Mountain Ride

As the Fourth of July weekend rolled around Mom had just arrived in Spain on a summer study program. My brother and his family were all back home out of state. That left Dad by himself for the holiday. I headed home on Thursday evening to keep him company. The Fourth itself went well for us. We rode motorcycles, visited a bit with relatives, and spent the evening viewing the big fireworks display on the edge of town.

The next day we rode into town to get juice and nice warm sausage biscuits for breakfast. We took them to the city park to eat. I had learned by now that even in July early mornings and late evenings are cool enough to get downright chilly when riding in short sleeves on a motorcycle. Since I had failed to bring anything with long sleeves, Dad loaned me one of his shirts. It practically swallowed me. I tried on one of Mom’s denim jackets as well; that was closer in size but too small. I decided that for this purpose too large was better than too small.

After breakfast we rode back to the house and made ready for our most ambitious ride yet. The new bike was now through its break-in period and could handle highway speeds. I was also now up to such speeds. We filled our water bottles and put on sunscreen and took off. After a quick stop by Dad’s job to feed the kittens that had recently shown up there, we headed out of town.

First we went to the county seat to Mom’s office to check her e-mail and get the latest news from her in Spain. Then we turned toward the scenic Ouachita Mountains some miles away. As we rode the winding roads into the foothills I was pleased to learn that the bike could take the hills at highway speeds with no problem. It would make a good cruising machine as we had hoped.

We had a fine day for riding. The skies were almost cloudless. The temperatures were mild for July. The unusually wet June made the miles of hilly forests and scrub timber through which we rode green and bursting with life. Here and there we passed green fields and pastures studded with ranks of hay bales and gaggles of well-fed cattle. We stopped in one small town for a snack and rode on toward the mountains.

A little way outside the town of Glenwood a sudden jolt threw me over to my left. It happened so fast I did not see what happened. The next thing I knew my leg was hurting from a momentary contact with the pavement at around fifty miles per hour. Over the rattle of the engine I heard a terrible screeching noise. I looked and saw that I was dragging a big piece of what looked like chicken wire.

I had to stop. But first I had to signal Dad in front of me. He had told me that morning that if I needed to signal him I should flash my headlight. I flipped the switch from dim to high beam several times. Then I hit the brakes and started trying to down-shift as quickly as possible. My foot hurt when I hit the shift pedal.

I brought the bike to a safe stop on the side of the road. The first thing I did was to test my leg carefully. I could still move it. It supported my weight, though with a bit of protesting, as I dismounted.

Next I started to check the bike. The chicken wire had gotten snagged on the bottom of the fork beside the front wheel. I was able to disentangle it with no trouble. The bike did not have a scratch on it.

By now Dad had doubled back to where I was. I assured him that I was all right. He congratulated me on a good emergency stop and remarked that here was another milestone in my budding cycling career. We threw the chicken wire well away from the road. Neither of us had seen it lying there in the shady patch where I had encountered it. There was nothing I could have done to avoid it. I said a prayer of thanks that I had not had a serious accident.

We rode a bit further down to the base of the hill and found a better place to pull over. The bike ran fine. We rested for a bit and took a drink of water. I took a photo of a nearby barn. We were on the floor of a little valley. A large railroad trestle crossed the valley some way upstream. A couple of years ago I had clambered around there taking some of my first ever black-and-white photos of it. I did not feel much like trying to photograph it today.

Next we rode on into Glenwood, one of several small towns that serve as gateways to the Ouachitas. On the edge of town we crossed the Caddo River near a large canoe rental place. The valley below was full of day paddlers and their vehicles. In Glenwood proper we crossed the end of Main Street and headed toward the heart of the mountains on Highway 8. We rode north of town, passing schools and churches. One of them was a recently-established Hispanic congregation called Iglesia Templo de Alabanza—the Temple of Praise Church.

Not many miles out of Glenwood we approached Caddo Gap, where the upper Caddo River passes between two small mountains. Just before the Gap we turned west onto Highway 270. As we crossed the river again we noticed a lot of canoeists down below. Dad and I stopped past the end of the bridge and walked back out to look down at them. We had a great view of the crowded river.

We amused ourselves for a bit by watching several inexperienced crews trying to shoot a minor rapids, getting stuck or turned sideways in the process. One couple got spun all the way around and kept going, turning around in their seats to face downstream again. I took several photos. Every canoe and kayak in the region must have been on the water that day. A noisy ultralight flew overhead going downstream. It reminded me of a motorcycle with wings.

We rode on down the highway toward Camp Albert Pike, passing through a couple of tiny communities. At one point we rode past a steep ridge that rose so abruptly from the valley floor that it almost seemed we could reach out and touch it across a narrow stretch of pasture.

The road turned to gravel well before we reached Albert Pike. Gravel can be a bit hairy to ride on, so after a bit Dad elected to turn around and go back. On our way we stopped to check out a little rural cemetery we had spotted earlier. It had good-quality markers going back well into the 1800s. A number of graves had evidently lost their original markers and were marked only by large rocks.

We rode back to Glenwood on Highway 8. There we stopped and ate at a local Subway. My left leg and foot were very sore, especially when I had to use that foot to shift gears or come to a stop. Otherwise I felt fine and did not have any trouble keeping going. After lunch we headed for home, following a different route this time to see more scenery. Back in our home town we stopped on Main Street and got snow cones to cool off. I tried not to limp as I approached the snow cone stand.

Despite my mishap we had had a good ride. Dad did feel kind of bad about my accident, though it was in no way his fault—or mine, really. That evening I gave my bruised foot a good, relaxing soak in hot water.

In an odd sort of way the accident actually helped me to feel more confident. I had wondered ever since I started riding what I would do in an emergency. Now I knew that I could face one and survive. That said, I hope I don’t meet with another one any time soon.

Glad to hear that it wasn't a serious injury and that you had a good holiday weekend!

Outstanding! Yeah, making those emergency stops can be a challenge, but it sounds like you had it very well in hand.

I hope you get better soon, DL!