Bikes, Blues and BBQ ... or something like that

"It's not the destination but the ride", the story goes.  Gary, my brother-in-law and I had planned on riding up to Fayetteville, Arkansas last year for the Bikes, Blues and BBQ festival/motorcycle rally but something came up at the last minute that made us back off.

This year, I scheduled a week of vacation for the trip.  No, I'm not all that wound up over BBQ and I've been to a couple of motorcycle rallies which turned out to be pretty boring after you've seen one. As for blues, it's kind of like Cajun or Bluegrass music; after a few renditions of it, you've had enough.  However, it's like my opening line says, it's not where you go, it's how you get there.

Monday, we fired up at the crack of dawn in the general direction of Mena, Arkansas.  Filling up our rides in Krotz Springs, LA, we found our tanks getting very low a couple of hundred miles north and in northern Shreveport.  Pulling over to an Exxon station just north of Cross Lake, we were disappointed to not be able to pump 93 octane gas.  The large tanker truck was there replenishing their supply so they had cut off all pump activity.  Probably a good thing because who knows what trash gets stirred up when the low supply gets refilled.

Anyway, we reasoned that we should move on up the road to another station.  Surely there would be another station...surely, there would be another station...just over the next hill.  As the miles rolled up on the odometers, our gas gauge lights began to flicker.  An executive decision was made to turn around and go back toward Shreveport to find fuel.

As we rolled back south, my bike began to occasionally sputter (I knew the end was near) but kept on the course.  Gary's bike was low too.  Eventually, Boudreaux II wouldn't fire another piston so I found myself pulling to the roadside and putting the kickstand down.  Gary kept on plugging.  After all, why stop if he had gas.  I took off the helmet, walked down to a shady spot by a fence, checked the time on my cell phone and tried to calculate how long it would take him to get the few miles back or run out of gas himself.  After 10, minutes I called.

"Where are you?", I asked,.

"I'm at the Conoco station, gassing up.  I'll bring you some back."  How nice.

Anyway, in about 10 minutes, Gary rolls up with a used plastic jug that once held orange juice in it with a total of 7/10ths of a gallon of gas.  A welcome site.  Enough to get me back down to the station for a fill up.

We were both running relative new bikes and the gas mileage is good but I have to say, if it hadn't been for Gary's bike getting at least one more mile per gallon than mine, we'd either be hitching a ride into town or waiting forever for roadside service on highway 71.

We arrive in Mena, Arkansas later that afternoon, chose a campground and pitched our tents on some pretty rocky ground.  Rocky or not, I was ready for that sleeping bag and grateful it did not rain on us.

The next day, we rode on into Fayetteville and met up with an old friend who had retired from the company 2 or 3 years ago.  Since his retirement, Tom had bought a couple of bikes for himself and had taken a 2 month odyssey from his home in southern Missouri to San Diego and up the coast into Oregon.

Tom gave us the grand tour or the area and we followed him up to a campground near his home in Shell Knob, MO.  After setting up camp, we rode down to one of the local roadhouses and swapped motorcycle war stories before going back to sleep on yet, another pile of rocks.

 At this point, a Motel 6 would have looked like a Waldorf-Astoria.

Wednesday morning, we struck the tents, packed up and rode over to meet Tom and his gracious wife Joann, for breakfast.  It was good to talk and renew acquaintances before taking a ride south through Eureka Springs and on into Fayetteville where the motorcycle rally was in full swing.

We cruised the booths and a few displays before taking a few more rides through all the hoopla of the festival and riding back up to the...ahhhhh.....Marriott.  Man, those beds were comfortable.  We even found a barbeque joint near the hotel.

I'm wondering if the amount of custom trikes on display there in Fayetteville has a message regarding the age of many of the bikers there.

During the night, we began to watch the weather channel and saw a disturbing front beginning to roll in from the west.  A new executive decision the next morning found us all re-packing and checking out of the hotel. Our original plans were to stay in the area another day and night but our calculations said that if we did, we'd be riding at least 650 miles in the rain for the next two days.  While I'm not afraid of a little water, 650 miles and 2 days of it ain't my kind of adventure so we turned our wheels due south and went for it.

I just so happened (likely story), my sainted mother just happened to live a day's ride south of there, so before sundown, Gary and I arrived to partake  of the hospitality of Mrs Ida Belle.  It never gets old seeing her face.

After a good night's rest and a nice sausage and biscuit breakfast, we once again rode hard, escaping foul weather.  Except for a brief 30 minute ride through a northern Louisiana rain shower, it was an easy going 250 mile home putting us in the garage by early afternoon, five days, 1,500 miles and a couple of tender rear ends but entirely worth the effort.

Blessed Is A Man

...who can ride his Harley to church.

Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we will boast in the Name of the Lord, our God. - Psalm 20:7

Meet Boudreaux II

The old 2005 Harley Softail was Boudreaux and I thought about just keeping the same name like B B King named every guitar Lucille but a motorcycle eventually develops it's own personality.  Eventually, it may get a new name, but for right now, it's still Boudreaux.  It's basically the same as Old Boudreaux but with a 103 cubic inch engine instead of the 88 ci and a six speed transmission instead of the five.

Old Boudreaux was getting to be a high mileage bike and made me nervous about any long distant run over a few hundred miles. 

A 2012 model with only 2,844 actual miles on it, it's  not even broken in yet.  I'm not too sure about the white sidewalls either.  Oh well, we shall see.

Daytona Bike Week

Who knows what motivates people do things?   Logically, it was foolish, given the fact that early morning temperatures had been hitting in the 30° range.  Too, a decision was rendered from a conversation happening four days earlier that caused Gary (brother-in-law) and I to plan a last minute motorcycle trip  to Bike Week in Daytona, Florida.  Neither of us are big crowd people but the idea of a long ride was certainly intriguing.

Figuring hotels would be non-existent at that late date, we reserved some "Kabins" at a couple of KOA Kampgrounds.

So, with bikes packed up, we fired up on at sunrise Thursday morning, cut through the swamps and by the time we arrived at the Hammond, Louisiana exit, our hands were burning with cold.   After warming up with a cup of coffee, we continued on east into Mississippi where we stopped often for thawing and a nicotine break for Gary.  Each time we stopped, we would meet other riders headed to the same event.  At one stop, we met a guy whose enthusiasm for a week in Daytona was really overflowing.  We chatted with him a while and as we left, he handed us a business card with his name on it (bikers seem to be getting into business cards these days) and told if we wanted to party and hook up, to look for him.  He'd be wearing a furry white helmet with horns on it......oh yeah, I'll be looking (out) for him for sure.

The first day was somewhat uneventful and we arrived at our reserved KOA Kampground near Chattahoochee, Florida.  Certainly, not the Hilton but it beats having to throw up a tent then take it down and pack it back up if it's wet the next morning.

The next morning, we hit the road early again with temperatures still hardly any better in the early hours.  At a rest stop east of Tallahassee, we stopped for a break where Gary leaned up against his bike and it fell over.  Picking it up, we discovered he had broken a bolt on the right rear shock. It was absolutely nothing to do with maintenance error but just one of those times when road stress took it's toll.  His bike is much younger than mine with less road miles on it.

  We thought about riding on to a repair shop but the tire was rubbing the fender, so now he was immobile.  We had packed open end wrenches, socket sets, screwdrivers, Allen wrenches and even 8 point star sockets.  We had enough tools to overhaul a bike but we needed one thing......we needed a drill to remove the broken stub of the bolt.

Not knowing where any parts or hardware store was located, I began roaming the countryside until I located one in Monticello.  There, I bought a rechargeable drill and bargained with the store to charge it up for me while I went back to find Gary and determine what size bolt we would need.  I took the broken part out and headed back to the Ace Hardware where I retrieved the charged up drill and a couple of grade 8 bolts and some reverse drill bits.

Anyway, after getting back to Gary at the rest stop, where he drilled out the broken stud, we were on the road within 45 minutes and arrived in St. Augustine before dark.

Saturday morning we made the short ride down to Daytona.  As we expected, the road was full of bikes headed that way.  Arriving in Daytona, Main Street was already lined with bikes with no place to park unless we wanted to shell out $7 for the privilege.  We rode around a  couple of times before heading out to the interstate to Bruce Rossmeyer's Harley dealership, arguably the largest in the world.  It along with satellite stores selling anything from leather to Triumph Motorcycles covered acres. 

Back behind that, J & P Cycles has one of their only two brick and mortar stores.  To some, J & P is the holy of holies when it comes to motorcycle parts stores.  You could literally build your own bike from parts out of that store.  All this represented a bigger attraction than the downtown event. 

While Daytona Bike Week is not as wild and crazy as Sturgis, it does have it's sights and curiosities.  One major difference between the two is the type of biker they attract.  While Harley riders are the dominant group, Daytona pulls in the metric rider crowd, with Hondas, Yamahas and Kawasakis. 

It only took a day of these maddening crowds to make us consider

getting back home.  Originally, we had planned on taking two days but checking the weather conditions, we saw a line of thunderstorms and a cold front with it that made us think that a 13 hour ride was a doable thing.

With that in mind, we rode and rode and rode, arriving back home about 9:00 p.m. that night, tired and saddle sore from the experience.  I'm thinking around 680 miles that day.

We even forgot to buy a T-shirt.

Home again

Doing a fast exit from Waverly, Tennessee, I am home without and temporarily out of an assignment for which grateful.

This gives me a little time to catch up on a few things, so with the help from Gary, my brother-in-law, we put the boat port/garage in good order, hung a couple of shelves and sorted things out so we could at least walk through it without stumbling over a box or crate of motorcycle parts left over from the move back in August.

The best part was installing a pair of external oil coolers on Boudreaux.  Hopefully, this will keep it from completely melting down in the event of a really warm ride this summer.

Those things accomplished, I had a little time to do some much needed chrome polishing. 

It probably won't be long before I'll be exchanging the Harley for a Boeing so I'll probably be on it as much as possible for the next few days.

OK, the party's over

Over the past week, I've strained out a few days of vacation and really enjoyed myself.  It included a day at my grandson's school Grandparents Day, a motorcycle trip up to get my mother for Thanksgiving (she didn't ride the bike), a very nice Thanksgiving at my son's house and to top it off, a Sunday ride supposedly sponsored by the Harley dealership.  Well, it was on the website calendar.

My brother-in-law, Gary and I fired up Sunday morning and left the garage early in 32° temps.  Well bundled, we arrived at the and found another half-dozen bikes/bikers who had planned on doing the same thing.  However, there was no representative from Harley there so we discussed amongst ourselves what would be a proper ride.  Gary and I are not veterans of sponsored rides so we didn't interject much except to voice the opinion that we wanted to stay off the interstates as much as possible.  That was fairly unanimous.

There was this really vocal rider who was riding a pretty slick looking Road Glide and boasted that he had spent over a hundred grand at the dealership this year.  I understand a 110 cu Harley engine is a special and they cost out the yang to have one made, but heck, it didn't even have pontoons and a propeller.

Since he talked a lot and had a lot of gadgets, we decided to make him our leader.  A man spending 100 big ones on a motorcycle should have something to show for it.

We made a tour around Port Vincent, through French Settlement and across the Sunshine Bridge at Donaldsonville headed to Pierre Part.  Somehow, Dear Leader took the wrong turn and we found ourselves meandering the back streets of Napoleonville, touring a bunch of cane fields and eventually coming to a dead end at Lake Verrett at the Attakapas boat launch.

While it was fun laughing while Dear Leader whipped out his Magellan GPS trying to locate Pierre Part, it really wasn't that bad.  I knew where it was but I wasn't the leader and it wasn't in my job description.  After all, it wasn't about the destination, it was about the ride and it was good ....... plus, we got to see a lot of wildlife.

Abandoning our quest for Pierre Part, we made our way back over the Sunshine Bridge and located a restroom at a gas station.

After a few minutes a chatting, we shook hands, fired up and split in different directions.

My party is over and it's time to call in to the office to see what the friendly skies has in store for me.

A Cold Winter's Ride

Any excuse is good enough, I suppose. Christmas morning, I left Dutchtown at 5 AM on Boudreaux, headed 250 miles north to my mother's house. It was relatively cold but I had ridden in 38° weather before because it usually became a little warmer as the sun rose. This time, it was a tad different because the further north I got, the colder it became.
Cruising through Mangum, LA, I blinked when the LED sign at a bank announced 34°. I have to say though, it really wasn't that uncomfortable especially if your gear includes a t-shirt, two light sweaters, a hooded sweat suit jacket, thick leather motorcycle jacket, jeans, thick Doc Marten boots, regular socks, thermal socks, goggles, leather chaps, a neck warmer, stocking cap, cold weather ski gloves, cotton liner gloves and a lined helmet. In other words, I looked like the Michelin Man and felt like a sumo wrestler. Maneuverability could have been an issue if I had to make some quick moves. Even with the cold weather gear, the toes and fingers do get a little cold traveling at 65-75 mph for a couple of hours at a time.

The irony in all of this is 6 weeks and 3 thousand miles ago, I was riding 50° warmer. (Maui)

Why do that, you may ask. Well, ...hmm...I guess I just love riding that thing and will use the most flimsy excuse in the world just to get on it and ride.

Boudreau and The Myrtles

(Click pictures for larger view)

<------Louis & Jan

Having finished up a pretty intense week in Arlington, TX, the kind folks at American Airlines capped it off Friday with baggage mishandling and a couple of hours delay for my arrival home. Already dealing with some kind of stomach bug, it all made for a particularly long day.

With no particular plans, Darlene and I visited our friends up north of St Francisville. We, along with Louis, Jan and her sister Denise enjoyed the buffet lunch at the Myrtles there in St Francisville. It was a nice leisure lunch with tables resting on the bricked patio where a couple of black house cats twined through our legs as the girls swapped folklore tales of haunted experiences here. A Red Tail Hawk watched us from the top of a Cypress tree and eventually flew off in search of it's own lunch buffet.

After spending a little time, we checked out some kind of "festival" of sorts, looked a few restored cars and enjoyed a retro band playing their interpretation of Pure Prairie League, Van Morrison and a few others. After driving up to Louis & Jan's place, we let our hearts and minds wander by looking at a few lakeside homes for sale before turning south back to Baton Rouge.

All day long, Darlene had told me I should buy that motorcycle I've been wanting ever since my brother-in-law came and took the Sportster away 7 years ago. I had pretty much made up my mind that if I were to buy, it would be a Japanese bike because they used ones were so much cheaper. With absolutely no intention of going for a Harley, Darlene and I dropped off for a look at the local HOG pen on Siegen lane. Before I realized it, a dead serious, heart throbbing lust for a red on black FLSTC Softail Classic had settled on me and wouldn't get off. Vowing I wasn't going to "write a check today" to Bob the salesman, I left there at closing time with VIN numbers and name and phone of the previous owner of the contraption folded into my sweating palm.

I muddled all day Sunday and that night about whether I should buy it or and wasn't really sure one way or the other when I went back Monday morning for further looking and drooling. Long story short,I now own "Boudreau" (named after the original owner). The irony of all this is, the moment I signed the papers to take possession, my cell phone shattered my living dream and now found myself booking flights and hotels to Grand Rapids, Michigan. If that call had come in 30 minutes earlier, I probably would have delayed and backed off the deal but now, I'll have only this photo of "Boudreau" and the memory of the roar of those Screaming Eagle pipes to entertain me until I get home in a couple of weeks.

Oh, by the way, the critics hated it but the movie, Wild Hogs was a hoot. I loved it and recommend it for a rental.