Floribama Riders

Preparation for the trip to see the vaunted Valentino Rossi had begun almost a year in advance… I bought tickets via the web in November for a July race. Excited? Yes.

The best part of the trip was going to be riding with good friends via backroads out to California. 2600 miles of ever changing scenery, utilizing secondary highways as much as possible to be able to plug back in to an America that had not yet been totally homogenized into a faceless collection of Pizza Huts, Burger places, and Wal-Mart’s.

I began my prep for the journey by starting to do longer and longer trips via motorcycle to acclimate my riding to the long 600 mile days ahead. The Ducati ST2 performed admirably, after having major surgery done on her lower end (again). Columbus, Ohio…1300 mile roundtrip. TRTEAR… 900 mile weekend. Two trips to the coast, both with over 500 miles let me know that bike and rider were ready.

I added a camelback system to my already extensive inventory of touring necessities. ( A THANKYOU to John Harrison for his tips, by the way. If John tells you to paint your face green, and ride naked, then do it. He has forgotten more about touring than I will ever know.)

As with any trip of this magnitude, and with a society that draws heavily on its members to fuel its increasing needs, things change. Our original crew of LT, Brad, Mike, Scott, and Bob had already been whittled down to 5 of us. On Tuesday before our departure on Saturday, a very morose Scott called and said… change of plans. His business was going to require that he return to Mobile for important meetings that had just materialized, but luckily, he was still going to accompany us to Arkansas and ride the hills with us. My dad always said that the higher you go up the corporate echelon, the tougher your life becomes trying to maintain a fraction for yourself. This was yet another case in point, driven home with a sadly poignant hammer.

Friday night, July 1, saw the group assemble at my Tyler road casa in Birmingham. Like jets approaching for a landing, the riders came in at different times. LT first, then Brad and Mike, and finally Scott all arrived to begin the socializing and friendly banter that would carry us across the country. The emotions that ran through me included trepidation, exhilaration, and a sense of joy, knowing that I would get to run those new Avon tires to a nub over the next 10 days. My sleep habits were fitful on the night before departure, and 5 o’clock could not arrive soon enough.

On Saturday, we met Scott and Amy Moore at the Chevron as they wanted to depart with us and head up Hwy 78 to Tupelo, there taking a separate route west. Scott handed out “Laguna Seca or bust” stickers to all of us (now on my helmet) and west we headed, riding on two Gold Wings, two Ducati ST2’s, a Cagiva Gran Canyon, and the BMW GS. It was an interesting collection of touring bikes to say the least, and I am sure our colorful entourage cut a good swath as we motored the highways.

Saturday was warm, but not unbearably hot. The journey across Mississippi was uneventful, taking around 4 hours for us to reach Memphis. As much as I detest riding through big cities, at least the Pyramid on the river was a good referral point as it marked the official jump from eastern U.S. to western U.S. as we crossed the mighty river. Arkansas is flat through the middle part of the state, with the economy completely influenced by the agricultural trades that raising crops provide. We made good time up to Horseshoe Bend, enjoying the terrain change that shifts as soon as you hit the Black river.. We met my folks at BeeJays restaurant in Ash Flat, for chicken fried steak with all the trimmings, all the while running our poor waitress to death as we had multiple refills on the iced tea. My folks have a great spot to enjoy their twilight years in retirement. High on a hill, they have a million dollar view of the hills and a beautiful lake that stretches below them. Because the humidity is so much lower, and because of the elevation, you can actually sit outside and see stars at night. After a nap, I took Scott and Brad on one of my favorite loops… a quickie 90 miler up Hwy 9 to Mammoth Springs, where we visited the park that encases a huge natural spring. The roads are sweepers, with excellent surface, so that you can really set a rail while enjoying the scenery of a countryside devoid of Mtn Dew bottles, packs of Marlboro Lights, and Budweiser cans. To be able to ride in a pristine environment with no cars (we passed two on the loop), makes for a most fulfilling balm for the soul. My folks treated us to fried catfish, hushpuppies, and a huge, sweet, watermelon that we devoured as we visited with them on their deck overlooking the lake. I sat up and visited with my dad until midnight as the guys all went down to their respective beds. Family is good.

Sunday morning met us with a pink hued sunrise, cool temps, and crystal clear blue skies. Yep, just like we planned it. I took our group on a 200 mile back road adventure, heading south on Hwy 9 which has a 30 mile stretch of extremely technical riding. Before departure, I warned the Wings to ride their pace, as the “sportier” of us would most likely check out and reconvene at the intersection of Hwy’s 5 and 9, 50 miles later. Again, we had zero, and I mean zero, traffic to contend with. NO cops, NO cars…. nothing but a gorgeous day to ride. The only way to describe this loop is to imagine the Blue Ridge Parkway, combine it with a dash of Wolf Pen Gap, then leaven the whole product with an undulating terrain change and some awesome whoop-de-doo’s. When we stopped for a break for pictures on the side of a mountain, all the guys had ear to ear smiles. Scott looked at me and said, “you were right, it is awesome, and I WILL be back”. On we went, through the back roads until we hooked up with Hwy 62, the major east-west corridor for north Arkansas. At this point I was ready to set phasers to “kill” for the minivans that poked along with Q-tip drivers toddling along at 55 mph. (Speed limit there is 65) In Harrison, Arkansas, we said our good-byes to Scott as he took Hwy 7 south to hook back up with I-40 for his trip back to Mobile. Another hour of slow, hot, riding saw us enter historic Eureka Springs where we decided to stop for lunch. On this holiday weekend, the town was over run with motorcycles, and we enjoyed a good hour stop to replenish our water, relieve our bladders, and refill our tummies. The waitress asked where we were headed and we said, “west”. She recommended Hwy’s 83 and 73 into Cassville, Mo., as good roads for our bikes. She was right! We now had the wonderful undulating tarmac of the Ozarks to enjoy at will. We crossed Table Rock Lake, a huge impoundment of clear, blue freshwater. We zoomed past Roaring River state park, another ice-cold, spring fed , crystal clear river that populates this country side. (note to Lloyd, they are serious about their trout fishing up here! ) During our opportunities to visit with each other, I learned that Brad’s dad was originally from Nevada, Missouri. My folks were from towns about 80 miles south of Nevada, so we took Missouri Hwy 32 north through Monett, Aurora, and finally hooking up to Missouri Hwy 71 which took us through Nevada. It was nice to re plug into a bit of history for both of our families, doing it at a pace that allowed for introspection and reflection.

In Nevada, we intersected with Hwy 54, which was to carry us across Kansas. Personally, I was dreading the trip across Kansas more than any portion of the adventure. I-70, my normal route across Kansas, sucks. Trucks, more trucks, traffic, the typical faceless roadside junk… no thanks. What a wonderful surprise Hwy 54 turned out to be. A pristine two lane, it was straight as an arrow into the west, and it led us through the land of Dorothy. Now, if I only had a brain…. On we went, watching windmills churn, oil wells pump, corn growing, and miles of open prairie filled with lush green grass that the cows all were enjoying. All of the small towns we passed through were festooned with bunting and US flags, in preparation for their July 4 celebrations. After a wrong turn, I got a wave from a cutie in a Camaro. Hey, they can’t tell you are an old fart with a helmet on! Around 5 o’clock, I noticed the cows were either huddled or on the ground… and I could smell the ozone in the air. I knew that both of these were harbingers of some big weather that the prairie will rare back and throw at you. Ahead of us, we saw a huge wall of black cloud…. So we decided not to press on to Dodge City, but hole up in El Dorado, Kansas. The Sunset Inn was our abode for the night, and we rode out a storm that the weather forecasters called “epic” in proportion. It stretched from Kansas City to Wichita, produced 70 to 100 mph winds (can you say “land hurricane?”) and pretty much ripped the heck out of all the Fireworks tents set up for the 4th of July.

That next morning, the skies had cleared and the air was scented with the gentle musk of clean earth. Much to my surprise, I was really enjoying this stretch of Kansas… big sky, wonderful people, and sweeping vistas to absorb were helping to reset my original myopic view.

On we pressed, with LT in the lead…hunched over his bike like a praying mantis… and we made excellent time. We rode for almost 120 miles before we saw a car… I guess folks like to sleep in on July 4th, but it was fine with me. We gassed up in Pratt, and I had to make a Walmart run for some essentials that I had left at my folks. On leaving town, Sophia’s lower end made a familiar “orrrrrrrrrrrrck” sound that left me with a pit in my stomach. My brain said, “you’re toast”. My heart said, “maybe not”. As usual, brain wins. Sophia was puking oil all over Hwy 54 3 miles west of Pratt. Not again… not now… not in Pratt, Kansas!

After removing the chain, we hooked a tow strap to her and had Brad give me a tow back to town. Brad suggested I just wrap the strap around the left hand grip. Bad idea. It may work for pulling dirt bikes out of the woods, but I was completely loaded down on a 470 pound bike with a rider that weighs a good bit north of 260 pounds. Brad pull to the right, the bike held for, oh, 10 seconds, then plop. Down I went in the middle of Hwy 54 and the guys swore I did a nice triple roll. We then rehooked the strap to the triple tree, and Brad pulled me back to the Walmart parking lot.

Pratt, Kansas, has no bus station. Pratt, Kansas, has no Amtrak. But Pratt, Kansas has folks with hearts as big as the heartland they occupy. A retired lady sitting in the parking lot listened to us discuss my plight. My portion of the motorcycle trip was over, but I was still going to Laguna, or bust. I purchased a duffel big enough to stow my soft bags and tank bag in, I put my riding pants and jacket in the bottom compartment, and it also had enough room for the helmet. Now, a ½ mile walk over to the Sinclair station, and maybe I could flag down a trucker headed west into Dodge City. Bekay by now was running ground control for me, checking on transportation options and it was clear that Dodge City was where I needed to be. As I checked the bike into the service area of the Walmart tire and lube area, LT came running over to say, “you have a RIDE, dude!” The retired lady had told her husband what had happened, and Pat Carpenter, God Bless him, said, “I will take you over to Dodge City”. After saying my good-byes to my riding buddies, we dropped his wife off to play golf, gassed up, and headed west again. Pat and I had a good visit as we compared notes about life, kids, likes and dislikes….. I asked him, “Pat, what possessed you to take a complete stranger so far out of your way?” He just said, “I am a good American, and you needed help.” Wow. On one hand, I was sickened by the loss of the bike. On the other, I would have never had the opportunity to be refreshed about the goodness in people.

On the way to Dodge City, we passed a road block. “ Hmmmm, I hope the guys didn’t get stopped by that”, I thought. Sure enough, 15 minutes later, Pat says,” I think I see your buddies ahead of us.” We caught them on the outskirts of Dodge City, and signaled for them to meet us for lunch. Bekay had been on the phone with me constantly…(note.. Verizon rocks…. Nextel, Alltel, and Sprint were pretty much worthless for much of the trip for the guys) and she found that there was a 3 pm flight to Denver. That was just what the Doctor. ordered! We ate in old town Dodge City, just a stone’s throw from the Boothill area. It was neat seeing the town that Wyatt Earp started his career in as a lawman. The guys wandered off to do the tourist thing, and I headed to the airport with Pat. In checking flights, we found that I could get from Dodge City to Denver to San Jose without getting raped on the fare. After a heart-felt goodbye, Pat headed back to Pratt. He promised to check on Sophia and I promised that his son, an avid Nascar fan, would be treated royally if he ever decided to visit Talladega.

I now sit in Santa Cruz, enjoying my friend’s surf house, not 100 feet from the water. The windows are open, the breeze fresh, and my head is clear. Laguna sits to the south as I wait for Bekay. (The hurricane has forced Scott and Laura to cancel their trip as it is bearing down on Mobile bay) The world is blowing up, terrorists have hit London, but right now…. I honestly don’t care. A beach bike, fish tacos, and the healing vistas of the Pacific have been a good tonic. Sophia is going to be shipped to Pensacola next week to be dismantled and sold for parts. She will never disappoint another rider. Someone asked me, “do you think Ducati will do anything?” I just laugh… no, I see a Kawasaki Concours, or maybe a Honda CB 750 in my touring future. Going slow isn’t such a bad thing. Ya’ll ride safe.