MACH 14: Day 14 - A Mother's Day

Day 14: A Mother’s Day

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Copyright(c) 2014, Jim Beachy

“Happy Mother’s Day!” are my first words to Kitty.  It’s Mother’s Day 2014, and like quite a few other Mother’s Day, we are on the road somewhere.  Sometimes just starting a trip, sometimes, as today, on the homeward segment.  It is indeed fortunate for me that what Kitty wants for Mother’s Day is a motorcycle ride!

We have only 345 miles for today to reach home, so once again it’s a lazy breakfast and a late 10:00 AM start before we roll out on I-81 north, which actually runs more east and west in these parts of Virginia as it tracks through the valley between the Appalachian ridges.  

It’s a foggy morning after the night’s rain, and on the XM Weather radar large orange areas of fog overlay the map.  Visibility is fine, though, and the world looks a little mysterious, slightly out of focus, a little fuzzy around the edges.  With temperatures in the 70s, most of it lifts off to the mountains in an hour of riding.

Compared to our trip southward exactly two weeks ago, the trees are much greener, trees are almost fully leaved, clothed in the new green of springtime.  That same green color has clawed its way up the mountain sides to all but the highest peaks, where it will take still longer for foliage to develop.

When I travel by myself, I often spend hours listening to Sirius XM Radio.  This is great because there’s virtually any kind of music, sports, comedy, news, or talk radio one could desire, and it stays with you wherever you go until you decide it’s time for something else.  When traveling to Key West, the Jimmy Buffet channel seems just the ticket.  Or how about some good old southern rock when rolling through Alabama -- hardly anything better in the genre than Lynyrd Skynyrd and Sweet Home Alabama with that iconic guitar riff in the headsets -- or some bluegrass or mountain music while roaming in the Appalachian mountains.  Or when in Georgia, maybe even some funky country music on the Outlaw Country channel.  And it’s hard not to think of country music when navigating the expansive two-lane roads of Texas.

Of the 18 presets I can set on my system, the first three are Channel 63 The Message (contemporary Christian),  Channel 66 Watercolors (so-called “smooth jazz”), and Channel 31 Coffee House (acoustic covers and original singer-songwriter material).  I have 15 other presets with a wide variety of material plus dozens and dozens of other channels at my fingertips.

When Kitty and I travel together, she tends to prefer riding without music although I often have the CB active.  Today, though, she asks for The Message channel.  On Sundays, this channel plays less contemporary Christian music and more praise-oriented music.  As we roll toward the Shendandoah Valley, the songs are like Singalong Sunday:  Songs we used to perform years ago in our church band with various worship leaders, covers of songs we recognize but don’t know the performing artist, along with more current music and special Mother’s Day inserts.  I have to wonder how many songs have been written in the past 30 years!

We make one fuel stop near Lexington sometime after 1:00 PM, consume a protein bar and an apple each, and are back on our way on this beautiful Mother’s Day with what are now white fluffy clouds floating lazily in a seamless blue sky.

I think back over the trip.  I believe this was the first time in all our travels that we had to hunker down and change our itinerary because of severe weather.  Each of our rain suits leaked a little, and in the hours of riding through the Texas downpours we ended up with wet rear ends; we knew this ahead of time (they are very old one-piece Motoport rain suits); I’d tried to order new ones but the matching styles I wanted weren’t available in the men’s and women’s sizes we needed.  One of the best things I ever did for motorcycle traveling is to invest is a pair of Cruiserworks waterproof boots for both of us.  Expensive, yes.  But absolutely comfortable, made for motorcycling, and never a hint of moisture inside even during extended periods in the most rigorous wet conditions.  For rain riding, we have waterproof SealSkinz gloves (now branded as Hanz) with little gripper dots on the palm and underside of the fingers.  In my case, I learned that I need to be more careful in pulling up the cuff under the rain gear; water wicked up under the cuffs and eventually the entire inside of the gloves were wet.  It takes about two days to air dry these things and they can’t be hurried.  The Honda-branded Joe Rocket mesh jackets are far more versatile than I had envisioned.  With the thin 2-layer liner and a sweatshirt, I rode comfortably in 60-degree temperatures, while Kitty was a little chilly at that temperature dressed similarly, but the heated seat helped that a lot.  The passenger always gets more wind than the rider so it’s always colder back there in cool weather.

The bike and trailer performed flawlessly and as expected.  After almost 19,000 miles on this bike, I’m still astonished at how comfortable, strong, smooth, and stable it is, and how well Honda has incorporated creature comforts like GPS and XM, heated seats, heated grips, cruise control, tire pressure monitoring system, and effortless suspension adjustment into the essential DNA of the motorcycle.

We roll the final miles down I-66, onto US 29, and finally into our driveway.  It’s 3:57 PM.  I check the mileage and we’ve ridden 3,833 miles in eight states of these great United States.

And so this ride on this Mother’s Day draws to a successful close.  I cherish these moments and can hardly wait for the next time I hear Kitty’s voice in my headset:  “And there we go!”, or a more succinct and contemporary version, “Click-click!”

MACH 14: Day 13 - The Road Less Interesting

Day 13:  The Road Less Interesting

Saturday, May 10, 2014

Copyright(c) 2014, Jim Beachy

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in Tennessee, and I --

I took the the road less interesting,

And that has made all the difference

-- Apologies to Robert Frost

Any thoughts I have of recovering some scenic riding miles on US 70 through Tennessee are obliterated by a quick check  of the local weather radar:  On US 70, north of Jackson where we would be riding, there is a large red radar weather splotch that persists for the entire time we eat breakfast and pack up.  I abandon all thoughts of riding this road.  It will wait for another trip.

This leaves us with… The Road Less Interesting.  I am not prone to labeling any road uninteresting, let alone boring, but I-40 through Tennessee, I-85 through North Carolina, and I-95 between, say, Moncton, ME and Miami, FL come dangerously close.  I seem to recall it is 509 miles in Tennessee from Memphis to Bristol via Interstate.  On our journey homeward today, it will be our lot to ride 425 of those miles.

And so we roll eastward a little before 9:00 AM, 70 mph, holding the Interstate past the exit where we would divert to US 70.  The sky is gray and cloudy, unrelenting, and were it not for the weather radar I would once again be doing the Dance of the Rain Suit.  But except for the cell to the north, there is no rain in the picture for the next several hours.  Way off to the east, on the other end of the state near Knoxville, there’s a large front but it’s moving eastward and I estimate it will be out of the area by the time we reach Knoxville.

The Road Less Interesting runs today under a gray sky, but the temperature is perfect, fluctuating between 75 F and flirting with 80.  Under the liners in our mesh jackets, Kitty is wearing a t-shirt plus a thin long-sleeved shirt, and I’m wearing my LD Comfort “arms” and a t-shirt.  Both of us ride for hours in total comfort.

The Cumberland Plateau, part of the Appalachian mountain range, traverses Tennessee roughly halfway between Nashville and Knoxville, rising from several hundred feet above sea level on the west to about 2500 feet on the eastern side.  It features rock outcroppings, sandstone cliffs, some spectacular valleys and outlooks.  Unfortunately, on The Road Less Interesting, only occasional hints of these are visible.

I have been monitoring the weather radar all day.  Hours after leaving Jackson, I’m shocked that our friend Red Splotch is tracking with us at roughly the same speed, 70 mph, just sitting 40 miles or so to the north, in parallel to our track, its baleful red eye daring us to try to ride US 70.

Descending the east side of the Cumberland Gap, we cross back into the Eastern time zone and the GPS clock automatically resets itself from 1:16 PM to 2:16 PM.  Near here, there’s a brief shining moment where, from the heights of the plateau, the valleys to the southeast are displayed in a glorious vista, but only for a moment.  On The Road Less Interesting, it is so brief that Kitty misses it.  Then down the sweeping Interstate curves to the Cheat River and the giant power plant at water level, producing huge clouds of white water vapor from giant stacks, two of which look to be 300 feet tall.  I wish I could find a place for a picture, but on The Road Less Interesting, there is time only for a traffic check, a lane change, and maintaining the posted speed.

At our second and final fuel stop 20 miles west of Knoxville, we see a couple on a gray BMW K 1600 GTL touring motorcycle, having already fueled and just ready to mount up.  I walk over and chat for a few moments.  They’re from the Jersey coast, heading home as we are.

“We’ll be in Abingdon, VA tonight,” they say.

“Ah, Abingdon.  I hope you can check out a restaurant called the Wildflour Bakery, right on an exit where I think there’s a Holiday Inn Express.  I don’t recall the exit number.”

“We’re staying at the Holiday Inn Express!” says the guy.

“Well, you should check it out.  You can walk there although there’s not really a good path.  That might actually be where we end up,” I say.

We fuel up and while we have a bite to eat, I check the weather on my smartphone.  “Wow, there’s a strong front about a hundred miles west of Abingdon.  We have 150 miles.  It looks like we and the weather might arrive at the same time.”

Nevertheless, inspired by the thought of the Wildflour Bakery (which I call to make sure they are open), we decide to try for Abingdon, VA for the night.  I make a motel reservation by phone and we are off.

By this time we have finally outrun Red Splotch to the north as it claws its way over the Cumberland Gap and loses steam.  However, now we have a new interest, and I keep an eagle eye on the strong red-splotched weather bearing down on Abingdon, and keep trying to estimate which of us will make it to Abingdon first.  Several hours later, the mountains of southwest Virginia slow the front and the red splotches turn to yellow and finally just to normal rain.  I estimate we will probably beat the weather to Abingdon.

And at about 5:30 (having lost an hour in the time zone change), we arrive at what turns out to be Virginia Exit 19 on I-81 and check in to the motel.  The BMW is parked right in front.  As we unpack, the couple walks out, having already showered and changed, heading for the Wildflour Bakery.

“Ah, you’re here!” I say.  “And we’re here!  Go figure - you inspired us!”

I quickly clean the bike and cover it while Kitty showers and changes, and the first large raindrops splatter down.  After I grab a shower, we pick up the umbrellas Kitty thoughtfully brought in from the bike’s trunk and start picking our way between the traffic to the Wildflour Bakery.  The BMW couple is just walking back.

“That was phenomenal!” the woman says.  “A great recommendation!  We’ll be back just to eat at that restaurant!”

The Wildflour is at heart a bakery:  They bake every day and are generally open for breakfast and lunch, but are not open every day for dinner.  It’s housed in a restored Victorian house of 1896 vintage.  The chef creates his concoctions from fresh local fare when possible, so the menu changes with what’s available - farmer’s market fruits and vegetables, local beef and poultry, local red and white wines, even a local olive oil company with 60 flavored varieties.  Everything is made from scratch.  I order a black-and-bleu steak, medium rare, while Kitty orders a salmon dish.  Both orders are served in person by the head chef; both are artfully presented and perfectly prepared.  Veggies are crunchy and delightful, and the sweet whiskey-soaked bread pudding for dessert is the perfect finishing touch.

This place is on my short list of venues for which I would configure trip parameters just to visit.  I’d want to be here for dinner - a meal like this would be too good to waste by simply climbing on a motorcycle and riding away!

We are the last to leave the place, and it is still raining steadily.  As we pay our bill and prepare to walk back to the motel, Debbie, who seems to be one of the servers, says “I can’t let you walk back there in the dark and the rain!  Let me drive you there!  It’ll only take two minutes.”

And that’s how we conclude our last quarter mile of the day:  Crammed into her SUV with assorted other items, content to have spent a quality, wonderful day together.

We’ve traveled 453 perfect miles today, The Road Less Interesting notwithstanding, tank-to-tank with only two stops, both for fuel.  I continue to be amazed at how comfortable this Gold Wing is.  Also amazed that we have only one day left for this ride, a short 330 miles or so home.

Tomorrow will be here all too soon.

MACH 14: Day 12 - Comfort for the Long Haul

Day 12:  Comfort for the Long Haul

Friday, May 9, 2014

Copyright(c) 2014, Jim Beachy

During the night, strong storms pounded the area around Marshall, TX.  Crusader and the trailer were parked under the motel’s canopy uncovered; I’d left everything uncovered because the cover could easily grind the dirt, sand, and grime into the finish.  Better to have the rig lashed by wind and rain rather than by an inadvertently-created scouring pad.

By morning the cells have moved on and the pavement is mostly dry, and we hope to get an early start to recoup some of the miles we lost yesterday because of bad weather.  Then a weather radar check shows a strong cell just about to hit the area, so we wait around for an hour and have a leisurely breakfast while the ominous black clouds clear the area.  I can’t stand the grit on the bike and trailer, so while we wait I fill a trash can from the motel’s bathroom with water, soak one of my cleaning cloths and gently rinse off the worst of it, then gently dry the surfaces and clean the windshield.

By 9:50, an hour or more after our planned departure, it appears we may be able to sneak out without hitting any yellow or red weather splotches, but we don rain gear because another cell has grown an arm to the north and it appears we might intersect it as we travel north against the storm cell’s eastward trajectory.

But we miss the storm in spite of the thick, low-hanging solid gray clouds, and enjoy the 75 mph speed limit on US 59 as we roll through the northern reaches of the Piney Woods.  “I really wish we could have roads like this all the way home!” says Kitty for the second time in two days.  And I wish I could offer roads like this all the way home.  Perhaps after retirement, when time isn’t a factor, we can do a cross-country trip and never touch an Interstate.  Some 150 miles or so later, after catching I-30 in Texarkana, we stop for fuel in Fulton and peel off the rain gear.  A studied look at the mist and solid overcast would certainly dictate continued wearing of rain gear, but the XM Weather radar on the bike shows no hint of rain in the direction we will be riding.  This proves to be correct - no weather Trickster in the area today!  The temperature varies all day with the thickness of the cloud cover, from 72 F to 77 F, a perfectly pleasant riding temperature with just an extra layer of clothing such as a long-sleeved t-shirt.

We streak northeast across the full breadth of Arkansas, riding past miles and miles of vast flooded (or not) rice fields, the curved contour ditches creating a marvelously complex and graceful pattern as we look out across the flat expanse.

About 100 miles from Memphis and  the Arkansas/Tennessee state line we make our second fuel stop and each have an energy bar.  I’m always surprised, on this bike, how comfortable we are for the long haul.  In the old days, we would need to stop about every 90 miles for a break for Kitty.  Now, Kitty is very physically fit (every day without fail on this trip, when at all feasible, she has awakened early for a date with the gym), and I know that makes a difference.  But something about the seat on this bike, maybe the shape, maybe the degree of firmness, maybe the gel-pad inserts that are built into the stock seat, offers the most comfortable ride we’ve ever experienced.  Hours in the saddle, and when we do stop it’s usually for fuel or bathroom breaks, rarely because we need a break from sitting or a break from the bike.  Three or three-and-a-half hours at a stretch is not unusual.

We decide to stop in Jackson, TN for the night but need one more fuel stop about 40 miles short of the goal.  Were it not for this enforced fuel stop,  today’s ride would have covered 460 miles with only two fuel stops, passing through three major construction zones, in complete comfort, guided by XM Weather inasmuch as we could dress with confidence that there would be no significant rain.  This is an amazing machine!

I’ve routed to a motel that isn’t within walking distance of a restaurant, so we check in and ride back one exit to find a Mexican restaurant.  When we return, I park the rig under the canopy as instructed by the desk clerk, clean the windshield, and do not cover it.  I’m still worried about the grit that I may not have completely removed with my makeshift washing technique.

And my American flag is looking pretty bedraggled.  I’ve displayed an American flag on my right-side antenna since 1997.  This flag was new and mounted the day I brought the bike home, and now, at nearly 19,000 miles of flapping violently in the turbulence that occurs behind the bike’s still air pocket, it is nearing the end of its useful life.  When we get home, I ‘ll order a new one and retire this flag with the others I’ve worn out.  When one of my flags is retired, I carefully put it in a box with the handful of other flag retirees, along with a note about the notable places it has accompanied me.

Tomorrow’s weather is hard to predict - we’ve left our rainsuits loosely folded, ready for instant use if required.  We have just under 800 miles home.

MACH 14: Day 11 - The Worst BBQ in Texas

Day 11:  The Worst BBQ in Texas

Thursday, May 8, 2014

Copyright(c) 2014, Jim Beachy

Early in the morning, Jerry and Ava get the two kids off to school; Kitty goes with them and on the way back they all go for a walk of several miles while I write yesterday’s blog.  It’s a dark and cloudy morning, 77 F, noticeably more humid than yesterday, but not raining.

Jerry has decreed that we should eat breakfast tacos at Rudy’s.  Walking in, the first thing we see is a neon sign declaring “The Worst Bar-B-Q in Texas.”  The breakfast tacos we order contain fluffy scrambled eggs and a choice of cheese, potatoes, bacon, and a long list of other items.  They are amazing.  And purportedly, contrary to the neon declaration, the barbecue is equally as good.

We’re enjoying the morning with our friends, so it’s 10:45 AM when we finally roll eastward.  I’ve planned a 2-lane Texas route that will avoid cities and eventually put us on I-30 at Texarkana on the border of Texas and Arkansas.  I’d like to make about 450 miles today, but with the late start that is doubtful.

A last-minute check of the bike’s weather radar confirms what I already know:  We’ll be riding in concert with a large weather front moving northeast, and while we may start out dry, we will certainly catch up with the rain later today.  So we take time for the Dance of the Rainsuit and for once I remember to take the keys from my pocket before zipping up.

After a quick set of good-byes and topping off the fuel tank, we are off.  Our route roughly follows US 79 as it traverses northeast across Texas.  For the first 160 miles we luck out and dodge between rain cells with only a few splatters on the windshield.  We love riding on Texas 2-lanes, through vast cultivated spreads and past ranches where longhorns or Brahma cattle gaze impassively from the safety of their green fields as we pass.  There remain patches of Indian blanket flowers in patches along the roadside, but mostly the wildflower season has come and gone before us.  “I wish we could ride roads like this all the way home,” says Kitty.  I wistfully agree.

On the XM radar, I keep monitoring the trailing edge of the weather front, which is actually ahead of us, so we’re steadily catching up with the weather as the day progresses.  It appears we will hit rain shortly after crossing I-45, or near the town of Buffalo.

My prediction is spot perfect, and the serious rain starts about 20 miles after we cross I-45.  Rain is moderate to heavy, and I’m mindful that there hasn’t been much rain, and Texas roads when wet are slippery at best.  In addition, on some roads there are slight depressions in the tracks where the trucks run, so in heavy rain there’s standing water.  I rarely ride in the center of a lane, but this is one of those times.  Rain continues steadily, sometimes heavy, sometimes with visibility well under a quarter of a mile, and I find myself riding at 50 mph for many miles at a time, peering through the mist and water droplets that collect on my helmet shield.  My after-market V-Stream windshield is doing a good job of shedding water, but with this much rain it never clears completely.

By the time we make Palestine and Jacksonville I’m feeling the strain of trying to look through the rain and watch for standing water on the road.  In the last 20 miles we’ve seen three serious accidents, all appearing to involve just one vehicle, all with the vehicles spun off the road into a field or a deep ditch.  “Too fast, too much water, too much opportunity for hydroplaning!” I tell Kitty.  Motorcycle tires, with a much different design from car tires, typically do not hydroplane.  A car tire delivers most pressure to the road surface along the sides of the tread surface, leaving opportunity for water to invade the tread in the center of the tire track, thus lifting the tread from the road.  Motorcycle tires deliver most of the road pressure in the center of the tire, a much more stable configuration.

“Two tires against four!” says Kitty.

I could not agree more!  I’m fanatical about my tires and don’t apologize for it.  A friend was once trying to decide on whether to buy a tire before a trip or after he returns.  I computed the value of useful remaining tread life and it was around $10.00.  “Skip lunch.  Buy the tire!” I told my friend.  And I’ve often said that I’m riding in conditions like these with Kitty aboard, the last thought I ever want to cross my mind is “I kinda wish I would have changed that tire!”

So we proceed with caution and without incident.  Still, by the time we near Hendersonville I tell Kitty “I need to take a break.  I’m seeing ghosts in the roadway.”

After a 30-minute break the rain has almost stopped, but I know we’ll run into the same weather some miles up the road.  But I’d like to make Arkansas tonight if we can, so we press on.  Once again the rain intensifies, and by the time we find Hwy 43 north and reach Marshall, it’s after 5:00 PM and I’m ready to call it a day.  We’ve made only 307 miles, leaving us a little more than 1,200 miles to cover in the remaining three days.  I had planned more 2-lane roads though Tennessee heading eastward, and I now think that ride will probably also need to wait for another trip.  With this weather pattern set to continue for perhaps the remainder of the trip, I can envision a lot of Interstate travel in our immediate future.  Much as we love the 2-lane life, in bad weather I’ll take the Interstate every time if I can.

We find a motel and the desk clerk tells us we can park the bike under the canopy.  It is covered in wet sandy grit from the Texas roads, so I refrain from covering it or even cleaning it.

Tonight, we order pizza and eat it in the motel’s dining room.

MACH 14: Day 10 - A Man And His Space

Day 10:  A Man And His Space

Wednesday, May y, 2014

Copyright(c) 2014, Jim Beachy

Next day: to Austin

We are planning to visit some dear friends in Austin today, Jerry and Ava.  Jerry was a kid when his dad and I played in a band, and later, as a young man, he became the best drummer I’ve ever known and we played together as well.  He became a producer and engineer in the music business in Nashville, and moved to Austin with his family some years ago.  We haven’t seen them for quite a few years, and since we’re so close, it’s hard to pass up the opportunity.

I’d planned to get a good start and do some riding in the Hill Country west of Austin before returning there for the afternoon.  But Kitty and Joyce (Kristal’s mother) are having such a good time chatting and reminiscing that I don’t have the heart to tear them apart, so it’s actually about 11:00 AM when we leave and I’ve abandoned the Hill Country ride.  It’s actually only about a two-hour ride to Austin from where we are in College Station.

After a series of Facebook messages with Ava, she would like us to stay with them overnight so eventually cancel the hotel reservation and text back “We’re at your mercy!”

We’d hoped to be in time for the famous Texas wildflowers, but the bluebonnets are long gone and there are only vestiges of the spectacular indian blankets and paintbrush flowers that cover the fields in a magic carpet of color in peak season.

It’s cloudy this morning with a temperature of 79 F as we head west on FM 21 out of College Station, and there is a vicious, gusty wind from the south.  I think of one of our coast-to-coast trips, which I’d named Driving Miss Kitty, during which we endured a quartering Kansas wind for several days.  Up to now, that was the strongest wind I’d experienced on a bike.  Today’s wind exceeds that by a fair margin, and it’s wickedly unpredictable, gusting in various directions and at times whipping my helmeted head sideways with a particularly strong gust.  The speed limit is often 75 mph but I hold to 70 mph because the wind is almost untenable at a faster speed.  I recall Digger at the MACH.14 event saying he battled this same wind all across Texas on his route to Vicksburg.  Wow, this is a day’s work!

The wind noise from Kitty’s microphone is awesome; the passenger always gets more wind that the rider, as the still air pocket created by the big fairing and windshield starts collapsing around the passenger’s shoulders.  Our Wing has an aftermarket J&M passenger controller that offers Kitty the option to control her own headset volume, push-to-talk on CB, and mute her microphone switch.  This morning I ask her to activate the muting switch to reduce fatigue from the wind noise.  This drops the wind noise dramatically and has an immediate calming psychological effect while rushing through a windstorm at 70 mph.

In Bastrop, we witness miles of starkly dead trees where several years ago, forest fires ravaged the area.  New growth always moves in, however, and while the dead trees remind us of what happened, new growth and new homes remind us that life always moves in after a catastrophe.

We see a sign for Lake Bastrop and on a whim, we circle back for a couple miles and take the road to the lake.  We think we might have better luck with the picnic lunch than yesterday at Lake Livingston.  This time we hit pay dirt, finding a nice picnic area without another soul in sight.  There is a small fee and we pay it using the “honor box.”

As we enter the park, we see a sign “Warning - Buzzard population may damage vehicles”, and as we ride slowly into the parking lot there’s a warning sign “CAUTION - Lake ahead.”  Indeed, the parking lot unceremoniously slopes to the lake surface and becomes a boat ramp.

There are indeed lots of vultures, circling close and landing in a social group across the boat ramp from us.  They have a similar behavior similar to what we’ve observed in the turkey vultures that seem to inhabit the trees behind our house during fall migration:  They are extraordinarily social birds, but still seem uneasy together.  When a new bird arrives, there’s an uneasy jostling for position, and for every vulture that alights, another flaps away briefly to find a new landing space, and process continues.  It’s a fascinating bird dynamic.  I think they are black vultures, featuring distinctive pale wingtip patches, and smaller than the more familiar turkey vulture.  They are nevertheless imposing creatures and we watch for a while as they seem to deliberately seem to choose the shoreline where a flock of ducks was peacefully feeding, driving them quickly away and into the wind-driven waters of the lake.

We reach our hosts’ home at a little before 4:00 PM.  I mostly remember Jerry as a teenager, and haven’t had a lot of contact with him in the intervening years.  As he describes his life and what he’s done, it’s gratifying to see his quiet confidence in the music profession he has chosen.  He’s a man of formidable capabilities.  A man in his own space.

We drive together to dinner at Chuy’s, a great Tex-Mex restaurant, and then I go with Jerry to his band rehearsal.  It’s great to sit in a music rehearsal environment, which I haven’t done for some time now after making music most of my life.

It’s good to catch up with our dear friends.

MACH 14: Day 9 - Memory Trip

Day 9:  Memory Trip
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Copyright(c) 2014, Jim Beachy

Another late day, the latest this trip.  For one reason, I was awakened by Kitty at 2:22 AM.  "Is that noise going to continue all night!?"  The chirping of the fire alarm confirms what she is talking about.  I turn over and cover my head with a pillow, with an irrational hope that it will go away, but it doesn't.

"I'm going to call the front desk!" Kitty announces, and does so.  "What? Twist it?  Can you send up a maintenance man?  OK, we'll try that."

I grab a chair, unseat the unit, unplug it, and remove the battery.  "That should do it," I say.  Just before it chirps again.  "I'm taking this thing to the front desk - let them find a place for it!" Just as I'm ready to carry the thing out the door it utters one last feeble chirp and I believe that's the end of it.

Another reason it's a late day is that I have to finish yesterday's blog.  Yet another is that we have a very short day of only 200 miles to our daughters in-law's parents, our intended destination for today.

The only reason we overnighted on Leesville is that it puts us in position to revisit a significant event from (we think) 2006.  A trip down memory lane.

On that motorcycle trip to the Alamo Run near San Antonio, a loosely organized ride-in similar to the MACH event of this trip. We'd run the Natchez Trace from Nashville TN to Natchez MS,and were slowly making our way on 2-lanes to Texas.  In a remote area on Hwy 8 exactly on the border of Louisiana and Texas, right on the bridge over the Sabine River, our afternoon was unceremoniously shattered into bits when we were rear-ended by a 20-year old who later confessed to the Texas officer that he was on drugs.  He had a suspended license, was driving a stolen pickup truck, and this was his third offense since his license was suspended.

The impact destroyed our trailer and bent the hitch into a Z so that the trailer was pushed up beside the bike.  I still don't know how I kept the bike upright.  The driver lost control of the vehicle and ran into an unyielding bridge abutment, which absolutely destroyed the truck and left pieces of the front wheels and engine block lying on the road.  Later, the officer called me and said "Your boy's in jail in Jasper.  Here in Texas we don't take kindly to drug users driving stolen trucks with suspended license.  He confessed all this in the cruiser, and of course the video camera got it all." Months later, I called back twice for an update but the trooper wasn't available at the time so to this day I don't know the final disposition.

Across the river someone heard the crash and came to investigate.  Taking a look at the wrecked trailer, this good ole' Louisiana boy said "I can get you back on the road!  I can fabricate a hitch from some stock I have on hand." He worked in an auto salvage yard on the Louisiana side of the river.
And to make an already-long story short, he delivered!  We towed that smashed-up trailer to San Antonio and home with that old boy's emergency fabrication!  Because of the damage, we had to rig a taillight, and it leaked badly, so we had to wrap our luggage in garbage bags to keep it dry, but we got it home.

So today, I want to see if Shawn and his wife Kimmy are still there.  Memory lane - no need to revisit the accident, as that moment will always be vivid in my mind, not I'm curious about the salvage yard.  I'd marked a waypoint named "Wreck" at the time with the symbol of a skull and crossbones.  As we approach the waypoint, anticipation mounts and as we slow, we see... It's closed, fenced in, the building shuttered.  By the looks of the overgrown parking lot, it's been closed for a while.

Ok, that itch has been scratched and I won't need to visit again.

A mile into Texas, I'm moderately surprised by a sign: Speed Limit 75.  "That's crazy on this narrow two-lane road!" says Kitty.  So in a rare moment, I run  5 under for a while, setting cruise to 70 mph.  I wick it up to the speed limit a little later, and I can tell Kitty is nervous about it because when brake lights come on in the distance and I come off cruise, I feel her hands digging into my sides.

We cruise through the east Texas Pineywoods region at the posted speed limit.  Texas roads just make me feel good.  The long undulating stretches of highway where you can see ahead sometimes for miles are always interesting, and I never feel like exceeding the speed limit.  When it comes to speed, Texas has it right, in my opinion.  There are few places like Texas for this kind of riding!

In Livingston we stop for a break and I fuel up even though we have half a tank.  Here in Livingston is another memory.

I was riding to the Holy Smoke Barbecue in Huntsville (the Texas one, not the Alabama one).  I'd had my bike serviced by my guy near Atlanta, Gary's Hobbie Shop.  Once I left the shop in the afternoon, I decided to ride the entire 800-mile ride with only fuel stops, which would put me on Huntsville at around 4:00 AM.  So by the time I reached Livingston in the middle of a dark night, I was sensing the end of the ride, I was tired, and my circadian cycle was at its lowest of the trip.  Just easing into Livingston and slowing for a red light, I heard the distinctive minor chord of a train whistle, close but not loud.  And a half-second later, a train emerged from an underpass just as I crossed over top.  The sound seemed suddenly a million times louder, and the train was almost directly below me, barely 50 feet from my rapidly-decompensating ears, brain, and body.  It was the most awesomely frightening experience of my life from the day I was born until this day.  Once again I barely kept the bike upright.  To this day I never hear a train whistle when that moment doesn't come instantly to mind!

Having replenished our picnic lunch supply last night walking back from the restaurant, we decide to make a 5-mile detour to the Livingston State Park for a little lunchtime picnic.  When we learn it would cost $5.00 per person, we opt out and the ranger gives us instructions for another place, which has a "Road Closed" sign.  As I pill off the road to contemplate for a moment, local officer pulls up behind me.  "I can't think of a worse place for you to stop!" he calls on his PA system. He has a point so we ride around until we find a shaded area where we can pull out our picnic chairs under a large tree of undetermined species.
Riding westward into a stiff headwind, we arrive at our destination a little before 4:00 PM.

It's good to see our daughter-in-law's parents.  It's good to be in Texas.  It's good to be near places where they know steaks.

Today I have no Internet connection and I've done this on my Android smartphone.  However, uploading pictures is too difficult so I'll do that later.

MACH 14: Day 8 - Metamorphosis II

Day 8:  Metamorphosis II

Monday, May 5, 2014

Copyright(c) 2014, Jim Beachy

It is slow going for the poor kids this morning after their late night, but they make it off to school on time with relatively little fuss.  I think they’re too tired to fuss!  I back the bike and trailer out of the garage and start loading our luggage.

Brenham, who isn’t yet in school, comes out to help.  “I like those wheels,” he says about the chrome trailer wheels.  “They’re spark-e-ly!”  And then “I like your motorcycle boots.  When I was a grown-up I had motorcycle boots.”

A little before 10:00 AM we say our goodbyes (the pain of parting never gets easier, just more familiar) and strike out westward.  We plan to see Kristal’s parents in College Station, TX, and have decided to break up that trip of about 500 miles into two mostly 2-lane days.

Once again it’s a brilliant morning with temperatures in the high 70’s as we fuel up and head west on I-10.  It’s a quiet morning as we grapple with the metamorphosis from grandparents into bikers.  The metamorphosis is more difficult in this direction, I decide.  Being a motorcycling couple is a wonderful thing, but being grandparents is priceless, a forever treasure.  We hold I-10 to Baton Rouge amid the redolent sweet, heavy smell of some springtime blooming tree or shrub.  At West Baton Rouge we exit the Interstate and stop at an information center to see if there’s anything in particular we should look for.

I do a quick Google search about Louisiana on my smartphone and learn that Baton Rouge is the nation’s most inland seaport, and that 25% of our nations waterborne exports are shipped through Louisiana’s seaports.  I am also startled to learn that Louisiana has the nation’s longest seacoast (15,000 miles) because of all its sounds and coastal indentations.  Who wouldn’t have thought it would be Alaska, or maybe Florida?  Louisiana produces over one-quarter of the US production of natural gas, is second in the production of sugar cane and sweet potatoes, and third in rice production.  It also ranks in the top 5 for cotton and pecan production.

We catch US 190 west as the alternative route to I-10.  Mostly it’s 4-lane with a speed limit of 65 mph.  At various times we see vast flooded fields of rice, or ride past stately groves of pecan trees, or fields of young soybeans.  Wow, there is a lot of flat land down here!  And yet there are miles and miles of cypress swamps, and in one section we travel probably 10 miles on a raised bridge-like structure that is flat as a table top and straight as a yardstick, with no shoulders at all on either side of the highway.  From this unique vantage point, we can look down at the swamps and the logging operations.

We’ve ridden all morning until well after 1:00 PM and we are hungry.  Having exhausted our supply of picnic lunch foodstuffs, we are (well, at least I am) bent on finding the type of local restaurant that isn’t likely to be on the GPS, and we scan for eating places as we roll slowly through several small towns.  I’m looking for restaurants that might have names like Jimmy’s Cajun Dive, or The Mad Crawfish, or perhaps Billy’s Cowcatcher Grill.  We’ve run hard alongside a railroad track for over a hundred miles, so something named after trains would seem to be in order.

At Krotz Springs, just after we cross the Atchafalaya River where huge barges and seagoing vessels ply their trade, we stop for fuel.  The gas pump has no card reader, so I have to take my credit card inside for security while I pump gas.  I haven’t removed my helmet or red-and-black mesh jacket.  After fueling, I walk back inside and the same attendant says “Can I help you, sir?”

“Uh, yes, ma’am, I just filled up at pump #4.”

“Oh, you did?  How did you do that without leaving a credit card?”  She begins to punch buttons and looks confused, apparently mystified that the pump had actually delivered gasoline without her permission or knowledge.

“Ummm, I did leave a credit card.”

“You did? With me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.  Is it this one?”

“Yes.’

Really? I can only surmise that while I wasn’t looking, 30 other bikers, helmeted and attired just as I am, must have walked in unbeknownst to me and the attendant somehow got me confused with one of the others.  Nevertheless, the bike is now full and our stomachs are empty; we briefly consider eating at the little diner attached to the gas station but decide to pass.

I look for opportunities to stop and take some photographs of the rice fields and other agricultural goings-on, but never found a place I felt comfortable pulling the big bike over, or where the berm was slanted in a way that would allow me to put down the kickstand.

So the search for a non-GPS restaurant continues through Opelousas and Eunice.  We always miss the restaurant or it’s on the wrong side of the street or too difficult to find a parking space on the street.  So we finally settle on… Burger King!  It’s the first time in years that I’ve eaten in a Burger King, and then only because it happened to be on the correct side of the road.  But it’s protein nevertheless.

At Ragley we turn north on US 171 and eventually arrive at Leesville, LA, home of Fort Polk Army Base.  As we’re unloading, I survey with amusement the array of luggage we carry to our room every night.  It’s a long way from a pair of jeans and a couple of t-shirts packed for a road trip.  We check in and I clean the bike, after which we walk about a half mile or more to a local steakhouse where the music is country, the peanuts are everywhere, and the steaks are exceptional.

When we get back to the hotel, Kitty once again helps me cover the bike and trailer.

MACH.14: Day 7 - Tent City

Day 7:  Tent City

Sunday, May 4, 2014

Copyright(c) 2014, Jim Beachy

Our guest room has been populated with tents.  Brotherly love prevails as Carter and Brenham, aged 5 and 3,  decide they want to inhabit the same dinosaur tent for the night, while Danica is comfortably housed in her own princess tent with an awesome inventory of stuffed furry friends.

This seems to work out splendidly until 2:37 AM, when there appears to be some invasion of personal space within the dinosaur tent.  This incursion is vigorously defended and somehow the concept of two-brothers-sharing-a-dinosaur-tent seems a little less attractive from that point on.

And by 7:12 AM, our room has become a certified Tent City.

Kevin is the lead pastor at Gulf Coast Worship Center (http://www.yourfamilyplace.com) and it turns out we've invaded an unusually busy weekend.  We try to keep a low profile and help out as best we can.

Back at the house after lunch, all the kids are clamoring for motorcycle rides through the neighborhood.  The youngest needs to accompany Kitty as a second passenger, squeezed in between Kitty and me on the seat.  They all think it's cool to be able to talk through the headsets.  "You sound like you're on the radio," says Carter.

Kevin is off to church for a special event, and later, after the motorcycle rides, the rest of us head to the beach.  The water in the Gulf of Mexico this early in May is warmer than the East Coast in early July.  It's a calm and serene sunset with nobody around but us and a great blue heron

Kevin meets us at the beach after his church event.  Following a quick pizza stop for dinner, by now it's late, way past the kids' normal bedtime, and tomorrow will likely prove to have an interesting early start.

"There will be no Tent City in Nona and Papa's room tonight!" decrees Kevin.

Tomorrow we've scheduled a 300-mile day on mostly two-lane country roads and expect to be in Louisiana near the Texas border by evening.

The realization that we'll need to reverse-morph into bikers tomorrow comes with a little jolt.  But Kitty has a sign in our bedroom at home that says "When a child is born, so is a grandmother."

Wherever we are, whatever we do, we'll always have that.  Always be that!