Archives: 23rd July 2001

As everybody knows, no motorcycle dealer worth his salt is ever open on a Monday …

We made some phone calls and sat around disconsolately in our hotel room.

We were in high spirits when we set off on the 24 mile ride back to Talahina. It was sunny and warm, and the bikes were purring along nicely. We were looking forward to taking some fine photographs in the mountains, and planned to stop for a snack at the Queen Wilhelmina Lodge just short of Mena.

All of a sudden John waved his hand violently to indicate a problem. At the same instant, Brigid (about 100 feet behind) felt something warm, wet, and vaguely unpleasant, splattering her bare hands. A gushing fountain of oil had erupted under John’s seat, saturating his trouser leg, and covering Brigid, her bike, and the road, for several hundred feet until he came to a standstill on the shoulder.

Even to an untrained eye, the cause was plain to see. A small jagged hole had appeared in the engine casing of the Tiger. This was clearly not going to be a quick (or cheap) repair.

It was 10am on a Sunday morning, and we were still 6 miles from Talahina and the nearest phone. Leaving John with his crippled bike at the side of the road, Brigid headed into town to find help.

Burrell Kennedy, the operator of the local tow truck, was in church, but two helpful girls in the gas station managed to track down his colleague, Dale Daney. By midday John and his bike had made an ignominious arrival in Talahina, once again loaded aboard a tow truck.

After some hasty negotiation with Kennedy, it was agreed that for a fee of $400 Dale would drive us both back to Dallas. He secured Brigid’s bike behind the Triumph, and the three of us squeezed into the cab. Dale is a half-blood Choctaw, until recently a member of the local Indian council, and a baseball coach, and we were glad of his company on our return journey. While we might have wished to meet under different circumstances, he proved to be a mine of information. The 200 miles slipped by quickly, and we arrived in Dallas enlightened about many aspects of Indian life. Without wishing to upset Dale’s weekend any further than we already had, we were quite sorry to say goodbye as he dropped us off at the Super 8 motel in Plano.

At 10am sharp, we phoned Merrin at North Dallas BMW to find out whether we should check out of our Garland motel. He said we should be on the road by mid-afternoon, so we made plans to deliver the hired Jeep back to Enterprise, and left the Days Inn at 1pm. Our plan had been to head for Texarkana on I-30, and thence to Memphis and Nashville, Tennessee.

Both bikes were ready as promised when we arrived at the dealers. While we waited for the final bill to be prepared, we got talking to the owner of a white Moto Guzzi on the forecourt. “Why would anyone want to go to Texarkana?”, he exclaimed, “If you want to get out of the heat, head north to Oklahoma”. He suggested riding the ‘Talamena Trail’, 64 miles of twisty mountain road linking Talahina, Oklahoma, and Mena, Arkansas. 64 miles of cool, tree-lined, road, meandering through the Queen Wilhelmina State Park, overlooking some of the most stunning scenery that this region has to offer.

We needed no further encouragement. Pleased to be back in the saddle after a week’s delay, we headed north up highway 75 to Oklahoma.

The Moto Guzzi owner’s advice was sound. Talahina was about 4 hours ride from Dallas, and dark was just beginning to draw in as we arrived. Unfortunately, such is the popularity of this particular drive, that the few hotels in the area are booked solid every weekend. We were lucky to find a room at the Country Inn in Clayton. The kitchen staff had cleared away dinner, so we put together a picnic from the local grocery store and sat outside our room, drinking beer and listening to the deafening sound of a million crickets chirping in the warm and humid night air.

Now assured that the bikes would be ready, we did our laundry and packed our bags, ready for our departure.

We were extremely disappointed that the website had not uploaded properly. Neither of us had any idea what was wrong with the pictures. We checked and double-checked all the file names, and, finding nothing obviously amiss, tried the ‘Bullet-proof FTP’ software again. Nothing was changed, but this time everything uploaded successfully, and we could at last ‘advertise’ our site to the family. The only enhancement that we could not get to work, was the ‘hit counter’.

Alas, the bikes were not ready today. So we filled the day as best we could, and rearranged our itinerary for a Saturday departure.

Who was that shadowy figure behind the wall on the grassy knoll? Was Oswald acting alone? Who killed Jack Ruby?

Who could visit Dallas and not pay a visit to the excellent ‘6th Floor Museum’ in what used to be the Book Repository, from where Oswald almost certainly fired the shot that allegedly killed JFK? The museum keeps the controversy and Kennedy’s memory alive with an exhibition of family photos, video clips and evidence gathered from witnesses.

While it would be tempting to take a snap from the 6th floor window, as Oswald would have seen it, photographs are prohibited (our digital camera was taken off us at the door) and, besides, trees have obscured the view a little in the last 38 years!

On the day we visited, a separate photographic tribute to Jackie Kennedy was also being displayed on the ground floor.

On Wednesday evening we decided to upload the incomplete website. After a couple of false starts, the files began to transfer. By about midnight we could, at last, lay claim to a live website. Unfortunately, none of the pictures had uploaded correctly, which made the site dull, grey, and uninspiring to view.

All the parts for John’s bike, and most of the bits for Brigid’s, had been received, and we were hopeful that both would be back on the road for Thursday.

Anxious not to miss out on any of the popular haunts, we thought a visit to the enclave of ‘British’ pubs in Lower Greenville would be in order. Lower Greenville was easy enough to find, but we were surprised not to see any truly English pubs. True, there were a couple of Irish pubs, but the main characteristic of the nightlife in Lower Greenville, was the plethora of bars advertising live music.

Then, quite by chance, we stumbled on The Blue Goose (a bar that we had been recommended to us by the Stetson-wearing assistant in Cavender’s Western Store), which is popular with bikers.

It was a pity that it was Tuesday, as we had been told that Thursday and Friday were the bar’s big ‘cruise nights’, when many custom bikes would be parked outside. Nevertheless, the bar serves excellent Mexican food, and knockout Margaritas!

(The English pubs have mostly relocated to Addison, where, coincidentally, there is another branch of The Blue Goose.)

The dealership was closed, so we were left kicking our heals until Tuesday, when we hoped to have news of the parts.

Seeing as our visit to Dallas had now been unintentionally extended, we were able to return the McGinnis’s hospitality by inviting them to dinner. Joe’s Crab Shack had been recommended to us by one of the waitresses at The Waffle House (by this time a regular breakfast haunt).

Even Brittni agreed that Joe’s was worth a visit … despite curtailing her date with her boyfriend. However, when Mom showed up at the appointed hour to collect her from the baseball game, Brittni quickly suggested that the boys might catch her up at the restaurant.

Joe’s Crab Shack has a reputation for being great entertainment, partly on account of its wacky décor, and partly for the regular cabarets performed by the waiting staff (during which time, needless to say, service is suspended).

Brittni’s friends turned up before the food, and (to her parents’ irritation) she immediately went to sit with them. We didn’t mind in the least, but we got our own back when Lori asked the staff if they would help us embarrass her.

The waitress was delighted. She announced to the other diners that, in order to reunite the family, we all would perform a Conga around the restaurant.

Everybody laughed and cheered us through, the food arrived, and a great time was had by all!

Today we had arranged to meet Kirk Woodward (organiser of the Mother Road Rally) and his wife, Pam, for brunch at the upmarket ‘Galleria’ mall. We were up early … after all, we half expected to get lost en route, and didn’t want to be late. (Kirk had mentioned a host of brunch selections, including a Godiva Choclatier … and we were becoming decidedly bored of the Waffle House.)

In the event, we arrived just as the Mall was opening up. Quite apart from a formidable selection of eateries, the Galleria boasts a number of ‘Bond Street’ stores, and a skating rink (where a number of precocious young prima donnas were already practicing their tantrums for the assembled audience).

Seeing that I was still a little ‘tender’ from the ‘coming together’ earlier in the week, Kirk and Pam chose the nearby bakery for brunch. We sat and chatted for an hour or so, over coffee and croissants (and one or two sticky cakes), before we took our leave, and set off in search of a soft cushion for tonight’s rodeo.

The Mesquite Rodeo is one of the biggest events in the Dallas area. The main arena is surrounded by the ‘bleachers’ (basic grandstand seating, usually open air – although the Mesquite arena has recently been covered). There are also air-conditioned boxes, which are mainly used for corporate entertaining.

The rodeo was due to start at 8pm, and we were invited to have dinner with Lori’s parents in nearby Sunnyville. They had prepared a typical Texan meal of brisket of beef, potato salad, and barbeque beans. The beef was tender enough to melt in the mouth and very flavoursome … delicious!! After dinner we all piled into the McGinnis people-carrier, and set off for the rodeo.

I think even Lori and Howard were amazed by the length of the traffic jam, stretching in both directions from the rodeo arena. As the queue reached the gates, it was decided that Tyler would show us to our seats while Lori waited with Howard’s ticket while he tried to park the car.

We had missed the first bull-riding and calf-roping events, but arrived in time for the Mesquite mounted square-dancers. A jolly assortment of riders of both sexes, in all shapes and sizes, and varying levels of horsemanship (the phrase “only the balls should bounce …” springs to mind) riding in a ‘Thelwellesque’ pageant reminiscent of the Pony Club (with spangly costumes).

The quickest event of the evening was the ‘Tijuana Stud Poker’, in which four brave (or foolish) cowboys sit at a poker table in the middle of the arena while a bull is let loose. The man who is the last to leave his seat is the winner of the cash prize. Unfortunately, on this occasion, the bull had read the script.

On being released from his pen, the bull made straight for the table. The next few seconds were a blur as he upended the table and sent all four contestants scrambling for safety! The contest was declared a four-way draw.