Day 3

Trailers for sale or rent.
Rooms to let fifty cents.
No phone. No pool. No pets.
Ain’t got no cigarettes.
Two hours of pushing broom
Buys an eight by ten four-bit room.
I’m a man of means, by no means,
King of the Road.

King of the Road by Roger Miller

The initial miles of Day 3’s first side road were rough. We braced our feet on the floorboards and clenched our legs on our tanks till they goggled under our thighs. Over the first pothole the bikes screamed in surprise, our front fork oil shocks bottoming with a clank. Through the plunges of the next ten seconds, we clung on, our gloved hands tight on the twist throttles so that no bump could wide open it and spoil our control. The bikes now and then wrenched sideways across parallel long ruts — we made sure they didn’t sway dizzily, wagging our bike tails. In came the clutch levers, engines racing freely, bikes checking and straightening with a slight shake, as they should.

We side-tripped again when we veered off between Joplin Missouri and Tulsa Oklahoma and later hopped onto a smooth surfaced, four lane divided speedway east of Tulsa. With the rough side road pavement behind us, our two wheeled flight became birdlike soaring smooth. After three miles of pleasant highball riding, we noticed people were holding Sunday morning yard sales along the frontage road next to our 75 MPH four laner. To facilitate their bazaar endeavors, these open-air shopkeepers had trampled down or cut the state department of transportation erected chain link safety fences that were inconveniencing their souks’ clientele. More amazing was the sight of their customers’ high-speed pull-offs to peruse their offerings. The shopping and bargaining genes were really strong in this portion of the midwestern plains of grains.

While on I-40 between Oklahoma City and Amarillo, we waved our arms off at hundreds upon hundreds of eastward bound bikers’ high-speed greetings. There must have been a rally they were returning from.

Observation #2: Posted speed limits out west are mostly 75+ MPH. The flow is well above 85 MPH, often exceeding 90.

Just as one of my neighbors predicted, the winds on this segment came up steady at 11 AM blowing 20+ MPH, while we were still east of Tulsa. By the early afternoon, as we rolled through the Oklahoma City area. They attained a constant 40+ MPH velocity out of the south-southwest. The lower, upper and trailing edges of US flags were straight out and looked like they had been starched and ironed flat. There was no flapping, fluttering, or moving edges visible.

I had only seen this phenomena during hurricane seasons in the Florida Keys and during flight operations onboard US Navy aircraft carriers. With Amarillo as that day’s destination, we were forced to ride straight westward almost the entire day, so our bikes like US Navy ships leaned south 15-20 degrees into the wind. The winds’ steadiness was a very good thing. For when they slacked in a roadside wind break shadow or suddenly gusted upward in velocity, we and our 1000-pound displacement bikes were tossed suddenly left or right like dried out fall leaves 7 to 10 feet sideways before we could correct.

We also saw the trip’s first dead armadillos on the roadside in central Oklahoma. Hitting one of them, dead or alive, with our front wheels was a major undesirable event. We learned to rise up on our pegs when hitting one was unavoidable.

Observation #3: We saw no helmeted riders in Missouri, Oklahoma or Texas. It was the same the day before in Kentucky, Indiana, and Illinois. My Indiana dwelling grandchildren always say when they spot an unhelmeted one: “No helmets, no brains.” My response is always “It’s a free country.” Enough said.

Observation #4: Massive increase in sighting frequency of men wearing suspenders in Missouri and Oklahoma. None seen previously or since. Meaning remains unclear.

Lots of church-going with rural chapel parking lots overflowing onto the road side farm drainage ditches as we rode the back roads and through the small towns of northeastern Oklahoma. Occasionally we heard the congregations singing so beautifully we downshifted and coasted in neutral to allow ourselves to be blessedly transformed. More than half the vehicles observed on the roads were pickup trucks and many were towing trailers. On half of these we spotted outfitted bass boats. Suspect in these parts that some Sunday worship services are held outdoors upon the waters.

We passed by a farm whose sign along an Oklahoma road said “We don’t rent pigs. Don’t ask.” I didn’t know why for a long time. (2023 comment addenda: So, after twenty years, I asked the internet — it’s from Larry McMurtry’s novel Lonesome Dove. The character Gus McRae insists that it’s “better to say it right out front because a man who does like to rent pigs . . . he’s hard to stop.” In fact, Gus considers the policy so important it’s clearly stated at the bottom of the Hat Creek Cattle Company sign. More importantly is how Gus defined his thoughts about capital-M man in the next line on his ranch’s sign “Uva uvam vivendo varia fit.” Roughly it means “A grape becomes mottled by being a grape,” with the sense that it’s the nature of a grape to become “mottled” as it ripens. Simply said “A man’s character is his destiny.” Sorta fits well with our skin mottling biker trips.)

For the third day in a row, total strangers walked up to us darkly clad figures, striking up conversations about our bikes, trip, destinations, their lives and their hopes. We seem to be a culture populated with folks, old and young and in between, with little to no fear of unknown outsiders just passing through.

Observation #5: Texans don’t need off ramps for the rural portions of their Interstates. More than I care to remember along I-40 we saw SUVs, big 6-wheel dualie pickup trucks, posh BMWs driving northwest Texas crazies displaying unmatched automotive machismo. It always came during long stretches where no exit ramps were available. They would just gun it though foot high grass, mowing it down flat, clunking through the drainage ditch, leaving occasional rooster tail dust clouds, throwing dirt clods, and uglifying their rides as they headed to and from the frontage roads (sometimes US 66). Yee Haw!

Trapped at the Log Cabin Texaco

Late PM gas stop in Erick Oklahoma. Exit 7 on I-40 whose signage proudly announced that it was the childhood hometown of singer and songwriter Roger Miller. Town of 500, if counting the visiting 300 cows within the city limits. Outside of the Interstate, this is open range country. Texaco gasoline is the only brand of choice. Perhaps there was in the distant past a range gas war where attacking bands of gas pump-jockeys (Men Who Wear The Star) destroyed all but the occasional Oklahoma state trooper reinforced CONOCO station redoubts.

The station’s parking lots save for postage stamp sized concrete pad gassing-up areas next to the pumps were irregular sized, lumpy gravel covered areas. We wore our helmets while refueling since the wind remained hard, steady, and chilly. The winds towel-snapped the worn plastic pennant shaped flags to within inches of my goggled eyes.

Inside the station’s small log cabin structure, a 60-ish, fully silver-grey haired, rimless glasses wearing, focused, tidy woman presided as cashier and attendant. In response to some idle chit chat and my oft asked question about how she came to be in Erick, she told this story.

No tornadoes have been recorded hitting the town. Some say that it’s the bountiful water in the local springs and creeks. She agreed. Native legends tell a story that spells cast long ago protect the area from being hit by “bent winds.” She said that the previous week saw winds in the steady 50-60 MPH region, blowing down barns, pancaking road signs and billboards with gusts tumbling down oil field drill rig equipment.

Originally from Osceola Missouri. Fourteen years ago she was living with her ex-husband’s son from a previously failed marriage in the northeastern Colorado foothills and was loving life. This stepson wanted to be nearer to his father, who was in a nursing care situation near Erick. Sold it all. Moved to Erick. Bought a really nice place so her son could have a good home while near his father.

She hated it there now. Longed for her lost Rockies spaces and friends. Boy’s father finally passed away, while the son grew up and moved away. She’s stuck there. Trapped. Selling Texaco gas, hard rock candy, stale candy bars, and cold sodas. Can’t sell her retirement fund — the house. No real Erick friends. Bored. Lonely. Constantly feeling poorly due to near year-round, revolving allergy seasons (wildflowers, grasses, trees, molds, weeds etc.). Absolutely “sick and tired of incessant straight winds.” Silently scary and isolating?

While recounting her story, she stared off into the space in front of her. The “telling” didn’t offer her any visible relief. We offered her hope and support of her efforts to eventually sell the house and move back to where she once was.

Lesson Learned #3: As Roger Miller says, don’t let your present and future happiness be irretrievably trapped by present things in one’s life. Especially true in one’s middle age. While owning one’s home is one of the core received truths of the American middle class, perhaps the essential point here is “not ‘things’ but ‘people’ and ‘places.’”

Dinner at Amarillo’s Big Texas roadhouse. Home of the 72-ounce steak — free if you can eat it all and keep it down. Otherwise, it’s $49.95, sides extra. Yes, it was a tourist trap; but we were tired; and, it was really late; and, you know, if you’re passing through the Lone Star state, the law requires overnight guests consume some range-reared, steer butt. Filets do not count.

Day 3 miscellany and counts:

Daily Windshield Bug Smash Bingo Game winners: Yellow x 1, Black x 1, White x 1. Multiple games due to windshield visibility repeatedly obliterated by bugs, requiring serious scrubbing.

Query count through day 3:
Where’re you going? – 5
What’s that? (Steve’s Valkyrie) – 3
Damsels in distress? – 4

Screenshot 2023-02-02 at 11.03.09 AM.png
Long ago in a desert highway small town Way Out West

Copyright © 2001 and 2023 From My Aisle Seat
www.vicsocotra.com