Day 15
June 16th, 2001
Salina, Kansas
I pulled out of the Motel 6 parking lot, turned right and headed into Salina
proper looking for the Police Department. Main Street was quiet, and the
lights of the Pilot Truck Stop stood alone in the dark night.
The directions provided by the SPD proved to be right on and in just a few
minutes I was pulling in the parking lot. A cruiser swept in a few places
down, and two young officers stepped out on their way in to take care of some
paperwork. I walked over to them and explained what was going on and
needed to be signed out. Officer Magles cheerfully verified my odometer-
21,913 miles and signed me out at 11:06pm.
I left the police station and rode back up Main Street to I-70 and the Flying
J. The town was oddly quiet for Friday night.
At the Pilot I bought 2 gallons of gas, but was dismayed to find the receipt
incomplete. The name and city were exempt. All it had was a time stamp, so
I went across the street to the Amoco station and bought a pack of gum, and
procured a receipt with ALL the stats. Time out 11:33pm CST.
I got on the interstate and merged into the darkness of I-70 east, it was a
beautiful night. Starry and moonless. Traffic was light, and I was
glad. Just me and the long distance truckers.
My PIAA 1700s were doing a excellent job of filling in the voids of the woeful
low beam. I stayed extra cautious as I awaited my night vision to fully
deploy. My eyes take 20-30 minutes to adjust, when I leave the lights of
the city and accompanying traffic.
As the darkness swallowed me I told myself not to look at the trip meter.
It would only remind me of how far I had to go. This trip has already
brought four 700+ mile days, so I knew I was ready.
I ride sans music. I like it that way. Riding solo, late at night,
brings a new perspective. All I can see is ahead, bathed in the lights from my
bike.
Just west of Solomon, I saw a farm house off in the distance, the living room
lamp the occupants leave on every night, casting a warm glow to the wayfarers on
I-70.
My plan is to get the first 200 miles over rather quickly. I will ride as
far as I can non stop.
I hold my speed down to 60 mph. I respect the dark. Even with PIAAs
I will not ride fast. What lies out beyond my lights? A
retread? Wood box? Iron pipes? I once saw a pallet. On a
ST 85mph does not feel fast, especially with ear plugs. At 85 things
happen very quickly and if something pops up outta the night, noway you can
avoid it. You only THINK you can. In this line of work, you are
betting YOUR LIFE you can, so you better be right.
Big rigs are passing me. They are running at 80, and I just can't see well
enough to keep up. I blink my lights for them when they pass me, telling
the driver its ok to come back over. They flash their taillights in
appreciation of the gesture. I tell myself to be patient, when the sun
rises, I will reel them back in.
I pass through Topeka without incident.
I pay my toll and get on the Kansas Turnpike east of Topeka.
At 2am and 147 miles later, I take my first break near Lawrence. I pull in
a service area and head to a all night convenience store. I buy something
to drink, forcing the clerk to put up his mop and take my money. I get the
all important receipt, and zip it up in my Aerostitch.
I clear Lawrence and close in on Kansas City. I smell the scent of fresh
cut grass, and it quickly brings back memories of late afternoon rides in
Alabama. Scent is a powerful memory trigger. I can walk in a school
and instantly recall the smell of my first grade classroom. Crayons,
paper, and Elmers paste, have a distinct smell.
Kansas City is quiet as I ride through. Traffic is non existent. The
city falls before me and my excellent planning. I know Missouri lies at
the other side, and I am not looking forward to it. I am through the city
and gone before anyone even knows I was there.
I enter Missouri and the bumps begin. I-70 is awful. Urban sprawl
from here to St Louis. Although its not true, I mark St. Louis as the halfway
point. Why? Because the worse part will be over with. Or so I
thought.
Three hours of saddle time brings me to Columbia and gas. My butt is
stiff, but nothing a 15 minute break won't solve. I gas up and walk
around. I use the facilities. It is 4:45am and I have knocked down
301 miles. I am feeling good. My strategy of sleeping in and napping
on day 13 is proving to be quite effective. I am not sleepy at all.
The sun will be up soon, and St. Louis is not that far.
I saw a beat up Buick with New York plates enter the parking lot making a
strange sound under the hood. I did not stay around for the diagnosis.
I am not on the road long from my gas stop, when the sky begins to
lighten. I see the light in the east and I am riding toward it. I am
right, it does lift my spirits. Slowly, but surely the outline of the
landscape begins to emerge. Every minute of new found daylight adds more
mph to my speed.
It was another outstanding sunrise. The last of many on this cross country
trip.
I am now comfortable at 85, and begin to reel in the trucks that overtook me so
many miles ago.
West of St Louis I decided to take a long break and get something to eat, so I
exited at Wentzville, and found a Steak and Shake.
I ordered chili and a burger and washed it down with Coke. While I was
eating, the morning crew was fussing about how the night crew doesn't do
anything. A common litany of employees everywhere working for companies that
utilize a day shift and night shift. Visit this store at night, and you
will hear those guys baggin on how the day crew doesn't do anything. I was
not able to hang around as long as I had wished, because I was cold from the
overly air conditioned dining area.
I recall all the construction in St Louis on the west bound leg and dread it.
The sun is full up revealing a cloudless morning.
Lack of traffic makes it much easier, and I have little problem getting
through. With NO downtown traffic to contend with this early on a Saturday
morning, I exit and take pictures of The Arch.
St. Louis- "Gateway to the West"
I get back on I-70 and cross the Mississippi River into the land of W TV and
radio stations.
I take I-64 east out of St. Louis, follow it to I-57, where I turn to make the
journey south, to Alabama.
My ST is totally stock, except for the PIAAs. The seat, windshield,
handlebars and pegs all fit me perfectly. I am over 500 miles now, and not
uncomfortable, but I am sleepy. I don't fight it. I quickly give in
and ease off into a rest area for a 15 minute nap on a shady table.
It is only 9:30am and I am way ahead of schedule. The only thing that will
stop me will be a breakdown.
Feeling much better, I get back on I-57. I pass a caravan of 6 wheel
rental trucks. Each pulling a trailer, witha car in the back.
I see the sign for Metropolis asking folks to come take a look at their giant
Superman statue. I need gas anyway so why not. I filled up the ST,
and took a short ride into downtown Metropolis. I see more then a few like
minded tourists snapping the obligatory picture. I follow suit. What
can I say? I'm a sucker for tacky roadside attractions.
Metropolis, Illinois
A Illinois State Police car was working radar, but I am only doing 70.
I cross the Ohio River at Paducah, and back into the land of "y'all"
and not "you guys".
I follow 2 young ladies in a gray Accord till I have to exit for gas at Oak
Grove.
I filled the ST, and drank a bottle of Aquafina. Picking up and securing
the vital receipts.
I'm over 600 miles now, and feel like I am in Kentucky along time. My
next goal is Nashville, but it doesn't seem like I am ever going to get out of
Kentucky.
It is 12pm, but I decided to ride through lunch. Not hungry.
I note a sign marking Jeff Davis' birthplace and exit to check it out. I
take SR 175, a pleasant road that deposits me in small state park. A tall
Washington Monument like structure appears 15 miles later. The monument is
closed because its under renovation. I was expecting to see a log cabin, and was
quite surprised to see such a elaborate memorial to the CSA president, in a
state that "rode the fence" during Civil War.
Jeff Davis Memorial,
Fairview, Kentucky
I roll on another 125 miles nonstop to Franklin and pull in for a break. I
snack on 7 Up and beef jerky. I t is 2:25 pm, and I estimate to make it home
around 6pm. I am still feeling good.
The heat and humidity are picking up the farther south I ride. I was
spoiled to the cool dry weather of the west, but the humidity soon reminded me I
was almost home.
812 miles from Salina I enter Nashville. The Music City. I look for the
I-65 Birmingham signs, and leave I-24. Traffic is moderate.
South of Nashville ,I passed a group of Harley riders. They ignored me as glided
past. The echoes of their exhaust ringing the countryside.
These are the endless miles. The last 200. I make quick work of Tennessee, and
the Alabama State Line looms ahead. As I entered my home state I am
overwhelmed at the sense of awe of the last 2 weeks. Places I have seen,
people I have met. I truly love this country. So vast and varied,
but yet we share so much with each other. Its truly amazing I can ride
8000 miles, speaking the same language, same currency. I am free to go
from state to state and can count on being with fellow Americans. I may
not agree with everything they do on the left coast, but let some jokers land on
the beaches out there and start trouble, and every farmer in Alabama will load
up his shot gun and go out there and help y'all defend it.
I stopped one last time in Decatur for gas. I went in to pay for my gas
and the lady asks-with a welcome southern accent
"been on a trip?"
"yeah just in from California"
"daaaang that's a long ride"
I am no longer a wayfarer, but a local. I know the way home without a
map. I know the customs, and what the norm is. I am in Alabama, and
it felt good to be home.
I gather my receipt, confident my next stop will be in Prattville.
That does not prove to be the case, as I get sleepy again and have to pull off a
few miles later. I am disappointed I have to stop, but have come too far
to have a mishap this close to home because I am tired. I ride the ST
behind a Shell station at a exit I can't remember and take a 15 minute
nap. There is a reason why I have been accident free on bikes for 25
years.
I get back on my bike at 5pm, and quickly find myself in pre Birmingham traffic.
I ride through Birmingham with my chest out. I know the exits, I know how
to position myself to make the right turns. I don't even have to look at
the signs. I know this interstate system by heart. I keep my senses
sharp to defend myself from getting complacent, because I am close to home.
Soon, I am in the southern suburbs of Birmingham and the final 80 miles
home. I fly past the places I know so well. Everything looks so
green. The tropical storm that drenched Alabama for 10 days finally left
and everything is green and fresh. This time of year can be very dry for
us. A wet spring was a welcome change.
I slowed down the last 30 miles. I was feeling the euphoria of completing
a SS1000 and a successful 8000 mile tour. I wanted to savor this feeling
as long as I could. The late afternoon sun brought my shadow back, as if
escort me these last few miles.
I take the exit to my hometown and make my way the last few miles. Not
much has changed the last 2 weeks. The broken down truck, in Mr.
Wainwright's yard, is still there.
I take a short cut downtown to stop at the police station to get signed back
in. Such is the advantage of home, you KNOW all the short cuts. This
route takes me past Mr. Powell's farm, a quaint 200 acres or so. His corn
looks green and strong from all the rain.
I feel stiff as I unsaddle the ST at the police station, and walk in to find the
desk sergeant. He signs me back in at 6:40pm at 22,983 miles, 1070 miles
for the day.
I left the PD, and rode a half mile to the Exxon station to top off the ST and
snare my final receipt. I double check it to make sure it has ALL the
info.
A few minutes later I turn into my neighborhood. I notice Mr. Pugh put on
a new roof on while I was gone.
I turn in my driveway and drop the stand. Revving up the ST to signal my
wife and son I am home. They run out to the garage and greet me, and bring
in the house.
I stripped off the Roadcrafter and popped a Mountain Dew, propped my feet up,
wife in my lap, and told my son war stories. Good to be home guys.
Footnote- There is a sad footnote to this
story. RD Frantz, editor of Sport Touring Motorcycles, and frequent
contributor to the RT message board, gave the following information. The 2
fallen CHP officers memorialized on the Cuyuma River Road, lost their lives
trying to save a stranded motorist in the rain swollen waters of the Cuyuma
River. The day I passed through the water was quiet, and gentle. It
is hard for me to picture such peaceful waters, can turn so violent in the rainy
season. The officers were attempting to rescue the motorists, when they
were swept away
Be sure to think of them if you ever find yourself on SR
166, the Cuyuma River Road.
