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?
