Saturday, April 20, 2002 McComb, Mississippi
It had been just five years since I last drove through McComb, Mississippi,
and it hadn't changed enough to notice. McComb is still a small country town beside the interstate.
We got up well after sunup and took our time walking over to a nearby restaurant for breakfast. By
the traffic up and down the main street, it was obvious to one and all that there were a number of
motorcyclists in town. By now, McComb is used to this annual spring pilgrimage and we were greeted
by friendly smiles wherever we went. Shortly after noon riders began the slow but steady migration
across the interstate to Shane's huge yard.
It would be futile to attempt to describe the Crawfish Boil to anyone
who hasn't attended such a fest, so I won't. Those who have been to one know what it's like,
and those who haven't should try to get to one. Russ and I each had a great time, getting to meet
many of the celebrities of the long distance riding crowd and even visit with a few. I felt like a
teenager at a rock stars convention.
Along with many others, I offer my heartfelt thanks to Shane and his
lovely family for putting this event on year after year.
Sunday, April 21, 2002 McComb, Mississippi
Knowing that most of this day would be spent grinding out the miles,
Russ and I made no attempt to get an early start. After the bikes were packed and ready, we rode
over to Shane's to say our farewells. Nearly all the other attendees had already left, and the
clean-up was in its final stages.
Back in McComb, it was a beautiful Mississippi morning in which we
fueled up at noon and departed in the 83° warmth. According to the odometer on the Concours, we
had traveled just over 6740 miles since I had left Glennallen, not even halfway yet. Today's riding
included a planned visit to Mayor Corky down in Lower Alabama so we angled across southern Mississippi
toward Mobile.
Mobile is, to me, the archetypal deep south city, and I retraced a
path taken many years ago to enter from the west side on US-98. The stately old oak trees weave a
seemingly solid canopy over the broad Dauphin Street as it nears the old city center. Along with
the sight comes the memory of getting my semi stuck under one of the branches after I'd turned onto
a side street, with the trailer on one side of the branch and the exhaust stack on the other. With
the aid of a police officer to block traffic while I maneuvered to extricate the tractor, I'd managed
to avoid becoming one of the area's major attractions.
Russ and I elected to do a little sightseeing while at Mobile, and
exited the interstate to visit Battleship Park on the edge of Mobile Bay. We had quite an enjoyable
time, clambering up and down ladders on the USS Alabama, and then touring the aviation exhibit in its
new building. Staying until closing time, we knew we'd have to make good time getting on over to
see Da Mayor.
Our time spent with Dr. Reed went by all too swiftly, and left us
wishing we'd had the full day to enjoy his enlightening company. But we had already used up most
of the cushion we had when we left Blaine, and there were still two more corners to visit before we
could stamp FINI on our tour. Somewhere around 11:00 PM we were back on I-10 eastbound.
Monday, April 22, 2002 I-10 near Milton, Florida
The dread I-10 high speed, run-over-you-if-you-aren't-doing-triple-digits
traffic never materialized, and we just continued riding at our pace just a little over the posted limit,
passing a few vehicles, and being passed by even fewer. Not very many miles after getting back on
the slab, Russ and I had one of those miscommunications that led to us inadvertently splitting up once
more. Russ had been leading, doing a fine job of it, but I needed to make a brief pit stop so I
passed him with the intention of leading us off at the next exit. Russ misread my intention (I
hadn't signaled him properly, or if I did, he couldn't see it in the dark of the night) and passed
me again, only to speed off into the distance as I was riding down the exit ramp. Since I was
already off the interstate, I continued to take care of my business, tinkered a little with the bike
to kill time just in case Russ turned around and came back looking for me, and then got back on I-10
to look for Russ. No sign of him. Oh well, we both knew where we were headed next - Key West - and
we'd probably be there late tonight or early in the morning. We could get back together then.
One of the many benefits of being on the LDRiders list is the advice
you get from other riders, the way they will share mistakes they have seen others make, or that they
themselves have made, and suggestions for avoiding those mistakes. Sometime in the past I read
advice regarding parking a bike in first gear, rolled forward against engine compression, before
putting the sidestand down and leaning the bike over. That was something I know I'd done in the past,
but neither consciously nor consistently. However, on this trip I was very conscientious about doing it
every single time I parked the bike. The bike never came close to rolling forward off the sidestand,
regardless what sort of grade I was parked on.
Another message related an incident in which the rider, in the wee
hours of the morning, after many hours in the saddle, attempted to pull into a gas station but hit
the curb and dropped his 'Wing onto its side. Thus forewarned, I was extra cautious in the early
morning hours, but not quite cautious enough.
Somewhere in Florida, just west of the junction of I-10 and I-75 a
few hours before sunup, I pulled off the interstate, crossed over the side road and pulled over to
the edge of the on-ramp to park and check my map. As I recall, I was also getting chilly and had
planned to put on my Widder vest.
The pavement had received an additional strip about 18" wide along
the right hand edge. As I stopped, I slipped the Concours into first gear, pushed it forward against
compression, and lowered the sidestand. Carefully dismounting to the left, I lifted my right leg over
the seat and watched the bike tip over to the right, with no way to catch it. I had made the mistake
of letting the contrast between the new dark strip and the older gray asphalt convince me that the
right hand edge was raised and would cause the bike to lean to the left. The opposite was actually
true, and the bike was leaning to the right even before I dismounted. Bummer! This is why I carry
a spare right hand footpeg bracket with me on my trips. Somehow the bracket had survived the spill
on the Alcan, but a simple tip-over snapped it.
Not only was the bike on its side, but also the angle was enough to
tip it beyond the horizontal, and there was less than a foot between the top of the bike and
guardrail, so there was no room to squat beside the bike to lift it in the usual manner. This was
not going to be easy. About that time I was getting a bit unhappy with myself.
While I stood there surveying the situation, traffic started flowing
down the ramp and onto the highway. It must have been time for people to start driving to their
jobs in that area. Now back home, all you need to do in a situation like that is to wave for help
and within a few minutes someone will pull over and lend a hand. Florida isn't quite the same as
Alaska. No fewer than ten cars zoomed by, no matter how vigorously I waved my flashlight.
someone must have taken notice, because soon a State Police car came flying the wrong way up the
ramp, blue lights flashing. The officer, after ascertaining that no one was injured, helped me get
the bike back up onto its two wheels. He was obviously concerned that I might have been too groggy
to handle the bike, or was incapacitated in some way, because he stayed, talking, for some time.
By this time, of course, I was wide-awake, and no longer in need of donning the electric vest.
We visited for a few minutes, during which he told me that he was an MSF instructor, and as such was
especially concerned when he'd been told there was a "motorcycle wreck" on the ramp. A wreck of a
motorcycle maybe, but not a wrecked motorcycle, thank goodness. I thanked him profusely for his
help, and then remounted to go find a lighted parking lot in which to change the footpeg bracket.
That parking lot was found within a few miles, and the broken bracket
found its way to a dumpster. While there, I had the opportunity to help an elderly gentleman (and
he probably was thinking that he was being helped by an elderly gentleman) who had no taillights on
the back of his pickup. One of my fuses took care of the problem, along with some electrical tape
to insulate the offending bare wire. It's nice to be able to pass on the help we get from others.
The rest of the day was relatively uneventful, even including the rush
hour traffic in the Miami area. Fortunately, I had paid close attention to recommendations of list
members (something I had neglected to do when passing through the lengthy parking lot that is labeled
I-10 in Houston) and kept moving at a reasonable pace all the way down to the intersection of the
Sawgrass Expressway with I-75. That is, until I ran out of gas.
Not really out of gas, as I discovered later, but at the time it
appeared I was. There's something about Florida that doesn't agree with me and gas. Prior to
this, the only time I've ever had to call AAA due to being out of gas was in 1989, just west of
Orlando. That time my tank was dry, and the gauge and low fuel light had both been warning me for
some time. But this time I knew I should have had a couple of gallons in my fuel cell.
Nevertheless, there I was, stopped on the side of the freeway, waiting for a can of gasoline.
Thankfully, the sun was low on the horizon, and there was a mild breeze blowing. In my full
Roadcrafter, I was a tad overdressed for standing around on a warm Southern Florida evening.
A few more miles that night was enough for me, and at Florida City
I found an inexpensive motel with a restaurant nearby, and called it a day. Tomorrow would be
corner Numero Tres (when in Cuba del Norte, speak as the Cubans... ).
Tuesday, April 23, 2002 Florida City, Florida
Checking my cell phone this morning, I found that Russ had left a
message on my voice mail. He had continued on to Key West the night before and checked in to a
motel along the beach, to which he gave me directions (and which I promptly forgot).
While the temperatures in this part of Florida were no higher than in
many places I'd already been riding, the humidity was something I couldn't bear for long. There
wasn't a hint of a breeze, and even in the cool of the morning, with the sun a barely visible blob
above the murky horizon, I would perspire freely with the slightest exertion.
Leaving the motel around 7:00 AM after a delicious breakfast at a
nearby restaurant, I found myself moving along smartly behind what looked like a local delivery truck.
At least he knew where it was safe to make good time, and when it was time to slow to the speed limit.
After I lost this first local guide, I made it a habit to check out the license plate of the
ahead of me. Florida is thoughtful enough to provide the name of the county on the bottom of the
plate, which made it easy to determine when I was following a local by the word "Monroe" in that spot
and, assuming that these drivers were familiar with speed enforcement patterns in their own locales,
I depended upon them to provide me with a "rabbit" escort as I sought to get to Key West in the least
amount of time. This system, along with my recent experience coming west, worked even better on my
eastbound leg as I was able to make it from Key West to Key Largo in just 2 hours and 3 minutes.
As I rode across the Keys Highway, enjoying the warm sun and the cooling
effect of the nearby ocean, several times I noticed swimmers and waders far out from shore, and only up
to their thighs in water. It certainly made me wish I had swimming trunks, and the time to take
advantage of the warm water and white sand beaches. Alas, duty called.
Before leaving on this trip I had queried members of the ldriders list
who either lived in Southern Florida or were familiar with the highway to Key West as to the speed one
could expect to travel between Key West and the mainland. Everyone gave the same answer: Beware, as
along that highway speed limits are heavily enforced. It was with pleasure that I noted the maximum
presence of LEO's to be at either end, with much lighter enforcement through the middle section.
Consequently, I arrived at Key West over an hour ahead of my anticipated schedule.
My early arrival allowed me time to visit the landbound buoy that
marked the southernmost spot in this southernmost community in the Continental U. S., take the requisite
photo, and then find the local post office from which to mail proof of my visit back to the Four Corners
headquarters. While standing there in the parking lot next to my bike, I was approached by a local
motorcyclist and we enjoyed a brief discussion of the joys of our mutual avocation. Then it was off
to find Russ at the location which I was no longer able to recall. While riding around in this
tourist trap town, I was amazed at the sheer numbers of scooters seemingly everywhere. As I drew
closer to what I presumed to be the center of the "downtown" section of the city, pedestrian traffic
became so heavy that vehicular movement was barely perceptible. I couldn't get away from here
quickly enough!