Day 14: Tomorrow, Tomorrow, You're Only a Day Away

Despite my intention to sleep soundly, the words and images from Tuesday collided with the thoughts from Wednesday, and I find myself awake at 3:30am. Yet when I sit here attempting to write, I can’t think of anything important to say. The opportunity to see America from the back of a motorcycle (or from the driver’s seat for that matter) is something most people are never offered, or if offered, take. Under blue skies, the ride is amazing and the scenery spectacular, and the camera’s lens or my descriptions will never quite do it the proper justice.

I was hoping that Wednesday would be one of those blue sky rides; a perfect sun, a gentle breeze, views filled with diminutive farmhouses across fields of budding cornstalks, cows meandering aimlessly, Main Street towns, road signs and produce stands, Americana in all its glory. I was hoping the ride would render the last three days distant memories. When the weather report called for rain – again - I was filled with a sense of dread.

Anyone can ride under perfect skies, but to ride like this tests your mettle and fortitude.

And this time, I broke.

It was 35 degrees colder than this time last week. The tiniest patch of blue was an oasis in a sky of gray, but as we got closer, it was gone. A tease. A mirage. The clouds swallowed the entire sky as they stampeded past like an angry, marauding army, confiscating everything of worth in its path. The sun was becoming a distant memory, as we hadn’t seen it in four days.  There was a front sweeping across America’s Heartland, and we had the misfortune to be in its path – either just ahead or immediately behind it, announced by the puddles and water sogged streets.

The only positive was that we didn’t get wet.

The weather is no one’s fault. It is what it is, but when you find yourself huddled and shivering on the back of a motorcycle trying to make yourself as small as possible, using your husband as a wind shield and bartering for warmer temperatures with any unseen deity who might answer you, something’s got to give. There’s got to be a rule somewhere that you shouldn’t have to purchase thermal shirts from the Harley store in the middle of June. And if there isn’t, there should be.

Right now, I want to go outside into the parking lot and click my heels three times.
There’s no place like home.
There’s no place like home.
There’s no place like home.

Instead, I find myself humming the theme song to Annie,  “The sun will come put tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow there’ll be sun….”

And with that, I am going back to bed.


Part Two: Thursday, June 16
In the morning, much to my surprise, there was sun. It was bright and shining directly in my eyes, and I didn’t care. It was a bright, brand new day.

Was it the Annie song? Maybe. Was it the confederate flag I wore as a bandanna, staging my own rebellion against any more bad weather? Maybe. (That's fodder for another blog on another day.) Was it my own Fantastic Four – my father, grandfather, grandmother and father-in-law, who I pleaded with to use their angelic influences to keep us safe, warm and dry today? Maybe.  Whatever it was, or whatever it wasn’t, it worked.

The radio played the best songs. The road was wonderfully curved, cutting through the most magnificent landscape as we headed back east across Indiana, Ohio and into Pennsylvania. Barns were beautiful again, no matter how dilapidated they were. And the few drops of rain that dared to fall as we got closer to our hotel? There was no way they would be allowed to ruin our day.

And the best part of all?  Tomorrow we go to Gettysburg!
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And Still More Corn...


I normally write these blogs in my head as we’re traveling down the scenic highways and byways. After all, that is my job, to record the event for posterity, sitting from my perch on the back of the bike. Between the digital photographs and the pictures taken with my mind’s eye, I normally have more than enough material to wax poetic at the end of the day.

It’s already Wednesday night and I’m just getting around to writing Tuesday’s blog.  I crawled into bed at 7:45 last night, physically and mentally exhausted. It wasn’t long before I was asleep. And while I look longingly at the bed now, I know that if I don’t get my thoughts on paper (or computer) now, I’ll be up at 4:00 am.

The forecast called for more wind and precarious weather as we traipsed across Nebraska and on to Iowa, and for the third day in a row, we headed out in jackets and held our breath. I strapped on my Pollyanna helmet and tried to positively adjust my attitude, but the swirling wind and darkening skies made that difficult, if not impossible.

When Mother Nature decides to have a hissy fit, the best thing to do is duck and run. Unfortunately, when you’re driving through the middle of corn country, there’s nowhere to run and certainly nowhere to hide.

For two hours, and more miles than I care to know, we were pummeled by a ferocious and relentless wind, whipping mercilessly across the cornfields. I was amazed that the vintage and well-worn barns, with their remaining matchstick construction, were able to withstand the squalls. I know I was struggling just to keep my glasses and helmet on.

Even the birds, which normally soar above us with effortless grace, struggled to stay along their paths. Smaller species darted recklessly about; alighting on wires, fence posts and tree limbs, rather than continue to fight flight.

The first town we found was Creston. I assume it was a town there were no cornfields; it boasted a gas station (where we stopped), a few houses a stores or two and a Wal Mart. It took all of 4 blocks and five minutes to be back on the open road, but now, the undulating landscape offered smooth waves of green and clusters of trees sprung sporadically across the horizon. Soon, they gave way to hills, and trees in greater concentration. It was amazing how that natural screen reduced the wind and improved my attitude.

My happiness was short lived.

As the hills deflated and the trees disappeared, so did my smile. The wind was back in high gear, with renewed ferocity.  My nostalgic, romanticized reverence  for farms, fields and cows was waning. We took refuge in a Harley dealership, and I bought a long sleeved shirt, just in case.

Luckily, the hills returned and the wind didn’t, and while the rest of the ride wasn’t stellar, at least we had some weather stability.  

So, I don't have a lot of material for this entry. I’ll have to go back to the pictures, which weren’t many, to describe what we saw, which wasn’t much. But, let me qualify that remark. The countryside was beautiful, but it’s difficult to take pictures when the wind is angrily trying to rip the camera from your hands. And it’s difficult to see when your eyes are squeezed shut and your head is bent, bracing against the wind.

And now it’s bedtime, Scarlett, for tomorrow is another day.
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Toto, We're Not in Kansas Anymore

Wind. Rain. Kansas.
Déjà vu all over again.

Today’s ride started out just like yesterday, except I swear I saw Miss Gulch pedaling wildly across the blackening Kansas sky.  Clouds were amassing over our heads into a dark and ominous blanket of gray. The wind was furious and I was certain someone was going to drop a house somewhere.

We avoided the rain for a while, but eventually it caught us. Luckily, it didn’t last as long as it could have, but the skies continued to threaten all day, with the sun making nothing more than occasional cameo appearances.

There wasn’t a lot to look at as we drove across the balance of Kansas into Nebraska. My observation to Jason as we drove past cornfields for an hour, “If there’s this much corn in Kansas, and Nebraska is the Cornhusker State, what the hell will that landscape look like?”

“The same,” he replied. “Only flatter.”

And so it was.

Two words for Nebraska - wind and corn.

The wind was worse in Nebraska than it has been in Kansas.  The landscape was flat and green, and there was nothing to stop it from blowing, no, howling, across the fields and road.  It was brutal.  No tree groves, no hillsides, no anything to slow down what I later learned were 30 mph gusts. I was having a hard time keeping my helmet on; I don’t know how Jason kept the bike on the road. After a while, I turned the camera off. It was a struggle to hold it up, let alone hold it still enough to take a picture, but then again, how many pictures of corn does one really need?

I wish I could find the words to accurately describe the expanse of acreage that continued as far as the eye could see on either side of the two-lane highway we traveled. Corn, corn and more corn. And just when you thought there couldn’t possibly be another stalk….more corn. Sure, there was the occasional wheat field, and a few fields filled with furrowed rows of non-descript green leaves, a handful of cattle standing under a tree and the requisite barns and farmsteads, but they were few and far between. I found myself trying to conger something, anything else to look at, to no avail.

It was a difficult ride, more physical and cold than any other since we left New Jersey. We were so exhausted when we got to our hotel in Omaha, we took a nap.

The best thing about today has been the four Bruin goals in the first period, and now a fifth with less than 11 minutes to go. Here’s to a Game 7 and no rain (or wind) tomorrow. But since we’re heading to Iowa, I have a sinking suspicion there’s no avoiding the corn.
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Day Ten: This Wasn't Dorothy's Kansas

Rain. Wind. Kansas.
Toto, I think we’re going to have a problem.

The weather forecast was ominous as we started the ride from Oklahoma to Kansas, so much so that we left in rain gear.  The rain was nothing more than a sprinkle at first, but the skies were growing darker and we raced across the state as quickly as possible, trying to keep ahead of the scowling clouds that seemed determined to drench us.

I fully expected to see Miss Gulch furiously pedaling her bicycle across the sky above us.

The drenching rains never came, but we seemed to be perpetually on the periphery of a storm as we made our way through Oklahoma and into Kansas.

By the time we got to Fort Smith, we felt comfortable enough to swap the rain gear for riding jackets. We took a brief ride through downtown Fort Smith and made our way around the historic old fort (literally…. We never got off the bike) and continued on to Mine Creek Battlefield near Pleasanton, Kansas.

On October 25, 1864, one of the largest and most dramatic cavalry charges of the war took place on the banks of Mine Creek, Kansas. The Union cavalry was outnumbered almost 3 to 1, but through determination and hand-to-hand combat, beat General Sterling Price’s Confederates back into Missouri. The Confederates were retreating from the Battle of Westport when pursuing Union forces under the command of Generals Alfred Pleasanton, Samuel Curtis and James Blunt overtook them. The Confederate rear guard fought desperately, but eventually retreated in confusion toward the swollen, muddy and slippery slopes of Mine Creek.

We arrived at the Visitor’s Center, and to our surprise, found it was closed. But there was the battlefield and the interpretative signs spread out before us. We took our own walking tour, following the cut paths around the field and around Mine Creek. Like that day in October, nearly 150 years ago, the banks were muddy from heavy rains the night before.  The fields were in nearly the same condition as they were during the conflict. Imagine yourself a Confederate soldier, tired and battle weary, witnessing the thundering of thousands of horses, cannonade and hand guns raging across a huge expanse of open land towards you. The Confederates trampled their own men as they fled, and the creek soon filled with dead men and horses. When it was over, the Union cavalry had killed or captured nearly 1,000 Confederate soldiers, including General Marmaduke and Brigader General Cabell, and commandeered most of their artillery.

After our self-tour, we continued on to our next stop, Rawhide Harley Davidson in Olathe. It was the largest dealer I’d ever seen. Two floors, 400 bikes, people everywhere. It was amazing. Requisite tee shirts purchased, we headed on to the hotel.

We dodged the weather bullet, visited a battlefield, added to our Harley tee-shirt collection, and now it was time for dinner. In the hotel, we picked up a Kansas City restaurant guide featuring The Majestic Restaurant on its cover. Dry aged steaks. Jazz nightly. Located in Kansas City’s historic downtown saloon. This was the place for us!

The Majestic is housed in the historic 1911 Fitzpatrick building in downtown Kansas City (Missouri, not Kansas). It has all the charm of its turn of the century design, including a high pressed-tin ceiling, a long, mirrored wooden bar and blue and white porcelain tiled floors. The building has been home to a saloon, a bordello and during Prohibition, its third floor served as a private club and basement as a Speakeasy run by the political machine of Kansas City crime czar, “Boss Tom” Pendergast.

The food was superb. Jason had a Kansas City strip steak and I opted for the double cut pork chop stuffed with apples. Our waiter, Scott, was a true professional and made us feel like regulars, not vacationers who happened to trip over this gem of a restaurant.  And with live jazz on the 1910 piano, this was the best overall experience we’ve had on this road trip.

And as for Boss Tom, well, he died in prison while serving time for tax evasion, but I did learn that the “spirit” of the Speakeasy lives on. The place is said to be haunted. 
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Day Nine: OOOOOHHHHHHH-klahoma!

When we headed out for Oklahoma this morning, I was certain I’d have a blog chock full of tales of ranches, horses, cowboys and the like. What we saw, and mind you, we’re only as good as the roads we travel, were (what seemed like) miles of vast prairie dotted with small clusters of cattle, the occasional horse nibbling at the grass, and barns. Not one cowboy or much that looked anything like a ranch.

I repeat my disclaimer. I can only talk about what I see based on the roads we travel.

We got to Bartlesville about a half hour ahead of schedule. Why Bartlesville? I can’t answer that, other than there’s a Harley dealer down the road from our hotel. Enticing, yes, but a reason to make this our stop, not really. 

So here we were, in Bartlesville, checked into the hotel, and an entire afternoon ahead of us.  We made the obligatory trip to the Harley dealer and purchased the requisite tee shirts. Lunch was next and we found Dink’s BBQ. I know, another BBQ meal, but, as they say, when in Rome…….  And once again we were not disappointed.

We learned, from hotel pamphlets on the area attractions, that Phillips Petroleum and its founder, Frank Phillips, were fixtures in Bartlesville. There were several attractions associated with the Phillips family and company, including the Phillips 66 Company Museum, Frank Phillips home, and Woolaroc, his museum, wildlife preserve and country home.  We wandered through downtown Bartlesville to the Phillips Museum, and surprised ourselves by A) deciding to go inside and; B) actually enjoying it. The museum takes you on a journey of innovation, creativity and the pioneering attitude of Frank Phillips and his brother, L.E. Phillips, and the company they founded. Neither Jason nor I knew that they were pioneers in aviation and aviation fuel, that Phillips fuel helped the WWII war efforts, that their employee basketball team won 6 straight Amateur Athletic Union (AAU) titles from 1943-1948, or that Phillips holds 15,000 patents. And there’s so much more. I’m almost embarrassed to tell you we spent nearly two hours in the place!!

Next, we decided to head over to the Phillips Mansion. Why not make a day of it? 

The home sits like a palace, an impressive Neo-Classical structure with columned front and side entrances, and a six bay detached brick garage.  It was originally built in 1909 on ten acres of land. A southwest wing was added in 1917 and a $500,00 renovation in 1930 (yes…half a million in 1930).

Frank and his wife, Jane, entertained lavishly, yet the house is a beautiful and tastefully decorated example of what life was like for an oil baron and his family in the first half of the 20th century. Frank, who started his professional life as a barber, even had a barber chair in his personal bathroom, and a barber who came each morning to shave him!

The home was deeded to the Oklahoma Historical Society in 1973, a gift from the Phillips granddaughter, Elizabeth, who inherited the home when her grandmother, Jane, died in 1948.

Considering my thoughts on what to include in today’s blog were as dry as prairie grass when we started, all in all, it turned out to be a fun and informative day. 
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Day Eight: The Civil War Rages On


Today we headed out to Pea Ridge, a turning point in the Civil War and a battle that saved Missouri for the Union. In early March 1862, the Federal Western Army, under the command of General Samuel Curtis clashed with the Major General Earl Van Dorn’s Western Confederates in the Ozark countryside.

Decisions made on both sides changed the course of history.

Van Dorn, vain and ambitious, planned to take Missouri, all the way to St. Louis, and at the onset, it seemed within his grasp. He had more men, supplies and cannon than Curtis, who had begun to dig in at Little Sugar Creek. Knowing a frontal assault was suicide, Van Dorn pushed his men on a ruthless march north to the Federal rear and right. To save time, he made the decision to leave behind supplies and additional ammunition. By the end of the fighting on March 7, the Confederates had pushed the Blues back to Ruddick’s Field, and gained control of Elkhorn Tavern, but lost two of its commanding officers, General Benjamin McCulloch and James McIntosh in the fighting.

Van Dorn felt confident he would take the battle the next day, but that night, Curtis fortified his troops and in the morning, the cannonade fired on the Confederates was precise and savage. Union troops then assaulted the Confederate right and centers. Without sufficient ammunition or supplies, the Confederates had no choice but to retreat, leaving Missouri firmly in Union control.

After the defeat at Pea Ridge, Van Dorn continued to fight in Mississippi, where he successfully defended Vicksburg in 1862, but after failing to retake Corinth in October, his troops became disenchanted with him. His career was cut short in 1863 when a jealous husband, a personal enemy who claimed Van Dorn had been having an affair with his wife, killed him.

Samuel Curtis continued his government service after the war, working as an Indian commissioner and consultant for track laid by the Union Pacific Railroad.

The Pea Ridge National Battlefield site covers 4,300 acres. We took the seven mile driving tour with stops that include the Elkhorn Tavern and the east overlook, which provides a panoramic view of the battlefield. It is such a serene scene, and so hard to comprehend the sea of blue uniforms, over 10,000 men stretching a mile long, who amassed in that open field on the morning of March 8, 1862. What chaos with the waves of men, billowing smoke from the black powder, the deafening sound of cannon shot, all eventually forcing the Confederates to withdraw.

In the last two years, Jason and I have been to Civil War battlefields all over the south, each different in their tribute to the fallen, but each hallowed ground. It is important that we remember this tragic chapter in our country’s history, and we do what we can to preserve the battlefields as battlefields, far more essential than another shopping mall or housing development.

If you are interested in learning more about preserving Civil War battlefields, especially in this, the 150th anniversary of the war, visit the Civil War Trust or the national Give 150 campaign sponsored by the History Channel.
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Day Seven: Prairie Grove Battlefield

We headed out of southern Arkansas today along the western edge of the state on our way to Prairie Grove, the site of a turning point battle during the Civil War’s western campaign.  

We certainly can’t call it a Civil War Harley Tour if we don’t visit at least one battlefield and I provide a bit of a history lesson, now can we?

The battle of Prairie Grove took place on December 7, 1862 when the Confederate Army under Major General Thomas Hindman clashed with two divisions of the Union Frontier Army, led by Brigadier Generals James G. Blunt and Thomas Herron.

The Confederates assembled on the ridge overlooking the Illinois River and fought back two charges by Herron’s troops in a bloody barrage of ammunitions. Blunt arrived with reinforcements and the savage fighting continued until dark when the Confederates retreated under cover of night.

The heaviest fighting took place around the home of William Morton and in his orchard, corn and wheat fields. The family, and some of their neighbors, hid in the Morton basement while the battle raged on around them. Strategically, it was a Union win, but casualties were considerable on both sides, with nearly 2,700 men killed, wounded or missing.

The Battle of Prairie Grove took its name from the one room log building that General Hindman used as his headquarters. After the battle, both sides used the structure as a hospital. This was the last major battle in Arkansas, and the state stayed under Federal control for the duration of the war.  The town of Prairie Grove was established in 1888, taking its name from the battle.

The park was established in 1908 by the Daughters of the Confederacy, and was originally used for Confederate soldier reunions. Today, over 800 acres of the original 3,600 are preserved, making the Prairie Grove Battlefield one of the most intact in the country.

We also visited the National and Confederate cemeteries in Fayetteville. I am always so moved by the sheer number of small white headstones, lined in perfect formation, a living legacy to the tragedy we inflicted upon ourselves as a young nation. Anyone who served in our country’s military has the option to be buried in a National Cemetery, and the interments in the Fayetteville National Cemetery are no exception. There are headstones for those who served in the Civil War, both World Wars, the Spanish American War, Korea, Vietnam and the more recent Gulf war conflicts as well.  For the most part, each stone identifies the soldier, sailor, airman or Marine by name.

I am so much more saddened by the anonymity of the Confederate cemeteries. They are primarily afterthoughts, burial grounds organized by caring associations formed to provide a proper resting place for their soldiers. Since many of the bodies were exhumed from where they fell and were originally buried, the stones are usually anonymous, simple markers that only silently remind that that at one time, this was someone’s husband, son, brother or father.
In the middle of the cemetery is a large confederate soldier, standing sentry over the rows of headstones, fanning out from the memorial in four directions, representing the soldiers from Louisiana, Missouri, Texas and Arkansas.

Most of the soldiers buried in Fayetteville fell in the battles of Pea Ridge or Prairie Grove. Some fell in the Battle of Fayetteville or other small area skirmishes, but many died from sickness of disease during the winters of 1861 and 1862.

I don’t have any relatives buried in any of these cemeteries, but I always feel a need to stop by and offer a moment of silence for the fallen, regardless of which side they fought on. 
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Pioneer Life: Washington State Park


When I first suggested to Jason that we visit Washington State Park, he reminded me that my bar for these types of interpretive attractions is Williamsburg, Virginia, and Hope, Arkansas was a long way to go for possible disappointment.

I knew I was taking a risk. I was told Sturbridge, Massachusetts was like Williamsburg. Disappointed. Same with Plimoth Plantation. So, it was either three strikes I’m out or third time’s the charm. 

The town of Washington, Arkansas, current population 180, holds a pivotal place in Arkansas history. It was a stop along the southwest trail for pioneers and frontiersmen, including Jim Bowie, Sam Houton and Davy Crockett, on their way to Texas. Washington also served as the Confederate capital of Arkansas during the Civil War. The Washington Telegraph, established in 1840, was the only Confederate newspaper to continue to print through the Civil War and beyond, publishing its last edition in 1947. The railroad, and the neighboring town of Hope contributed to the slow decline of the city, but because of its historic significance to the state, the Pioneer Washington Restoration Foundation was formed in 1958 and in 1975, Washington was declared a Historic State Park.

The Visitor Center, housed in the former 1874 Hempstead County Courthouse building, is your first stop. There are several rooms of audio and visual exhibits, including the actual courtroom and Judge’s chambers. You can certainly wander the town itself, but to learn more about the town, it’s history and to tour the restored buildings, a ticket is required.

It was early when we arrived, and it seemed like we were the only two people there. Turns out, most of the visiting traffic is during the school year, on weekends and for special events (of which there are many), so we had what amounted to a quiet, personal tour. 

Different exhibits are open based on the day and the theme. We visited the Block-Catts residence, home to Abraham Block, the first Jewish settler in Arkansas, the Royston house, circa 1845, owned by one of 17 lawyers living in Washington in 1850, and the  Purdom House. At the Sanders  farm and homestead, we met Betty, the Sanders slave, who chatted with us since “Mistress Martha” had gone into town, and shockingly, in such heat, without her parasol.

We had lunch in the Williams Tavern Restaurant, built circa 1832. Southern hospitality and good home cooking were both on the menu. We enjoyed fried pickles,  Jason had a classic fried bologna sandwich with a side of fries and I had an awesome reuben with onion rings. The atmosphere was quaint and charming and the food delicious.

We saw the B.W. Edwards firearms collection, more than 200 pieces, the Printing office, with a superb collection of printing presses and a Lin-O-Type machine, and the James Black blacksmith shop. Black was the smith who forged the knife made famous by frontiersman, Jim Bowie.

So, no, it’s not Williamsburg, but Washington was charming, well managed and definitely worth the trip. It was an excellent representation of a prairie town and the daily lives of the pioneers who help expand our country westward.

To learn more about Washington, visit their website at http://www.historicwashingtonstatepark.com/
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Day Six: How Dry I Am

My intention for tonight was to draft a simple blog about our experience at Washington State Park, have a nice adult beverage, watch the hockey game and get a good night sleep before a long ride up the western edge of Arkansas to see a few Civil War battlefields tomorrow.  Ah, the best laid plans……

We returned to the hotel and wandered across the street to the gas station to buy some beer for Jason and Mike’s Hard Lemonade (I hoped) for me. Since we’d seen beer and wine in every gas station we stopped in after Pennsylvania, we didn’t think it would be an issue. Silly us. No beer. No wine. Nothing with alcohol content stronger than water. Ok. Maybe that particular gas station simply didn’t sell it, but before we went on to the next station, we decided head back to the hotel and ask at the front desk.

“Do you know where we can buy some beer or wine?”
“Oh no deah, this is a dry county.”
“Really?” I tried not to sound shocked. After all, this IS Arkansas.
“But I can give ya’ll directions to the liquor store,” she offered, rummaging matter-of-factly through her file index, pulling out a slip of paper with typed directions. “Here ya go, deah. It’s just a short ride over the bridge and down the haway in Miller County.”

Miller.  How appropriate.

So we took the slip of paper back to our room, stifling our giggles until we were out of earshot. It then dawned on Jason as to why he couldn’t find an Applebees, Chili’s or sports bar of any kind closer than Texarkana. So, no alcohol, no hockey, and the only restaurants we’d seen were fast food chains. It wasn’t turning into the promising evening we had expected.

The Boll Weevil, yes… that’s the name of the liquor store….was only a few miles away, so we decided to make the run.  Donning helmets, we climbed on the bike and headed on down the “haway”. 

I wish I’d thought to bring my camera.

The building was certainly nothing to speak of, distinguished only by the giant green letters spelling out BOLL WEEVIL LIQUORS and DELI. The parking lot, on the other hand, looked like the mall on December 23rd.  There had to be twenty or more trucks parked in the lot, not counting the two that pulled in ahead of us.  The entrance was like a two-way conveyor belt – truck in, truck out, two in, two out. And every patron wore the same uniform – faded blue jeans, graphic tee shirt, construction boots, ragged baseball cap and black sunglasses. In they went and out they came, brown paper bag in hand.

Jason and I sighed deeply and went inside, clearly out of our element.  The air was heavy with the smell of grease (Fried chicken, yes. Bologna, no, so I was confused about the whole ‘deli’ concept). and the left and back walls were lined with beer coolers. While Jason and I surveyed the shiny cans and bottles, it was no nonsense for everyone else. They bee-lined to their beverage of choice, walked up to the counter, paid and left. With no Mike’s in sight, I settled on a large-sized Smirnoff Ice. Jason pulled out a 40 oz. bottle of Bud Light, and we did what felt like the Perp Walk, without the paparazzi and coat over our heads, to the counter.

With brown-bagged bottles in hand, we went back out to the bike and loaded them into the saddlebag, while the trucks continue to pull in and out. It was amazing.

We waited for five more vehicles to make the right into the lot before we could pull out, and as we made our getaway, I felt like a fugitive smuggling contraband across the county line.

With the bottles chilling in our in-room refrigerator, dinner was the next decision.
Staying true to our commitment to eat locally at least once a day, Big Jake’s BBQ, the home of the Original Fried Pies, was the hands down winner. Of course, being the only place within 15 minutes helped.

A local favorite, judging by the parking lot, we entered with high hopes and were not disappointed. Jason ordered the small plate with beef brisket, ribs, corn and coleslaw, and I had the same, with chicken as my BBQ choice.  The meal was served in paper lined plastic dishes, with plastic silverware and rolls of paper towels on the table.  It was awesome.  And because we felt we had to, we tried the coconut fried pie; batter covered coconut cream pie filling deep fried and served in a paper sleeve.  Also, a tasty treat.

So now, we’re back in our room watching the Boston Red Sox instead of the Boston Bruins, drinking water instead of alcohol and looking for Harley Dealers along tomorrow’s route.

And yes, I’ll still blog about Washington State Park, but it may have to wait until morning.
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Day Five: Arkansas

We left Branson early this morning to hazy blue skies and a chilly 70 degrees. Not that 70 is normally described as chilly, but considering it was 87 degrees when we started out on Monday…..

The Arkansas state border was less than 20 minutes away, and it seemed that as soon as we crossed, the haze evaporated and someone turned up the heat. Today was spent on Scenic Highway 7, which, for the most part, was great. But nothing has the capacity to mess up a perfect road than a road crew. June is not only the official first month of summer vacation season, but apparently, it’s also the official start of road construction, especially on two lane roads that wind wonderfully through national parks.

We pulled into Hot Springs near lunchtime, and spun the local fare wheel once again. Hot Springs was the boyhood home of former President Bill Clinton, and it’s posted proudly on a sign as you roll into town. The historic downtown area has wonderful stores and shops housed in restored landmark buildings. (http://www.hotsprings.org/things_to_do/historic_hotsprings/downtown.aspx) 

We spied a restaurant called The Ohio Club, and decided to try it. Little did we know we were walking into history.  It features tin ceiling tiles and a massive mahogany bar back. The piece was constructed in Kentucky and shipped to Hot Springs in 1917 by flat bed rail car. During Prohibition, Hot Springs was frequented by famous and infamous gangsters. The Ohio Club was a private gambling establishment patronized by Al Capone, Mae West and Al Jolson.

Bullet holes are still visible in the ceiling, and a complete wire service, which helped bookies get sporting results, was found behind a false wall.

The food was fabulous!  Jason had a hand-formed mushroom swiss burger served on a ciabatta roll. I had a to die for turkey and swiss melt on sour dough bread. Our waitress, Scarlett, was awesome. She gave us the history of the club and told us about the ghosts who frequent the building. Yes, ghosts. Plural.

Scarlett told us about the other things to do and see in Hot Springs, including the Fordyce Bathhouse, in an attempt to convince us to stay in the area.  As much as we would have liked to, we needed to move on, but had I known, I would have scheduled some more time there.

The ride continued down Route 7, and the mercury kept rising. The temperature reached 100 degrees and there was no escaping it. The radio kept reiterating that it was unusually hot for this time of year. No kidding.  At least it wasn’t raining.

Our day ended in Hope, Arkansas, the birthplace of former President Clinton. I swear, I didn’t plan it this way! 

Tomorrow (Wednesday) is a “stay” day. Our ride is a whole 7 miles, all the way to Historic Washington State Park. Anyone who knows me knows my bar for historically preserved towns is set at Williamsburg, VA, so I’ll let you know tomorrow how Washington measures up!
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Day Four: The Show Me State

When we rolled out this morning, the Missouri sky was painted a soft gradient blue, with only a wispy trace of clouds occasionally floating past. It was an absolutely perfect morning… and 87 degrees.

It was the first morning we started out without a jacket, and the only day without rain. The “Show Me” state showed us rolling hills and beautiful landscapes, dotted with farms, barns and grazing cows. Route 34 West was a flawless blend of curves and short straights, blended together like an impeccable cup of coffee, the perfect start to the morning.

After a stint on Route 60, we found ourselves back on course, so to speak, Route 76 west, another sweeping, rolling and green ride. The one thing I didn't understand about Missouri's roadways. They are identified by letter - Route A, JJ, Z, F, DD, and more. What happened? Did they run out of numbers?

Branson, Missouri
Today, our ride tended in Branson, Missouri. Someone told me it was a Christian Las Vegas, but their official Branson Tourism site  (http://www.bransontourismcenter.com/ ) boasts that they are the ‘live entertainment capital of the world.’

After cleaning up from the ride, we decided to exercise our right to exercise and walked down Main Street, also known as “The Strip”, to find a place to eat and indulge in an adult beverage (we settled on Landry's Seafood). Every marquis flashes recognizable names like The Platters, The Osmonds, Bill Haley’s Comets, Paul Revere and the Raiders and more. Dinner and a show. Just like Vegas!

Now before you go into a starry-eyed entertainment frenzy, there’s a few things I’d like you to consider. The Platters’ last hit was in1968. What you don’t see until you’re closer to the marquis is that you’re paying for is a “tribute” to the Platters. Not the real thing. In fact, there are a lot of tribute performances.  One for John Denver. Another for Patsy Cline. Marty Haggard does a tribute to his dad, the country great Merle Haggard, who, by the way, is out on his own tour. (For dates and times, see http://merlehaggard.com/tour-dates/). There’s a Marty Robbins tribute, Hank Williams Revisted, and of course, Legends in Concert, where you can see amazing interpretations of George Strait, Buddy Holly, Marilyn Monroe, the Blues Brothers, Garth Brooks and more.

Paul Revere and the Raiders? This group has been around for so long, they may have ridden to the Old North Church.

The Osmonds are not the cute, squeaky-clean siblings of the 1970’s, but for $35, you can see the aging, graying brothers sans Donny. Baby brother Jimmy, who’s now  48 and owns the theatre, also performs on occasion. But the boys from Utah won’t be back in town again until September.  And speaking of the Osmonds, Andy Williams is headlining in Branson for 6 weeks beginning in September. Andy Williams? Really?  Moon River? Really? He was great in his time, but how old is he? He’ll be 84 in December. Really? Yes, really. (By the way, he’s headlining in HIS Moon River Theatre. Just saying……)

There’s a Titanic museum, built half scale to the original massive and doomed 1912 ocean liner. It boasts 400 priceless artifacts and the opportunity to get to know real passengers through their personal memorabilia. It’s true that everything on display once belonged to a passenger or crew member, but there’s no James Cameron influence here. All the artifacts were taken off the ship when it sank or were found floating among the debris.

And what “strip” would be complete without all you can eat buffets, three-for-ten dollars tee shirts and Elvis? Happy to say, Branson doesn’t disappoint there.

For folks who like this kitschy kind of entertainment, or for those who are looking to take a trip down memory lane, as Bob Barker would say, “Come on down”. (We didn’t check, but Bob might be featured in the Branson Hollywood Wax Museum.) This is definitely my dad's country music, yet, there are a lot of folks here…buses full… so they must be doing something right. It's just not my type of vacation spot. Give me a Civil War battlefield anytime!

PS. Happy birthday to our beautiful daughter, Courtney!! Love ya!
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From the Driver's seat

A Post From Jason: My first blog, so bear with me a bit.

For those riders in the crowd, the road has changed drastically so far. From the Appalachians, to the high plateau in New York state (love those wind generators), the road is new for me. Ohio was flat, plain and simple, and I saw more of the impact of the down economy than ever before. Take a look at Youngstown, Ohio and you'll see the impact of the economy, far worse than seen on the east coast.

Indiana was flat as well, and I saw my first fields of amber waves. Longer and straighter roads were in the crossing into Illinois, and when we crossed, we found the Cicadas. Monsters of a bug, and riding down tree lined roads, the noise was louder than the Harley. Then there was the mess they made on the windshield, and the occasional helmet hit. Cicadas are large and juicy, and make a vision blocking mess when you hit one. Fortunately, as we crossed the southern end of Illinois we left them behind, and was able to clean up at the next fuel stop.

Then came the mighty Mississippi, something I also have never crossed or seen close up. But before the crossing, there was the flooding. Farmland below water, and lone farm homes and structures fighting back the water. We arrived here some time after the floods started, and I know that if we had, the route we took would have been under water.

All in all, a great first few days, and I am still reminded every day how beautiful this country of ours is. Ride on.
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Garden of the Gods

Growing up, my mother told me (repeatedly) not to talk to strangers, and while it's good, sound advice, sometimes a casual conversation with someone you don't know isn't a bad thing. I’ve learned that people who ride bikes are super friendly, especially to other folks on bikes, but even the people who aren’t on bikes will gladly chat with you.

I've noticed a pattern. The first thing everyone does is smile and nod, then ask where we’re from. The further we get from New Jersey, the wider their grins, the more approving their nods, and the occasional “That’s a helluva roadtrip” is exclaimed.  Sunday, while in the gas station, a well-dressed man (who was driving a stellar blue Mustang) walked up and warmly welcomed us to Indiana. Bob told us that he also rides, but unfortunately, crashed his bike a while back.  Two bruised ribs and salvage, but he plans to be out riding again soon.

Bob asked how long we’d be in town, and suggested, if we had the time and opportunity, to visit Garden of the Gods, a geological wonder in Shawnee National Forest.  He explained that these extraordinary rock formations were the result of glaciers, wind, rain and a few hundred million years.

Since Shawnee National Forest was not too far off our beaten path, we decided to stop and take a look, since we’d seen our share of budding corn and wheat fields.

We weren’t sure what to expect, but I know we didn’t expect what we found.  The hiking trail takes about 45 minutes, but I’d add a bunch of time if you are a gawker or photographer. We only got as far as the second stop, but the views and formations were absolutely awe-inspiring!

If you google “Garden of the Gods”, you can find a ton of information, pictures and videos on the area. Two I found were:

http://www.shawneeforest.com/Hiking/GardenoftheGods.aspx

http://www.backpackcamp.com/GardenOfTheGods.html

I wish we’d had more time to explore; sneakers and shorts would have been nice, but the thirty minutes we were able to spend were well worth it.

So, the moral of the story? Sometimes it is okay to talk to strangers.

Thanks, Bob!!!
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Day Three: Hoosier Daddy?

Our initial impression of Indiana was cold, wet and unfriendly, although I can imagine that’s not so unusual for those who have ridden through the state during a thunderstorm. In the daylight, the Hoosier state’s landscape seemed a lot like Ohio before it an Illinois after it – farms, flat, barns, cows, wheat, flat, corn, did I mention flat?

The day began cloudy and overcast, and when standing still, the humidity in the air felt like a heavy wet sponge. Luckily there was only one rain event, which, of course, required gear.  After lunch, which was at Logsdon’s Restaurant in Boonville, the sun came out and decided it was going to stay out for good. The rest of the ride was bright, sunny, and uneventful.

Illinois, the Land of Lincoln, was next, followed by Missouri, where we stopped for the night.  

So, in honor of Indiana’s Hoosier Daddy, David Letterman, here’s the Top Ten Things I Never Knew About Indiana:
10.       The rain was just as wet in Indiana this year as it was in West Virginia last year
9.         You can smell the cows before you see them
8.         You are not required to wear a motorcycle helmet in Indiana, even when you’re riding a motorcycle.
7.         Richard Gatling of Indianapolis invented the machine gun in 1862.
6.         Dunkin’ Donuts seems to be an urban myth in this state. We never saw one.
5.         There’s a town called Santa Claus. We’re not sure if Rudolph is the mayor.
4          Like David Letterman, James Dean was also born in Indiana.
3.         Peru, Indiana was once known as the “Circus Capital of the World”.
2.         Indiana means “Land of the Indians”. (Okay… I already knew that…)

And the number one thing we didn’t know about Indiana,
1. There isn't one billboard toasting David Letterman as Indiana's favorite son.

Sorry, big guy.

One sad note, as we moved along the Mississippi River towards Cape Girardeau, Missouri, we could see some of the destruction done by the floods. Entire farms were still under water. As we passed, we heard a spot for the local Harley dealer who is selling raffle tickets for a new bike, with proceeds going to support the families displaced by the flood.  One guess where we’ll make our first stop tomorrow…….
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Day Two: Barnstorming Across Ohio

I’ll be honest, I wrote my thoughts on Day Two’s blog under the soft and flickering light of the Harley’s flashers as we stood under a bridge waiting for the rain to pass. It was symbolic, I guess, as we were in Indiana, the boyhood home of Abraham Lincoln, who learned to read and right by candlelight.  

But let me start at the beginning.

Saturday morning was bright and beautiful, but a bit chilly. We were going to be barnstorming across Ohio on our way to Indiana. Now, I know barnstorming is not the proper use of the word in this context, however, it seems most suitable for a trek through Ohio’s farmland, but it does aptly describe the scenery, and subsequently, the weather.

We had a long day ahead of us, and were gunning for bear as we started out, but I didn’t know the phrase would be a bit of a prediction. Not long after we started, I saw my first ever Bear Crossing sign. Luckily, we didn’t see the bear.

Allegany National Forest is beautiful and green, and one of the other reasons that I love these trips. You see so much of the country that you wouldn’t normally see, with an unobstructed view that is second to none.

To me, the most iconic symbol of Americana is the big red barn. It reminds us of our agricultural past, and the foundations on which our country was built. Barns come in all sorts of shapes, sizes and colors, and stand, sometimes alone, sometimes with a cropping of other outbuildings, but no matter their condition, brand spanking new or barley standing, I can’t help but find myself drawn to them.  And there were a lot of them between western Pennsylvania and Indiana, and I’m sure more to come.

Another thing that awed me about Saturday’s ride, and Friday’s for that matter, was the number of American flags we saw. The Stars and Stripes, again in all sizes and mediums, were proudly displayed from flagpoles, porches, on barns and more. Nothing is more inspiring or swells my hearty with patriotism than to ride through town after town seeing our country’s colors proudly wave.

And for those of you who were concerned, there was a stop at a Harley dealer, Adventure Harley in Dover, Ohio. Not on the plan, but spied along the way, which of course, warrants a quick detour and tee shirt purchase. There were two other sightings, but no stops, as we were winging our way towards Indiana.

And so, here I am, back where I started, under the bridge, troll-like, waiting for the rain to stop.  At least as far as the story is concerned.

It took a good half hour for the rain, thunder and lightning (yes, it was quite the show) to subside enough for us don our rain gear and continue on to Anderson. We got in at 11:30, cold wet and tired, but safe.

On to Missouri.


BTW…Happy Birthday Kaila and Becky!
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Off to a Great Start

So, it’s 9:30 pm and our first day on the bike is drawing to a quiet close. In the last  64 hours, I’ve entertained sleep for about 8. And I use the term entertained purposely, as trying to sleep, and then stay asleep, has been comical. 

I was up at 5:15 this morning for no particular reason. And not in a plodding, where’s my coffee sort of way, but up like Ricochet Rabbit. Bing. Bing. Bing. Laundry. Bing. Bing. Bing. Do the dishes. Bing. Bing. Bing. Review the list to make sure everything is packed, or ready to be packed. Bing. Bing. Bing.

The last thing to go in the bike was the iMac, because we needed to go to Staples and buy a cover. With out it….no blog! (And that’s all it will be used for, so side note to JJ, John, Snoop and Good Mike – don’t poke the bear!)

Today’s ride took us through rural Pennsylvania. The sky was a perfect and tranquil blue, but the wind, at least until lunch, was a bit rambunctious at times, so much so I think it even messed up my hair inside the helmet!

Our first “local fare” lunch was at a very cute, bistro-like restaurant called Seasons in downtown Tunkhannock. (http://www.seasonsdowntowne.com/index_2CUP.html). The atmosphere was warm and inviting. The staff was friendly and professional, and lunch was awesome. Jason had a Reuben, which he praised highly, and I had an amazing tuna melt with tomato and swiss impeccably toasted on ciabatta bread. Kudos!!

Our trip today took us to North Bingham and Gold, Pennsylvania and Whittesville, New York to visit some of Jason’s relatives. Of course, they were ambivalent about seeing us, as most had been dead for quite a number of years.  Yes, I made him take me to another cemetery, okay…. three cemeteries, but not just ANY cemeteries. These were the final resting places of his great-great-great grandparents.  

Cemeteries are such interesting places on their own; silently offering clues to the past while adding branches and leaves onto family trees. When the tree is yours, the visit is so much more valuable. Numerous members of his Chapin, Lawrence and Raymond ancestors lived in and around Potter County, Pennsylvania and Allegany County, New York during the 19th and early 20th century. Some stayed for generations, others stayed permanently. 

When we got to the Raymond Cemetery in the village of Raymond, looking for Jason’s ancestor Amos Raymond (seeing a theme here?) the sun was beginning to get low in the sky, and I was concerned that I wouldn’t get a good picture. We divided and conquered, looking for the headstone. Jason, fittingly, found it.It was a simple limestone tribute to the Revolutionary War patriot who fought as part of the 4th Connecticut and died in 1852 at the age of 95. When I reached Jason, and was ready to take the picture, the sun was pouring through the trees, singularly illuminating the stone; a surreal sort of timing.

While the amateur genealogist in me understands the importance of cemeteries and headstones to filling in gaps in a family tree, I’ve also seen how headstones can be ignored, and sadly abused, lying cracked, broken and weathered, and when they are destroyed, so are their links to the past. So, it will be a jar for me, porcelain preferably, and then scattered along Duke of Gloucester Street in Colonial Williamsburg.

But, I digress.

We spied a cute restaurant in Olean en route to the hotel, close enough to walk to and with outdoor seating. We checked in and checked it out.  Angee’s Fine Italian Food (http://www.angees.com/) was as fine as its name.

So, now we’re tucked into our hotel. I’m exhausted in a perfectly wonderful first day of vacation sort of way and certain I’ll have no trouble sleeping tonight….that and only 8 hours of sleep in the last, well, now 65 hours.
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On the Road Again

Okay, sports fans. We're getting ready for the second annual Harley ride. I can't really call it a Civil War tour this year, since we're only visiting 2 battlefields, but since I've established precedence, Civil War Harley Tour II it is.

Engines roar at 10:00am tomorrow (Friday).  I'll talk to you from our first stop, Potter County, Pennsylvania. (I'll explain when we get there.)
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