Crockett Street

Our new friends were headed for an open house at Cowboy Harley, but Rogue and I hadn't yet checked into the rally, so we headed for Crockett Street in downtown Beaumont. In the middle of a barren industrial district with no other people around, Robot Lady informed me that we had arrived.

Confused, I followed Crockett Street until it became Hollywood Ave., and still there were no other bikers in sight. We pulled a U-turn and tried the other direction, but Crockett appeared to end before we arrived anywhere interesting. Idling at a red light, I inspected the digital map closely and discovered that Crockett began again nearby and went off at a strange angle to the rest of the streets. I doodled around a few blocks and suddenly emerged in front of a long row of bikes parked at a curb. Finally.

I swung Bee into the street and backed up to the curb, settling her into place next to a shiny Harley. Rogue rolled Hades up in front of me, then started backing toward Bee. I waved her off and to the right, and she backed toward Bee again.

"More right," I called, hoping she could hear me through her helmet. She stared at me and shook her head as a car came down the street toward her. I walked into the lane.

"I can't do this," she said. We switched places and I rolled Hades in beside Bee.

"I'm sorry," Rogue apologized when I was off the bike. "I just couldn't figure out the angle." It was the first time in 1,700 miles that she'd panicked about anything, and she had fewer than a thousand lifetime miles under her belt before we left. I was impressed it hadn't happened sooner.

A motorcycle is a strange creature, either easier or much harder to operate than a car, depending on the circumstances of the moment. There are a million tiny errors to be made that have disproportionately large consequences, and mistakes are easiest to make at slow speeds. I've dropped almost every bike I've ever ridden, and it's always been the result of some minuscule incorrect steering choice at low or no speed. Kestrel, Hades, and the Hornet have all gone down doing parking lot maneuvers, and Bee got dropped while trying to put a passenger on the back. My feet were on the ground for that one, but she's so tall that the climbing force exerted by a passenger is a struggle for me to handle.

It turns out that Crockett Street is not only a road but also a location; too bad my GPS didn't know that. A fenced-off parking lot with brick sidewalks and cheesy old-fashioned storefronts was acting as home to Lace, Grace, and Gears.

Searching for the registration table, we were greeted by a couple sitting under a shade tent and had our second round of a conversation that we would both repeat innumerable times over the next two days.

"Where are you from?"

"Massachusetts."

"Did you drive here?"

"Yeah, we rode."

"Wait, you rode your bikes? All the way from Massachusetts? How far is that?"

"Seventeen hundred miles."

"Are you serious? How long did that take you?"

"Four days. We camped."

"You camped? All the way here? That's crazy."

When we told them that Rogue had just learned to ride in July, the woman waved her hands and said in her sweet British accent, "Oh my god, you're our newbie. You be here at 4 o'clock tomorrow. Right here, 4 o'clock. Got it?"

Her name was Layne and she was the organizer of the rally and admin of the Facebook group Sisterhood of the Asphalt Ribbon.We agreed to be present for whatever was happening at the assigned time and place, then wandered into the sea of vendor tents.

Beaux Jangles

"You ever been to a Waffle House?" There was one across the street from the hotel, right beside a gas station.

"No, but I've always wanted to," Rogue answered. Before we even got our food, she was as disappointed with the place as I had been last year. "I was expecting IHOP for waffles," she said. She decided the hashbrowns were worth the trip, at least, even if the waffles were crappy. When we were done, I strapped the leftovers to the back of Bee, which for some reason amused Rogue greatly, and we headed for Texas.

Good thing we aren't boring.

After several days running between 340 and 530 miles, 128 felt like going next door. We made one stop, at an odd gas station scattered with knick knacks and trinkets that included a cross made of bullets. Rogue acquired a small plush alligator.

Somewhere in Virginia, it had occurred to me that we had no place to stay in Texas. I'm so accustomed to traveling by the seat of my pants and deciding on a campground two hours before I arrive in it that somehow I skipped the part where I should've reserved some lodging for our three nights in Beaumont. I had to assume that with thousands of bikers arriving from all over the country, all the campgrounds would be full, and we couldn't afford that many nights in a hotel even if there was space. I tried to call the campground listed on the rally's website but there was no answer, and a Google search turned up nothing, as though they didn't exist. Fortunately the address was posted.

"I'm hoping if we get there early enough, there might be a space left for us," I told Rogue. "And if it's full of bikers, we can just ask someone if they're willing to share their site with us." She agreed, and I set my GPS for Beaux Jangles campground.

Just before a stop light a mile off the highway, the device told me I had arrived. Confused, I pulled into the only parking lot in sight, which belonged to a bar. I backed into a space, helped Rogue back in next to me when Hades bogged down in the gravel, and took a look around. There were a couple of bikes in the lot and no campground visible, but the bar was called Beaux Jangles.

It was dark and cool inside, and the bartender greeted us with a smile. I told her I was looking for the campground, and she explained that the bar's owner was allowing his lawn to be used for camping in support of the rally. That explained a lot.

We had arrived plenty early; there was no one else on the lawn, which was long and wedge-shaped, bordered on one side by road and the other by train tracks. We threw the tent down in the middle to claim space, then went to lunch with a group of lady riders from the bar. They led us to Cheddar's, which was less than a mile away. The food was tasty and cheap, and the drink I ordered came in a glass that could've doubled as home for a goldfish.

Debbie, Kelly, and Melinda were all Harley riders, decked out in patched leather vests and pretty sparkly bandannas. Two of them were from Texas and the third had come from either Arkansas or Alabama. We chowed down on croissants, a Cheddar's specialty, and more food than any of us could finish, and talked about how and why we learned to ride.

Booted from Baton Rouge

Back at Farr Park, Rogue rolled out the tent while I cooked dinner. Without much intention we had divided the tasks that way every morning and night, and it seemed to work well as long as I wasn't setting things on fire that shouldn't be. A man emerged from the motorhome next to us and said hello, and we got to talking about road life.

As the sun sank into the horizon, dusty rays came through the trees and shone on the bikes and on the picnic table. Rogue paused her setup to take some pictures, raving about our excellent timing.

Just as the rice was about ready to eat and the sleeping bags were unfurled, an SUV drove up in front of us and a woman got out.

"You have to leave," she told us. "We can't have tents here. I'm sorry to be the messenger, but my boss just told me to make sure you guys get out of here."

I strolled over. "There aren't any other campgrounds in the area," I said. "That's why we're here. You know of anyplace else we can go?"

She pulled out her phone and ran a search, and seemed to find the same results I had. "You're right," she said. "There aren't any. Well, good luck."

"Where are we going to go?" Rogue asked, clearly annoyed.

"Maybe there's something in Port Allen," the woman said. I already knew there wasn't. "But we can't have tents," she repeated.

"Well," I said. "All right. I'll be a while before we can get packed up again." The woman got back in her car and drove off. Rogue and I looked at each other for a long moment.

"I just got all this shit unpacked," she groused.

"There's dinner," I said, with a big fake grin.

We ate and then started rolling things up again. Our neighbor came out and asked what was going on, and we filled him in.

"That's ridiculous," he said. "And they waited until you were all set up and everything."

I started searching for a hotel, but the first two rooms I tried to book were snagged out from under me while I was entering my credit card information.

"The hotels are full because of the floods," our neighbor explained. "Eighteen thousand people were evacuated from their homes."

"Holy crap," I said, glad our situation was only annoying and not disastrous.

"Try Lafayette," he said. "There should be some rooms open there."

"Are you okay with that?" I asked Rogue. "It's another sixty miles."

"As long as I don't have to set up camp again, I can drive all night," she said. I grabbed a room at the Ambassador Inn, bid our neighbor good night, and told the GPS to take us away. On the way to the exit, I deliberately drove over every piece of grass and open campsite I could possibly put in my path, Rogue following with enthusiasm.

At least the night was warm. In an hour we were dropping kickstands in Lafayette, and I was listening to the host at the Inn chatter animatedly about roads, floods, and bikes. Our room was well-appointed, clean and pretty, and they assured us there would be breakfast in the morning.

"We're living large," Rogue said with surprise. "I can't believe this was only fifty bucks." With fewer than 150 miles between us and our destination in Beaumont, we put our feet up and slept in.

Bushwhacking

The afternoon wore on, hot and sunny, and eventually we found Louisiana and route 12. In Lacombe we made a gas stop, and Rogue decided we were definitely in the south when she found a new favorite fast-food source.

I got some garlicky local beef jerky a couple of doors down, and we snacked and then continued west. Somewhere on 12 a police bike caught up to us. The sheriff's officer on the seat looked us thoroughly up and down and then zoomed away, cut abruptly into a line of cars at an exit ramp, and was gone.

Rogue wanted to see the Mississippi river, so I did some Googling and found a campsite that appeared to be right on the water.

"How badly do you want to camp on the water?" I asked.

"Why are you asking that?"

"Are you willing to pay half of $35 to do it?"

"Hm. How close is it?"

"Across the street." I showed her the map, and she smiled.

"Let's do it."

We rolled into Baton Rouge with a couple of hours of sunlight remaining, and found ourselves a spot at Farr Park Equestrian Center and Campground. The office was closed, so we parked the bikes, grabbed cameras, and set off for the river.

Across the street, the earth was hilled into a large dyke with a footpath running along the ridge. We scaled the near side excitedly, expecting a grand view of the river from the top, and were disappointed to be faced instead with trees and an ominously thick layer of underbrush. We paused for a moment.

"You don't have to come with me," Rogue said. "I will still respect you if you want to go back."

I shrugged. "I like adventure."

We headed down the far side and into the trees at the bottom. Some twenty feet into the forest, scraggly brush became a carpet of vines, waist high and menacing. Glad to still be wearing my boots and protective riding pants, I forged on through, trampling the carpet of giant plants and hoping there weren't any pit traps lying in wait.

After several minutes of plowing through the wilderness, getting grabbed by vines and covered in burrs, we eventually found a spot from which we could see a glimmer of brown water. The plant matter became so thick it was no longer worth the effort to fight our way through, so we took a few pictures, had a laugh at ourselves, and turned back to make camp.

Enterprise

With my thumb still mostly intact, we moved on toward Mississippi. Interstate 59 took us into Meridian, which appeared from the highway to be rather dull and commercial. I opted to stop for gas when we were out of the busy district, and that proved to be a mistake.

The next exit after Meridian was for Savoy, and we followed the big green sign with the town name. When we reached route 11, however, the only gas station in sight was abandoned, falling apart and growing a field of weeds. There was one car, left for dead on the gas pad. No humans were in sight.

I weighed my options and decided to turn around. Back on the highway, the trip meter estimated 8 miles until Hades' tank was empty. Six miles south, the next exit looked similar to the last, only the sign said Enterprise rather than Savoy.

There was no way we'd make another exit, so off we went, hoping for the best. After a couple of miles we reached a stop sign, and I still didn't see any signs of life, so I prodded my GPS to find a gas station. There was one only a mile away, an apparently nameless relic of the '50s with ancient gas pumps and an even older group of men sitting at a table in the back. We got a few strange looks from passerby; our motorcycles and our brightly colored hair didn't really fit into the dusty town filled with pickup trucks.

Rogue said the town's cop was very nice, though, asking her questions about our trip and wishing us a safe ride. She was very excited to be in a place called Enterprise.

Route 59, while an improvement over 81, was still not that exciting. On the upside, though, we had found summer. The winter gloves, the scarves, and my rain suit were packed away, and we started to look for shade at gas stops.

Near Hattiesburg, I was hunting for coffee when I came across a can of something so ridiculous I stopped in my tracks.

"I can't not do this," I said.

"Uh oh," came Rogue's voice from the other side of a stack of chips. "What'd you find?"

After the Red Bull hallucination fiasco in July, I was wary of energy drinks, but thought maybe if I left the Tylenol out of the mix I'd be okay. In fact, I was fine, but the drink was neither as tasty nor as effective as coffee, so I wouldn't do it again. That said, I regret nothing.

Bloody Adventures in Alabama

At our next supply run, I realized we must be entering the South when I found a new brand of beer...

At least there was beer, because when we hit southern Tennessee, there was a certain lack of gas. I usually feed Bee premium, but when a pipeline breaks and people anticipate a shortage and thereby create one, sometimes that's not an option.

We found a map-dot tent east of Birmingham, Alabama and headed for it. Oak Mountain State Park proved to be quite large; from the check-in gate to our campsite was five miles. We parked the bikes in gravel and walked up a little woodsy hill to our site. The rest of the campground was a bit of an RV party, but the tenting section was both secluded and deserted.

I reported to Rogue that the shower house was quite nice, but upon her return she disagreed.

"That was a whole bunch of nope," she said with a shiver.

I was confused. "Why?"

"Spiders! Everywhere!"

"Really?" I hadn't found them, or they hadn't found me. The only life I'd seen was a single cockroach in a trash can, which is to be expected in warm locales.

The weather was perfect. For the first time on the trip, we sat outside in t-shirts and were comfortably warm. When I finally went into the tent to read a book, I was asleep by paragraph three.

In the morning, my jaunt to the bathhouse got a little exciting. The toilet paper dispenser was mounted oddly high on the wall and also apparently broken. When I tried to get it to do its job, instead the front cover fell open onto my head, and I reacted without thinking and slammed it shut. Unfortunately my right thumb was in the way.

I wandered out of the bathhouse in a painful daze, bleeding copiously.

"Rogue," I called. "I need your first aid kit."

"Okay," she said, and continued cleaning up the tent. I didn't know where to look, so I stood and waited. After a minute I called again.

"Hey. Where do I find it?"

"Up here," she said. I climbed up to the campsite.

"What did you do?" she asked.

"Tried to cut the end of my thumb off," I answered.

"How?" She sounded incredulous. "Do we even have anything sharp enough for that? What were you doing?"

I was stuck between laughing and crying and couldn't answer.

"Oh my god, you're not telling me. That's bad."

I rinsed my thumb and Rogue bandaged and taped me up as best she could. I quickly learned to operate the stove, and then to pack my luggage, and then to put on gloves and drive with limited use of my right hand.

Whisperlite Stove: the Demise

That night was a chilly one, and I had to steel myself to step out of the tent in the morning. I'd brought my sweater into the tent but not thought to insert it in my sleeping bag, so I was momentarily more cold after putting it on. Rogue rolled up the bedding while I set up the finicky stove. We'd forgotten to make another attempt at finding an O-ring, but it had worked once, so I saw no reason it wouldn't work again.

It did work. Much too enthusiastically. The second I had it lit, the flaming gas dropped from the stove to the surface of the picnic table, through the table to the ground, down the braided steel line to the pump mechanism, and all over the sides of the bottle.

"Put out the table," I ordered Rogue while I grabbed the stove and dropped it on the asphalt. The only thing I could find to smother the flames was a canvas bag, and I put it over the stove and held it down while flames shot out the sides.

I realized the gas was still on, but I couldn't turn it off, as the valve itself was on fire. After a few moments of struggling to grip it through the bag, I stopped the flood, but then the bag was on fire.

"Should we step on it?" Rogue asked.

"Go for it."

We each stood on a side and glared at the fiasco on the ground, trying to suffocate the disaster with our thoughts. After some moments, I carefully peeled back the far edge of the bag, waiting for it to flare up again. The fire was out, so I pulled off the bag.

And the stove came with it. The pump mechanism had melted into a grotesquely twisted remnant of its former self and was fused to the scorched edges of the now-useless canvas bag.

I picked up the whole mess and walked two campsites over.

"Good morning," I greeted the guys closest to me. "You want a laugh? Check out what I did."

"I thought I saw something on fire," one of them said, inspecting my prize. "You want to borrow my stove?"

We did that, and experienced the pure joy of effortless cooking, followed by hot coffee and perfectly boiled oats. Then we headed to Cabela's for a new stove.