Chicken Run! (Part Two)

(Part One of this ride report -- in case you missed it -- is here.)

Day Two, Sunday, 2 Sep 2007.

With the sun tentatively peeking around our hotel room's curtains, we three -- me, Kim, and Danny the Hero -- crawled out of bed after a night of competitive snoring (Kim conceded that I had won) and got ready for another awesome day of riding our scooters.

"Which way do you want to go?" Danny asked, unfolding a map on the table.

"How about we cruise down Highway 23," I suggested, tracing the twisty road on the map, "do the Pig Trail, then visit Mount Magazine...? I've never been there; have you?"

"Nope."

"Okay. After Mount Magazine, we can work our way south on Highway 71 to Mena, hook up with Talimena Drive and cross over into Oklahoma. Sound good?" This would definitely be taking the proverbial "long way home," but we weren't in any hurry.

"Sounds great. You lead."

Danny and I study the map, while Kim sneaks a photo through the window of the hotel room. Cryin' damn shame that I've gotten old enough to require reading glasses to read a friggin' road map! (Photo by Kim Holloway.)

"Okay. You wanna get breakfast at Granny's?" (This is a great little country diner in Huntsville where we've eaten before.)

"Might still be a little early for breakfast," Danny said. (Huntsville is only about 30 minutes south of Eureka Springs.) "Let's try to put down a few more miles than that before we stop."

"Okay ... I know another little Mom-n-Pop diner in Ozark. I've eaten there with the ZZR boys before. How about that?"

"You're leading, so you make the call."

We packed up our stuff, loaded up the bikes, and got the Hell outta Dodge (or Eureka Springs, as the case may be).

There was very little moving on Highway 23, seeing as how it was Sunday morning. All the locals were either already in church, sleeping off Saturday night's hooch, or sneaking out of some cousin's bedroom window before Uncle Cletus caught 'em. We had a great time laying the Tiger and the GS over in the curves of the infamous Pig Trail, slipping quiet as ghosts through the still morning air with the squirrels playing chicken and the early morning air all forest-damp and crispy. I stopped at ZRod's corner to show Danny where ZRod had gone over the edge a couple years ago and where just this past spring I'd watched a ZZR rider lowside and do the same. Soon we were south of I-40, in the town of Ozark, where I was glad to see I hadn't misremembered the location of the diner. It was late enough that we were all in the mood for burgers for breakfast ... then we were on the road again.

The roads around Mount Magazine were twisty and fun, but the pavement was a bit broken up in places. The Tiger and the GS, however, both have the suspension to soak up this kinda terrain without drama. Danny says he's more comfortable laying the GS into a curve than anything else he's ever owned. The unorthodox but highly stable telalever front suspension on the big Beemer probably has a lot to do with that, as does the low center of gravity afforded by the horizontally-opposed twin cylinder engine. I'd have to label the Tiger as an adequate corner-carving machine. It actually turns in better than you'd expect, given that 19-inch front wheel. The leverage of those wide handlebars helps, but I certainly can't carry the corner speeds that I can on either of my sportbikes. Still, it's a blast railing corners on any two-wheeler.

Twisty roads around Mount Magazine with me and the Tiger taking the lead for a change. (Photo by Kim Holloway.)

We stopped somewhere near a little lake to stretch our legs. Kim and I were snapping photos while Danny practiced his wheelies. Trying to get a good photo of my buddy's antics, I stooped down near a metal guardrail and promptly caught my ass on a very sharp corner. Damn but that hurt! I reached back and, holy crap, there was a gash in my jeans! (Later, I'd discover there was a matching hole not only in my underwear but in the cheek of my ass! I'd carry around a nice bruise and a one inch laceration for the next week or so.) Though Danny's my hero, he did not offer to staunch the flow of blood or even kiss my bobo!

Danny demonstrates the proper way to make your front tire last twice as long ... (Photo by Kim Holloway.)

... while I probe my injury. (Photo by Kim Holloway.)

We rode up Mount Magazine to check out the lodge. It looked nice, but is probably pricey. We stopped at a cliff where hang gliders launch, hoping to see somebody take the plunge. Unfortunately there was no one around. We stood on the edge and tried to imagine what it must be like to make that leap of faith. What an adrenaline rush it must be. Though Danny's uncomfortable with heights, he stood near the edge with me -- probably just to make sure I didn't stumble and fall or anything. Heroes are like that, capable of overcoming their own fears in order to help others. Danny's like Charles Bronson, Charles de Gaul, and Charles Nelson Riley all rolled into one. He's my hero.

Of course, Kim teased him about keeping his wallet in his pocket, a reference to our Mexico trip where Danny'd almost lost a 100 peso note over the edge of a cliff and I had ultimately rescued the bill for him by hanging over the edge. (Hey, maybe I was Danny's hero on that day!)

About this time, a large family joined us: mom, pop, Cousin Billy Bob, and a half dozen or so ankle-biters. The woman walked over to me, looked at my helmet, and said, "So, are you guys getting ready to jump? Are ya? Huh?"

I wanted to say, "Sure, lady, my hang glider's folded up in my pocket and I was just about to get it out and trip the light fantastic," but instead I was racking my nice-guy brain for something that didn't sound like a smart ass and make her feel too terribly stupid. She sensed my hesitation, looked back at the two motorcycles they'd parked next to not ten seconds before, and realized she was an idiot. You could see the epiphany creep over her face like an acid reflux gag, slightly reddening her cheeks. "So," she said when I still hadn't responded, "those are your bikes?" Another stupid question, cause we were the only ones there and -- hey, hello! -- do you see the helmet in my hands, lady?

"Yeah," I said kindly. "We just stopped to check out the view and were hoping to see some hang gliders, too. Maybe some other time."

Then we mounted up and moved on down the mountain, leaving her standing there, with her rugrats leaping around her like hyperactive Jack Russell Terriers, and staring after us -- a bit wistfully, I think. Just an average, not unattractive, mid-thirties woman from Arkansas with her husband coming home each night stinking of the chicken farm or with grease under his fingernails as he gropes at her, hollering from the sofa for a beer where he sits in his wife-beater tee and stained boxers, the kids driving her to drink quietly in the kitchen during the long afternoons as she contemplates a wasted life.

But I've already admitted that I have an overactive imagination. Maybe she's a happy camper.

From this cliff, hang gliders make their leap of faith, soaring into the brisk Arkansas wind, the sweat scent of pine and cedar wafting up from below, the warm kiss of the sun on the back of their neck. Pity there weren't any of them out the day we were there ... maybe I could have conned them into letting me try it.

Danny and Kim at an overlook atop Mount Magazine. Love you guys!

After exploring an overlook, we return to our bikes and I notice that Danny's smart enough to park his R1200GS in the shade...

...while silly ol' bahwolf parks his Tiger out in the hot sun. D'oh!

From Mount Magazine, we cruised south through the rural Arkansas countryside (remember my motto, "There really are no bad roads in Arkansas"), eventually arriving in Mena, where we gassed up and then turned west to traverse the Kiamichi Mountains, bound for Oklahoma.

We stopped at the Queen Wilhelmina Lodge (glancing toward the campground, as is now traditional, for the tent we'd left behind the year before). While standing in the lobby, who should we run into but my good friend Greg Ruffin. He was out for a day ride on his Goldwing with a lady friend. They were stopping for lunch. We considered joining them, but we were still stuffed from our late breakfast.

We pressed on into Oklahoma, putting the bikes through their paces in the most excellent curvage offered up by the Talimena Parkway, gliding left-right and up-down along the staircase-like string of peaks. Before we'd gone too far, however, we came across a police roadblock. They were checking license and insurance and whatnot. Just hassling bikers was my first thought, but then I saw them also stop a Bronco coming from the other direction. I waited for the cop to comment on the Texas plates that I still have on the Tiger when he examined my Oklahoma driver's license and insurance card, but he didn't say anything. When the cop handed back our paperwork, he said, "Be careful up ahead, we're working an accident."

Sure enough, a few turns later, there was a Harley in the ditch with the usual assortment of riding buddies and scantily clad female passengers standing around looking concerned, as if one of their group didn't wipe out in a curve just about every weekend. Sure seems like they do anyway. Seems like I can't go anywhere these days where there are popular motorcycle roads without coming across at least one similar scene. These accident-prone motorcyclists are making it damn difficult to enjoy some of my favorite routes anymore without a police presence; just reference the license check we'd just come through.

There were a couple cops, an ambulance, and assorted spectators on site -- more than enough to handle the situation -- so Danny and I didn't stop. Just another guy who didn't know how to control his motorcycle, wasn't wearing adequate gear, and so on. Insert my usual rant here (or, if you've never read it before and actually care, go read some of my older ride reports; like I said, this isn't the first accident scene I've come across on my rides).

Once we cruised through Talihina, the really good roads were gone. I relinquished the lead to Daniel-san again. We worked our way up through McAlester and eventually into Henryetta, where Danny wanted to stop in for a visit with his mother. We parted with our usual hugs and totally macho, no-trace-of-homophobia"I love you, man," then I grabbed I-40 and shot home.

Total mileage for the trip (I didn't record daily mileage): 863 miles. Out of curiosity, I checked the gas mileage on the Tiger three different times on this trip. (1) 116 miles and 2.4 gallons for 48.3 mpg. (2) 182 miles and 3.94 gallons for 46.2 mpg. (3) 167.2 miles and 3.63 gallons for 46.1 mpg. That's more than acceptable. Better, I think, than I used to get on my 2000 model Tiger. It's a great traveling machine, with tons of luggage space and a wide, comfortable seat. It's unusual enough that you're unlikely to pass another and it draws attention wherever it goes. Though certainly not as refined as the GS, it's a good, reliable machine. I'll be keeping it for a while.

Yours truly and my brutha from a different mutha. (Photo by Kim Holloway.)