The Drone of Flying Engines


The drone of flying engines
Is a song so wild and blue,
It scrambles time, and seasons
If it gets through to you.
--Joni Mitchell

We spent the night in a motel within smelling distance of the huge Tyson chicken processing plant on the outskirts of Dardanelle. Dad had driven there in his pickup truck with a U-Haul trailer and his big Kawasaki. My brother and I had ridden behind him on our own bikes. We planned to spend the next few days riding around the region together and seeing the sights. We’d been planning the trip for months, dreaming about it even longer.

The plan to get on the road early that morning was derailed when Little Bro found that his rear tire had gone flat overnight in the parking lot. It had a nail embedded in it. We were thankful that the wounded tire had not given out during the long, mountainous ride the day before.

Over breakfast we decided to load the bike into the U-Haul trailer and haul it across the Arkansas River into Russellville to find someone who could repair or replace it. Thus began a comedy of errors that saw us visit in turn a Kawasaki dealership (which had gone out of business only the day before), an ATV shop (where they said they could help us—then discovered that they did not actually have the tire we needed in stock), and a Suzuki place (which had what we needed). Brother and Dad went through the rather involved business of pulling off the rear wheel while crouching in the trailer three times. I stood beside the trailer and occasionally handed them tools, feeling rather like a nurse assisting in a surgery.

Some three hours after we had originally planned, we loaded our machines with camping gear and headed to Mount Nebo a few miles west of town. The single road up Nebo is about as steep and twisty as any in the country. It can be scary to drive up in a four-wheeled vehicle. Dad had ridden motorcycles up there many times over the years. I had done it once. Brother had yet to try. We put the novice in between us so that we could both keep an eye on him.

Actually the ride isn’t all that complicated. You really just have to pay careful attention to what you’re doing, take it slow, and growl up the worst turns in first or second gear. The fantastic views from the island-like summit are well worth the effort.

After admiring the view for a bit we pitched camp at the state park and made ready to go down for more riding. Dad gave Bro some more advice—slow down, gear down, get down hard on the brakes before entering a turn, then release the brakes and let gravity pull you down into it, trusting the geared-down engine’s braking to keep you from going too fast. The sensation of dropping into one of those steep, tight turns is a bit like some kind of carnival ride, except that you are (hopefully) in control of it. Brother struck a note of bravado by going down with a cigar clamped between his teeth.

Down on the valley floor we ran back through Dardanelle and headed west on Highway 22. We passed Subiaco Abbey and reached Paris, where I was born. There we had the novel experience of pulling up into a Sonic drive-in on motorcycles to order lunch.

From Paris we headed south on 309 over Mount Magazine to a fuel stop at Havana. Then east on Highway 10 through Danville and Ola to Casa. At Casa we pulled onto 155, the “back way” up Mount Petit Jean that I had never ridden before. Atop Petit Jean 155 intersected with 154. We followed this east, down the mountain and over to Highway 9 at Oppelo. A few miles north on 9 brought us to Morrilton.

Riding motorcycles as part of a group is a different kind of social experience. You can only communicate with each other through signals. The ride captain at the head of the formation uses blinkers to signal turns and has a small repertoire of hand signals to indicate hazards, point out landmarks, or instruct followers to tighten up the formation. The riders in back can, if need be, signal distress or the need to stop by flashing their headlights.

Otherwise you’re pretty much on your own private ride. The drone of the engine, the whirring of the treads, and the whipping of the wind fill your ears. You keep your eyes moving, now glancing down the road, now to the side, now at the scenery, now back at the rider behind you or down at your speedometer. Now and then you meet other bikers and exchange waves with them.

You fall into a kind of groove, where the ride becomes your whole experience—everything you’re thinking about at that time. I like to sing sometimes, usually hymns or Joni Mitchell songs. Brother says that he sings country songs and hymns. Riding on a nice day makes you feel like singing.

Then you make a rest stop, where you can dismount and stretch your legs, rest your throttle hand, and drink down some water to replace the moisture the wind and sun suck out of you. This is when you get to talk with your companions. You discuss how the ride is going and admire the beauty of the day, ask whether the others saw that nice old barn down in the pretty hollow to the left, or listen to comments about the wild turkey that flew across the road so startlingly close in front of you it looked like he was trying to hitch a ride. Then you all mount up and start off again.

From Morrilton we rode back over Petit Jean. This time we stayed on 154 and descended the western end of the mountain. As we reached the lowlands we noticed that our formation had picked up a fourth bike. It was a Gold Wing ridden by a couple we had seen at the state park visitors’ center up on Petit Jean. Often when other bikers get behind us they want to go faster and end up passing. This couple seemed content to follow us. When we turned north onto Highway 7 at Centerville they turned with us and followed us all the way back into Dardanelle. We halfway expected them to pull into the same fuel stop. But they kept going.

We had supper in Dardanelle before heading west and back up Nebo. Despite the late start we had covered well over two hundred miles. It was still early enough to see the shifting colors of the evening sky at Sunset Point on the western end of the summit.

I had first seen the sunset there eleven years earlier on my honeymoon. The love of my life had since decided to stop loving me and had left. Naturally I couldn’t help thinking about that happier time.

Happier time? No, this time was every bit as happy. I still had lots of people who loved me. Two of them had come up to the mountain top with me. I couldn’t think of better company. These two would never walk out on me. I had a lot to be thankful for.