Talimena Drive

This past weekend, Danny, Kim, and I embarked on our second annual "We Don't Know Where We're Going" Tour. We wound up in Arkansas again and had a fantastic time. Danny and Kim were on their brand new shiny red 2008 BMW R1200GS Adventure. I was mounted on my Triumph Tiger. Returning home Sunday morning, we rode the Talimena Scenic Byway, that twisty stretch of pavement between Mena, Arkansas and Talihina, Oklahoma. The sun was shining and it was about 45 degrees -- perfect weather to shoot some video.




Thanks for a great weekend, Danny and Kim!

Ride Report: "Crouching Tiger, Twisty Dragon"

10 days on the road. Nearly 3,300 miles. Texas, Arkansas, Tennessee, North Carolina, Virginia, West Virginia, Kentucky. The Tail of the Dragon, Blueridge Parkway, Cherohala Skyway, and others. Biltmore House. Mammoth Cave.

Read all about it as it comes together in this thread at RideOK or on my website.

Destination: Crossbar Ranch Offroad Park, Davis, Oklahoma

Sunday, 30 Sep 07. (All photos compliments of Danny and Kim Holloway, cause I was too busy trying to remain vertical!)

So James Pratt calls me one Friday evening and says, "Hey, Sunday morning, some of us are heading down to Crossbar Ranch in Davis. You wanna bring that badass new 450 of yours and come along?"

The question, of course, was rhetorical. James knows good and well it doesn't take much to get me out on one of my bikes. Crossbar Ranch? Never been there. That was reason enough to say yes. The place was supposed to be huge (6,500 acres!). It had once been a working ranch, but was now owned by the city of Davis and had just survived an attempted buyout which would have shut down the offroad park. Oklahoma dirtbikers had descended on the city council meeting in droves a month or so back. Believe it or not, the city council had listened to them and voted not to sell. Amazing!

Sunday being Danny's birthday, I thought, "What better way to spend your birthday than riding your dirtbike!" so I gave him a call. His wife Kim decided to join us. Danny and I convinced her to ride my CRF230F instead of her street-legal Suzuki DR200. The CRF's suspension is better and there are no signals and lights and whatnot to break. I don't think she ever did get comfortable on it, though. I think she was worried about throwing it down and damaging it or something. I kept telling her not to worry. I've taken about a thousand soil samples with that bike; there was no way she was gonna hurt it.

Danny would be on his WR450, and I'd be on my new CRF450X, which I'm still trying to get accustomed to. After a year and a half of wringing the snot out of the little 230, learning to ride the powerful 450 is a whole new ballgame. Riding the 450, I alternate between sheer terror and maniacal giggling. The funny thing is that the two reactions are pretty much indistinguishable from one another. Ha!

Sunday morning, the Birthday Boy swung by my place with his trailer and WR in tow. We strapped on my two Hondas -- and we were off!

Crossbar Ranch is in the heart of the Arbuckle Mountains, about 90 miles south of OKC. We arrived to find Brad, the guy who runs the place, leaving in his truck on a gas run or something. "Drive 3 miles south until you see the American flag," he said. "Park and wait for me there. I'll be right back."

So we tried to follow his directions -- honest. This place is really out in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Where the hell's that flag? A local guy in a truck passed us and we flagged him down to ask where the parking area was located. "Turn right and you'll find it." So we did. Up and down the hills ... rocks and rocks and more rocks ... bumpy two-track just barely wide enough for Danny's truck (and my arm, hanging out the window, got smacked a time or two with pine branches) ... until eventually we decided the local had played a nasty trick on us. This couldn't be the right way. There was no room to turn around the truck and trailer, but somehow Danny managed it. I thought for sure we were going to have to unhook the trailer, but Danny knows what he's doing. He had to drop the truck into 4wd, though, and hop a few boulders, but he got turned around.

We drove back to the main road and continued south, all the while expecting to find a tall pole and a big American flag snapping in the breeze. Eventually ... hell, that looks like a parking area. After all, there's even a port-a-potty. We stopped. A few minutes later, Brad comes by in his truck and starts fussing at us, wanting to know what the hell we were doing stopping when he'd given us very clear directions to drive "exactly 3 miles, no more, no less, until you see the flags!" Damn city folk, can't follow simple directions! We explained about the guy in the truck who'd sent us off on a wild goose chase. "What the hell are you doing listening to the locals?!?!" he admonished. "You'd never find your way back to civilization listening to them. It's a wonder you're not hopelessly lost right now, waiting on me to send out a search party!" He chewed us out for a few more minutes, then finally sent us on to the parking area with our tails between our legs.

Arriving, we saw two tiny American flags (the kinda flags you glue to Popsicle sticks!) flapping from a nondescript sign about the size of a postcard. Danny actually thought it'd be funny to ask the guy where the flags were. I thought Brad was gonna burst a blood vessel or something! I think this was about the time he told Danny to tell me to slow down in the parking area. We had unloaded the bikes and I was zooming back and forth across the field at a high rate of speed, popping wheelies. Just warming up my bike, doncha know. The parking area was the size of three football fields and was occupied by a whole 3 vehicles, but Barney -- which was the name Danny gave him and forever more shall he be known -- was worried I'd hit something.

Anyway, we paid our $10 each (actually, Danny paid for all three of us -- what a sweetheart to pay my way on his birthday!) and signed waivers saying we wouldn't sue if we fell off our bikes and broke a bone or something. Then Barney showed us a map of the trails. The map was pretty straightforward, but Barney commenced to scribbling all over it with a black pen, crossing out some sections of trail and adding in others. His directions were so cryptic and convoluted that we were totally lost. Going over the map and the rules, he must have told us ten times not to ride on the road. "We closed this section, so you have to turn left by the split cedar tree. Go straight until you see the cactus that looks like Jesus. You absolutely cannot ride on the road, but I mowed a section beside the road over here, so follow the mowed section, then cross the road by the big rock that looks like an elephant's ass and go past the fence post with the blue ribbon ..." and on and on. (I didn't mention that "crossing the road" would mean that we were actually on the road!).

The scribbled-upon Crossbar map, guaranteed to confuse the hell outta city folk!

Eventually, we gathered that despite its size there were really just two loops to Crossbar Ranch. The easy loop (11.5 miles, 45 minutes of riding according to Barney) and the hard loop (21.5 miles, 3 to 5 hours). We decided to try the easy loop first.

About this time Adam Pratt and Phil Templeton showed up. Seems James wasn't going to make it. Adam and Phil are both great riders. Phil used to race, and Adam ... well, Adam is graced with a lot of natural talent and the fearless bravado of youth. I've eaten both their dust at CrossTimbers before; can't even begin to hang with them on my best day.

Danny and Kim.

Danny, Kim, and I tried to get a head start on them on the easy trail, but it didn't take long at all before they blasted past us. I was running out in front of Danny and Kim, forging ahead and then stopping and waiting for them to catch up. The trail was littered with a lot of large rocks, but you could generally work your way through them, occasionally riding over the rocks for short stretches. The scenery was nice. There was a lot of cactus: prickly pear and these purple flowers that kinda reminded me of thistles, but they were hard and prickly. One smacked me a good one on the arm in passing and hurt like hell. You don't really want to fall at Crossbar, because you're guaranteed to land on something that's gonna hurt, be it rocks or cactus or rattlesnakes.

I was running the new fender packs on the 450 -- front and rear. The front was pretty stable, but I wasn't sure the rear pack would stay on the bike, even though I'd Dremel'd out some little notches in the fender for the fasteners to grab. I'd told Danny to watch the trail behind me just in case one of them separated from the bike. Sure enough, the rear pack didn't stay on. (I've since bolted it to the fender so that it can't possibly come off.) Danny thought it was pretty funny to come across the pack lying in the middle of the trail. Naturally, his camera came out: payback for me making fun of him in Mexico earlier this year when he'd lost his tool tube on the trail.

Danny finds my fender pack on the trail.

We all did good on the easy trail. I was having a blast on the 450, really opening it up through some of the wide open sections. Felt like I knew what I was doing. Little did I know how humbling the remainder of the day would be. It was time, you see, to ride the difficult loop. Kim opted to remain behind at the truck while the four of us went to see how difficult it was. I wish I'd stayed behind with her!

Kim on my CRF230F, riding like a pro.

I'd be lying if I didn't confess that the northern loop at Crossbar put an ass-whuppin' on me. I think I fell four or five times, always on the rocks. This is most definitely not an easy trail. There are a lot of steep sections that are nothing but rocks. Large rocks. The only way to climb that stuff is balls-to-the-wall, on the pegs, weight over the bars. I lacked commitment. I lacked cojones. The rocks -- let's just call them boulders -- would bounce my front end this way and that until eventually I lost all momentum. Inevitably one foot or the other would search for the ground, find nothing but air, and over I would go. Crunch! All my falls were easy tip-overs, a sure sign that you just aren't committing to the terrain.

On short stretches of rocky terrain like this, you generally have time to recover when the bike gets out of shape, but the rocks here were endless. The only way to ride it is to have big ones, maintain enough momentum to sail over that stuff. The 450 has the right stuff. It just needed a better, more experienced rider.

Every time I think I know what I'm doing on a dirtbike, a nice humbling trail like this one reminds me I've only been doing this for a couple years and that I'm a 47-year-old, out-of-shape engineer-slash-writer.

CRF on the ground. Bahwolf on his last legs. Insert all the usual business about it being much steeper than it looks and so forth.

After some of the steep climbs or treacherous downhill sections, Phil and Adam would stop and wait on Danny and me to catch up (Danny can't keep up with those two either, but mostly he was hanging back with me that day -- even helping to pick up my bike on more than one occasion). When we'd catch up, Phil (who'd ridden here before and actually helped to cut some of the trail) would assure me that the trail was gonna get a whole lot easier just around the next bend. Every time he said this, the damn trail would get harder!

Eventually, the northern trail ("red trail" on Barney's map) crossed a road. I don't even think we were halfway through the loop. Barney was there in his truck and asked us how we were doing. "Where's the shortcut outta here?" I asked. I wasn't kidding. I confessed that I was done. We'd already been on this trail for like 2 hours and it was kicking my ass. Danny looked a little disappointed, but agreed to bail out with me. Though it was against the rules, Barney let us ride on the road back to the parking area, but he insisted on leading us in his truck. 6,500 acres of emptiness, but Barney's afraid we're gonna disobey the 15 mph speed limit or something.

Me, Adam, and Phil. Adam's giving Crossbar the big thumbs up. He and Phil sailed through treacherous terrain that had me flopping about on the ground like a polliwog washed ashore.

When we rejoined Kim at the truck, we both told her she should be glad she hadn't gone with us. I told her that I wished I had stayed with her! I think she wanted to make another run at the southern loop, but once he was off his bike Danny discovered he was very sore. So sore, in fact, that I had to load the bikes on the trailer, as Danny could barely move. I think this might be in part due to a fall he took. He was walking back down a steep hill, you see, to help me when he slipped and fell on his ass. Sorry, buddy. But at least I wasn't carrying a camera and didn't take a picture of it. Ha!

Danny and his WR450.

Phil does the "I'm the King of the World!" thing while Adam wonders if I'll ever catch up.

With the bikes loaded, we got the hell outta there. On the way home, we stopped at a Mexican restaurant in Norman and I bought Danny a birthday dinner. Least I could do for my brutha-from-a-different-mutha.

We will be going back. Danny and I have already discussed it. I left something there, ya see. A bit of pride or something. I gotta go back. Maybe that trail will kick my ass again. If it does, I'll just be going back again. Eventually, I'll beat it. Count on it.

Oh, I asked Phil -- when I saw him at Clayton last weekend for the Oklahoma Dualsport Rally -- if that trail ever did get any easier. "Brian," he said, "you can be glad you quit when you did, because it only got harder." It even took down Phil and Adam before it was all said and done.

Damn.

Ride Report: Rocky Mountain High

My ride report -- Canada and back, 5000 miles in ten days! -- is now complete in both the forums and on my website.

Destination: Aerospace America, Tinker Air Force Base

The ZZR and I set out to do something today that we haven't done in a long, long time: go to the Air Force Base on a day when I didn't have to go to work. Ack! I think the last time I went to the air show at Tinker was back around 1984, shortly after I started working there. Plain and simple, I just don't like crowds.

Aerospace America does a fantastic job putting on the show, and you really owe it to yourself to go if you're anywhere close -- after all, the admission is free: all part of making you proud to be an American. If you missed it today, it'll be going on tomorrow, too. Check their website for air show times.

Know what the coolest thing is about airplanes? I'll give you a minute to think about it. Need a hint? Remember that this blog is generally about motorcycles.

Of course, most people came out to see the Blue Angels do aerobatics in tight formation at ear-popping speeds. (Don't even ask, because I haven't a clue why an Air Force Base would have a Navy flight team performing as their headliner.) When I was a kid of about 11 or 12 years old, my dad was stationed at Naval Air Station Pensacola and we lived in base housing. This would have been in the early seventies. NAS Pensacola just happens to be the home of the Blue Angels, and they would practice right over my house all the time. Pretty cool. My Cub Scout troop was even sponsored by the Blue Angels. Somewhere, I still have my neckerchief from those years, emblazoned with the troop number and four Blue Angels flying in formation (they weren't flying the F-18 back then -- what was it, an A-6?), probably a valuable collector's item now.


But here we have some gen-u-ine Air Force planes, representing 50 years of air superiority. Top to bottom: F-16 Falcon, P-51 Mustang, F-15 Eagle, and F-4 Phantom. The jets are flying really, really slow, so as not to run the prop job into the ground. Ha.


There were performances by various stunt pilots, like this Oracle sponsored biplane.


And we were attacked by the Japanese (a reenactment of the bombing of Pearl Harbor using the actual planes from the movie Tora, Tora, Tora). Lots of explosions and smoke and totally cool.


The F-15 showed why it is still the fastest thing in the air (note the afterburners).


A B-2 Bomber snuck up on us.


There were more guys flying upside down and sideways and doing all sorts of things certain to make most of us mortals toss our cookies if we were onboard.


The Army's Golden Knights paratroopers did their thing, jumping out of a perfectly good airplane.


I like the flag a few of them were flying.


And much, much more!

All in all, a great way for the ZZR and I to spend the day, even if I did get nauseous going on base on a day when I didn't have to.

And what's the coolest thing about planes? They lean in the right direction when they turn, of course ... just like a motorcycle.

Destination: Lake Texoma & Catfish Platter Inc.

People don't normally ride 125+ miles each way just for dinner, but then we've already established that I'm not normal. Lately, I've been starting to think of mine as a "restless existence" (a term borrowed from Neil Peart, to be perfectly honest about it). Give me time, and I'll try to put what I mean by that into words here in a future blog entry. Essentially, though, I think it all boils down to an addiction to motion, an affliction in which my brain, my heart, the very interaction of the molecules that make up my being simply can't sit still. Let's go somewhere, my soul whispers. Why are we sitting here at home when we could be jamming to the wind and the hum of the tires on pavement? I don't even try to fight these feelings. The only question is what motorcycle to take ... though I do worry quite often about how I will afford tires and gas!

Anyway, when my friends Greg and Elaine, who live in the Dallas-Fort Worth area, mentioned a great catfish restaurant near Lake Texoma, what else would you expect me to say except "I'll meet you there for dinner." It's been a while since the ZZR has gone anywhere except back and forth to work, so that's what got rolled out of the garage today. I've yet to find a more comfortable rocketship.

The mighty Kawasaki ZZR1200.

Now I could buzz down I-35, but that's just not me. I worked my way south via backroads, including Highway 102 and the old one lane bridge just north of Byars. I don't know why, but old bridges seem to intrigue adventure riders. It's probably the ephemeral nature of these old structures that resonates with us: the certain knowledge that eventually the ever expanding flow of 4-wheeled traffic will spell the end of the old bridge; the fact that its rusty iron charisma will eventually be replaced with a concrete structure that looks just like every other bridge and overpass they're building these days. A bridge can have a personality, don't you think?

Objects in the rearview mirror...

Highway 177 carried me south through Sulphur and Madill. From Madill, 377 takes you south toward the lake and the smell of catfish fillets fryin' up crispy golden brown. If you cross the bridge over the lake and hit the Texas border, you've gone too far. You want to get to the Catfish Platter early, because the place definitely draws a crowd. As the sign says, they're only open three nights a week.

If you see this sign, you've gone too far.

Greg and Elaine arrive on their new Goldwing.

I only beat my friends by about 20 minutes -- perfect timing, more or less. Just enough time, in fact, to take a quick look at the lake. I was home before dark, avoiding the nightly roadway wanderings of forest rats (i.e., deer) and even escaping detection by the local revenue collectors sitting with their radar guns at both ends of the town of Asher (jeez, guys, get a friggin' life already!) -- thanks in part to all the friendly motorists madly flashing their lights at me.

All in all, a great day's ride, a great dinner, and absolutely great company. Thanks, Greg and Elaine!

Any suggestions for dinner next weekend?

Destination: Copper Canyon, Mexico

My ride report for our Copper Canyon adventure is complete. You can read it in the discussion forums here or on my website.

Hope you enjoy it!

Destination: Hillbilly Dualsport Rally, Eureka Springs, Arkansas

I'm back from the Hillbilly Dualsport Rally in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. I had an absolute blast! Special thanks to David Hemphill for once again doing such an excellent job of organizing the event.

My complete ride report -- with lots of photos! -- can be read on my website, here.

Destination: Wichita Mountains, Mount Scott, Meers

With clear blue skies and a new bike in my garage, it seemed a shame to spend Saturday on yard work or oil changes or listening to "How to Hable Espanole" tapes (in preparation for my Copper Canyon trip next month). A ride was definitely in order!

What better way to spend the day than riding with a couple good friends? Danny and his wife Kim, two up on their R1200GS, joined me for a spirited ride down to the Wichita Mountains in southwestern Oklahoma. Atop Mount Scott, we rendevued with my friends Greg and Elaine who had ridden their brand new Goldwing up from Irving, TX. The five of us then rode to Meers, where we joined a large crowd of other merry motorcyclists for BBQ. Leaving Meers, our bellies bulging, we toured the giant windmills singing away in the stout Oklahoma wind. There was ice cream on the ride home to top it all off.

What a great day!

Meers, Oklahoma ... home of the famous Meers Burger and some of the best damn BBQ in the state. Park right outside the door with every brand of motorcycle imaginable. Be sure to bring your appetite!

Windmills hum busily atop a ridge overlooking the Oklahoma prairie, cranking out mega jiggywatts for your flux capacitor, dilithium crystals, and whatever else sparks your spinach.