Following the Indian Removal Act of 1830, a group of Indian nations consisting of the Cherokee, the Chickasaw, the Choctaw, the Muscogee and the Seminole (the “five civilized tribes”) were forcibly relocated from their ancestral homes in the southeastern United States to areas west of the Mississippi by the United States government. Along the way, thousands died of exposure, disease and starvation. Yesterday I rode parts of the Trail of Tears.
Covid killed Todd Yannayon last September. He was 59 years old. I stopped to take pictures of his abandoned store and Gina came out of her trailer. She lives alone across the Trail of Tears from the store with dogs and chickens. She lived in that trailer with Todd for 14 years. He was her fiancé.
Gina
She gave me a copy of Todd’s funeral program. It includes a picture of Todd on the motorcycle they rode together. She misses the riding. The program includes her as “girlfriend” in a list of kids, sibs, steps and in-laws. It includes a page dedicated to a poem that Todd wrote when he was in high school; Gina’s grief sits between two comas.
Funeral Program
The store includes five or six ancient wooden buildings deteriorating rapidly. She has asked his sons to help, they’re in their thirties and living their lives. It’s theirs, not hers, and they don’t have time but she lives across the road.
One of Todd Yannayan’s “stores”
There is barely noticeable concrete bridge that crosses a tiny stream just down the hill from the store. Gina lobbied the state and the bridge is now the Vincent “Todd” Yannahon Memorial Bridge.
Vincent “Todd” Yannayon Memorial Bridge
It was her willingness to be vulnerable with a stranger, her gentleness with the dogs, her overwhelming loneliness that make Gina such a wonderful subject to write about. She deserves better words than mine.
Luay is 46, an Iraqi immigrant. He came to the United States when he was 13 and has a heavy accent. He’s single and rides a Harley Davidson.
We were having lunch at separate tables. I gathered my silverware and menu and sat with him. He had a grilled chicken sandwich and four beers, I had a club sandwich and fries. We talked bikes and good rides and politics.
Luay voted Trump in ‘16, didn’t like Clinton; Biden in ‘20, didn’t like Trump’s violence. He’s disappointed in Biden, we’re spending billions of dollars in Ukraine and we have people in this country having to choose between “gasoline and toilet paper.”
I asked him about being single, he said he liked his freedom.
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.
