An account of my very first motorcycle trip (Oct, 1984)
Denver, CO to Tulsa, OK and Return
By Martin R. Albright
© Martin Albright, 2004
Account Begins 12-19-03 in Laramie, WY
Continued 05-09-04 at Camp Arifjan, Kuwait
I've been reading a lot of motorcycle "travelogues" over the past several weeks, now that the bike has long been put away and the ice and snow are on the ground. It makes me feel good to read them - like it's reminding me that I can still ride, someday, or that the Winter and cold won't last forever. Typically, when I read these accounts, I compare them with my own, usually the most recent trips I've taken, both long and short.
But every now and then, I read an account of someone taking his very first long-distance motorcycle trip, and it gets me to thinking about my first long-distance trip. The more I think about it, the more remarkable it seems that I didn't come to more grief than I did. I guess this is a typical symptom of middle-age, though - looking back at one's youth and thinking "My God, why did I ever take the stupid risks that I did? And how did I ever survive it?"
So, this is going to be, within the limits of my recollection, an account of my first motorcycle trip, which took place almost 20 years ago. Obviously, many of the memories have faded, and so, necessarily, a lot of the detail will be missing. Still, it was such a vivid experience that parts of it have remained with me to this day.
The trip began in October of 1984. I'd gotten my first bike, a "chopped" Honda CL-450 two years before, but that one was such a piece of junk that I wouldn't dare ride it further than the city limits. Eventually, it stopped running altogether, but in the meantime, my brother Bruce had sold me his 1974 Honda CB-750K. By 1984 it wasn't in the greatest shape. Bruce and I had lived in downtown Denver and parked the bike on the street for over a year. So the paint was faded, the seat cover torn, and the windshield cracked. It had at least 20,000 miles on it, and if it had ever had a tune-up, it was before I got ahold of it. I never even changed the oil, since I wasn't sure how to do it. The bike had aftermarket "ape-hanger" handlebars that put the handgrips slightly lower than my shoulders, a "trident"-style sissy bar, and a "batwing" type fork-mounted fairing, but was otherwise stock. But it started every time I pushed the button, so I rode it all over the place. Before October of 1984 the longest I'd ever gone was a 250 mile loop from Denver to Laramie, Wyoming, over to Cheyenne and then back to Denver.
For years I'd been itching to go on a long motorcycle ride. Bruce had ridden the CB-750 to Washington DC and back in the Summer of 1982, and I was eager to replicate his experiences. But for some reason, I couldn't take the trip in the Summer of 1984 (I can't remember why.) So, I waited and waited. Finally, I had accrued so much vacation time at work that I had to take some time off, and I decided I would take my big motorcycle trip in October of 1984.
Honda CB750. Mine wasn't nearly as nice as this restored classic, but it was the same basic bike
Why October? I have no idea. Looking back now, two decades later, it seems foolish. Yes, certainly people who live in the Sun Belt states like Florida or Arizona or Texas can plan an October bike trip without worrying, but my starting point was in Denver!
Overall, it wasn't a particularly ambitious plan. I had several relatives living in Tulsa, Oklahoma (including my sister, Mary) and a grandmother nearby in Bentonville, Arkansas. So the idea was that I would ride to Oklahoma, spend a little bit of time in Tulsa visiting with family and seeing again my old stomping grounds in the Osage hills, where I'd lived as a very young boy, head over to Arkansas, and then head back. Not as involved as a cross-country trip, but for me it was plenty, and it would require some long riding days.
My first hint of disaster struck on the night before I was about to leave, when a fast-moving snowstorm dumped a couple of inches onto the roads. Now, I'll ride year round in the cold, but if there's snow or ice on the road, I'll leave the bike home. Seeing the snow on the ground, I decided it was prudent for me to delay my departure by a day. Keep in mind this was before the likes of the Weather Channel or any other way of checking the long-term weather forecasts, so I was going strictly off what I saw on the evening news and in the papers. I had absolutely no idea what I would do if I got down to Oklahoma and then a big blizzard hit on the day I was supposed to return to Colorado. Oddly, I don't even remember considering the question, even though I'd lived in Colorado for over 10 years, certainly long enough to know that snow and even blizzards in October are not uncommon. I guess that can be chalked up to the boundless optimism of youth.
Part one: Denver to Tulsa
In any case, I did finally leave, a day late, on a glorious clear morning. Any of you who have lived in the colder climates know that when you get snow, and then the next day it's clear, it is usually bitter cold, and this day was no exception. It was 28 degrees when I left the house in Littleton, headed for my first stop at Limon, about 85 miles to the Southeast.
Before I go further, I should tell you what "equipment" I had. As with my October travel plans, I am amazed to this day at how little I planned and the meager equipment I had.
I had a very cheap leather jacket, my Army field jacket with liner, a pair of jeans and long johns, and a cheap set of insulated coveralls that were way too short for my legs, even standing up. Sitting down, the bottoms of the coverall pants rose to mid-calf. On my feet I was wearing a pair of military jump boots, uninsulated, unpadded, and probably about the worst thing a person can wear in cold weather except for bare feet. I had a very inexpensive full-face helmet, with a dark tinted visor (and no clear visor to switch to when it got dark - which became a problem later on.) My "luggage" consisted of a nylon gym bag big enough to hold a couple of changes of clothing. Other than that, all I had were leather military gloves, a few maps, and a couple hundred dollars in cash. No credit cards, no checks (I had neither a credit card nor a checking account at this time.) Nowadays I wouldn't think of going on a day trip without a good jacket, a comfortable helmet, heavy gloves, and a rainsuit, (not to mention a cell phone and a couple of credit cards) but at the age of 22 I was either ignorant or optimistic, or more likely both.
Right after I hit the road, at around 6:00 AM (it was still dark), I knew I was going to have a problem with the cold. Even though I had several layers on, I could feel the cold wind biting through, and of course my poor feet were out in the breeze with only a single layer of leather and a pair of socks to protect them. Still, I figured that it would warm up nicely once the sun came up, so out I rode. I took US Highway 85 down to the then-small town of Castle Rock (before Castle Rock became a suburb of Denver) in the pre-dawn darkness, and then rode across the plains along State Highway 86. By the time I'd cleared Kiowa, the last town before Limon (40 miles away), I knew my feet were going to be frozen. About an hour and a half after I left, I pulled into Limon for my first rest. I rolled into the parking lot of the Rip Griffin Truck Stop off of Interstate 70. Whenever my family would take vacation trips back to Oklahoma, we would always stop at Rip Griffin's to use the restroom, get water or snacks, and so on. Sometimes we'd even eat there, so I always had fond memories of the truck stop. I figured I'd walk in, let my feet warm up and drink a couple cups of coffee until the sun came up and I could continue my travels.
I must have looked like hell in my too-short coveralls, old Army jacket and teeth chattering from the ride, so I stood patiently by the "please wait to be seated" sign for about 10 minutes, working my toes to try and get my numb, frozen feet to thaw out. After being ignored by the staff, I disgustedly walked back to the bike and rode a short distance to the Union 76 truck stop on the East side of town, where I had breakfast and much coffee. Not sure why I got ignored at the Rip Griffin, perhaps I looked disreputable, like a hitchhiker or bum, or maybe just like a cheap tipper, but to this day I will not patronize a Rip Griffin truck stop.
After breakfast it had warmed up considerably, so I rode off to the East. Since my family had many times made the journey to Oklahoma following the Interstate, I wanted to take a different route, so where US 40 diverged from I-70 just East of town, I followed 40 down to Kit Carson. Just outside Hugo, the bike began to cough and sputter, and I switched to reserve at only about 120 miles. This was much shorter than the 140-150 miles I was used to getting on a tank, but I figured it was either because of my excessive speed or because of the weight I had on the bike. In any case, there was a gas station in Kit Carson, so I didn't have to do any walking. By now the sun was well up and the temperature was rising as well, and I continued to drop in altitude, so the weather turned quite balmy. By the time I got to Lamar, I had doffed the Field jacket and was just wearing the coveralls and the leather jacket. By now, my feet warm and the sun up, I was really enjoying the ride, just feeling the miles unwind as I rolled through the Great Plains.
In the tacky tourist trap of Dodge City, Kansas, I stopped for gas and met up with another biker, an older man (Ha! He was probably no older then than I am now!) riding a really odd motorcycle: A Royal Enfield single! He was English and was on his way across country or something. We would have ridden together part way, but he was headed West, not East, so we wished each other well and went our separate ways. Kind of put me in my place in terms of complaining about my travels, though. Hell, at least I had an electric starter, 4 cylinders and a disk brake, this guy was making it across the country in a one-lunger with a kick starter and drum brakes!
Dropping down to Coldwater, I stopped briefly for a soft drink and continued along US 160 to Medicine Lodge and then Wellington. The stretch between Coldwater and Medicine lodge was, I believe, the longest stretch I traveled without a single town or gas station - over 40 miles. It was quite beautiful, with the rolling red hills sparsely covered with full pine trees and barren deciduous trees. The road was straight as an arrow, but it rose and fell, undulating like a big, lazy roller coaster. In Wellington I turned South onto the Kansas Turnpike.
By now it was late afternoon, and I was hoping to make it into Tulsa to my Aunt and Uncle's house by nightfall. Rather than take the faster, more direct route to Tulsa on the (then) new Cimarron Turnpike, I turned off onto US 60 at Ponca City.
Ponca City is a surreal place. Not so much a town as it is a huge oil refinery with a town sort of wrapped around it, it is characterized by miles of brutally ugly looking piping and machinery, topped off with huge spires that burn with large gas plumes day and night. I've often thought that an oil refinery is something so ugly, so grossly devoid of any concession to aesthetics, so ruthlessly designed for function over all else, that it has a weird kind of mechanical beauty, like the city in Fritz Lang's "Metropolis".
I was passing through Ponca City because that route would take me through my old hometown of Barnsdall, population about 1,200 (and shrinking, at least in 1984). Unfortunately, I didn't consider that I wouldn't have any time to stop and sightsee if I wanted to make it into Tulsa before it got too late. The sun set just as I got through Pawhuska, and by the time I got to Barnsdall, I was having serious difficulty seeing through the dark-tinted face shield of the helmet. But I couldn't flip it up, because I didn't have glasses to protect my eyes, so I slowed down and tried to see as best I could, even though those narrow state highways were overgrown with trees and filled with sharp curves.
Somehow, I made it into Broken Arrow (a suburb of Tulsa) by around 9pm or so, bone tired but still vibrating from the "buzziness" of the 4-cylinder Honda. Overall, the bike had performed well and it seemed that my troubles, particularly with the bitter-cold start the day had taken, were now behind me. Famous last words.
(My account now continues, 05 May 04)
Part Two: Travels in Oklahoma
The next few days were a blur of activities that I can't, to this day, remember much. My aunt, uncle, cousins and sister made sure I got to see the "sights" of Tulsa, and I visited with all of them. After several days, I started exploring the area on the bike. The October weather couldn't have been better for motorcycle explorations: Although cool in the morning, it quickly warmed up, and being late in the season, there weren't nearly as many insects as there normally are in this part of the world. I had last been in Oklahoma in May of 1980, just before my maternal grandmother died, and just before I went into the Army for the first time. But even then I was in Oklahoma with my mother. This time, for the first time in my life, I was there as an adult, with my own transportation and complete freedom to go wherever I wanted. I rode the pleasantly curvy 2-lane State Highway 11 up to the old hometown of Barnsdall once again, in the daytime now, and spent a pleasant few hours getting reacquainted with the area of my earliest memories. My family lived in Barnsdall from the time I was about 1 1/2 until I was 5, and I always treasure the fact that I got to experience at least a little bit of a genuine, mid-60's small-town childhood. I rode the bike through the town, visted the old drug store soda fountain and a few other landmarks I remembered, and then left. After the death of my grandparents, there was nobody in town that I knew anymore, so there really wasn't any reason to do much more visiting.
From Barnsdall, I rode through some wonderfully swoopy curves up State Highway 128 until I arrived at the Woolaroc Museum and Wildlife Park. Woolaroc is probably one of the most unusual museums in the country. Built on property that was once a part of the sprawling estate of Frank Phillips (of Phillips 66 Oil Company fame) it is a huge area of semi-forested hills. The name is not Indian (although it's intentionally Indian-sounding,) but stands for "Woods-Lakes-Rocks." The drive into the museum itself is several miles, and through those miles are stocked a wide array of wildlife from all over the world. The museum now consists of several buildings including the old museum building and Frank Phillips' old hunting lodge, as well as several newer buildings inclding the "Y-Indian" center, built in the early '70's. Inside the museum are an absolutely astonishing variety of artifacts, historical icons, and famous Western paintings. There is no real "theme" to the museum, and it includes pre-Columbian Indian artifacts as well as modern items like a huge collection of Colt firearms and even an airplane owned by Frank Phillips. Besides the amazing sights at Woolaroc, it has special personal significance for me: My father worked at Woolaroc as an historian from the time he got out of the Army in 1963 until he was recalled to active duty in 1966. He used to take us through the workshops and other areas closed to the general public, and it was an adventure every time. (Side note: In 2000, I went back to Oklahoma with my brother Bruce, and there were still people at Woolaroc who remembered my Dad, even though it had been 34 years since he'd worked there!)
Brother Bruce in front of Woolaroc in 2000
After spending a pleasant few hours at Woolaroc, I headed Northeast to the "big city" of Bartlesville, home of the Phillips Petroleum Company. I had lunch in Bartlesville and then headed straight down US 75 back to Tulsa. Along the way, I stopped at the "Port of Catoosa", just East of Tulsa, mostly because I was intrigued by the novelty of a "port" that was about 1500 miles from the nearest ocean (as it turns out, it's a port because it's the furthest-navigable point of the Arkansas river.) A long day of riding, but a good one.
Part 3: Riding to Arkansas (my troubles begin)
The next thing on my agenda was to visit my paternal grandmother, who lived just across the state line in Bentonville, Ark (home of Sam Walton and Wal Mart, for those who are interested in Trivia.) My Grandmother had lived in Bentonville for years, and since my maternal grandparents were in Northeastern Oklahoma, it was always convenient for us to visit them at the same time. Since I hadn't seen my grandmother on my previous visit to Oklahoma, I decided to ride out and visit her.
The day started with a pleasant ride straight East on US 412 to Siloam Springs. One of the things I'd intended for this trip was to use a lot of the routes I'd never taken when I was a child. Normally, when my family would visit the relatives in Barnsdall, we'd take a Northern route to Bentonville, and I wanted to go a more Southerly route this time. So I went through Siloam Springs, and then up Ark. State Highway 59 through Gravette, where I turned East towards Bentonville. I had a pleasant afternoon visiting with Grandma, but it was starting to cloud up and it looked like we were in for some serious rain. I declined Grandma's offer to stay the night, which turned out to be a big mistake, thinking I could make it easily back to Tulsa before things got too sloppy.
I'd intended to take a slightly more direct route that would take me straight West until I intersected with I-44 (the Will Rogers Turnpike) near Vinita or Afton, OK, but I still wanted to travel the back roads and cover "new territory" as much as possible. By the time I got to Gravette, the rain had begun, and I turned North towards the Missouri State Line. I turned West at the first opportunity, at Noel, trying to get the most direct route West. Heading West out of Noel, it started raining, hard and cold, as only a Midwest rainstorm can. I had no rain gear to speak of, just the Army field jacket that was rapidly losing its already limited water-repellency. My helmet was admitting enough rain through the gap in the face shield to make it hard to see. From the legs down, I was soaked all the way to the skin, as though I'd been sitting in a cold tub. Because of my misery, apparently, I missed my intended turn off, which would have taken me straight West, and inexplicably, the road curved to the South, back towards Arkansas. I figured I'd be seeing a "welcome to Oklahoma" sign any minute, but instead, I passed through a town called Southwest City, which I knew was not on my intended route, and then all of a sudden I saw an Arkansas state highway sign! At the same time, the bike, which was now completely soaked, with water running all over it in torrents, began to cough and sputter. I kept up for a few more miles until, finally, it died for good, right at a "T" intersection in the middle of nowhere.
There was no traffic, no signs that I could see, and the nearest town looked to be about two miles away. With no mechanical knowledge (I repeatedly tried to start the bike but the electric start was inoperative and the backup kick starter would turn over the engine, but it never caught.) With no other choice, I pondered what to do. Several sympathetic people stopped and took a look at the bike, but they were as mystified as I. About the only good thing was that, at this point, the rain had pretty much stopped, but I was still stuck by the side of the road. After about an hour, when I'd made up my mind to abandon the bike and walk to Maysville (two miles down the road) to call my Sister for help, a friendly older man in an old panel truck stopped and asked if I needed help. Turns out he was a Harley rider, no stranger to roadside breakdowns, and happy to help out a broken-down biker. He examined my bike, tossed me a few good natured ribs about how he "thought Hondas were supposed to be reliable!", and then he and I loaded the bike up into his panel truck. Luckily for me, he said, Jay, Oklahoma, 10 miles away, had a fairly competent motorcycle shop. We rolled in after closing time, glad to find some of the mechanics still there, and unloaded the bike. They said they'd take a look at it in the morning, and I borrowed their phone to call my sister Mary, who graciously drove out from Tulsa (about 50 miles) to pick me up.
After arriving back in Tulsa, I had to call my mother back in Denver to have her advance some cash to me, since as I said, I had no credit cards or checks. That day, the motorcycle shop called, saying that water had gotten into the electrical system and shorted some components out. They also said there was some kind of problem with the carburetor and that was causing gas to leak out of the tank when the bike wasn't running. Since I didn't have enough money to fix both problems, I told them to fix the electrical problem and I'd worry about the gas leak later (after all, the bike did have a petcock valve that would shut off the gas when the bike wasn't running.) They explained that unless I wanted to buy another starter solenoid for several hundred dollars, they were going to have to disconnect the electric starter. I'd had plenty of experience using the kicker, so I told them that was fine. The next day, Mary drove my back to pick up the bike. Except for the lack of an electric starter, it was completely repaired, and it kicked right over.
By this time, my two-week vacation was almost up, and I was almost broke, having had to borrow several hundred dollars from Mom for the bike repair, and just wanted to get home. A few days after picking up the bike, I packed up and rode out of Tulsa. I had exactly $20 cash to my name, and that would have to pay for gas and any food I consumed. I suppose I knew that in an emergency, I could again call Mom for some spare cash, or I could even have borrowed some from my Sister or Aunt and Uncle, but I was stubborn and proud and determined to pay my own way, at least as much as I could. Since the bike was still leaking a little fuel (not enough to be a fire hazard, I believed, but enough to make me worried that it might not be able to get its usual 50+ MPG), I decided to skip breakfast and just try to get back to Colorado as quickly as possible.
Part 4: The Return to Denver
I left early enough that it was dark (although this being mid-October, that was probably no earlier than about 6:30 am). My ride very nearly came to a disastrous end coming off the toll plaza on the Cimarron Turnpike. As I accelerated out of the toll booth, a shape darted out in front of me and I had to swerve sharply to avoid it - a skunk, as I could tell! What a nasty accident that could have been!
By mid-morning I was on I-35 and headed North in Kansas. Still conserving my dwindling cash supply, I spent money only on gas, despite the rumbling in my stomach. The bike was going 120 miles or so between fill ups, about what I'd expected, so I figured I'd make it. In Salina, 425 miles from Denver, I treated myself to a small cup of coffee, and then turned West on I-70. I don't remember much about that part of the ride, it must have been fairly uneventful, although I was constantly worried about running out of gas. The sky was also leaden and overcast, although the clouds were high enough to make rain or snow unlikely. By the time I got into Colorado in the mid-afternoon, the overcast had broken and the sun came out, warming me up. I was also warmed up by the realization that I was almost home (less than 200 miles) and the bike hadn't acted up at all. I still had to be very careful to immediately shut off the petcock when I stopped the motor, but mileage seemed to be about what I'd come to expect. In Burlington, just inside Colorado, I splurged on my only "meal" of the day: A soda and a candy bar. In Limon, just 86 miles from Littleton, I filled with gas one last time. I rode back on Colorado 86, just like I'd done on the trip out. By the time I got to Castle Rock, I was sore, and tired (probably as much from being tense about the motorcycle and my finances as from the ride itself.) I was so anxious to get home that I passed a couple of slow-moving cars across a double-yellow line, right in the face of oncoming traffic. Once I considered the stupidity of this, and the irony of being hurt or killed in an accident when I was less than 20 miles from home, I slowed down and just went with the flow of traffic. I rolled into the carport of my Mother's townhome just as the sun was setting behind the Foothills. I was bone tired, still somewhat buzzed, and ravenously hungry. Turns out I was wise not to eat, though, because I had exactly $1 in my wallet!
Part 5: The Aftermath
Not really much to tell here. By October it was getting cold enough that I was no longer thinking about riding. After my awful experience of being stranded, I wasn't sure I "trusted" the Honda anymore, anyway. I pretty much lost interest in riding after that, instead concentrating on getting a new car or truck. I think I may have ridden the old Honda a few more times in the Spring of 85, but by May I had a new truck (the first new vehicle I'd ever owned) and spent more time going places with that.
I think that poor old Honda sat neglected and unused in my mother's carport for at least another year, until she finally got tired of it being there, and she had it hauled away. Honestly, I can say it didn't bother me a bit. Many people fondly recall their first bike, or their first big bike, and I guess I do, too. But perhaps because my last significant experience with the old 750 was not exactly a positive one, I don't harbor any residual longing for the old beast. It was a great bike, and I learned things on it that I'd never have learned any other way. But its time was past, and now that I think about it from the comfortable perspective of adulthood and 20 years of experience, I can honestly say "what the hell was I thinking? A long-distance trip on a not-very-well-maintained, 10-year-old bike, with no backup plan or emergency fund? Leaving from Denver in October? That's crazy!" As much as I'm glad I took the trip, as much as I learned, about the bike and about myself, I wouldn't recommend such a trip to anyone else, nor am I in any hurry to repeat any aspect of that trip.
One thing you'll notice missing from this account: Photos. Don't have 'em. At that time in my life, I was more interested in just living life than I was in documenting it with photos. Combine this with the fact that the only camera I had at the time was a clunky, manually-operated SLR, and that explains why I have no pictures. Although I feel a twinge of regret at the fact that I don't have any pictures to record this episode, I wonder if part of the twinge I feel is because what I really miss is the spontaneity of that time of life.
If there was one positive thing I took away from that trip, it's that I still believe that there is no better way to travel across this country than on a motorcycle. Although I've no desire to repeat the risky timing and without-a-net danger of this trip, I intend to keep riding motorcycles across this great land as long as I am physically capable of doing so.
