Nawlins, Mississippi, Alabama and into sunny FLA 3.18 – 3.21

Route: From Sulphur, LA: 82E to 27N to 14E to 90E to Nawlins. 90E out of NOLA and continue on 90E through Mississippi (which is only 79 miles across). Continue on 90E to Alabama, then 188E to 193S to Dauphin Island. Toll ferry across to 180E to 182E to camp at Gulf Shores State Park.182E joins up with 292E and then 98E into Florida.

“For I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I’ve lifted, pulled, chopped, climbed, made love with joy and taken my hangovers as a consequence, not a punishment.” – John Steinbeck

The morning after St. Patty’s day does not greet me with the pulsating headache that habitually makes its annual appearance, but rather thrusts me into a groggy conversation of which takes me a few minutes to digest and realize what quagmire has ensnared me. Sipping a cup of coffee and noshing on muffins and Danish that is the Microtel’s continental breakfast, lips, teeth and tongue operate groggily to provide the day’s energy. In a less than coherent state that coincidentally resembles the hangover that should be, a white-haired man wearing a sport coat made from David Lynch’s red velvet curtains approaches and asks if I want a “free ticket.” Without thought, a yeth is uttered through muffin crumbs and a drink of coffee is taken to correct the speech impediment. He hands over a pamphlet promising to absolve me of all my sins and begins the elevator speech to my own personal redemption. Intrigued for a hazy, bleary-eyed moment I thumb through the pamphlet and realize that it’s only about 3” x 4” and only 4 total pages. Unfortunately to be absolved of my “sins,” it’s going to take a much bigger pamphlet. Yet another reminder of the heavy stream of influence that flows underneath the bible belt, that cinches across the south like a leather corset and the foreign territory explored and now called home, I excuse myself with coffee almost gone and cup of sin still full, it’s time to mount up and move out.

A quick chat with the morning desk clerk brings a promise of local experience that the route through the bayous will be clear and that there will not be a repeat of the mosquito laden horror from the night prior. It’s a promise that is trusted and after a brief, early morning idle, Betty grumbles her way down to highway 82. Her word is as golden as the rapidly ascending sunrise that keeps the hundreds of thousands of vampire invertebrates at bay and attempts to warm the arid, cold morning air. The road today is friendly and the wildlife preserve is peaceful, a complete 180 from the night before leaving the white knuckles and black mosquitoes a twinkle of a memory in yesterday’s dark of night.

82E runs along the bottom of the Louisiana coastline and leaves plenty of time to apologize to Betty for not having the time nor the opportunity to wash or change her bug-crusted gown. An unexpected detour is forced as a remnant of hurricane damage presents itself in the form of a washed out bridge. Under repair from local workers, the bridge is the only in the area and they are confident that there is no other close. This hiccup leads to a route that is further north than desired, but being the only option...well, it’s the only option. It’s a shameful sort of situation because the ride has been lone, peaceful and encompassed by a recovering beauty of nature’s relentless fight to reclaim its tiara from its natural adversary. Feeling dejected as the trip north courses away from this silent battle, thoughts are immediately reversed once I turn onto Hwy 90 and a surprising turn of scenery threatens to move attentions from the road to the sides of it. The trip so far has been mainly farmland, desert or bayou until this turn is made and now lush forests surround this narrow concrete byway.

Despite rigorous tests of prowess better suited for a dual-sport, the Harley Davidson Muscle has been performing perfectly under conditions that may not have been in mind when this performance bike was built. Betty has combated gravel, rocks, potholes, dirt roads; hard-packed sand paths and city streets that make a lava field look like fine-bone china, always coming up with the title belt. Back on a smooth road is a welcome luxury, given the angry nature of the back roads that were previously travelled. Wanting to keep the tires on a pothole free highway for a while, partnered with my lust for the French Quarter, I push on Hwy 90 until New Orleans is realized and the labyrinth of city streets once again claims me as a victim of uncertain direction.

Unbeknownst to me (and I assume all newcomers to the city), New Orleans’ French Quarter is a small, but daunting maze of one-way streets that change names when hitting certain others. Canal St runs to the river and everything north of this has one name and everything south another. Since they are one-way roads, the signs only are read from the direction that is pertinent. Good info to know and being slow, in the blistering heat (only because every scrap of my suit of leather armor is adorned) it takes a solid, sweaty hour to figure out where the supposed hotel is located. Streets are jam packed with the not-so-typical spring break crowd and it is assumed that this city of sin always behaves in this uncooperative manner. As the bike idles on a street corner trying to get bearings, Steve Zahn stands next to me looking just as confused as I am. He’s wearing a Kentucky t-shirt complimented by a Kentucky visor and the realization that I’ve just entered New Orleans during spring break AND the March Madness tournament slaps me in the face as gently as Lenny pets the rabbits. Sh!t. I’m not getting a hotel tonight, am I? Having not eaten since 10 hours prior, the hanger sets in and a growling stomach confirms the perspiring contempt of the moment. Plan: get a hotel, shower and eat. STAT!

After a daunting search, a hotel has a last-minute cancellation and offers a reprieve, but for one night only. It’s Thursday and the hopes to explore Nawlins for a couple of days are merely on pause, but not stopped completely. The room is taken for the night and if must comes to must, all gear, clothes, bags and whatnot will be dutifully moved to any hotel that will put me up for the night, no matter what the cost. With Betty safely in the garage and all the gear hoisted to the 4th floor the shower starts to wash away the hanger that has been all consuming for the past few hours. The walk over to Canal and up Bourbon Street is inspiring, energetic and it feels as if the last golden ticket has been delivered to its rightful owner. Remoulade’s menu glistens in the front window, no it shines in the front window and promises to soothe the overpowering craving that hit once the Louisiana got under the Harley’s tires. Catfish nuggets and cold beer. I’m happier than Admiral Akbar watching the Death Star blow up. The meal is perfectly wonderful .The catfish nuggets are rolled in cornmeal and fried to the point that once it hits your lips, pixies appear. The beer is ice cold and compliments the nuggets better than Sam compliments Frodo. Sated and stuffed, the town is for the taking as long as a pair of waders is available to muck through the stream of spring breakers. It will be a happy day when there is no longer a contention for a hotel room with these hordes of former mes.

The bartender at a house of libations which the name of has now been released from the grips of memory pours a tall, tall, golden whisky over eagerly awaiting ice cubes and the stool is just as comforting after a long day’s ride. Ponied up to the bar, while watching the band belt out spring breaker favorites such as Journey and Bon Jovi, an easy conversation is struck with the trio standing to the left. Two locals, originally from Wisconsin, Ben and Angie are entertaining Ben’s cousin Pete for a much needed vacation. Like the few remaining Cheerios in the bottom of the bowl, Sconnies have a tendency to float towards each other in any bar and strike up an immediate rapport. This night is no exception. Ben is a decade veteran of New Orleans and his job as a deep sea diver keeps the beer flowing in his glass. We hit it off and that good old Wisco hospitality is alive and well on Bourbon Street, they extend an invitation to let me tag along and the acceptance drools out of my mouth. Jimmy White’s is the bar that does us (me) in. Just off of the main drag, it is a low-key, friendly, dark bar that acts like deet to those buzzing spring breakers. Shots are poured, beers are drunk and the good times flow and conversation covers everything under the sun. These are my people and after a while, the impression made must have been a good one because they invite me to an authentic crawfish boil that upcoming Saturday. Acceptance is a shoo-in.

After mutitudes of the cheapest shots and beer that has gracd these lips in ages, Ben, Angie and Pete call it a night and while they jump in a cab to go home, I jump into the next bar, of course. More Bon Jovi and Journey, what a surprise. Astonishment barely contained, I once again pony up to the bar and with spirits fairly high for 1am, order a lesser of the evils, the old stand-by, rum and coke. Striking up a conversation with a couple of sisters from San Antonio, I eventually take a sip of common sense and amble back to the hotel. I wish that I could recount for you, the reader, all the establishments that provided the evening’s entertainment, but…well… you know how it goes sometimes.

Eyes slowly creak open like a rusty door hinge and the light hits with the force of a jilted lover’s backhand. WHAT IS THIS PAIN?! Riiight, alcohol has been busy and not had the time to swing by for a visit for quite some time and apparently wants this reunion to be extra special. The pain is overwhelming, but the need to switch hotels hurts more. A call is made to the front desk to see if they will allow just one more night under the room’s current tenant. An excruciating 5 minutes pass while the clerk checks with the manager, time drawn like taffy between 7 year olds fingers on a cold day. The handset clunks on the desk top as the clerk delivers the winning lottery numbers for the day.

“Yes sir, you can stay in the room for tonight.”

If it didn’t hurt to smile, I would have. Sleep drills through the pain and noon pops up with headache’s best friend, hunger. Bound and determined to get what’s possible from this magnificent city, the water from the shower beats the tender skull like a snare drum, clothes are thrown on and a rigorous climb to Café Du Monde is set upon. A delicious early afternoon breakfast of beignets and café au laits lands on the table after wait that would be considered false imprisonment if it happened on a tarmac. While the delicious, fried delicacy drips the over coating of powdered sugar down my gullet, the coffee makes sure that swallowing the dry mass is possible. An absolutely fantastic combination. Hands coated in powdered sugar, a crotchety old man sees an opportunity at a table holding only one and asks if he may sit down and partake in the New Orleans tradition. Obliging, hesitation is obvious as the cantankerous retiree tries desperately to order, with no avail. Trying to diffuse the situation, I start to pry. There may be 500 blank faces in a crowd, but once you start to dig, pages of volumes of fascinating stories begin to turn. This gentleman is a former air force aerospace engineer that developed the gyroscopes that keep the international space station balanced in orbit. Wow. Once the initial crust is peeled from his granite demeanor, the conversation is friendly and I’m glad to have had the opportunity to meet such a unique individual.

We part ways and the rest of the day is spent cruising the French Quarter. St. Louis cathedral and Jackson Square amaze eyeballs used to coastlines and deserts. The French Market is perused with hopes that a smoothie will soothe the savage hangover beast and it does. The gypsies are all selling their wares of all kinds. Palm readings, artistry, photographers, dancers and jazz bands abound. The particular quartet that I currently ogle even has their own version of Flavor Flav, stuffing his face with herring from a tin. He dances, jumps and gets the crowd going and if more encouragement is needed, a woman presents him with a bottle of vodka which he promptly downs without breathing. The trek around town takes me into an absinthe museum and a movie set that looks like a b-list Lady Gaga video, complete with b-list Cirque de Soleil performers.

There is jazz around every corner, filling bodies with exuberance and recharging the listless masses that still suffer as I do. Walking down the river walk, a young man no older than 23 provokes a beautiful moan from a clarinet and the wailing notes pace my footsteps while I walk down and continue to the end of the walk. The events of the day chaperone to dinner, which comes more quickly than expected, so Redfish is chosen and while the jambalaya is consumed, hopes that it is not a chain of Redfish, that I can get in Chicago adds a sour taste of discouragement.

Bound and determined to see the famous Ghost Tour, ticket is purchased and the line of hordes of people is attacked with mediocre vigor. The tour guide looks exactly like Jean Reno and with his Creole accent, it’s a strong possibility, although I much rather enjoy him in movies. The Ghost Tour is filled more with the dark history of the city, having burned down 3 times in 60 years or so and causing thousands of deaths. The tour gives a dark underbelly to an already shady town. When the tour is over, there is a meeting of the dead, all the guides rally for a beer and compare tips. I wonder if the winner has to buy.

The night is closed out in perfect fashion with whisky and blues at The Blues Club. Troy Turner sings a pulsating set that brings young love as well as old to slide and hold their partners closely on the dance floor. Slow, rhythmic, wet and thick, the music is like sex for your ears, stimulating all your senses and I leave to go back to the hotel room, completely and utterly aurally satisfied.

The night closes and the morning comes quickly, more clearly and with a renewed energy and hunger. Due to impending storms and the push to get into Florida, the most regrettable and unfortunate decision to pass on the invitation to the crawfish boil is made. This is a regret that will be carried in my saddle bags for the rest of the trip, but it must be done. Heading into Mississippi, the bugs are relentless and cleaning the helmet’s face shield is a constant and continuing battle and the loss is not falling on the bugs’ scoreboard. Highway 90 once again proves to be the right choice and is lined with cypress, tall pines and a beauty to be appreciated. While Betty chews up the miles, thoughts of the distance between people chew on my mind. It seems a dreadful shame that there is a greater chasm that separates people based on prejudice and perception than there is actual physical distance. The thought leaves a despondent mark branded in my gut.

Mississippi proves to be a mere 79 miles across the coastal edge and the trip goes continuously, save for a break to eat a fried oyster po’ boy at Snapper’s Seafood. The sandwich is cooked as thoroughly as the waiter, who seems to have spent just a little too much time in the sun. Maybe he was catching the seafood himself. The meal is devoured ferociously as the war against the rapid weight loss of the first month of the trip has been a losing battle.

Alabama once again rears the strange mix of tropical mixed with a Midwest forest. Its beauty foreign, yet eerily familiar. Thanks to help from the Dauphin Island ferry, the trip across Alabama trumps Mississippi’s, being only 68 miles from edge to edge. The gulf is a muddy brown, a disconcerting foreshadow of the eco-disaster that is to come to this area, although at this time, I do not know it. Camp is set up at Gulf Shores State Park, on the eastern edge of Bama, for the night and every effort to combat the storm that has finally caught me is made and I dive into my nylon turtle shell a few minutes before the storm begins to pound its wet fists against the roof of the tent. Betty under the protection of a weighted down tarp, the loose parts flap in the gale-force wind like a wounded duck. Midnight brings the true fury of the storm and the Eureka breathes in and out, struggling obstinately against the stakes holding it firmly in place. The walls breathe in and out and I feel trapped in a nylon lung, with no escape as the weather continues to pummel from outside. This is the first time that the tent leaks, but it is not until the storm has nearly screamed itself to exhaustion and it has held up admirably.

I pack up a wet camp, in a residual wind that seems to not have lost its power and put the gear away wet. Bound for Florida, hopes are that the storm took no break to sleep overnight and that it is far east enough to prevent me from catching it. Betty is perfect.

“The bike may break me. The road may take me. I’ll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart.”

Dallas to Louisiana 3.12 – 3.18

Route: I-45 out of Dallas to Hwy 105W at Conroe (to bypass the monstrosity known as Houston traffic) to 6S to 159S to 36S to Blue Water Highway to 87E to 124N to 73E to 82E (Louisiana). LA: 82E to 27N to 82E to 27N to 14E to 90E to Nawlins.

“The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land.” -G.K. Chesterton

Dallas and Exit Texas, Enter New Orleans

The storm may have skipped town, but it has left behind its blustery offspring. Battling 45 mile an hour winds, the numbing cold helps to soothe flexing and aching muscles that remain painfully strained for the 4 hour ride into Dallas while the sun attacks unclouded, but is helpless against stronger foes. Frozen claws once again grip Betty’s handlebars and she shivers at my touch, a recurring event that is wearing extremely thin.

A late morning arrival comes with a hug that warms me up as only a Grandmother’s could. The outside taken care of, we head to lunch to warm my belly with the spice and flavors of Mexican. Time spent catching up is priceless as is seeing a welcome, loving, familiar face. Nothing but time on our hands and a growing and unforeseen interest in the trip from travelling strangers, Office Depot is next on the list. Rather than continuously looking for a pen and paper to write down the blog site, a brilliant idea was presented while in the desert and lifers (RV-ers or pro travelers) often do this with flair. Business cards completely decked out with pictures, web addresses, email addresses and maps telling the tales of travel, it seems as if there is an unspoken competition amongst these gypsies as to who has the prize winning card. Pushing my competitive nature to the curb, mine are gray with three lines of black type. They do the job and it’s cheap-o.


Back at home the catch-up and tales from the road continue and while Gene and I watch our conversation unfurl, our eyes forget about the steaks on the grill and the end result is far from rare. After dinner and thinking the night is over, I was completely unprepared to run the Wii gauntlet that my grandmother had lain down. A mighty warrior, whose weapon of choice is the Wii paddle, she battles ferociously for hours until exhaustion finally takes over and I yield to the bed sheets of defeat. The knowledge of being in a familiar place and with loved ones comforts me and sleep is deep and peaceful.

Breakfast is the spread of kings of which the Del Rio Sirloin Stockade buffet cannot hold a French toast stick to. There is no room at the table for the guests as it is occupied by the residents of homemade strata, blueberry bread, baklava, fruit plate, coffee and juice. I may not want to leave. Even as this is written months later, a stream still runs from the corners of my mouth when thinking about it. That night, dinner celebrates birthdays for Gene and my cousin Kirstyn. His birthday baffles the mind and the years collected along the way contradict his jubilant, positive and energetic attitude. The original silver fox, he’s still jumping over all those lazy dogs. Dinner is delicious, but I can’t eat as much as normally fills the void of my stomach. Weight loss from living a frugal life on the road has reduced my appetite significantly and is disappointing. Then and there, the decision is made (again) to make more effort to ensure that I not only eat, but sleep properly, the success of the trip will hinge upon such simple tasks. Cathy, Scott, Thomas and Kirstyn swing by for dessert but leave before round two of WWii begins. Family can be therapeutic in small doses, this we all know, and right now, I’m in session and I couldn’t be happier.

A new day greets me with yet another gluttonous breakfast before shifting residence to my aunt’s house to spend some QT with her and my cousins. The cousins are in their teens which logically means they are out the door. Cathy offers up some suggestions for dinner and drinks and of course, the biker bar, Duke’s, wins a heavily weighted coin-toss. Five dollar burgers, two-fitty you-call-its and a clientele dressed in leather makes it the perfect parking spot for the evening. Plans to leave in the morning are re-routed, Mother Nature has other ideas, and so the next day is spent relaxing with the fam.

It seems that Dallas has grown accustomed to having me around and has called in the rain clouds to act as its brute squad, keeping me there yet another day. While I relish the time spent with my family, there is an itch that has the strength of the worst poison ivy and the only one that can scratch it is the Harley. The 6am wake-up bell says “good morning” with more rain and sleep returns quickly, knowing that I’ll be here one more night. Cathy and I go to the botanical gardens and the flowers, though not in full-bloom are simply beautiful and an interesting contrast of color to my all black and leather wardrobe. Exhilaration fills the air and there is energy amongst the people, who know that spring is just around the corner and more beautiful days lay ahead after an unusually long and cold winter.

Cabin fever starts to set in and random thoughts flutter throughout my brain, noticing that I have one rogue eyebrow…hair? Is the name of eyebrow hair simply eyebrow? Anyway, I have a rogue eyebrow hair that, like me, wishes against conformity and seeks out to be its own individual identity. Living amongst those that assimilate, in a world of comfort, he knows he can branch out at anytime and I call him junior. I respect this wily eyebrow for going against the grain and rising an inch above his brothers. Literally. However, on occasion, junior decides to rise above the rest and stick straight out, welcoming olives and other cocktail garnishes to be skewered at anytime, perhaps to be saved for a midday snack. This said, I make the decision to pluck junior for appearances sake, and in doing so, feel an immediate regret and deep loss for circumcising his own personal flair. Right then, the decision is made to let him grow to his full potential and never to inhibit his explorative need to rise above his brothers, whom he loves and needs so dearly.

Rain or shine, the decision is made to leave and the morning of St. Patty’s Day (obviously not spent in New Orleans as anticipated) allows the journey to continue. From back home, news is received that a good friend of mine was in a car accident and escaped unscathed, while another’s grandmother is just about to pass. These events are a stark reminder that life is indeed still moving forward, even though I’m floating in some gypsy limbo.

There is a love/hate relationship between the pre-dawn hour and I. The love of the morning is often subjected to a back-row seat by a complete lack of desire for the physical act of waking, a paradox that is sure to haunt me and many others for the entirety of days. The deal is done and the alarm bell rings in the dark before the bustle of people awaken. The household sacrifices the sandman to say goodbye as the Muscle once again braces against the frigid, March, Texas air. Pure and clean, the morning ride is not yet polluted by commuters and Dallas is a mere speck in the side mirror as we rip through the Texas countryside. El Sol has popped up to say hello and warms the air, accelerating the fragrance of sun-baked cedar and pine to cut through my helmet like I cut through the landscape and the aroma fills my being. On the road again, the sun, the smells, the sound of clicking into 5th gear brings back my ear to ear grin. All senses are once again ignited, having been doused by the drudge of the population of a congested city and all five are now sitting on a match head, ready to strike and explode into flame at any moment. Rallying against the Houston traffic, a counter-productive route is chosen and west is the way for the day. At Conroe, back country highways and byways will lead me back to my entry point, near Angleton, so that the journey may press on. The days ride turns through Madison County and immediate thoughts of Meryl Streep and Clint Eastwood in a bathtub force the play button and I immediately vomit in my helmet.

Stopping for gas brings the fortunate luck of direction, delivered in the form of two Harley riders on an opposite daily destiny from mine. The bikers point to the Blue water Highway, a.k.a. Hwy 87 east, with the caveat that the road’s countenance known in times before as pleasant, may be a little ornery given they are still suffering from a hurricane hangover. The Blue water Highway is a shell of what the couple described as used to be, but the pre-devastation beauty peeks itself from the barren sand like a crab, still leery of predatory weather, wanting to emerge at any moment from hiding. Apparently all roads lead to spring break and the Blue water is no exception, sloshing me up on the shores of Galveston to admire the preliminary surges of scantily clad co-eds getting a jump on spring break. A stop sign forces an idle 10 minutes long while bikini’s and beer cross from the beach to the motels and vice versa. It’s a tough road and a horrible place to stop. The Galveston Bridge commands a $2 cover charge and rolls me to the ferry that is unexpectedly free. The novelty of dropping the kickstand and riding the waves has not yet worn off, and I’m giddy when the cross over the waves into Louisiana is made.

Dropping off of the Ferry, Betty and I grind up more asphalt and the roads tell an even more intimidating story of the true power of a hurricane. The landscape and trees look like a Tim Burton creation, defying the laws of nature while still holding some shadow of reality as it is known. The bent and mangled rendering of what a landscape should look like continues far past the washed out highway, which forces a detour around Port Arthur and into Louisiana. As bugs take a kamikaze plunge into my jacket and helmet, hoping to deter the invading approach, I laugh at the fact that, unwittingly, each one of my family members got a bug hug, having not the time to remove my jacket before receiving warm embraces. Oops.

The very bottom of Louisiana is a lonely world of wildlife refuge, threatening forward progress with taunts of gator and other critter crossing. Roaring down highway 27, it’s now dusk and an ominous black cloud appears on the horizon of the road that rides along the gulf water’s edge. With no route other than backwards available, first thoughts are that it is exhaust emissions from one of the many chemical plants in the area. I could be so lucky. Rapidly approaching, I reach the amorphous ball of brown gas and immediately smack into a tornadic cloud of swarming mosquitoes. The first few bugs take me by surprise and fly directly into my mouth, up my nose and the helmet’s face shield is lowered immediately. There is an eerie similarity in the sound of a crackling fire, rain drops bouncing off a helmet and a swarm of mosquitoes smacking into a face shield at 50 mph. Disgust is the word of the day…DISGUST! AHHHHHHHHHH!! Thousands of humming annoyances explode off the jacket, the chaps, the Harley, the helmet and every other exposed surface that remains and I have to pull over every 5 minutes to clear my face shield. The efforts produces a narrow window of vision that barely allows me to see and without a rag or napkin, this is the best I get tonight and the fight against these unholy creatures lasts for the next 20 miles. A road appears out of the insectous fog and left turn, north, is immediately taken to evade the most nauseating event of my life that in the end leaves me smelling like earthworms. Drop me in a lake and let the fish swim into my pockets.

Night has dropped its veil upon southern Louisiana and shrouds all that come out to play at night. Once out of the mosquitoes, it’s a perilous road north through the bayous hoping that a gator doesn’t force me into slalom on the narrow, swamp –lined byway. Painted head to toe in mosquitoes, a gas station/bait shop offers a respite and hopefully a squeegee to rid myself of the squished skeets. Luck once again smiles on me and there are no squeegees in this station, so I go inside to find some paper towels and in doing so, find more than I could have ever possibly imagined.

Sitting at a table, inside the bait shop/gas station/snack bar (that doesn’t have a squeegee) are three locals that are schnocked off their rockers. The post-retirement stooges watch the bug covered spaceball enter their holy ground and the place goes silent. Politely, directions to the rest room are asked for and received, and then the unmasking of mosquitoes begins. Gross. Gross and um…gross. Clean-up completed, a mound of bug-gut caked paper towels fill the garbage can in the corner of a bathroom that should only be entered in a bio-hazard suit. There are no feelings of remorse as I exit to face the drunken judge, jury and executioner that sit in the corner of the bait shop sucking down king cans of natty ice. The first one approaches and asks if I’m in the service. The answer being no, he repeatedly asks and sobriety taints my end of this conversation. The second of the stooges, sobriety not an option, but apparently she is one of those rare people in an inebriated state that is able to not only form coherent sentences, but derives them from coherent thoughts and tells me he means no harm. I chuckle. Good natured conversation ensues and when the story of the road filters through their ears, the last of the trifecta speaks up in true, old country Cajun and I can barely understand him.

“wayaou comfromdahboy?”

“Riding the perimeter of the country, just had to clean up and then I’m headed north to a motel.”

“yougonngobaggouddah?!”

“Yes sir, need to head north and find a hotel.”

“Howwyshiboy! Yogod bigohbaws! BIGOHBAWS ISAY!” “Goddamnifumuhsumbish, bigohbaws.”

My three new friends offer to buy me a beer and by the looks of it, I should be buying for them and want to badly. Having to decline their hospitality will be one of less than a handful of regrets on this trip, but the prospect of no place to stay, the dark of night in the Louisiana bayou and the simple fact that I will NOT ride with alcohol in me forces me back on the bike to look for a motel. It’s a shame, as the stories they could tell and the time I could have would have been a continuation of the experience of a lifetime. Guaranteed they will be in that bait shop for many moons to come, one day I will return and buy round upon round of Natty Ice in exchange for them to regale me with tales of their wisdom and experiences.

Time to churn road and get to a hotel. Not far up the road, lies a town with an unfortunate name, in an unfortunate area, but fortunately holds several motels and I pull up to the Microtel, strategically placed next to a waffle house, in Sulphur, LA. Good night Gracie, tomorrow is a big day…off to Nawlins.

"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."