tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-268130802009-11-10T12:53:47.861-06:00Rides, ramblings and rants on a motorcycle.Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.comBlogger520125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-6760314789757832322009-11-09T12:20:00.002-06:002009-11-09T12:43:19.569-06:00

Tahlequah, the Cherokee Nation CapitalTahlequah has a complex history beginning in the southeastern states of Georgia, North Carolina and Tennessee. In some ways its history still extends all the way from its present location in Oklahoma, east to those areas and in between; in Arkansas, Missouri, Illinois, and Mississippi. Here, the town was the site of a new beginning for an old nation:

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-23278183989915919282009-11-09T11:55:00.002-06:002009-11-09T12:19:57.512-06:00

Leaving the small town of Vian was the beginning of tailing many trails on this trip. Vian, a trading post in the mid-1800's, was one of many small communities that popped up along trails navigated by stage coaches, mules and wagons, horses and riders, cattle and deer. Finding narratives about these communities is like putting together multitudes of tiny pieces of a giant puzzle that make up our

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-21192571578727801462009-11-09T11:49:00.003-06:002009-11-09T11:58:25.810-06:00

I woke in the middle of the night to the pitter-patter of rain on the tent. Rather, on my face. Because of the warm muggy night, we didn't put the fly over the tent, opting for whatever breeze we could catch through the tent mesh. Sure enough, it rained. It rained some part of every day we were on the road, but it wasn't bad enough to interfere. We both tumbled out in the dark in varying degrees

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-249552720249215002009-11-09T11:18:00.003-06:002009-11-09T11:37:30.439-06:00

Come onnnn! Let's get this show on the road!"Hush, Wylie. I'm trying to pack the bike. We're already late."Ah! You have ears afterall!"Oh shut up."Escape from WorkhattenWork late, commute long, come home tired, and that's the day. They pile up like a mountain of stinking offal until the insides turn sour and we become sourpusses. We can't even stand ourselves. Neither can the others. All

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-15307520830166188532009-09-18T21:18:00.000-05:002009-09-18T21:19:47.935-05:00

And so the end is here. The DR and I bonded; he's like a new lover. We are going to do just fine together. A bit more tinkering (carb work is first) and I can't wait to go on more adventures with it. Like back up to Red River area and more exploring those back roads. Then Big Bend in a few months. Meanwhile, the little red cup found new friends: pistachios. It's happy, too.

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-61044166435118155042009-09-18T21:12:00.002-05:002009-09-18T21:18:29.440-05:00

Circles You might recall the references to Greenwood throughout this thread. We seemed to return there, intentionally and unintentionally. I still don't know why, but the small sleepy shady town seems to have a magnet hidden there. We were drawn back again.It was the tail end of our weekend jaunt away from busy life. We knew we had to head back soon. I think that tended to instill a quiet

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-55482222628063134942009-09-18T21:10:00.001-05:002009-09-18T21:12:41.353-05:00

Still strolling around Ball Knob Cemetery and I catch a glimpse of myself. Well, sort of. I mean, I know I'm still breathing and standing, but then maybe I'm a ghost after all. I've been called worse. But what catches me is that there was an "Elzie" here back in the early 1900's. Even though she was hardly a year old. And then I realize I'm projecting: how do I know this person was a girl? '

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-73937965585271356352009-09-18T21:08:00.001-05:002009-09-18T21:10:13.952-05:00

Packing up camp gear and loading the bikes, it was time to continue on. This time just the three of us. One place I had wanted to visit was Ball Knob Cemetery. Here was a connection with the Butterfield Stage Trail of the mid-1800's. Interred there were members of the two families that had built and managed a stage stop in the immediate area: the Connely Station. This station was in between the

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-37942215200880468792009-09-18T21:06:00.001-05:002009-09-18T21:08:29.856-05:00

We all woke up with the sun. Peeking over the hill, it sprinkled us with early morning rays. But it took some time for the shadows to relent and disappear. The night had a wonderful coolness that left a blanket of dew on everything. But as the sun drove the shadows away, we could tell it was going to be a hot day. Before the shadows had all run off and hid, horse trailers began pulling in behind

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-42555151679095550032009-09-18T20:58:00.002-05:002009-09-18T21:05:39.681-05:00

After a bit of too-ing and fro-ing, we wound our way east on gravel roads, through pasture land, prairies, over creeks and lots of grasslands. Finally we found ourselves on a ridge overlooking the river and I still kick myself for not stopping to take a few photos. The views were awesome. Our goal -although that was secondary to riding- was to see if we could find two places on the bend where

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-73939704400567125352009-09-18T20:55:00.001-05:002009-09-18T20:58:55.755-05:00

We left Hood and headed north on gravel. A short run on tarmac led us to Hwy 82 and east of Munster. By that time, we where hungry. Riding off tarmac is not a passive activity: slide forward, squeeze the tank between the knees, push down on the inside peg, and roll the throttle open. Scoot back on the seat, point elbows out, lower your center of gravity and let the front end wiggle underneath

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-12507525794754527692009-09-18T20:53:00.001-05:002009-09-18T20:55:48.391-05:00

We charted a course north, into the unknown. Well, partly. A place I wanted to share with the others was one where I had been before. Another ghost town: Hood. I don't know why I like ghost towns. Maybe because they seem to have more character than most other towns. Maybe because they are full of 'ghosts' and to really learn about the town requires immersing oneself. Which requires a

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-75043193345909945002009-09-18T20:44:00.003-05:002009-09-18T20:52:55.876-05:00

“No matter where you go, there you are.” As a nomad at heart (and nomadic thinker), I am usually comfortable everywhere. Yet, like the Thingness of Things, everywhere exists in many dynamic layers that change in space and time. Despite that I was born in a city and grew up in the pre-burbs (pre-modern suburb; I’m dating myself….), I never felt that I belonged in or even near a city. In fact, I ‘

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-63525391792695328602009-09-18T20:40:00.002-05:002009-09-18T20:43:53.720-05:00

Cemeteries -or graveyards, the term I grew up with- reside in that space between realism and relativism. Death is real -everything dies in one form or another: passes on, changes, what-ever-you-want-to-call-it. But several forms of reality surround death. It can be like a piece of furniture -it is there, it happens to everything, so it's real. Or it can be viewed relatively: taboo, sacred,

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-64253302694423376552009-09-18T20:38:00.001-05:002009-09-18T20:44:26.134-05:00

The little red cup went for a ride on the back of a long legged pony. It wasn't an epic adventure, a wild ride, nor a vision quest. It was merely a break in a busy life, away from city lights and crowded streets, a refresher in what life really is, a glimpse into the past, side glance of the present, and hopeful stare into the future. But what really is life? Really? It's a toss between

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-31502480687246980182009-09-18T20:28:00.003-05:002009-09-18T20:36:51.932-05:00

A busy bee flew on a long journey through Oklahoma and Arkansas. On the way back home, the sky began to cry. The bee got wet, which slowed it down. Nevertheless, the bee still enjoyed the flight.When the bee returned, relaxed and refreshed, the sky cried more and more. For eight days, the sky has cried, soaking everything below it. The bee's antennas got wet and don't work, its wings are wet and

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-56041310919375117932009-08-27T12:32:00.004-05:002009-08-27T12:51:40.840-05:00

Home is where I hang my helmet. People often ask me "Where are you from?" or "Where is your Home?". My answer depends on who asks the question and where. Because I'm from many places, and many places are my Home. At work, most people ask "Why do you live 63 miles away from work?" Now that answer is very concrete.So then, what is Home? It depends. And it is this question, as well as the answers,

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-56825511667030594902009-08-25T07:36:00.010-05:002009-08-25T08:17:49.165-05:00

We as creatures on this planet occupy a place between the solid ground and the vast space above it. The surface of the plant has a somewhat 'grounded' nature (to use a vernacular in the literal sense): temporally, changes occur slowly, often so slow we are not aware of them. Relative to our biological and social timeline, the ground and earth seem to stay still, unmoving. We even perceive diurnal

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-75000010305751326112009-08-14T21:38:00.003-05:002009-08-14T22:02:28.634-05:00

Over the past several weeks, when I have the luxury of letting my mind wander, I've pondered a topic that has rotated around me for many years. More appropriately, it is a part of me. Place. I think all my life I've been a nomad, in the loose definition. Not lost, but a nomad. Lost implies that a person eventually finds, or has somewhere, a place to always return to. There's an anchor somewhere

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-26371592765635956722009-08-05T12:00:00.003-05:002009-08-05T12:30:08.869-05:00

The new baby is home. Well, more appropriately, 'secured' (it will remain in a friend's garage during modification progress). We drove deep into Texas Hill Country to pick up the next project: Suzuki DR 350SE. It is the street version of the full-on DR350 dirt bike. How does it compare to the Kawasaki KL250 Super Sherpa (aka 'Sherpie')? Other than an increase of 100cc engine displacement, the DR

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-41872507607041423712009-07-25T13:27:00.004-05:002009-07-25T13:52:18.538-05:00

I rode the bike home last night just before dusk. The heat of the day was giving way to cooler air. A blanket of cool humid air mixed with radiating heat and blanketed the landscape with suspended moisture. The layer of heavy air almost veiled the horizon between the rolling prairies, trees, buildings and sky. It was as if the air couldn't decide whether to be fog or clear and at times I felt

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-33493568151194920702009-07-20T12:33:00.003-05:002009-07-20T12:55:45.780-05:00

The last several trips on the Sherpa caused me to reconsider its capabilities. Planning for a 2+ week trip to Oregon next year and the Trans-America Trail in the future (2011) reaffirmed the realization that I need a bigger bike for riding long distances in the back country. I need a bike that can go for hours on gravel, has more torque for uphill gnarly terrain and creek crossings, and with

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-23631787962654540792009-07-20T12:26:00.004-05:002009-07-20T12:32:49.285-05:00

We weren't in a big hurry to get up and pack. After all, coffee is first on the agenda. Loaded up (finally), we were ready to head back to Texas. We took a few last minute photos. Wiley, of course, was his usual charming self. And a few of our fellow campers and fellow ActualRiders: Ed, Bruce from Georgia on his Connie (Concours) and Tom from Michigan (BMW GS). The others were still

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-39701948528840126122009-07-20T12:21:00.001-05:002009-07-20T12:25:58.768-05:00

We began the ride on Kimsey Mountain Hwy fed and happy. The road quickly turned into nothing more than a two-track with tall grass on the sides and middle of the gravel. Sunlight filtered through the leaves on mostly deciduous trees and wildflowers sneaked in and out of view as we rode. This is what I remembered most about riding in Maine and it took me back decades to doing just that. I found

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813080.post-63206636579102994702009-07-20T12:12:00.002-05:002009-07-20T12:21:53.666-05:00

Our route for the day continued east and connected several ridges. The views were brief because of the dense tree canopies, but the relatively easy ride on those gravel roads permitted me to sightsee and hunt for vista opps as well as enjoy the road. We rode most of that day in the far eastern area of the Cherokee National Forest, south of Hiwassee River and north of the Ocoee River. The area

Macrobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01612571749282257004noreply@blogger.com0