I was the host of this event, headquartered in a motel in Radford. The CBX was built by Honda from 1979 until 1982, a short production run.

In spite of the motorcycle not being a good seller, over the years it has attracted an avid but steadily shrinking group of enthusiasts to gatherings around the world.

I began attending rallies a decade ago in the mountains of West Virginia.

Motorcycles and mountains go together like salt and pepper. After several rallies in West Virginia, club leaders began to look for other venues. I suggested that we meet here in Southwest Virginia, knowing the exceptional roads we have.

Ski slopes are designated by difficulty. If roads were as well, many around here would be designated "black diamond -- most difficult." Motorcycling here is extremely challenging, but satisfying and fun.

Nevertheless, many attendees are from areas with fewer challenges, and they are not as practiced as our situation requires. Furthermore, many of the riders, owing to the nature of the older machinery, are moving up in age. The registration forms showed a spread in age from 45 to 77.

I specifically mentioned in our pre-departure riders meeting that my intention as leader was to ride my own pace and implored each of them to do the same. I told them I would wait for them at intersections.

We waited alongside the road for only a few moments, but when nobody else arrived, we knew something was wrong. Turning around such a big, heavy motorcycle, especially with Jane on the back, is a difficult thing for me to do within the width of a country road. I eventually got turned around, and we backtracked.

Within a few miles, we saw our group of riders lining the road. A 67-year-old rider from Connecticut had misjudged a corner and crashed. By the time we arrived, both he and the bike were upright again. Apparently the motorcycle threw him into the left rear quarter panel of an oncoming car.

I was astounded that he was able to walk away from this accident, laughing about it. He collected some broken plastic parts, strapped them to the back seat of his bike, and continued into town. The occupants of the car were perhaps more shaken by this situation than the rider.

In spite of this mishap, by the time we returned to our hotel, everyone seemed to be in good cheer. The crash victim drove his pickup to the nearest hospital as a precautionary measure, but he was released a few hours later.

The next day we took another ride that formed a grand circle from Radford to Dublin, Eggleston, Mountain Lake, Newport, New Castle, Paint Bank, Oriskany, Eagle Rock, Buchanan, Roanoke Mountain, Floyd Check, Pilot and back to Radford. This was one of the most beautiful and carefree rides of my life. Unbelievably, we drove our first 180 miles without ever overtaking another vehicle.

On our last day, we took an equally exceptional ride. This route included Big Walker Mountain, Burkes Garden and Hungry Mother Park. Other riders were effusive. "Living around here and not riding motorcycles would be like living in the Caribbean and not scuba diving."

Unfortunately at the conclusion of this ride, I learned that the oldest rider, who is 77, had also crashed, this time in Smyth County. He spent the night in a hospital as a precautionary measure. He rode his motorcycle to the rally but had to be driven home in a pickup.

Bottom line? Like all other good things in life, I recognize that age and physical limitations will some day preclude me from continuing in this sport that I enjoy so much. I hope I have the mental faculties to recognize the day before something turns tragic.

Michael Abraham lives in Blacksburg and is a businessman and writer. You can e-mail him at bikemike@nrvunwired.net.