Saturday a friend was to be in Poteau, Oklahoma promoting his books. You may have seen some of his work. He is the author responsible for the squirrel and motorcycle story. Well, I checked the distance and the weather. Poteau is 319 miles from Olathe and the weather, after a bit of morning rain in Southeast Oklahoma, was expected to be pleasant all day. I thought it might be a good opportunity to spend some time in the wind.
I left Olathe about 10:15 after my regular Saturday morning meeting and headed south on US Highway 69 which parallels the Kansas Missouri border on the Kansas side and eventually melts into US 59 down the east edge of Oklahoma. The ride down was nice and mostly uneventful. I did discover that the Dragon, at least my Dragon, has an approximate range of two hundred miles on a tank of gas. I normally fuel her between 120 and 150 miles, but I was alone and in a mood to push the limits, so I ran her thirty-seven miles past the switch to reserve. The trip meter read one hundred ninety-seven, but she reads three percent low so it was closer to two hundred three miles. I did that a second time on the way north, but it was actually a lot less intentional then.
I arrived in Poteau around 16:20 at a rather inconsequential Yamaha dealership’s grand opening. Actually, I guess I arrived after the grand opening was done as the door signs indicated that they close at 15:00 on Saturday and they were putting away the festive props. Daniel Meyer, I was told, had left earlier to get something to eat at the Western Sizzlin’ and possibly would return shortly.
I waited. Poteau is a smaller town than I had remembered. Some places are small in size and some are small in mind set. Poteau has, for its location, ample population. Daniel arrived back at the dealership around 17:00 and we exchanged small talk, cash, and a paperback book. I asked whether he would be riding the Talimena with the local folks and he said no, that he would probably get started back toward Dallas. It had been a long day for him already as he ridden out of Dallas just that morning. He did say he had ridden Talimena Drive on the way in and that it was well worth the trip.
My itinerary called for me to leave Poteau at 17:46 and arrive home an hour or so before midnight, but I thought it would be a waste to come all that way and not ride the famous Talimena Scenic Drive, so I headed south out of Poteau toward Heavener.
When I stopped for orientation in Heavener a knowledgeable local told me that if I wanted to cross the “whole mountain” on the Talimena that I should go back to 270, over to Wister, down 271 and catch the Talimena Drive at its beginning. Hey, who wants to eat half a meal, sing half a song, or win half a heart? I turned around and pointed my face toward Wister.
My great great grandparents were buried on their homestead between Heavener and Howe, Oklahoma. My brother had located the people who currently own the farm and some three years previous we had gathered there to clean up the small cemetery. I surprised myself a little in that even after almost three years and who knows how many lost brain cells I still was able to recognize M.C.’s and Darlene’s house as I passed it along the way.
I took me longer than I had expected to get to the entrance to the Drive. I also was not completely prepared for the sign, “Mena – 53 miles.” It was beginning to look like a longer day than I had planned.
Talimena Drive is pretty, but most of it is tree lined almost to the edge of the asphalt. Much of the beauty to be seen is available only to those who will pull off onto the scenic vistas. It does boast a good deal of vertical variety on the road. I compared it loosely, not entirely favorably, to the Blue Ridge Parkway. The speed limit on Talimena is a more reasonable fifty-five rather than the thirty-five to forty-five of the BRP.
As I made my way down the drive I became increasingly concerned with the passage of time and found myself less inclined to enjoy the beauty of nature around me. I began to stop less and ride much more. I began to enjoy, or possibly indulge myself in, the ample directional diversity of the roadway. There was no traffic and the Dragon is a noisy beast when she’s running up and down the offerings of her gearbox. I’m certain that it was a secret to no one that we were out there on that road. I rounded a corner to the sight of two Sheriff’s vehicles parked on the grass alongside the roadway. The speed limit was still fifty-five and I was cool, but I did get a couple of head turns. It wasn’t more than a mile or so up the road that I came upon a third deputy cruising at a little less than the posted recommended velocity. I dropped in behind him for a short distance before he veered suddenly off the left side of the road. I braked and slowed long enough to be certain that he wasn’t going to bounce back onto the paved portion as I was going past and then resumed our progress. It occurred to me that he may have preferred to follow rather than to lead me down this path and so I watched him in my mirror but never saw him reenter the roadway. As I rounded the next bend I spoke softly to the Dragon, stroked her gently and we increased our velocity down the mountain into the fading afternoon daylight. If the constable did resume his eastward travel it was without regaining any sight of us that day.
We passed onto the Arkansas portion of the Drive without noting sign or symbol, but the crossing was unmistakable as the road surface changed dramatically. The Arkansas keepers of the Drive had selected a material that was almost soft and covered with a layer akin to gravel but not loose. It was a little like riding on very course oversized sandpaper. I did not like it. On the Arkansas side they were having some sort of a rally for classic hot rods. I passed by a large gathering of them at the Queen Wilhelmina Lodge and fell in behind an older gentleman out for what was no doubt a reminiscent convertible cruise with his lady. He was an older man, as I said, grey, balding, probably about my age. He was rolling along at thirty-five with spikes to forty. Most likely he hadn’t noticed the signs. I didn’t want to disturb their nostalgia, so I quietly strung along behind until the Dragon would take no more of it. As we rounded a curve and spied a relatively long and empty stretch of two lane I dropped a gear, turned the throttle and made quick use of the left half of the road. It sometimes startles me how quickly she will leap to eighty-five. I stood on the rear brake and used all the howling engine she would give me to bring her down and through the right hand curve at the end of the straight.
We dropped into Mena, Arkansas as the sun was diving for the horizon. I turned north onto US 71 and the first sign I saw announced that Fort Smith was yet eighty miles away. It was definitely going to be a much longer day than I had planned.
Somewhere just north of Mena, Velvet’s odometer rolled over to fifty thousand miles making her officially the bike that I had ridden for the most distance.
During the first hour after dusk I was in the vicinity of chicken farms. I was tempted to call them chicken ranches, but that conjures up images of the little feathered bipeds sporting miniature saddles and being herded about the prairie by tiny cowboys. One would think that as chickens eat bugs that the area surrounding a chicken farm would have fewer of those insects in the air. The converse appears to be the case. For the better part of an hour we were pummeled by the six legged suicide terrorists.
A combination of the age of my eyes, the color of my headlight, and the varying tints of my night glasses has produced an environment unfavorable to unlit nighttime roadways. At my first opportunity we climbed onto Interstate 540 and made our way north as rapidly as we could. As darkness fell I began struggling with visibility. At one point I had thought that I might try to get to Missouri before stopping, but calculating that to be impractical, I settled on a goal of stopping nowhere south of Fort Smith. Traffic was relatively light but present. Some were traveling more rapidly than I and I adopted a technique of shadowing a fast moving tractor trailer to assure my best possible northward progress.
In Fayetteville I stopped at a Burger King for a quick breakfast and orientation. I carried my maps inside and as I approached the counter the middle aged woman at the register looked up from her telephone and said, “Ask him,” nodded at a young man to her right. What ensued was a short discussion between the two as the young fellow emphasized that he was not logged into a register. She looked at me and said, “Oh, did you want food?” Then to him, “I thought he was going to ask for directions.”
I was tempted to ask, “Do I look lost to you? …” but instead I replied meekly, “Yes. Food.”
“What do you want?” I must say that I have usually found food service people in Arkansas to be more than polite, but this one seemed to be bucking the trend. Maybe it’s because she works in a university town.
I ordered up a whopper with cheese, fries, and a cold caffeine carrier and collapsed into a chair. I called Lori to tell her that I was a bit behind schedule and that if I came straight home I would get in between two and four in the morning. I did say that I was considering stopping at a motel if I made it to within two hours of home before fatigue overwhelmed me. She encouraged me to exercise that option.
I changed my night glasses again hoping for improved visibility. It was just before 22:30 when I left Fayetteville.
The change of glasses didn’t help much. I dropped in behind a swiftly moving freighter and resumed my race for home. At Bentonville Interstate 540 ends and rejoins US 71. The transition results in a darker road for twenty miles. At Pineville, Missouri I stopped for a few minutes in a lighted parking lot and changed into my amber glasses, at last finding the correct combination of headlight color and protective lenses.
I planned to fuel at Joplin, but the highway took a quick turn bypassing the businesses of Joplin proceeding unfettered toward points north. Unwilling to turn around I mentally calculated whether we could make it to Carthage, Missouri twenty-five miles away. The answer was, “Unlikely, but possibly.” I dropped my pace slightly, attempted to hold the Dragon to a steady speed and set my sights on Carthage.
Outside of Carthage I stopped for fuel and called Lori once more to let her know my location and intentions. It was just after midnight, Sunday morning.
“I can make it home without stopping for gas again and I’m feeling okay, so I think I’ll come on home. I should be there a little after three.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m less than a hundred fifty out.”
The following few hours were mostly uneventful. It occurred to me that 71 was a better night road than 69 as it was four lanes all the way into the Kansas City area. At Peculiar, Missouri I stopped briefly to walk around a bit and to drink some water.
Approaching Belton, Missouri I noticed a helicopter that appeared to be hovering over the highway. As I progressed northward I could see that the helicopter was maintaining a spotlight on a southbound vehicle which was closely pursued by three police cars of varying jurisdictions. A brief wave of curiosity touched me and then rapidly receded. I made a mental note that I was near the end of my stamina and needed to concentrate on increased vigilance to my attentiveness.
Shortly thereafter, at Grandview, Missouri, we turned west across the city toward Kansas. In Olathe I made one last fuel stop and then quietly, as quietly as the Dragon would allow, rolled home. It was about 03:15 Sunday morning and it had been a much longer ride than I had planned.
Seven hundred sixty-nine miles, seven ninety with correction. It was good to have ridden; it was good to be home.
[1] Daniel Meyer is the author of the “Life Is A Road” book series. His stories can be found at lifeisaroad.com.