Archives: 2nd August 2001

I am sure there where more interesting things we could have planned today, but, by now, we all had things that we needed to send home. We put together a large parcel of unwanted clothes, maps, and souvenirs, and took the lot to the Post Office. After a side-trip to Office Max to pick up some extra bubble wrap and tape, we mailed Ree’s new lamp, and our parcel, home.

Brigid had long wanted a pair of smart sandals, so our next stop was to Miroballi Shoes (no co-incidence, Joe’s parents’ own a successful chain of shoe stores), then on to Barnes & Noble, to pick out some holiday reading.

We had dinner with Alex at Harrison’s Restaurant. The service was a little slow, so we whiled away the time playing ‘Hangman’.

This morning we had about 110 miles of Rt 44 to cover to reach the Badlands National Park. The scenery changed significantly west of Winner … in that it was pretty enough to call ‘scenic’. Under a brilliant blue sky we passed by fields of corn and sunflowers, and every now and again we would be given a preview of the Badlands’ terrain. John quickly became exasperated with Brigid’s frequent stops for ‘Kodak moments’.

Although we had gassed up in Winner, we began to become concerned at the lack of facilities along this stretch of road. We had assumed that there would be some small settlements along the way, but the few we passed showed no signs of having any facilities for travellers. (We remarked that this was probably why such a good road was not designated ‘scenic’ in Harley Davidson’s handbook. Between Winner and Badlands NP, we could only have passed 4 or 5 other vehicles, and one recumbent Indian. One wouldn’t want to get caught out with a peanut-sized tank, dodgy fuel pump, oil leak, or flat battery … Sorry guys!)

At the Park entrance we stopped for gas and lunch at the Indian run Woodenknife Café. We can thoroughly recommend the tortillas, which are served in Indian bread.

The drive through the Badlands was spectacular, though John was slightly horrified to find that there were a couple of 2-mile stretches of road that were undergoing resurfacing work.

Remembering his experience in Texas, he rode extremely cautiously over the gravely surface, not wanting to chip the Trophy’s paintwork.

Again, we were anxious not to get too involved in picture-taking as we needed to get a move on if we were to see Mt. Rushmore and Deadwood today.

A tip: When visiting Mt. Rushmore, there really is no need to pay out $8 per vehicle for parking in the smart new multi-storey car park. There is a free parking area a short distance down the hill, and the walk to the monument (except perhaps for the elderly or infirm) is not far. We were livid when, for the first time in our trip, the two bikes were not counted as one vehicle (we only take up one space, for heaven’s sake), and our National Parks pass was not valid.

Deadwood was also a bit of a shock. Perhaps our moods had been coloured by the experience at Mt. Rushmore, but we had not expected the level of commercialism that we found in this small town. Every business sought to exploit the legend of Wild Bill Hickok. The whole main street was lined with noisy casinos and tacky souvenir shops … not quite as bad as Keystone, but close!

A cooling shower released the scent of the pines as we rode north through the forest to Sturgis. We arrived around 7pm. The rally had ended some two weeks earlier, and I don’t know whether we were relieved or disappointed to find the town so quiet. The Super 8 motel sold some postcards showing the main street full of bikes, and a sign hung above the reception desk “We have no rooms available for the Rally … ever!”.

John finally managed to contact the elusive Henry Corbin Jr. to ascertain whether a) he had received the Title deed for the Trophy from his uncle, Robert, and b) whether he still wanted to buy the bike. The answer to both these questions was no. No, he had not received any Title. No, he would have loved to buy the bike, but his wife had just asked him for a divorce and he could no longer afford it …

We had a solitary dinner in ‘One Eyed Jack’s’.

Ree had arrived in the States with a credit card, which was demanding to be used. Today seemed just right for some serious SHOPPING! Diane recommended Oak Brook, a few miles to the north of Orland Park, a huge up-market mall with all the big name stores: Nieman Marcus, Nordstrom, Saks 5th Avenue, etc., etc. The great thing about American malls, is that they are usually air-conditioned, thereby providing a perfect refuge from the searing heat outside.

We ducked in and out of all the stores, Ree hunting for unusual gifts and souvenirs (she was determined not to make the same mistake she had in New York, where after a week’s Christmas shopping, she forgot to buy anything for herself), Brigid in search of new undies, and John sulking because both ‘girls’ had vanished … just when he needed some advice about the fit of some new trousers!

At the end of a successful day, we arrived back home with (amongst other things) a psychedelic pink table lamp, blue fluffy steering-wheel cover, a Cubs sweatshirt, and a brand new airline ‘carry-on’ suitcase. (No prizes for guessing who did the most shopping then …)

We had a late start, perhaps understandably as it had been past midnight by the time we got back to the house with Ree. By the time we were all showered, shaven, clothed and coffeed, ready to face the day, it was a little late to contemplate a full day of sightseeing. Instead, with 13-year old Alex as our guide, we set off into downtown Chicago to find Mark at the Water Tower – where, we were assured, we would be able to park the car for free!

Fred supplied foolproof directions, however the car’s navigational computer (a.k.a. Brigid) became confused between left and right, and we ended up heading south on Lake Shore Drive, rather than north. As we pulled up outside the Water Tower, Mark was just moving his bike. Following some sort of ‘incident’, all reserved parking had just been suspended. No matter. In no time we found a space in a nearby public car park.

The Water Tower is next to one Chicago’s tallest buildings, the Hancock Building. It is not as tall as Sears Tower, but there is a very fine view from the top, overlooking (amongst other things) 24 rooftop swimming pools! It also has a Cheesecake Factory at street level. John’s stomach told him it was well past his lunchtime.

In need of some light exercise, we decided to visit the observatory. It has to be said, there are no flies on Alex. As we arrived at the ticket booth, John turned to him and asked, “How old are you, again?”. Alex surveyed the entrance fees and answered, “I’ll be 12”!

We got back to the car at about 5pm. With the usual fanfare of pings and beeps (American cars warn you about everything: open doors, unfastened seat belts, hand brakes, indicators …), John turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. (Well, nothing except the air-conditioning fan, and more beeps and pings.) It was hot, so Brigid pressed the button to wind down the passenger window. With a visible effort, the window moved about an inch, then gave up. The battery was dead.

Alex, correctly deducing that us Brits didn’t have a clue what to do next, took control of the situation, using the ‘Bat Phone’ (his sister’s mobile, lent to us “in case of trouble …”) to call Dad. Apparently this sort of thing happens all the time in American car parks, so they are all equipped with a mobile charging unit. We were soon on the road again.

oe and his wife, Mary, came over to dinner, as did Mark and Gina. Gina brought with her a couple of albums of photos taken on the Mother Road Rally and a Toys For Tots rally that she and Mark had been involved in organising.

Mark had appointed Fred and Joe as marshals for the day, which (from the photos) seemed to involve nothing more than a blatant excuse for cruising around Chicago on the wrong side of the road, grinning wildly!!

Ree was beginning to worry about Dad and his new friends

When we got up, the humidity was such that when we opened the door of our motel room, condensation quickly appeared on the mirror. Breathing was uncomfortable, almost to the point where one felt one might drown! A thunderstorm was clearly on the cards.

Sure enough, soon after we hit I-44, black clouds appeared on the horizon. We stopped to wrap the luggage in our ponchos, and change into our wet-weather gear.

Luckily with over 400 miles to ride to Chicago, we managed to outrun the worst of the storm, and the sun soon dried us off. We arrived with the Beyers in Orland Park shortly after 6pm (later than anticipated, due to some roadworks on I-80).

Fred and Diane quickly made us feel at home. Within minutes we were showered, changed, and fed, and plans were being made for the rest of the week. Mark and Gina Atilano arrived to loan us a car, and Joe Miroballi came in to say hello. (Anyone reading this who knows these guys will appreciate the noise-level in the Beyer kitchen at this point!).

John’s daughter, Ree (Anna-Marie), was due to land at 11pm, so Fred went to check that the flight was on time. We gave him the flight number, AA99, and he rang the airport …

A deathly hush descended over the Beyer kitchen (and not because Mark, Gina, and Joe, had gone home …) AA99 had apparently landed at 9am! Panic began to set in. How could we have possibly made this mistake? We knew that Ree had almost certainly not read the e-mail telling her that we were staying with Fred’s family (new boyfriend … need I say more?), so she would have no way of contacting us. Why didn’t she alert us when she received the ticket? She must have noticed that the flight arrived at a different time to the one we told her … she would have had to take an extra day off work … or, perhaps, she just missed the flight…

John went to find the original notes that Brigid had made when she booked the flight. PHEW! Ree was arriving on AA91, which was on time, and due to land at 11pm. Having allowed a few minutes for our heart rates to return to normal, we set out for O’Hare airport.

After a few minutes, Ree appeared. Despite a delay with Immigration (Ree had no idea which ‘hotel’ she would be staying in, so was detained, until – in tears of desperation – she invented one. Luckily the officer was feeling sympathetic.), she had cleared Customs rather too quickly … and found no-one to meet her at the gate. By this time, understandably, Ree was becoming worried. She went outside the terminal building to look for us, and Fred, seeing an ‘obviously British’ lost soul wandering around with a small rucksack, spotted her.

If she was surprised when a large, strange, American shouted “Ree!”, she never said so. Fred gave her a 30-second history of the Mother Road Rally, and she gratefully handed over her baggage, then came back into the building to find us.

Today we aimed to make it to St. Louis. Our Moto Guzzi riding friend at North Dallas BMW had pointed out a ‘scenic’ route that would take us up through Arkansas to Springfield via Rt. 7.

The day did not look promising. A thick fog obscured the view from the Lodge, and the air was still uncomfortably warm and humid. We were low on gas, and became increasingly concerned when no gas station appeared in the 60-odd mile stretch of Rt. 270 between Mena and Mount Ida. By the time we finally did come across one, we must have been on fumes!

The route from Mount Ida to Harrison (where we joined Rt. 65 to Springfield), lived up to its billing. Though as we travelled north, ominously dark clouds started to gather. With the first few splashes of rain, we speeded up, anxious to be undercover by the time the inevitable thunderstorm hit.

Eventually the rain caught up with us, and we pulled over in the car park of a small country restaurant. It was closed, but the car park afforded us a spectacular view of a violent thunderstorm moving through the valley below us. We were still relatively dry by the time we reached Jasper. But this time our luck had run out. We stopped in a small café advertising dairy ice cream, while the rain deluged outside. When the sun at last reappeared, we were dismayed to discover that it would take us another hour to reach Harrison and Rt. 65. Part of the attraction of the Rt. 7, is that it winds around the hills, and the bends are sharp enough to make overtaking virtually impossible.

By the time we reached Springfield (in the grips of another thunderstorm), it had become clear that we would not make St. Louis this evening. Instead, once the rain had cleared we made a dash for Rolla (site of the extraordinary ‘Stonehenge’ replica), and spent the night at a Motel 8 on the outskirts of the city.

We arrived at the dealership half an hour later than intended, but no-one seemed to mind. Merrin took the Trophy for a ride, checked the brakes, then rolled it into the workshop to change the battery and oil.

There was a small snag with the bike’s ‘Title’. Corbin, it appeared, was going through a divorce … and his ex-wife had the vital document! However, it emerged that Corbin’s nephew in Oregon had long coveted this bike, and would be only too pleased to buy it off us at the end of our trip. Thus we agreed that Corbin would make out a handwritten Bill of Sale for now, and send a duplicate Title to his nephew. In this way, the bike need never actually be registered to John, so saving the complication of having a new Title sent to a Texas address in his name. (Quite what they would do in the case of any more speeding tickets, remains to be seen!)

The deal done and dusted, we rode back to the hotel (Brigid on the new Triumph, and John on the BMW!) to pack up. Finally, (John having wrested back the keys of the Triumph from Brigid) we were on the road.

We made it to the Talamina Trail before dusk. As the sun went down, we enjoyed 50 or so miles of undulating, twisty, mountain road, meeting no more than two other cars between Talahina and the Queen Wilhelmina Lodge.

With no advance booking, we were lucky indeed to find a room at the Lodge. Nominally it was a smoking room, though either their cleaners are exceptionally efficient, or the Lodge attracts few smokers, as the room was as clean and fragrant as any non-smoking room we have used. The dining room closed at 9pm, but we were just in time to order dinner. Afterwards we strolled outside in the humid night air. To the south, the lights of Mena were visible below us. But we were more interested in a thunderstorm to the north, where distant flashes of lightening lit the sky like the aurora borealis.

Better news today. We spotted a ’95 Triumph Trophy in a Suzuki dealership off Rt. 75. The price looked about right, so we mentioned it to Junior at North Dallas BMW. “Don’t touch it”, he said “it’s the older shape. People aren’t buying those now. They are asking way too much.

“But let me make a phone call. I have a guy looking to buy a new Moto Guzzi. He has a ’97 Trophy which he will sell. Impeccably maintained, D&D ‘Texas pride’ pipes, Triumph luggage … trouble is, we can’t offer him the money he needs to buy the new bike.”

The phone call was made, and we agreed to meet Robert Corbin with his bike the following morning.

By this stage, the dealership staff were beginning to feel quite sorry for us. Very kindly, they mentioned that there was an ‘open evening’ at a local motorcycle accessory store, “ … free food, drinks, prize draws. We will be there. Come along. Have some fun”.

That evening we both jumped on Brigid’s little BMW and set off to find Moto Liberty on the other side of Dallas. By the time we arrived, the party was in full swing. The forecourt was full of sports bikes of varying age, capacity and condition. Kids showed off their wheelie skills to the watching gallery of friends and peers. Merrin was there with his young daughter, and a couple of the other guys had brought their children to watch the high-jinx. The impromptu displays ended rather abruptly when one of the less competent riders wheelied into a hedge. We winced as we heard that all too familiar sound of cracking plastic … Mercifully, the worst the rider suffered was a badly dented pride!

We all finished the evening with a trip to Speed Zone, where we spent a couple of hours go-karting and racing motorcycles on the video simulators.

The trip back to the hotel was scary. As the weather was still sweltering, we had gone out wearing only t-shirts and jeans. The party proved to be further away than we had thought, but it was still light and warm, so (even two up on the F650) the mileage didn’t really worry us. I-635 is the Dallas equivalent of the M25 … but with exit ramps to the left and right of each carriageway. Hairy enough in daylight, but a real bottle-tester on a dark windy night, with 16-wheeler trucks overtaking us on both sides!

Once safely back in our room, we cracked open a couple of ice-cold beers and vowed “NEVER AGAIN”!

The insurance assessor did call today. We now just had to wait to see whether Arbella would ‘total’ (write-off) the bike (… and, if they did, how much would they give us). Depressingly, ‘Junior’ advised us that the book price for the Tiger was likely to be in the region of $6500!

In the absence of any news from the insurers, there seemed nothing better to do than go window-shopping for another bike for John.

Having had a poor night’s sleep, we were anxious to be up early to see Merrin at the BMW dealership. (We would have given anything to be able to see his expression, when he was alerted by George on Sunday that we were back!)

The engineers had already stripped down the engine, revealing an even larger hole which had been concealed by a breather tube. The second hole was about 2” square – large enough for us to peer inside the casing using a small mirror. With a little dexterity, the broken connecting rod was clearly visible.

There was good news and bad. The good news was that Merrin confirmed that the damage was accident-related – there would be no need for a protracted argument with Triumph over the warranty. The bad news was that the engine was (predictably) unrepairable. There was no new unit in the country, and the parts (if available) would have cost $6,700.

The insurance assessor was quick off the mark … too quick really. He arrived at 8am to look over the bike. Unfortunately, the dealers didn’t open until 10am. That was the last anyone saw of him today.