May 2001
Detour Version 1.0

Day 2

“Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.”
business oral greetings
upon a customer entering

“Hallelujah, all y’all, Hallelujah.”
my response upon entry

Ah, the melodious voices which welcome patrons as they open the front door to a 24/7 Waffle House restaurant — home of the Pecan Waffle, juke boxes with some of the finest country western music anywhere, both classic and modern, and at least a dozen different songs composed as odes to this southern roadside tradition!

Round the clock, they welcome all — rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, drunk, stoner, sober, religious, and profane. Yes, we were breaking on day and night one of this trip’s rules regarding chains but just this once as we began our western way. Our RCI room did have its allure — walking distance for our creaking road sore bodies to this pinnacle of cheapo yet good eats. This chain was where I long ago shed my northerner grits virginity way back in 1971 in North Carolina. Comfort Food. Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmmm.

Road trip tip #1: Get your waffle and bacon extra crispy for max great taste.

Revelation #1: Learn how to decently tie the biker’s kerchief, all by myself in my mid-fifties. No, not one of the overpriced, faux, easy to tie with Velcro or snap clip-ons doo rags that Harley peddles for $11-$13. Mine was an authentic Kmart workman’s sweat band printed cloth. To those wise guys in Kentucky: no, I do not look like a chemo patient. And to my “new age” acquaintances: no, there were no accompanying insights about crossing some modern boundaries of my inner sensitivities, ya da, ya da, ya da.

Old Lesson (Re)Learned #1: Repack your TBag tightly each day before heading out and solidly remount it the same way to prevent serious leaning, unsightly bulges, and poor motorcycle handling.

Observation #1: Steve’s TBag leans to the left, Mine to the right. He’s a New Mexico Democrat by more than century of local, state, and national family tradition. Me — a Republican of recent family lineage. Commie Bag? Patriot Bag? Nope. Just Red, White, and Blue. These stuffed seat backs provided us great lean-into lower back support for these early days of grind-it-out riding.

At the day’s first gas stop in Corydon Indiana, we met a 68-year-old, thrice retired (20-year US Army career; 20+ year career in the automotive industry on the assembly line in Kokomo Indiana; and a just ended stint as a school bus driver), current cattle ranch owning with her motorcycle driving man as his back seat companion. They were riding a pristine 1985 Honda Goldwing with 97,000 miles on the odometer. As the original owners of this classic bike, they had toured all over the lower 48 states. He had just quit his most recent job to go on a short trip (500 miles one way).

They both were full-on wandersluts. He crowed about the time how they had ridden all the way from Salem Indiana to dine at a restaurant across the Mississippi River from Memphis Tennessee — 800 miles one way! We yammered on endlessly about bikes, our military service & retirement, and the road. He had been riding bikes since before he was 15 — longer than I had been alive. They revealed their plans for his soon to come 70th birthday — buy a new Goldwing (he was ecstatic about the new 1800cc engine, added cushy extras and ABS brakes that we told him about) and tour all of the lower 48 before he turned 71. Steve and I silently hoped we’d be so lucky in our 60s to still tour and have our spouse’s full approval and support.

We pulled out of the station to greet another bend in the road: Steve had the honor to lead us onto another of Midwest’s myriad of hidden scenic and fast roads. The burble of our exhausts unwound like long cords behind us. Soon our speed snapped them, and we heard only the small cries of the wind which our battering helmeted heads split and fended aside. The cries rose with our speed, while the morning air’s cool dryness streamed by our goggled eyes. Thus protected, we focused our attention hundreds of yards ahead of us on the empty mosaic of the green bordered asphalt’s undulations.

Lesson Learned #2: Great road trips often start upon quitting jobs.

We took Indiana route 62 as it roughly paralleled I64 and had excellent twisties, ups-n-downs, small towns and vistas.

As we highballed past a central Missouri I-64 on-ramp, we were quickly overtaken and passed by an empty, ever accelerating 10-ton dump truck, its driver obviously headed home at the end of a long Saturday of hauling. Curious as to his velocity, I downshifted and twisted wide open the FatBoy’s throttle to reel this big fish back in. I caught and paced him doing 95+MPH. Whoa.

We ended Day #2 a bit shy of its Joplin Missouri goal since there’s was no point of exhausting ourselves after another 12-13 hour day in the saddle due to the extra mileage of our side route excursions. We’d make up the shortfall on tomorrow’s segment,

While walking to Kenny’s — a local BBQ joint in Springfield — we happened upon a classic, restored, custom and cruiser car drive-in show in a chain burger restaurant’s parking lot. These vehicles were driven by loving fiends of America’s rolling automotive beauties from the 1920s through the early 1970s.

This warm spring, shirt-sleeve Saturday evening witnessed a 4-lane byway metamorphose into a cruising street just like the ones we experienced during drive-in Friday nights in the 1960s. A geezerfied version of American Graffitti. Very cool.

Day 2 miscellany and counts:

(2023 observation: my scribblings are silent this day for this tally sheet info.)

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