| Author | Message | ||
     Chainsaw |
WARNING: IF YOU ARE FROM KANSAS, MISSOURI, TENNESSEE, OKLAHOMA OR TEXAS, I APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE FOR ANY OFFENSE, EXPLICIT OR IMPLIED TO YOUR HOME STATE.  INTRODUCTION TO THE MADNESS: The following is an epic, mostly true tale. Not of good versus evil or man versus nature; mostly ass versus seat. It's set way back in July of 2003. I must put this tale to paper before alcohol consumption (kills brain cell ya know) and shameless embellishment turns it into something unrecognizable from the actual truth. In my ongoing quest to ride a motorcycle in all of the lower 48 states, I plan to travel through 18-21 states in a single trip between Denver, CO and Charleston, SC. I'm headed east, a bit more north than as the crow flies, in order to check more states off my map. I plan on returning to Denver by way of the Gulf Coast. My route is not direct by any means. I refer to it as "The Scenic Route". DAY ONE: AND HE'S OFF: July 04: I try to pack light on these trips. I've got enough clothes for about 4 days (figuring I can use the washer at my dad's place in SC). I have tools (it is a Harley, things tend to vibrate loose). Sunscreen, water and a fistful of maps courtesy of my AAA membership. Departure is 6am. Before I've reached the outermost Denver City Limit I have seen no fewer than 7 cops running radar along the highway. It looks like The Law is gonna make sure I drive like a Boy Scout all the way across country. Things will get better in Kansas. There ain't nothing in western Kansas anyway. Certainly wont be and cops there... The speed limit in Colorado is 75. The speed limit in Kansas is 70! In the unlikely event I am every chosen as a magazine centerfold, expect to see "Speed Limit" listed under my "Turn-Offs". What the hell is so important in Western Kansas that I need to see at 70 instead of 75? The Law is EVERYWHERE. This bites! Some parts of this country are best left traveled under the cover of darkness or at a blurring rate of speed. I put Kansas at the top of this list. I-70 in the midsummer sun feels like being slowly baked by an asphalt oven. I've left my windshield at home, so I get the maximum cooling effect from the wind. I also end up wearing a wide variety of colorful bugs otherwise stopped by said windshield. It's over 100 degrees today . By midday I am a veritable motorcycle-riding bad-boy chick-magnet at the gas stations. Who can resist a sweaty man covered in oily sunscreen and bug guts? I usually ride for 12-14 hours a day. Riding a motorcycle isn't terribly strenuous, until you factor in holding your torso up against an 80 mph wind all day. I end up in Columbia Missouri for the night. It's the Fourth of July. What could be more American than celebrating our independence with Chinese pyrotechnics? I watch the fireworks from the hotel parking lot. Nearly any sort of fireworks short of a Russian Surface-to-Air Missile is legal in this state. The stuff I can see through the clouds of smoke is pretty impressive. DAY TWO: Watching the local morning news I see the aftermath of the fireworks. Seems the local Patriotic Fervor has set a number of homes, trees and apartments on fire. I stop for gas on my way out of Columbia and notice the Texaco parking lot is covered with hundreds if not thousands of spent fireworks. How much inbreeding has to be in your family tree to make you think that lighting a large quantity of Class C Explosives at a gas station is a good idea? God Bless America! A sunny morning. I'm hoping it will make for a good photo op of the St. Louis Arch. I ride into (west) St. Louis to find a spot near the arch. Nothing doing. The Law is EVERYWHERE. Orange Alert. Every street within half a mile of the arch is closed. Damn that Osama Bin Laden and his turban covered bald spot! I spend the better part of an hour trying to get through all of the road closures to get back to the highway. I'll get my picture from across the river. East St. Louis here I come! For those of you unfamiliar with East St. Louis, one word says it all: GHETTO. Buildings are boarded up or falling down, trash is everywhere. Ain't no white folk to be seen. The local populace can be politely described as "Crack Dependent". I find my way to the riverfront for my photo op, and realize I'm gonna run out of gas. For the life of me, I can not find an entrance back onto the eastbound highway, and I like to think that I'm pretty good at this sort of stuff. I run across a bullet-proof Photo-Mat looking gas station. I feel terribly out of place. It occurs to me that with a jacket, gloves, and tinted face shield, no one can tell I'm the Lone Honkey In The Hood. Whew! I have to travel back to Missouri in order to get back to an Illinois bound highway. I'm not a happy guy. My photo op has taken almost 2 hours. The last sight St. Louis sees of me is my ass and "The Finger". (Attached picture is my less than glorious picture of the Gateway to the West Arch. I have cropped out the roving gangs of Crack Ho's, and the Reverend Al Sharpton, who turns up every time a camera is around.)  | ||
| Chainsaw |
DAY 2.5: I have escaped unscathed from East St. Louis and cruise the southern part of Indiana. I run into a gal at a gas station riding a bike similar to mine. She is a school teacher in New Hampshire. She gets the whole summer off, and spends 30 days of it on her bike. And ya'll think I'm crazy. Middle of Nowhere Indiana. The bike just turns 25,000 miles. A small milestone that represents the distance around the Earth at the Equator that I've covered on 2 wheels. My smile fades quickly. The bike straight up dies while moving at 80mph. I immediately think that Harley built in some sort of malfunction to coincide with 25,000 miles. I kick it in neutral and try to restart it. Starter turns, motor doesn't start. I coast it under a highway overpass and take a look. South Carolina seems a long way away. So does Denver. I'm almost dead center between the two. I know the problem is electrical (because of the way it died). I start pulling and poking at wires. I figure I have a wire rubbed through somewhere that shorted out across the frame. Harley's will do a goofy thing called a skip-spark mode when they overheat. (I know this from reading the Factory Service Manual) Recalling that I have ridden it 80 miles through Death Valley, I consider this unlikely. I let it cool for about five minutes and it starts right back up. I guess I pulled the right wire. On the road again. I am not making very good time. I pull into across the river into Louisville, Kentucky just in time for a traffic jam. It's late Saturday afternoon, not known for bumper to bumper traffic anywhere. Turns out there is a free fireworks show along the riverfront. I don't care. My air conditioning works better the faster I go. Being stopped in traffic just makes me hot and irritable. As soon as traffic loosens up I get on the throttle and get the hell out of Dodge. The bike's ignition is starting to act funny above 80mph. I'm now guessing my ignition coil is about to die (this sort of thing has happened on my truck, the symptoms are no longer a surprise). I stop for gas and oil in Tennessee. I run into a local good 'ol boy riding a Suzuki. I tell him what's going on with the bike. He's headed back my way, so he tails me into Bethel, KY where I get a room and we part ways. I call my dad for fatherly advise on broken motorcycles. We pretty much rule out everything but the coil. It's now 10pm Saturday night. Most Harley Dealerships are closed on Sunday's and Monday's. I'm hoping the thing lasts long enough for me to get into SC or I'm spending a couple of unscheduled days in the hills of rural Kentucky. The banjo music from "Deliverance" keeps going through my head. DAY THREE Sunday morning. The bike starts. I think I've found religion! I've decided to shorten my route and skip Ohio, Virginia, and West Virginia. I'll go through Tennessee, the Great Smoky Mountain National Park, North and South Carolina. I occurs to my I have three states to go on a faulty coil. I cross my fingers and hope for the best. I'm just a few miles outside of the Park. The towns here around the park look like the tourist traps that surround Orlando, FL (Disney World) and Estes Park, CO (Rocky Mtn. Nat'l Park). The bike dies. 64 miles from my hotel, in scenic Pigeon Forge, TN. I am about 400 miles out of Charleston, SC. At least if I get stranded here, I can amuse myself at "Dollywood". (Dolly Parton's Theme Park, not a strip club, sadly). The "good" news is a motorcycle is easy to roll out of traffic by yourself. I do one last coil test before calling a tow truck. This involves pulling on end of a spark plug wire, sticking a screwdriver in it, and hoping to get violently shocked while hitting the "Start" button. No dice. No spark, no shock. Nothing I can fix on site. I am a member of the Harley Owner's Group (HOG). New for 2003 is the towing feature. My $40 membership entitles me to one tow per year, up to $100. The membership is about to pay for itself. I also have AAA, which will tow me 4 times year, up to 100 miles in the direction of my choice. PLAN A: Have HOG tow me into Greenville, NC. If I can't find bike parts there I'll have AAA tow me another 100 miles closer to Charleston, and have my dad pick me up. I call my dad, he's out on his boat fishing. He gets off the water and into his truck and heads northwest to meet me. I am also a member of a online community called The Bad Weather Bikers. Before I left I printed out a list called the Rider Assistance Network (RAN). Basically it's a list of volunteers, their locations around the country, and type of help they can offer (like: Truck , trailer, basic tools, spare room, cold beer and sympathetic ear) I find a guy's number in Statesville, NC. He gets me the number and address of the HD dealer, their hours and directions. He offers to meet me in the parking lot there and help fix the bike. thanks Libinosis! Things are looking better....  | ||
| Chainsaw |
DAY THREE PART TWO: LUCK OF THE IRISH: Takes about an hour for the tow truck to show up. He tells me we have to go the long way around the National Park. No commercial vehicles are allowed in the park. Looks like I don't get to see the Smoky Mountains after all. I'm helping the tow truck driver hook the bike up (I'm a handy guy) when a hairy tattooed redneck in a Toyota pulls up. Guy gets out and starts asking about what's going on. I fill him in. He grabs a voltmeter from his car and starts testing stuff on the bike. Now, not everyone carries a voltmeter with them, and he speaks knowledgeably about motorcycles, so I'm guessing he knows what he's doing. He said he was driving by, saw my bike with out of state plates and luggage getting hooked up to a tow truck. The redneck was on his way to work on a friends car...."•••• Him!" he says. "His car will still be broke when I get there". He told me he couldn't just leave a "brother" broken down on the side of the road. ("brother" being an affectionate term used to refer to another biker) Turns out he owns a Chopper Shop just 3 miles down the road. He is normally closed on Sunday, but he offers to open up and get me rolling again. Within 5 minutes I'm rolling my busted bike through the front door of Scorpion Cycles in Seiverville, TN. Chopper Dave (CD) doesn't have any suitable coils in stock. He hands me a wrench and I start taking my bike apart (I'm a handy guy). CD starts stripping the coil off of one of his customers Harley's that is sitting in his shop. "Ain't he gonna miss that?" I ask CD replies "Naw, this dude still owes my a hundred bucks...•••• HIM!" Chopper Dave is my kinda redneck! While putting the, ahem, "borrowed" coil on my bike we notice something strange. The wires leading to the coil pulled right out of the boot that connects them to all the important stuff that makes the bike go "vroom". That is not supposed to happen! All my trouble has been caused by wires coming apart in a very hidden fashion. Chopper Dave puts on a couple of screw on (non boot) connectors. I say "Shouldn't we splice in another inch or so of wire so this doesn't happen again" (ominous foreshadowing) CD replies "Naw, this ain't ever coming off!" An hour or so after my arrival, I'm rolling out the front door on a WORKING motorcycle with a STOLEN coil and a FREE t-shirt from Scorpion Cycles. Is this divine intervention or just plain luck? I would honestly hope that divine intervention would have involved the Swedish Bikini Bike Repair Team in a RV with a keg and a hot tub, not a hairy tattooed biker dude. The Lord truly works in mysterious ways. I've updated my dad on the situation. He's gonna gonna meet me in Asheville, NC and follow my into Charleston in case of any more trouble. The sun comes out from behind the clouds, birds start singing. The tourists in shorts and black knee high socks suddenly don't look so dorky. All is right with the world! Within minutes I'm cruising the beautiful tree lined roads of The Great Smoky Mountain National Park. I stop for the obligatory photo op kindly snapped by a guy from Mississippi. The rain starts rolling though the hills, time to stop chatting and get back on the road. I don my rain gear, hereafter referred to as my "Rubber Pants". Not just anyone can pull off the rubber pants look... I guess I don't look good in them either, but it sure as hell beats wearing chaps. I've tried chaps on before. Something is just inherently wrong with wearing something leather that has no crotch and is assless to boot. Makes me feel like one of the Village People. I'm just zipping along the road, whistling Dixie, minding my own business when...you guessed it...the FRIGGIN BIKE DIES! I'm 40 miles out of Scorpion Cycles. One of his two bomb proof electrical connections has BROKEN! (the attached photo is of me in far happier times, at a scenic vista of the Smoky's. Please note this is the last known photo of my favorite "House of Blues Las Vegas Hat". I just couldn't live with my "Helmet Hair" documented for all to see. The hat flew out of my luggage because some idiot (me) forgot to zip the pocket up. The Asphalt Gods require the occasional material sacrifice. They always seem to take something I like or need. In the future I will travel with a crapload of AOL CD's)  | ||
| Chainsaw |
DAY THREE: REVENGE OF THE STOLEN COIL: We last left our hero...me in case you weren't paying attention...stranded in the Smokys on the North Carolina side. I have a broken bike and now I'm in the woods, out of cell phone range, in the rain. I'm on my own. There isn't enough wire to splice together an improvised coil fix...or is there... FLASHBACK: March of 2003, our hero is putting his bike back together after tearing it apart to get it painted. I've put on a new bobtail (different style) of fender on the bike. I rewired the tail and brake lights. I had thought to myself that someday I may need some wire to fix some unforeseen future problem while on the road. This fender would be a handy place to keep a couple of extra feet of wire in parallel with the existing wiring. TA-DA! I remember my mediocre powers of premonition! I've got TWO FRIGGIN' FEET OF EXTRA WIRE UNDER THE FENDER! The rain immediately stops, as if on command. The sun starts shining, the birds start singing, passing tourists suddenly look less dorky. Is that the Swedish Bikini Bike Repair Team pulling up?....focus man, focus! I yank some wire out from under the bike and get to work. I literally need less than an inch of copper to get me running again, just twist this end here, that end there...hmmm...how do I attach it? The original connection is long gone. It now occurs to me that I've got 6 rolls of genuine Electrical Tape...at home. I USE THE NEXT BEST THING: I take some medical tape from my First Aid Kit and proceed to tape the crap out of the spliced wire. My coil is now covered in white gauze tape. It looks like "The Stolen Coil Meets The Mummy" down there. In less than five minutes, the bike is up and running. I AM FRIGGIN MCGUYVER! In fact, I'm better than McGuyver...no wait..scratch that...he had his own TV show. He could make a radio out of a gum wrapper and some French fries. Let me try this again: If there was a Boy Scout Merit Badge for doing some McGuyver like stuff, well I'd have a chest full of badges...if I were only a Boy Scout...ah, forget it! I meet up with my dad and stepmom at a Loaf N Jug in Ashville, NC. It's raining again. He recommends just loading the bike into the back of his pickup and hitting the road. This is the point where we realize that having a ramp would come in real handy, otherwise we're gonna be two guys in need of medical attention lying underneath a 500 pound bike. We decide this is a bad idea. We head south, I'm still on two wheels. LUCK OF THE IRISH: TAKE TWO: Fast forward about 60 miles southeast of Ashville. BIKE DIES AGAIN! Wow! The first couple of times this was really fun, now it's beginning to lose it's novelty. As we huddle around the non-running altar of prone chrome, we debate ways of getting the bike into the truck without causing ourselves serious injury. It occurs to me the highway has a nice culvert next to it...hmmm...it's may be deep enough. We put the pickup in the culvert and low and behold the tailgate just reaches ground level below the bike. Hallelujah! I can roll the bike into the back of the truck while sitting on my ass. (The way God intended) For the record, Chopper Dave's second bombproof wire connection fails. My medical taped "mummy" fix is still working. I notice this AFTER we get the bike loaded, otherwise I would have fixed it in the same fashion as the first. ME: "Gee dad. These are some pretty crappy tie down straps...Wal-Mart have a sale?" DAD: "If I would of known I was gonna have to tow your ass all the way in from Colorado, I would have bought some better ones." Shortly we catch up to every banjo playing redneck in the south that has been in them-thar-hills for the Fourth of July weekend. Traffic sucks. Miles of bumper to bumper RV's, campers and boats. We are about 270 miles from Charleston. The drive takes nearly 8 hours. FIX THE DAMN THING ALREADY: The bike has a bumper to bumper, unlimited mileage warranty on it good until May of 2005. A normal person would use it. Not me! Not even worth the time taking it to a dealership. It takes less than 30 minutes, about $5 worth of stuff from Radio Shack, and a soldiering iron to permanently fix the wiring. Rest & Relaxation: I'm in and about Charleston for 3 or 4 days. I spend my time fishing and water skiing with alligators, 'cause that's where the calm water is. I had (mistakenly) assumed the gators were these little 2 or 3 foot long Pet Store variety reptiles. If you have ever had an 11 foot alligator hissing at you from 20 feet away, jump into the water and disappear in a large splash, you would know that the thought of being Gator Chow keeps one "well motivated" to hang onto the rope and not fall down. Note the lack of a picture of said Big Ass Alligator. Feel free to pick the excuse you find most likely: 1. The Gator ate my camera. 2. Our hero was involuntarily emptying his bladder. 3. Our hero was on the front of the boat (doing a poor Crocodile Hunter impression) goading his father into getting closer to the Big Ass Gator, 'cause it ain't the sort of thing you get the many chances to see "up close and personal" | ||
| Chainsaw |
GET BACK TO DENVER: Back on the road, on a working bike, headed back to Denver the long way along the Gulf Coast. I plan on heading through Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi, Arkansas, Oklahoma and Texas. Weather report shows a hurricane in the gulf, projected landfall in Texas. With any luck, I'll be in Denver by the time it hits. I stop near Myrtle Beach, SC to give a gal that works for my dad a 20 mile joy ride on the bike. She went fishing with us in Charleston, so it's not like I was giving a ride to some strange hitchhiking axe-wielding psychopath. Some would think it is merely chivalrous to lend a passenger my helmet. I like to think of it as a convenient way to muffle screams of panic. She survives the experience unscathed. I take a scenic little backroad through Georgia from Savannah all the way to Thomasville, due north of Tallahassee, FL. Tree lined two lane highway, the occasional tractor blocking traffic, very laid back way to travel. I like going off the beaten path. I love the character of the small towns scattered around the country. Cruising across Florida in the rain on I-10, I notice my headlight is out, both the high a low beam. Pretty minor, all things considered, but I like to be as visible as possible. I pull off the highway and breakout my tools. The whole headlight comes off with one easily accessible screw. Yipee! More wiring trouble! One of the wires has rubbed through and is shorting out the headlight, which in turn blows the fuse. Not having learned my lesson in Tennessee, I still don't have any electrical tape with me, but I do have spare fuses. Back to see what the trusty First Aid Kit has for me. Ta-Da! Three vinyl Band-Aids do the trick. If I ever take this bike back into a dealership for service, they're gonna shit Purple Twinkie's when they see what I've done to it. I have a blessedly uneventful first day back on the road. I stop in Daphne, Alabama for the night. My criteria for lodging is relatively simple. I try and stay outside of the big cities, and stay in the little mom-and-pop type places, which are typically clean and cheap. I spot a hotel with a view of Mobile Bay and a Waffle Hose in the parking lot. That in itself speaks of quality, this one might rate two and a half stars. I'm off at first light, zipping along the highway that crosses the bay at sunrise. Water on both sides of a ribbon of asphalt 15 feet off the water. Pretty darn cool! I should be in Texas by nightfall. 16 miles from the hotel, the back of the bike starts acting REALLY squirrely. I can't tell what's going on while I'm steering. I'm hoping all the parts that keep the wheel on are still on. I'm imagining the nut that holds the axle on is gone. The second I pull off the highway I know what's wrong. I put my foot down and it's about 4 inches closer to the pavement than it usually is. I have a flat rear tire. LUCK OF THE IRISH AGAIN: I pull a 4 inch screw out of my rear tire. I had always thought rapid deflation (I would hesitate to call it a blow out) of a motorcycle tire would be much scarier and harder to handle that it actually was. I access my situation. One flat tire, no spare. I have a patch kit with no way to inflate a tire. Across the highway is a billboard for Mobile Bay Harley Davidson, complete with phone number, address, and directions from the highway. Such is my luck. I call AAA and give them the address from the billboard as my destination. I call the HD Dealership and warn them of my impending arrival. I call my dad. The normal way this exchange goes is "Hey dad, guess where I'm at" and he normally says "in jail?" (precedent set back in 1990). Today he says "on a broke down Harley!" Oddly enough, I prefer the "jail" guess. The first tow truck (yes, a bad sign when I have to number them) shows up about an hour after the call. The driver is CLUELESS on how to tow a bike. Instead of letting him mangle my pride and joy, I send him back to get a compressor. I patch the tire (I'm a handy guy) and inflate it, and I go buzzing back down the highway in the direction of the HD Dealership. I pull into a gas station to get some additional tire plugs. I come out just in time to here the sound of the tire plug shooting out and losing all of it's air. I try plugging it again, I try fix-a-flat. The hole is just too big now to be repaired. Another hour. Tow truck number two shows up with a guy that knows what he's doing. It's a short trip to the dealership. They miraculously say they can fix it while I wait. This is a relief being it is a Saturday, them being closed Sunday and Monday, whist a hurricane is spinning a day or two out in the Gulf. I have yet more time to kill browsing assless chaps and saucy leather berets. If I add those to a big bushy 70's Porn Star mustache, I can tour with the Village People $253 bucks and an hour later (this included new rear brakes, and yeah, that's the going rate), I'm on the road again (attached picture is of Wendy on her first motorcycle ride. She really didn't scream that much. It was either this picture or one in front of a sign that says "Florida, the Sunshine State", and frankly the bike looks really good with a blonde on it)  | ||
| Chainsaw |
ON THE ROAD AGAIN I'm on a brand spankin' new tire headed into Mississippi on I-10. Every time I think of Mississippi, I think of a line from a John Grisham novel. He mentions that they have a saying in the south, "Thank God for Mississippi". It seems that no matter how low your state ranks in education spending, highway funding or population below the poverty line, Mississippi will be ranked dead last. When Alabama ranks 49th in population with the least amount of teeth, they'll say "Thank God for Mississippi". This is my first trip here, I'm expecting to see 27 people living in a one room shotgun shack working as sharecroppers. I turn north off the interstate in Biloxi, MS and take one of those scenic byways in the general direction of Jackson, MS. It turns out to be one of those beautiful tree lined highways with very little traffic and no sight of The Law. My kinda road. YES! I stop for gas in the middle of nowhere MS at a Gas Station/Bait Shop/BBQ Place/Ice Cream Parlor. This is the 400 square foot Wal-Mart of the rural south. I'm eating ice cream on the bench outside watching chickens stroll around my bike sitting at the gas pump. It occurs to me that the sign saying "Fresh BBQ Chicken" is very likely true. If one of the chickens would have hopped on the bike and taken a crap, I would have exacted my revenge by ordering some Chicken-To-Go. A friend once asked me if I ever got lonely traveling solo across the country. I would have to say no. At every gas station, restaurant, and hotel, people approach me to talk. A motorcycle turns out to be a hell of a conversation piece, and everyone seems to have a story to tell. With a small gas tank I have a maximum range of about 188 miles, so I do a fair amount of stopping. I've swapped life stories with a gal in Zion Nat'l Park in Utah, and taught 3 black guys in Mississippi the "other" brother handshake (which I found ironic and hilarious) When I'm on the bike I really don't miss having a radio. The voices in my head do a good job of keeping me occupied. I'm always replaying songs in my head or signing above the engine and wind noise. Heaven help me if I ever get that song "Who let the Dogs Out" stuck in my head. I'll be the crazy guy at the truck stop parking lot pulling my hair out and screaming "Make it stop, MAKE IT STOP!!" WELCOME TO LOUISIANA I'm hoping to get near Texarkana by nightfall. I hop onto I-20 west of Jackson, MS and head into Louisiana. I'm kinda surprised seeing anything remotely swamp like 160 miles from the ocean, but what do I know. I cross the Red River near Shreveport and hit the scenic route north. It's getting dark, starting to rain, and it seems every mosquito in the state is doing a Kamikaze impression on the face shield of my helmet. When I try and wipe off a spot to see through, I'm left with a nauseating yellow streak punctuated by bug wings. Makes me hungry just thinking about it. Time to find a hotel. I'm in Vivian, LA, a small map dot near the Texas, Arkansas, Louisiana border. I stop at the first (and possibly only hotel I'll see). The Country Inn. Looks like one of those mom-and-pop places I like to frequent. The magic neon sign says VACANCY, and that's what's really important. Two girls in the neighborhood of 15 are behind desk, with a couple of toddlers running around. (if girls this young have kids, I'm betting this town doesn't have much in the way of entertainment). I get a room, unpack the bike and head for the shower where I am confronted with a shocking sight. I pull back the shower curtain to find a tub with a bad fiberglass patch job, covered by what looks like a beige rental car floor mat. The floor mat is in turn covered with stagnant water and big blotches of aromatic BLACK MOLD. What is a naked man to do? I stood staring at the tub turned petri dish for a good five minutes. I'm not exactly a picky guy when it comes to accommodations, but I am stunned. I think to myself "What do you expect for a $29 hotel room Einstein?" I briefly think about complaining to the front desk. The thought of making a big fuss and getting kicked out of this Tijuanna Quality Inn runs through my mind. In the end, I'm just too tired and sweaty to care. I Cowboy Up and face the shower from hell like any man would. I run scolding hot water for five minutes and don my Teva sandals. The mold doesn't go away. My shower is brief. If the hotel room weren't in my name, I would have done my Rock Star room trashing impression to vent my frustration. One time on a road trip with the guys back in 1988, we stole everything from a hotel room, from the lamp shades to the towel rack (we had tools) to the Giddeon's Bible and phone books. Then there was the time in Las Vegas in 2000 me and my buddy Chris removed the window from his 28th floor hotel room so we could...I don't know what the Statute of Limitations is on that sort of thing, so I better stop here. WHITEY IS GETTING ME DOWN 5:30 am and I'm on the road again. I make a brief crossing into Arkansas for a photo op and turn west into Texas. I'm plan on going through Paris, Wichita Falls and Amarillo, but the Texas Department of Transportation and Whitey have other ideas. I'm about 100 miles east of Wichita Falls when the a sign ahead says HIGHWAY CLOSED. Not closed in 20 miles or in 5 miles, but HIGHWAY CLOSED as in RIGHT HERE (not for some emergency, just plain old road construction. Normal states would put a big honking warning somewhere clever like back at the last entrance to the road, but nooooo, not Texas! Those bastards send me backtracking to the tune of 80 miles. Screw Texas. Texas gets The Finger. Oklahoma here I come! (I've finally found a picture of me in Charleston! The attached picture is of me in front of the 5th incarnation of the USS Yorktown in SC. Seems the first 4 were sunk. I think I'd name the ship something else. Please note the gentleman leering at me in the far right of the picture. I assume it's not everyday that you see a guy sitting on a cannon in front of an aircraft carrier rubbing his nipples.)  | ||
| Chainsaw |
(the last one! not that I'm trying to drag this out, a boy can only type so much at once ya know!) OKLAHOMA After Whitey Gets Me Down in Texas, it's time for a change of scenery. I get back to the interstate (also known as "The Slab" ). It seems just I've just passed an invisible line that marks "Where All Scenery Ends". I'm back on the Great Plains. YEA! Back to nondescript boring dead grass as far as the eye can see. Oh yeah, it's also creeping into triple digit temperatures again today. I am hereby nicknaming Oklahoma as the Armpit of America (I'm told the motto "America's Sweaty Crotch" was already taken by Nevada). Nothing answers the question "Where's The Beef" like driving past thousands of heads of cattle at a feed lot, with nothing better to do but eat and crap...and then crap some more. Millions of pounds of cow manure piled into mini-mountains is truly a sight to behold and a smell to avoid. Some days I wish I had a window to roll up, and air conditioning...and a seat to massage my ass too, as long as I'm wishing. Bland Scenery, Oppressive Heat and the Smell of Shit. The Unholy Trinity of Motorcycle Travel. I had thought about visiting the OKC Memorial. Just too darn hot and not in the mood at the time. I didn't want to get stuck in slow moving traffic in the heat (like my experience in St. Louis) and my Texas detour cost me a lot of time already today. I'm east of OKC at this point. It's so damn hot, the wind feels like a hair dryer. I must be delirious, cause I'm seriously thinking about riding naked. Is there a law against that? If I only brought a sailor hat and a jock strap, that would be just on the legal side of indecent exposure. Then again, I would hate to get hauled off to jail in that outfit. I might be the hot date at Prom Night in the Penitentiary. I have a brief respite of ice cream and something equivalent to a Red Bull in the Oklahoma panhandle. I get to talking to a guy driving a Hummer across country. He is putting an obscene amount of gas in his tank, in the neighborhood of 40 gallons. He tells me he has a range of about 400 miles. I tell him I'm getting about 57 mpg. We contemplate a switch. Hmmm, air conditioning or gas mileage. Might cost me a grand to get back to Denver at that rate. I'll just sweat, thank you very much. Nightfall finds me back in Texas, north of Amarillo in a town call Dumas (to all you Yankees that's pronounced DUMB-ASS). I debate whether to stop for the night or saddle up till after midnight to sleep in my own bed. I am generally paranoid about driving on rural roads after nightfall. It's a deer vs. motorcycle fear, and I have had enough close calls to be rightly worried. If things are dicey, my next hotel option will most likely be in Lamar, CO, 170 miles north, very close to the edge of my fuel range. I just can't count on the really small map dot towns to have anything in the neighborhood of hotels, much less gas stations open late in the evening. With the experience of the Vivian, LA hotel fresh in my mind, I spring the big bucks for a room at the Holiday Inn in Dumas,TX. My triple A membership saves me about $30! This room has carpeting made since disco died, and a mold-less shower. It doesn't even smell like anything has ever died in here. Ah, the good life! Next morning I'm on highway 287. Stopping for the night turns out to be a good call. No hotel, just one small truck stop between Dumas and Lamar. I know I'm in the home stretch when I see the "Welcome to Colorful Colorado" sign. When I see the Rockies I know that I'm home. A brief recap of my Epic Journey by the numbers: 17: number of states traveled through 13: number of states I was rained on in during "supposed" drought 6: days on the road 3714: miles traveled on the bike 1: flat tire, in Mobile Alabama 3: number of tow trucks called to my aid during trip 200+: miles in the back of my dad's pickup 0: number of times pulled over by The Law (can you believe that!) 112: dollars spent on gas, roundtrip! 2: broken coil wires in Tennessee 125: dollars spent on "professional" coil wire fix 40: miles till first "fixed" wire broke" 100: miles till second "fixed" wire broke" 3200+: miles and counting that my $5 worth of Radio Shack stuff to fix coil wires has lasted so far. 3: number of band-aides used to fix my headlight wiring on the side of the highway in Florida. 2: hurricanes successfully avoided 1: sore ass THE END | ||
| Tim |
Excellent! | ||
| Captpete |
Chainsaw, I bought a new Sportster in Denver in 1995 and the next day broke it in on the way to Sturgis. Two and a half weeks and 2750 miles later I got off the thing on the Oregon coast and made my buddy promise that if he ever saw me near one of those contraptions again, he’d pull the trigger and put me out of my misery. Man, you’re tough! Great story… and well told. Keep writing. Capt. Pete | ||
| Blake |
Great tale! Thanks for sharing. | ||
| Shazam |
second or third that, fun to read! | ||
| Sportyeric |
What a great story! Well told! I have to say that if I had Wendy on the back of MY bike, I wouldn't stop 'til we were at my house! | ||
| Fdl3 |
Very good read! I like your sense of humor!! | ||
| Chainsaw |
Thanks all for the kind words. Sporty: Wendy is spoken for, but the thought had crossed my mind. Capt: Highway travel isn't too bad on the Sporty. They have a terrible (I think unearned) reputation for vibration. I've had all sorts of people tell me you can't ride long distance on one. It's comfy till up to about 12 hrs, then it's time to get off. I'm always ready to get back on after a hot shower and some sleep. | ||
| Henrik |
Thanks Chainsaw. Great read, great laughs. Henrik | ||
| Ebear |
 Thanks for the GREAT story Chainsaw,Glad to see you made it out of Miss. unscathed.Ive only been able to do 8-10 hours on Sporty stock seat.LaPera allows 7-8 before Monkeybutt sets in.Needless to say YOUR the man!But I agree,We're ALLWAYS ready to get back on the next day....Some say we're nuts,Guess that makes me a mixed bushel of 'em.If you ever decide to come this way keep my area (SoCal)in mind.Ive got LOADS of electrical tape.....  | ||
| Bartimus |
Excellent story!!! Very entertaining, your descriptions are great! You truly have a way with words. I'm glad that all in all, you had a good journey. | ||
| Lornce |
Thanks for all the belly laughs.  | ||
| Tbear |
Hey Chainsaw, Great tale Great adventure! Most all the bad press about Sporty's is from guys that either are not "Handy Guy's" or just BS from people that have never had one. All bikes have their quirks and some more than others. The fact that all were fairly minor problems and the fact that you were able to fix them on the side of the road and could have done even more with a few more tools/supplys attests to the beauty of having a relatively rider friendly bike. I'm not sure if it is the reason we do or the result of living in Colorado that makes us able to work on our own motorcycles? It brings back memories of when I bought a '91 Sporty in S.Cal and the guy couldn't believe that I was gonna ride it home to the bay area (350+ miles). I said "Thats what the hell they are for!" It was a bit exciting from around King City to Silliness with the 60 mph crosswind. Laying down on the tank with 18" apehangers was a sight to behold. I put a lot of miles on that bike and Ebear still has it. (A lot nicer looking these days and Bigger inches too). And then there was the maiden ride this last summer on my V-Rod 2,500 miles on my way home ;>  Maybe we can get together in the spring and carve up some roads here in our home state. Thanks for sharing the fun and I would have kidnapped Wendy regaurdless......She would have loved it here in Colorado and would have forgotten "whats his name" in no time at all  . Keep the rubber side down, Tbear | ||
| Trickvrod |
that was very funny, thanks for the laughs |
