Following our unfortunate encounter with the grizzled blue-eyed stranger we rejoined the dirt and gravel westward. Though a clear beautiful day, heavy rains over the previous week had swollen creeks into boot topping lagoons along the trail. The first of these offered a test for Dan. Though a fine dog, he is apprehensive of water. It proved another successful trial in Dandy's growth as an adventure dog and companion. He's developing into a true badass.
A couple more water-crossings brought us to the Robert Heidelberger and Co. stop in Trenton, Arkansas. The unofficial midway point along the TAT (it's unofficial because it misses the middle by around a thousand miles). The father and son farmers that own the place keep it open to cater to trail riders passing through. They maintain a rider log, and offer travelers refreshments free of charge. I suspect it is the most cultured place in Arkansas, and likely the most photographed. When Dan and I pulled up the establishment's elder statesman, who's name eludes me at the moment, was waiting. I introduced Dan, and pulled my waterlogged boots off, drained them, placed them in the sunlight, and took a seat on the porch. Over the next couple of hours at least a dozen locals stopped by for curious chats. We were apparently the only riders on the 5000+ mile long TAT. To be fair the folks here weren't all that concerned with COVID-19, and when they asked if I was worried about it, I told them that I believed it to be real, but uttered a line from one of my favorite movies, "Get busy living, or get busy dying".
After fitting a fresh pair of socks and pulling my sun-baked, and mostly dry, boots back on, pictures were snapped, we said our goodbyes, and headed northwest. The gravel roads woven throughout the Ozarks were of top order, and, coupled with good weather, we made short work of them. Just as we
reached the Oklahoma border, however, the clouds darkened and rain began to fall. We took cover in a state park, sheltering under the entrance of a bathroom closed due to COVID. The following morning park rangers visited us and asked us to move along. We ventured out into cold precipitation and made our way to a hotel 50 miles north in Fayetteville. I was struck by the number of homeless folks roaming the streets of this middle America college town. We're in for a difficult future I mused to myself as Dan and I reached our room for the night.
A night on a mattress can do quite a lot for morale, and I awoke the following morning ready to hit Oklahoma at full speed. A slight drizzle did little to dampen my mood, and I went about the arduous process of reloading the bike. As I fumbled with a knot of nylon straps a lady emerged from her room and upon reaching her car, curiously looked in our direction and asked if she could help. I replied no, that it wasn’t as bad as it looked. She asked where we were going, and I told her the West Coast. She removed a leather bracelet from her wrist and handed it to me proclaiming that she made them. I quickly examined it, and it appeared to be made from a leather belt and flat hammered spoon head which had been engraved with a quote from a Johnny Cash song, "Life is rough so you've gotta be tough". I couldn't have imagined a more appropriate gift. I immediately slathered it in hand sanitizer, put it on, and finished loading. Looking at Dan, now in his pannier, I quipped let's roll, and we crossed into Oklahoma.
High Plains Drifters
The first couple of hundred miles through Oklahoma were wet, muddy and undulating. Fortunately the mud wasn't too pervasive, and once we reached the plains, with their long straights, the paths were dusty dry. Though we hardly encountered any pavement in Oklahoma, it saw the fastest speeds of the trip. We sat around 75 miles per hour, and 90 was a common occurrence. The hard packed gravel, and dry dirt offered confidence and a corresponding squiggle that brought a smile to my face. We may as well have been doing 150.
My rear tire was showing some wear, and with the Rockies fast approaching, I felt the need to procure new shoes for Big Bird (our Suzuki cycle for those missing the previous installment). So, with some help from the online community I found a place catering to motorcyclists in the Oklahoma panhandle called the Great Plains Bunkhouse that provided a motorcycle jack and tools for repairs. I copied and pasted the address into Google and resumed leading a fast moving plume of dust westward. With the sun setting I approached the destination Google Maps provided. It was in the middle of a dirt road without a structure for two miles. In the distance there were several trees accompanying a couple of buildings; and with light dwindling I decided it was worth investigating. The abandoned clapboard house was equal parts dust bowl, Great Depression, and cantankerous American storyteller. Its glassless windows whispered a grief stricken plight equally at home within the covers of a Steinbeck or McCarthy tale. Dingy twilight embraced the sad abode and half a dozen gleaming sets of eyes peered in our direction from its dark interior. I pulled to a stop, set the kickstand, dismounted, and told Dan we're home.
After setting a moonlit camp, lighting the grill, and cracking a not so cold one, a bright piercing light appeared on the Eastern horizon. At first I couldn't distinguish whether it was terrestrial, or gleaming from the heavens. I contemplated its placement for a stretch of time, as Dan admired feral felines, and a large polecat that called the abandoned clapboard shack home. Upon two minute's examination, I concluded it to be land based, and after covering another five miles or so the turbo diesel work truck, with lighting straight out of a Stephen Spielberg alien flick, blew by somewhere in the vicinity of 70 miles per hour, applying the brakes as it passed. The turbo's whistle dwindled and the big Ford made an about-face, again shining its penetrating lights in our direction.
A 6'4", 270 pound, figure emerged from the fleet dually, and lumbered towards us. As the full moon backlighting ceded deference to my grill/campfire I could make out the baby faced young man. I said hello, and he responded;"Sorry to bother you. We work the field's here, and we don't see many campers. Once I saw the bike, I realized you weren't a rustler" He smiled, glancing down at Dan, and thrust an open hand in my direction, "My name's Canyon". I'd had almost a thousand miles worth of of gravel to think bout my encounter with Willie Nelson's twin brother near the banks of the Mississippi, and I didn't hesitate. I grabbed Canyon's hand, and smiled. My name's Israel, and that's Dan, I responded. Though a seemingly small gesture, my humanity benefitted greatly. Never again will I defer from a greeting. It's a sign of acceptance, an indication of understanding, and a general commitment of respect. If these things are risks, they are chances worth taking. Nothing wrenches joy from life quite like fear.
Canyon chatted with me about bikes, travel, and the news while standing over the little fire for an hour or so, as Dan surveyed the herd of cats. I'd not talked to anyone closely since central Mississippi, and it felt good. My new friend said his goodbye, and I quickly fell into a deep sleep. The next morning brought with it a fresh perspective, and we found the abandoned Great Plains Bunkhouse without too much trouble. Though closed for COVID, Dan and I were allowed to stay till my tire arrived, which gave us time to decompress in an agreeable setting. We were halfway to trail's end and the Rockies were only a day away.
Here's the quarantine story of a risk taker from Tennessee, and a mutt named Dandy.
I shouldn't be at the cross-roads of the Americas. I should be making my way back to the Isle of Man to prepare for the Manx Grand Prix. After returning stateside for racing and business I find myself in an unusual predicament; Stuck! Having secured good results last season, including an overall race win, it was all but assured that I'd be racing on the world's fastest, and most complicated, road course come August, needing only two decent results in 2020 to make the cut. Sadly, taking part in those qualifying races, along with packing a European bound shipping container, has yet to happen. Three days prior to departing for Roebling Road Raceway, and a long race weekend, the event was cancelled. My return flight to Munich, and my awaiting Yamaha, had been cancelled as well, therefore indefinitely delaying my shipping container's departure for Rotterdam. Everything I've worked for and invested in over the past few years is either hung up in dry-dock,
or hanging in limbo just out of reach.
An Uncertain Path Forward
Any depression I was feeling over difficulties presented by race and flight cancellations were compounded by my financial situation. I had some money set aside for my races, but my income potential was limited. I could sell some of my bikes tagged for export, but now is a terrible time to do so, and I'd undoubtedly take a sizable loss. One friend of mine was in the process of buying a house in the mountains of East Tennessee, and had offered me a job helping with renovations, but the apparent severity of the pandemic had put a hold on the project. There was only one other option. My friend, Arie, had informed me that his sister had purchases a piece of property in rural Washington State. The main house is in need of work, including building two decks, and I'd been offered a job. Unfortunately SeaTac airport has been one of the main hubs for COVID-19 in the US, and I needed to make other arrangements if I were to reach the worksite.
The Trans America Trail
Though my main goal in life at the moment is to race on the Isle of Man, I've had more experience as an adventurer than a racer, thus far setting foot in 49 States, and 56 countries along roughly two million miles of overland travels. I never ask myself, can I do this? Rather, I simply figure out how to get where I want to be, oftentimes using questionable means. I'm of the opinion that going where we want is our right as humans. Had God wanted us to stay in one place, we'd have not been born with legs, and most certainly would never have thrown legs over motorcycles. COVID-19, though serious, is nowhere near as serious as my belief in our Inalienable Rights. I decided that I was going to get to the Pacific Northwest by whatever means necessary. The best option, in my mind, was to utilize the Trans America Trail. The TAT is a series of rural paths connnecting east and west coast, spanning in excess of 5,000 miles of what is about 90% dirt and gravel. What better way is there for someone like me to ride out this crisis? I hit the road and not looked back.
A Special Bike and Good Company
A couple of years back I came across a bright yellow Suzuki DR650 for sale in Midland, Texas with all the bells and whistles. It had a 790cc big bore kit, an eight gallon fuel tank, upside forks, a custom fairing and a host of other mods to transform the DR from capable mid sized dual sport all-rounder to long range adventure bike. Whilst I had no need for it, I bought it anyway, and took to calling it Big Bird. It sat in my childhood home's basement since, with only the occasional start and quick ride to keep it ready.
Though I've briefly mentioned my furry border collie companion Dandy in the current series of blogs, this particular chapter finds him playing a much more significant role, and therefore in need of a more formal introduction. Dan had the misfortune of following in the paw-prints of Daisy, the best friend I have ever had. A fearlessly faithful companion for 49 states, 34 countries, and a million miles, she'd treated me better than I deserved. Her sudden passing in rural Romania left a hole in my life. After several months I was contacted by Tammy Davis, an administrator at the Washington County, Johnson City, Animal Shelter, the same place Daisy had come from, to invite me to visit a stray. I obliged, and came across a smart, skittish, attention starved border collie that I worried was too fearful to be my side-kick. Nonetheless, I gave him a shot, tossing him into the pannier of another DR650 the first day I had him. He showed real skill on the bike. We've been working on his other aversions including, water, fire, and drones since then, and we've made headway, especially the drone portion. However, as an admittedly biased observer, Dan is now developing into a great hound, and, in my opinion, the finest motorcycle dog on the planet. He's just FAST. I'm fortunate to have found him.
No Set Plans
Admittedly, I've always been more capricious than calculative, and struggle with structure. This has ensured winding paths to my desired destinations. Though often sited as a detriment, given the current state of the world, I figure it's a feather in my cap. I've learned to be supremely durable. Besides, at this point what do I have to lose? So, on a day with a forgotten date in late March, Dan and I set off from Northeast Tennessee, on a God awful yellow Dr 790, in driving rain, bound for the West Coast, come what may.
There are several set routes for the TAT but the one I was primarily following runs from Cape Hatteras, North Carolina to Port Orford, Oregon. I'd decided to skip backtracking to the Outer Banks, a decision made easier since local authorities had access blocked to non-residents. Starting in the Appalachian Mountains seemed appropriate enough. I began my life, in and around, those old green hills, and always seem to be leaving them behind. As I snaked between the gravel access roads heading southwest along the Tennessee North Carolina border I thought frequently of my first cross-country trip at 18 years old. Believe it or not, it was taken under far more trying circumstances. I got through that trip, and this one is going to be a piece of cake.
A Large Load and Difficult Parking
Though only a single cylinder machine, the Suzuki DR650 isn't particularly lithe in stock form. And though the many modifications help improve the suspension and handling characteristics, they also bolster weight, and quite a lot of it. Add panniers, a handsome border collie, an offsetting load of tools, camping gear, a couple of sets of underwear, and an extra 170 pounds has been gained over the stock curb weight of the already portly Bush Pig. The side stand had been cut down to accommodate additional load, however, attention was still required when parking. It stands erect when fully loaded and parked on completely flat surfaces. Just a few hundred miles into our journey this issue complicated the trip.
Somewhere in northern Alabama we abruptly lost power and pulled to the side of the road. A quick appraisal of the situation found the engine still running, and the gearbox engaging. I took a deep sigh of relief after looking down to find no chain. I parked up and Dan hopped out to help locate the wayward chain. As our search got underway a nice guy on a four wheeler nearby pulled up alongside the bike, dismounted, and approached us asking if he could help. Just as I began explaining our predicament a forceful gust of wind blew Big Bird from its perch to the ground. I ran to my fallen steed, and looked on in horror to find that the bike's custom windscreen had tangled with the parked four wheeler and lost badly. It wasn't the sort of thing that could be easily replaced. I let out a yawp and a few curses as I hoisted the stricken Suzuki upright. The windscreen was now in several pieces of varying shapes and sizes. So there we stood with a broken chain and busted windscreen in rural Alabama, around 3,500 miles from our destination.
Though less distressing than the windscreen, I focused my attention on the chain. Surprisingly, it was a nice Japanese made X-ring chain, and these rarely snap. Happily, in my scrutiny I found the chain had failed at the master link, and oddly there had been two of them on the chain. I could only surmise that when installing the chain the former owner had broken it too short, and added an additional, inferior, master link to lengthen it. The Good Samaritan asked if he could be of any help. I asked for a cordless drill and bits. He set off to procure said items, and I took to adjusting my axle as far forward as possible.
Following an extended, greezy, struggle, I managed to reinstall the chain. It was far too tight, but it was on there. Having been provided with a drill, I dug Krazy Glue and zip-ties from my luggage, and set about drilling 60 holes in the various pieces of my broken windscreen. The resulting Monster of Frankenstein meets Big Bird front fairing seemed plenty sturdy, and its character seemed appropriate to the trip. Following the two hour fix, I repacked, thanked the Good Samaritan, and we gingerly set off in search of a replacement chain. Riding into the sunset I felt rather satisfied for the first time in months.
Crossing the Mighty Mississippi, and an Unfortunate Encounter
Following two days' respite at our friend, Jon's farm in Northern Mississippi, we picked up the TAT once more, and rode the levee road dodging a variety of livestock for fifty miles to reach the Helena Bridge. There had been some question as to whether states would close their borders due to the pandemic. I had seen some signs along the Tennessee / North Carolina border asserting such a thing, but was generally confident that the Interstate Commerce Clause prevented states from doing so without federal help. However, these are strange times, and it was difficult to know what to expect. If you wanted to prevent ingress to Arkansas a narrow bridge over a wide river would be a great place to do so. As it turned out our thoroughfare was bureaucrat-free, and open for business. I took a sigh of relief, and we rolled through Helena and set camp along the banks of the Mississippi River.
The following morning brought with it a red sky followed by a drizzle which had me packing camp quickly. By the time we were mobile the rainfall had grown in strength, and I searched out the nearest refuge. In this case it happened to be a well used gas station in downtown Helena that catered to the minority community. I bought an energy drink and stood in the parking lot alongside my over-loaded motorcycle and wet dog watching the doppler radar on my phone. An hour or so passed and the rain was subsiding as I finished my second energy drink, and a faded blue e100 ford ice-cream van arrived. Out slid a grizzled hippy of roughly, and I mean roughly, 60 years of age. He took an interest in our presence, and came over to pet Dan and talk about motorcycles. He continued on into the shop, and I set about arranging for our westward departure. After strapping on my helmet, but before pulling on my gloves, the leathery tramp again approached, and explained that he had some property in town with a small house and trailer. He continued on to say that he lived alone and was tired of not having anyone to drink a beer with, and invited me to come and stay for as long as I liked. I thanked him, but declined, citing my Manifest Destiny. The grizzled man said he understood, wished us a good trip, and stretched his hand out in my direction. I stared at it like Howard Hughes in an OCD fit, and lifted my gaze to the friendly stranger's faded blue eyes. They expressed a flicker of pain and he balled up a fist which I quickly bumped. I looked on as the old man crawled into his retired ice-cream truck. Its rough exterior echoing vestiges of happier times. I left feeling empty and ashamed.
I shouldn't be at the cross-roads of the Americas. I should be making my way back to the Isle of Man to prepare for the Manx Grand Prix. After returning stateside for racing and business I find myself in an unusual predicament; Stuck! Having secured good results last season, including an overall race win, it was all but assured that I'd be racing on the world's fastest, and most complicated, road course come August, needing only two decent results in 2020 to make the cut. Sadly, taking part in those qualifying races, along with packing a European bound shipping container, has yet to happen. Three days prior to departing for Roebling Road Raceway, and a long race weekend, the event was cancelled. My return flight to Munich had been cancelled as well, therefore indefinitely delaying my shipping container's departure for Rotterdam. Everything I've worked for and invested in over the past few years is either hung up in dry-dock, or hanging in limbo just out of reach.
An Uncertain Path Forward
Any depression I was feeling over difficulties presented by race and flight cancellations were compounded by my financial situation. I had some money set aside for my races, but my income potential was limited. I could sell some of my bikes tagged for export, but now is a terrible time to do so, and I'd undoubtedly take a sizable loss. One friend of mine was in the process of buying a house in the mountains of East Tennessee, and had offered me a job helping with renovations, but the apparent severity of the pandemic had put a hold on the project. There was only one other option. My friend, Arie, had informed me that his sister had purchases a piece of property in rural Washington State. The main house is in need of work, including building two decks, and I'd been offered a job. Unfortunately SeaTac airport has been one of the main hubs for COVID-19 in the US, and I needed to make other arrangements if I were to reach the worksite.
The Trans America Trail
Though my main goal in life at the moment is to race on the Isle of Man, I've had more experience as an adventurer than a racer, thus far setting foot in 49 States, and 56 countries along roughly two million miles of overland travels. I never ask myself, can I do this? Rather, I simply figure out how to get where I want to be, oftentimes using questionable means. I'm of the opinion that going where we want is our right as humans. Had God wanted us to stay in one place, we'd have not been born with legs, and most certainly would never have thrown legs over motorcycles. COVID-19, though serious, is nowhere near as serious as my belief in our Inalienable Rights. I decided that I was going to get to the Pacific Northwest by whatever means necessary. The best option, in my mind, was to utilize the Trans America Trail. The TAT is a series of rural paths connnecting east and west coast, spanning in excess of 5,000 miles of what is about 90% dirt and gravel. What better way is there for someone like me to ride out this crisis? I hit the road and not looked back.
A Special Bike and Good Company
A couple of years back I came across a bright yellow Suzuki DR650 for sale in Midland, Texas with all the bells and whistles. It had a 790cc big bore kit, an eight gallon fuel tank, upside forks, a custom fairing and a host of other mods to transform the DR from capable mid sized dual sport all-rounder to long range adventure bike. Whilst I had no need for it, I bought it anyway, and took to calling it Big Bird. It sat in my childhood home's basement since, with only the occasional start and quick ride to keep it ready.
Though I've briefly mentioned my furry border collie companion Dandy in the current series of blogs, this particular chapter finds him playing a much more significant role, and therefore in need of a more formal introduction. Dan had the misfortune of following in the paw-prints of Daisy, the best friend I have ever had. A fearlessly faithful companion for 49 states, 34 countries, and a million miles, she'd treated me better than I deserved. Her sudden passing in rural Romania left a hole in my life. After several months I was contacted by Tammy Davis, an administrator at the Washington County, Johnson City, Animal Shelter, the same place Daisy had come from, to invite me to visit a stray. I obliged, and came across a smart, skittish, attention starved border collie that I worried was too fearful to be my side-kick. Nonetheless, I gave him a shot, tossing him into the pannier of another DR650 the first day I had him. He showed real skill on the bike. We've been working on his other aversions including, water, fire, and drones since then, and we've made headway, especially the drone portion. However, as an admittedly biased observer, Dan is now developing into a great hound, and, in my opinion, the finest motorcycle dog on the planet. He's just FAST. I'm fortunate to have found him.
No Set Plans
Admittedly, I've always been more capricious than calculative, and struggle with structure. This has ensured winding paths to my desired destinations. Though often sited as a detriment, given the current state of the world, I figure it's a feather in my cap. I've learned to be supremely durable. Besides, at this point what do I have to lose? So, on a day with a forgotten date in late March, Dan and I set off from Northeast Tennessee, on a God awful yellow Dr 790, in driving rain, bound for the West Coast, come what may.
There are several set routes for the TAT but the one I was primarily following runs from Cape Hatteras, North Carolina to Port Orford, Oregon. I'd decided to skip backtracking to the Outer Banks, a decision made easier since local authorities had access blocked to non-residents. Starting in the Appalachian Mountains seemed appropriate enough. I began my life, in and around, those old green hills, and always seem to be leaving them behind. As I snaked between the gravel access roads heading southwest along the Tennessee North Carolina border I thought frequently of my first cross-country trip at 18 years old. Believe it or not, it was taken under far more trying circumstances. I got through that trip, and this one is going to be a piece of cake.
A Large Load and Difficult Parking
Though only a single cylinder machine, the Suzuki DR650 isn't particularly lithe in stock form. And though the many modifications help improve the suspension and handling characteristics, they also bolster weight, and quite a lot of it. Add panniers, a handsome border collie, an offsetting load of tools, camping gear, a couple of sets of underwear, and an extra 170 pounds has been gained over the stock curb weight of the already portly Bush Pig. The side stand had been cut down to accommodate additional load, however, attention was still required when parking. It stands erect when fully loaded and parked on completely flat surfaces. Just a few hundred miles into our journey this issue complicated the trip.
Somewhere in northern Alabama we abruptly lost power and pulled to the side of the road. A quick appraisal of the situation found the engine still running, and the gearbox engaging. I took a deep sigh of relief after looking down to find no chain. I parked up and Dan hopped out to help locate the wayward chain. As our search got underway a nice guy on a four wheeler nearby pulled up alongside the bike, dismounted, and approached us asking if he could help. Just as I began explaining our predicament a forceful gust of wind blew Big Bird from its perch to the ground. I ran to my fallen steed, and looked on in horror to find that the bike's custom windscreen had tangled with the parked four wheeler and lost badly. It wasn't the sort of thing that could be easily replaced. I let out a yawp and a few curses as I hoisted the stricken Suzuki upright. The windscreen was now in several pieces of varying shapes and sizes. So there we stood with a broken chain and busted windscreen in rural Alabama, around 3,500 miles from our destination.
Though less distressing than the windscreen, I focused my attention on the chain. Surprisingly, it was a nice Japanese made X-ring chain, and these rarely snap. Happily, in my scrutiny I found the chain had failed at the master link, and oddly there had been two of them on the chain. I could only surmise that when installing the chain the former owner had broken it too short, and added an additional, inferior, master link to lengthen it. The Good Samaritan asked if he could be of any help. I asked for a cordless drill and bits. He set off to procure said items, and I took to adjusting my axle as far forward as possible.
Following an extended, greezy, struggle, I managed to reinstall the chain. It was far too tight, but it was on there. Having been provided with a drill, I dug Krazy Glue and zip-ties from my luggage, and set about drilling 60 holes in the various pieces of my broken windscreen. The resulting Monster of Frankenstein meets Big Bird front fairing seemed plenty sturdy, and its character seemed appropriate to the trip. Following the two hour fix, I repacked, thanked the Good Samaritan, and we gingerly set off in search of a replacement chain. Riding into the sunset I felt rather satisfied for the first time in months.
Crossing the Mighty Mississippi, and an Unfortunate Encounter
Following two days' respite at our friend, Jon's farm in Northern Mississippi, we picked up the TAT once more, and rode the levee road dodging a variety of livestock for fifty miles to reach the Helena Bridge. There had been some question as to whether states would close their borders due to the pandemic. I had seen some signs along the Tennessee / North Carolina border asserting such a thing, but was generally confident that the Interstate Commerce Clause prevented states from doing so without federal help. However, these are strange times, and it was difficult to know what to expect. If you wanted to prevent ingress to Arkansas a narrow bridge over a wide river would be a great place to do so. As it turned out our thoroughfare was bureaucrat-free, and open for business. I took a sigh of relief, and we rolled through Helena and set camp along the banks of the Mississippi River.
The following morning brought with it a red sky followed by a drizzle which had me packing camp quickly. By the time we were mobile the rainfall had grown in strength, and I searched out the nearest refuge. In this case it happened to be a well used gas station in downtown Helena that catered to the minority community. I bought an energy drink and stood in the parking lot alongside my over-loaded motorcycle and wet dog watching the doppler radar on my phone. An hour or so passed and the rain was subsiding as I finished my second energy drink, and a faded blue e100 ford ice-cream van arrived. Out slid a grizzled hippy of roughly, and I mean roughly, 60 years of age. He took an interest in our presence, and came over to pet Dan and talk about motorcycles. He continued on into the shop, and I set about arranging for our westward departure. After strapping on my helmet, but before pulling on my gloves, the leathery tramp again approached, and explained that he had some property in town with a small house and trailer. He continued on to say that he lived alone and was tired of not having anyone to drink a beer with, and invited me to come and stay for as long as I liked. I thanked him, but declined, citing my Manifest Destiny. The grizzled man said he understood, wished us a good trip, and stretched his hand out in my direction. I stared at it like Howard Hughes in an OCD fit, and lifted my gaze to the friendly stranger's faded blue eyes. They expressed a flicker of pain and he balled up a fist which I quickly bumped. I looked on as the old man crawled into his retired ice-cream truck. Its rough exterior echoing vestiges of happier times. I left feeling empty and ashamed.
After fitting a fresh pair of socks and pulling my sun-baked, and mostly dry, boots back on, pictures were snapped, we said our goodbyes, and headed northwest. The gravel roads woven throughout the Ozarks were of top order, and, coupled with good weather, we made short work of them. Just as we
A night on a mattress can do quite a lot for morale, and I awoke the following morning ready to hit Oklahoma at full speed. A slight drizzle did little to dampen my mood, and I went about the arduous process of reloading the bike. As I fumbled with a knot of nylon straps a lady emerged from her room and upon reaching her car, curiously looked in our direction and asked if she could help. I replied no, that it wasn’t as bad as it looked. She asked where we were going, and I told her the West Coast. She removed a leather bracelet from her wrist and handed it to me proclaiming that she made them. I quickly examined it, and it appeared to be made from a leather belt and flat hammered spoon head which had been engraved with a quote from a Johnny Cash song, "Life is rough so you've gotta be tough". I couldn't have imagined a more appropriate gift. I immediately slathered it in hand sanitizer, put it on, and finished loading. Looking at Dan, now in his pannier, I quipped let's roll, and we crossed into Oklahoma.
