travellingbennetts

Dodge City Kansas. Day 16. We were taking the TV show Gunsmoke advice, which was to “get out of Dodge”. We got out of Dodge.

Kansas is famous for lots of reasons, but the corner in the road is not one of them. There are almost none. The Karoo 4 rear tyre was starting to notice the lack of corner, and wearing down like I was on the Barrier Highway through Broken Hill. I was starting to worry so much that I’d started to spell tyres tires. Phone calls had been going for a few days at this point, without any success whatsoever. This was a surprise to me, as I assumed the USA would be dripping with motorcycle tire places, in fact every McDonalds would have an adjunct drive-thru motorcycle tire service, i.e., pull up at the speaker, look at the selection – road, off-road, dual sport – “Cran I tache yo odor?” – “I’ll have a front and back 50:50 combo please” – “Doo (crackle) yoo (incomprehensible) brake padz with theit?” – “No thanks, just the tires. Oh, hang on, you want what Cindy? Okay 6 Chicken McNuggets and an Unsweetened Iced Tea please.” – “Watt saws doo yar wunt?” – “Mumble mumble Honey Mustard please”.  – “OK drive thru palease.”

Travelling in Kansas is just selecting north-south or east-west roads. We decided to go south early to Coldwater. We met up with a very interesting Harley rider there – he’d left Los Angeles only a couple of days prior, and he posts on YouTube as Jonnys Gone Again. His short videos are very entertaining. On the subject of US riders, Jonny is like a couple of others we’ve met, they do enormous miles. Tom, a very nice bloke we met well into the future in Tennessee said he was returning from a Cincinnati OH to Orlando FL ride over two days. 900 miles, and that’s nothing. Normally do that in one. We’d freak out having to do that in 4 days. Kansas is what most riders describe as one of the central “commute” states, riders just put the head down and ride across the flat nothingness without stopping to get to the Rockies in the west or the Appalachians in the east. But even nothing has the appeal of something for us.

Through Medicine Lodge, a quick photo taken of Carry Nation’s house. I fully understand if you need to open another tab in your overworked-to-the-point-of-collapse browser to googs Carry Nation to get more detail, but she was a temperance movement activist in the late 1800’s and was famous for smashing up pubs and being a right royal pain in the glutes. Ironically there is a liquor store next to her house these days. Easting once more, we went through the town of Sharon without seeing anyone who looked like they could be the actual Sharon, and then had to take another south to get to the right latitude for Arkansas City (nowhere near Arkansas, but on the Arkansas River) and the commute day destination of Coffeyville, chosen based on it being around ⅓ of the way from Dodge to Memphis using the Shrink the USA into a 100mm Scale and Close One Eye Method. A few kilometres outside Coffeyville something odd happened, the side of my helmet visor came loose. Weird, better pull over and check this out. Uh-oh, broken off and swinging. Klim stuff has rarely let me down so this was a bit of a surprise. In every other major trip I’ve carried a spare visor, but this was the USA and so every Burger King would have an adjunct drive-thru selling the full range of Klim gear. Dooy’all warnt thet visah flame grilled Sugah? Nuh. Out with the electrical tape, problem solved, but not being able to lift the visor in the heat wasn’t ideal. A trip to the Yoke Bar and Grill put everything either into perspective or completely erased it.

Day 17 target was Branson, chosen because it looked to be around ⅔’s of the way between Dodge and Memphis using the aforementioned method and wasn’t a city. No relation to Sharon apparently and in a completely different state, Missouri. East in a straight line continued, but the straight bits days were now numbered as we crossed the border. Into Joplin for a morning tea at a servo in uncomfortable heat, we pushed through to a diner hopefully with an adjunct motorcycle tire drive-thru in Springfield. This provides an opportunity to briefly segue into a word about luncheon in the USA. Every servo has a convenience store attached, so there is plenty of stuff including “Grab and Go” sandwiches and salads that can be bought with the fuel. Some servos have a fair dinkum supermarket attached, can get a roast beef and all the veges. But only very rarely do they have somewhere to sit down, and when it is an oven outside this isn’t ideal. Many is the time we’ve found a servo corner to stand and have our drinks, but eating isn’t an option. There are a few roadside stops, commonly near rivers or dams but not many, and if it is an oven outside then these aren’t a popular choice. So on hot days when eating in the air con is mandatory the choice is a café/restaurant, or the ubiquitous popular rapidly delivered chicken ± carbs family dining. The café/restaurant is preferred for every ranking measure except cost, these can be expensive, but tragically can also be hard to find. Often we’ve motored around the sweltering inner city to successfully locate the Gourmet Seafood and Cured Meats Café to find it either a boarded up graffitied shell or closed only on the day we are there. The family diner is always air conditioned, open, and there is always one right there.

Tire search up a notch at this point. Let’s go to a motorcycle dealership and just ask. First thing discovered is they aren’t usually motorcycle dealers, they are powersports dealers. Off to Pitbull Powersports. Very helpful, except they don’t carry adventure bike tire sizes. We are heading to Branson, anything down there? Try the place at West Branson, or the place south-west of here at Marionville. Thanks very much. Down toward Branson in the Ozarks, the null hypothesis that it was a small quiet village with a population of 250 and hopefully a craft beer brewery that served giant pretzels was quickly falsified. The null hypothesis changed to Branson was the tourist town we’d been not looking for – huge resorts, billboards advertising Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede Dinner Attraction, and weirdly the Titanic Museum. Not sure the liner ever plied the waters of Table Rock Lake between Joe Bald Park and the Bluegreen Vacations Paradise Point Resort, but if the museum isn’t in Southampton in England then Branson, Missouri is as good as anywhere. Out to West Branson, the powersports shop had a suspicious array of propellered sports vehicles, but we were in luck as one of the staff was a BMW rider and was very helpful beside being a very nice bloke. Marionville powersports was definitely the go he said. Straight on the phone, yes we have a 150/70 17” tire, a Dunlop Trailmax Raid. By some sort of miracle can you do it tomorrow? Yes. 9am. Prayers hopefully answered, we could check into the hotel and enjoy the sights and scenes of a true tourist town through the agency of Waxy O’Shea’s Irish Pub.

Day 18 was a trial separation day. Cindy decided she didn’t need to add a lot of miles onto the 280-odd to get to Memphis, I could do that on my own. Luckily, heading backwards meant better weather, my time in some seriously intense rain was a lot briefer than Cindy’s. Up north-west for an hour to Marionville, I naturally had some concerns growing. What if the person who was the only one in the dealership able to change a tire called in sick? What if it wasn’t a 150/70 17” but something else and the chap had mis-read the label? Even going through the town of Clever and past the Clever High School didn’t relax the nerves much, in fact I didn’t even stop for a photo. Into Marionville the tension escalated, the population sign said 2,000 people. OMG this can’t be the right place, a town with 2,000 people barely rates a pub and a servo let alone a powersports dealership. Then there it was. It was huge. WTGG (What the Goodness Gracious)? I was way early, so hung around while 100 four wheelers and high performance side-by-sides were lined up out the front. Then at precisely 9am, at the desk. Take a seat, grab a coffee, we’ll do the tire straight up.

A wander about the enormous shop and a chat with the KTM sales bloke revealed some things. Marionville is tiny but services a big area including the Ozarks and Arkansas. But what about the high performance side-by-sides? People buy them to carve up the deserts out in New Mexico and Arizona, only a boring day across Kansas away. Really? Anyway, within the standard tire change time I was back on and ready to go. I now knew how Chuck Berry felt: Help me, information get in touch with my Cindy. She’s the only one who’d phone me here from Memphis, Tennessee. Although Cindy was actually calling from Oil Trough Arkansas, it was close enough.

A quick stop at the Triumph dealer in Jonesboro Arkansas to hopefully get someone to cancel an annoying tire pressure alarm. This place wasn’t even in a suburb of Jonesboro, and the neighbourhood was very rural and basic. But it was enormous. I couldn’t even get a photo that gave an idea of how big it was, there were hundreds of motorcycles and other stuff in there. In a rural town with a population of 2,000 people. What is going on here? Anyway, they gave me a few tips about cancelling the alarm, and I pushed on to Memphis.

We were staying right in the heart of Memphis, Tennessee. A very quick deviation here into the stateliness of the USA, I now find myself saying we come from Brisbane, Queensland. Back on track, thoughts of Memphis heavy traffic, huge crowds, and difficulty finding a park near the apartment were swirling as I crossed the bloody enormous Mississippi into state No.11. Nuh, none of that. This was our first taste of the utterly dead US city centre. Talking nobody, no traffic, nothing. Empty streets, just the odd disturbed wanderer. Parked right out the front, unloaded, could have left the bike there for days without it bothering anyone. And we were only a couple of blocks away from Beale St, the music hub of Memphis.

Days 19 and 20 was a Memphis mersion. On Day 19, we did the Memphis tour with the riverboat cruise. We got the history of Memphis, we cruised the town, we saw millionaires row, we saw where Elvis and BB King stayed in what was essentially council housing for the poor, and we got to do a museum of our choice.

We chose the Edge Motor Museum, most of the others on our tour went to the Civil Rights Museum which is at the hotel where Martin Luther King Jnr was shot. I will start the description of the Edge by saying I’ve never been a car person. To me they are simply an A to B device. Yes I appreciate the beauty of the Ferrari or the Jaguar, but my interest is at a reliability level. The Edge changed that. The cars they have in there are incredible, plus the background information on things that you never think about, well I might, e.g. the evolution of tires. The best of the best was the car that won the 6 hour Sebring race in 1950, this is a 1949 Crosley Hotshot. It was driven to the race by a couple of young blokes, they were there to watch it, but someone convinced them that they should enter. OK, chuck all the unnecessary stuff out, use boot polish to draw on the No.19 and let’s go. A true Bradbury result, they were slow, they had a 720cc engine, they were driving something that looked like a bathtub, they were being passed by everyone, but they didn’t need to stop for anything except fuel. So they won.

My personal favourite was the Shelby Mustang. Looks and engineering all rolled into one. Another thing in the museum was the development of entertainment. These days we all connect to the car and can happily listen to that riveting podcast about saddle selection for dressage ponies, but many of us remember the days of CDs (texting while driving is nowhere near as distracting as changing out six CDs by the way) and cassettes. But it all began with AM radios. Interestingly in 1953 in the US all radios needed to have the dial marked for rapid tuning to the Conelrad (Control of Electromagnetic Radiation) frequencies in case of nuclear attack. They’d just be on the playlist now with Morgan Freeman providing the calming voice – “Missiles are now striking Memphis downtown. Which got busy dying a long time ago.”

After the museum we were off to the river for the cruise. This was good because it allowed us to get a Tennessee border sign photo, the problem with this neck of the woods is that there are a lot of rivers and they made a handy border between states. Unlike Australia, where NSW said to Victoria and Queensland “Of course you can have your own state, but the river is all ours no matter where it wanders, find your own effin’ water”, the US used the middle of the river as the border, and it was fixed at the time, so there are now large areas of the opposite bank that inconveniently belong to the state on the other side. So the bloody border signs are smack bang in the middle of a bridge where stopping to take a photo is only possible if you want to die.

We’d decided to self-cater at this point because we were in a magnificent and huge apartment with the ability to cook anything. But Memphis city centre was utterly devoid of anything but the most basic convenience stores. The King & Union Bar Grocery sounded too good to be true, it was, and we could only assume they’d called it a Bar Grocery to entrap people who wanted groceries and they’d end up buying a cocktail instead. We took a big walk to go to a butcher because meat was the hardest thing to find, only to find a closed and graffitied shell. It was post-nuclear apocalypse territory. Never mind, back to the convenience store and get a Bachelor’s Handbag, i.e. a BBQ chicken the size of a 1949 Crosley Hotshot. Anyway, enough whinging, onto Day 20. Graceland. We’d booked an Uber, we had a 10am slot, and made it with 2 minutes to spare.

On a bus, 100m across the road (Elvis Presley Boulevard), and line up for our turn with audio support. Through the mansion, see the graves, and back across the road to the Elvis Museum. The closest thing to this experience we’ve seen is in Cuba with the Che Guevara and Fidel Castro idolatry. The common theme is grainy black and white photos and the redacted lives. In the Graceland case they are of a young and successful Elvis in the 1950’s, becoming huge in the USA, and absolutely zero mention of the later 1970’s when he was eating a hollowed-out loaf of bread filled with a pound of bacon, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of blueberry preserves at a sitting. It isn’t really fair, especially because the undercurrent is that Elvis and his family were poor but very decent people, suddenly thrust into incredible stardom, but maintaining their decency, generosity, and dedication to duty. Elvis’ military service is a great example. That is what should be highlighted throughout his whole life, for better or worse, not the “Elvis was young and perfect and loved motorcycles/cars/horses/racquetball/hanging with friends/renovating the house”.

That night after another crack at the remnants of the biggest Bachelor’s Handbag in chook history, we headed down to Beale St. Just missing one live act, we wandered into the Blues City Café. This was pure joy – incredible free live music that just doesn’t exist outside places like Memphis and N’Orleans.

Day 21 was east. Cindy wanted Nutbush but it was a fair way out of the way and it was never incorporated as a city, so there is no Nutbush City Limits sign. Therefore no point. Bouncing around the bottom of Tennessee just north of the Mississippi state border, 5 sets of double consonants there, we rolled into one of my locations, the Shiloh battlefield park. I’ve always been interested in the Civil War, mainly because it was a precursor to the big wars of the 20^th century with logistics and industrial resources becoming major factors in the outcome and rifles and artillery causing massive casualties.

It was jolly hot, so into the visitor’s centre where they played an excellent movie explaining the before, during, and after the battle. The battlefields from the 1860’s generally don’t have much out in the field surviving, and they are mainly state memorials in places men from those states fought. Into Savannah, some did the excellent Savannah museum while some had a lie down in the air conditioned motel room. Finding dinner was tough, it was a Sunday and nothing was open, so a servo pizza had to take up the pants slack.

Day 22, the first day of the 4^th week for the Gregorian calendar purists, was unfortunately south, out of the frying panhandle and into the humid sweat bath of the state of Mississippi. We’d decided to do the Natchez Trace Parkway, which runs diagonally across the state from north-east to south-west. The Natchez Trace follows old bison pathways and is notable because it avoids ascents and descents and is relatively flat. It was used by Indians and from white settlement Tennessee people built flat boats to float their produce down the Cumberland, Tennessee, Ohio and Mississippi Rivers to New Orleans to sell the whole lot including the boat. They walked home via the Trace. But then the steam engine was invented, and the Trace use fell away. It was revived as a Civilian Conservation Corps project during the depression and marked out by a very dedicated group of the Daughters of the American Revolution in the 1930’s. It is very pleasant riding, shaded, smooth, very little traffic, and lots of historical markers.

There are very few major towns on the Trace, so we pushed onto Jackson to call it a day. We had two nights in Jackson, and we had booked the Hilton in the downtown area. We’d thought Memphis downtown was post-apocalyptic, but it was pumping compared with Jackson. Very dingey, and no human beings or businesses run by human beings that help the traveller. We checked in, then tried to sort out parking. The Hilton had outsourced this to a valet service, who charged $28 per day. Hmmm. Expensive, can’t we just poke them into a space out of the way? Sorry no said the lady, and it is $28 per vehicle, and you have two vehicles. But they go into one space. It is $28 per vehicle, and obviously I can’t ride so you don’t get the valet service, but still $56 per day. I began to remember why I’d struggled in the Deep South in the 1980’s. Before I completely lost it, Cindy suggested we check out a $10 per day spot around the corner. A bit out of sight, not as cathartic as punching a parking lady in the face, but as no humans existed in the area it seemed OK.

Very very luckily there was an excellent bar and grill just around the corner – without this it would have been an unpleasant place to stay. Day 23 was another trial separation. I wanted to see the Vicksburg Civil War battlefield, and Cindy wanted to see it not. Her mission was to find a post office and post a book back to sister Kim. FedEx in Memphis had given a quote of US$191, which was the same as 10 books. So off to Vicksburg because that’s surely more interesting than going to a post office. Or is it? Anyway, Brisbane in mid-February sweating levels were challenged in Vicksburg, but I put in the effort because the chances of coming back are fairly low. Vicksburg was held by the Confederacy, and it controlled Mississippi river traffic. Ulysses S. Grant made 7 attempts to take it, it was that important. On the seventh go he landed troops south of the city on the east bank, set up a secure supply line, and surrounded it. It has all the features of a WW1 battlefield, with trenches only yards apart in places. But with total loss of supply to the city, it became a matter of time, 47 days to be precise, before the surrender. From that moment the Union had control of the entire Mississippi, and the end of the Confederacy was inevitable.

Meanwhile, back in Jackson, Cindy was suffering from Google Maps fake post office syndrome. Firstly, it suggested that one was about 2km away in Jackson State University. I’d ridden through this district on the way to Vicksburg and its descent into socio-economic oblivion was quite sudden. Ruined servos with rubbish and homeless people sitting between the remains of the bowsers were the pictures the legendary black and white photographers would have captured. But she made it, couldn’t find the post office, but found the uni book shop was open. No, no post office here, you need to go to the one downtown, you obviously drove here, shouldn’t take long. You didn’t drive? OMG you walked? So back to the hotel via a slightly less interesting walking route. Cool down, call an Uber, too far and hot to walk to the strip mall post office. Uber driver says I’m waiting for you, this place is not safe. A Google Maps fake post office there as well. Uber driver now becomes Cindy’s chauffeur. Google Maps did know where the main central post office was, so finally success. The postage cost was US$30, trivial compared to the emotional and physical risk expenditure.

Day 24 was an escape from Jackson, and continuation on the Natchez Trace to Natchez. Some interesting places along this section, Rocky Springs and the Emerald Mound were highlights.

The Plaquemine culture Emerald Mound is the second largest in North America and was constructed between 1300 and 1600 out of dirt and it is bloody huge. We felt sorry for the people who have to mow it. These mounds supported temples and other important buildings, and were an important centre for the tribes.

Into Natchez. 300 miles of Trace done. It was seriously hot. Into the centre of town to find somewhere air conditioned to dine. Google Maps showed fake diners everywhere, eventually I said to Cindy that I was going to have to stop and figure it out. We stopped, I was looking at the iPhone, Cindy says what about the place we are parked outside? Oh, yes, that will do. Our server asked if we would like a drink? Rivulets of sweat running off and ruining the carpet and with the heat radiating off the forehead melting nearby plastic, a sarcastic response was dying to make an appearance but wasn’t allowed. The drink skulled in 1 second and a gumbo and a catfish attempted, wow that is good. Deep South food is fantastic.

Cooled down, we headed south and east. I’d nearly crossed into Louisiana across from Vicksburg but got into the wrong lane so no border sign photo. We’d gone over the river at Natchez but no sign saying anything about crossing a border. We went past Jefferson Davis’s boyhood home at Woodville then crossed into Louisiana north of Norwood, the poles were there but the sign was missing. No worries, we’ll get it somewhere else, but we never did. Further south and east, we rolled into Mandeville in continued sweaty heat. This was B&B style accommodation with fantastic rooms, except we never saw the owners, and the guests could free-range. We free-ranged like buffed-up chickens whose wings hadn’t been clipped. $5 for a glass of wine? How close can I get it to the brim? What if I put a soup bowl under it and accidentally keep pouring? Is that still only $5? OMG there is a brewery with 25 tap IPAs 50m away and restaurants everywhere. No wonder Mandeville was the home of wealthy people escaping New Orleans.

A check was made of the Metzeler Karoo front tire. Pretty much gone, one block was flat and the wear strips were now an essential part of traction with the road. This was serious. Some googlin’. Make some calls, then a miracle occurred, even more of a miracle than the Branson miracle. I got onto Brad at a motorcycle dealership in Slidell, just down the road. They didn’t have tires, but Brad knew people, loved Australians, and said things like “if they tell you they can’t help you, let them know I’ll come and visit them”. Then he said call Moto Julia, they are a Triumph dealer in Norleans, and talk to Destiny. OK Brad, you are now a beneficiary because you are the most helpful and positive human being on the planet. I called Destiny. One of the happiest telephone calls of my life. Help? She had never met me, could have said sorry, but even without the back story, moved mountains to sort me out. Right, I’ve checked, we have a 90/90 21” tire that will do, a Metzeler Tourance. Tomorrow? I’ll make it happen. Looking forward to meeting you!

And on that incredibly positive note for me, we’ll let the reader rest. Until we poke at their exhausted ruin of a body and drag them into N’Orleans in Part 4 – spoiler alert via the longest land bridge in the WORLD! And as per the brand new tradition, closing on the map of our progress: