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.