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Travels with L'il Red: Up the Gut of the USA 2016

7K views 27 replies 5 participants last post by  GrayBeard 
#1 ·
I'm a relatively new kid on r1200gs.info, but not to BMWs or ride reports, though this is my first one here. I am also new to the GS having ridden the r1150r then the r1200r for over 150k miles pretty much all over the USA. Just under 9k miles on the GS and I am convinced this is the best bike I've ever had. That said, I will probably ride "L'il Red" until her wheels or, more likely, my wheels fall off. I am in my "wheels falling off" years. I just turned 70...yikes! However, as y'all know, you never feel more alive than when on two wheels.

A couple of years ago there was a story in The Times-Picayune about a local guy who happened to be a cartographer and had just driven a car the route of The Jefferson Highway.

The what?

The Jefferson Highway...and it piqued my interest.

I knew we had a major street here in New Orleans called Jefferson Highway, and there was a road in Baton Rouge with the same name, but I just thought it was a road that happened to be named after Thomas Jefferson, like Washington Avenue, or Adams Street or Monroe Street, etc. We also have a Jefferson Davis Parkway and no Lincoln Street, but that's relevantly irrelevant and another story.

So, I started researching it, thinking this might be an interesting ride. Later, I was afraid it might be a boring ride, but getting ahead of myself. I do that.

I discovered the Jefferson Highway extends from Winnipeg, Canada, specifically from a plaque in the median on the Pembina Highway in Winnipeg, a location that in the US we'd call urban sprawl, to New Orleans, again, specifically to a plaque at the corner of St. Charles and Common, in our central business district.

Depending on one's perspective the Jefferson Highway ("JH") either began or ended in Winnipeg or New Orleans. It was also called the "Palm to Pine" (or Pine to Palm) Highway because of the trees along the route.
ON the morning I left I realized, duh, I had a palm tree in my front yard! (I apologize for the blurriness, it was 415 am and I shot with natural light, or in this case natural dark)


and eventually I got to the Pines (and mosquito) part of the ride. Hey, it could have been called the Mosquito to Mosquito Highway. Minnesota Mosquitos would be proud of their South Louisiana cousins and vice versa.



I getting a bit ahead though.

The Jefferson Highway was the first paved trans-national route that ran north south in the US. It was assembled mostly from existing roads, but there were some areas, notably Kansas and Missouri, where a North South route needed to be built.
There was actually a competition between the two states to complete their road first. The prize? Uncle Sam said whoever finished first would be reimbursed by the feds. What would up being US 69 in Kansas and US 71 in Missouri came to be.
In true government fashion, though it wasn't a tie, Uncle paid for both.

By the mid 19-teens the road was a continuous ribbon connecting Winnipeg and New Orleans and it was highly publicized. As far as I can tell other than the "being there" aspect of the road, I cannot understand why a concrete/asphalt connection between the two cities was necessary. It could just be civic pride, or more likely civic hubris, but there it was.



And it was advertised at the time as an adventure, and I'll bet it was that! This is the original map as published in 1922.



The "All Year Vacation Route Of America," you betcha. Winnipeg in February must be a vacationer's dream, as much as New Orleans in July, especially in 1922.

The Arkansas limb as shown on the google map was added later and corresponds to US 71.

I want to thank Glenn Smith and David Stearns of the JHA (jeffersonhighway.org) for the help in putting this together. As I was starting the research I thought I would be strictly following the road, but as I progressed in the planning I realized that parts of the road do not exist anymore, some parts are taken over by major highways--like I 49 in Missouri, and there were some sights along the way that demanded detour.
This was to primarily be a motorcycle ride. That made the planning much more flexible and the attitude less strict. Gotta have some free form on these rides, right? So, though I followed the route as best I could, I probably detoured from it about 10% or less.

So, I start routing. Whenever I am planning a ride I try to avoid the big roads, this was kind of tough on this route. the major decision was Arkansas Texas Oklahoma. The original route goes through NE Texas and up US 69 through Oklahoma. That looked really boring. It looked a lot like this-from google street view



So, I considered the Arkansas alternative instead, i.e., US 71. I've ridden a lot in Arkansas, and have only been on 71 when I NEEDED to be--which was not often. In other words I avoided it, preferring the squiggly gray lines on the map to the big red ones. Advrider.com regional forums to the rescue with a resounding "take 71" answer.

The other choice was not much of a choice, US 69 up though Kansas or US 71/I 49 through Missouri. US 69 wins here hands down, no real problem.
So, I prepare for my departure, looking very forward to being on the road with the GS, but admittedly a little concerned because I feared the ride might be a boring ride, in spite of the historical significance of the route.

I turned 70 on Monday, went to dinner at Clancy's with my bro and our brides, tried a new single malt with dinner and was ready to go, anticipating a 315am alarm.

Anticipation, trepidation, depression (at becoming an septuagenarian) on Ride's Eve, my birthday.


Packed and ready to roll out, it doesn't count unless you ride out your driveway...
more to come
 
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6
#2 ·
It was a dark and stormy night...no, it wasn't. It was a still and muggy night, typical for late April in New Orleans. I am riding out at around 415. I made this early start because I did not know how long it would take me to get out of Louisiana.
I normally just hit the road to escape the state as quickly as possible, but the Jefferson Highway, meanders in La.

I went to the corner of St Charles and Common, downtown, a block from the French Quarter, and took the START picture next to the Palm to Pine plaque. Again, I apologize for the blurriness of the night pics, but was trying to, unsuccessfully, use natural light.



The JH does not, in New Orleans, go straight out to what is called the JH. This is likely because where the JH goes in NOLa, is lower land and in 1912-ish, may have been swamp. It follows Canal Street to Metairie Road, which is on the "Metairie Ridge," a strip of higher ground, and after some twists and turns, winds up on "jefferson Highway" for only a short time before the JH finds its true route, now called River Road.

River Road following the Mississippi heads north/west toward Baton Rouge, but passes many refineries along the way.





I was hoping to catch some of the flares from the plants that usually light the sky, but nothing of waste was being burned off as I passed.

River Road is a common route for me, but doing it in the dark pre dawn hours was a treat. No traffic and crossing the Bonnet Carre Spillway service road was especially weird.



From Wiki
The Bonnet Carré Spillway is a flood control operation in the Lower Mississippi Valley. Located in St. Charles Parish, Louisiana – about 12 miles (19 km) west of New Orleans – it allows floodwaters from the Mississippi River to flow into Lake Pontchartrain and thence into the Gulf of Mexico. The construction of the Spillway was completed in 1931.

So, that means in the early days of the JH, the road went right through here, now a man made flood plain. A couple of towns were swallowed in its construction and there are old cemeteries within its bounds. It is primordial Louisiana.

It had just closed the flood gates. Because of the heavy rains of the winter in the upper midwest and Arkansas, Missouri, it had been open. I had been in the area a couple of weeks earlier and the road was still closed, but I suddenly found myself at the top of the levee and heading downward into the spillway. The common fauna, alligators and snakes, were not in evidence on the couple of miles riding through and the surface, often in terrible shape because of overflowing river water, was surprisingly good. I ascended over the levee and found myself south of Baton Rouge, Turning right at Geismer on the Baton Rouge Jefferson Highway, not a particularly attractive stretch and I was hitting school zone traffic. the Normal ride from New orleans to Baton Rouge takes about an hour, but following the JH it took about 3.

It was becoming apparent that those travelers of the past had to have a lot of strength to do this trip and I had just scratched the surface, and on home turf.



After Baton Rouge, I had to improvise a bit. Most of the route was there, except for a river crossing at the Atchafalaya River. The ferry that crossed at Melville just isn't there any longer, replaced by first US 190 and later by I 10- a particularly heinous and despicable route.
La 10, the route of the JH, go to US 71, as did 190, so after exploring a bit to see if any other crossing were available-no other was-I took US 190 to US 71 and was back on the JH, u through Natchidoches, across I 49 and eventually on some really pastoral roads in north La, south of Shreveport.







La 120


If I had to say which state was the hardest to follow the JH, it would hands down be my home state of Louisiana. Probably because there are so many rivers, bayous, streams etc, much of the original route had been changed over the last century to routes that were over easier terrain. Still, it was very interesting to see these backroads.

I had decided to stay on 71 through Arkansas and up to Joplin, Mo, to avoid the miles and suspected boredom of east Texas and US 69 through Oklahoma. US 71 became part of the JH later, but it was part, so i was not leaving the route.

US 71in Ar was not a bad ride, not up to typical Arkansas standards, but enough of a taste of the sweet roads of the Razorback State, to be an enjoyable ride.

Not much of photo op in Arkansas, not because it is not worthy of pictures, but because, even on US 71, the roads just entice you to travel "briskly." Lots of sweepers, well maintained roads, mostly chip and seal, and ample opportunities to pass Ma and Pa Kettle in their Camry or Soujourner or whatever.
What struck me again, was how hardy those travellers a century ago had to be. US 71 is a major highway; two-laned and curvey, but a major road. there are many elevation changes, and not many towns along the way. I thought that at every hill bottom there was a stream and how those roads had to have washed out with rains, and the paucity of gas stations, and the tire non-technology. Man, it had to be hard. And tedious. And dirty. Even on two wheels in 2016 is a far easier jaunt than our ancestors endured on this route.

I leave Arkansas and just south of Joplin I hang a left. 71 continues as the JH in Missouri but it shares the space with I 49. In Kansas, it is US 69, yes a major highway but far more scenic in a Kansas sort of way.
I like Kansas.



I've ridden through a few times now, and always found the people friendly, the skies a little more blue, and the earth ready to spring forth with life; how's that for corny? But, it's true. I started to get the feel of this trip in Kansas. It wasn't just a ride on an historic highway, but a ride through America's Heartland. I had heard the term many times and didn't really think about it, maybe it's the political season, the red states vs blue states, the fly-over states, but somehow at this point in time the term "heart"land, made more sense. Kansas and the upcoming states are the heart of the US.
They have the sense of direction and value that we claim to all have. At least on the surfaces I scratched, here that spirit was more in evidence.

I stop in Pittsburg for the night. I went to a local steakhouse. Two young girls are at the desk at the entrance.
A couple is leaving. They have a toddler with them.
"Y'all have a good evening and thanks for coming."
He: Thank you
"Bye-bye, hope to see you again" as cheery as Kansas can muster, and that's pretty cheery.
She: (both hands full of toddler) Well, (huff), you'll never see us again!
The girls looked crushed..."whaa?"
I am witness to the whole thing, "what was that about?"
Cheery Kansas girl #1, "I have no idea," as she confers with cheery Kansas girl #2 who looks like she is on the cusp of the event horizon of a black hole.

I take my seat, it is a cheery place. Cheer oozes from this place, peanuts on the table and someone who should be names "Biff" (but isn't) takes my order. It takes probably about 2 MUs for my order to arrive.
An MU is a midwestern unit of time. I've noticed that most restaurants really value getting your food out quickly. Getting food out quickly is not a big deal in New Orleans. It just takes as long as it takes. Fast food is fast food. All other food is not. So, 2 MUs translates in the midwest into "where is my food?" Put another way, 2 MUs is slightly shorter than the time it takes to walk into WalMart, go to the automotive aisle, get a gallon of Shell Rotella 6, pay for it and return to your car. And WalMart doesn't offer peanuts.

Biff apologizes when my food is delivered for it taking so long, but actually I was happily munching on peanuts, watching Kansas go by. I don't remember my food, but I remember that.

On the way out, I see the same two girls and we chat.
I tell them that the meal was fine and the service was fine--not broaching the 2 MUs because it wasn't a factor.
"well, T H A N K Y O U!" Cheery girl #1 says.
I told her that I thought Bitchy Patron's problem was that she took a 2 year old with her to eat in a restaurant. And Cheery #1 and 2 agreed.

I am in the heartland
 
#4 ·
Thanks, Kemo, appreciate it


Need to back up a bit, need to back up to before dinner.
I use Tripadvisor, mostly, to choose my overnights. My formula is to add the "excellents" and "very goods" and compare that number to the "poors" and "terribles." I generally use at least a 2:1 ratio as the litmus test. Using that formula, I chose the Lamplighter Inn. Looks nice from the outside. Price is ok. Let's do this.
It often seems that I am placed in a room that would be suitable for someone who's going to make a lot of noise, ie, in the back, facing a field, off the beaten path. Maybe it's just that the desk assumes I want quiet, could be that. "But he is on a motorcycle, and we don't want to disturb our other guests." I guess we're all in the Loud Pipes Save Lives club, anyway...I am in the back, about as far from the front desk as possible. I'm in the section where the migrant workers are, where a wife-beater is formal attire.
I enter the room. They all look like this.


But what makes this one special,and I always ask for "non-smoking, senior rate," "Do you have any pets?" No... what makes this one special is the fragrance...
It is said that one of the first things to go as one ages is the sense of smell. I have always been an olfactory-centric person, but for things that smell good. Like women. Creepy as it may sound,when an attractive femme passes me by I sneak a deep breath to catch her scent. My wife, and daughters, are fans of Bond No. 9, NYC perfumes. They smell good, awfully good in all their iterations. they come in bottles that look like this

Each scent has different graphics

But at the Lamplighter, in back, what is that smell?
I know! Urine!

Simple urea containing compounds smell the same, or very similar, from all mammalian species, absent asparagus. Even when you're a senior.
I walk back to the desk. I, courteously, wait for the next guest to finish, get their key card, the internet code, the map of the property, their room circled, the information that breakfast is served from 6 to 10, and make my approach.

Hi, umm, I am in 139 and the room smells like , umm urine.
Apologies spill forth, and the desk is perplexed because they "didn't think that that was a pet room."
I momentarily consider the alternative explanations, none better than "pet"... and I had been questioned whether I was accompanied by any pets. My room is switched, a couple of doors down, still in the "out back." But, the new room smells fine... I have a Michter's Rye and go to dinner...see previous post.

So, I am in the heart of the JH route now and will follow US 69 up to Kansas City then head up to Des Moines and beyond. The bike is performing well, and the day dawns clear. I hit the road.

The JH in most areas, not all, has been built up to look like this


Still, riding through Kansas is nice. I like it. Not because it is often straight, or flat, but because the blue sky seems bluer, and the ground looks fertile, and when you catch the golds and yellows, they are golder and yellower. That is not in evidence in the above, but you can inhale the colors, and the air is cleaner.




These are not THE Camptown Races (sing-a-long, doo da, doo da). The real ones are in Pennsylvania, just up the Grand Army Of The Republic Highway (US6) from Wyalusing, Pa.





Ellen


As I depart Kansas, the sunlight goes away, Missouri is cloudy and colder. I stop for gas and add layers, including my heated liner. The JH leaves the beaten path for a while as it heads over to what is now US 65. More heartland and thinking these scenes probably have not changed much in the past 100 years.



Cameron, Mo, along the old route




Late in the afternoon into Des Moines, making a bit of a detour to the state capitol building. I wanted to visit it to see the interior, known for its golden dome, but it was 5 pm, closing, overcast and beginning to rain, the only rain of the trip, and there were still miles to go.







I deviate from the JH route north of Des Moines...it's rush hour, I am heading up the road a number of miles, and now it's raining and cold. It's I 35 to Clear Lake, where there's another detour.

More coming
 
#5 ·
Detour # 2



There are some times that you remember where you were when you got the news. Kennedy's and Martin Luther King's assassinations, Armstrong walking on the moon, 9/11, and though less earth-shaking, where I was when I heard:



I was 12 years old, driving with my parents and hearing it on the radio.

I was becoming a Buddy Holly fan, I was already a Big Bopper fan, and I thought Ritchie Valens was "ok." I am since a Buddy Holly fan. There are a few artists that everyone wishes had lived longer to see what they would produce. My short list is Otis Redding, Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Bob Marley, but I can add to that Buddy Holl(e)y. Great sound, unique for the time, crossover, fused rockabilly with rock n roll, good performer, the whole package. These three guys were the first, for me, of too many losses as time went by. I was still immortal, everyone I knew was alive, now this.

So, when I was plotting out the JH route, I saw it went right by Clear Lake, Iowa. I had to visit the memorial that was in the middle of that cornfield. You take a right and then another right, and then a left and you go down the dirt road until you see the glasses, then you walk along the fence on the path about a quarter mile...you can't miss it.

There was a father and son leaving when I arrived; we chatted a moment, they pointed out how far down it was and they were gone and I was alone.
Yesterday's rains made the path muddy with sticky black Iowa dirt. Stuck to my boots. I could feel the extra weight. and then I was where the music died. A small memorial, by a fence. The skies were still gray, but could be clearing? I think about a cold February night, a plane going down right here. 4 dead. It's quiet except for the wind. There's this thing, I don't know what it's called, but it is on top a pole, with what looks like three pie plates to catch the wind, and it's spinning like a mutha fracker, the only noise a squeaking metallic staccato almost racket.
I leave the red white and blue Mardi Gras beads I've carried in tribute. Others have left coins. I add 2 quarters because, he!! I don't know why. I see a dollar bill on the ground blowing around. Hey, look a dollar! I pick it up and pocket it.









I head back stopping at puddles to loosen the caked Iowa crash site mud from my boots. Still very quiet, still alone, and a dollar richer!

I needed gas, and wanted to get back on the JH, clearing skies now, when I meet officer friendly. So, the speed limit was 55 out near the crash site, I saw NO sign on the way back to Clear Lake that the limit dropped to 35. I see his car and after I see a sign stating 35, so I am slowing. The Revenue Dept of Cerro Gordo County clocked me at 47 in a 35, but "did me a favor, by putting 40 in a 35." I told him where I had been, that I saw no sign, that I have never been there before, totally unfamiliar with the roads, the last sign I saw was 55. No matter, here, have a souvenir of Cerro Gordo County. A real down, thanks a lot.

So, I am on the road again, still bummed by the ticket, but heading to the next detour from the JH, one that could not be denied, being so close.

As I am riding I think about that dollar bill I picked up at the crash site...BAD KARMA got me that ticket, I have to get rid of the dollar bill. I decide, to balance the universe again, I will stop at a church and put it in the "poor box." So, on my way I start looking for churches. I see mostly small country ones that look to be closed...No God Today, No Redemption For You! But the decision was made, and I just had to find a church open.
Rural Iowa looks a lot like this..no church in view



It's a while before I find an open house of worship and in the meantime, I make my third detour.

Prince Rogers Nelson was an American singer, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, record producer, and actor. He was a musical innovator and known for his eclectic work, flamboyant stage presence, extravagant dress and makeup, and wide vocal range. Wikipedia
Died: April 21, 2016, Chanhassen, MN


Yeah, this was like a week after Prince died and all the hoopla and tribute was in full swing. I hang a left and a right and go straight here and there, and there is the Paisley Park studios/home of the artist known now as Prince, formerly known as --unpronounceable symbol--, and before that, formerly known as Prince. And I bring tribute to this dead artist too! This time purple Mardi Gras beads, ok, a pair of gold ones too, but 3 strands of big purple ones, and I am not the only one who's brought Mardi Gras beads! I see others, not many though, because the most common form of tribute seemed to be partially inflated purple helium balloons, now lounging languidly on the fence.

I back the GS into a small place right by the NBC satellite van with 4 reporters who have been there 24/7 since Prince died, awaiting what, I don't know, in fact, they didn't know. A couple of hundred people are milling about--it's a BIG property. They are mostly somewhat overweight middle aged women, some white, some black, teenagers are there with their parents, looking bored and rolling eyes. Some people deep in thought stare at the fence that separates Prince from Not-Prince.
I hang my beads and take a selfie.


It's a selfie kind of scene...







I feel my inner curmudgeon rising when I see this "artist" wearing three hats. Art imitating art.


Heartfelt comments are transcribed onto cardboad...things like "WE LOVE U !!!" and "Doves are crying..." and "Forever, Thankful!" and "Your Music Will Never Die In Me!" etc etc.

Magic markers hung by string to help, just in case you didn't have a pen.



I felt moved to write something, I wanted to be a part of it. I thought, and then I remembered the most telling tribute I could recall when Elvis had died. That's it! That's what I'll write, that's mine in green...


I wrote "A Great Career Move...JD"



I head back to my bike, and get the NBC guys to take my picture for the local newspaper's TRAVEL section, and I am on the road again; still in search of a church to regain my karma.

-more to come-
 
#6 ·
I ride on heading back to the JH which north of Minneapolis follows the Great River Road.

The river up here is about the same width as it is down in New Orleans, ok, not right here, but in many places it is.
However, in NOLa, it is MUCH deeper. You figure all this water plus the Missouri and the Ohio...that water has to go somewhere. The water up here is much bluer than the cafe au lait color at home



So, as I head to my next destination along the JH and the next slight detour, I see redemption is at hand! Hallelujah! Free at last, free at last, thank God, Almighty, I am free at last!

Our Lady of Lourdes in Little Falls, Minnesota will do nicely, thank you. I park and run in. Where's the poor box, I am Catholic Church literate and the poor box is usually right at the back of church, but it is nowhere to be found.



So, I leave the dollar on a little table in the back, where'd the ushers would congregate. This will have to do. And it does! Karma has swung in my direction, I can feel it!

I leave Little Falls, home of Charles Lindbergh by the way, you pass his boyhood home just before town on the river road, and I head back to the Great River Road, stopping for a snap.





Here the route of the JH becomes far more rural, heading into the north of Minnesota, but stopping along the way with this slight detour...


Full into the Pines portion of the Palm to Pines highway now, but still in territory at once foreign and domestic...The source of the Mississippi, a river that is about 3/4 mile from my house.




This is it, the actual beginning of the River, right at that little breakwater that separates the Mississippi from Lake Itasca (in Lake Itasca State Park). Pretty remarkable, really. I've heard people say you can throw a rock across the Mississippi. but I choose a small piece of branch. Completely across. I step in.


I really cannot do this at home. Mostly there are wharves, and where there's batture, it's swampy mud, and I doubt there are any pebbles on the surface. I've heard that the muddy bottom of the river, the sludge at the bottom is hundreds of feet deep.

The River




The first Mississippi River Bridge


Old Man River as a young man


Lake Itasca had another treat on the way out and back to the JH. It was this little gem. One way and one lane and up and down and curvy. No traffic and 7 miles long.



Mostly 2nd and 1st gear territory, but a lot of fun, and then I emerge back on my route, again following the JH, now up to my stop for the evening, Hallock, Mn, the farthest north you can go and still get a motel room, about 30 miles from the Canadian border.



I go to the Caribou Grill, across the parking lot from the motel and the only source of food in the Greater Hallock Area, and have the worst meal of the entire trip, and I am including the meals that were Planter's Salted Peanuts and Gatorade at gas stops.

Two specials on the menu, I order the chicken, after 10 minutes I am told the chicken is no longer available. Ok, then I'll have the "flatiron steak," the other special.
What would you like to drink?
I'll have some tea please,
Tea?
yes, iced tea?
huh? Oh! You mean "plain old tea!"
yes, mission accomplished, but when it arrives it tastes more like a flat cola soda drink than tea. I have to struggle to find any tea flavor.

The "salad" comes out. the lettuce is wilted and a little brown, remember, this is the only food around. This is it, eat this or fast.

Then the flatiron steak arrives. Ugh. Dry, overdone, but barely edible. I ask if there is any bread coming?
huh? oh, you mean like "bread?"

Yes, bread.
I'll see if I can find some (I kid you not)
When she returns I am told, that I am "lucky" because she found some. What she has is something akin to a slider bun, more like a slider bun than any other BLO (bread like object), but dry, no butter. In fact, the only "condiments" in evidence were salt and pepper, nothing, I mean NOTHING else.

If you follow these footsteps, eat BEFORE you arrive in Hallock, or bring food with you, but on no account should you step into the Caribou Grill. Do so at your own peril. You have been warned.
 
#8 ·
What an amazing ride and your writing style is much appreciated. You sir have a way of bringing us all along on your solitary journey and it's a reminder that there are interesting and worthy experiences and people in all kinds of places. Thank you.
 
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#9 ·
Thanks for the encouragment!

It goes on...

The next morning, well, this was the plan...I often travel with a friend, two friends actually. One is, on this trip, my friend Michter's Rye



My other friend is a Ruger 40 caliber pistol. Never have come close to using it, but I sometimes stay in some sketchy enough areas, or travel through such, that I like my companion.

The Peoples' Republic of Canada does not share that regard, so traveling with the gun across the border was a non starter. So, I decided to stay 2 nights in Hallock, and, make a day trip to Winnipeg, take my picture at the plaque, have a GOOD lunch and head back. I would leave Mr Ruger in my luggage in the hotel room.

That was Plan A and it actually worked out as planned!

I head out the next morning, filling up, not knowing what the ava of gas would be North of the Border.

So many choices...NOT


The Red River of the North separates Minnesota from North Dakota. It flows eventually into Hudson Bay.

For a swamp boy, that's NORTH. Also, as I was growing up, I doubted the existence of North Dakota. I never knew anyone from there, I'd never seen a license plate from there. Does it really exist? Is it where the edge of the known world is?

I do now believe that North Dakota exists. I've been there unless it was a very elaborate hoax.

The Red River of the North. North Dakota on the left, Minnesota on the right. See the difference?


Am I being punked?


I take a right and am I 29 in North Dakota. On this Sunday morning I approach the customs station that will grant entrance to Canada on the Lord Selkirk Highway.


Thomas Douglas, Fifth Earl of Selkirk [Lord Selkirk] (1771-1820)

Not really sure why the highway is named after Thomas Douglas. He was apparently an agent of the Hudson Bay Company who had run ins with the locals, the Nor'Westers, from as far away as Montreal all the way to Winnipeg. He was given 116,000 acres, by the Hudson Bay Company, and told to "settle" the area around what is now Winnipeg. He comes in, after previous corporate intrusions into the local fur trade failed, he comes in with Swiss mercenaries to "develop" the area. He was probably viewed as a corporate stooge or thug.

History is written by the victors, though, and Manitoba 75 is named after him.


But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me tell you about Canadian customs.

They have already built a wall.

Figuratively...a somewhat hostile bureaucracy with all the friendliness of our DMV.

I approach the drive through, passport ready. I stop, first I am chided by the officier for using the truck lane. Ok, my bad, but when I pulled up there was a sign listing all the lanes that were closed, and it appeared there was maybe only 1 or 2 open. There was no traffic, no other vehicles to suggest which one to take, so I pull over to the one green light I see.
you're in the truck lane

ok, so what do you want me to do?

Just give me your passport (huff) and license, see? and he nods to the truck now behind me. (huff) He's pi$$ed. Life is so unfair, you know? Imagine his plight. Having to deal with "THIS." A motorcycle in the truck lane, could it get any worse?

Mea frickin' culpa! A tragedy at the border, A motorcycle in front of a truck. I smile in abject apology.

He stamps my passport and tells me I have to go into the office...over there and to park in the car places. The exchange takes about a minute.

He was the good cop of this exchange. I park at the expanse that is Canadian Customs, in the car park, under the overhang, and walk into the large single level glass and concrete building. Double glass doors with stainless frames. A very long L shaped counter separates those crossing the border from the protectors of the realm.

It is a very large building, far bigger than US customs that I vist later in the day. Canada has deemed it necessary to build such a fortress to separate this


from this


and this

because you just can't tell who people are these days!

There is a maze of bank style dividers that make you weave back and forth for about 100 feet to get to the point where you can be appropriately called, "Next." The only other supplicants for entry is a group of 5, a grandmother, a mother, and three children, being interrogated by those given the charge of protecting the homeland. They are there when I arrive and they are still there when I leave.

The border guards are manikin-like. All 30 something males, all fit, all about 5'10" and 195#, all dressed in swat gear minus the helmets, but complete with flak jackets, Darth Vader like, and not a smile or good morning to be had. I don't know if I qualified for extra scrutiny, because I went into the truck lane, or I am a single male ( a grandpa one) or I'm on a motorcycle, or what, I don't know if this is actually "extra" scrutiny. Maybe they do this to everyone as I am certain our border people do on our southern border, right?

Anyhow, Officer Creamer (yes, that is his name) begins the questioning which winds up taking about 15-20 minutes. Maybe I just have that "look," though that could be "profiling?" Then again, I'm not in Kansas anymore. Maybe he doesn't like my answers?
Where are you going?
Winnipeg
Why are you going to Winnipeg?
To take a picture.
That really got him, and he now looks up from my passport. I start telling him about the Jefferson Highway, the first trans-national route, from New orleans to Winnipeg, motorcycle ride, sounds like an adventure, etc... And there is a plaque at the end where I will take my picture for the Travel Section of out local paper.
He's not buying it. None of it.
I am ON the Jefferson Highway; his customs fortress is in ON the Jefferson Highway and he is totally incredulous.
You mean you rode 18 hours to take a picture?
No, I rode 5 days to get to this point and today I will take a picture.

He tells me that he's heard a lot of stories over "his years"--his years! He's in his 30s, "his" years! No one is legitimately allowed to use that phrase until your 50s at least, His Years. Are they like dog years, Officer Creamer? I didn't say that, btw, as these guys were armed to the teeth so prudence dictates that sarcasm is best held in check.
He goes on to ask me why would I do that, ie make this trip, suggesting that I could "take a plane, take my picture and be back in a day." I tell this kid that there is no adventure in that, that this is an historic route, that I am riding a route done by Americans and Canadians a hundred years ago.

He then goes on to ask me what my job is. I tell him. Now, he wants to know how I have this much time off to do this. I tell him I am semi-retired, so I have the time, and my wife lets me, and I enjoy it.
Officer Creamer, just shakes his head. No humor is in his brain. No acceptance, almost disdain, almost a sneer at what I am doing, like it's a colossal waste of time. If this is the face of Canada, it needs another face.

I am released and I hit the road, Lord Selkirk Highway, for my way into Winnipeg.

I didn't know what to expect, though from the countryside I expected a flat dusty cow town with boring architecture.



I was SO WRONG! Winnipeg is a very neat and cool town!

Winnipeg is an old city, at least back to the mid 1700s and a trading crossroads before that. It has beautiful architecture, green parks, two rivers and a confluence, is cosmopolitan.
Lots of millenials, and post hippies. It has food! On this sunny spring late Sunday morning, lots of people are out, the restaurants are packed and there's a really good vibe, like a big city should have! I'll bet Officer Creamer hates it.

I find the plaque and record it for posterity, and The Times-Picayune



The plaque is located in the sprawl part of town, a distance from the city center


I ate at one of the Stella's Cafes and it was terrific. I sat at the bar with the Sunday brunch crowd and being a single and willing to sit at the bar, I jumped ahead of the formidable line of hungry diners. The people were very friendly and as often happens when you sit at the bar, you get into conversations with your fellow diners and the servers. I had a pasta with Mediterranean veggies dish that REALLY hit the spot and whose taste was only exceeded by the aroma of the roasted garlic. A far cry, a different planet, than the Caribou Grill. As Stella's was also a bakery, I got some provisions for the evening, something to hold me overnight, and then hit the road.
Stella's


There was another way back, I am now finished the Jefferson Highway part of the ride, so I am now meandering back toward the Gulf of Mexico, far, far away.
 
#10 ·
Hey Doc, really enjoy reading about the trip you and lil red are doing. The pics are great and it makes me think of where I want to ride next. Not much to add other than, keep it going. It is a pleasure to read and looking forward to the next installment.

Also, your name, you must have been about 20 years old when that movie came out. Do you have a favorite character or is it something else. Ride safe and keep posting.
 
#12 ·
Thanks all,

I originally had no idea how long it would take to get to Winnipeg, then when I got there, I had to find the plaque.

I previously only had street view of google maps to guide me, now in international territory I had to go roaming on my smartphone to find it exactly. To find it via roaming then find Stella's Cafe with ATT roaming cost about $25...oh, and I texted a couple of pictures too. Anyway, the first half of the trip was successfully completed and now it was time to meander.

Some of the route would be on the JH, but because of expedience rather than adventure. The original routing of the JH was heading to my home and was traveled some of the way.

Rather than ride the Lord Selkirk Highway back I decided to ride through Winnipeg.
A fellow diner had given me the scenic route out of town so I took it. As I mentioned Winnipeg is a big city, and looks like a big city. I do not say this in any patronizing way, but to describe that my route went through a large business district with no place to park, but also traversed the confluence of the Red River of the North and the Assiniboine River, called locally The Forks. Again, no place to stop for pix.

On this sunny Sunday early afternoon, the Winnipegers were out in force.
It's probably like in Europe, the sun worshippers. For so much of the year it is cold and dark that you need the bright sun to literally warm the bones, like your femurs and your pelvis, so, they stroll, sit, bask, all thoughts of melanoma on the shelf, wanting to live closer to the nearest star. Being from the south and remembering from my training the former mortality rate of melanoma being about 70%--it is night and day better now--and although I understand the primal need to be in sunlight, my gut is stay out of the electro magnetic radiation originating 93 million miles (give or take) away. 5000 new cases of melanoma are reported in Canada every year.
But I am ATGATT, and keeping the sun at bay as I travel through the parks and boulevards heading to the other customs station, the US one down St. Mary's Road to Provincial Trunk Highway 59, awaiting the third degree again.

Another flat ride, though as I approach Minnesota, there are more trees. The US Station looks so small compared to the the Canadian Death Star over on 75. I am ready with my story of traveling the Jefferson Highway, 100 years old, from New Orleans, yada yada yada and expecting disbelief and possibly a full cavity search.

I pull in, under the carport like overhang.
The customs agent walks out, and I hand my passport. 50ish, a bit overweight, blue short sleeve customs shirt. Salt and pepper hair, mostly salt now. No body armor, no visible weapons. He says something, can't hear, let me take off my helmet, pull out my earbuds.

He's saying: Take off your helmet, and pull out your earbuds.
We exchange a smile.
He looks at my passport.

What would make you ride up to Winnipeg in April? On a motorcycle? In April?
He's incredulous.
Didn't expect that question. April down south is beautiful, along with October/November, the prettiest times of the year. That is not the case at almost 50 degrees north latitude. I knew that, I knew what he meant. In prepping for the ride I had been following the daily weather and temps all the way up the route and fully accepted that snow was not impossible and would derail my plans. There were plans B and C and D, if I couldn't make it the whole way. I knew what Weather Underground said the average normals were. I was playing the odds, I was rolling the dice. But I was beyond that now, other weathers were on the horizon. I was heading south now.

So, I tell him about the JH, the history, where it starts, where it---he smiles broadly, cuts me off--

I know the Jefferson Highway, you're on it right now.

I huff...UGH! You KNOW the Jefferson Highway? You're the first person I've met who does!
Yeah, this is it.
He starts walking around my bike, I suppose doing the customs officer thing, and I don't know if it's some variant of Stockholm Syndrome or not, but I want to believe he's checking out L'il Red because of some degree of admiration! That's what I want to believe!
See the sticker on my side case? I became a member of the Jefferson Highway Association and they sent me some stickers for my ride


Oh, yeah!
He tells me he was very familiar with the route and its history, really got into it a few years back, but has forgotten a lot of it. He's adamant that this was the original route.

We are actually chatting about the JH, after a week of being the only one who knew, words spill out.

I tell him that the JH is actually 75 to the west. He disagrees
He's wrong, btw, but not appropriate to argue the point at this time. And I am a little satisfied that I am on this backroad, compared to the Lord Selkirk, as part of the JH--if he's right. It is cool to FINALLY have someone appreciate this trek. It was also, nice that the one who did was an official of the US government...didn't see that one coming.

If you really want to know about the JH in these parts you need to talk to Cindy at the County Museum in Lake Branson. She's the expert and she'd be happy to see you, he tells me.

I passed through Lake Branson on the way up. It IS on the JH. I got gas there and when I pulled up to the pump there was a 4 year old little girl, blond frizzy/curly hair, fair, cotton dress and "special" pink princess shoes, with both index fingers in here ears to protect her from the din of L'il Red. I have grandchildren her age.

Is it THAT loud? I ask her? No response, her big blues just stare, in neither approval nor disapproval.

Her dad comes up, he laughs and she watches in awe, a big now silent GS loaded with this old guy on it talking to her dad. You get these scenes all the time riding and they stick out in your mind. I have to remember to take a picture. You remember the pictures you miss on these rides and this little girl was one of them.

Anyway, I realize that I am going back that way, i.e. through Lake Branson, through Lake Branson, and make a mental note to stop and see Cindy. The customs agent makes me promise that I tell Cindy that he sent me her way, that she would "get a kick out of that." I promise. and head back to Hallock for the evening and dining on the pastries I brought with me from Stella's Cafe. No temptation from the Caribou Grill. Actually, it was closed this Sunday evening. Some Michter's Rye to accompany and I am set for the evening, opening the window to hear the sounds of Hallock, not surprisingly there are very few.

I think I am the only guest at the motel. I coulda walked to the breakfast area in my underwear if I chose to. I chose not to, in fact it didn't even cross my mind. I'm on the road and beginning the meander back to NOLa.

I find the County Museum in Lake Branson, meet with Cindy. She tells me "Cecil" was wrong about the JH, it does not go that way, but she says so with a smile. they have a tableau set up for the JH and we exchange pictures.



I am heading toward, I don't know, eventually SW Wisconsin, but I consider riding over to Duluth to visit Aerostich. I decide against, for no other reason than I don't know how long it will take me to get home, Mother's Day was approaching and although I held a "Get Out Of Mother's Day Free" card, it crossed my mind to get back by that date and surprise my wife, whom the nurses at work call "Ms Mary."

As I cross Minnesota I keep thinking I am in Bob Dylan territory. There is a mysticism in these north woods, a peace. yeah, long straight roads, sometimes some curves, but a peacefulness that tries to elude description, but evokes the sense of "a good ride."

I had a job in the great north woods
Working as a cook for a spell
But I never did like it all that much
And one day the ax just fell
So I drifted down to New Orleans
Where I happened to be employed
Workin’ for a while on a fishin’ boat
Right outside of Delacroix
But all the while I was alone
The past was close behind
I seen a lot of women
But she never escaped my mind, and I just grew
Tangled up in blue


I was heading in the direction of US 61, known down here as Airline Highway, but extending to the Canadian border north of Duluth. Along the way it is part of the Great River Road and the sense that I am just a hop, step and a drip from home is never far away. Highway 61 reinforces that.

So if you’re travelin’ in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine
Riders sense that when far from home, that sense that this road or that with just a couple of turns is a continuous ribbon to their home. Highway 61 was that for me here way up in Minnesota, and it was for Dylan in the mid 60s.
from wiki
In his memoir Chronicles: Volume One, Dylan described the kinship he felt with the route that supplied the title of his sixth album: "Highway 61, the main thoroughfare of the country blues, begins about where I began. I always felt like I'd started on it, always had been on it and could go anywhere, even down in to the deep Delta country. It was the same road, full of the same contradictions, the same one-horse towns, the same spiritual ancestors ... It was my place in the universe, always felt like it was in my blood."[2]

When he was growing up in the 1950s, Highway 61 stretched from the Canadian border through Duluth, where Dylan was born, and St. Paul all the way down to New Orleans. Along the way, the route passed near the birthplaces and homes of influential musicians such as Muddy Waters, Son House, Elvis Presley and Charley Patton. The "empress of the blues", Bessie Smith, died after sustaining serious injuries in an automobile accident on Highway 61. Critic Mark Polizzotti points out that blues legend Robert Johnson is alleged to have sold his soul to the devil at the highway's crossroads with Route 49.[3] The highway had also been the subject of several blues recordings, notably Roosevelt Sykes' "Highway 61 Blues" (1932) and Mississippi Fred McDowell's "61 Highway" (1964).[4]




So, I head that way, but to get there I have to cross Minnesota which is a BIG state.



I cross the Mississippi a few times as Ole Man Ribba gathers steam.





I wanted to get to the Driftless Area of SW Wisconsin, but that was two days away. I stop for the evening in Sandstone, at the Sandstone 61 motel

A mom and pop place that is clean small friendly, but can appear shady.

I pull in to the lot, and a woman, middle aged, sky blue pants too tight, smoking, paces in front of her room. She looks like a weekly rental--I mean her, not the room.
She has a dog, a small yappy one who is not a fan of motorcycles. Her dog, he barks a lot. A few more drags, I smile, no response. Often a dog can be a conversation starter. Or a motorcycle. Or a middle aged woman wearing pants too tight, and if you combine all those elements, well, one answer would be that you wind up sharing some of your Michter's Rye with this interesting woman you meet. And you talk about Betty, or Georgia or Phyllis afterwards. You remember she's from Sioux Falls or Sioux City, the one in South Dakota or was it the one in Iowa?
However, in this case, all those conversation starters cancel each other out, and she turns away, gathers up Fido and retreats to #11. I check in and Pop at the desk is very friendly directing me to #9, next door to la femme avec le chien
She reminds me of Shelley Winters in Lolita (another Kubrick) but not as attractive and most certainly not as outgoing



I retreat to my room and every move I make, the dog notices, alerting its owner, though who owns whom.





I chose the Sandstone after careful consideration...that's sarcasm...it was in the right place at the right time.

Tripadvisor:

“Motel for dogs only”
1 of 5 starsReviewed February 1, 2016
Parking lot had not been plowed when I pulled in (good 3 inches) (Ed note, what about the other inch???). I knocked on the office door but no one answered. I sat in my truck for 15 mins but no one came back to reception. There was a dog barking and hollering like crazy from one of the guest rooms the whole time I was there. I went for a drink at a bar in town to pass some time and when I got back there was still no one there, except the hollering dog. There was 2 or 3 other dogs that stared me down through a window as I knocked on the office door.
and

“Clean, convenient, cheap, dog-friendly”
3 of 5 starsReviewed November 7, 2015
and

“BEWARE! Definately NOT suitable for small children.”
1 of 5 starsReviewed May 20, 2014
Making our first trip to visit family in Sandstone, we felt the other reviews were reasonable since it was just a 2 night stay and only 3 miles from our daily destination. As the other reviews stated the bed linens were clean and that is the BEST you can hope for. On day 2 of our stay, I was in the tiny bathroom and went to grab a fresh roll of toilet paper, unwrapped it and saw something inside the cardboard roll. I pushed it out with my finger assuming it was the tissue paper used in wrapping the roll. Boy, was I wrong. Out popped a baggie full of crystal meth.
So, THAT'S where it went!!!

Mr Ruger slept by my side for the uneventful evening.
 
#13 ·
Sandstone, Minnesota is just to the NE of the Twin Cities.
Choosing to head there, for me, defined my route. It meant I would not visit Aerostich and threaten my wallet, but would head south.

I had read of the Driftless Area of Wisconsin, and all of this upper Midwest was virgin territory to me. Other inmates on the ADVrider board strongly recommended ALL of SW Wisconsin as well as the Great River Road along the way from the Mn/Wi border all the way down to Dubuque.

I crossed the river at Hastings and followed 35 down. The Mississippi is really wide along in here with good sized islands within its banks. You can't get right up on the river though because the railroad tracks are right along the shore, but still it is some pretty rolling country, not a lot of traffic and a picturesque batture, if that's what y'all call the area right along the banks up there.









I dive farther east getting into the heart of the northern end of The Driftless Area



And I am heading over to the Kickapoo River Valley. The Kickapoo is not a very large river, often little more than a stream, but the company it keeps is beautiful, especially on this spring day. Some pretty winding roads with lots of elevation changes are characteristic of the area. Great roads for motorcycling. There are lots of farms, and LOTS of red barns. Down south, you just don't see so many red barns, Most of ours, if they have ever been red, are now the brown of a weathered natural wood color, still picturesque, but not red, so for this swamp boy, there were lots of red ones and that was pretty cool.



The Kickapoo in the afternoon





This is what the entire region looked like before glaciers smoothed things out (stoopid glaciers!)...makes for some good riding and this sort of terrain extends well into Iowa.



There were areas, often encountered, where the bloom was off the rose, but in those areas, at those farms, I just had the sense that what I was looking at was the history of a family farm that likely extends back decades. Riding in the Plains and the midwest, a city boy sees things that we only hear about on TV. Seems that there are always stories about farms that have been in a family since Wilson, or Coolidge, or Hoover was president, and because of changing economic times, those farms are now threatened or lost. I'm sure they exist, but pristine farms seemed in short supply, the Currier and Ives stuff was lacking, but it was easy to transport yourself back, oh, just pick a year, and it's easily imagined that this scene has not changed one iota in the interloping years. Riding solo, lets your mind wander, and imagine and think this would look like this if it were 1970, or 1950, or earlier.





So, you see something, and you cruise to the shoulder downshifting, 3rd, 2nd, first, find neutral, and as you rush for the camera, and watch for cars coming up from behind, there is a moment, maybe after the picture is taken, when there is a little reflection, and you can transport yourself back in time. The midwest and the Plains do that, more so than other places, at least for me. And they do it in a melancholy way, sort of. You survey the countryside 360, and you roll on, store the camera, and roll on, only to be snared by the next spot that hits you somewhere between your eyes and your memory and the history books from long ago. But most of all, it's just so pretty.



When I was planning this trip, I thought this might be an ideal time for the apple orchards. Thought they might be in bloom. Did a little research, posted a couple of questions online, and got really no answers on it.



I hit the jackpot and one of the most memorable times of the trip. That part of the Driftless where the apple orchards were was not very big, but what they lacked in size they made up for in the perfume of the air. I've ridden the PCH and smelled the Pacific, I've smelled the sea and seafood on the coast around Gloucester, Mass, fresh hay in Arkansas, the smell of oil in west Texas, the clean air of the Rockies and the Sierras and the Avenue of the Giants, but I have never smelled anything to compare with the sweet innocent aromas of an apple orchard in bloom.



It's not something to knock your socks off, it's subtle, at first you may not notice it, but when you try, it is ummistakably fragrant and pure. If home should smell like anything, it's this.

Most of the orchards are behind fences over the rolling hillsides, YES, you're riding through them on winding roads that go up and down, but there are some wild ones that are next to the road. Where these pictures were taken was at a farm, can't remember the name, but these were right on the road and maintained as if they were there for the tourists, me. I think I was the only person riding through this bouquet who was not a local, but it was impressive enough that this should be a destination, like the autumn leaves in New England or Colorado. The apple orchards of SW Wisconsin, The Driftless Area, is a destination in and of itself.
Put it on your bucket list, but you have to catch them at the right time.



And I don't know if it's like this for a week or so, or shorter or longer. What I do know is that motorcycling is often an olfactory experience. And, this one was at the top of the list. If I had to say what it smelled like, the closest I could come would be green apples, but that falls far short. It was a fragrance, a perfume, wholesome and pure. It was not simply the smell of fresh produce.This was sublime

These orchards were on WI 171 in the Gays Mills area. Great roads, great scenery. It would likely be VERY cool to ride the area during the harvest, but riding it during bloom was on the short list for trip highlights.

I spend the night in Prairie du Chien, which roughly translated means "Dogtown," I think. The downtown area is pretty old and has been refurbished or gentrified maybe, though now for some that's a dirty word.

more coming
 
#16 ·
At this point I had ridden through the "fuzzy" part of the ride, the part where, like the area, was "driftless," not knowing exactly where I wanted to be, but knowing what I wanted to see.

Mission Accomplished.

Now, I was truly heading back home and the route became clearer. From Dogtown, I wanted to do more of the Great River Road (the "great" river meaning the Mississippi. Advice from advrider suggested the Wisconsin side was marginally better, though I think I liked the west bank a bit more, slightly less traffic (there was nearly zero), and maybe, subjective to be sure, slightly more picturesque. Both were very pretty. So I headed up to LaCrosse, from PdC, along 35, the GRR.

Wi 171, where the apple orchards were, intersects.


This is a good pic of the cockpit area of L'il Red. From the left:
The thermostat (rheostat) knob for my Gerbing's liner. I put the yellow dot on it so I could see at a glance the setting of the plain black knob.

then the Garmin 665--far better than my previous 550, then the Valentine 1, then on the right the switch for the motolights, again with 2 yellow dots to show the ON position of the otherwise featureless rocker switch. BTW DO NOT BUY their small waterproof switch, if you're tempted. It's a POS.

I stop for gas in LaCrosse, a cool town it appeared. I found myself on the very populated campus of U of W LaCrosse. Students were bustling between classes, probably on the verge of finals. In the bathroom, not on campus, but just off, and iirc they were unisex, no cis bathrooms for you, but they had a feature that I had NEVER seen before. Sure the vending machines selling "protection" are commonplace, promising everything from, on the low end, satisfying my "partner," up to a seat closer to the Right Hand of God, and all with the simple addition of some silicon? latex? creosote? bumps. And the price is right! though the machines do not take credit (or debit) cards yet. It seems that "partners" are easily satisfied, and for less than a dollar! I digress.
In the bathroom was this.


A SHARPS BOX. Really? I have never ever seen these before outside of a hospital and I suppose that it makes sense...sort of, but does LaCrosse really have that many insulin dependent diabetics? So many that a sharps box is decreed necessary? At a Pilot, or Flying J (hole), or Race Trac gas station? I take the snap.
Doesn't anyone just sell rubbers anymore? Quite the full service UNI bathroom here in LaCrosse.

I cross the Mississippi which now commands real bridges with metal and grates and redlights, and take a left on 26, back in Minnesota, and do the west bank of the GRR. Down into Iowa at St Albins, which looks about as Americana as Americana can possibly appear.



I was actually heading south, but stopped for a couple of pix.




I thought the Driftless Area was very nice in Iowa also, not quite as populous as the Wisconsin part, though both were VERY rural. Good riding along the GRR. The thought was never far from my mind that all of the water I see will pass near my house just a few days after I get home.







I am in Grant Wood territory



The in your face Americana of the midwest and especially Iowa, just knocks your socks off. The fields were being prepped, so they were all mud, but the promise of riding through cornfield after cornfield especially in this rolling Driftless Area sounds inviting, maybe someday when I am ready to brave the summer temps...It is impossible for me NOT to think of American Gothic, that iconic image from the 30s, done by Grant Wood as part of a contest.



From Mentalfloss:

Wood submitted American Gothic—the name a nod to the house’s architectural style—to a 1930 competition at the Art Institute of Chicago. Overnight, the painting became a hit. American Gothic won a bronze medal and a $300 prize, was acquired by the museum, and was reproduced in newspapers around the country. Something about it resonated with audiences, and in that mysterious process by which paintings become famous, it quickly achieved near-universal recognition.

Not everyone saw the same thing. Some perceived the work as a scathing parody of the Midwest—one outraged farm wife even threatened to bite off Wood’s ear. Meanwhile, Gertrude Stein and other critics praised the painting as a cutting small-town satire, the visual equivalent of Sinclair Lewis’s Main Street. Still others saw the painting as honoring the Midwest and its strong values. As the Great Depression bore down on the country, Americans yearned for positive depictions of themselves, and Wood’s work provided the nation with a pair of ready-made secular saints of the American heartland.


yeah, that's what i thought.

As a child of the 60s with a stubbornly persistent irreverent bend, I was looking for the one in which the chick is wearing an "I'm with Stupid->" T shirt. Failing that, let's get topical!

The new American Gothic


I dive west and away from the GRR, thinking that one day I will return and just hang in the Driftless Area of the Tri-State region, maybe head north, combine it with UP of Michigan, or not. But, I really enjoyed this area, on motorcycle riding, photographic, people, history, and heartland bases. It certainly deserves more motorcycle tourism press.

I turn right, kinda, and head to Grinnell College.
Why Grinnell?
Well, not because of this, this makes me want to run out and get a flat of Zofran.



Though I fully recognize I border on schmaltzy in my writing, I fully reject it from anyone else, and Iowa is the home for two of the schmaltziest movies ever produced.
Field of Dreams is one of them, the other is...wait for it, it's coming later, but soon.

No, that is NOT why I am riding in these winds to Grinnell. The winds were amazing. they were mostly at my 2 o'clock to 3 o'clock. There was a wind advisory, 30-40 mph winds "with gusts." By definition that makes them tropical storm strength. I was now on mostly straight roads crossing Iowa, NE toward SW. When the winds were as described, I was getting a readout on the GS of 31-34 mpg. Sometimes the road would slightly change direction, allowing the winds to hit me at about 5 o'clock, and my mileage would skyrocket to the mid 60s. Really.

So, if not for the "heaven" aspect of the Field of Dreams reference, why am I going to Grinnell. It's because of this:



It says Urban Legend, but is it really?
I was headed there, braving the Iowa winds, investigative reporting at its best, film at 11.
 
#17 ·
I ride into Grinnell, the town, not the college for dinner that evening.

I anticipate visual repugnance. Gleefully? I don't know, but I do feel a little of a Do-Not-Feed-The-Animals anticipatory apprehension. And a smirk. Yeah, a smirk.

There's a good pizza place, a decent pizza place, ok, an acceptable pizza place, in the center of town: Pagliai's Pizza.
Large dining room, communal eating, open kitchen, loud. Mostly families with kids from toddler size to teens with rolling eyes. Not many college kids. No beasts.

The wait staff are dressed in mom slacks, waists somewhat too high.
I scan the savannah, through the thicket of tall glasses of iced water and sweet tea. I feel my ears rotate on my skull, searching expecting to be visually repulsed at any moment.

Maybe I'm not close enough, maybe the "ugly" is well-contained on campus. These people look alright, a mix of attractive to less than, but hideous is no where in sight.

I relax; I eat my pizza and my salad. A watchful eye.
A thought crosses my mind. What if I am the visually repugnant one? What if I brought the U to the G-L-Y?

Honi soit qui mal y pense and all that.
Food for thought in a pizza joint. I am NOT going to consider if I am the morally repugnant one, that is not the question. People, we're talking (absence of) "good looks," countenance, visage, the "mug," the "puss," the "kisser!"

Alright, get a move on, nothing happening here, show's over, let's go.

Maybe I need to come on Tuesday.

To be honest I am not disappointed, I still have the college to visit tomorrow. But, because of that article, I look at everyone and apply the visual analog scale to their degree of (un)attractiveness.


To be honest, it's mostly 0-4, and the occasional outlier.


Lots of 3s. Not bad. I head back to the motel.

The next morning I ride over to campus, check out the student body.
Where is everyone? Hiding? I see three people.
The guy cutting the grass on this sunny spring morning. A kid who looks junior high/high school age walking along, and, this MUST be a student, an Asian girl walking along. None of them are in this picture. I just missed them by THAT much.


I ride around campus, turning over no rocks, but truly, no photo ops, no ge-gaws, no heymaw,wouldyalookatthat! No Igottagettapictureofthatone. None of that.
I pass the young kid again, he kind of smiles at me. I am the anomaly here. And, no, I do not feel ashamed. Not a bit.

I ride into town, maybe there was a migration? Nope, just small town America. While I take this picture there's a young lady standing by, watching me. Kinda cute actually in a mom kind of way, but she smiles at me when I click the shutter. I smile back, and I head out, happy that Grinnell only lives up to some of its press.



On the morning news, Wake Up With KXX-3!, there's a feature about the
Tulip Time Festival in Pella, where's Pella? I grab the map. He!!, it's on my way! Or can be!, you betcha. I'm tooling around and have the time, next real stop is not real far, I have time to tiptoe through the tulips in Pella, Iowa.

The road is a blur of eagerness and anticipation, tulips and tulip accessories await me. I watch my speed, oh how 6th gear beckons on Ia92, I think, get outta my way, I'm headin' to Tulip Time.

On the way I spot this sign



And I am immediately reminded of this:



Purity of Essence and Peace on Earth are in full display on this ride, and at Tulip Time!

I arrive before the parade, Lawn chairs are set up on the route, I look for floats and see none. No shouts of Hey! Tulip Time! greet me. College kids, I suppose from Grinnell are not walking the streets drinking at 10am. No women (or men) are bearing themselves or promising to bare themselves for the exchange of tulips. It's not Mardi Gras. Ladies of a certain age wearing print cotton dresses. Some sit and fan themselves, some kids are running around. Some noise, but not a lot. there's a radio station that has set up a booth and is promising the world at their "giant giveaway at 2 o'clock!" No one is listening, but just milling...lots of milling.
I find a place to park L'il Red, I hit the pavement. A stranger, not a strange land, I've seen it in books. There's a "Dutch Market" going on. I heard a lady say that, she called this a Dutch Market. We'd call it a Flea Market or a Crafts Fair. but not a Dutch Market.
There are no Dutch in New Orleans, well, maybe they are, but they are reluctant to show themselves. Certainly no Dutch Markets as this one in Pella, Iowa, on this spring weekday morning. (This is where the Pella Windows are made, btw. This will be on the quiz.)

These guys are everywhere. Are they Dutch? As I said, I don't see a lot of Dutch in the swamps. I could ask the lady in the boots, I choose not to ask.




Excuse me, Excuse me, m'am, excuse me, but where are the damn tulips? ... Please? I came for the tulips, where are they?
Ohhhhhhhhh, they're by the tractors!!! Al-right, Al-right, Al-right!











These were the real thing, not trucked in, these are the veterans of all the fields I've been riding through. You could see the personalities, and know that they had names, like Sallie, or Betty, or the Ole Girl. These vintage machines had character that gave the aroma of history and work and mud and sun, good crops bad crops, rich, poor. The faces of these machines told a story of this land and these people. It was palpable. I saw fathers and grandfathers, sometimes jeans, sometimes ill-fitting overalls, denim blue, pointing out this gizmo or that doodad to a fascinated child, and knew the story rendered had far more meaning that the story received. And I knew I could never grasp the depth of the work these machines endured with their masters. It was like looking through a wormhole to the past at a history I could never know, but I could appreciate.


Hot Little Allis






Hey, Mods!
shoot! this 15 picture limit per post is a pain! There's a picture missing for this entry. If you've found the other forums I've posted to, it's there...just not here, because here, unlike the others, there's the limit.
 
#18 · (Edited)
IN the planning stages, when I finally got out a map of Iowa, ie, not just Google Maps, I saw that there is a county in Iowa called Madison County.

I steadfastly refused to see the Clint Eastwood Meryl Streep movie, The Bridges of Madison County, because:
1)it appeared to be the ultimate chick flick,
2)seems extravagantly schmaltzy and sappy, and, oh
3) see #1 and #2 above.


and lots of this


and this



How many meaningful glances can one stomach. Well, it turns out quite a few.

So, I saw I could direct my travel through Madison County,Iowa, and there are, in fact, a few covered bridges there. So, in a sort of anti-homage to the movie I decided to visit, spend an hour or so, then move on. It didn't work out that way.

On the way in to Winterset, Iowa, where the movie takes place, I look at my watch. It's about 130. I ask, as it's that time of day, where do I want to stop for the evening. Long story short, I decided to check in at the Super 8, Winterset, and spend the rest of the day there. This was a very good decision, as it turned out. You can easily spend a day there, visiting the bridges and the town itself. Winterset.

Winterset, boyhood home of John Wayne, was straight out of Small Town America. County seat, city square, dress shops with racked poplin aflutter in the May breeze, a few stop lights and nice people, all that was all in the script. There were tattoos, but no visible shops. Young and old and in between, cars vans and motorcycles, Mexican, a burgers joint on the corner, and a cafe on the square, it had a screen door that if you weren't careful, slammed loud, like in the movies.
It was a neat little town. I start looking for Meryl Streep, who was rarely prettier than in Winterset, but I just missed her







Nighthawks at the Northside cafe


I get the menu, what the hell is that!!!



Right there, below the Monument Burger?
A Muffuletta (sic)!

Oh I gots to ask!
Some background: Muffelettas, or Muffalettas, or Muffelottas are a specialty of New Orleans. It is a LARGE Italian sandwich on a Large round piece of Italian bread, about 7-8" across, with sesame seeds. It is stuffed with an assortment of Italian meats and provolone, and most critical of all, "olive salad," or at least that's what it's called. It's similar in structure to a relish, but don't ever say that. I will deny that I said that, you'll be on your own.



I've never seen one outside of New Orleans and the place that arguably made them famous, Central Grocery on Decatur, serves the classic. The "thing to do" is order one (ask for extra olive salad), to split with someone, or even 4 people, they're that big, then get yourself a Barq's Rootbeer and go sit on the "moonwalk" by the River, that same river recently visited, and watch Ole Man Ribba jus' keep rollin' along as you munch away, lick the olive oil from your fingers, and down the Barq's. That's good stuff.

Anyhow, here I was in Bridges of Madison County country and a muffuletta is on the menu.

Do you have any questions about the menu? Jeremiah asks. Jeremiah is a large guy, tattooed, looks somewhere between Bluto from the old Popeye cartoons

and the Hound from Game of Thrones

but he's a lot nicer than either.

maybe more like John Belushi?


Yes, a question... I have to ask...a muffuletta?
Yeah! It's a sand--

I know what it is, I'm from New Orleans, how did a muffuletta make it on to the menu at the Northside Cafe in Winterset, Iowa.

Jeremiah laughs...The owner is from a small town outside of New Orleans.
(I work in a small town outside of New Orleans)
Oh, where?
jeremiah thinks for a second or two, but can't remember...

He's not here now, but his son is, Jeremiah disappears to go ask.

After Katrina, a lot of people left the city and wound up scattered across the country, bringing a bit of NOLa with them. It's like a rash in a way. It feels so good to scratch it.

Jeremiah returns...

Waldheim.

I'm disappointed.
Waldheim is probably about 50ish miles from the city. It's an old country town, out in the country. Culturally it is in that OTHER part of Louisiana. It is away from the Catholic "fun" of New Orleans. New Orleanians have favorites in the Seven Deadly sins, maybe a couple of favorites. Depends on the time of year. And what's in season.
In fact, we have celebrations and festivals for them. We turn a blind eye to excess with a wink and a nod and another wink.
But, Waldheim---cue the Flight of the Valkyries theme music--- is 3rd degree white flight from the city.
People moved to Metairie first, then Mandeville/Covington, then farther afield like Waldheim. Very often Mandeville/Covington and then Waldheim, want NOTHING to do with the city, it couldn't be farther away, more likely to be Pentecostal than Papist increasingly with distance. They get their kicks from horse shoes and gingham. We city people, uh, not so much.

I say none of this to Jeremiah, because after all, there was once a guy from Waldhein who moved to Winterset, iowa, and runs a neat little cafe on the town square, and serves Muffulettas! How cool is that?

I ask how they make them, because the bread is a key ingredient and only available in New Orleans. And it's a Sicilian thing that evolved in the City to its present state. And where do you get the olive salad from, cuz all that is produced locally?

Jeremiah: Oh we make our own bread and we do it a little differently, but people who know say it's a good one.
And I'm sure it is.

Do you want to try one?

With a smile I decline because I don't want to be sitting in the Northside judging the quality of a muffuletta, or reviewing how it's different. I tell jeremiah that and we both laugh. I'll have the Monument Burger and fries...
Sure enough, coming right up with sweet tea.

Now, to be clear, the Muffuletta sandwich is not to be confused with The Muff-A-Lottas, a Mardi Gras dance "team" all you can eat and serving New Orleans since 2007





It's not that kind of dish, the sandwich.


So I came for the bridges, true, and in order to do this up better, as I promised to some people, no, no, let me start that again...

I'm at one of the bridges, I have it to myself, and then a car drives up, and another. We start chatting and the chatter winds up at the movie...
Did you see it, I'm asked
no, I have not and I never will!
Oh, but it's sooooo gooood.

Yeah, I'm afraid it might be the ultimate chick flick, and (muttering), but I tend to like chick flicks.

Oh, you HAVE to see it!

the other couple chimes in, in the affirmative that I MUST see it, and the guy in the couple, the only male, as the other couple was two 50 something females, said yeah, I really needed to see it. He said it in a guy voice, like I could believe him, he sorta leaned in from about 15 feet away when he said it. I knew the gesture, it's a guy thing. We take each others pictures. Maybe I need to see it.

Sooooo, I decided to see it before this entry. Found it on Amazon Prime; it wasn't on Netflix, really. I thought it would help me write the bridges part. That's coming next.
 
#19 ·
Was she wrong to hold his heart another person's hand
The grass is always greener 'til it's covered up with sand
Was it other things
Fate, felicity
What rousing temptation

She knew that love could swell without barricades
Standards must be broken even these
Now she has three different lullabies to sing
These fruited images lead her to sleep

Was it the fighting was it the fist
Was it adventure with a jealous twist
Was it desire for another's kiss
What brought the house down

......The Ditty Bops - Ooh La La


I visit the covered bridges of Madison County, Iowa.
They are located in the "greater" Winterset area.
As I suggested, Winterset is a very nice little town. I was there in early May and I was told that it is the beginning of their "tourist" season. Who knew?

I don't say that to sound snarky, but being in south central Iowa, "Tourist season" is not what comes to mind. Lots of other things do, but not that. Yet, here I am.

The town sorta bustles in a small town way; looks like it's doing well?? I liked it and so did the residents, I could tell. It was the kind of town that one of your roommates was from in college, or someone down the hall was and you visited with them on weekends and he got you a date with a friend of his from highschool and she becomes someone you always wonder about as the years, decades roll by.
Ok, so maybe I am hopeful romantic enough to actually enjoy The Bridges of Madison County.
No, your honor, I didn't do it. Not guilty, your honor! Nagging doubt. OK, I like chick flicks sometimes.

At any rate because I knew I would be doing this report, dear reader, I watched it. I knew that if I did not watch it, and wrote the report, I would always wonder, what if, what it could have added, what new insights on life, the universe, and everything I missed. What about that girl from Winterset in 1967?



Romantic curmudgeon review
It will add nothing to my report. It didn't provide anything I didn't already have touristically.
It was a good story of boy meets girl, boy loses girl, years pass, they die and their secret comes out.
It is from 1995, so they are not in bed at the until day 2 of meeting. Today they would have been in bed within 2 hours of meeting...your personal best may be better.

The supporting cast is dreadful and have the acting skills of a popsicle stick, i.e., stiff and wooden and thin. I didn't expect that. Clint Eastwood is ok, but plays a stereotype.
Meryl Streep is wonderful as she always is. She does a poor job of an Italian accent-I thought it was German or Eastern European- but, plays a woman from Bari, Italy (on the Adriatic). I love to watch her, Her face and body has more acting ability, just a natural grace, more than the rest of the cast combined, a multiple of the other "talent," including Eastwood.

And she has a preternaturally beautiful face, especially in this role as an approaching middle aged Iowa farm wife.



This is a good review that focuses on Ms Streep. I agree, her performance is beautiful.
Archive - Reverse Shot

So, with the weaponry of pre sight and intra sight and hindsight, I travelled to the bridges. Obviously, they made a dent, because of all the time I am spending on all this.
In short, I see the appeal.


The Holliwell Bridge.

This is where I met the people who told me I must see the movie.



The Cutler-Donahue Bridge







The Cedar Bridge





So, what is it "like" around these bridges? Well, first, it is quiet. They're on backroads off of backroads, but not hard to find.
There are no sounds around them except for the sound of the sunlight, and occasional grasshopper buzzing past. Sometimes a few tourists stop by, take their pictures and move on. You chat a bit, but mostly it is a solitary enterprise.

The roads are always limestone gravel, so bright that you have white out conditions, can't see the potholes for the glare, it's like the road is illuminated from below, no detail, so bright, but no mishap.

On the way to the Hogback Bridge is The Old Stone Schoolhouse, now off limits at least on this day in May.







The Hogback Bridge





I feel my inner curmudgeon slipping away

 
#20 ·
It's a long afternoon here in Winterset, visiting the bridges, and I feel my adrenals slowing down, my eyes and ears standing their ground, something frontal lobe, or temporal, or somewhere between taking the helm.
There is a brief shot in the movie of the graffiti in the bridges, in all of them. Not the garish graffiti of the city, no "Dope Lives!," or "Scruffy Joliet" in multicolored block letters. No, these are heartfelt, ok, maybe a little cheesy, or not, but here in the Heartland, again it focuses on the "heart" of it all.

At first it's, hey look at this, then it's calmer, contemplative, reflective. I just stop.
Looking back on it, they are moving thoughts from sometimes troubled souls, puzzling in meaning, or in your face with whatever, love, joy, sadness. I look for wasp nests in the trustles, I look back at the walls. I see cursive in a heart, I see printed letters that are prayers. I see none that promise a "good" time if I only dial this number. I see repeaters, that add to their messages year after year. I see no proclamations or accusations of Jerry's or Bill's or Morgan's gender identification.

This is different graffiti and it is sorta honest, sorta pure, sorta really nice in a small town Americana way, or at least how I would like small town Amercana to be...I think. It gets my attention, and it's all over the place.

"when your heart is broken, all your boats are burned, nothing matters anymore"


"beautiful" Beautiful"


"if you love potatoes..."


Fred Loves Kate


Are these the people of Winterset? Have to be, i think, or nearby. And the bridges were covered with like messages. Maybe it was the time of year, or my time, or the air or the light, but all of this comes together in Winterset, Iowa., the heartland of the heartland, the template.

And I travel to the last bridge of the day: The Roseman Bridge, a prominent setting in the movie.



I have dinner at the Northside Cafe, discuss the muffulatta with Jeremiah, and have some Michter's at the Super 8.
I hit the road the next morning, starting to notice the tourists--it's the season you know.
Now heading more and more south, keeping a watchful eye on my rear Anakee 3 which seems to slide a bit when coming to a stop, I am thinking lots about this ride up (and now down) the gut of the USA. No CanyonLands, no Zion, or Half Dome, but holding its own for sure. This ride is on different terms than the big epics out west, or New England. This is more like a line Meryl Streep repeated over and over, because she couldn't believe it.
“You just got off the train because it looked pretty?”

Yeah, that's what I'm thinking. Yes.

I may have to do something about the Anakee before I get home. Oh well, no biggie, Thought it would last, but the tread indicators, are becoming pretty conclusive, sending me a message that I cannot ignore.
 
#22 ·
I had stopped along the way to Winterset, at a Yamaha/Suzuki/Honda shop to get a second opinion on my rear tire. As I mentioned earlier, when just about stopped I could feel a little "scuffing" sensation coming from the rear.
The wear bars were showing in some places, but not in others. The tech looked at the tire. I figured I had about 1000 miles to home, maybe more. He thought it would make it, but "to keep an eye on it."
So, I ride on, with the angst building.
A couple of years ago I had a blow out of the rear at speed about 40 miles west of Kerrville, Texas. I remember:

1) thinking initially W T F was that??!!!
2) seeing the Robby the Robot from Lost in Space on my dash, flailing his arms, saying, in the most menacing way possible: DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! along with the rainbow of dash lights flashing and screaming if they could.
3)The front wheel shuddering
4) seeing the tire pressure monitor continue to digitally readout from 33 to 23 to 0 in two blinks of an eye
5) safely coasting to a stop on the shoulder
6) curses and resignation and Plan B
7) finding I fortunately had cell service and was able to arrange for a tow to the Yamaha dealer, where a new rear was fitted
and getting back on the road in time to make it to Cooper's BBQ in Llano for one of their pork chops

In the scheme of having this experience befall one, this is best case scenario. It should neither be expected that miracles will occur twice, nor that it couldn't be much worse.

When it comes to angst on the road, we are high tech teapots, able to steep and brew enough angst and paranoia to debauch Pollyanna.
Despite wanting to cross Missouri on backroads, I feel prudence, with each passing mile, making me more and more grown up. I take the shortest distance and that is I 49, and serendipitously it happens to be my old bud: the Jefferson Highway.

I decide for a progress report, a third opinion and head to Engle BMW in Kansas City. They have the STEEPEST driveway I've ever encountered, in fact, I asked them to ride L'il Red back up, for my exit, as there is an immediate turn where the driveway meets the street, the BUSY street.

Anyway...the tech looks at the rear and chuckling, says "it's toast." They have one, and I happen to have $291 to pay for it! But, in these circumstances, convenience demands a premium.
So, after chatting with the guys for an hour or so, I am on my way with fresh rubber on the rear (the front was fine, @ 7500+miles). No more scuffing when I stop.
I continue down the Jefferson Highway--I 49. It's not too bad, but it is an interstate. That's why I choose US 69 across the border in Kansas on the way up.

I stop in Monett, Mo for the evening, likely two days from home.

The next morning I am able to do backroads down through southern Missouri, able to avoid Branson.

Along the way, I traverse little towns and one was Cassville, Mo., and Hey! what's that? Do I turn around, two blocks of thought and the answer is YES!
A Saturday morning local car show in rural Missouri, pulling in people from Missouri and nearby NW Arkansas.



Check out the houndstooth upholstery. Those of a certain age will remember that as stock. You don't see houndstooth anymore, or cloth.



Yaas, indeed!




At first I thought it was a Chevy show as there were a lot of these





But other marques were represented--like the Cobra. What I realize now is that many times on these rides, I'll pass through a town, and I question whether to stop. After all it's not on the "agenda" as fluid as that is, and I have to be here then, no, I really don't...too many words to say, my advice is stop; these are things that make a trip memorable as much as anything planned. As Art Bell, on Paranoia Radio, the home of late night conspiracy theorists, often says: there are no coincidences. BTW, I usually do not wear foil under my helmet, but sometimes think it's a good idea, you know, just for protection from the Rigellian Reptilian Mind control. Laugh at your own risk...jus' sayin'...ok?

Bel-Air in Dreamsicle



and a dreamy Biscayne



These cars were pre Impala,

but only by a couple of years.
oh, yeah...the hand grenade shifter is a really nice touch









My first car was a '62 red Impala coupe. I had Moon Eyes decals on the back windows--that was the ONLY Moon accessory. I also changed the trim piece in the front from a "V" to the Chevy V with "crossed flags," indicating I had a 327 rather than a 283. Oh, and I had dual exhausts, with one "glass-pack" and one "steel pack" muffler. It sounded great, but this emperor had no clothes...total pretense. But at 17, pretense is often as good as the real thing, right?

And what I considered the class of the show..a 1957 T'Bird in an original color, a dark metallic grey. That's the owner in the windscreen. She told me that this was an original color and they only made 400 like this. It was gorgeous.






and again done in by the 15 image police..continued below
 
#23 ·


I walk along and travel from the sublime to the Corvair, albeit, the best restored one I've ever seen. No Ralph Nader bumper stickers, but this was the poster car for the book he wrote, Unsafe At Any Speed.
https://www.amazon.com/Unsafe-Any-S...467904773&sr=8-1&keywords=unsafe+at+any+speed



Then I come across this: a Nash Metropolitan, a suppository of an automobile. It's a 1962, the same year as the Cuban Missile Crisis. We got through that ok, but we still had the Metro. On balance, and through the retrospectroscope, the Metro probably killed more Americans than the Soviets.



it's all buff though, manly as can be--and that ain't much, though the Skull shifter may appeal to some as an oh wow, but to others as automotive irony or sarcasm.



Can you think of a vehicle you rather travel at 80 mph in less than the "Metro?" Yes, that is a fire extinguisher on the seat, as if the aeros of the car weren't enough of a red flag. It does look like it would float, though I could be wrong. Minty Fresh, indeed.



East meets West



I bid adieu to Cassville and her car show, and now am on the last leg of this up and down the gut of the USA. In Arkansas, I do the Pig Trail and get a decal for L'il Red, and stop at Turner's Bend for a sandwich--I always do that. I know a lot of guys stop for pies along the road, but I stop for sandwiches. They make them just PERFECTLY, very home style and so very good. You sit on the porch and kick back and relaxe, listen to the conversations of other riders. But on this day, I could be a bit reflective on the great ride I just did. I'm a day from home now, and Turner's is a great spot to stop for a few. It's defintiely a tourist stop, but it is a tourist stop for motorcyclists--it is smack dab in the middle of great Arkansas roads, and canoeists and river riders for the nearby Mulberry River. Before anyone chimes in to say that there are other great roads in the area, other than the popular Pig Trail, yes, I know, but the Pig Trail is a right of passage road, like Deals Gap, and anytime a new bike is involved that new ride has to get some chops on certain iconic roads. The Pig Trail is one of them and L'il Red performed beautifully on it.


That evening I made it to Hope, at dusk, but along the way was able to stop at one of my favorite restaurants in the whole wide world, The Little Italy in Glenwood, Ark. The owner/chef is Neopolitan, speaks English poorly or haltingly, and concocts some of the best Italian food between New Orleans and Winnipeg. Put another way, I detour whenever nearby and time my rides to be able to eat there. That good.

So, the next day i made it home. I tried and succeeded in getting home by Mother's Day, surprising my wife and in time for grand-daughter #2's birthday, the next day.

It was a great trip on a level different than my other rides. It was more subtle, but so danm sweet. Too often we hear only the bad things about the USA and problems abound for sure. But, there is a thick and deep patina in the heartland, burnished by decades of good people trying to make things better for their children, and generations to come, that I just haven't seen to this extent elsewhere.

Riding an historic route, like the Jefferson, added to the ride immeasurably. Knowing I was riding the roads that people 100 years ago rode, and seeing what they would have experienced, was never far below conscious thought. It had to have been hard. I had great weather for the trip, and it was storming spring all around me, but I was able to tuck into the the good parts of the weather radar.

If you've never visited this part of the country, I thoroughly recommend it. It was so nice, and you'll be the only tourist around, except for Winterset. The scent of the apple trees in bloom was worth the price of the ticket all by itself, but riding through the heartland was like Dan Bern says "good for the soul."

thanks for coming along

John

details: 2016 r1200gs, no oil burned on the trip, total mileage just over 4500 miles.
Cameras: Nikon d700 with a 24-70, 16-35 and 70-200; Sony RX100 mk2; Samsung Galaxy Note 4.
Best food of trip--Stella's Cafe in Winnipeg, 2nd Little Italy, Glenwood, Ar. Worst food, Caribou Grill, Hallock Mn.
Prob averaged mid to high 40s in mpg.
 
#24 ·
Thanks for the great write up, your sarcasm is brilliant.
I've not toured that part of the country properly just a few blasts across the interstates to get to the east coast and back.
I admire a man that stops at the local cafe's and shops to take it in, it's something that I always want to do but when alone I'm more the sort that hits the gas station and gets a pre-made hoagie and water from the refrigerator and eats it with one hand while cleaning bugs of the windscreen and refueling with the other, I rarely have a tight schedule but feel as though I'm always a day behind.
Anyhow thanks again.
 
#25 ·
Thanks, JetSpeed; appreciate it

I'll say it again, I really liked the heartland. If I am on a tight schedule, or think I am, I usually don't stop at the mom and pop diners during the day. I do hit them when the riding for the day is done though. Just for the "ambience." I think what helped was that I had never really been to these areas before, so it was pretty new to me. But, when you're alone you have more meaningful conversations with complete strangers, esp when compared to riding with a group.

My cross country rides usually bring me across The Democratic People's Republic of Texas. Lots of fodder there. Unashamedly, I eaves drop all the time. And I try to sneak pictures.

but thanks for the kind words. Readying for a ride to Id/Mt now, but traveling with the only riding bud I can tolerate, actually a good friend, but he has a GS and we ride similarly. Still, I am a little, just a smidge, bummed that I won't have that awesome alone time like I do when traveling solo. Hoping to leave Sat am, if I can get out of La with the floods---they're bad, looks like Katrina bad---right now they would block my egress.
 
#26 ·
Thanks again for this awesome ride report. I hope you weren't affected by the flooding. My daughter lives in Lafayette and it was a pretty devastating there. Many around her were evacuated but she was in a new development with good drainage. She was stranded but never in trouble.
 
#27 ·
Thanks, Graybeard.
Fortunately NOLa, was spared on this one. However, the surrounding parishes weren't so lucky. the Baton Rouge area and south and east of there were particularly hard hit. People were stranded in their cars on I 12 for hours and hours. It is still closed as are parts of I 10. Many rivers are just cresting today.
The pictures look like the flooding following Katrina. I work outside of NOLa in LaPlace and Lutcher/Gramercy. Many/all of those people are affected or have many family members who are. Something called a "monsoon depression" formed and just kept sucking moisture from the Gulf. This is a supposed rare event of historical importance.

Added benefit (sarcasm), is that these are wetlands and swamps, so the snakes and alligators and fire ants now have access far more than they usually do. TV was showing pictures of floating islands of fire ants in the flood waters. Apparently they organize and lock themselves together, with their eggs, and float as one.
Imagine having that floating in your direction.
 
#28 ·
Added benefit (sarcasm), is that these are wetlands and swamps, so the snakes and alligators and fire ants now have access far more than they usually do. TV was showing pictures of floating islands of fire ants in the flood waters. Apparently they organize and lock themselves together, with their eggs, and float as one.
Imagine having that floating in your direction.
:surprise:

I grew up in Alabama and Georgia and know a little something of these fire ants.
 
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