Larry Black
Editor’s Note: Earlier this year, Sweet Home’s Larry Black completed a cross country journey via Honday Goldwing motorcycle and chronicled part of his adventure in an article for us. It was so popular, he’s agreed to tell us more.
For The New Era
In my first installment of this story (September 24, 2003, The New Era) I mentioned that a tornado system had delayed the westward portion of the trip.
What happened in the spring of 2003 was the worst year for tornadoes in recorded memory. In May by the 15th there had been more funnels counted than in any full month ever. The damage to trees and road signs had shown up starting in West Virginia. It was hard to tell how recent the storms had passed but the areas hit were constantly showing up all the way into Indiana. The other noticeable effect of the storms was high water. Now, as I passed through Indiana, the wind damage ended but the high water worsened all the way to St. Louis.
The ride was pleasant as the bike hummed along the freeway. Creeks and small streams were flooded as were pastures and wood lots in the low areas. The air was fresh and clean full of scents of spring with a sprinkle or two along the way. Then came St. Louis, good-bye fresh air, hello heavy traffic and crazy drivers.
By then I was hungry and needed a break so the first IHOP restaurant I came to was where I would stop. My mouth was set for a crispy chicken salad and IHOP made the best. As the exits passed by with no IHOP to be seen, it became a battle of tummy vs. stubborn plan. Finally in Columbia, Mo., I found one with the best crispy chicken salads to date.
Columbia is close to the small towns that I grew up in. In about an hour and half west, I would turn off of I-70 and take the state or country road to my cousin’s farm. Another hour and half west would bring me to my Mom and Pop’s house in Kansas City, Ks.
The weather and tornadoes moved in for the week and stayed in the picture until I crossed into Colorado.
We have all seen storm damage on TV. On a small screen the impact seems less and not real. But when you drive by foundations that have been stripped of the houses atop them and those houses have been shredded to small pieces that are piled in the brush or simply scattered over miles of terrain, you truly grasp the power and terror these tornadoes generate.
This system that passed within 10 blocks of my folks house was rated F4, one less than the worst – an F5. The path of damage and destruction was eight miles long. The miracle was that only one person died.
The modern early warning system in place throughout tornado alley saves many lives each year. Every TV and radio station carries the status and location of any storm in the area. Air raid sirens wail when funnels are picked up on the radar. The TV and radio tell and show the projected path while telling those in danger to take cover immediately. Cover is most often a basement or an interior bathroom or closet.
One week after the day of my arrival, I take leave from my family. The long stretches of interstate are done. Back roads and scenic routes will take me home.
The garage door opens on the day of departure. The day is clear and cool and we will head south out of Kansas City, Ks. picking up US-56 west to the southwest corner of the state. These are the roads I like, rural and scenic with good pavement due to the lack of heavy traffic. It is good to breathe the fresh air of the country.
My sensors pick up the temperature and density of the air, relaying that along with the exhaust gas temp to my onboard computer, which then adjusts the fuel air mixture of the injectors. Oh yeah, I’m – the machine – the Gold Wing. I get to tell this part of the story and hope to do a better job than my rider. Don’t get me wrong he’s a good rider, but prone to human faults not a precision machine like myself.
Unlike the humans who make me, I improve with each generation. Even now as I cruise down the road there are new machines on the drawing board that will surpass me and all the other brands and sizes in use today.
My rider’s first machine was a British made Triumph Bonneville. In 1965 it was rated the top performance bike on the market. The 650cc air-cooled twin weighed 400 lbs and could do the quarter mile in the high 13’s. Top end was about 115 and the only modifications made to get this performance were bolt on carburetor and exhaust kits.
My engine is 1832cc and a flat six cylinder opposed configuration. I am water-cooled; electronically fuel injected and can out perform that old Brit bike in spite of weighing 900 lbs. I will concede the Bonny got 60 MPG on the road whereas I average about 46 on this trip albeit on regular not 100 octane. I can also deliver my rider to his destination at the end of the day alert and looking things over not exhausted, “buzzy”, and looking for sleep.
Well, back to the trip in Kansas. After a couple of hours of pleasant cruising through the rich humid air the rain started to fall. My rider kept our speed up and my fairing and windshield kept him dry in only his Levis, jacket and chaps. When we stopped for fuel and coffee, Larry broke down and put his rain gear on, what a wuss!
Cruising the road, snicken through my five speeds in the little towns, we broke into clear skies with sunshine. Hwy. 56 merged with 50 and we motored into Dodge City.
Once again as we passed through the flat wheat lands the sky began to darken in the southwest dead ahead. The farther we went the darker it got. As we entered the little town of Sublette, Ks., the sky ahead was absolutely as black as my paint. You’ve heard of tornado alley well, we were on the main street! As we pulled into a gas station, a car that had been pacing us for 40 miles, rolled down his window and advised us that the radio was reporting funnels on the ground 40 miles ahead. Larry decided the day’s ride was done, a wise decision.
When he came out of the Cattleman’s Café big raindrops were splatting down but the air was still. A sheriff’s deputy had recommended a motel that had a large carport for the manager. Luckily it was large enough for his car and me. The cinder-block building looked to be stout enough to weather all but a direct hit. So as they say “You picks your cards and you takes your chances.”
The 7 o-clock skies turned black as midnight with the lightning strikes coming hard and fast. Then the sirens began to wail their warning and the wind howled and blasted the rain in sideways sheets. Scary is the best word to describe the black darkness of the night and the bright, blinding flashes. The crack and boom of thunder, the howl and shriek of the wind accompanied wail after wail of the siren. Then suddenly, relative q u i e t. The siren stops its urgent cry, the wind dies, but the rain still comes hard and straight down in a soft drone. Then the “all clear” of the siren blast as the sky lets the last light of day glimmer for a short hour.
Morning arrives and it is still raining hard. Gusty winds blow it in sheets that pound the standing water more like a lake than the ground. As the 11 o-clock check out time nears, the rain lets up to a drizzle but the gusty wind continues. Larry finally bungees the pack, tent and sleeping pad to my passenger area and rolls us through the small lakes (i.e. puddles) to the highway. The funnels had hit 20 miles south of us and had done little damage to the open country. Today a constant wind with high gusts was coming out of the north and as we turned west on US 160 I was leaning hard to the right just to hold a line on the road. The flat western Kansas ground was saturated with standing water and with sloppy mud in all the fields. The ride was gray, dismal, wet, windy, and uncomfortable, tough going for humans but a piece of cake for a machine.
As the soft rubber compound of my radial tires gripped the wet pavement of the rural highway something seemed out of place. The power line that marched by in straight military precision was out of whack. First a crooked cross arm then a split top, more with no cross arms at all. Next a broken pole and as we looked ahead 15 or more poles were broken and laying out in the pasture 50 to 100 feet out of line. When this occurred who could say but probably no more than a week earlier or perhaps last night.
Thankfully that was the last tornado damage we saw and as the rain quit the wind died and white clouds showed against the gray on the horizon. A small patch of blue sky, my air temp readout goes to 57 after 2 hours of constant 55. A breakfast/lunch stop just before crossing into Colorado and my clock gets set back one hour for Mountain Daylight time. The deeper into Colorado we go the warmer it gets. Puffy white clouds drift in blue skies.
The road slowly starts to heave and roll, then dip and climb to a real curve that skirts a small canyon -wow!! There are mountains on the horizon, mesas in the foreground, with temperatures now in the 70’s. What a gorgeous day!
We hit I-25 north and rest at the rest stop where the chaps come off and the liner comes out. Zippered vents are opened on the leather jacket to cool my rider and sunglasses shade his eyes as the snow topped mountains gleam in the distance. We are coming into the Rockies and I am anxious to show my rider how I’ll do in real mountains. Steep grades, high altitude, sharp curves, yummy let me at em!
Whoa, what’s that, oh yeah, who could miss that sound. It’s a brother machine, a bored out 103 cubic inch Harley out of Minnesota. Our riders exchange this and that and then the Harley is off to Santa Fe, N.M., we go 30 miles north and pick up US 160 again.
So far 160 has been a road of promise on the horizon, now it produces as only a road into high mountains can. The vistas of valleys and far peaks compete with clear cold streams at roadside framed by blooms of all kinds -and shrubs filled with birds. On the machine side I’m eating up these roads with my computerized engine controls adjusting for altitude while my advanced suspension systems will handle the curves far beyond my rider’s abilities. We purr into a high mountain valley with the town of Monte Vista sitting toward the west end at more than 8,000 ft. on the banks of the Rio Grande River.
Can it get better then this? You bet!
A tank of mid-grade for me and sizzling steak fajitas washed down by a glass of merlot for Larry. As we leave the cantina, a local points us to a place to camp by the river. Larry buys a bottle of merlot and chunk of Swiss cheese to keep him company while he fills out his journal. I get parked out of sight by the road while camp is set up in a meadow about 200 yards behind a locked gate. As Larry is sipping wine and writing a crack like a rifle bullet strikes the water near by, WHAP! Another one. What’s going on? Somebody’s playing a sick joke? Beavers, yup the ole beaver tail slap really had the old rider going there for a minute. Beaver hah!
What a night after what a day. There must have been about a dozen hoot owls working those woods whether for mice or mate, I don’t know, but they really gave a hoot-thousands of them. Then when all is still after midnight, spotlights began shining on me and down the road past the gate followed by more cars and more spotlights. What is going on? Sheriffs‚ cruisers! They think I’ve been stolen and stashed in hiding. Then when Larry comes up and starts to explain one deputy gets exited because someone’s down there in the dark throwing rocks, har, har! Beavers, those guys sure get people going. After the latest beaver terror subsides the deputies stand around admiring whom else, but yours truly.
Well you’ve got to admit spotlights on black and chrome under a big moon on the Rio Grand at 8,000 ft. doesn’t get much better than that.