Day One, Saturday, 1 Sep 2007.
Normally, I avoid being on the road during major holiday weekends like Labor Day. There are just too many dumbasses out there looking to run over motorcyclists. These cagers (and, yes, I intend that to be derogatory) aren't attentive on a good day, let alone a weekend where they've been slamming down Budweisers, broiling what few brain cells they have in the hot summer sun, and staying up way past their bedtimes because they've been relieved of the requirement to report to work on Monday morning. On rural roads, these are primarily your lake people on a beer run, your ATV'ers needing ice to put on Uncle Earl's sprained ankle (those ATVs are so difficult to ride!), and your general run-of-the-mill bubba on a convenience store expedition for Spam, BBQ sauce, and Skoal. These are typically not your doctor and lawyer types; those guys have all donned leather and do-rags, loaded up the pectorally-enhanced spouse, and rolled their well-polished and overpriced "wild hogs" out of the garage to assemble and ride as a herd at ludicrously slow speeds, clogging the roads and creating quite an obnoxious racket with their “loud pipes save lives” exhaust strategy. These gregarious poseurs present their own type of road hazard, but at least they're predictable. As long as these Sunday riders don't take me down with them when they crash their chromed behemoths, it's all good.
But Danny wanted to go for a scooter ride and proclaimed that the best fried chicken on the planet is to be found in Springdale, Arkansas -- at the AQ Chicken House to be precise, a place where the menu boasts that their fried chicken tastes just like the chicken grandma used to cook in an old iron skillet.
How could I resist?
Early Saturday morning, I said goodbye to bahwife (still slumbering), hopped on my 2004 Lucifer Orange (honest, that’s what they call the color) Triumph Tiger 955i (packed the night before), and headed on over to Danny's house (stopping on the way to top off the Tiger's gas tank). (“Enough with the damn parentheticals already, Brian!”) Danny and his lovely wife Kim were pretty much ready to go when I arrived, so we hit the road, Danny in the lead on his BMW R1200GS, 'cause everyone knows I don't really like to take point. We'd kinda discussed a route, but mostly just planned to wander up through northeastern Oklahoma and eventually into Arkansas. Danny was joking that this was the first annual "We don't know where we're going" tour. I suggested we swing by the spillway at Dripping Springs State Park first, because they'd never seen it and it's kinda cool, also the road gets a bit scenic and semi-twisty through there, just before you roll into the town of Okmulgee, where I once dropped my ZZR at a stop sign, got disgusted and turned around and rode back home, abandoning a weekend solo road trip (all of which I related to Danny and Kim during one of our morning stops, just so they could pay homage to the stop sign when we rolled through that area and be careful not to succumb to whatever evil forces might still be lurking there).
My Tiger and the spillway at Dripping Springs.
There was a lot of water pouring over the spillway, more than I'd ever seen before, in fact. Made us wonder what it must have been like back when Oklahoma was getting so much rain. We hiked up to the top of the spillway, something I'd never done before. Pretty cool, but Danny said all that running water made him have to pee. On the way down, I got dizzy, stumbled, and nearly fell. Danny reached out and caught me, saving me from a fall that would have surely broken my neck. He put me over his shoulder and carried me down the rest of the way, then went back up for Kim, never breaking a sweat or even getting winded.
Danny's my hero.
Okay, so that part never really happened. But it would have been cool if it had, and I know Danny would have saved me. He’s like Superman, Chuck Norris, and Barney the Dinosaur all rolled into one.
Danny and Kim climbing to the top of the spillway.
About this time, Danny noticed a warning symbol flashing on the dash of his BMW. “Danger, Will Robinson!” We didn’t know what the hell it meant, but Kim looked it up in the owner’s manual: bulb failure. Good thing we had her along to read directions, as we all know men are incapable of such things. It’s kinda obvious that the little symbol is a bulb … after you look it up. Turned out his headlight was kaput. We stopped at an auto parts store in Okmulgee, but they didn’t have the right bulb. Danny still had his high beam, so we weren’t in dire straits. We pressed on to Muskogee, where we tried another auto parts store. When they didn’t have the right bulb either, we asked where we might find the nearest motorcycle dealership. This turned out to be a nice Honda-Kawasaki dealership, Motorsports Muskogee, just off the turnpike. It was a really nice place, the employees were helpful and friendly, and the salesmen weren't pushy. They had the right bulb in stock, so we fixed Danny’s headlight. There was a rack of magazines by the counter and I got to see the August issue of Ride Oklahoma, which features an article by yours truly. Cool! They also had a brand new Kawasaki Concours 1400 and the new Versys, so Danny and I got to sit on both, something we'd been wanting to do (we had, in fact, ridden to the two Kawasaki dealerships in OKC for that very purpose just a weekend or two before).
The Concours definitely felt like an ultimate replacement for my ZZR1200, just not any time soon as I’m still in love with the ZZR and she only has 33,000 miles on her. Plus, the ZZR is long since paid for! I don’t really care for the color of the Concours (I’m sure they’ll offer other colors in upcoming years) and some of the styling leaves me cold -- plus that damn boat anchor of an exhaust pipe would absolutely have to go! (what did I call it once before, a trolling lure for catching sperm whales?) -- but the riding position seemed perfect, the seat was comfy, and I know the motor’s a blast. The only real issues I’ve heard from those who’ve bought the Concours relate to excessive heat on the right side. Hopefully, Kawasaki’s getting that problem fixed up quick.
The Versys was a very interesting machine. Danny fell in love with it. We’d both like to test ride one and see what it’s like. Looks to be the perfect around-town, do-everything rig. With some hard bags, you could even tour on it in reasonable comfort (just not at the kinda speeds I like to run). There was also a lovely blue 650R, first one I’ve seen in that color, and I thought it was a gorgeous machine for the price. Both it and the Versys are excellent bargains. The 650R strikes me as the perfect entry-level sportbike. If my wife was interested in riding, I’d be bringing one home for her.
Eventually, we saddled up and pressed on. We stopped at Fort Gibson's historical site. I'd never been there before. It was, as Danny put it, “really historical.” (Yawn.) I don't really know the background. I'm sure the Calvary was involved, some settlers were protected, some Indians were slaughtered, or maybe some outlaws were hunted down and hanged. Google the place if you're really interested.
Danny and Kim at Fort Gibson, looking very historical on the R1200GS.
We followed Highway 80 north around the Fort Gibson Reservoir. This is a nice twisty stretch of road, one of the best I’ve found in Oklahoma. If there had been any chicken strips on the Tiger’s Tourances, they would have perished on this stretch of road. Great fun! In Hulbert, we hung a right and headed on into Tahlequah, where we caught 82 and turned north. I usually take Highway 10 out of Tahlequah because I like that ride along the banks of the Illinois River, but there was an offroad area near Disney that Danny wanted to check out (and I wanted to ride Space Mountain – imagine my disappointment when I discovered that we weren’t going to visit that Disney!).
Highway 82 gets nice and twisty between Salina and Spavinaw, with even better pavement conditions than the run into Hulbert on Highway 80. I'd ridden this road before, but it had been an early morning ride in dense fog and freezing temps, so I really hadn't been able to appreciate it much. This time was a lot of fun. We were both getting our lean on. Danny said he dragged the toe of his boot through one corner and scared himself. I think I might have seen Kim drag a knee – pretty gnarly riding for a passenger!
We whipped into Spavinaw State Park so Danny and Kim could see the long spillway there. It wasn't flowing as much water as the last time I had seen it (several years ago), except for the draw-down pipe (at least I think that's what it is) which feeds the river that runs through the park. The water looked awful cool and inviting, and I was dearly tempted to strip down and jump in. Of course, the park was crowded with RVs and campers and folks fishing and playing in the water. Danny was quick to remind me that this wasn’t Mexico and my getting nekkid would probably be frowned upon.
While watching the water raging from the bottom of the draw-down pipe, we heard a woman scream, "My baby! Someone save my baby!" and we saw a tiny pale shape bob once at the surface then churn under in the roiling water. Danny immediately dived into the raging river, narrowly missing being crushed against several large boulders against which the water was exploding with remorseless fury. I saw him go under, heard Kim gasp as she too thought that he might never come up, but a second later we spotted him fighting the current ten or twenty yards downstream. In his arms, he was cradling an infant! Handicapped by the inability to use both arms for swimming, he fought the current in a ferocious side-stroke, like Mark Spitz on steroids. When he reached the bank, he laid the tiny lifeless infant out on the ground and began to administer CPR, while the rest of us stood frozen in shock. A moment later, the baby spat up water and began to cry. Danny handed it to the mother, who was beside herself with joy.
Danny's my hero.
Okay, so none of that really happened. But if there had been a baby in the water, Danny would have jumped right in. Danny’s like Arnold before he became Governor of California, back when he was cool and could scare away terrorists by simply flexing his man-muscles. Danny’s like Johnny Weissmuller, John Wayne, and John Denver all rolled into one.
Most exciting thing at Spavinaw was these kids trying to slap each other around with a dead fish.
Next we checked out the offroad riding area near Disney. We wound up taking Danny's GS (two-up no less!) and my Tiger down a gravel road that was a wee bit uncomfortable ... at least it was for me. The gravel was deep and peppered with softball-size rocks. I had no scary moments or anything ... just wasn't comfortable putting the big, heavy, purty-orange and completely unscratched beastie in that position. Danny didn’t appear to be bothered riding the gravel on his GS, but, ya know, Danny’s the man. Danny’s my hero. The offroad area appeared to be suitable for jeeps, rock climbers, and ATVs -- not motorcycles. In fact, there wasn't a single two-wheeler in sight. We got some strange looks taking our big dualsport bikes in there. I didn't see many helmets amongst the bubbas on their ATVs. I hope all those guys have signed their donor cards so they’re at least contributing something to society.
Somewhere along the way I whined about missing breakfast and being hungry. My overactive imagination burns quite a few calories, ya know? I accused Danny and Kim of having eaten a big breakfast before I got to their house and not offering me any. They assured me that they hadn't eaten either. We stopped at a convenience store for gas and I sprang for some mediocre cold meat sandwiches from the deli case. It was better than nothing. My sandwich bread was soggy, which made me think of the old National Lampoon's Vacation bit where the wife screams to Chevy Chase, “The dog peed on the sandwiches!” At one point, I choked on a bite of my sandwich and would have surely died were it not for ... nah, you're not gonna fall for that again, are you? I’m sure Danny does know the Heimlich Maneuver, though. All heroes know it.
We continued on into Arkansas, eventually hitting the AQ Chicken House in time for the dinner crowd. I told our waitress we had ridden 350 miles just for their chicken. She assured me it would be worth it and didn't seem at all surprised or impressed, as if folks arrive from much greater distances on a regular basis. The chicken was delicious. So were the biscuits. And the fried okra. And everything else. I didn't see grandma in the kitchen, but Danny assured me she was back there, chained to her iron skillet, whipped periodically to make sure she kept the fried chicken flowing.
Danny gets friendly with a giant bronze chicken in the foyer of AQ Chicken House.
Was it the best fried chicken I have ever eaten? Hmmmmm … I dunno. It certainly ranks right up there. I bet Bob Golly would give it a 9.5. I’d definitely ride 350 miles again for some. But then, I’d pretty much ride 350 miles for most anything … except maybe a visit to the dentist. Or a colonoscopy.
Danny loves his fried chicken, gnawing all the way down to the bone and then some.
While we ate, I saw Danny watching the other diners, ready to spring into action should anyone get a chicken bone lodged in their throat. He’s always ready for action. Danny’s like Jean Claude van Damme, Marshall Dillon, and Marcus Welby all rolled into one. He’s my hero.
After dinner, we headed for Eureka Springs as the sun was getting ready for its closing act. We didn't have any motel reservations, which was a mistake. It's hard to make reservations when you're on a "We don't know where we're going" ride, though. Every motel in Eureka Springs had the "No Vacancy" light blazing in angry red neon. The nice lady at the Ozark Swiss Inn (where I stayed for the ZZR rally earlier this year) told us that there was exactly one room left at the 1876 Inn down the road. You might remember the place because it’s where the guy is always out front on the north side of Highway 62 waving at you every morning as you ride by, trying to get you to pull in for their breakfast buffet. If you've been to Eureka Springs in the last three years, you've seen this guy (cause I have). It's always the same guy.
Turned out the hotel had two rooms left, but one was the Honeymoon Suite, which featured a big round bed suitable for a night-to-remember. Danny, Kim, and I didn't think we wanted to remember this trip that bad. Sharing one huge round bed (rotating and with mirrors on the ceiling?) would have just been too bizarre. We took the other room, which had a queen and a double bed. Before we'd even finished checking in, someone on the phone wanted a room, and a Harley guy and his woman came in and nabbed the Honeymoon Suite, so it was a good thing we arrived when we did. Two minutes later and we’d have been out of luck.
The 1876 Inn had great covered motorcycle parking (I think our bikes were the only non-Harleys parked there, though), but the rates were high. I’m used to paying about $45 for a room in Eureka Springs. This room -– which wasn’t anything to write home about -- was a hundred bucks.
Some TV channels were flipped, showers were taken, a beer run was made, and before you could say “Danny’s my hero!” we were all snoring away. Oh and Danny finally got his feet rubbed while on a motorcycle trip with me … just not by me. There are definite advantages to hauling your woman with you!
Stay tuned for Day Two in which I’m forced to take point, I rip a hole in my ass, we’re mistaken for guys crazy enough to throw themselves off cliffs, we have a run in with Johnny Law, and Danny no doubt does some more heroic things.
Fried chicken bliss!
Part Two of this ride report is
here.
Labels: arkansas, eureka springs, motorcycles, oklahoma, Triumph Tiger
