It was still dark and cold when I left Talequah on Thursday morning. I followed route 62 east for a little over 25 miles. The tank bag I lost Monday had a nice clear map pocket on top. For most of the trip to Oklahoma, I was able to refer to the map in the pocket as I rode. Now, when I needed to check the map, I had to stop.
I pulled into a small convenience store for direction. I was looking for Arkansas 59. The guy behind the counter was friendly and he gave me detailed directions; twice. Of course, the human short-term memory buffer is pretty small. Most people are only able to remember 7 things they just hear plus or minus 2. This is why telephone numbers are 7 digits long. I’m no exception. After leaving the store, I was pretty much lost after step 5.
I found myself hurling down a country road at sunrise hoping I was heading toward Arkansas. I rode deeper and deeper into rural northeast Oklahoma when I started to notice lose dogs at the end of the drives I was passing. During my journey, I’ve compiled a list of things to avoid on a motorcycle. On the list are things like: on-rushing semis on small country two lane roads, extremely narrow and high bridges, thunderstorms, bridges with holes in them, and now -- dogs.
Dogs are a big problem on bikes. They chase them. Sometimes, they try to bite the rider. They can even get caught up under the wheels and cause a wreck. As the sun was coming up over the small homes, trailers, and little farms, I was racing from one collection of barking, chasing dogs to another. To make matters worse, I did this for 5 miles before I realized I was not heading toward Arkansas. I had to turn around. All those dogs I surprised on the way in, were ready for me on the way out. I didn’t get bit, and I did not dump the bike, but it sure was close.
After twice running the canine gauntlet, I found the road the convenience store guy had directed me to. Soon, I was winding east through the Ozarks I had missed in Missouri. Before this trip, the only thing I knew about Arkansas was it was the home of former president Clinton. Now, I know it is an incredibly scenic country with beautiful mountain views and expansive farm fields. I guess they don’t call it the Natural State for nothing.
I followed route 22 out of Fort Smith until I hit route 64 and bypassed Little Rock. It was a 300 mile ride from one end of Arkansas to the other. I stopped several times for fuel and to stretch my legs. I was closing in on the Mississippi by noon.
The last 75 miles in Arkansas was nothing but huge grain and soybean farms. I had been passing farms and ranches all morning, but it was not until I entered the river basin that the landscape flattened out and filled with countless acres of big agriculture. Huge grain harvesters were in the fields filling tracker trailer rigs with their reaping. There were so many of them going at once that the air was filled with a yellow grain haze. I could taste it as I flew over the roads.
I am relatively new to motorcycling, and I am still amazed at how different traveling by bike is than by car. In a car, this scene would not have had nearly the impact on me. It would have been smaller framed by the windshield, there would have been no tactile sense of road rushing beneath, and there would have been no wind with grain dust in it. In a car, I would have been listening to the radio or talking to a passenger. I would not have been as alert to the road or to all the activity occurring on either side of it. If I had been a passenger, I may have even been asleep, but on the bike, I experienced everything.
I pulled into a small convenience store for direction. I was looking for Arkansas 59. The guy behind the counter was friendly and he gave me detailed directions; twice. Of course, the human short-term memory buffer is pretty small. Most people are only able to remember 7 things they just hear plus or minus 2. This is why telephone numbers are 7 digits long. I’m no exception. After leaving the store, I was pretty much lost after step 5.
I found myself hurling down a country road at sunrise hoping I was heading toward Arkansas. I rode deeper and deeper into rural northeast Oklahoma when I started to notice lose dogs at the end of the drives I was passing. During my journey, I’ve compiled a list of things to avoid on a motorcycle. On the list are things like: on-rushing semis on small country two lane roads, extremely narrow and high bridges, thunderstorms, bridges with holes in them, and now -- dogs.
Dogs are a big problem on bikes. They chase them. Sometimes, they try to bite the rider. They can even get caught up under the wheels and cause a wreck. As the sun was coming up over the small homes, trailers, and little farms, I was racing from one collection of barking, chasing dogs to another. To make matters worse, I did this for 5 miles before I realized I was not heading toward Arkansas. I had to turn around. All those dogs I surprised on the way in, were ready for me on the way out. I didn’t get bit, and I did not dump the bike, but it sure was close.
After twice running the canine gauntlet, I found the road the convenience store guy had directed me to. Soon, I was winding east through the Ozarks I had missed in Missouri. Before this trip, the only thing I knew about Arkansas was it was the home of former president Clinton. Now, I know it is an incredibly scenic country with beautiful mountain views and expansive farm fields. I guess they don’t call it the Natural State for nothing.
I followed route 22 out of Fort Smith until I hit route 64 and bypassed Little Rock. It was a 300 mile ride from one end of Arkansas to the other. I stopped several times for fuel and to stretch my legs. I was closing in on the Mississippi by noon.
The last 75 miles in Arkansas was nothing but huge grain and soybean farms. I had been passing farms and ranches all morning, but it was not until I entered the river basin that the landscape flattened out and filled with countless acres of big agriculture. Huge grain harvesters were in the fields filling tracker trailer rigs with their reaping. There were so many of them going at once that the air was filled with a yellow grain haze. I could taste it as I flew over the roads.
I am relatively new to motorcycling, and I am still amazed at how different traveling by bike is than by car. In a car, this scene would not have had nearly the impact on me. It would have been smaller framed by the windshield, there would have been no tactile sense of road rushing beneath, and there would have been no wind with grain dust in it. In a car, I would have been listening to the radio or talking to a passenger. I would not have been as alert to the road or to all the activity occurring on either side of it. If I had been a passenger, I may have even been asleep, but on the bike, I experienced everything.
In the distance I noticed what I though was a forest fire burning. It was definitely a fire, and by the size of the cloud of smoke, I figured it was large. There was a stiff cross wind blowing across the fields. The air was yellow with grain, and the white and brown plume of smoke was growing on the horizon. Soon, I noticed more columns of smoke rising from several distant points. I became concerned that I was rushing into a massive windswept fire, but all these farmers were working around me like nothing was going on.
I started to pass occasional fields that were barren and lunar gray, and then it dawned on me that the fires were intentional. A quick check of google later (I love the Internet) confirmed my hypothesis. The farmers were burning the left over straw from the grain harvest to prepare for reseeding in the spring.
All too soon, my idyllic romp through the farms of northern Arkansas was brought to an abrupt end when I entered the city of West Memphis. I moved from mega farms to mega city in the blink of an eye. Once again, I was surrounded by killer semis as I vied for my piece of asphalt on a congested Interstate crossing over the Mississippi.
Once on route 40, I started seeing signs for Graceland. I thought it would be cool to visit the home of Elvis. I had made good time. It was only a little after 1:00. I followed the signs to the Memphis beltway, 540, and that’s when I became less concerned with finding the King, and more with staying alive. I’ve mentioned in previous posts the extreme effect the wind from rushing semis has on the bike. I cannot understate how scary the effect can be in close quarters like on a tightly packed, yet swiftly moving, interstate highway. Route 540 is a genuine 6 lane superhighway. I found myself more than once boxed in by semis in the lanes to my left and right and in front and rear. I gave up on the King, got lost, and ended up at the airport.
By that time, I needed a break from the highway. I consulted my growing collection of road maps, and discovered the same route 64 that I had followed in Arkansas also traversed Tennessee. It took a few tries, but I left the Memphis 540 orbit and resumed my eastern trek on route 64.
It took a considerable amount of time to travel the first 25 miles out of Memphis. Unlike its unrestricted counter part in Arkansas, the western portion of Tennessee route 64 meanders through malls and small town centers each with a half a dozen traffic lights. The sun was falling fast behind me. The towns were growing increasingly smaller with fewer hotel options when I decided to stop for the night at place a called Bolivar.
I started to pass occasional fields that were barren and lunar gray, and then it dawned on me that the fires were intentional. A quick check of google later (I love the Internet) confirmed my hypothesis. The farmers were burning the left over straw from the grain harvest to prepare for reseeding in the spring.
All too soon, my idyllic romp through the farms of northern Arkansas was brought to an abrupt end when I entered the city of West Memphis. I moved from mega farms to mega city in the blink of an eye. Once again, I was surrounded by killer semis as I vied for my piece of asphalt on a congested Interstate crossing over the Mississippi.
Once on route 40, I started seeing signs for Graceland. I thought it would be cool to visit the home of Elvis. I had made good time. It was only a little after 1:00. I followed the signs to the Memphis beltway, 540, and that’s when I became less concerned with finding the King, and more with staying alive. I’ve mentioned in previous posts the extreme effect the wind from rushing semis has on the bike. I cannot understate how scary the effect can be in close quarters like on a tightly packed, yet swiftly moving, interstate highway. Route 540 is a genuine 6 lane superhighway. I found myself more than once boxed in by semis in the lanes to my left and right and in front and rear. I gave up on the King, got lost, and ended up at the airport.
By that time, I needed a break from the highway. I consulted my growing collection of road maps, and discovered the same route 64 that I had followed in Arkansas also traversed Tennessee. It took a few tries, but I left the Memphis 540 orbit and resumed my eastern trek on route 64.
It took a considerable amount of time to travel the first 25 miles out of Memphis. Unlike its unrestricted counter part in Arkansas, the western portion of Tennessee route 64 meanders through malls and small town centers each with a half a dozen traffic lights. The sun was falling fast behind me. The towns were growing increasingly smaller with fewer hotel options when I decided to stop for the night at place a called Bolivar.
I had traveled nearly 440 miles since leaving my hotel in Talequah that morning. I was tired and ready for a hot shower and a walk or a run. I cruised through the town looking for a brand named hotel; finding none, I settled on the first one with Internet and cable. It was two steps down from the Days Inn I raced the Thunderstorm to in Missouri on Monday night, but it was cheap, and clean.
The owner of the motel was a nice, albeit incomprehensible, Indian gentlemen. He was quite taken by my bike, and told me it seemed big to him. He said the people where he was from all rode much smaller bikes because of high fuel costs. After being buffeted by semi blasts and straw fire cross winds for the past 14 hours, I told him I could not imagine making the trip I was on with anything smaller.
The owner of the motel was a nice, albeit incomprehensible, Indian gentlemen. He was quite taken by my bike, and told me it seemed big to him. He said the people where he was from all rode much smaller bikes because of high fuel costs. After being buffeted by semi blasts and straw fire cross winds for the past 14 hours, I told him I could not imagine making the trip I was on with anything smaller.
We bid each other good night, at least I think so.
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