PART 3: THE RETURN TRIP: “The Odyssey” and the Three Ordeals:
8 July, 1996, getting ready to return to North Carolina. Photo by my brother, Bruce
Preparations for the return trip actually began the day after I arrived in Denver. I washed the moderately thick collection of dried bug carcasses that had splattered on the windshield, and cleaned up the rest of the bike. With that done, I immediately set out to try and find a replacement seat. I had stopped in at several places, finding no replacement seats in stock, despite the fact that Denver is about the most bike-crazy city I've ever seen. I was at the fourth place on my checklist when I happened to look at the front tire and realized, with a shock, that there was barely any tread left on the tire. I had replaced the rear tire at about 12,000 miles, so the front was definitely due for replacing. I'm just glad I caught it when I did instead of having a blowout somewhere in Western Kansas. Despite a busy schedule, Jeff and the guys at Motorcycle Parts Center in Denver were able to get a new tire on right away. After flipping through their catalog, I also got them to order a new seat for me: The Travelcade "Classic Explorer" seat. I had read a review in a magazine that said this was a great seat for long-distance comfort, and I have to admit it looked good, too. I figured anything would be an improvement over the stock seat.
Another problem crept up during my stay in Denver, one that would haunt me on my last travel day. On a short, in-town trip, I discovered that for reasons I couldn't fathom, my battery had become discharged. It had discharged so much, in fact, that the electric fuel pump kept cutting out, causing the engine to stall.
I checked the electrolyte level, and surely enough it was about 1/2" below the minimum fill line on the case. I figured that the extreme heat and constant charging of my trip West had caused some of the electrolyte to boil off, and that depleted the battery. I added distilled water and charged the battery, and even had the battery tested - it tested as being good. I chalked it up to a lesson in proper preventative maintenance and left it at that. I had thought about having the charging system checked, but the earliest appointment I could have gotten would have been in late July, and I had to be back in Charlotte by the 9th.
On July 5th, the seat arrived. I was a little disappointed, as it looked nothing like the plush, padded seat in the illustration, and it felt as hard as a board when I sat on it. But I figured the wizards at Saddleman knew more about seat design than I did, so I bolted it on. I was ready to leave.
Day 1: Saturday, 6 July, 1996: The “trial by fire”
On the morning of July 6th, I packed up the bike, said goodbye to my brother, and headed into Denver's early morning traffic. As it was a Saturday, the traffic was minimal, and I was soon winging my way South on Interstate 25. I had not driven through the Oklahoma panhandle in about 17 years, so I figured I'd try that instead of going through Kansas again. I-25 is nice, for an interstate highway. It paralells the front range of the Rocky Mountains, offering nice views of Pikes Peak, Cheyenne Mountain, and other Colorado landmarks. At Pueblo, I left the interstate to get back onto US 50, heading East this time. Rolling through Eastern Colorado orchard country, it got gradually lower in altitude and hotter in temperature. By the time I got to Lamar in Southeast Colorado, I was down to a t-shirt, and starting to get a little warm. From Lamar, I headed South on US 385 toward Springfield, CO and Boise City, OK. This goes through the very flat but oddly picturesque Commanche National Grassland. This area is so flat and treeless that you can easily see the entire length of the huge freight trains that run on the tracks paralell to the road. Some of these trains have over 100 cars and up to eight deisel engines, but they are dwarfed by the giant sky that arches over the plains like a hot, blue dome.
In Boise City, I reset my watch to Central time, losing an hour in the process. I am in extreme Western Oklahoma, and it is 1:30 PM. I stop for lunch and try to cool off in the AC, knowing that an ordeal is ahead of me.
The next 5 hours are a miserable oddysey through the rolling plains and unrelenting heat. It isn't until 5:30 PM that I even leave the panhandle, and still have over 150 miles to go.
I do stop, briefly, at an historical marker. The marker is at the point where the road crosses the hundredth meridian. 100 degrees West was a significant landmark in the history of the American West. In Oklahoma, it marked the Western end of what was known as "Indian Territory" until 1907. Since the boundaries of Texas, Colorado and New Mexico were in the same place they are today, this area, now the Panhandle of Oklahoma, was a lawless no-man's-land for most of the 19th century. The Hundredth Meridian also marks the approximate line of separation between arid and semi-arid climates. West of the Meridian, annual rainfall is less than 20", and it's easy to understand why Fremont and other explorers referred to this region as the "great American desert" when it was explored after the Louisiana Purchase.
At the Hundredth Meridian, in Oklahoma
But I have lots of distance to make up, so I stop my musing on the crossing of this historic line, and contine East into the relenless heat. At this point, I know it must be over 100 degrees, but I don't even want to know the exact temperature. At 6 PM, with the sun sinking in my rear-view mirror, I pass through the town of Buffalo and the electronic time/temperature display informs me that it is 115 degrees. By the time I get to Cherokee, less than 100 miles from my destination, it is 7:30, and still 105 degrees. Heat exhaustion is a very real threat, and it seems I'm drinking water by the gallon. I finally roll into Ponca City at 9:15 PM, more than 14 hours after I left. It has been dark for over an hour, yet it is still almost 100 degrees by the time I collapse into my hotel bed.
As if the heat of the day wasn't bad enough, the new seat I've gotten has shown itself to be not just less comfortable than I expected, but actually less comfortable than the stock seat, a feat I thought impossible. My sunburned arms and face vie with my aching butt for the honor of being the most painful part of my body. More painful than either of these is the realization that I have two more long days of travel ahead of me. Because of the intense heat, I christen the first day of my return travel, the “Trial by Fire”.
Note: Remaining portion was written in April of 2002.
Day 2: Sunday, 7 July, 1996. Ponca City, OK to Clarksville, TN: The “Trial by Water”
The 7th of July dawned hot and humid, and I didn’t have time to waste, as I still had over 1000 miles to go and only 2 days before I had to be back in Charlotte. However, upon awaking, I was pained to discover that my forearms, which had borne the brunt of the sun’s rays the previous day, were now covered with large blisters: 2nd degree sunburn. Since it was somewhat overcast (and the forecast called for rain), I donned my leather jacket over my tender arms and took off.
Highway 60 in Eastern Oklahoma runs through the picturesque Osage Hills. Since my earliest memories were of living in the tiny Osage Hills town of Barnsdall, (Southeast of Pawhuska, OK) this part of my travel was a pleasant trip down memory lane for me. I passed through Pawhuska early enough in the day that there wasn’t much traffic on the roads, and continued straight East towards Bartlesville, bypassing the chance to ride through my old home town. There just wasn’t enough time, and I wasn’t sure how long the weather would hold out (the gray sky seemed to get lower the further I went.) On the plus side, the overcast meant pleasant temperatures, which my sore arms certainly appreciated.
But, even after passing through the bustling Oil City of Bartlesville (headquarters of the Phillips Petroleum company), another problem was becoming apparent: The Saddleman seat was excruciatingly painful. I probably didn’t notice it on the first day because I was so busy barbecuing my forearms, but now the intense pain in my rear end was getting distracting. Rolling out of the Osage hills and up through Joplin, MO, still on Highway 60, I resolved that I had to do something, anything, about that torture rack of a seat. Finally, in Springfield, MO, I stopped at a Wal-Mart that was right off the highway and bought a cheap foam pillow. Using my pocket knife, I hacked out a rough “pad” to place on the seat, hoping it would give me some relief. Since I knew I was behind schedule, I didn’t dawdle in Springfield and took off again. The padding provided some relief, but not nearly enough. I would have to suck it up and just bear with it.
My aching arms and sore butt were distracting me, which is a shame because South-Central Missouri along Highway 60 is a very pleasant, scenic route. The roads curve through the Southern Ozarks providing occasional gorgeous vistas and lots of beautiful, bucolic forests. By the time I approached Mountain View, the weather was starting to look more and more ominous, so I finally pulled over on a shoulder and put on my rainsuit and full-face helmet. Not 5 minutes afterwards, the rain began falling. However, as rainstorms go, this wasn’t a bad one, at least at first. In fact, as long as I was riding through the mountains, it was never more than a mild rain, just enough to keep the heat of the day from being too fatiguing. That only lasted until I got out of the mountains.
Just outside of Poplar Bluff, the road winds gently out of the mountains onto the broad floodplain of the Mississippi river, which is still 51 miles away. It was here that the mild rainstorm turned into a furious thunderstorm. The skies opened up and rain pelted down like gravel hitting my face shield and windshield. Bolts of lightning and instantaneous claps of thunder roared all around me. All I could think of was that I didn’t have time to stop if I wanted to make Clarksville by nightfall, so I screwed on the throttle and pressed on. At times there were lightning bolts striking a mile or two to either side of the road, and it was as if I was a World War I dispatch rider, riding through some hellacious artillery bombardment as the rain poured down in sheets. By the time I got to Sikeston I had “ridden through” the worst of the rain but there was still as much as a half inch of standing water on the roads. After a brief stop to drink water and calm my nerves, I pressed on, now aware of the furious thunderstorm that was ‘chasing’ me from West to East.
I crossed the Mississippi at Cairo, Ill., and then rode on through Western Kentucky until I got to Paducah. At Paducah, I again ran into a rainstorm, and at the same time, picked up the interstate. Normally, I hate riding on interstates on a motorcycle, but I was in too much of a hurry to sightsee. It was now almost 5 pm and I still had several hundred miles to go to get to Clarksville, my destination for the night. Riding through the rain, on the interstate (and having to watch for every idiot car driver who, I was sure, couldn’t see me), my arms and shoulders tensed up and I just gritted my teeth for the ride. Around 8 PM, I finally crossed into Tennessee and arrived at my motel in Clarksville, sore, rattled, and absolutely drained of energy. The bike was so filthy it looked like it had been ridden through a mud puddle at top speed, Fortunately, my rainsuit continued to work flawlessly and I was dry, although exhausted. I parked the bike without covering it because I figured, at this point, it couldn’t possibly get any more wet or dirty. . I decided that if the first day was the “trial by fire”, then this second day was certainly the “trial by water.” Worn out from two days of frenzied riding through the worst possible weather, I collapsed into bed
Day 3: Monday, 8 July, 1996. Clarksville, TN to Charlotte, NC: The “Trial by electrical gremlins”
I arrived, exhausted, at the hotel in Clarksville Tennessee at about 9pm, ate a quick dinner and collapsed into bed. The storms I had passed through were moving, like I was, east to west, and they poured down on my uncovered bike (since it was already filthy from a day of riding in the rain, I figured there was no point in covering it.) It rained so hard there was probably 1-2” of standing water in the parking lot of the motel. Rather than leave extremely early, I decided to let the sun work on the wet roads for a bit, so I lingered at breakfast and didn’t roll out of Clarksville until after 7:00. I knew this day was going to be the worst, if only because I would be on Interstate highways the entire day (if only I knew just how bad it was going to get.) The only solace I took was in knowing that I’d sleep in my own bed tonight, and that I wouldn’t have to ride again tomorrow.
My first taste of the troubles I would have on that day came after I ate breakfast, laboriously strapped all the gear onto the bike, and then tried to start it: A few weak turns, and then nothing. The battery was dead, the same kind of battery trouble I’d had back in Denver. Although tired, blistered (the blisters covering my forearms had now had several days to get bigger), I wasn’t about to quit, this close to my destination. I had had starter problems before (like many other Virago owners) so I was well versed in the procedure of “bump starting”. Only problem was that the bike was a little unwieldy with all the gear on board, so I unloaded the pack and the tank bag, pushed the bike up a short hill, and quickly bump started it into 2nd gear. With the motor idling, I re-attached the gear and sped off into the morning traffic, passing by all the GI’s and civilians headed into the Army’s Fort Campbell. I intentionally timed my travel so that I wouldn’t hit Nashville until after rush hour, and, true to my planning, that’s how it worked out. The roads were still soaking wet, and the skies were dark and threatening, so I rode with my rainsuit ‘bottoms’ on and my leather jacket, keeping my rainsuit “top” and full-face helmet ready, should it start to rain again.
By midmorning, I had stopped for gas East of Nashville, and, after carefully parking the bike on an incline so I could roll-start it, was pleasantly surprised to discover that the motor cranked over with no problems. Unfortunately, that was the last time I had that experience.
Heading East on I-40 towards Knoxville is normally a very pleasant drive. The road rolls through the wooded hills and climbs gently towards the spine of the Appalachians that run along the border of Tennessee and North Carolina. I couldn’t enjoy it, though. I was sore all over, worried about the motorcycle, and just plain tired of riding. All I wanted was to get home and get off the bike for a month. Just outside Knoxville, I stopped again for gas, parked cautiously on a hill and, unsurprisingly, the bike would not start. I roll-started it and headed out of Nashville, climbing up to the pass that separates Tennessee and North Carolina. Every now and then, the engine would cut out for a second, and then continue on. Also, sometimes, for no apparent reason, the tach needle would suddenly swing down to ‘0’ and stay that way. It was obvious by this time that there was some kind of serious electrical problem with the bike, but I was hoping and praying that it would at least get me home.
The weather was something of a blessing. It didn’t rain, but the overcast skies and wet roads kept me (and the bike) from getting too hot, and I rode comfortably with the rainsuit bottoms and my jacket. As I approached the summit at the TN/NC state line, where there is a little rest area, it began to mist up and then began to rain in earnest. I stopped, briefly, to put on my full helmet and stretch my legs. But when I got back on the bike, it would not start. No matter what I tried. I had parked on a hill, of course, but even rolling down and roll-starting it, the engine would not catch. I pushed the bike back up the hill and tried it again. Still no luck. I was at least 25 miles from the nearest town, and the bike would not start, no matter what. I probably flooded the engine trying to get it to start, but no avail. I unloaded the gear so I could push it up a hill to roll-start it. After the 4th or 5th try, it finally caught. Now I was really worried. It was getting late in the afternoon (about 4pm) and I wasn’t sure if the bike would even get me the 200 miles or so back to Charlotte. I quickly reloaded the gear and headed out to the highway.
Just as I got to the base of the Appalachian hills near Waynesville, the engine started cutting out again, this time for several seconds at a time. Once again, as back in Denver, the electrical drain on the battery was causing the fuel pump to stop working. The bike sputtered and ran rough, but kept going, albeit slowly. My heart sank, now it looked like, not only was I not going to get home, but I might have to leave the bike by the side of the road in rural North Carolina. Reluctantly, I took the exit to the town of Waynesville, hoping I could at least make it to a real town. The bike ran roughly, but it never quite quit, although I expected it to do so around every turn. The town of Waynesville is actually quite a ways off the interstate, and the road seemed to go on forever as I alternately cursed and prayed and begged the bike to keep going just one more mile. Finally I made it to the town and started looking desperately for some kind of service station. I thought that maybe if I could recharge the battery, it might have enough juice for me to make it back to Charlotte. Problem is, by this time it was after 5pm and most of the businesses were closed in town.
I came to an old garage in the center of town, the kind of garage that has all but vanished in the big cities, but as I pulled up to the front, I saw to my dismay that the place had closed at 4:30. Still, I walked around back, and there I saw two of the employees, just sitting in the garage drinking beer. I approached them cautiously, explained my situation, and asked if they had a battery charger, and could I charge my battery for a few minutes, at least? They were very friendly, and were more than happy to help me out. So I removed the battery and brought it in, and they hooked it up to the charger. They were off duty, of course, so I didn’t know how long they were going to be there. I asked them if it would be okay if I charged my battery for about 15 minutes. One of them said “Hell, 15 minutes isn’t going to do you any good, you need to charge it for at least an hour.” After they reassured me that they would be around for that time, I walked off looking for a snack and some water. 45 minutes later, when I returned, they were still there. They asked me where I’d traveled to, and I told them about where I’d come from and where I was headed. They seemed impressed that I was taking such a long trip, and wished me luck. After a few minutes more, I said “well, let’s unhook the battery”. They checked it and found it to be fully charged, and I put it back in the bike. About that time, I pulled out my wallet and asked them what I owed them for helping me out (actually, for saving my ass!) and they just waved me off and said “have a nice trip.” They absolutely refused to take any money from me, and, fool that I was, I was too tired and sore to get their names or the name of the garage they worked for. All I can say is that it is little incidents like this that make me optimistic about humanity. Those guys could have said “sorry, we’re closed”, but instead, they helped a weary traveler out. Nice to know that if you’re broke down in Waynesville, NC, there are people out there who will help you because it’s the right thing to do.
With the battery back in, the bike fired right up, as I expected it to do. Still, I was on edge, anticipating another breakdown at any moment. Without trouble, I passed through Asheville and swung South on I-26, then East on Highway 74 (an interstate in all but name) towards Shelby. In Shelby, I stopped for a brief fast-food dinner and gas, once again anticipating that the bike would not start, but apparently the charge that the battery received at the gas station was enough to keep it going. The bike fired right up, with no problems. It was about 9pm, under gray skies, when I rolled into Charlotte, parked the bike, and staggered into my apartment. I barely had time to unload the bike and undress before I fell into an exhausted sleep.
My trip was over.
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