Crawfish Caper, Day 3

Metamorphosis
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy


Overnight a strong weather front with torrential but short-lived downpours moved through the Vicksburg area, leaving behind a beautiful crisp day with temperatures in the 70’s, perfect for a ride. Most of the riders are out drying off their rain covers, some draped across the second-story balcony railings, flapping in the breeze like giant flags of questionable origin.

We are to form up at 9:00 AM for the group ride today. After a leisurely breakfast, my bike cover has dried but several towels are soaked, so I stow them as best I can. The cover generally protects the entire bike but it is not waterproof, so in a heavy rain some water always soaks in the cloth covered seat. I climb onto the seat to move the bike to a place in line, and immediately my entire rear end and inside of my thighs are soaked.

I move my Wing into line and dismount. Jack Sides, apparently seeing my soaking wet behind, walks over and says, “Beachy! How many years have you had that cloth seat? And how many times have you had to dry it after an overnight rain? Can’t take you anywhere without Kitty!”
As the bikes are starting up, I suddenly notice a couple teaspoons of antifreeze on the pavement under my bike! I quickly look at where it was parked overnight and that area is dry. If there were a problem I’d expect to see some drips there, too. I poke my head under the bike and there’s nothing dripping, no evidence of a leak. I conclude it’s a “Gold Wing hiccup”, which has plagued my Wing for a long time in spite of being checked over by several bike shops. Sometimes when the engine is started and runs only for a short time, like this morning, it spews out some antifreeze through the overflow hose. No-one has been able to describe what causes this. I’m pretty confident this is what I’m looking at, so I mount up and ride off with the group. I will check the antifreeze level when I can, but there’s no evidence of a problem.

There are several dozen motorcycles, most of them Gold Wings. I’veobserved that my bike and Woodie’s trike are the only 1500’s in the group. J.R. has a bike of, well, various vintages since it seems to be composite of many bikes, but it’s a 1000cc Wing. Otherwise, all the Gold Wings are 1800’s. How times have changed since the Alamo Run when the first 1800 showed up!

There’s always a bit of apprehension riding in a large group of unfamiliar riders. But this group seems well-mannered and steady. Ricky, whose last name I didn’t catch, is from the local Gold Wing Road Riders Association chapter and is a great leader, holding a brisk but manageable pace. I never do find out who the tail gunner is, but he’s likewise excellent: Every CB transmission is clear, measured, authoritative, and concise. Tail gunner, if you’re out there reading this, congratulations on a great job!

We ride roughly southward from Vicksburg but the track captured by my GPS is a winding back-country route that crosses the Natchez Trace three times. Mostly we pass through heavily wooded areas where canopies of live oak trees are draped with Spanish moss. The occasional vine loops down from the trees as though to snare the unsuspecting biker, but fortunately these are all on the left side of the road and don’t interfere with our leisurely journey.

I am the 12th bike in line, roughly in the middle of the pack. On these roads, with this many riders, counting bikes in the mirrors is not a wise idea and so I wait until the first stop to count. There are 23. We lost one who, to a bit of concern, suddenly went AWOL without any CB announcement and didn’t make one of the turnoffs. He couldn’t have missed it, as all the bikes were bunched together. At last check, no-one knows why he bailed out.Our first stop is Grand Gulf Military Park, on the hilly banks of the Mississippi River, where there were fought some notable battles between Union and Confederate troops. There’s no cell phone service but I check my messages and there’s one from Kitty. She’s gotten my Mother’s Day card! On the first day, I stopped in town in Virginia to find a card shop and a post office. I was not able to mention this fact prior to this because with Kitty’s newfound Internet awareness, she’s reading my daily blog too so I couldn’t tip her off! Glad it got there on time.

After poking around for an hour or more, including a brief stop for some to climb the lookout tower, we retrace our track back out to Rt. 61 and head south through the town of Lorman for lunch.
The “Old Country Restaurant” is a place you would need to know about to stop there. It’s a very unassuming place. But folks around here apparently do know about it, as there are several groups of bikers and quite a few cars in the parking lot. This is a unique throw-back to an earlier time where one establishment served all the functions of a small town. On the walls are thousands upon thousands of business cards, some so old and brown that I wonder if they would crumble if I touch them. There are decades-old advertising billboards for products that I haven’t the slightest knowledge of. The restaurant is a buffet featuring chicken and beef ribs. The owner is Arthur Fine, and at one point he comes out and explains the history of the building and his purchase of it. He’s a graceful African-American man who then proceeds to entertain us with several heartfelt a cappella songs in the American Negro style. He gets a large round of applause when he’s finished. This is a place that deserves a waypoint in my GPS, and I mark it when we walk outside. I’ll be back!

My intention for this trip from the beginning has been to split off from the group sometime today and ride the 200-plus miles to Gulfport, Mississippi to spend a bit of time with our family there. I just couldn’t be this close without seeing them! So after lunch, this feels like the time and place. “I’m metamorphosing from a biker into a grandpa!” I tell several people. And suddenly, as if from nowhere, tears come to my eyes and Marlene gives me a sustained hug. She says something like “That’s a good thing, you go and be a grandpa!”

And so while dozens of bikes head north toward more country roads and the hotel, one black Wing heads south. I follow the GPS-generated route and end up running Rt. 98 to Mccomb, Mississippi, and then on to I-55 south, where I pick up I-12 east. 209 miles pass and I arrive at Kevin’s house to be greeted by grandkids screaming with joy.

And so the metamorphosis is complete. It is a little disconcerting to be here without Kitty.

But tonight, I’m just a grandpa.