Road Trip To Alabama

A friend of mine bought a 1996 Magna on eBay in Florence, AL. We hastily arranged a road trip. I would ride from Indy to Athens, AL. He would fly to Huntsville, take a taxi to Athens, and the seller would trailer the Magna from Florence to Athens. We'd make our way back on some back roads from Athens to Nashville, spend the night in Nashville with a mutual friend who'd offered some crash space. Then back to Indy the following day.

I had thought of leaving Indy on Friday night, riding til I got tired, then stopping for the night. But I hadn't outfitted my 1994 Magna for road trips, and spent the evening Friday trying to install the saddlebags from my old burned out V30, and loading the bike down for the road trip.

The 'Wing certainly has me spoiled for storage space, that's for sure.

Turns out I couldn't mount the saddlebags in such a way that would keep them off the pipes and the rear wheel. So I gave up on the bags and I bungeed my luggage to the backrest. It looked so precarious. It was 11:00 pm. Fudge, I'll just sleep here and get up and ride in the morning.

I dreamt of hitting the twisty tennessee roads and having my bungeed luggage flop off of the bike.

I also had to consider that I'd never since I bought this garage-queen 1994 Magna had it go for more than 100 miles without chewing through a set of plugs. I hoped I had the carbs set right. But I couldn't afford to take the requisite 32 spark plugs necessary to make it to Alabama or not

So at 6 o'clock the next morning I moved everything back to the Wing. Pushing bikes around the driveway on Saturday morning, I bumped the Magna into the Wing just hard enough to send it toppling over. Shit! I yelled loud enough to wake the neighbors. I watched it topple over in slow-mo.

This was my last fling on the Wing. I'd be putting it up for sale when I got back from Alabama. And now I fuddled it up by knocking it over.

Never had to pick up a 750 pound bike before. It was lying downhill down the driveway.

I picked it up, set it up. My dear wife was waiting up hill to catch in case I picked it up too far. (That's what I did the last time I picked up a tipped over bike.)

The very tip of the brake lever had snapped off. Fortunately the lever was still usable. Some rash on the throttle grip, other than that no worse for the wear. It didn't want to start. Probably flooded from having tipped over, or something like that.

Prayers to the gods of carberation.

Finally it roared to life.

Kissed my wife good by and hit the road. It was 7:45 am. So much for an early start. I deposited my paycheck in the night deposit, and drove by the ATM to get $100 cash on my way out of town. I shoved the cash and the ATM receipt into my wallet and road away.

The Wing just chews up the miles as I slabbed it from I-465 to I-65 south. Stopped in Edinburgh, Indiana. Gas is $3.50 a gallon and my credit card is declined at the pump. Hey, I just got cash out of that account at the ATM! I remembered the ATM receipt, and went fishing for it in my wallet. $.07 remaining in the account. Oh shit, have I ever been so ill prepared for a trip as I am for this one? I have $100 cash and no money in the bank. The paycheck I deposited won't get credited until the next business day -- and that's well after my trip is over.

What can I do? I don't have enough cash to do meals and gas for the trip to Alabama and back.

Fishing around in my wallet I find a forgotten Visa gift card, a Christmas gift from my boss. Thank goodness. Between cash on hand and this leftover gift card, I might have enough to make it.

Back on the road again, by Louisville, KY my stomach was convinced that I needed to have a second breakfast. McDonalds takes VISA now, so I pulled out the gift card and filled my stomach.

My late start meant that my southbound trip would be a slab-only run. Hopefully the northbound trip will be a little more relaxed, and a little more interesting. I am going with the flow of traffic on rural stretches of Interstate. The Wing ate up the miles but the stock seat left something to be desired. After about 80 miles I started fidgeting and my ass fell asleep.

I decided to hang my heels on the passenger pegs, just to get a different sitting position. I reached my right heel back and hooked it on the right passenger peg. I repeated this operation for the left side, but what happened instead was I hooked my foot on the center stand and pushed it down until it contacted the pavement. At 75 mph.

Dumb ass! Big loud scrape. Would've seen sparks had it been night time. The next gas stop I checked, to make sure the center stand still had feet on it and they hadn't all been ground away to nothing or knocked off. The feet were intact.

Bikes were out in force. Lots of chrome and straight pipes piloted by unhelmeted dirt bags. Passed a Kawasaki full dresser vintage 80's like my Wing, traveling with a GL1500. Helmets and blue jeans and short sleeved shirts. They waved politely as I passed them. I stopped for gas, got back on the road, and eventually passed them again. I think I passed them three times on our trip from Louisville to Nashville. I was riding faster, but stopping more often than them. If I were gonna keep this bike, I'd definitely upgrade that seat.

I stopped for lunch and gas at Brentwood TN, exit 69. Cruised around the mall looking for something other than McDonalds. Settled on Subway.

My ATGATT attire made an impression on the 18 year old girl behind the counter. She'd never seen anything like it. Friends at work laugh at me in my super suit. But I wear it anyway, even in the 92 degree heat of a Tennessee afternoon in May.

Hydration is a problem. I wonder if I should get one of those camelback hydration systems. But if I were to do that, I'd have to be catheterized. Wasn't there some maggot tale of a catheter tube running down someone's pant leg and out at the hem of his pants? And wasn't there some distasteful realization that someone else had followed him on a trip and experienced the output of this device?

Given that I have an ass-whooping stock seat, I'll continue to stop every 100 miles for gas, fluid in and fluid out. My stopping interval not constrained by my gas tank size, but rather my ass's tolerance for torture.

Back on the road and heading south again, slabbing southward toward Alabama. Crossing the state line, there's a replica of a Saturn V rocket at the first rest stop. My 8 year old son would flip! I'll have to come back and bring him with me. I know there is a NASA tie-in and some rocket related tourism in Huntsville. Also, not on the docket for this trip, but something to consider for the next one, would be Birmingham AL and the Barber Motorsports Musuem.

Exit at US 72W toward Athens, AL. Stop for gas and fluids. I'm an hour early -- it's 4:30 pm and my buddy is set to arrive at the rendezvous point at 5:40 pm. Too sapped of fluids and strength to consider riding, I put my feet up in air conditioned comfort in the local convenience store/ice cream shop. I watch local southern belles in their flip flops and sundresses parade in for cigarettes and lotto tickets. I hear the locals talking about the famous 1000 pound wild boar that was shot by a local 10 year old kid. It was on the news that morning when I left Indy; little did I realize that it was local news where I was headed.

On to the Clements Baptist Church parking lot for our rendezvous. My friend from Indy had not yet arrived.

"You guys waiting for Bob?" I asked.

"Yep" they replied.

"I haven't heard from him yet, have you?" I asked.

"Yeah," they said, "He called us about 20 minutes ago. He should be here any minute."

The 1996 Yellow Magna was off the trailer. It was decked out in saddle bags, memphis fats windshield, tool pouch, and tank bib. Looked fairly pimped compared to my 94 Magna back home. The seller had been riding it to and from work for a year, all but one week in the coldest part of winter, and had been enjoying it. He was selling it to get money to buy a house, he said.

His fishing buddy with the trailer laughed and slapped him on the back.

"He already had one last ride around the parking lot and got his crying out of the way."

"Did you really ride all the way from Indiana today?" They asked me.

"Yep, sure did. Left at about 7:45 this morning." I said.

"And Bob didn't want to ride with you? Must be a manly man!" he said.

"How was your trip?" said the other.

"Smooth sailing"

"What year is that bike?" they asked.

"1982"

"I thought it was early 80's." he said.

Bob pulled up in the taxi. We went over the bike together, observed the surface rust that indicated it had been an outdoor bike for the last while. Noted the after market accessories. Noted the sloppy clutch cable. Fired it up. It idled smoothly without hesitation.

"I'll take it" said Bob.

I was surprised he didn't even take it for a spin around the parking lot first.

Money exchanged hands. The seller and his friend stood by mutely while Bob pulled his riding gear from his luggage. He donned mesh pants and jacket. Seller provided a German army helmet, which of course clashed with the mesh gear but perhaps went with the overall cruiser motif.

What's the best way from here to Nashville? Bob asked.

We were thinking about Natchez Trace, I volunteered.

Wow, that's quite a way west of here, past where we live, the seller replied.

"It's a nice run, though," said his buddy. "I'd be worried about deer by the time you get over there."

They sent us west on US 72 about 20 miles to US 43. Bob took the lead, since he was new to the bike I wanted him to set the pace. We rode into the setting sun, with Bob getting used to his new bike. When we reached US 43 we wandered north into Tennessee, through Columbia. This wasn't exactly the twisty Tennessee road I was looking for, but it was a beautiful evening and it was beautiful countryside. We stopped at a Walmart parking lot.

"Would you test drive this and see what you make of the grinding noise it makes at about 30 mph? He asked.

I obliged, and took it for a lap around town, but was unable to reproduce the behavior he was describing. We looked again at the chain and decided it was loose. I pulled out my toolbox and discovered that I did not have the correct socket size to bust loose an axle on a V45. The socket size for the V30 axle, for which I was equipped, was different.

"Is the chain slipping?" I asked.

"No", he said.

"Shall we shop for a socket, or shall we keep going?"

Let's move. I don't want to miss that home cooked meal in Nashville.

US 43 to US 31. Our directions said North on US 31 to Saturn Parkway. Stopping for gas and looking at a map, wondering, where is Saturn Parkway. A friendly local in a rusted Ford pickup offered help. "Y'all need help? I saw you looking at a map."

I asked about Saturn Parkway and he gave me directions, pointing me in the direction I was heading.

Meanwhile Bob pulled out his cell phone and called Patricia in Nashville.

"Where are we?" he asked me, to relay the information to her.

"Spring Hill" I replied.

"We'll be there in about half an hour," he told her.

"Perfect," she replied, "the barbequed chicken will be ready when you get here."

How did we get so lucky? A home-cooked southern style meal (Patricia is from Mississippi) to be served hot at 10 o'clock at night.

"You can lead," said Bob, "since you seem to know where you're going."

Saturn Parkway would have been pretty hard to miss. This freeway to the Saturn Plant is a freeway indeed. On my eastward jaunt to I-65 I chose not to travel at the allowed 70 mph for fear of deer. I dialed it back to about 60 or 65, hoping not to outrun my headlights along the way.

From I-65 it was just 10 or 15 miles to our friends house. Wandering through an uncharted apartment complex at night, we stumbled right into Miss Patricia's path. Just like we knew where we were going.

"Hey," she said, smiling. "Are ya hungry?"

"Bob, let's unload our bikes later. Let's eat."


The barbecue chicken was delicious. I called my wife to let her know I had arrived to my resting place for the night. She heard Patricia and her friend Jeannie, visiting from Mississippi, laughing in the background. My wife said, "Sounds like you guys are having a good time!"

By contrast, I noticed Bob stepped out into the relative silence of the parking lot to call his wife. Perhaps his choice of accomodations were best kept a secret? I shrugged. It's up to him what to tell and not to tell his wife. "What happens on the road, stays on the road"

We stayed up and talked til 2 in the morning. Rock paper scissors handed me the couch, and Bob got the spare bedroom. I slept well.

At about 8 am Bob tiptoed out of the apartment and went for a walk. The ladies just kept on sleeping. I rolled over on the couch and went back to sleep.

At 9 am I got up and took a shower; the ladies kept on sleeping.

At 10 am Bob took a shower and I watched speed channel on the big screen tv. The ladies kept on sleeping.

Bob and I talked bikes for a while.

"I want to check the transmission fluid," he said.

"There isn't any!" I replied, explaining.

"Where's the battery?" he asked.

"Under the seat"

"How do you get the seat off?"

"Three bolts".

Talking about working on bikes was not enough. We went out to the parking lot, I took my tool chest out of my saddle bag. (This is a Gold Wing; remember you can put everything but the kitchen sink in the saddle bags. The kitchen sink goes in the trunk.)

We tweaked his bike. Adjusted the mirrors, clutch cable. Tightened footpegs.

At about 11:30 am Patricia poked her sleepy head out of the front door. "There you are!" she smiled. "What're y'awl doing?"

"Tinkering," said Bob.

"How old is your bike?" Patricia asked me.

"1982" I replied.

"Almost as old as me," she said.

Looking at the haul of tools I pulled out of my saddlebag, she said, "You've got more tools on your bike than I even own," she said.

"It pays to be prepared when taking a trip like this on a 25-year-old bike," I replied.

Bob and I moped around for a while, but after it became apparent that breakfast was not going to materialize, we said our goodbyes. "Thanks for feeding us! Thanks for letting us crash!" It was noon. So much for hitting the twisties; we'd be good to get home via the big slab before nightfall. We stopped at a Walmart for sunscreen. Bob is wearing that German Army helmet and wishing he had a full face. We grabbed a bite to eat at Subway before hitting I-65 northbound.

Downtown Nashville had pretty busy freeways for a Sunday afternoon. 4 or 5 lanes in each direction for a while. Road hazards in the fast lane, big chunks of pavement missing. I led the way, and Bob put the Magna through its paces behind me.

The Wing hummed along comforably at 70 mph. North out of Nashville some steep grades (by interstate standards) and some gusty crosswinds. I finally found the place where the Wing was unsteady. Big sweepers at 80 mph in a gusty crosswind. Oh, well, Black Betty she's so rock steady ... most of the time. I dialed in back to 70 til I got out of the fiercest crosswinds and had no further troubles.

In Bowling Green, Kentucky we stopped for gas.

"Man, my ass is sore. This seat sucks!" said Bob.

"How does the bike handle at highway speeds in that crosswind?" I asked.

"Handling is great!" he replied.

Bob picked up a pair of 5 dollar sunglasses at the BP, again wishing he had a full-faced helmet.

"Good enough to get me home," he replied.

Stopped for gas again just shy of Louisville. We're doing 100 miles between stops, constrained by our butts, not by the gas tanks. Stretch legs and stomp our feet a little to get the circulation going again. Drink some sweet tea. Helmets on and kickstands up, back on our northward trip.

Louisville had signs posted on their freeways, "Attention motorcyclists, uneven pavement ahead!"

I was shocked to find any municipality acknowledging our existance. Of course, I couldn't see any benefit to the signs. I had to squint to see them, which took my eyes off the uneven pavement.

Cooler air and faster winds as we pressed northward out of Louisville. Rain clouds in the northwest. By Seymour, IN, birthplace of hoosier musician John Mellencamp, we were doused in rain. I dialed in back to about 65 mph and pressed northward.

With the rain pouring down, Bob stopped by the side of the interstate. Was the rain too much for him? Would he stop under the overpass and wait for it to stop? We'd never discussed our rain riding preferences.

I stopped about 1000 feet ahead of him. He got off the bike and starting digging in his saddle bags. I left my bike roadside and started hiking back towards him. When I'm about half way there, he gets back on the bike. I start back for mine. He overtakes me just as I'm kicking up the sidestand.

At Columbus, IN we stopped for food.

"What was the trouble back there?" I asked.

"My right saddle bag came open and stuff was hanging out. I thought I'd better stop before I lost anything"

"Did you lose anything?"

"Nope, I caught it just in time."

"I'm not used to wearing gear at all," said Bob. "This rain is no trouble at all in this gear, compared to riding in shirt sleeves."

I looked at him. He was wearing mesh. I chose not to tell him that in addition to my mesh super suit that I was wearing, I also had a complete rain suit in my right saddlebag should the need arise. It was not a heavy rain, and showed signs of easing up, so I didn't bother digging through the bags to put on the rain suit.

Two more miles north of Columbus and the rain picked up again. Semis blasting past me kicking rain on my windshield, my face mask. It was nerve racking. I signaled and exited the interstate at Edinburgh.

"What's wrong?" he asked at the light.

"I'd rather stay off the interstate in this rain if that's okay. The spray makes it pretty hard to see."

"Fine by me."

"Thanks again for making this trip with me. This is a record breaking trip for me," Bob said, "I've never traveled this far by bike before."

"My pleasure!" I said.

"We traveled up US 31 from Edinburgh to Greenwood to Indianapolis. Ironically, now that I had exited the interstate the rain stopped. We went our separate ways, each to our respective homes.

About 10 miles from home the skies opened up and poured like the days of Noah. I remember the dumbfounded look of astonishment of the passengers in the minivan on I-465 as I rode beside them.

"That guy must be crazy!"

I am mindful of javaman's case of "get-home-itis" that bit him hard within a mile of his home a few years ago. I think of that as I pass that memorable intersection a mile from my house; the one where I broke the rear tire loose on Black Betty coming around a corner in the rain about a month ago. I didn't know a 750 lb bike could fishtail so well. I don't have any idea how I kept it upright that day.

I sail past this intersection with no problems.

Soaked to the skin, I pulled into my driveway. Pulled off my soaked boots, soaked mesh gear, soaked socks. Opened up a frosty beverage and sank into my Lazy Boy. 850 miles! A good fare-well ride for Black Betty! Tomorrow she gets cleaned up, and listed on eBay.