Home again!

Up with the sun again, During my ride west the time zones worked in my favor. I picked up an hour when I crossed into Central time, then another hour when I entered Mountain, and yet another hour when I reached West Coast time. As I ride east I’m shedding those hours. My watch said 7:10 am when I rolled back on route 60, but for the Missourians I passed it was only 6:10am.

This part of route 60 was very familiar to me. I had come this way during my last ride. I cruised on to my first fuel stop at Simon’s Grocery and Hardware. I had established a pattern for fueling. I would pull into the station and go in to the store for something to drink (this morning coffee) and maybe something to eat. Then, I would return to the pump and consume what I bought while I pumped gas and made journal entries. My breakfast this morning consisted of a 25 cent pack of crackers and a 50 cent cup of coffee. With tax it costs me 83 cents. I could not believe how cheap it was. Later I would buy the same items outside of Nashvile and pay $1.64 - shhh don't anyone tell Simon.

I glided through the beautiful Missouri farm land. As I neared the Mississippi and Ohio rivers I could not help but notice how green and healthy all the trees and surrounding fields looked. The memory of the arid lands in the western desert provided a stark contrast to the farms of the Mississippi valley. I remembered the sign I saw in Colorado – “In the west, water is life.”

About 40 miles from the rivers, I got a glimpse of a yellow plane popping above the trees then diving down again. It would pop up, bank steeply, then disappear. When it was visible, it was no more than 100 feet above the ground. At first, I thought it might be a radio controlled model, but as I got closer I realized it was a full sized plane. It was a crop duster.

I lost track of it and cursed the small sky. Yesterday I started my day in a terrain that afforded me broad panoramic views under a big sky; this morning the terrain had closed in and the sky was small again.

I rode on, but I kept my eyes on the skies above the fields. I imagined with miles and miles of fields to dust, there would likely be more than one plane in the sky. Sure enough I spotted another one, but only for moment as it shot across a field apparently on approach for an unseen runway. I whipped the bike around at the next turn and rolled down the side roads to find where the plane had landed.

I found the airfield after the plane had already returned to the skies. The runway was in the middle of a cornfield. A small taxi way led from the runway to a gravel parking area off the road. On one end of the parking area there were pallets full of chemicals and equipment for mixing and pumping. Two men were busy mixing chemicals. On the end of the gravel lot there was a small office building. A yellow sign at the entrance to the parking area read “Dudley Flying Service”.

I pulled into the parking area and dismounted the bike. I took out my camera and walked over to where the two men were working. They eyed me cautiously. I showed them my camera asked if I could take pictures. The men nodded. One of them told me the pilot would return in about 15 minutes. I had already assumed based on the size of the plane I saw that it did not take too long for the pilot to expend the payload.

As I was walking back to the bike, a woman emerged from the office and asked if she could help me. I smiled and held up my camera. She nodded knowingly and said they get that a lot of that. She was very nice. She invited me into the office and introduced me to another woman who was busy working behind a desk. She gave me a Dudley Flying Services hat. I chatted with her and the other woman for about 10 minutes until we heard the rumble of an aircraft on approach.

The yellow airplane, I was informed it was called an Air Tractor, dropped out of the sky and landed on a short runway. The plane had barely stopped moving when the pilot jumped out of the cockpit walked straight over to me.

For a moment, I was worried I had done something wrong. I even hid the hat the woman gave in case the pilot didn’t approve of me having one.

It was nothing like that. The pilot, a tall lean man who wore dark aviator glasses and a red baseball cap, marched up to me with a smile on his face and his hand outstretched. I shook it, and we introduced ourselves. His name was Bruce, and he was the owner. We talked for a few minutes about the plane and crop dusting, but what Bruce really wanted to talk about was the Rocket. He asked the same question everyone does; how many cylinders, how many CC, and how fast. He gasped when I told him 2300cc.

Bruce sat on the bike and recalled how he once owned a Triumph, and he was considering buying another one. We talked and I told him Little Rock had a Triumph Dealership. He remarked it was a short flight.

While the pilot was talking to me, the men who I had watched working earlier, were busy pumping more chemicals into the plane’s tanks. They finished and Bruce waved goodbye and made his way to his plane. He did a fly by over the parking lot and emitted a burst of dust to provide a dramatic photo.

It was a cool experience, and it just further reaffirmed the value of taking chances on out of the way roads. I wished I had not chickened out on the windmill road. Who knows what I may have found down there.

I left Dudley Flying Services and continued on my final leg through Missouri. I crossed the Mississippi and Ohio rivers at a town called Cairo. Last year I had my little Bonneville and I was intimidated by the tall narrow bridges over the rivers. This morning I rolled over them on the Rocket without a hint of concern.

I was still 300 miles from home, but back on the eastern side of the Mississippi, I felt close. I was rolling over familiar ground. The Rockies, the dramatic desert, and canyon landscapes were far, far away.

I pointed the Rocket southeast and raced toward home passing the same towns I had traveled through on my way west last week. I made it through the rush hour congestion of Nashville without so much as a close call. One hundred miles from Chattanooga and Lookout Mountain, the all too familiar bill boards for Rock City and Ruby Falls began popping up everywhere. The sun is setting when I reach the steep hills outside of Chattanooga.

The Route 24 approach to Chattanooga from the west is one of the most beautiful rides I’ve seen. It twists through the steep tree covered Appalachian foothills and descends down a 6% grade worthy of a road outside of Denver. The Appalachian are far older than the Rockies and nature has rounded and softened them. They are not nearly as tall or dramatic, but they are still beautiful.

For some reason I notice the number of bill boards that line the highway and become annoyed. They seem out of place and I realize it’s because there were no billboards along the roads through the scenic areas of Colorado and Utah. Some wise official in those states must have realized the bill boards detract from one of the state’s greatest assets – its landscape. Tennessee may want to adopt that same stance in the areas around Lookout Mountain; despite what it would mean for the famous See Rock City signs.

While still following route 24 I cross briefly into Georgia. It’s a tease though. In a few short miles I’m back in Tennessee. I follow the signs for 75 south, and before I know it, I’m on it gliding toward Atlanta. I’m almost home.

At my final fuel stop I manage to do something I have not done for the entire trip. While trying to top off the tank, I spill gas everywhere. It’s on my clothes; on my bags, and worst of all in my helmet. I ride the final 80 miles with the sickening smell of gasoline inches from my nose.

It’s dark when I finally reach my exit off 75. In some ways, the last 20 miles are some of the toughest. I’m fatigued. My contacts are dry, and I am not seeing very well. Car after car tail gates me until they can pass, but I’m almost home.

At 9:00pm I pull into my driveway. I’ve ridden 5200 miles in 11 days. That’s an average of 457 miles every day. It’s deceiving, however, because I rode 2000 of those miles since Sunday (It’s Tuesday). During the trip, I fueled the bike 42 times, and I spent over $500 on fuel. I used 128 gallons of gas, and the Rocket got an average of 40 miles per gallon.

The places I saw were incredible, and the bike was perfect for the trip. I never felt uncomfortable or cramped, and I always had an abundance of power to roll on for a steep climb or short pass. I’m quite pleased with my Rocket.

During the trip I lost a few things. I lost my map pouch, some maps, 2 pair of sunglasses (including a nice pair that I really liked), a tire repair kit, rainx wipes, windex wipes, a rag for my head, and my photos (damn)..

I gained an appreciation for the vastness of the country and the beauty of the southwest. I will definitely make a similar ride again, but I’m fairly certain this was my last long solo trip. I just have to teach my sons to ride.