Here is the link to my latest Rider Magazine story. It was initially rejected for not having a “motorcycle feel.” Not one to give up, I reworked it using creative nonfiction techniques gleaned in Professor Sarah White’s English classes at Purdue North Central. Education does have its benefits. https://ridermagazine.com/2015/05/08/eastern-kansas-time-traveling-in-the-sunflower-state/
Feel free to leave a comment, and if so inclined, drop Rider a line as well.
I couldn’t have asked for a better day to head out with the temperatures hovering in the mid-seventies. And though rain was in the forecast, I didn’t encounter a drop until I was south of I- 64. As I approached the Mississippi at Cario, an impressive wall of thunderheads did little to dampen my enthusiasm; I was relieved to be finally exiting the Land of Lincoln where I-57 seems to go on forever. The tedium is well known, enough so that the state posts signs alerting the motorist to “Stay Awake-Stay Alive.”
In Sikeston Missouri, I was able to test my impromptu boot repair, riding into a curtain of water, with high winds thrown in for good measure. Then, as quickly as the deluge appeared, it was gone. My feet stayed dry. Score one for duct tape!
At the Arkansas border I learned I was cruising the Rock N’ Roll Highway, so named for bygone days when heavy hitters like Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis and Johnny Cash plied their trade in clubs and honkie tonks that lined the highway. Now, only endless rice paddies remain.
The hamlet of Walnut Ridge has thrown up a blockade to irrelevancy, capitalizing on a chance landing at the local airport in 1964, itself a throwback to WWII. It too is gone. The plane contained a group of young men, the vanguard of an invasion from England.
The Beatles spent all of fifteen minutes in Arkansas. It is doubtful they even stepped foot on the dusty street that has been christened Abbey Road, but over a half century later, the music, not to mention Walnut Ridge lives on.
Dead tired and with a hundred miles to go, I jumped on the work-in-progress U.S. 67 bypass that marches towards the Missouri border. As I notched the Strom up to a GPS verified eighty, I couldn’t shake the feeling that our small-town American heritage is at risk. It is good that communities such as Walnut Ridge are keeping it alive.
Next up, I’ll be driving into the curvy routes that bring riders to Arkansas in the first place. Stay tuned.
School is done and I’m heading for Arkansas in the morning. I’ll visit my daughter for a few days and then hit some of the roads that make the state a great motorcycling destination. In the process, I’m going to work on a story for Rider. Editor Tuttle said he’d like a feature length piece. I will do my best to oblige. The wild card is the weather. The forecast for the next week or so doesn’t look promising.
As a precaution I doused the Aerostich suit with water repellant. While sorting through my other gear I discovered my over boots are looking shabby. They’ll make the first day’s ride, but that’s about all. No worries though, Amazon to the rescue. A replacement pair of Tingleys will be waiting at my daughter’s house.
This footwear thing is kind of a big deal to me. On a previous ride to Arkansas I encountered rain that made the road run like a river. I had to pull off and hide under a gas station canopy, something I almost never do. It was that bad. As a result, I spent the next few days slogging in soggy boots. When I got home the dog got a whiff of them and ran whimpering to the corner. A couple of days later my big toes started to ache. Then the nails turned black. After about a year they fell off. Not a scenario I care to repeat. Well that’s enough unpleasantness, the Natural State waits!
I’m going to post updates and a few pictures as I get time. If you’d care to see some shots of Arkansans in all its splendor, stay tuned.
Click here for my story Tiddler Run that ran in the November 2014 issue of Rider. It was part of a feature called Vintage Variety. I’m grateful to Editor Tuttle for running a few of my pieces. He publishes the best bike book out there! And thanks to the guys at the airport, a bunch of hard-core bike lovers if there ever was one!
For the last ten years we’ve done an annual ride at a local nursing home, Valpo Care and Rehabilitation Center. The residents enjoy riding in the sidecars and hanging out with riders that volunteer their time. Normally, we keep things pretty tame on the rides. This year though, I saw my chance for a little fun with one of the staff’s kids. It was a major anniversary after all.
“Flying the chair” is a basic sidecar riding skill, one that new rig owners are encouraged to practice, preferably in a vacant parking lot. The reason is simple: sometimes the sidecar will get lite, generally on right-hand turns. The rider, or pilot as often referred to needs to know how to handle the machine under such circumstances.
This short clip shows me bringing the chair up on a right-hand turn. In truth, it’s not difficult to lift it on a straight run with a bit of body English and throttle application. Once in the air it’s possible to keep going until you run out of gas or road, which was what happened here.
Thanks to Eli for taking capturing the action with his phone.
Since I’ve been hanging out at the airport I figured a video on airplanes would be appropriate in my bike category. Let me explain. A lot of pilots are also motorcycle enthusiasts. A group of guys based at Porter County Airport have an informal bike club that meets on Tuesday evenings at guy named Louie’s hangar. This past Tuesday as Louie was preparing to take one of his planes up, I filmed the proceedings with my Nikon D 90, my first attempt at video. Here is the resulting short clip. Now for the disclaimer: Don’t try this at home! Death or dismemberment can result. The participants shown are experts.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2OG0bV7UrA
The Illinois River faded in the Suzuki’s rear view mirror. Up ahead, an ominous black cloud engulfed the entire state of Missouri. Intermittent drizzle was soon punctuated by brilliant bolts of lightning. As I rolled into Hannibal, the heavens opened up, pounding me with sheets of heavy rain.
Under a big gas station canopy, a couple of locals told me the Mississippi was eight feet above flood stage. They also warned of numerous road closures throughout the Missouri River Valley. This didn’t bode well for the day’s ride, but since I’m not one to hole up, I gulped the last of my coffee, jumped on the bike and pressed on.
Interstate 72 morphs into U.S. 36 at Hannibal, twenty miles out of town U.S. 24 intersects. It angles southwest, winding through some of the best riding the Show Me State has to offer. Soon a sign advised the birthplace of Mark Twain was just seven miles off the highway. Since the rain had let up I figured I’d check it out. The state has constructed a fitting tribute to its most famous son within the confines of Mark Twain State Park. Along with Twain’s life, slavery in Missouri and the Civil War are also featured. The latter was to be a common theme of this ride.
Back on U.S.24, my brief window slammed shut. The rain returned with a vengeance and the roadway took on the appearance of a river. Keytesville Missouri was the end of the line. There a low-lying stretch was completely swamped. The town as it turned out, was important during the Civil War, as it was home to Sterling Price. I decided to spend the night and take in the museum based on his life. A planter and lawyer as a civilian, Price served with distinction as a U.S. Army brigadier general during the Mexican-American War. Later, he did a stint as governor of Missouri. Then, as ominous clouds of war formed, his state called again. He accepted a command in the Missouri State Guard. While initially opposed to secession, Union outrages caused him to cast his lot with the Confederacy as a Major General, serving in numerous campaigns. It is an odd commentary that a man who served his nation and state so willingly died a pauper after the war.
Missouri 240’s smooth pavement twists and turns through rolling pastureland. I had a blast on its perfectly engineered curves and rises. At Marshall I swung west on U.S. 65 which reconnects to U.S. 24 and parallels I-70 a few miles to the south. The relaxed two-lanes are a different world compared to the intense super-slab. But watch out for Waverly, it’s a speed trap. No, I didn’t get a ticket, but I did observe the local constable doing a good business. The town’s other claim-to-fame is a tidy park dedicated to the memory of another citizen-solider: General Joe Shelby. A life-size bronze statue captures him in full battle dress on his trusty steed. A successful Missourian during the antebellum era, he steam boated and operated a hemp mill at Waverly. As with Price, the fortunes of war would greatly impact his life. I would cross paths with Shelby again before this ride was over.
A few miles up the road Lexington was the site of “The Battle of Hemp Bales,” so named for Sterling Price’s innovative tactic of using the ubiquitous farm product as rolling cover, it represented the greatest victory of the Confederacy in 1861.
Missouri 13 passes within a couple of miles of the Confederate Memorial State Historic Site at Higginsville. As I rode into the grounds, I noticed a large gathering at the cemetery. A park ranger told me that the Confederate Memorial Day ceremonies were just wrapping up, but I was welcome to take in the remainder. An annual event, every state of the former Confederacy was represented. Re-enactors wearing period correct uniforms including cap-and-ball revolvers and cavalry swords milled about. Speeches and prayers were offered to honor those who died fighting for a cause they believed in. As I rode away, I couldn’t help but be moved by the sight of dozens of miniature Stars and Bars flapping gently in the breeze as they marked the graves of the fallen.
Back on 13, I continued south, happy to avoid the crush of I-70 in the distance. At U.S. 50, I headed west. Signs soon alerted of another Civil War site, Lone Jack. I exited, but was perplexed as to exactly where the battlefield was located. At a newly constructed quick-mart, I learned I was standing on it. The property long used for reenactments had been sold recently. Only three acres survive. This is a pity, as Americans need to be reminded of the time when our Union almost didn’t endure. The grounds now consist of a visitor’s center operated by the Friends of Lone Jack and a cemetery. There, Union and Confederate dead are buried just a few yards apart, a rarity in Civil War battlegrounds.
Twenty-five miles to the west, U.S. 71 drives into the heart of Kansas City. What is the current metro area played host to fierce fighting during the Battle of Westport. While there is no longer a battlefield per se, an extensive motor tour winds through points of interest. One of the most haunting was at Forest Hills Cemetery, site of Shelby’s Last Stand. The imposing Confederate Monument guards the final resting place of many of his men. The General himself famously fled across the Rio Grande rather than surrender. Upon his death in 1897, he rejoined his compatriots at the scene of their defeat.
Kansas City boasts of another war memorial, albeit one from a different century. The Liberty Tower was dedicated in 1921to honor those who gave all in “the war to end all wars.” Human nature proved those words premature just two decades later. Exhibits in the accompanying world-class museum paint a picture of the chaos that engulfed the globe and our species’ propensity for self-destruction. King Solomon once said there is nothing new under the sun. This ride reminded me just how providential those words were.
We’d just survived a particularly brutal winter in Beautiful Northwest Indiana. I’d had my fill of potholes and choppy corners and was looking forward to smooth pavement and sweeping curves. These I would find in abundance in south central Missouri. The night before I was to head out a giant crater less than a mile from my house transformed my Suzuki V-Strom 1000 into a fair approximation of bucking bronco. I didn’t drop the bike, but the impact bent both rims. I stared in disbelief at the damage, ironic on a machine that had once carried me across the Alaskan Arctic with nary a scratch. With no time to fix the damage the Strom’s Givi luggage was swapped to its brother bike, another Alaska veteran, my Bandit 1250.
The interstates to Fort Leonard Wood Missouri were efficient to the nth degree. There isn’t much else to say except that the crosswinds and driving rain on I-57 in Illinois beat me to death. I was almost happy to face the gale head-on once I swung west on I-44 at St. Louis.
My daughter’s captain course graduation had brought me to the fort, after which I was bound for the Kansas City area to visit a new grandchild. Desperately wanting to stay off the super-slab I was drawn to Missouri 7. Seeing the squiggly line on my well-worn map my daughter offered: “That road is nauseating but you’ll love it on the bike.” That was all I needed to hear.
I struck north into the heart of the Ozarks on a clear spring day. Trees throughout the rolling countryside were greening up after their own winter hibernation, though not as deep as the one I’d suffered through. They stretched as far as the eye could see.
The curves I’d been dreaming of appeared almost immediately. At times they lazily meandered through pastures and woodlands. Other times, they took on a more technical quality with rapid fire switchbacks and decreasing radius that challenged my bike handling skills. The kid was right. The road was a blast!
Towns along the way were generally small. Montreal Missouri for example, features but two businesses, a gas station/convenience store, along with a proud American tradition, the country gun shop.
Alamo Arms was undergoing a face lift when I visited, courtesy of prosperity driven by the high demand for firearms of all types. In an economic recovery that hasn’t quite taken hold for many industries, guns and ammo sales are booming. As the proprietor showed me some of her wares, I was drawn to a rack of used rifles. There in the middle was a Chinese Mosin-Nagant M-53, the best example of the type I’d ever seen. The price was reasonable and I wanted it. Strapping it to the bike though, would have been another matter. Sort of made me wish I’d taken the Ural with its sidecar instead of the Bandit.
By late morning I was getting hungry. The Smokeshack Barb-Que in Warsaw looked inviting. Reeled in by the $5.75 beef brisket special, I also couldn’t resist the freshly baked blackberry cobbler. The food and service were great. As I was paying my bill the owner recommended I check out the Harry S. Truman Dam and Reservoir, just a short ride up the road.
The sprawling conservation project is managed by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, who also maintains an impressive visitor’s center. Situated high on Kaysinger Bluff, exhibits provide a fascinating look at fossils, fauna and history of the area. Across the parking lot in the woods is another attraction. There on ten acres leased from the Corps, a replica 1850s pioneer village is waiting to be explored. Demonstrations showcase just how tough everyday life was on the frontier. A festival held each October draws thousands of visitors and includes Civil War and mountain man camps. A tremendous amount of volunteer labor is required to keep the old-time traditions alive. Hopefully some of the legions of school children that are bussed in every year will catch the vision and help preserve it. Maybe one day I’ll bring my own grand kids.
With the afternoon spent it was time to move on. I was in luck and the road over the dam was open. Views on the short ride were spectacular. A few more curves lay ahead as I passed through colorfully named towns like Tightwad and Coal. But all too soon the party was over and the squiggly lines were pulled taut. Yet another interstate awaited me. Still, I’d spent the day riding on pothole-free roads, had some great food and seen some interesting sights. Plus the weather was perfect. What more could a rider could ask for?
Here is the link to my story in Rider Magazine that ran in the April 2014 issue. It features my sidecar riding artist friend, Amy Jean Nichols, the toughest rider I know. Check it out and let me know what you think. Also, drop a line to Rider if you’re so inclined.
http://www.ridermagazine.com/touring-and-rallies/windblownamy-artist-rider-survivor.htm/
