Shark Week officially ended the previous evening, and it was time to pack all of our belongings and hope that they fit into the limited space we had available on our bikes. Having bought a Harley shirt at every dealer that we visited plus having won massively at the raffle, that was proving to be quite a challenge. Even more daunting was the prospect of fitting a newly purchased sweatshirt into a space large enough for a hanky. You might wonder why one would purchase a thick, heavy sweatshirt when the area temperatures had not dropped below 97 degrees in a week. Mutt Ron was wondering exactly the same thing as he jumped up and down on his overstuffed suitcase, trying to force it closed. Eventually he succeeded (the hanky was sacrificed), but the prospect of the suitcase exploding open while zooming down the highway dogged him all the way home.
We loaded up the iron steeds and said our sad goodbyes to our fellow Road Gliders, the few who were left. It seems that Road Gliders like to awaken and ride off at extremely early hours. Not us - we waited until 6:00 a.m. We set off under overcast conditions, which, considering the fact that the previous five days saw temperatures exceed the century mark, were quite welcome. You know that you've adjusted to the warm climate when you feel that it's necessary to dawn your heavy leather jackets when it's "only" 86 degrees. The clouds lasted for about two hours and soon the sun came out to remind us that the Mayans probably were right and the end of the world is imminent. Off came the leather jackets.
Our health had held out during the trip, but at this point the physical well being of the gallant duo was beginning to show signs of weakness. Mutter Mark had awakened to a head cold prior to setting out and Mutt Ron executed a dismount during the first leg of the return trip that would make Dudley Do-Right cringe. He aggravated a herniated lower disc that had him hobbling around like Tim Conway's little old man character on the old Carol Burnett Show. Despite these challenges we soldiered on, blasting through Des Moines, turning south and flying through Kansas City, on to Wichita, the temperature climbing as we ventured further and further south. We were making excellent time when Mutt Ron's bike suddenly went silent. He pulled in the clutch, guided the bike to the shoulder of the freeway and quietly coasted to a stop. We both scratched our heads. It couldn't be out of gas, could it? We had only traveled 180 miles, yet indeed that was the case - the fuel tank was bone dry. Apparently even the fuel tank was sweating in the heat.
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| Mutt Ron indicates his optimism regarding the ability of his suitcase to remain intact. |
Our health had held out during the trip, but at this point the physical well being of the gallant duo was beginning to show signs of weakness. Mutter Mark had awakened to a head cold prior to setting out and Mutt Ron executed a dismount during the first leg of the return trip that would make Dudley Do-Right cringe. He aggravated a herniated lower disc that had him hobbling around like Tim Conway's little old man character on the old Carol Burnett Show. Despite these challenges we soldiered on, blasting through Des Moines, turning south and flying through Kansas City, on to Wichita, the temperature climbing as we ventured further and further south. We were making excellent time when Mutt Ron's bike suddenly went silent. He pulled in the clutch, guided the bike to the shoulder of the freeway and quietly coasted to a stop. We both scratched our heads. It couldn't be out of gas, could it? We had only traveled 180 miles, yet indeed that was the case - the fuel tank was bone dry. Apparently even the fuel tank was sweating in the heat.
The Road Glide looked lonely sitting at the side of the road, a point estimated to be approximately 95 miles south of Wichita. We know this because the bike had stopped at a sign informing us that we were in fact 95 miles south of Wichita. 
The only thing to occupy the time was to stare at that sign while waiting for Mutt Mark to ride off in search of fuel. Truth be told, there was one other thing to occupy the time - listen to and absorb the taunts of the occasional jeering child and truckers delighted by the fact that one of their nemesis bikers was sidelined. It's not clear what the fascination with motorcycles on the side of the road is, but the truckers seem to get great joy out of tooting their horns and small children - large children, too, it seems - seem compelled to wave with delight at you while they scream by in the air-conditioned comfort of their annoying cage. After what seemed like a century, the relief fuel arrived. We poured it in, topped off at the closest station and set off for Oklahoma City.We had been riding for about 14 hours at this point and considered stopping. After a brief discussion we decided that we should try to get through Oklahoma City that evening so we wouldn't have to deal with morning traffic. Obviously we were delirious, because, looking back at it, the prospect of traffic jams on the freeways of Oklahoma City is ridiculous. More so given the fact that the following day was Saturday. Stopping, it turns out, really would have been the wise thing, for the link from the southbound interstate to the westbound interstate turned out to be a toll road. Anyone who rides a motorcycle despises toll roads. Having to pull up, get the bike in neutral, put the bike on the side stand, fish out money, pay, then reverse it all seems to take more time than kick starting a panhead. It's even worse when one does not have the correct change and all booths are unmanned. To address this issue the good state of Oklahoma tried to head off the problem with one change machine just ahead of the one change basket into which the traveler is to toss his coins (but not pennies!). Dutifully we pulled up, put the bikes in neutral, leaned them over on the side stand, fished the bills from our wallets, fed the bills into the change machine………….and that's when the trouble began. Seems the change machine, the ONLY change machine, was unable to accept the dollar bills. No matter which bill we tried, the machine refused to accept it. Left with no alternative we decided that the prudent thing to do was to…….blow through the toll booth. As we did so, alarms blared, lights flashed, and attack dogs were unleashed. We felt like Steve McQueen - but with even cooler motorcycles. We escaped, but we expect to receive invoices from the state of Oklahoma for $1.15 in our mailboxes very soon.
Incredibly it got worse. By the time we got onto the west side of the huge metropolis of Oklahoma City, it was almost 10:00 p.m. and we were badly in need of food, showers, and sleep. Mostly showers. We pulled into the first accommodations we could find, only to find that………they had only one room left. With one bed. Being the only room left apparently triggers an alarm that sends the price up, for as the clerk quoted us the price of the room, she watched the price simultaneously rise by 10%. She blamed the owner. The image of a dastardly owner resembling Mr. Burns from South Park sitting at a console spying on us came to mind, he greedily rubbing his hands anticipating what he would do with his bonus of eight dollars.
We wearily accepted, only because we weren't sure we had the strength to get back on the bikes. After a brief fight over who would sleep on the floor, each actually fighting FOR the floor, victory was claimed by Mutter Mark as he collapsed and passed out on the couch.
Mutt Ron gave in and collapsed on the bed and drifted off to sleep, happily dreaming of 18-wheelers filled with laughing waving children, the trucks happily tooting their horns - as they drove off 2000 foot high cliffs, falling to the ground, exploding into tiny bits. As Mr. Burns would say, "Excellent!"
Things we learned today:
- More change in the pockets is a good thing.
- When the gas gauge reads "Lo" the gas really is "Lo."
- Oklahoma is NOT O.K.
