NatchezBall Run I

The Prelude

I’ve told many motorcycle tales in this blog. Here is another one.

I went on a one-day jaunt last spring with a group of riders that drove the first 50 miles of the Natchez Trace Parkway. That day's drive sparked the idea of touring the entire parkway. Months later, the tattered National Park Service info pamphlet was still in my tank bag. It further stoked my interest in driving the entire journey with this money shot: “444 miles through three states and 10,000 years of history.” The trip idea thus became a must-do.

From that kernel I badgered and cajoled two of my coworkers into freeing up a weekend in July for the trip. Truthfully, Steve Yarsynski (Stevie Y.) and Will Matusiak (a.k.a. WMD, Weapon of creative Mass Destruction) are the real heroes of this tale of tenacity and the joys of two-wheeled travel. In sum: two days, three guys, eight wheels, 888+ miles round trip, and unlimited fun. How to figure out that math? Read on.

The Main Dish

The weekend prior to the NatchezBall Run, WM and I were fueling up with coffee at an IHOP before a 300-mile shakeout tour to Kentucky. We had a friendly conversation with a couple who were interested in our motorcycles and tour plan. They viewed my bike with bemused interest and soon christened my tarted-up 1986 ZL600 Kawasaki Eliminator “the Barcalounger.” I had attached a wire mesh frame from the Dollar Tree  to strap down my knapsack and other travel gear. This obviated the extra cost of buying saddlebags. It also provided lower lumbar support. Win-win, right? The strange apparatus drew inquisitive looks. My “classic” 1986 Barcalounger was in complete contrast to the sleek and sexy new BMW owned by my riding partner. Even so, the Kentucky trip was a great time and we felt ready for the coming challenge.

To kick off the Natchez Parkway trip we opted for breakfast at the Loveless Café, a renowned Nashville area eatery. We were in high spirits. With one look at the loaded down Eliminator, Stevie Y. and WMD renamed it “Hobo Bike.” These were prophetic words.

The parkway is 444-miles long and commemorates the Old Natchez Trace that connected portions of the Mississippi River to salt licks in central Tennessee in bygone days. The highway surface is pristine. The legal speed limit is max 60 mph, commercial vehicles are banned from using the road, and stoplights and entrance/exit ramps are few. It’s a gorgeous scenic ride along a historic trail with memorable landscapes. We all filled our gas tanks and departed. 

At mile 13 from the northern terminus, my Hobo Bike blew its bevel cap right off the crankcase and the bike hemorrhaged oil all over the highway. SHIT! We three went into crisis mode. WM tried to find the bevel cap for 30 minutes with no luck. Stevie Y. bought duct tape and replacement motorcycle oil. I MacGyvered up the bevel cap area so the motorcycle’s engine would keep some oil inside and not seize up. 
The final diagnosis: I was fucked. I could not proceed. 

I felt this trip was suddenly like the Apollo 13 space mission. So I switched to Plan B. I called a tow truck to haul my motorcycle to a holding lot. I removed Hobo Bike’s accessories and its spare gas, then ubered to the nearest enterprise rent-a-car. I rented a white Nissan Frontier quarter-ton truck and sped to rendezvous with the boys near Tupelo, Mississippi.

Did this trip become a tale of woe? One of oh no?  No go? No way. Adapt and overcome…