Day 2 to Sturgis: Rested, I think

August 01, 2008

By Debbie Ingram

We came into St. Louis after midnight last night, deciding that we were gonna drive just west of the city and stop for the night. If you are driving this, take note, there is a lot of interstate construction in St. Louis .... we took a bad exit and ended up losing some time, but we soon found our way to I-70.
We spent the night at the Holiday Inn Express in Warrenton, Missouri. We checked in shortly after 1:15 a.m. and got the last room, Number 201. There is a reason the room is rented last. We are right above the motor (?) for the elevator. From 5:30 on there is a constant drone of gears grinding and mechanical humming that is, well, enough to wake you. We wanted an early start anyway.
The bike fell over again and the husband decided, with the assistance of Richard and Willem, to shift the bikes. That is, put my little 300-pound scooter on the side that keeps breaking and moving the husband’s 700-pound or so bike over to the side it is usually fastened on. Do not ask me why we broke tradition on this trip and put them where they have never been. That would be a male decision.
And the guys are doing this shifting now.
Another small problem. When we went to lock the trailer last night, the key was broken. We figured it happened when we open the back gate, to set Mark’s Harley upright, and the key was hanging in the other lock when the big door was closed back and it broke THAT key. We can still lock it and gain access from the big door to the back but the husband doesn’t like that idea. He wants his key, dang it, and he wants it now. My personality says, what the heck. It’s a key! Big deal! But NO…
Here’s where I revert to the trusty 650-page Sturgis Bike Week guide. It’s not really 650 pages; it just seems lie it. There’s advice a plenty in there and I found one particularly telling from a 29-year-old rider. She wrote: “If you are traveling with a man, keep your mouth shut until you get to Sturgis.“
I am trying. Lord knows I am trying.
Sturgis: 900 miles.

Just how far can we drive in one day?

July 31, 2008

By Debbie Ingram

We are nearing the Kentucky/Illinois line and trying to determine a stopping place. Our friends from Troy are maybe 15 miles ahead of us. I should have mentioned Richard was dropping his granddaughter, a Pike Liberal Arts student, off in Athens and he and William (that’s Willem) are heading on to Sturgis. We had a long stop for gas and a sandwich at an Arby’s.

We have traveled 525 miles and are just coming into Paducah, wehre we see the Harley Davidson dealership right off Interstate 24. OK. I remember why I’m on this trip now.

We had another little upset. Stopped just north of Nashville and found a water leak under the kitchen sink in the camper. Not much water, but it was spraying. There are a LOT of really bumpy roads so we figure the hose must have worked loose. We wedged it with a bottle of cooking oil. Nowhere near an open flame, I am hoping.

Anyone who has ever RVed it needs to see Robin Williams in RV. There is a lot of truth in the humor.

We are guessing we will be spending the night somewhere in Missouri off I-70. I know the road well. Used to live in Kansas City and drove the KC to St. Louis route a few times before.

I am scanning the All Things Sturgis book that the husband printed off the Internet. Some of the oddities—the definition of nudity as it relates to women’s breasts. In an interview with the police chief, he said three bandaids is enough coverage. What?! I’d like to see three band-aids in Dothan. Well, actually not. And there’s also a directory of where to see nude women. Good thing the husband is not interested in those things.

I am going to Sturgis for the scenery, folks, and I don’t mean THAT kind of scenery.

It’s 9 p.m. and I am weary. Someone just flagged us down on I-24. We left the steps on the camper down. OK, I left the steps on the camper down.

“Welcome to Illinois,“ the sign reads.

Road trip takes me back to my childhood

By Debbie Ingram

A soft rain falling on I-65 around Decatur has turned into a downpour. Looking out the window of the truck, it could be cold outside. It could be a winter instead of a summer day, except that the leaves are green on the trees and not brown.

It looks cold.

The temperature has gone from the high 80s to the high 70s. Not quite winter.

Since Mark and I met three years ago, we have taken a few road trips. Twice to D.C. Once or twice we went back home to my native Mississippi. Key West last February. Multiple bike rallies.

It has become a means by which we carve out a bit of private time together amidst the craziness of this thing called life. It is often our ONLY alone time. So, while I will miss the girls, I am delighting in the fact that I will not have to hear: “Mama, mama, mama” for 10 days.

For 10 days, I can give mama a rest. Today, I can be “baby.”

Road trips and summer vacations certainly take me back to my childhood. My dad took us on great family vacations. We always had a date and a destination set and oh, how my brother and I looked forward to a respite from our summer cotton chopping duties.

We used to lean on our hoes in the field, drink from the water cooler, and say, “Just think …. This time next week, we will be on vacation.”

My father rarely left the farm, and no, we didn’t have cows. Daddy loved to work and only when the cotton was laid by in late July or early August did we ever leave it.

Usually we left in the middle of the night. To my way of thinking some 40 years later, it seems like it was midnightish when we left. I imagine it was closer to 5 a.m., but I knew little more than it was pitch black outside and finally, finally, we were getting away from the Mississippi Delta. Away from the mosquitoes and the suffocating humidity. Away from what was everyday life on a boring farm.

We were off to new adventures in Colorado, New Mexico, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas or Mexico, where we would eat in real restaurants and stay in motels with swimming pools.

Sometimes, instead of stopping along the way, Mama whipped out the Wonder bread from a big grocery bag in the front seat. She spread the slices of white bread thick with mayonnaise and slapped a piece of liver cheese on top.

“We won’t be stopping for a while kids,” Mama would say as she handed the sandwiches back.

My brother and I would put our little faces to the window and watch as this strange, new place went by.

We just crossed the Tennessee line. Another downpour.
Sturgis: 1,366 miles.

Bad weather ahead

By Debbie Ingram

This is what we see through our windshield as we approach Huntsville.

Day 1 to Sturgis not going well

By Debbie Ingram

What you gotta love about traveling is the unexpected.
There are always those “traditional” unexpecteds that you kinda look to happen. I mean like the oversleeping or the surpising limit on the amount of cash per day that can be withdrawn from the ATM. There’s the forgotten items or the kids waking up in a foul mood, unable to find some necessary thing like cleats for soccer camp, or their favorite flip-flops that they told Dulanni they were gonna wear today, so mom, they have to find them. They just have to!
Then there’s “road trouble.“
No flats. No breakdowns. Horror upon horrors—it is much worse. The bike fell over.
The 2008 Harley Davidson Street Glide layed over on its side, pulled out a hook and tie-down. Damage very, very minimal, but this is serious to a biker man, so we have been at I-65 Exit 299 for probably more than an hour. Help showed up from Troy, just as the husband was satisfied the bike was secure in the toy hauler.
Richard Barbaree, William Dunn, and his granddaughter Marlee Reed, offered moral support which seemed to make the husand feel better. Geez. You woulda thought he broke a nail.
The bad news is it makes Kansas City seem like a nearly impossible goal for the night. This trip is more than 1,500 miles, folks. And we haven’t even made it out of Bama yet.
OK, it’s just after 3 and we are getting back on the road.