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| Map of Travels |
| 2005 - Journal 7 |
| Oysters and a Butterfly Rally in New Mexico . . . . Oysters; raw, juicy and succulent . . . truly sublime! With practiced finesse, I pierced the oyster’s white belly and with a minor flourish immersed the meat into a dish of horseradish. Then with shaky anticipation thrust the sauce covered morsel into my mouth. My tongue reacted to the salty flesh as my sinuses instantly reacted to the stinging bite of horseradish. Nose stinging sauce and sweet tasting meat dredged up long forgotten memories of sun baked beaches and barbecues. Oysters may repulse some, but for the cognoscenti the rich, salty flavor is one of life’s rewarding experiences. This culinary indulgence was a fitting start for my third year of travels on Sunshine, as I followed the yellow line across America’s highways. Panama City Beach, Florida, like so many beach communities is host to numberless restaurants, T-shirt and trinket shops and of course the ubiquitous cocktail lounges and bars not to mention marinas, boatyards and the ever present fishing fleets. As it turned out it was the perfect environment to catch up with my friend, Captain Jim Mulhern, a former captain of the Viking Starliner; a 110 foot, 350 passenger ferry sailing from Montauk, Long Island to Block Island, (a small tourist/vacation spot in the middle of Rhode Island Sound) during late spring, summer and early fall. I’d signed on as first mate for three summers in the early ‘90s, with Jimmy and my New Jersey friend, Johnny Badkin. It was a grand experience and one of the perks was the opportunity to befriend a big, handsome, laughing, curly-headed Irishman. * * * * I left Stuart, Florida, late Monday morning on April 26th, after my neighbor Bob Montanye hitched my trailer to his pickup and moved the rig 10 miles north on U.S.1 to a well protected storage yard that was to be her home for the next six months. Weather was clear, for the moment at least, but clouds began their inevitable gathering (it rained almost continually until I reached New Mexico) as I rode north on the Florida pike to its northern terminus with I-75. Sunshine and her tag-along cargo trailer, stuffed with computers, printer and copy paper, clothing (both winter and summer wear), tools, books, maps, etc., etc. (and a new companion, Mr. Peanut; a small stuffed horse given to me by my new Kiwi friend, Deidre Gibson) followed comfortably behind. To lighten the load by a few ounces I reduced the number of T-shirts from fifteen to eight, a very difficult business choosing interesting shirts that hopefully will inspire the ladies to think me hot. Ha . . . Luke-warm anyway. There can be no doubt that I’ll be suckered in to buy more. After spending the first night in Lake City, I left the motel before sunup to be sure I was cruising into Panama City Beach before lunchtime. Rain wasn’t in the forecast, but it was a dreary, gray day, nevertheless. I called Jim on my cell to meet at a Walgreen’s parking lot (more social intercourse) to guide me through the Beach’s unfamiliar streets. Twenty minutes later we turned into his friend Scott Robertson’s wood shop. A quick tour of Scott’s large shop and current marine and kitchen projects, we headed uptown to an unpretentious working man’s eatery called Bayou on the Beach. In spite of the name it was a memorable lunch! I was in shock as dozen after dozen raw and baked oysters, freshly plucked from Apalachicola Bay, filled our table and with masticatory delight we emptied plates as fast as they were replaced. Dozen, after dozen and . . . Well you get the point. With groans of pleasure (mostly mine; the only groaning I get to do these days) we ate faster than speeding bullets to keep up with our tireless waitress. The beauty of this remarkable repast was certainly the taste, the quantity and reasonable cost . . . Just a little more than six bucks a dozen. Yeah . . . The delight of good friends, good conversation and good food. Unfortunately I don’t get to see Jimmy often to fully appreciate his wit and a lovely bit of Irish naughtiness that surrounds him. I think a wee story will illustrate his quick if irreverent wit. Passengers boarding the Starliner often brought bikes so they could ride the country lanes of Block Island. All bicycles were stored in the forward cargo area and often 50 or more bikes were hung from overhead hooks and stacked one against the other and then securely tied to prevent the unthinkable; 50 bikes sliding across a wet deck and falling into the sea during a rough crossing. After returning to our berth one evening (after an all day trip) one of our male passengers became incensed when he discovered his expensive bike seat had been torn by the brake handle of another bike. The man carried on quite loudly and demanded to see the captain. Jimmy appeared and attempted to mollify the man but he was almost too angry to listen. The man pointed at the ripped seat and then pointed at the offending bike. “That’s the bike that did it,” he shouted, “that bike right there,” pointing again at the offender. By this time a number of departing passengers walking the gangway stopped to listen to the ruckus. “Is this the bike?” Jim asked, pointing. “Yes, yes,” said the man. With that Jimmy walked over to the offending bike and slapped the seat hard several times. “Bad bike, bad bike,” he said loudly. There was absolute silence until the crowd roared with laughter. Not to leave the man unsatisfied, Jimmy’s only option was to offer the man two complimentary round trip tickets worth 60 dollars. So by mid-afternoon after another quick tour of Scott’s waterfront home, I left my friends to make a belated start on my long ride to Knoxville, Tennessee to meet with another friend. Route 231, a nice roadway with a few lights, begins at Panama City and snakes its way up through Alabama until it meets Route 21 at Sylacauga, branching off at Talladega to become Route 77. That road led Sunshine to Interstate 59, thence to Interstate 24, guiding traffic around the southern side of Chattanooga, connecting with Interstate 75. Finally we join Interstate 40 taking us to Knoxville. Five hundred long, gray, rainy miles. More miles in hard rain and chilly temperatures than I’d like ever like to repeat. And repeat I did a few days later. The trip west to New Mexico was wet, wet, wet. So wet, the cargo trailer leaked on my books, printing paper and shoes. Even the sidecar floor was wet in several places. Needless to say, my black and silver Belstaff ballistic nylon riding suit was not made for such a soaking. Think about traveling for hours at highway speeds and equate it with a fire hose blasting away at fifty feet. Okay that’s a bit much . . . Consider a garden hose, dialed in for fine spray, 10 feet away. Length of time is the bad boy here. It was a straight run on Interstate 40 West, through Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma and Texas. When I reached Amarillo I turned Sunshine south onto I-27 for fifteen miles picking up Route 60. Many miles later, (my notebook’s wet pages blurred my writing) not far beyond the New Mexico state line I intersected Route 70 and that road led Sunshine and I to Roswell. In two days I’d meet with the rally gang to begin our four day Butterfly Rally that would add 500 miles to our odometers. One memorable stop, between rain showers was the Oklahoma City National Memorial, site of the former Alfred P Murrah Federal building destroyed by Timothy McVeigh, April 19th, 1995. Memorabilia, honoring those killed and their families, decorates the broad expanse of a chain link fence, originally designed to protect the site. Photos, flowers, trinkets, clothing, stuffed animals, dolls, hand lettered signs and letters are hung from the fence in remembrance of the fallen. The memorial is anchored, at both ends of a reflecting pool, by “The Gates of Time.” Two large monolithic gates frame the moment of destruction . . . 9: 02 . . . And mark the formal entrance. The pool is constructed of tiles covered with an inch of water. One must look closely to see the dark tiles just under the surface. The ground where the building stood is now a grassy, open area, lined by trees and a low chain fence that is positioned to delineate the area rather than keep people out. Sitting on the grass in orderly rows are individual bronze monuments, in the shape of tall-backed chairs, positioned to represent the place where each person was at the time of the explosion. Each chair sits on a lighted base with the name of the victim etched into the base. The memorial is most respectful of those who lost their lives, honoring their memories in a most tasteful and honest way. I see a large lesson here for the architects and politicians in NYC that are undecided what to do at Ground Zero. Given a choice, I’d ignore the commercial aspects of the land and plan a tasteful, honest and fitting memorial for those who gave their lives in another heroic, senseless, barbaric way. * * * * The Butterfly Rally (so named because our group of riders would be flitting from place to place) was a southwest regional event of the United Sidecar Association, planned and hosted by Tom Hansen, the Southwest Regional Director who I’ve mentioned several times in these journals. This was the third event in as many years and this year Tom wanted to get out and ride himself, something he couldn’t do organizing and directing events at the previous three-day rallies held in Carlsbad. On a cool, sunny Wednesday morning, more than 30 sidecars, riders and passengers lined up in front of the Champion Honda/Harley dealership in Roswell. After a rider’s meeting and a last minute donut and coffee orgy, thankfully provided by Champion, most took advantage of the last few moments to go potty. I sure did. Coffee allows me a 30 second lead time before I have to Pee, most often at inconvenient times. Oh, the joys of reaching junior geezer hood. Everyone gathered outside in two groups. Bob Elder, one of our leaders, and his wife, Sheryl, led Group “B,” of a dozen riders, on his new Honda ST1300 and Hannigan Astro Sport sidecar. Like a big snake our group filed onto Route 70, picking up Route 380 at Hondo, 45 miles later, stopping further on at the town of Lincoln, known for its violent history during the 1880’s. Billy the Kid, one of a number of western bad guys, spent time in Lincoln. The local museum, catalogs in detail, the troubles of this wooly frontier town. Our next stop was Smokey the Bear Museum in Capitan where we had lunch. After viewing the lava beds at the Valley of Fires we rode Routes 37 and 48 to Ruidoso for the evening. Day 2 was a great ride up through the Sacramento Mountains on Route 244 to Cloudcroft sitting at 9,000 feet nestled in the Lincoln National Forest. I was left behind when I walked up the short hill to the business district to find a quick pick-me-upper meal. I discovered a little restaurant, tucked down a hall in and amongst some tiny souvenir shops the restaurant folks were a slower than molasses in Minneapolis on a minus zero day delivering my sandwich. That was slightly intriguing since I was the only one waited on. By the time I finished, some twenty minutes later everyone in my group had ridden off. Not to worry. I zoomed down the long, long grade and caught them at the overlook, just other side of the mountain tunnel. Most folks stopped for lunch at the Golden Coral when we reached Alamogordo. I elected to back-track on the main drag to find Walgreens, “the Pharmacy People Trust.” I didn’t make that up. Says so, right on the label of my bottle. Folks my age would rather fill a prescription than eat, it’s that important. I overheard several folks complain about missing their lunch while waiting for a refill, but elected to wait anyway. See, we need our drugs! Soon after I returned to the Golden Coral our group fired up their bikes, ready for the ride to White Sands National Monument. I was there two years before, so I decided to skip the tour and ride 50 miles to Las Cruces to find our new Motel 6. Steve Woodward, United Sidecar Association newsletter editor from Bellevue, Washington, riding his BMW GS two-wheeler had the same idea. Our paths crossed in the motel driveway. On day 3 we rode Route185 to Hatch, then 187 to Caballo and 152 through Emory pass, at 8,228 feet, to the Santa Rita open pit copper mine. Now there’s one big hole in the ground, so large it could be called a valley. Giant dump trucks with tires ten feet tall looked like “Matchbox” toy trucks poking along the gravel roadway that circled round and round the inner sloping walls. I would guess the far wall was at least a mile away. I said it was big. The group found lodging in Silver City for the evening. Early the next morning as riders and passengers got ready to saddle up I left the tour to ride back east to spend four days with my friends Carla Jennings and Psyche Duran in Tularosa. Wonderful sisters who always make me feel welcome. I’ve mentioned my experiences with these gals in my previous journals. The weather from the time I crossed the state line a week before, was glorious. A deep blue sky was backdrop for puffy white clouds. A bit coolish, especially in the mornings, was near perfect for a bunch of sidecarists traipsing through New Mexico’s great scenery, interesting villages and towns. I’m not keen on large crowds traveling down a road bunched together. I like the ability to set a pace, fast or slow, and not be obliged to stay with a group. That never proved to be a problem as our leaders moved off smartly, their pace allowed some to keep up and others to fall behind. An experienced rider rode at the rear as sweep, making sure everyone made the proper turn and was on the right road. I would say that Tom Hansen’s Butterfly Rally was a rousing success, as our group of sidecarists flitted from one adventure to another . . . And isn’t that why we ride. |
| FOLLOW THE YELLOW LINE Motorcycle Touring with Stuart Davis and His Side Car www.followtheyellowline.com |