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Last Ride of the Season
This past Saturday, I decided to take the last ride of the season. The weather has been remarkably kind, even with a few cool nights, but I knew it couldn’t last and wanted to get one more pleasure cruise in before I hung it up for the year. I opted to follow my idea of going north to Roby on AH and 32 as I related before, then go south to Gentryville on 95, over to Ava on 14, then back home.
I started out on 60 east to Norwood, where I fueled up at the TA. I got a few weird looks, all dolled up in leather and denim against the morning chill- it was maybe 60*, but that drops off fast when you hit highway speeds. Cagers don’t know what it’s like, which is good and bad. I finished and headed north on E.
It’s amazing how different a road can be just taking it in the opposite direction. Not just the sights, but the entire feel of the road was absolutely different from the trip I’d done previously when I took E south from 38. It was a delight, with the sun and wind at my back playing off the changing leaves in the trees and those skirling in the road before and after me.
At 38, I turned east to 95, again marveling at the change in feel just going in the opposite direction. I almost followed the break of E going north from 38, but decided to stick to my plan rather than explain it to the wife- she likes to know where I am in case she has to come rescue me with the trailer. I’ll have to tuck that in my helmet for next year. The valley farms were awash with late-season color, the grass still bright and green, the leaves gone russet and gold, and the stark brown of the emerging bare trees dimming the tone from summer’s brilliance.
I turned north on 95 and rediscovered just how terrible the surface was. Thankfully I wasn’t on it too long, as H came up before I knew it. I cut east again, dropping straight into a switchback down into the valley. Much like the trip up the south end of 95, it made me laugh into my helmet, and wish my father were with me. The road twisted and arced through widely spaced farms, the sun playing hide-and-seek behind hills and groves of trees from its low position in the sky. At one point, I startled a badger emerging from a road culvert; at another, I beeped at a little girl sitting astride the top rail of a fence as her father worked with lambs in the pen- I thought she was waving at me, but she was pointing out to her father the two bald eagles I startled from the side of the road. I interrupted their snack of carrion, but getting to see their huge wingspan so close I could hit one with a thrown rock made me glad I got that near them.
H became AH, continuing its tree-lined twist north, until it terminated at 32, the point at which we’d had to turn around during the ride for Tre Sawyers. I took 32 east, its wide open road giving me the chance to relax from all the carving. Shortly I was in Roby, where I hopped across 17 to Walt’s General Store. I made a pit stop and bought a bottle of water, found a handful of change someone had dropped in the gravel lot, drank and stretched my legs for a while, then slung a leg back over and headed south on 17.
17 south from Roby is hilarious fun. It snakes back and forth for no reason at all other than the capricious whim of its designers. Sport bike and sports car drivers both love it, and understandably so, it’s quite a hoot. A couple times I almost over-rode my traction in a corner and tapped the brake a bit- I probably didn’t need to, and it put a damper on the enjoyment, but better safe and all that, especially so far from home.
Much like the first time I came through this way in the car with my wife, M came up with a startling suddenness, there being no warning prior to its appearance. I grabbed both brakes just in time to make the turn, glad there wasn’t a vehicle at the intersection or behind me as I swung wide through the corner. I took M south through gently curving paths, the open fields on either side of me reminding me of Highway 5 south of Ava but with far more texture. The valleys are deeper, the hills are higher, and the whole is just more tactile. I wasn’t able to appreciate the colors as much as the sun was now in my face. With the dark visor down, everything was muted, but the terrain was amazing.
While I was on M, I noticed a bit more vibration to the bike- not a lot, and not all the time, just at certain speeds. At first, I thought it was the final drive chain that I knew was stretched out more than I should have allowed, but it only seemed to be at 55mph. I later discovered while climbing a hill that it wasn’t a road speed but an ENGINE speed that precipitated it, right around 3-4k rpm. Probably the balancer chain getting slack, another thing I knew I needed to attend but was hoping would wait until winter to deal with. Provided it held together for this trip, that would be so. If it didn’t, I’d have many more things to fix if they even could be! A single cylinder engine can literally shake itself apart if the balancer goes out of time.
On the northeast corner of M and 38, in a vacant lot, sat a piano all by its lonesome. It was very odd, so I took a picture of it before heading west on 38 to MM and continuing south. MM is tighter, hillier, and twistier than M, feeling more like south 95 again but with fewer trees. During this leg, I also started to notice a bit of fatigue from the engine that I thought was because we were heading into the wind, it just seemed to flag a bit on hills. I kept the RPMs down and soldiered on.
At Highway 60, I debated whether to jump onto the interstate and head home, but I really wanted to finish this ride, so I continued south onto Business 60 past Weyr Ford and on into Mountain Grove. There was no extraneous noise, the bike didn’t falter, there was just that new vibration. I went into town and again deliberated: head west on business 60 to the interstate, or south on 95? A moment’s thought and the light changed, and 95 won out. There were still sellers at the farmer’s market on the square despite the blustery conditions, and people out making the best of what may be the last good weekend of the year.
Once again as I traveled south out of town I got that amazed feeling at how different a path can be in the other direction. New sights, new feels, new experiences. It gives every ride a new potential, even if one has been there before. I saw a kid on a sportbike and an older fellow with a big bagger, both going north, but those were the only riders I saw all day. I pressed into the curves and hills, hoping to squeeze all I could from the experience should it go bad; the bike never let me down, but always in the back of my mind was that vibration, and the nagging concern that it could go ugly in a hurry.
I got to the intersection of 95 and 76 in Vanzant and, with regret, finally decided to cut it short. I turned right and made for home. I’d never been on this section of 76 before, and it would have been much more enjoyable were it not for the anxiety. Some of the hill and valley transitions were quite steep, making for a fun roller-coaster effect, and the light through the trees made the road dance. Cresting a hill west of Denlow I noted some heavy cloud cover moving in, and the wind kicked up in a fury, cementing my decision to return early. At Brushyknob, not remembering how far it was to U highway at Basher, I opted to cut it short again and turned north on C highway toward Norwood.
C highway was a nice return to the gentle curves and thick woods of my stomping ground, bursting with color now that the sun was again to my back. I turned off at county road 124, the first of the gravel roads back to my house. At 124 and 123 I took one last picture to send to the wife, a vista of the Puncheon Camp Creek valley with my bike in the foreground. The Kawasaki was once again in its element, taking the ruts, rocks, and potholes with aplomb, and gripping to the sandy washes like a champ. I returned home with no issue, parked to one side of the driveway, and went in to share my adventure with the wife. I later pushed the bike into the holding pen, where it will remain until I pull it into the shop for its winter workover.
As last rides of the season go, it was suitably bittersweet. I’m already looking forward to next year, in the hopes that I’ll have not one but THREE rides to choose from, as my 1976 Honda CB550k and 1982 Kawasaki KZ750M1 (aka the CSR750) are slated to be on the block for long overdue work. I’m also planning to learn how to ride two-up with my wife, so she can finally experience what I talk about when I get home from my rides.
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