"Don't run over your Wingman!"

Danny, my "brutha from a different mutha," Wingman extraordinaire -- in the parking lot, just before we left to ride the Black. Yes, he always looks that maniacal before a ride...

A couple years ago at the annual dualsport rally in Eureka Springs, I left my riding buddy Danny at a gas station, believing him to be one of the headlights strung out behind me (or at least believing that the accepted policy of watching out for the rider behind you meant that someone in the daisy chain of bikes would stop if a rider got dropped off the tail end). To this day, neither Danny nor several others who know about the incident have let me forget it, constantly subjecting me to the advice not to ever "leave my Wingman." I hear it every time we gather up for one of our group rides. And, of course, Danny's always quick to pick on me about it.

"Don't ever leave your Wingman!"

I don't think I'll be hearing that anymore. If there's one thing worse than leaving your Wingman behind ... it's running over him. Especially if you put him in the emergency room with three broken ribs.

How the hell, you might ask, did I ever manage to do that? Well, pull up a chair and let me tell you all about it. Gather 'round here in front, though, cause I can't turn my neck to the side.

You've heard of the new trail at CrossTimbers, of course: the Black Trail. Sounds ominous, doesn't it? Expert-level. Double Diamond. Make out a Last Will and Testament before you try it ... that sorta thing. Danny got it in his head that we needed to give it a go Monday afternoon after work. (Note right from the start how I'm going to place all the blame for this (mis)adventure on him.) Silly bugger didn't even want to wait until his WR450 was back together (the weekend before last, he ripped out a rear spoke on a root while we were riding the Red Trail at CrossTimbers); he was just gonna tough it out on his DR-Z400 (a much heavier, lighter-sprung machine). Madness, I tell ya! Madness!

I wanted to ride my l'il 230 for my first attempt at the Black Trail, but knew I'd get picked on for that. Against my better judgment, I went ahead and took my CRF450X, affectionately referred to as "the beast." I don't remember the context, but at some point during the day as we were discussing our chances of survival, I was dumb enough to say to Danny, "You know I'd probably ride right off the edge of the Grand Canyon behind ya, buddy." Am I nucking futs?!?! What was I thinking? Little did I know how apropos that statement would be.

Anyway, after work, I tossed the 450X in the back of the truck and headed for CrossTimbers. I got there to find the place mostly deserted, which is the norm on a weekday afternoon. I had time to unload my bike and gear up while waiting for Danny. I'm always early. Danny's always late. What else is new? Danny finally arrived, having ridden his street-legal DR-Z400 instead of hauling it. We got mounted up and hit the trails.

The new Black Trail opens up off the very back end of the Red Trail, so you have a bit of riding to do just to get out to it. At some point on the way out there, I stalled my bike and had a hard time getting it restarted. I had this trouble the weekend before last too, as if the battery was too weak to turn over the engine, but that doesn't make much sense because the battery's fairly new and I always keep it on a tender. I had to kick start it, and the 450 is a bugger to kick. I finally got it running again, though.

Aside from all the dire warnings about its difficulty, I've heard conflicting stories about the length of the Black Trail: it's 17 miles long; it's 20 miles long; it doesn't matter how long it is cause you'll die before you reach the end anyway. I honestly couldn't tell you exactly how long it is because Danny and I only saw the first quarter mile or so. The first nasty obstacle -- there to separate the men from the boys, I suppose -- is what took us out. There's a sign which we didn't pause to read at the gate for the Black Trail. Something to the effect of it being a trail for "expert riders only." Maybe we should have read it?

So, with Danny in the lead, we took off down the Black. The first section is fairly tight woods stuff. The trail's brand new, so there are no ruts, no berms. At this stage, it reminded me of the Red Trail when it was first opened. Nothing to it. I was feeling good. I was keeping up with Danny through that first section, despite the fact that he's generally a faster rider, especially in the tight stuff. The trail climbed a little rise, then plunged down into a gully. Nice dropoff, maybe 15 feet mostly straight down. I was careful not to brake or haul in the clutch, letting the motor carry me down the dropoff. Nothing to it. Almost seemed I knew what I was doing (famous last words!). Danny shot up the other side of the gully and I accelerated after him. Steep hills also still give me pause, but I was on the pegs, weight forward, and I had no trouble. We shot through a few more trees. The trail wound around and up another rise and I saw Danny, just thirty feet ahead of me, plunge down another dropoff. One minute he was there, the next he was gone. Poof!

I didn't even hesitate. There was a bit of a rise to the edge of this dropoff, so you couldn't really see anything about it until you were past the point of no return. As my front tire crossed the edge and I was shifting my weight as far back as possible to ride it out, I noticed another rider on the far bank waving. "Yeah, hey there, buddy. How's it going? Great day to be riding, eh?" My front wheel plunged down. I looked down to see where I was going.

Holy shit, this thing is like 25 or 30 feet straight effing down -- and Danny is all wadded up at the bottom!!!

I think I yelled his name. (He says I yelled "Fuck!" but I think that was actually him when he saw 250 pounds of CRF450X and 180 pounds of bahwolf coming straight down at him.) "Danny!" This was meant to be "Danny, get the fuck outta the way!" But all I had time for was his name. It's not like you can steer when you're free-falling down a 25 foot near-vertical creek bank. Danny was stretched out lengthwise right across the path at the bottom, like some Damsel in Distress tied across the proverbial railroad tracks. Dudley Do-Right is coming, buddy, but it ain't to save you from the train. He's bringing the train with him!

I don't know that he moved at all, except maybe to throw up his arms. My front tire caught him right across the upper rib cage. The bike endo'ed, tossing me head over heels. Fortunately, I missed the concrete parking lot thingamajigs laid across the creek (placed there to keep bikes from eroding the creek bottom and ultimately making the crossing impassable). I did, however, come down right on top of my head. The creek's about a foot deep here, maybe a little more. I plunged underwater and my head came to a nice solid stop on the rocky creek bottom, pummeled in good by the 180 pounds of bahwolf that I mentioned earlier. My neck was jammed down to about my asshole (the wife says my head is mostly up there anyway). I swear I'm probably an inch shorter now. I'd later discover that the force was strong enough to break the visor off my dirtbike helmet and actually bruised my head clean through the helmet. Without the helmet, I've no doubt my skull would have been fractured. It felt like I hung there a minute (that whole time dilation thing), doing a headstand in the water, watching fish swim by my submerged head, checking out their reflection in my mirrored Thor goggles, their little fish mouths O'ing "WTF, dude?" Then I fell over like a lumberjacked tree, submerging my sorry ass completely in the cold creek. I bobbed around for a second or two (I distinctly remember looking down at my toes as my boots filled with water), long enough to realize I wasn't dead anyway. Then I flopped over on my belly and pollywogged through the water to my riding buddy who still hadn't moved and was now groaning and wheezing like the wimpy kid in dodgeball who'd just caught one in the nuts. My biggest fear was that the bike might have caught him across the neck.

The rear wheel of the CRF was kinda laying up against his head and shoulder, so I grabbed it and slung it aside. Easiest I've ever moved that bike, lemme tell you. Then I knelt and asked him where he was hurt. He didn't say; he just moaned some more and kinda tried to sit up, and I convinced him to stay where he was. I asked him again where he was hurting, where the bike had hit him. He motioned to his upper ribcage. I pulled off my helmet and tossed it aside, then did the same for him.

After all the drama. We've moved Danny's bike to the other side of the creek and here I am trying to kick start my CRF450X. The Hill of Doom is behind me. Despite his pain, Danny took the time to pull out his camera and capture the moment. Remember, it's always steeper than it looks in the photo...

With the help of the rider who'd been trying to wave me off, we eventually got Danny and his bike moved to the other side of the creek. Then I pulled my bike out of the water and tried to get it started. The starter button yielded absolutely nothing, so I had to resort to kicking again. I think there must be something wrong with the starter motor itself, the switch, or the wiring -- something to sort out later. Last thing I did to the bike was install a Trailtech computer, so maybe I screwed something up in the wiring.

Danny was hurting pretty bad, but there was nothing to do but ride out of there. Several riders stopped to help, mostly leading/escorting us out (though it seemed at times they were taking us in circles -- Danny and I both commented later that we think we could have just ridden out of there faster sticking to the established trails). They led him down several obstacles that I thought were a bit much in his present condition. At one point, we had to drop into a ditch from about 8 feet up and one of the other guys rode Danny's DR-Z down for him. I was starting to hurt too, both my neck and my left wrist. Nothing too bad, though. I knew Danny was in a lot more pain. He's tough, though.

We eventually got out to the parking lot. Got both bikes loaded on my truck -- again, with the help of several other riders. Thanks to those guys for interrupting their own fun to help us out. That's the way riders are, though. Danny and I would have done the same for any of them. One time last year, in fact, we'd helped escort a guy with a broken leg back to the parking lot. Thanks though, guys, we really appreciate all the help.

I hauled Danny -- still moaning and groaning -- to an urgent care clinic. We called his wife, Kim, and got her en route. They x-rayed him at the clinic and thought it serious enough to send him on to a real emergency room, where they took some better shots of his ribs and declared three of them broken. Get ye to bed old man. Your riding days are over for a while. (Soon as Kim emails the x-rays to me, I'll see about adding them to this blog entry.)

I went home and immediately unloaded both our bikes, knowing I wouldn't be able to the next morning. Sure enough, my neck is now too sore to turn my head from side to side. It had me tossing and turning most of the night.

Worst thing? I told Danny, "Man, I had that fucking dropoff nailed! I was there. I was through it!" Scariest damn dropoff I've ever taken and I had it. If I hadn't hit him, I woulda sailed right across that creek and up the other side. I was on line. I was in control. Dammit, I had it!

"Soon as I'm better," says Danny, "we're going back."

No freakin' way! I've seen the damn thing from the other side now. Only way I went down it once was because I just plunged right over the edge without taking the time to look or think about it. There's no way I could ride over that edge again, knowing what it looks like now, knowing what happened the first time. Yeah, I'm a big fraidy-cat.

But ... "We're going back," says Danny. And I didn't see any way around that obstacle.

Danny's not sure how he crashed. He thinks he probably went over the edge, saw how steep it was, and panicked. Probably grabbed a big handful of front brake and the front slid out from under him. He says he remembers saying, "Oh shit!" Says that after his crash he remembers thinking that he maybe oughta get up and move out of the way ... just before that big red Honda came plunging down the hill at him.

I feel terrible about hitting him, of course -- even though he's told me a dozen times that there was nothing I could do. He can say that all he wants, but I sure wish I'd stopped at the edge of that dropoff and looked down first. I'm wondering if Kim is gonna let him come out to play with me after this. "You tell that Hopkins boy that you're not allowed to play with him anymore, Danny!"

Let this be a lesson to the rest of you. Never, ever, ever run over your Wingman!

---

Addendums:

As promised, here's Danny's x-ray!


Here's a photo (compliments of another Oklahoma dirtbiker -- thanks, Igor!) of that dropoff as seen from the top. It's now being called the "Wall of Death" on the Ride OK forums.


And some of the ladies have requested a pic of me from before the ride. So here's the dashing and debonair bahwolf hisownstudlyself, just moments before we left the parking lot.


Others have been asking how Danny is doing. Physically, I think he's healing as well as can be expected. Mentally, however ... well, here he is still trying to come to grips with the accident, acting it out in his living room with Mr Potato Head dolls. Heh heh.


Heal fast, buddy.

Another Reminder to Ride Safe

I spent this past weekend at the second annual Eureka Springs ZZR1200 Rally. Sadly, a ZZR rider from Missouri crashed on Talimena Scenic Byway Friday afternoon. He and his motorcycle left the roadway and struck a tree. Despite him wearing all the right safety gear and aggressive and immediate CPR administered by those riding with him, he died on the scene. (Obituary is here.)

I'd just been through there that morning with my friend Greg Ruffin, both of us mounted on our CBR1000RR's en route to Eureka Springs. (In fact, we passed that southbound group somewhere south of Ozark, recognizing the bikes and our mutual friend Crazytrain in the lead. We turned around, figuring they'd stop to say hello, but they continued on. Because we hadn't had lunch and were heading in the opposite direction, we didn't chase them down.) I'd also been through there two weeks ago with my friends Danny and Kim (ref the video in my last post, filmed on that very road). I'd felt extremely confident on my Triumph Tiger two weeks ago, never out of control at speeds averaging 70 mph. On the CBRs this past weekend at significantly higher speeds, both Greg and I admitted to being a bit sloppy. It'd been some time since we'd "ridden the CBRs in anger" and it took most of that first day to shake out the cobwebs. There'd also been a fair amount of pine debris on the road surface from the storms the night before. For these reasons, Greg and I had both backed off the throttle a bit, but I can't help being reminded that an accident is just a thin margin of error removed. I often contemplate an accident scenario -- an overcooked corner, an imperfect and/or poorly evaluated road surface, an approaching vehicle with no respect for the centerline ... any of the dozens of potential pitfalls -- but I never punctuate my ruminations with death. Road rash. Bumps and bruises. Maybe a broken bone or two. These things I expect. Never death.

It's a sobering reminder that there's great risk in what we do. Group rides often bring out some rather unsavory dynamics. Never ride over your head. There's nothing to prove, nothing to gain, and everything to lose. "Ride your own ride." It's an oft-repeated and simple mantra. Sadly, I think it's very often an empty platitude with group rides. Blame peer pressure. Blame testosterone. Blame the simple courtesy of not wanting to hold up everyone else. It doesn't really matter why it happens. The simple truth is that it happens more often than not. At last year's rally, there were five crashes. Amazingly, there were no serious injuries. This year, there was only the one crash, but it was certainly one too many.

Personally, I think I'll be reevaluating my own participation in such group rides in the future. I honestly can't recall a single one where I haven't seen some seriously dangerous and stupid riding take place. And, yes, I'm honest enough to admit that some of that dangerous and stupid riding was done by yours truly.

My heart goes out to the wife and two daughters who thought Daddy was just going away for a fun weekend of riding the motorcycle he loved so much. I can't even imagine what it must have been like for his wife, having a Missouri State Trooper come to her door with no other information than "Ma'am, you need to contact the Oklahoma State Police." How long did it take to make that call, heart in her throat? How many times was she agonizingly put on hold and transferred from one person to another until she reached someone who gave her the worst of all possible news? And how do you deliver such dreadful news to your children?

Let's all be careful out there. Life is a very fragile thing.

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!

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.

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.)

See You At Clayton Lake State Park!

This weekend is the annual Oklahoma Dualsport Rally, hosted by James Pratt and his family at Clayton Lake State Park in southeastern Oklahoma. Always a great time!

A few last minute tweaks to the CRF450X and we're ready to go:

A RAM mount on the handlebars allows me to take my GPS, so that I can hopefully avoid getting lost -- like I did last year! I hope to eventually upgrade to one of the new Garmin Zumo GPSs, but for now my old Magellan at least lets me know where I am.

A numberplate bag gives me a bit more space for carrying tools, snacks, and schtuff (though it does hide my snarling wolf decal).

You can never have too many stickers advertising your website!

And a warning sticker to remind me the 450 is definitely NOT my 230 wouldn't hurt either, especially when I think about how many times I got thrown off at Crossbar Ranch a couple weekends ago! (That story's coming, as is the second half of the "Chicken Run" story and the 9-day ride I just came back from ... I am just really far behind on stuff right now!)

Hope to see everyone at Clayton!

Labor Day Weekend Ride: Chicken Run! (Part One)

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.

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?

"The Road Beckons..."

Seems the Beemer and I are always going through this ... What to take? What to leave behind? Is the bike ready? Am I? As usual, my pool table becomes a staging area.

The forecast calls for rain, both here in Oklahoma and in northwestern Arkansas. On a positive note, it appears we'll have much warmer weather than we usually have for the Hillbilly Dualsport Rally in Eureka Springs. Wasn't it just last year that I awoke to three or four inches of snow on the morning of departure? No snow in the forecast this year. In fact, the weathermen are predicting temps in the low seventies. Best to pack warm gear, though, even if I don't wind up needing it. Even without the threat of rain, there are a lot of water crossings in the Ozarks, and I get cold when I'm wet.

I'll be riding out with my friend Chris Marlow. He'll be on his DR-Z400, so our speeds won't be anything to brag about -- call it a nice, liesurely ride for my 650cc Dakar ... plenty of time to snap some pics and admire the scenery. Both of us are rehearsing for our Copper Canyon run just two weeks away. (We'll only have one weekend to turn around the bikes: oil changes, tires, air filters, any necessary repairs, etc.) Packing is especially critical for Chris because space is at a premium on the little DR-Z. I've got it much easier on the BMW. Even so, I'm carrying things I don't usually take, just to see how well I can pack the bike, things like spare clutch and throttle cables, spare levers, etc -- things that could leave me crippled on the side of the road in Mexico in the event of a failure, at the mercy of los banditos. I'd hoped to have a new battery installed by now, but the one I ordered is still on backorder, as are several trick components from Touratech (folding brake pedal, offroad chain guide, and an oil-type air filter to replace the BMW's paper cartridge). Maybe some of it will arrive before we leave for Mexico. At the very least, I'd like to get rid of the BMW's acid-type battery, which has already boiled over on me once.

Danny will meet us in Arkansas (after trailering up with his wife). He'll be going through the same sort of thing with his XR650L, making sure it's ready for Mexico. The final rider for our Copper Canyon adventure, Rich Desmond, won't be playing with us in Arkansas this time around. He's got something else going on down in Texas with his Concours-riding buddies.

The four of us have been planning this Mexico trip for a long time. I'm glad the departure date is nearly upon us.

But for now ... Arkansas, here we come. David Hemphill, the Kansas rider responsible for this rally, is predicting a record-breaking crowd. Last I heard, there were more than 50 rooms reserved at the primary hotel -- and some riders will undoubtedly choose different digs or camp out.

I look forward to meeting up with old dualsporting friends and making new ones.

"Are You Ready For This...?"

Pulling into my driveway when I came home from work today, I noticed all the pretty blossoms on our Japanese something-or-other tree and realized that "spring has sprung." The tree wasn't my only reminder, though; I'm beginning to see a lot more motorcycles on the road as all the seasonal riders uncover their steeds, blow off the cobwebs, and hit the mean streets. Though my own bikes get ridden year round, I realize not everyone is as hardcore as I am. Many bikes are forced to hibernate through the winter, sullenly slumbering through the drab brown months with their bellies full of stabilizer, their dreaming brains tickled by battery tenders, and their thickening lifeblood pooled morosely into sump pans. Grizzlies in waiting. Summer friends.

But now ... now here comes the sun and the green shoots of Bermuda thrust up through the dead heather of winter. Spring storms will soon inspire wildflowers to bloom. In southern states, women are revealing far more than they should in exchange for cheap plastic beads made in China ... All clear indicators of motorcycle-friendly weather!

Before you jump on that two-wheeled beauty, fire it up, and roar off through the neighborhood, however, make sure the bike's actually ready for the road. Check the tires for proper inflation and adequate tread. Check all the fluid levels (oil, coolant, brakes, battery, etc). Run a quick test of all the electrics: turn signals, horn, lights; in particular, make sure the brakelight comes on when you apply the brakes. Inspect fittings and hoses. Look for loose fasteners and inspect your chain: is the tension correct, does it need lubricated? Make sure your throttle and clutch cable move freely and smoothly; if not, lube them. How about your brakes; are the pads in good shape? Does your air filter need replaced or cleaned and oiled? Make sure no critters have taken up residence in the exhaust, air box, or even under the seat. When you saddle up for the first time, check the adjustment of your mirrors and take a moment to refamiliarize yourself with the controls; you don't want to be fumbling for the horn button when a careless driver, having gone all winter without worrying too much about motorcycles on the road, cuts into your lane.

You might also take some time to give your riding gear a quick once-over. If you haven't ridden in a few months, take it slow and easy at first; make sure you're not rusty. Find a vacant parking lot if necessary and chalk off some imaginary cones.

When your bike and you are ready, enjoy the ride!

And don't forget to return my wave when we pass.

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Have a suggestion or tip for prepping your bike in the spring? Please share it with the rest of us by using the comment feature below!

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.

"A is for Adventure..."