Rides, ramblings and rants on a motorcycle.
- We are scientists, too!
5.29.2007,8:43 PM
Ozarks High: Road of Pain
Unbeknown to me while I was on my solo ride, friend and Fearless Leader Bill went down on Hwy 123. Notorious for the number of casualties, this road is rated high in technicality due to its miles and miles of tight twisting road. It has claimed many motorcycle riders and their bikes.
Bill and his bike went down while trying to recover from going onto a gravel shoulder. The group of riders stopped and attended to his needs and moved the bike from the road. Paramedics were called and a life flight helicopter transported Bill to a Fayettville hospital.
He was lucky to sustain only a separated shoulder and dislocated clavicle. It could have been much worse. After returning home, the X-rays revealed he would need surgery.
By the time I reached the motel and was informed of the accident, transportation for Bill and his wife, and their bikes, was arranged and ready to pick them up for the long ride home back to Texas.
I wish to give Bill kudos for his excellent job of organizing and leading eleven bikes on a long trip over technical roads to Eureka Springs, Arkansas. It was a daunting task. I don't even like leading two other riders. I can't imagine eleven.
I'm also honored to consider Bill a good friend.
Hang in there, dude.
Melanie -Bill's wife; Bill and Chris -Bill's henchman.
The Two Bills: Bill No. 1 and Bill No. 2.
Bill Two's BMW GS is sweet.
Bill and his bike went down while trying to recover from going onto a gravel shoulder. The group of riders stopped and attended to his needs and moved the bike from the road. Paramedics were called and a life flight helicopter transported Bill to a Fayettville hospital.
He was lucky to sustain only a separated shoulder and dislocated clavicle. It could have been much worse. After returning home, the X-rays revealed he would need surgery.
By the time I reached the motel and was informed of the accident, transportation for Bill and his wife, and their bikes, was arranged and ready to pick them up for the long ride home back to Texas.
I wish to give Bill kudos for his excellent job of organizing and leading eleven bikes on a long trip over technical roads to Eureka Springs, Arkansas. It was a daunting task. I don't even like leading two other riders. I can't imagine eleven.
I'm also honored to consider Bill a good friend.
Hang in there, dude.
Melanie -Bill's wife; Bill and Chris -Bill's henchman.
The Two Bills: Bill No. 1 and Bill No. 2.
Bill Two's BMW GS is sweet.
Labels: Arkansas
,11:55 AM
Ozarks High: Road of Joy
Road of Joy
My decision to avoid I-40 and instead ride on Hwy 64 entailed less than 10 seconds of debate. Despite the increasing concern about the time of day and uncertainty of travel time, I just couldn't make myself ride on the interstate that Saturday. I shortly discovered no need for that concern. Hwy 64 ran parallel to I-40, but on the south side of the Arkansas river until it crossed over by bridge and then under I-40 shortly before Clarkesville.
I remember reflecting throughout the day on how wide the Arkansas River was; no river that I am aware of in Texas equals its expanse. I also reflected on a small segment of its history that I was familiar with: the river that was coveted by both the Spanish and the French, and before them, the American Indians. Like any large body of water, the river was almost like life's blood; providing water, food, and transportation. Several also serve as territorial boundaries and now they offer recreation.
Wars have been fought over such rivers with thousands of people dieing. "Mine; you can't have any!" Come on, people. Let's share this resource, with all the living, and let's take care of it, too. It's a delicate relationship; like any relationship, you have to give, not just take and take. It's ironic that we have bathrooms and complex septic systems to deposit our excrement, yet we dump our garbage and waste in that which gives us life. It's like shitting in your kitchen.
On my travels, I constantly find myself trying to imagine what the landscape I see looked like before humans covered it with cement, plastic, asphalt and paint. Although I was offered glimpses of the river from its shores, only when I was in the mountains and looking down was I able to dissociate our human influence and alterations from what was then. When it was innocent and naive of our inconsiderate footprints and machines. Only when the trees and hills below overwhelmed and obscured the human influence could I imagine in my mind's eye what it may have been like.
I soon found a sign indicating the turn north on Byway 21. Having ridden north on Byway 23 and then south on Byway 7 this morning, the only road running north and south remaining was 21. The two BMW riders from DFW area I met on Byway 7 mentioned that this was their favorite, which I would later agree wholeheartedly.
The road was more narrow than Byway 7 and not as constantly demanding and technical. Although 21 wound around on mountain ridges, it also swept down and up the valleys, over creeks, through forests and rural farms. Segments contained miles of tight twisting curves and other segments were wonderfully sweeps, providing me with the pleasure of flicking side to side as I swept one wide curve and then the next. It reminded me of the alternate push of legs and feet on lake ice; first one side then the other, gracefully leaning side to side wearing a smile on my face and in my body. Or like rocking a colicky baby to a peaceful calm.
The alternating tight turns and gentle wide sweeps provided me with minutes of intense concentration and navigating the roads. And then I was rewarded with miles of gentle sweeps, allowing me to relax my concentration enough to absorb the changing scenery.
As I rode up and up the mountain range, vistas of rolling hills and ridges opened before me. Completely covered with green trees, it appeared as if I was riding a magical plush carpet of green; being so surrounded by green that any other color that entered my vision grabbed my attention. And if I held out my hand to brush the soft plush carpet that lay before me, I may feel the furry softness of green leaves, their individual shapes and sizes all lost in the expansive scale that surrounded me. This landscape was alive, hundreds of backs of furry living entities that sheltered and nourished individual ecosystems hidden to my sight. Yet I knew intimately that they were there.
I encountered very few other vehicles on this road until nearly Berryville on Hwy 62. In a high valley somewhere between Edwards Junction and Boxley, I pulled off to the side of the road and next to a creek. The solitude and quietness invited me to climb down the bank and sit beside the running water for a break. The sky was blue and cloudless, the sun bright and the air cool and dry. It felt wonderful.
I sat with a peace that infused through me, allowing me to think about several current things in my life with out all the constant distraction and nagging, pulling me this way and that. It allowed me to think clearly, and rejuvenated direction as well as strength. I was able to make some decisions that had been hanging over me back home.
I mounted the bike with a restored peacefulness that had been elusive the past several weeks. I found myself genuinely smiling, inside and out. And it felt good.
By the time I pulled into Berryville, the day was slipping by quickly. Riding west on Hwy 62 towards Eureka Springs, I reflected that, by far, Byway 21 was the best road I had ridden on this trip. And I hope to ride it again some day.
I pulled into the motel at 7:15 pm, tired and stiff but happy. Offered a shower in one of the rooms, soon I was cleaned up, muscles relaxed again from the hot streaming water, and changed into clean clothes. I joined the other riders sitting outside and we chatted and laughed, relating stories about our rides that day and in the past.
Four of us decided to go out for dinner and I was invited to ride pillion on a BMW GS. That's the closest I'll ever get to riding one; I'm too short. I was impressed with how comfortable it was, and with the agility the rider handled it with a passenger on crowded, narrow and winding streets.
Full, tired and at peace, I fell sound a sleep in the cabin. Sleep interrupted only by a wonderful dream.
My decision to avoid I-40 and instead ride on Hwy 64 entailed less than 10 seconds of debate. Despite the increasing concern about the time of day and uncertainty of travel time, I just couldn't make myself ride on the interstate that Saturday. I shortly discovered no need for that concern. Hwy 64 ran parallel to I-40, but on the south side of the Arkansas river until it crossed over by bridge and then under I-40 shortly before Clarkesville.
I remember reflecting throughout the day on how wide the Arkansas River was; no river that I am aware of in Texas equals its expanse. I also reflected on a small segment of its history that I was familiar with: the river that was coveted by both the Spanish and the French, and before them, the American Indians. Like any large body of water, the river was almost like life's blood; providing water, food, and transportation. Several also serve as territorial boundaries and now they offer recreation.
Wars have been fought over such rivers with thousands of people dieing. "Mine; you can't have any!" Come on, people. Let's share this resource, with all the living, and let's take care of it, too. It's a delicate relationship; like any relationship, you have to give, not just take and take. It's ironic that we have bathrooms and complex septic systems to deposit our excrement, yet we dump our garbage and waste in that which gives us life. It's like shitting in your kitchen.
On my travels, I constantly find myself trying to imagine what the landscape I see looked like before humans covered it with cement, plastic, asphalt and paint. Although I was offered glimpses of the river from its shores, only when I was in the mountains and looking down was I able to dissociate our human influence and alterations from what was then. When it was innocent and naive of our inconsiderate footprints and machines. Only when the trees and hills below overwhelmed and obscured the human influence could I imagine in my mind's eye what it may have been like.
I soon found a sign indicating the turn north on Byway 21. Having ridden north on Byway 23 and then south on Byway 7 this morning, the only road running north and south remaining was 21. The two BMW riders from DFW area I met on Byway 7 mentioned that this was their favorite, which I would later agree wholeheartedly.
The road was more narrow than Byway 7 and not as constantly demanding and technical. Although 21 wound around on mountain ridges, it also swept down and up the valleys, over creeks, through forests and rural farms. Segments contained miles of tight twisting curves and other segments were wonderfully sweeps, providing me with the pleasure of flicking side to side as I swept one wide curve and then the next. It reminded me of the alternate push of legs and feet on lake ice; first one side then the other, gracefully leaning side to side wearing a smile on my face and in my body. Or like rocking a colicky baby to a peaceful calm.
The alternating tight turns and gentle wide sweeps provided me with minutes of intense concentration and navigating the roads. And then I was rewarded with miles of gentle sweeps, allowing me to relax my concentration enough to absorb the changing scenery.
As I rode up and up the mountain range, vistas of rolling hills and ridges opened before me. Completely covered with green trees, it appeared as if I was riding a magical plush carpet of green; being so surrounded by green that any other color that entered my vision grabbed my attention. And if I held out my hand to brush the soft plush carpet that lay before me, I may feel the furry softness of green leaves, their individual shapes and sizes all lost in the expansive scale that surrounded me. This landscape was alive, hundreds of backs of furry living entities that sheltered and nourished individual ecosystems hidden to my sight. Yet I knew intimately that they were there.
I encountered very few other vehicles on this road until nearly Berryville on Hwy 62. In a high valley somewhere between Edwards Junction and Boxley, I pulled off to the side of the road and next to a creek. The solitude and quietness invited me to climb down the bank and sit beside the running water for a break. The sky was blue and cloudless, the sun bright and the air cool and dry. It felt wonderful.
I sat with a peace that infused through me, allowing me to think about several current things in my life with out all the constant distraction and nagging, pulling me this way and that. It allowed me to think clearly, and rejuvenated direction as well as strength. I was able to make some decisions that had been hanging over me back home.
I mounted the bike with a restored peacefulness that had been elusive the past several weeks. I found myself genuinely smiling, inside and out. And it felt good.
By the time I pulled into Berryville, the day was slipping by quickly. Riding west on Hwy 62 towards Eureka Springs, I reflected that, by far, Byway 21 was the best road I had ridden on this trip. And I hope to ride it again some day.
I pulled into the motel at 7:15 pm, tired and stiff but happy. Offered a shower in one of the rooms, soon I was cleaned up, muscles relaxed again from the hot streaming water, and changed into clean clothes. I joined the other riders sitting outside and we chatted and laughed, relating stories about our rides that day and in the past.
Four of us decided to go out for dinner and I was invited to ride pillion on a BMW GS. That's the closest I'll ever get to riding one; I'm too short. I was impressed with how comfortable it was, and with the agility the rider handled it with a passenger on crowded, narrow and winding streets.
Full, tired and at peace, I fell sound a sleep in the cabin. Sleep interrupted only by a wonderful dream.
Labels: Adventures, Arkansas
5.28.2007,8:50 PM
Ozark High: Uh oh.....
Uh oh
After leaving Dardenelle State Park, I retraced my route back to Byway 7. Or at least tried to. The intersections to the park from BWY 7 were confusing and if it weren't for signs pointing the way, I would never have found it. And that's the key; the signs point the way *to* the park, but when you leave...... you're on your own. So I got lost and executed a nervous but successful U-turn on the highway after a mental chat inside my head:
Self: "Oh crap! I have to do a U-turn! Noooo!!!!"
Rational Self: "Yeah, so what. About time you did it without panicking."
Self: "But, but.... we nearly lost it the last time we tried it, yesterday!"
Rational self: "And you didn't go down, did you?"
Self: "No, but it was damned close."
Rational self: "Quit your blubbering. Do it and get it over with so we can get outta here."
Self: "Okay, but your're piloting."
U-turn completed, a bit sweaty but with a smile.
Pull alongside shoulder and stare at map in tank bag......where the heck are we????
Rational self: "Think back. Water on right side riding west. Have to go east. It's simple."
Self: "No its not, both roads have water on.... oh wait. Yup. Take a right up here."
Rational self: "Duh."
Finally picking up Byway 7 again, we (me, my bike and the many voices in my head) headed south through Russellville, through Dardenelle and searched for Hwy 154 in Centerville. Before turning onto 154, a glance at the gas guage and mileage caused me pause: should I get gas?
Nah, we'll be fine.
Turning east onto 154, I looked for and found the sign for Petit Jean State Park: 16 miles. I was hungry by that time; I had eaten only one left over protein bar that I found in my tank bag. I had planned to eat lunch at the lodge in the park, but wasn't sure about timing: it was already 2 pm. Hunger got the best of me and my hand was a bit heavy on the throttle riding along the narrow rural highway and up onto the mountain. A rude awakening would loosen that up in a hurry.
As the miles slipped by, the road climbed and began to twist and turn. The now familiar sign appeared on my right ahead: "Severe twisting and steep road ahead next 10 miles. Use caution." Okay; been there, did that. Gee, I'm hungry.
The turns got tighter and the road steeper; as we climbed the mountainside, the speed was posted at a steady 10-15 mph. One hairpin turn and then another. We were doing fine until the third hairpin turn: roll off the throttle, shift down, lean, lean...um, where did the road go?!?!?!
I overshot the apex and crossed the double yellow line by 6 inches. Luckily no vehicle was coming in the opposite direction, but it sure shot an adrenaline surge into my brain that screamed "Slow down and pay attention!!" I sternly berated myself for allowing my concentration to wander away from the road and navigation, slowed down and pushed everything else from my head except for navigating the rest of this road and finding the park. And food. Familiar enough with hypoglycemia, I knew I needed food.
Self to brain: "Dude, you need to eat!"
Brain and body: "I'm working on it!!!"
Rolling into the park, I saw the pointing sign, "Lodge" (translation = food). Follow that sign!
Hidden behind two parking lots and nestled under tall trees was a rock and wooden lodge. Vehicles of all sorts filled the lots and I was lucky to find a spot to park the bike. A quick glance to the right spotted cabins also constructed of stone and wood shaded and sheltered under the canopy of pines and deciduous trees. They looked cozy and comfortable, inviting despite being close to the main lodge (my preference is for more isolated cabins and lodging).
Quickly shedding the touring coat, I marched into the lodge and searched for the restaurant. After being seated I ordered a tall ice tea and a BLT sandwich, and walked out on the deck while waiting for my order. The view down below into the canyon was mostly hidden by tall trees, but I could see some of the ledge cliff walls. On the grassy area below were several artists with easels erected, painting their own perspectives on the canvases. The high sun presented a challenge in capturing the landscape with the camera, but I attempted a few shots anyway.
The deck and it's roof presented me with my favorite yet difficult lighting challenge: shadows and contrasting bright light. A visual perspective can be manipulated depending on metering and exposure. Expose for the shadows? Or adjust the exposure to capture the colors in the bright lit area outside of the shadows? A camera can't do both equally well, so I usually photograph both. Another perspective pattern in my photography is.... well, I'll let you guess.
I almost inhaled my lunch and inquired into details of a park road on the map: Red Bluff Scenic Drive. On the map it is depicted as a one-way drive with three pullouts that overlook the valley below and other mountain peaks nearby, including the two highest peaks in Arkansas. I was informed that it was not far up the road and that it was a 'cute' drive.
Noticing the time and considering the ride back, I decided I should have time to do the scenic drive as long as it wasn't long. After gearing back up, I followed the park sign to Red Bluff Drive and turned down a paved narrow road and a narrower bridge built over a creek. I didn't see any other vehicles ahead or behind me and entered into a forest of tall trees. The only light was from directly above the road and down into the opening of the canopies.
Rolling on at a respectable 10 miles an hour (suggested by the sign), the pavement suddenly gave way to..........DIRT! Loose sharp gravel and sand. "WHAT?"
I slowed down and shifted into second gear, riding carefully with the pointy sharp-angled stones making my tires crackle and pop and my teeth chattering together. This was becoming unpleasant. Soon the gravel got deeper and the dirt was now properly classified as 'sand'.
Um, I'm not sure if this a good idea: tires pumped with air for street riding and a load, which was no longer loaded; tread getting a bit worn; no cell phone signal; alone; 20 miles of gas left in the tank; getting late in the afternoon....
Rational self: "All systems, hear this! This is not a good idea. Turn around and go back."
Self: "Well, how the heck are we supposed to turn around on this looooose gravel and sand??"
Rational self: "Good question. Don't try a U-turn on this, okay?"
We rode on slowly, carefully and scanning the area for a place to turn around. By that time, even second gear was too fast on this stuff. Shifting down into first and steady throttle, I finally spotted a sandy area to the left. And decided to try a three-point turn to get us headed in the other direction.
Carefully, I backed the bike into the sandy spot, stopped and realized I'm going to have to use some throttle power to get the rear tire out of the sand, onto the gravel and immediately turn right. Now sweating profusely, I did just that, but not without the rear tire squirreling side to side in the sand.
Once on the gravel and pointed in the opposite direction, I stopped, sat there for a moment, giggled at myself and the situation I found myself in, and tried to reduce the sweat pouring out of my pores. I pulled out my camera to take a few pictures; I wanted to remind myself that this happened.
If it had been earlier in the day, if I had not been alone, I would have enjoyed the challenge of navigating the 'scenic drive' all the way around. But not knowing how far it was, or how long it would take, and that if anything happened to me, no one would know.....I knew I made the right choice.
Self: "We could have done this, ya know."
Rational self: "Shut up!"
We finally came out on pavement and I sighed with relief. I retraced my route out of the park to stop briefly at the scenic overlook. Parked there were two Goldwings, their riders and pillions just disembarking.
"Did you like the park?", they asked.
"Oh, yes. The lodge is nice and the scenery beautiful. But the Red Bluff
Scenic Drive? It's gravel. And there is no warning. So I'm warning you now."
Down, down and around and round we rode. Riding west on 154, picking up Byway 7 again and searching for Hwy 64 that runs parallel with the river and I-40.
Now the goal was finding Byway 21 and north to Eureka Springs.
Byway 21, the green magic carpet road.
After leaving Dardenelle State Park, I retraced my route back to Byway 7. Or at least tried to. The intersections to the park from BWY 7 were confusing and if it weren't for signs pointing the way, I would never have found it. And that's the key; the signs point the way *to* the park, but when you leave...... you're on your own. So I got lost and executed a nervous but successful U-turn on the highway after a mental chat inside my head:
Self: "Oh crap! I have to do a U-turn! Noooo!!!!"
Rational Self: "Yeah, so what. About time you did it without panicking."
Self: "But, but.... we nearly lost it the last time we tried it, yesterday!"
Rational self: "And you didn't go down, did you?"
Self: "No, but it was damned close."
Rational self: "Quit your blubbering. Do it and get it over with so we can get outta here."
Self: "Okay, but your're piloting."
U-turn completed, a bit sweaty but with a smile.
Pull alongside shoulder and stare at map in tank bag......where the heck are we????
Rational self: "Think back. Water on right side riding west. Have to go east. It's simple."
Self: "No its not, both roads have water on.... oh wait. Yup. Take a right up here."
Rational self: "Duh."
Finally picking up Byway 7 again, we (me, my bike and the many voices in my head) headed south through Russellville, through Dardenelle and searched for Hwy 154 in Centerville. Before turning onto 154, a glance at the gas guage and mileage caused me pause: should I get gas?
Nah, we'll be fine.
Turning east onto 154, I looked for and found the sign for Petit Jean State Park: 16 miles. I was hungry by that time; I had eaten only one left over protein bar that I found in my tank bag. I had planned to eat lunch at the lodge in the park, but wasn't sure about timing: it was already 2 pm. Hunger got the best of me and my hand was a bit heavy on the throttle riding along the narrow rural highway and up onto the mountain. A rude awakening would loosen that up in a hurry.
As the miles slipped by, the road climbed and began to twist and turn. The now familiar sign appeared on my right ahead: "Severe twisting and steep road ahead next 10 miles. Use caution." Okay; been there, did that. Gee, I'm hungry.
The turns got tighter and the road steeper; as we climbed the mountainside, the speed was posted at a steady 10-15 mph. One hairpin turn and then another. We were doing fine until the third hairpin turn: roll off the throttle, shift down, lean, lean...um, where did the road go?!?!?!
I overshot the apex and crossed the double yellow line by 6 inches. Luckily no vehicle was coming in the opposite direction, but it sure shot an adrenaline surge into my brain that screamed "Slow down and pay attention!!" I sternly berated myself for allowing my concentration to wander away from the road and navigation, slowed down and pushed everything else from my head except for navigating the rest of this road and finding the park. And food. Familiar enough with hypoglycemia, I knew I needed food.
Self to brain: "Dude, you need to eat!"
Brain and body: "I'm working on it!!!"
Rolling into the park, I saw the pointing sign, "Lodge" (translation = food). Follow that sign!
Hidden behind two parking lots and nestled under tall trees was a rock and wooden lodge. Vehicles of all sorts filled the lots and I was lucky to find a spot to park the bike. A quick glance to the right spotted cabins also constructed of stone and wood shaded and sheltered under the canopy of pines and deciduous trees. They looked cozy and comfortable, inviting despite being close to the main lodge (my preference is for more isolated cabins and lodging).
Quickly shedding the touring coat, I marched into the lodge and searched for the restaurant. After being seated I ordered a tall ice tea and a BLT sandwich, and walked out on the deck while waiting for my order. The view down below into the canyon was mostly hidden by tall trees, but I could see some of the ledge cliff walls. On the grassy area below were several artists with easels erected, painting their own perspectives on the canvases. The high sun presented a challenge in capturing the landscape with the camera, but I attempted a few shots anyway.
The deck and it's roof presented me with my favorite yet difficult lighting challenge: shadows and contrasting bright light. A visual perspective can be manipulated depending on metering and exposure. Expose for the shadows? Or adjust the exposure to capture the colors in the bright lit area outside of the shadows? A camera can't do both equally well, so I usually photograph both. Another perspective pattern in my photography is.... well, I'll let you guess.
I almost inhaled my lunch and inquired into details of a park road on the map: Red Bluff Scenic Drive. On the map it is depicted as a one-way drive with three pullouts that overlook the valley below and other mountain peaks nearby, including the two highest peaks in Arkansas. I was informed that it was not far up the road and that it was a 'cute' drive.
Noticing the time and considering the ride back, I decided I should have time to do the scenic drive as long as it wasn't long. After gearing back up, I followed the park sign to Red Bluff Drive and turned down a paved narrow road and a narrower bridge built over a creek. I didn't see any other vehicles ahead or behind me and entered into a forest of tall trees. The only light was from directly above the road and down into the opening of the canopies.
Rolling on at a respectable 10 miles an hour (suggested by the sign), the pavement suddenly gave way to..........DIRT! Loose sharp gravel and sand. "WHAT?"
I slowed down and shifted into second gear, riding carefully with the pointy sharp-angled stones making my tires crackle and pop and my teeth chattering together. This was becoming unpleasant. Soon the gravel got deeper and the dirt was now properly classified as 'sand'.
Um, I'm not sure if this a good idea: tires pumped with air for street riding and a load, which was no longer loaded; tread getting a bit worn; no cell phone signal; alone; 20 miles of gas left in the tank; getting late in the afternoon....
Rational self: "All systems, hear this! This is not a good idea. Turn around and go back."
Self: "Well, how the heck are we supposed to turn around on this looooose gravel and sand??"
Rational self: "Good question. Don't try a U-turn on this, okay?"
We rode on slowly, carefully and scanning the area for a place to turn around. By that time, even second gear was too fast on this stuff. Shifting down into first and steady throttle, I finally spotted a sandy area to the left. And decided to try a three-point turn to get us headed in the other direction.
Carefully, I backed the bike into the sandy spot, stopped and realized I'm going to have to use some throttle power to get the rear tire out of the sand, onto the gravel and immediately turn right. Now sweating profusely, I did just that, but not without the rear tire squirreling side to side in the sand.
Once on the gravel and pointed in the opposite direction, I stopped, sat there for a moment, giggled at myself and the situation I found myself in, and tried to reduce the sweat pouring out of my pores. I pulled out my camera to take a few pictures; I wanted to remind myself that this happened.
If it had been earlier in the day, if I had not been alone, I would have enjoyed the challenge of navigating the 'scenic drive' all the way around. But not knowing how far it was, or how long it would take, and that if anything happened to me, no one would know.....I knew I made the right choice.
Self: "We could have done this, ya know."
Rational self: "Shut up!"
We finally came out on pavement and I sighed with relief. I retraced my route out of the park to stop briefly at the scenic overlook. Parked there were two Goldwings, their riders and pillions just disembarking.
"Did you like the park?", they asked.
"Oh, yes. The lodge is nice and the scenery beautiful. But the Red Bluff
Scenic Drive? It's gravel. And there is no warning. So I'm warning you now."
Down, down and around and round we rode. Riding west on 154, picking up Byway 7 again and searching for Hwy 64 that runs parallel with the river and I-40.
Now the goal was finding Byway 21 and north to Eureka Springs.
Byway 21, the green magic carpet road.
Labels: Adventures, Arkansas
5.27.2007,11:32 PM
Ozark High: Trail of Tears, Roads of Joy
Trail of Tears
Opting to bow out of the dinner gathering Friday night, I chose to catch up on some badly needed sleep. And I slept soundly Friday night. Waking early with anticipation of hitting the road for an adventure, I cleaned up and dressed.
I wandered down to the group camping site to find a few of the other riders stirring and barely awake. Bill was already firing up the camp stove and preparing breakfast: pour hot water in bag, seal and let it sit for 10 minutes. Easy and quick. Two others were eating oatmeal and Ramen noodles. Another was wandering around still shaking sleep from his head. I had my cup of French pressed coffee in me and was eager to go. Food can be had later.
Today was planned with a few intentions: to find good mojo and put it back into my bike road trips, and to search for something of my family history. I had already informed Bill of my intention to do a solo sojourn on Saturday, and because he’s a friend I trust with confidence, I told him why. Sometimes when you’ve lost a part of yourself, you have to go looking for it. Or be receptive to having it find you again. That was my primary goal for the ride on Saturday, and I had to do it alone.
Riding out of Eureka Springs, I headed east on Hwy 62 to Harrison. Already that old feeling of eagerness and anticipation began to infuse me with a smile. Searching for signs directing my to Byway 7, I readied myself to ride onto a rollercoaster road and I strapped my mental seat belt on wearing a grin in my helmet.
Let’s go!
Enjoying the road for what it was: concentrating on a brisk ride and safely navigating the changing angles and elevations. I pulled into two rest stops to view the valleys below and the rolling mountains across the vista.
As I turned from the view below at one stop, I watched a lone rider pull in and snapped a quick photo. Not far behind was another rider that pulled in alongside the him. Both rode BMWs. I walked over and chatted awhile, soon discovering that they were from the Dallas area. We talked bikes, roads and places to eat. And shared favorite sections of roads before we bid each other a safe and enjoyable ride.
And on I rode, now approaching the valley where the great river flowed: the Arkansas River.
Two destinations, two state parks, were in mind with the same interest: the Trail of Tears. My Cherokee heritage has always been a mysterious part of me because so little of my family history was passed down. My great-grandmother was a member of one of the several Cherokee tribes, and her blood, as well as her German husband, filtered down through my father's father.
When I lived on an Indian reservation in Maine while attending college, a medicine woman (and PhD in ethnobotany), who became a close friend and mentor, told me once I needed to find my great-grandmother; "She's been waiting for you. You will know." Several decades later and being presented with the opportunity, it occurred to me to find her, her people and a part of my history.
Lake Dardenelle State Park lies on the Arkansas River and a short distance from Russellville. It is one of two certified sites in Arkansas on the National Historic Trail of Tears. The park, a peninsula jutting out into the Arkansas River on the north shore, was Cherokee land. During the two years of forced relocation of the ‘civilized five tribes’, mostly Cherokee, this spot was where all five tribes passed through by water and land. This spot, and the surrounding area was home for a large number of Cherokee families; which eventually became a site of heartbreak and the beginning of a trail of fear, hopelessness, and death for thousands of Native American people. Including my great-grandmother’s family and friends.
When I entered the visitors’ center, I smiled and walked like a magnet to the three aquariums containing fish that inhabited the wide Arkansas River. Like a little kid, I pressed my face up against the glass and made fish lips at the huge catfish, eel and other fish swimming in their little fish tank. A few of them likewise pressed the front of their heads against the glass near my face. I’m not sure who was more curious; them or me.
Two large boards hung on one wall relating the history of the area and its significance. I noticed that most of one board focused more on the European ‘side of the story’ rather than offering the perspective from the Native Americans. I smirked at the irony, but realized it as typical.
The center houses a room full of resources to read, learn and research the history of the trek by the Indians across Tennessee, Arkansas and into Indian Territory, now called Oklahoma. Two computers are available for use to access information and data collected and stored in databases hosted by dedicated federal agencies, state and national associations.
A Native American woman dressed in neat slacks and a colorfully patterned jacket was using one of the computers to research information on her family members. I felt like a trespasser on her privacy and respectfully honored her silence and concentration. I sat for a while and glanced through a few federal documents containing statistics and reports from military personnel that lead the relocation parties, and a book on Cherokees in Texas. I was offered the first real glimpse and perspective of what happened back then, while present on land upon which they trod more than a hundred years ago.
I ventured outside on the deck that overlooks the river, gazing out across the water, up and down the river.
Trying to imagine what it all may have appeared as so many decades ago; striving to see what they saw, what they felt, smelled and heard. It was as if I was trying to find ghosts, part away the reality I saw before me and place what I knew on the landscape around me. But I couldn’t go back far enough; I didn’t have enough stories to construct a living scenario by which I could project an interactive empathy.
So I let what was left fill me and paint upon my memory what it all looked like now; while the past remained transparent and silent. Yet I still was transported away from the boats, bright T-shirts, running and laughing children, the nuclear plant chimney spewing white steam on the horizon, the cars and trucks, lights and signs; back into a space between what was now and what was then. And a dismay bordering on anger that a people were treated nearly genocidal by those whom they had trusted and tried to make peace with. A sad loss of thousands of people forced out of their homes, the life they knew and the land they loved. Simultaneously I could almost hear the echoes of their songs, which I have heard clearly at reservations I have visited, and their silence.
And asked as I have many times before: why? No answer seems adequate. Nor am I sure we will ever know. But we all should ask ourselves the question: why?
Opting to bow out of the dinner gathering Friday night, I chose to catch up on some badly needed sleep. And I slept soundly Friday night. Waking early with anticipation of hitting the road for an adventure, I cleaned up and dressed.
I wandered down to the group camping site to find a few of the other riders stirring and barely awake. Bill was already firing up the camp stove and preparing breakfast: pour hot water in bag, seal and let it sit for 10 minutes. Easy and quick. Two others were eating oatmeal and Ramen noodles. Another was wandering around still shaking sleep from his head. I had my cup of French pressed coffee in me and was eager to go. Food can be had later.
Today was planned with a few intentions: to find good mojo and put it back into my bike road trips, and to search for something of my family history. I had already informed Bill of my intention to do a solo sojourn on Saturday, and because he’s a friend I trust with confidence, I told him why. Sometimes when you’ve lost a part of yourself, you have to go looking for it. Or be receptive to having it find you again. That was my primary goal for the ride on Saturday, and I had to do it alone.
Riding out of Eureka Springs, I headed east on Hwy 62 to Harrison. Already that old feeling of eagerness and anticipation began to infuse me with a smile. Searching for signs directing my to Byway 7, I readied myself to ride onto a rollercoaster road and I strapped my mental seat belt on wearing a grin in my helmet.
Let’s go!
Enjoying the road for what it was: concentrating on a brisk ride and safely navigating the changing angles and elevations. I pulled into two rest stops to view the valleys below and the rolling mountains across the vista.
As I turned from the view below at one stop, I watched a lone rider pull in and snapped a quick photo. Not far behind was another rider that pulled in alongside the him. Both rode BMWs. I walked over and chatted awhile, soon discovering that they were from the Dallas area. We talked bikes, roads and places to eat. And shared favorite sections of roads before we bid each other a safe and enjoyable ride.
And on I rode, now approaching the valley where the great river flowed: the Arkansas River.
Two destinations, two state parks, were in mind with the same interest: the Trail of Tears. My Cherokee heritage has always been a mysterious part of me because so little of my family history was passed down. My great-grandmother was a member of one of the several Cherokee tribes, and her blood, as well as her German husband, filtered down through my father's father.
When I lived on an Indian reservation in Maine while attending college, a medicine woman (and PhD in ethnobotany), who became a close friend and mentor, told me once I needed to find my great-grandmother; "She's been waiting for you. You will know." Several decades later and being presented with the opportunity, it occurred to me to find her, her people and a part of my history.
Lake Dardenelle State Park lies on the Arkansas River and a short distance from Russellville. It is one of two certified sites in Arkansas on the National Historic Trail of Tears. The park, a peninsula jutting out into the Arkansas River on the north shore, was Cherokee land. During the two years of forced relocation of the ‘civilized five tribes’, mostly Cherokee, this spot was where all five tribes passed through by water and land. This spot, and the surrounding area was home for a large number of Cherokee families; which eventually became a site of heartbreak and the beginning of a trail of fear, hopelessness, and death for thousands of Native American people. Including my great-grandmother’s family and friends.
When I entered the visitors’ center, I smiled and walked like a magnet to the three aquariums containing fish that inhabited the wide Arkansas River. Like a little kid, I pressed my face up against the glass and made fish lips at the huge catfish, eel and other fish swimming in their little fish tank. A few of them likewise pressed the front of their heads against the glass near my face. I’m not sure who was more curious; them or me.
Two large boards hung on one wall relating the history of the area and its significance. I noticed that most of one board focused more on the European ‘side of the story’ rather than offering the perspective from the Native Americans. I smirked at the irony, but realized it as typical.
The center houses a room full of resources to read, learn and research the history of the trek by the Indians across Tennessee, Arkansas and into Indian Territory, now called Oklahoma. Two computers are available for use to access information and data collected and stored in databases hosted by dedicated federal agencies, state and national associations.
A Native American woman dressed in neat slacks and a colorfully patterned jacket was using one of the computers to research information on her family members. I felt like a trespasser on her privacy and respectfully honored her silence and concentration. I sat for a while and glanced through a few federal documents containing statistics and reports from military personnel that lead the relocation parties, and a book on Cherokees in Texas. I was offered the first real glimpse and perspective of what happened back then, while present on land upon which they trod more than a hundred years ago.
I ventured outside on the deck that overlooks the river, gazing out across the water, up and down the river.
Trying to imagine what it all may have appeared as so many decades ago; striving to see what they saw, what they felt, smelled and heard. It was as if I was trying to find ghosts, part away the reality I saw before me and place what I knew on the landscape around me. But I couldn’t go back far enough; I didn’t have enough stories to construct a living scenario by which I could project an interactive empathy.
So I let what was left fill me and paint upon my memory what it all looked like now; while the past remained transparent and silent. Yet I still was transported away from the boats, bright T-shirts, running and laughing children, the nuclear plant chimney spewing white steam on the horizon, the cars and trucks, lights and signs; back into a space between what was now and what was then. And a dismay bordering on anger that a people were treated nearly genocidal by those whom they had trusted and tried to make peace with. A sad loss of thousands of people forced out of their homes, the life they knew and the land they loved. Simultaneously I could almost hear the echoes of their songs, which I have heard clearly at reservations I have visited, and their silence.
And asked as I have many times before: why? No answer seems adequate. Nor am I sure we will ever know. But we all should ask ourselves the question: why?
Labels: Adventures, Arkansas
5.24.2007,11:56 AM
Ozarks High: Lessons
I'm not going to elaborate on the ride up except to mention again how well it was coordinated and conducted. Coordinating and managing a group of eleven bikes and twelve riders on 450 miles of winding twisting roads is complicated. Kudos to Bill and his team for that.
And then some....
New experiences:
1. This was my first large group ride and first long distance ride with anyone but myself and I (and the many voices in my head). I tend to ride in the rear on group rides for several reasons. One is I prefer my own pace, I tend to alternate between segments of riding for the ride and riding while soaking in everything around me. But mostly because I don't like the distractions of numerous riders/bikes/etc around me when I'm riding. No, I'm not anti-social, I 'm just a loner.
2. On the return trip from Tennessee I rode 1140 miles in less than 24 hours. We rode well over 450 miles in 12 hours (from my place) and I was beat 3/4 of the way there. I was up at 4 am, had 5 hours sleep, and the concentration required by the group dynamics and road conditions added up to fatiguing sooner than normal. Recognizing that, I slowed my speed and was more cautious in the curves the last 50 miles or so. I know my limits and when pushing is dangerous. When the mental acuity isn't there, fall back.
3. I can do U-turns. But I still hate them. The first one I nearly wiped out by going off the shoulder onto loose gravel. Trying to recover back on the pavement, my rear tire went squirrelly in the gravel. Over the next two days my two attempts at U-turns were successful and with no negative event (Tim's my witness on one of them). I realize that my issue is psychological; I went down twice while attempting U-turns (once on gravel). The two successful turns on this trip have helped me begin to overcome my issue and I have been practicing them in the parking lot at the train station in the morning. Soon I'll take that to the road.
4. I need a track day. I know that will cross-over to riding roads like we did in Arkansas. I want to learn more technique on cornering with my bike to increase my confidence. I know how far I can lean; I've gouged the pavement with a peg and boot before. But that scared the crap out of me. (it was unintentional)
5. When visiting parks, ask about park roads. My unintentional dualsport/off-road adventure at one of the AR parks left me a bit....... full of adrenaline. That story later.
6. Never overestimate how far you can go on a tank of gas. That was just a reinforcement of an earlier lesson.
7. Although I know Whee is not a Thoroughbred, now I know Whee is a quarter horse. Several times on this trip I rolled that throttle wide open and was pleasantly surprised at how quick, smooth and fast that little mustang can sprint. It was as if we were flying at take-off. But it can't maintain that high rpm and speed. It's a sprinter. Regardless, it is good to know that power and capability are there when I need it, and I did need it several times.
8. My enjoyment of a trip was restored. This time I had both: with other riders, and, as is my usual, alone. Good mojo is back.
Next: My lone sojourn for a day.
Labels: Adventures, Arkansas
5.22.2007,1:20 PM
Ozark Highs: Part One
Life is a long giant lesson book. No matter where you go, or when, every journey and adventure offers lessons to learn from. When we stop learning, we might as well be dead. And in some cases, those who don’t learn may find themselves in that state, or staring it in the face.
In all situations the law of probability rules: form conclusions about the likelihood of potential events and the underlying factors of complex systems. Given a set of circumstances, these are the possible outcomes and risks, and this is how I reduce the risks but reap the reward.
And remember: everything in life is a trade-off.
Only these qualities will enable evolution into a competent rider. A warrior never runs into battle without study and knowledge of his enemy and associated circumstances. Nor does the warrior befriend strangers without the same evaluation. Based on such information, only then can the warrior weigh the consequences, make decisions and challenge himself and others. Riding a bike on winding roller coaster roads is no different. They are not to conquer, but to learn from and master; a synchronization of your body, mental state, bike and road surface.
Like playing an instrument in a symphony with other instruments. Each becomes fine tuned to the other, eventually becoming one: the symphony.
Let the ride begin.
"There is nobody to conquer, but oneself." - Zen proverbPhoto courtesy of Billy Downey
Labels: Adventures, Arkansas, essays
,12:47 PM
Ozark symphony
Sometimes motorcycles remind me of instruments. On the road, they play their music. I heard symphonies for three days.
1326.5 miles worth.
A selection of instruments, fine tuned and ready to play. Led by our Fearless Leader and conductor, Bill. Here we began the Oklahoma minuet:
Ending with a trio, The Texas Adagio:
Stay tuned for the rest of the symphonies.
The players wish to especially thank these key lead instruments and riders:
Bill, our conductor and Fearless Leader.
Squeaky and Melanie, for sweeping and guiding.
Chris, for helping to turn the music pages.
I regret that the kettle drum sounded for Bill.
1326.5 miles worth.
A selection of instruments, fine tuned and ready to play. Led by our Fearless Leader and conductor, Bill. Here we began the Oklahoma minuet:
Ending with a trio, The Texas Adagio:
Stay tuned for the rest of the symphonies.
The players wish to especially thank these key lead instruments and riders:
Bill, our conductor and Fearless Leader.
Squeaky and Melanie, for sweeping and guiding.
Chris, for helping to turn the music pages.
I regret that the kettle drum sounded for Bill.
Labels: Adventures, Arkansas