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DAY
NINE COMMENTARY
Well, folks, it
took several days, but I finally got the stove to
work again properly on the first try! And just for the purpose of
showing off,
I only needed one match to light it...
I didn't leave
very early, but I didn’t have terribly far
to cover. Heading into Shreveport I had seen a “Whataburger” franchise,
which I
knew nothing about, but wondered what the quality might be like. I
passed
another one on my way out, but it was not lunchtime and at any rate I
hadn’t
fallen into a "lunch stop during the day” routine yet -- typically just
some trail mix
somewhere along the way.
I was excited to
experiment with two new things on the bike;
first, the heretofore unused backpack hydration system, filled with ice
water
and awaiting use, and second, the handlebar modification I made
yesterday, which would hopefully
allow me to lean back and make minor in-lane steering corrections
merely by pulling
on a length of cord. Believe, sometimes it is vitally important to be
able to
change your riding position, even if only for a few minutes…
…but it worked. I
could put my feet up on the crash bars and lean
right back onto the sleeping bag lashed to the seat behind
me, newly tasked
from within the trailer for just this purpose. The bad news, for both
today and
the future, was that my rear end was hurting way too soon into the
trip,
despite my use of an aftermarket air pad on the seat. We’ll have to
monitor
this one. Meanwhile, the water thing was excellent, and will be used
each day for the remainder of the trip.
A stop for gas
showed that I was now pulling 40 MPG
from each tank, lower than the 42.5 I had estimated but better than the
36 or
so when I got started. That’s how much of a difference (11%) the higher
air
pressures in the trailer tires had made. So although I was still down
about
6.5% on mileage estimates, I was over 12% purely on cost because I had
budgeted
for $4.50 per gallon. Even after the brief $3.999 scare in Louisiana, I
still
haven’t paid $4…
Ther highway
bridged a big, beautiful lake called Cross Lake just
outside Shreveport, with homes on the shores, water-skiers doing their
thing,
and even a long freight train moving along the far edge. I was to take
the
Interstate only briefly and then change to Rte. 71 heading north.
Shortly after
getting on it I saw a guy and his motorcycle parked on the side of the
road, speaking
into a cell phone. I slowed to ax if he had a problem, and he
sheepishly
admitted he had run out of gas. Folks, in the motorcycling world, that
happens.
No problem, for I had some to give in the spare gas can. He took a few
ounces, easily
enough to get to a station down the road, and we chatted travel and so
on. Coincidentally
he was returning home to Shreveport from my own next destination, Hot
Springs! ‘Twas
too bad I had not the time to take up his offer of a tour of his base
-- he being
an Air Force weapons instructor -- but with any luck there’ll be a
next time, as I enjoyed my brief time there.
Further on I
noticed that the land had changed again; here we had
cornfields and other farming, not to mention small, working oil pumps on people’s property here and
there. It also seemed like
the road was punching way above its weight class with respect to
roadkill, and I saw
my first -- but by no means my last --
erstwhile armadillo along its side. At some
point there was also a glider soaring around up above.
A hop onto the
next interstate took me past a sign for Hope, AR, “Birthplace
of Bill Clinton”. Eventually exiting the interstate onto Rte. 7, I
crossed DeGray
Lake on an embankment high above the water on one side and the valley
to
the other. Rte. 7 continued across the incredibly scenic Lake Hamilton,
with small
islands on or jetties of land into the water, and wonderful-looking
little
waterside apartment/resort complexes going literally down to the shore.
Like small
neighborhoods directly on the lake! I was only a few minutes away from
downtown
Hot Springs.
The
semi-cheesiness of the road into town was offset by the
obvious history within its limits, much of it having, um, “sprung” from
the
natural thermal springs which first heat, and then easily force water
up
through the cracks and fissures in the Ouachita Valley rock before it
can cool.
It was noted that the town had undergone several restorations after
particularly
bad fires and/or floods, and the springs and the bathhouses were the
building
blocks of each resurrection. Let me tell you -- the water in the little
streetside
pools
from those springs is HOT, and back in the day it was necessary
to mix the spring water with cooled (also spring) water to avoid
scalding. Many
of the bathhouses had closed by the sixties, and it affected the
fortunes
of the town, but several of the better maintained ones were restored
and now
comprise “Bathhouse
Row”, a strip of the main
avenue, that is also a National Park (the
remainder of
which also happens to ring the entire town). Just a single one of these
remains in
business as a bathhouse, while some
others operate
more as museums.
They
are a very
handsome sight right along the main drag, and worth a read about.
For some reason I
didn’t have the address to the Park Hotel, but
they knew where it was at the Welcome Center downtown (near the "Home
of Bill Clinton" sign!)
Finding it was no
problem, as it was only a block off of the main street, and motorcycles
were
allowed to park right
on the sidewalk
in front! Now, although arguably
I can
understand the need for a $7.00 “energy charge” to be asked for at the
front
desk, I think it should show up on the reservations system on the web
so I’d
know about it in advance; then, to be charged the 13% occupancy tax
on a
quasi--bogus add-on like that starts to push it.
That quibble aside, while
the hotel was of older bloodlines, it was still highly detailed and
stylish
in its own quirky little way, with a small bar (closed Sundays) and
Italian
restaurant in the ornate
lobby.
It did not hurt that it seemed like
Sinatra
was
playing over the music system every time I passed through, and for much
lower cost than other places on the major thoroughfare just a block
away, I thought the
value was
outstanding.
Before heading
out I managed to set a new personal best with 104
pushups on my first set. Sure, I hadn’t been able to do any other
exercises,
nor any running, but at least those were still going strong. I learned
from
some other very nice motorcycle folks in the lobby that many
of the
downtown
eateries were closed (the Sunday curse again), but I set out with no
particular
wants other than some sightseeing, a cold beer and a good burger.
I got plenty of
sightseeing right there in the center of town;
the bathhouses, some interesting signs, a lovely old office building,
nice
hotels,
and
even a few failed
(or possibly failing?)
hotels. The only disappointment was
that nobody
apparently sells bumper stickers any more, for after a strong start to
that
collection effort to jam onto the trailer, I had now struck
out over
the
course of a few consecutive stops.
For dining
purposes I eventually happened
upon a place called the Brick House Café, inside of a unique little
self-contained
retail complex, and while I would have been satisfied with merely a
broken-bat
single for food, drink and atmosphere, this one was more like an RBI
double,
possibly going to third on the throw home. Tracy, the bartendress,
explained
why the catfish (a staple in Arkansas for all of the lakes) was better
in the
place now than it formerly was, and she was right on target, for the
entire
dish was yummy, as was the New Belgium wheat beer I was treated to a
sample of.
Even an older guy walking by got into the act when he recommended the
sugar
snap peas in response to my question to her about side dishes. And from
being
unable to resist prying for details when Amanda, another bar patron,
mused
about being hung over following a long night of (her own) bachelorette
partying,
it was then that I learned about root beer as the favored beverage to
accompany
the boudin back in Louisiana -- for she had grown up in
Lafayette! A wonderful
time was had by all, or at least by me, but I felt obligated to run out
for one
last beer at the German restaurant downstairs. Heritage and all that,
y’know.
There, I was happy to learn from Ben, the local ugly-silk-shirt-wearer
-- his words,
not mine, as I kind of liked the thing -- that a nice scenic
route to a future trip destination was in fact the one I had already
selected!
An attempt at
night-time photography on the walk back to the
hotel met with only marginal success, but was worthwhile, and I turned
in for
the night, thankful that there was a 10PM closing time here on Sundays.
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