June, 2008 Motorcycle Trip

I recently found my notes about a solo trip I took in June of 2008.

Day 1
I got an early start Saturday morning before dawn.  I decided to head east and wanted to put some miles between me and home, so I got on Interstate 20 and headed for the Texas border.  I left the Interstate system behind in Shreveport late Saturday morning.

Before having lunch in Natchez, Mississippi, I was chased down 50 miles of gravel road by a logging truck which apparently had no brakes.  The driver (as much as I could see in my mirror) seemed to be in good humor as I fishtailed wildly around hairpin corners trying to avoid being goosed by the brass bulldog on the front of his truck.  The great thing about having a lightweight bike is being able to select secondary roads without worrying if the bike can handle them.  Sometimes, unforeseen hazards like logging trucks happen, but they just add spice to the day.
Somewhere east of Jackson, MS, I met up with 6 members of a motorcycle club who invited me to ride with them as far as Pensacola, Fl.  They explained they had just gotten out of prison.  Fortunately for me, they are part of a prison ministry so no, "Wild Hogs" scene there.  They were a great bunch to ride with and safe riders so far as I could tell.  They took time to say a prayer for me at my request before we headed down the road.  I believe they were members of the Maranatha Riders of NW Florida #464 which is a chapter of the Christian Motorcycle Association.  


Day 2

The bike is loaded and ready to roll in Pensacola, FL

Leaving Pensacola, FL today I got bored with Interstate 10 as soon as I got on it, so left at the first exit.  

Lots of people laugh at the fact that I live by serendipity:

I stop for gas pretty often on trips by myself and I learn a lot about communities by stopping by the little mom and pop stations that are being replaced by chains. At one such station in a little town called Chattahoochee, FL there was an old man sitting the stoop. He asked where I was headed and without thinking about it, I replied Ft. Worth. His question about where I was coming from was answered the same way. He smiled in a way I should have taken as a warning before mentioning; "I know a shortcut."

Obviously a shortcut was irresistible, so I paid careful attention as he described it.  He couldn’t recall the name of the road, but gave good directions on spotting it.  Following his directions, I turned off the main road onto "Jim's Crossing".  The several street signs I saw before the road deteriorated, all read “Jim’s Crossing”.  I took note of that at the time.  Now that I look at the map, it is called “Jinks Crossing”, but that isn’t what I read on the signs.  After 20 miles or so, the road turned to gravel, but since there wasn't a logging truck behind me, I thought nothing of it.

A few miles after the pavemen ended, the gravel ended as well.  Suddenly at 50mph, I ran off the hard gravel surface into 6 inches of loose sand.  The bike nearly flipped end over end, but quickly slowed to 10mph where it stayed until I was well into Georgia.  The loose sand was so hard to drive through that I had to stop frequently to rest my arms from struggling with the handlebars.  

During one pause, I read the sign that I had noticed all along the fence on one side of the road.  "Florida State Prison Psychiatric Hospital.  No Trespassing." No problem dude.  I'm outta here.

Because of this bad road and the decision the day before to ride on to Pensacola the first day, my course (rather than follow maps, I prefer to pick a destination on a map then just take whatever roads look good while I'm riding) took me through some backwater towns in Southwestern Georgia.  I was at a red light just entering Albany, GA and my odometer suggested I might be low on gas when I noticed the gas station across the street was called "June Bug's #2".  Since I have an uncle whose Christian name is Junebug, I had to shoot a picture to send him.  After tanking up and taking the picture, I went inside to have a soda and cool off.  Looking at a map on the wall, I realized I was only about four hours away from Atlanta

I had not seen my sister Carol who lives near Atlanta in a couple of years, so I gave her a call to see if she wanted to grab dinner somewhere on my way through town.  (four hours ought to be enough notice for family, right?).

I was still looking at the map on the wall when I called Carol.

Carol told me she was sorry, but she wasn't in Atlanta at all, but heading to the coast for the weekend.  By way of explanation, she said, "I'm almost to Albany now, so there's no way I can go back all the way to Atlanta.”

"Albany?" I say.  I told her the highway she was on would make a sharp left turn just as it entered town.  When it did, I told her to stop and look for me.  Rendezvous planned, I sped across town to meet her there..

When Carol got there, she insisted on getting a photo of us in front of the street sign.  As do most small towns, Albany puts names on the numbered state highways that pass through.  Tell me that serendipity isn't a good thing.  Because I had met with that motorcycle club the day before and tagged along with them, and taken some really bad advice about a shortcut just that morning, and because I had chosen the gas stops I did so I needed gas at that precise moment when this particular gas station was the only one available, and because I chose to call my sister at that particular moment....

Because of all these things, we had met here in the middle of nowhere, on Clark Avenue.  I have no idea why it was important that Carol and I share a lunch that day, but it was.  Carol invited me to a place on the coast she was spending a few days at, but I declined.  I really needed the time this trip provided to just meditate on things.  Other people, even those I love, would interfere with the thoughts.  

Photo by: Carol Clark

I wound up in Athens by dinner time and decided to call it a day.

Anyone want to say the Sportster is not made for travel now?

Days 3, 4 and 5
No chance to send an update since day 2.  The dives I've been staying in don't have Internet.  One place hadn't heard that DDT was outlawed in the 1970s.  I started this trip to contemplate and meditate upon a few things.  You cannot talk, sleep, or listen to music when you're on a Harley.  Your conscious mind has to be focused on the next two to four seconds of your life or you may not see another minute of life.  You also have an acute awareness of the sound and “feel” of the engine.  All this leaves lots of time for introspection on a subconscious level.  My mind is crowded even when I sleep.  Even inside my own head, conscious thoughts interrupt each other and go off on tangents.  The motorcycle seems to be the only way for my sub-conscious mind the peace it needs to work things out.  I needed to spend time re-examining my relationship to God, my wife, my job and even myself.  It is still ongoing, but I have already discovered that I like myself again.  

Back to the trip.  Day 3 carried me from Athens, Georgia through South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia and West Virginia with a vague aim of making it to Washington, Pennsylvania that night.  What roads I took, I have no idea.  I navigated by mental compass for the most part along with whatever advice I was given.  At nearly every stop, someone had a “shortcut” for me although I wasn’t going anywhere and in no particular hurry.  As I ate supper in Wytheville, VA I looked at the map and realized I was only 280 miles from Maryland, so I rode to Hagerstown, Maryland Monday night mostly by freeway.  The mountain roads of the Carolinas and Virginias are beautiful and constantly twisting around the landscape.  Even the Interstates have to follow the contours.

On day 4 I went from Maryland, up into Pennsylvania and over to Ohio.  In Pennsylvania I hopped on a toll way and immediately got hit hard in the right knee by a rock thrown up by a truck.  As I paid my toll to leave the turnpike near New Stanton, PA a state trooper jumped in front of the bike and asked where my inspection sticker was.  (Remember what I said about serendipity?) I have gone 8 months with an expired sticker.  The day before I left town, I was at the neighborhood Vespa dealership back home looking at scooters for my wife when I thought to get the Harley inspected while I was there.  Apparently Pennsylvania applies the sticker to the front forks since this is where the trooper was looking.  I pointed to the back and the officer walked around behind the bike to check.  He said "Texas? How did you get all that way with this tiny bag?" I suppressed the urge to tell him that it matters more what's in it than how much.  Instead I just smiled and shrugged and hoped he wouldn't unzip the flap and find the loaded .45 on top of my dirty clothes.  I swung by Steel City Harley Davidson for a cool T-shirt because I really, really needed another black T-shirt.  Then it was off on state and county roads again to find the Ohio border.  

Once in Ohio, it started raining.  Not hard at first, but relentless.  

I turned into downtown East Liverpool, Ohio to warm up a bit and found a nice old building being renovated for multi-use retail and artists lofts.  The couple who own the building also operate a coffee shop on the bottom floor.  The husband and I spent nearly an hour talking about motorcycles, business ventures and even our mutual experiences in Oakland, California.  I didn’t spend much time there, but boot camp was right across the estuary and I memorized every visible detail of what symbolized “freedom” during those nine weeks.  We discussed the pros and cons of mega-cruiser bikes versus minimalist philosophy and he told me about his run up the Pacific Coast Highway when he was younger on a Honda 450.  

After a few hours of driving slow on secondary roads, I crossed an Interstate and found a hotel room.  That night my wife called and I had to tear the room apart to find anything that said what the name of the town was.  Ashland, Ohio didn't leave much of an impression on me.  I spent the afternoon washing clothes and reading "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance".

Day 5: Wednesday it was still raining and the weather channel said it was going to stick around, so I went to Wal-Mart and bought a light rain jacket, some leather gloves to keep my hands dry and some mink oil to keep the leather gloves dry.  Wal-Mart employees are the same wherever you meet them.  Friendly at the door, but you never can find help once you get back into the departments.  I already had rain pants and generally my leather jacket protects against the occasional shower, but the deluge hitting Ohio was worse.  It rained from the moment I entered Ohio to the moment I left.  (My hands feel like the gloves in the photo look).  I picked up another great T-shirt at the Harley dealership in Bowling Green, Kentucky.  This time I opted for a black one for variety.  On the way to Memphis, I went through Indiana and Kentucky, so the total states visited in the first 5 days of the trip is 16.  

New gloves after wearing them 1 day

Typical of my stops on this trip, in Columbus Ohio I pulled off the highway to warm up and dry out at a McDonalds.  There I met the most fascinating person.  Ellen Bailie is a Dominican Sister.  We chatted about religion, education and just about everything else.  Oddly, she seemed to know me when I walked in.  She introduced me by name to someone bussing a nearby table although we had not shared names until that point in our conversation.  Like I say, this is typical of most of my stops and I am so fortunate to meet so many wonderful people.  After receiving her Irish blessing, I was back out in the rain again feeling warmed by the grace of one more person who used to be a stranger.

Stopping for gas in Cincinnati, I met absolutely nobody.  Instead, I met a cat who wasn’t intimidated by the sound of the Harley.  He sat there patiently while I drank some water and told him how much he reminded me of another grey Maine Coon cat back home even though their personalities really aren’t that similar at all.

The day finished up with a late arrival in Memphis, Tennessee.  The nice hotel I stopped at on instruction from my wife who wanted me to "check it out" wasn't happening.  They turned their noses up at a damp and dirty motorcycle tourist.  The nicer hotel next door was happy to take my money and after a shower and some fresh clothes, I looked and felt better.

Day 6
I didn’t do any traveling today since I planned to spend the afternoon visiting my niece Aubrey and her husband Mark.

In the morning I rode through the rough neighborhoods of Memphis looking for a diner for breakfast.  It is sad that the most interesting residential architecture is generally in the worst of the older neighborhoods, but I don’t mind.  I don’t bother the residents too much and they largely seem to regard me as a curiosity.  I have found this true no matter where I travel.  My Dad always said the same thing and because of this, my brother and I feel at home in places our wives would be terrified to visit.

I stopped by the Graceland Harley Davidson Dealership for a T-shirt.  Lots of critics probably think I bought another black one but that is not the case.  As a matter of fact, I purchased two.  I needed one to make sure I had enough black T-shirts and another as a gift.  

While waiting for the dealership to open, I chatted with a group from New Mexico on their way back from the Washington DC Memorial Day rally.  They were loaded for bear with trailers and gear piled on high.  Neither of us understands the philosophy of the other.  They kept telling me, as I had heard repeatedly on this trip that my bike was woefully under-equipped for travel.  I should get a bigger engine, add a windshield and a drink holder, and any number of other things to make life more comfortable.  My philosophy is “where would it end?” I could keep adding things until I included air-conditioning, stereo, GPS navigation and even air bags (these are all features of the Honda Gold Wing.) But then, I might as well add two more tires and have a car.  I take a lot of grief for packing light, but I had clean socks, shirt and underwear to put on each day and that’s all I need.  

I spent the afternoon with my niece, Aubrey and we joined her husband, Mark for dinner before Aubrey dropped me back at my hotel so I could be on the road early the next morning.

Day 7
I set out westward from Memphis, but turned north before breakfast because I wanted to visit Cairo, IL. (pronounced kay-row locally even though this part of Illinois is sometimes referred to as “Little Egypt”) I cruised north through Arkansas and Missouri until I could cut over into Illinois and drop into Cairo from the north side.  Cairo is a city dying of cancer.  I cannot imagine how this could happen other than an overwhelming and incurable guilt the city feels.  You feel a sense of collective guilt that keeps the citizens from moving out to more prosperous cities.

I joined a group of sport bike riders returning to Ohio from the Big Bend country for lunch in one of the six family owned cafés in Cairo.  It seems like every stop I made whether for gas, food or just to sleep for a bit meant meeting and chatting with people.  How often does that happen when you travel by automobile?

The waitress told me that the city had started to die after the race riots in the 60’s and never recovered.  The population was a few hundred thousand in the 1960’s but today struggles to find 3,000.  Blacks and whites struggled for power in the city until both died.  Today, the main business street is lined with multi-story brick buildings falling down under the weight of decades of neglect.  One three story building lost the front face (probably during the New Madrid earthquake earlier this year) and the rubble still litters the street out front.  Someone has put up a saw horse, but it doesn’t look like an official barrier and there’s nothing to indicate that anyone cares who might wander too close and be crushed when the rest of the building collapses.

Block after block of abandoned businesses

There is evidence everywhere that nobody cares if these buildings fall down or burn.  The only bright spot I could find in this city was the fire hydrants.  Every fire hydrant is kept brightly painted.  It makes me wonder if there is one aging fireman left in town who is not allowed to fight fires anymore and so busies himself with painting the hydrants instead.  

After a depressing tour through the city, I headed south.  The main highway splits at the southern end of town with Kentucky on your left and Missouri on your right.  The city itself occupies the middle of the junction between the Ohio and Mississippi rivers and is still an international port even though there isn’t anyone to load or unload barges anymore.  The two nicest buildings in town are the Port Authority Building and the Union hall.

I headed westward across southern Missouri.  Missing one turn, I wound up in Springfield instead of Branson, so I just kept rolling until I reached Oklahoma.  Claremore, Oklahoma found me hungry, so I pulled off the toll way (most of the Interstate highways in Oklahoma are toll roads) and asked about hotels.  Note to self: Never ask a toll attendant to recommend accommodations.

The hotel I was directed to was clear on the opposite end of town and I passed some nice places on the way.  Once checked in, I had to find the breaker box down the hallway to make the air conditioner work, put new batteries into the TV remote control and swat about fifty flies before I could settle down for the night.  Outside there was a group of paving crew workers from out of state standing around looking at my bike and making comments, so I jammed my .45 into my back pocket and went out to grab my bungee cords.  I smiled and said “howdy” to everyone before returning to my room.  Leaving the curtains open a crack so I could see out, I was pleased to hear them all finding interest in some car on the other end of the lot after a few whispered comments about that crazy #$%* with a gun.

I never could identify one piece of furniture in the room in Claremore.  It was made of plywood, but what for?

Day 8
Not much to tell here.  I rode home, took a bath and went out to dinner and a movie with Carla.  Back at home safely.  Everything is the same here, but I feel so much better about it all.

In 8 days on the road (7 days of traveling) I visited 20 states and put 4,000 miles on the bike.  Including the trip last August my motorcycle has carried me through 29 states in 11 months.  Anyone want to say the Sportster is not made for travel now?