Today I rode past the Riverside Gun Shop on a curvy bit of road outside of Eureka Springs. A couple of miles later I turned the Revival around and went back. Ron, the man at the counter, talked about his 21 year old daughter, she’s been promoted to front-of-house manager at Chick-fil-A and that’s a good job. I talked about Eli and Coco (my kids). He likes art and wanted to hear about Coco’s job at MIA (Minneapolis Institute of Arts). He visits Crystal Bridges museum in Bentonville and described in detail some of his favorite paintings. He doesn’t remember the artists.
Riverside Gun Shop
Blackberries grow wild around his house, they’re smaller and sweeter than farm-raised but you’ve got to watch the thorns. The dogs like them, too. Rattlesnakes are becoming a problem; they’d always had water moccasins and copperheads, but the rattlers are new. He found a young one outside the house just the other day. They’ve got armadillos now, too.
Ron’s boss, the owner of the shop is an Army vet and took our picture.
I’m in room 6 at the Edelweiss Inn in Eureka Springs, Debbie and Lee are in room 4. They’re riding new BMW boxers, R1250RSs and live in Creston, Iowa. They’re retired, no kids. He’d been a civil engineer for the Federal Government, she’d been a department manager at the Walmart store for 32 years. They’ve been riding together since the ‘80s. I suggested that the country was in bad shape, to which they enthusiastically agreed. They got quiet when I told them that I was liberal commie and we went back to motorcycle stories.
(Maybe I should have let them bring the heat. But my fear is that once they’re all fired up that I won’t be able to bring them back to motorcycle stories, that we’ll argue or stop talking. Need to think about that. Lee just walked by, waved and smiled. We’re good.)
Traveling well is the time and willingness to turn around and go back. When that unplanned thing flashes past at the corner of your eye as you’re motoring by and that thing sticks in your head, you need to go back. It seems most times worthwhile.
The Revival got me into a conversation at breakfast yesterday. It started with Sandy saying “Beautiful bike.” (She introduced herself and handed me a printed invitation to a motorcycle rally several days hence.) It ended with me saying, “Willie Nelson has Minnesota politics.”
I could use a cigarette
I sat at the next table and eavesdropped on Sandy’s conversation with the two guys she was sitting with, one wearing an Army veteran cap, as they smoked their cigarettes and ate their grits and bacon. They were planning a charity event, discussing entertainers to invite and how to keep the different bands from playing the same songs (I was surprised to learn that that’s a problem). They wanted Willie, but he’s “not Christian enough.” Taylor Swift came up, too, and Waylon Jennings, although I think he might be dead. (Do those people perform in Doniphan, Missouri?)
As I was leaving I stopped at their table, shared army cred with the guy in the hat, (he’d done the SE Asian tour back in the day), said what I said about Willie and shared fist bumps. A fellow vet on a nice bike. That’s all.
I stopped at a cemetery. Decorated with flags and flowers for Independence Day (I suppose) the grass was cut short, they’d even given the headstones a trim. Many of the stones included rank and branch of service. The cemetery was attached to a pretty white clapboard Baptist church.
Flags and the grass cut short for Independence Day
In southern Missouri the roads are curvy and hilly and well maintained and wind through verdant forest. The waterways are blue (and cold, as I discovered when I took my clothes of and waded in). There are small farms and little businesses and towns that Rand McNally deems unworthy. It really is magical.
I stayed last night at the Twin Lakes Motel in Forsyth, owned by the mother-in-law of the (HIspanic?) woman who checked me in. She waved dismissively at a faded photo of a grey-haired woman on the wall when I asked.
Riding a motorcycle in 103 degree weather across Iowa and Missouri, north to south, is not a story, no matter how sweaty your t-shirt.
Premium still priced at $0.299
Chatting it up with a bearded, long-haired local in a camo-schemed 70’s Chevy 4×4 pickup idling along a gravel track in a secluded State Recreation Area is not a story, it’s a movie. And you know what happens. Except nothing happened, there were five kids in the back of the truck and they’d been swimming ‘dahn tuh crick’. They waved as they idled away.
Riding a motorcycle through St. Louis in 80 mph rush hour traffic, hot and tired, could be a story, but only if you don’t make it. Close calls don’t count.
An abandoned Red Crown gas station with Premium still priced at $0.299 is cool but without characters or narrative it’s not a story. But it was great background for the Revival.
Having breakfast for dinner at Waffle House is not a story. It’s breakfast (scrambled eggs and a waffle). The young waiter was curious and chatty and bad at his job and he wanted my story. For himself. (I love Waffle House)
The wisps of cool as I rode into the evening, the temperature on the dash gauge dropping in little fits below 100 degrees for the first time in hours and then below ninety so that the feel of the wind became cool, refreshing, ethereal. Not a story, but a damn nice way to end the day.
Bessie StringfieldMy 2021 Electra Glide Revival Packed Up
A hundred and four degrees yesterday, Minneapolis to Waterloo. Geared up in helmet, jacket, gloves and boots, that’s hard riding. That’s all.
This trip I’m riding a Harley Davidson motorcycle, an Electra Glide Revival, a 2021 remake of the 1969 Electra Glide; a motorcycle as iconic to its time as Viet Nam, Woodstock, civil rights and that one small step. A limited run, the bike is number 1307 of 1500, Lucky 13.
I’m trying to decide whether to like it. It’s heavy, very heavy (at 864 pounds, it weights as much as any two of my BMWs), and handles accordingly. Despite it’s enormous displacement, 114 cubic inches (1870 cc), it’s underpowered and passing takes thought and planning. The seating position is as upright as a school desk, which is no comfort to butt, spine or teeth on bouncy rural roads. The brakes are fine but barely.
On the other hand, it has cruise control, it’s handsome and gets lots of compliments. And it has that quiet Harley burble that synchronizes with the rhythms of the heart and makes you feel happy. While it’s not as good as sex, it’s the same genus…. The guys on the loud Harleys aren’t getting it.
It’s also safe. I’m riding into the south; Missouri, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama and elsewhere as whim strikes. My intention is to listen to people whose politics I disagree with, to encourage them to have their say. The Harley Davidson provides entrée, it makes me a non-threatening ambassador. My BMWs don’t do that.
Last night I stayed at the Motel 6 in Waterloo. I made a lot of money working for Motel 6 back in the day, I thought it was only fair that I give them $67.00 back. Also, they have good coffee.
Photos are Bessie Stringfield (worth a moment on Wikipedia) with her 1960s Harley Davidson and my 2021 Revival.
