It was good to finally reach Steve and Vicci's place in Hendersonville. I had been looking forward to a return visit since 2012, although the recent circumstances have taken the shine off just about everything. At least I got a chance to reflect, and catch my breath a bit, and to just chill out with friends and enjoy this beautiful part of the country and some of what it has to offer. As well as kicking around some ideas for seeing other good bits of the US. Oh, and drinking all Steve's Bushmills. (He helped). We noticed at this point that the front tyre had developed an unusual wear pattern, so I took the bike in to a BMW dealership in Asheville. The diagnosis was that the tyre had been underinflated, although I ran the pressure recommended. With a bit more air in the tyre, I decided to monitor what happened during the long run across the plains to New Mexico, and deal with it then. So reluctantly, I saddled up again, bid farewell to my wonderful hosts, and headed for Georgia, where I had planned to catch up with Bobby and Kim, the couple I met in Big Fork, Montana earlier in this voyage.
The ride started out nicely, and I followed US64 most of the way. A good bike road, with nice scenery. I noticed a lot of people doing some white water rafting along a particularly attractive river valley on the way through. I have since learned this was an Olympic venue during the Atlanta games of 96. However, the weather finally turned on me. I thought it might have been a passing shower, so didn't bother to suit up, because it was still oppressively hot and humid. So I got wet, then it really started to bucket down. I stopped and put the wet gear on, but it was too late. By the time I hit my destination of Tunnel Hill, I felt like a drowned rat, but it was still hot! I was probably just as wet inside the suit due to the humidity as I might have been without it! And I had a bit of trouble locating their house. The GPS just would not cooperate. I think this area must be like the Bermuda Triangle. But I eventually stumbled into their driveway, thanks to a phone call and not my GPS. I recovered immediately when I saw where Bobby keeps his beer. He has a fridge, which contains a full size 18 gallon keg. What a setup! Pity I couldn't have stayed a bit longer.
I reluctantly headed for Harrison, Arkansas, where the plan was to check out the Ozarks and the reputedly good bike riding in the region. Bobby directed me southwards via Huntsville, Alabama, and scenic it was. Until I noticed a very dark sky in the direction I was heading. I thought about chickening out and finding a motel, but didn't think I'd covered enough distance at that point. Anyway, no guts, no glory! It would have been a wise move, as it happened. Just as I entered a causeway and bridge across a large lake on the approach to Decatur, Alabama, mother nature unleashed a furious assault. Day turned to night, literally, as my GPS went into night mode, and I was blasted by sheets of torrential rain propelled horizontally at me with hurricane like force. Visibility was down to about 15 metres, and I actually thought I was going to get blown into the railings or into oncoming traffic. The sound of thunder and the flash of lightning when its literally right on top of you is something I would not care to repeat. I felt genuine fear, but had no option but to push on, and I managed to make a right turn at the end of the bridge and looked for somewhere, anywhere to stop. Meanwhile, there was so much water on the road, I had my feet knocked off the pegs by the bow wave I was creating. I felt sure I would drop the bike, or get shunted from behind. I cannot recall seeing such a downpour, possibly only a torrential monsoon dump in Malacca (which I witnessed from the comfort of a bar). I found a gas station and hid under the canopy until the worst of it was over. Here is what the back end of the storm looked like, some 20 minutes after I emerged.
Having been scared witless, and gotten a good soaking, I had by then had quite enough, but as it had now cleared, I pushed on in an attempt to perhaps dry out to some degree. I got as far as Corinth (AL, not Greece), found a motel and started to dry my gear properly. Even my maps were soaked.
The following morning, it was raining steadily again, with dark sky in all directions. Great, here we go again, three days in a row! I decided to go straight through Memphis, keeping to the Interstates. Even then it was demanding, its a big, spread out city, with a lot of merging traffic. Watch out for black guys driving dilapidated wrecks with bits hanging off. They just don't care! I had several near misses, and was bloody glad to finally get across the Mississippi into the relative safety of Arkansas.
The countryside changed almost immediately, I think it is safe to say. From forested hills to flat but productive looking cropping country. Legumes in this area, and I even saw rice crops in flooded, low lying paddocks. Hope its sustainable and that the farmers aren't just after a quick buck. Judging by the amount of rain dumped on me, I'll give it a cautious nod of approval, for now. I also got a reminder about some of the other weather related hazards around here.
Welcome to Tornado Alley, the vast swathe of country between the Appalachians and the Rockies. Where anything can happen weatherwise and frequently does. I continue to be amazed at the complexity and the ferocity of the weather in this country.
Here's a couple of places that rival Concrete, Washington for the most unflattering town name in the country.
Welcome to Oil Trough, Arkansas.
Or maybe Flippin, Arkansas. The possibilities with this name are endless! And best of all, there really is a town called Dogpatch, for those who can remember the Lil Abner cartoon strip. Its on the AR7, just south of Harrison. To use an expression that gets right up my nose, OMG.
I noticed this sign on the way into Harrison.
Get the picture? Well, how about this next one. Hmmmm.
It didn't take me too long to realise I stood out like you know whats in the Ozarks. I wasn't driving a pickup truck with a Confederate flag on it, I wasn't riding a Harley without a helmet and any protective clothing, I wasn't a member of the NRA, and I still had all my teeth. But I did kinda talk funny.
And it doesn't take too much imagination to see where the design for State flag came from.
Today I actually went through some towns that didn't have a McDonalds. Yes, amazing but true. Those poor deprived people. Mind you, often that created some space for the second tier junk food providers like Sonic to get a toehold. But nevertheless, the riding was indeed pleasant, the countryside scenic, and the weather was kind to me. Interesting motel I stayed in too. When I checked in, I noted that the manager was Indian. As in Ghandi, not Geronimo. No surprises there, people from the subcontinent are well represented in the motel and gas station industries. After completing the formalities, he asked me where I was from. Then he added unnecessarily "I am from India" with a slight head wobble. I thought "No kidding, Gunga Din". It was all I could do to keep a straight face. Over the next day or two, we had several wide ranging conversations about cricket, the Commonwealth, Indian food, doing business in the US, good ole boys, Islamic nut jobs, etc. He was an intelligent and articulate man, and I really enjoyed our conversations. I think he did too. But I felt that life might be difficult for him in this neck of the woods.
And as for some of the other guests, hoo boy. I was checking my tyre pressures when a guy wandered up and started chatting. I have no problem with that, I enjoy it and it happens a lot. But this guy was one of those people that asks a question only as a prelude to telling you his entire life story, in excruciating detail, of course. He was a long term resident of this particular establishment. And of course he knew all about tyres, and motorcycles, and travelling, and everything else. A regular encyclopedia. Turns out this guy was a direct descendant of somebody who came to America on the Mayflower. So he said. Right about then, I decided I had to make an urgent phone call. Later that afternoon, I overheard the same bloke telling another hapless guest that he was related to Custer. Maybe he was all those things, but I made damn sure the door was locked that night. All part of the experience of being a fly on the wall of life, readers.
The following morning, I headed west yet again, bidding farewell to the rolling green hills of the Ozarks, and into Oklahoma for the first time. My goal was somewhere near Oklahoma City, and my route followed the backroads as much as possible, after I got through Tulsa on US412 that is. While humming the old Gene Pitney song, followed by Eric Clapton's Tulsa Time, then back to Gene again. There's a song for every occasion! This route put me on part of the old Route 66 between Tulsa and Oklahoma City. Let me assure you it was quite unintentional. I was just trying to avoid the I-40, but there it was in all its glory.
What's the big attraction with dilapidated motels and gas stations? Can somebody tell me? Please??
The ride started out nicely, and I followed US64 most of the way. A good bike road, with nice scenery. I noticed a lot of people doing some white water rafting along a particularly attractive river valley on the way through. I have since learned this was an Olympic venue during the Atlanta games of 96. However, the weather finally turned on me. I thought it might have been a passing shower, so didn't bother to suit up, because it was still oppressively hot and humid. So I got wet, then it really started to bucket down. I stopped and put the wet gear on, but it was too late. By the time I hit my destination of Tunnel Hill, I felt like a drowned rat, but it was still hot! I was probably just as wet inside the suit due to the humidity as I might have been without it! And I had a bit of trouble locating their house. The GPS just would not cooperate. I think this area must be like the Bermuda Triangle. But I eventually stumbled into their driveway, thanks to a phone call and not my GPS. I recovered immediately when I saw where Bobby keeps his beer. He has a fridge, which contains a full size 18 gallon keg. What a setup! Pity I couldn't have stayed a bit longer.
I reluctantly headed for Harrison, Arkansas, where the plan was to check out the Ozarks and the reputedly good bike riding in the region. Bobby directed me southwards via Huntsville, Alabama, and scenic it was. Until I noticed a very dark sky in the direction I was heading. I thought about chickening out and finding a motel, but didn't think I'd covered enough distance at that point. Anyway, no guts, no glory! It would have been a wise move, as it happened. Just as I entered a causeway and bridge across a large lake on the approach to Decatur, Alabama, mother nature unleashed a furious assault. Day turned to night, literally, as my GPS went into night mode, and I was blasted by sheets of torrential rain propelled horizontally at me with hurricane like force. Visibility was down to about 15 metres, and I actually thought I was going to get blown into the railings or into oncoming traffic. The sound of thunder and the flash of lightning when its literally right on top of you is something I would not care to repeat. I felt genuine fear, but had no option but to push on, and I managed to make a right turn at the end of the bridge and looked for somewhere, anywhere to stop. Meanwhile, there was so much water on the road, I had my feet knocked off the pegs by the bow wave I was creating. I felt sure I would drop the bike, or get shunted from behind. I cannot recall seeing such a downpour, possibly only a torrential monsoon dump in Malacca (which I witnessed from the comfort of a bar). I found a gas station and hid under the canopy until the worst of it was over. Here is what the back end of the storm looked like, some 20 minutes after I emerged.
Having been scared witless, and gotten a good soaking, I had by then had quite enough, but as it had now cleared, I pushed on in an attempt to perhaps dry out to some degree. I got as far as Corinth (AL, not Greece), found a motel and started to dry my gear properly. Even my maps were soaked.
The following morning, it was raining steadily again, with dark sky in all directions. Great, here we go again, three days in a row! I decided to go straight through Memphis, keeping to the Interstates. Even then it was demanding, its a big, spread out city, with a lot of merging traffic. Watch out for black guys driving dilapidated wrecks with bits hanging off. They just don't care! I had several near misses, and was bloody glad to finally get across the Mississippi into the relative safety of Arkansas.
The countryside changed almost immediately, I think it is safe to say. From forested hills to flat but productive looking cropping country. Legumes in this area, and I even saw rice crops in flooded, low lying paddocks. Hope its sustainable and that the farmers aren't just after a quick buck. Judging by the amount of rain dumped on me, I'll give it a cautious nod of approval, for now. I also got a reminder about some of the other weather related hazards around here.
Welcome to Tornado Alley, the vast swathe of country between the Appalachians and the Rockies. Where anything can happen weatherwise and frequently does. I continue to be amazed at the complexity and the ferocity of the weather in this country.
Here's a couple of places that rival Concrete, Washington for the most unflattering town name in the country.
Welcome to Oil Trough, Arkansas.
Or maybe Flippin, Arkansas. The possibilities with this name are endless! And best of all, there really is a town called Dogpatch, for those who can remember the Lil Abner cartoon strip. Its on the AR7, just south of Harrison. To use an expression that gets right up my nose, OMG.
I noticed this sign on the way into Harrison.
Get the picture? Well, how about this next one. Hmmmm.
It didn't take me too long to realise I stood out like you know whats in the Ozarks. I wasn't driving a pickup truck with a Confederate flag on it, I wasn't riding a Harley without a helmet and any protective clothing, I wasn't a member of the NRA, and I still had all my teeth. But I did kinda talk funny.
And it doesn't take too much imagination to see where the design for State flag came from.
Today I actually went through some towns that didn't have a McDonalds. Yes, amazing but true. Those poor deprived people. Mind you, often that created some space for the second tier junk food providers like Sonic to get a toehold. But nevertheless, the riding was indeed pleasant, the countryside scenic, and the weather was kind to me. Interesting motel I stayed in too. When I checked in, I noted that the manager was Indian. As in Ghandi, not Geronimo. No surprises there, people from the subcontinent are well represented in the motel and gas station industries. After completing the formalities, he asked me where I was from. Then he added unnecessarily "I am from India" with a slight head wobble. I thought "No kidding, Gunga Din". It was all I could do to keep a straight face. Over the next day or two, we had several wide ranging conversations about cricket, the Commonwealth, Indian food, doing business in the US, good ole boys, Islamic nut jobs, etc. He was an intelligent and articulate man, and I really enjoyed our conversations. I think he did too. But I felt that life might be difficult for him in this neck of the woods.
And as for some of the other guests, hoo boy. I was checking my tyre pressures when a guy wandered up and started chatting. I have no problem with that, I enjoy it and it happens a lot. But this guy was one of those people that asks a question only as a prelude to telling you his entire life story, in excruciating detail, of course. He was a long term resident of this particular establishment. And of course he knew all about tyres, and motorcycles, and travelling, and everything else. A regular encyclopedia. Turns out this guy was a direct descendant of somebody who came to America on the Mayflower. So he said. Right about then, I decided I had to make an urgent phone call. Later that afternoon, I overheard the same bloke telling another hapless guest that he was related to Custer. Maybe he was all those things, but I made damn sure the door was locked that night. All part of the experience of being a fly on the wall of life, readers.
The following morning, I headed west yet again, bidding farewell to the rolling green hills of the Ozarks, and into Oklahoma for the first time. My goal was somewhere near Oklahoma City, and my route followed the backroads as much as possible, after I got through Tulsa on US412 that is. While humming the old Gene Pitney song, followed by Eric Clapton's Tulsa Time, then back to Gene again. There's a song for every occasion! This route put me on part of the old Route 66 between Tulsa and Oklahoma City. Let me assure you it was quite unintentional. I was just trying to avoid the I-40, but there it was in all its glory.
What's the big attraction with dilapidated motels and gas stations? Can somebody tell me? Please??
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