Rich Mountain, Arkansas, Sun. 14th Mar. 2010

A fine Sunday morning, the chill of winter still in the air, my first opportunity to explore a little of Arkansas, "The Natural State." Driving north from Texarkana on Hwy71, crossing a long straight reach of the Red River. Looking down river to the east from the bridge I wondered if anything much has changed from when the first hardy European settlers pushed southwest to the new lands opening up in Texas and Oklahoma, certainly there is little evidence of mans encroachment along this reach . It must have been daunting for those wanting to cross this significant river and continue their quest for a new life in the West, a small number of ferries offering the only means of safe passage.

With it's head-waters in the Texas Panhandle, the two east flowing forks of the Red join to form the Oklahoma-Texas border and a short section of the Arkansas-Texas border. At Fulton, AR, it tracks south, is joined by the Sulphur, and makes its way to the Mississippi and Atchafalaya rivers in southern Louisiana. I cross the Red each day travelling to and from work near McNab, AR, it is wide, swift flowing with a colour true to its name. I have begun taking a series of photographs of the Red from a bridge on Hwy67. At two weekly intervals I'm hoping to capture the changing moods and colours of the river and its surrounds. At this time of year everything looks "dead", trees in waiting for the warm days of spring to sprout forth new foliage. It is sure to be an interesting exercise even if my photographic skills fail to adequately capture the unfolding seasons.

Wilton, McNab, Fulton are like so many small rural towns, in an apparent economic struggle to stay afloat, and southwestern Arkansas certainly has its share. Boarded up shops and businesses, victims perhaps of poor management or more likely the Walmarts, the Home Depots of this world. Houses in ruins that were once the homes to proud families. What happened? What went wrong? Where did these people go? Someone should find them and learn their stories. Others living in run down houses and trailers that hardly seem strong enough to withstand the next windy day, probably without the means or the inclination to do much about it. These communities sadden me, simply holding on, they seem to be without a future, depressed in almost every sense of the word. Yet they all have a history, someone at sometime deemed it necessary to establish a settlement at that location, the reasons had to have been sound. Today, it seems, those reasons no longer exist.

The flat country gave way to rolling farmland as I drove north, cattle and horses grazing in fields lush and green from recent rains. I never tire of looking out over farmland, seeing what generations of hard work and sacrifice have achieved. The old barns and farm houses, some well cared for, others not so much, but each adding character to the countryside. I noticed several long sheds at different times, it wasn't until I passed a Dyson processing plant that I realised that chicken farming was an important industry in this area.

Hwy 71 leaves its northerly track and heads west for a short time to DeQueen. The town was founded along the Kansas City to Port Arthur, TX, railway line. Jan DeGreoijen, a wealthy European coffee broker, was one of financiers who kept the project alive when the 1893 economic depression put a severe squeeze on capital supply in America. The town was named DeGreoijen in his honour, but was changed to DeQueen, locals finding the original too hard to pronounce. DeQueen itself is fairly non-descript, just another country town serving the needs of the surrounding region, what it does have though is a newspaper, The DeQueen Bee, going strong since 1897. I just had to buy a copy, in fact I bought three copies, two of which will end up in Australia, where I'm sure they'll bring a smile.

The road out of DeQueen heads north, the country flattening out for a while. Just on the outskirts of the town I came across an old house surrounded by a high wire mesh fence, its front yard filled with tables of bright coloured stones. This I had to see, my first thought was of getting Gayle a birthstone. But, wouldn't you know it, hers is emerald and this was no jewelry store, just an old man selling bits and pieces of just about everything and certainly nothing of any great value.

Being spring, the trees were starting to gain their new foliage and along with it plenty of blossom. I occasionally saw mauve, but mostly white, beautiful along the roadsides shinning in the midday sun. In a week or two all the colour will be gone for another season, to be replaced by the multiple shades of green. What the trees were I have no idea, but they were a spectacle. This was, I think, the first real blossoms I'd seen since leaving New Zealand.

I arrived in Mena - pronounced Meena - another railway town, just on midday feeling like a meal. Gayle had suggested I try some Arkansas BBQ which she felt sure would be different from the Texas variety. To be honest i'm not a big fan, I find BBQ a little smoky for my liking but I agreed to keep an eye out for some. I'd spotted one back off the road, several vehicles parked outside on my way north to Mena but didn't think anything of it until I arrived in town and found very little to choose from apart from the standard chain restaurants. I turned around and went looking for the BBQ establishment, however after about 5 0r 6 miles I decided it can wait for another time.

Back in town, right on the main street was the Sunrise Cafe doing a brisk trade. A full house says it all for small town restaurants, the food and service have to be good if they are to stay in business in what is a very competitive industry. The Sunrise has been in business since the 1920's, a feat for any company especially so for a cafe. My meal did nothing to dent their reputation, nor the young ladies who served me, bright, cheerful, chatting to everyone, friend or stranger, making all feel we were a little special. One told me she had an "internet friend" in NZ who keen for her to go visit him. When I asked where abouts he lived she said he hadn't told her yet.

With some friendly and helpful directions I was on my way to my intended destination. Mena sits at the foot of Rich Mountain, part of the Ouachita Mountain Range. While it is no Southern Alps or Rockies, this range is none the less very scenic, the hills and valleys running parallel with each other as if carved out by some great excavator. The views from the lookouts in the Queen Wilhelmena State Park along the ridge road of Rich Mountain were spectactular. As a testimony to the strong winds that blow up there, white oaks have bent their limbs in submission to this wild location.

In full foliage the seemingly endless forests stretching off to the horizon must be glorious, no sign for miles of any human habitation. My friend Charlie Wade, native to SW Arkansas, assured me there were "mountain people" down there among the trees with no electricity or running water, quite willing and able to defend their land from unwanted visitors. Stories abound, he told me, of gunfights, people going missing, of moonshine and dope. Not a good place to find yourself lost or stranded. Whether or not Charlie was pulling my leg it was obvious just how easy it would be for someone to wander off and not be seen again, this is beautiful and rugged region.

The Bastrop Loop, Sunday 14th Feb, 2010

At last, a warm clear Sunday. For weeks now it seems Houston weather has been cold, rainy and downright miserable so an extended ride has been out of the question for me. Now, if I had some of that expensive cold weather riding gear battling the elements would be no problem, but for now I have to choose my days to suit what I have. Other than a few trips to church each Sunday morning and a run down to ExImports for a 6k mile service, the Triumph has hardly been used. I had the handlebar risers fitted at the same time so I was keen to feel the difference, and what a difference that extra 30mm makes. With very little downward pressure on the bars I felt no wrist/forearm fatigue or any numbness in my fingers. That minor modification was money well spent.

I decided to go west on I10 to Columbus then NW on 71 to Bastrop, east on 21 then 290 back to Houston. I10 has become my road, it's the great artery from Florida across the Gulf region, through Texas and on to California. Seems that wherever I go I10 plays a part somewhere in the journey. It's a big and brash highway, as if she is on a mission, her travellers hurrying, all intent on reaching their destinations as quickly as possible. I've driven and ridden I10 day and night, it is never a quiet road, cars and trucks in an endless procession east and west. One day I'll make the journey west to California on this great highway, 1548 miles from Houston according to Google Maps, now that would be quite a ride.

Today it was only I10 as far as Columbus, a quiet country town on the Colorado river. There is a neat McDonald's on the southern outskirts of the town, exit 696 puts you right into the carpark. How do I know this? In April/May of 2008 I was working at the Sam K. Seymour Jr. Generating Station near La Grange. I would ride to the site early each Monday morning, stopping at Macca's for a coffee, perhaps some hotcakes, maybe a hash-brown on the way. With a little something to go on with the last 20 miles went quickly. Sometimes on my return journey late on a Friday afternoon I would also stop for a snack before tackling the 70 miles to Houston. Over the course of 5 weeks travelling to and from La Grange Macca's and me became good friends. Today, however, I decided not to stop, there had to be something more interesting further up the road.

Travelling north-west on Hwy 71 is an easy ride over gentle rolling ranch country with plenty of well fed cattle in the fields. There is no doubt Texas has some quirky people doing some quirky things, a little way up the road from La Grange is a Dodge dealership that is all about reducing those expensive overheads. In this case the overheads are free, a forest of pine trees, there must be at least fifty new trucks sitting out there in the weather. No need for all that concrete on the ground, why spend all that money, grass will do just fine.

Further along 71 I came across a Cowboy Church, a local fellowship that is part of a large network of churches spread across the US, Canada, Australia and else where, loosely affiliated to the Baptist denomination. Going by the number of people gathering outside, this particular church is quite successful. There is something peaceful and comforting to see a group of church goers standing around after a service enjoying the beautiful day, talking, laughing, united in their faith. No one needs to alone, just a find a place where God's people get together.

I arrived in the thriving community of Bastrop right at midday, time for a meal. Today I was going to adventurous, no Macca's for me. I saw that big orange "W", Whataburger it is. Ok, I admit it's not that adventurous, but they do have a pretty good burger, good enough for this ol' vaquero anyway. The town was originally settled, albeit temporarily, by Spanish soldiers in 1804 who named it Puesta Del Colorado. In 1832 it was re-named Bastrop only to be changed to Mina in 1834 and finally back to Bastrop five years later. Bastrop was almost the capital of Texas, however land prices in nearby Waterloo - later to be re-named Austin - were cheaper so the state government settled there. There's alot interesting history in these small rural towns if you dig around a bit, some significant, some not quite so, but all have a place in the fabric of Texas. And like so many other country towns, Bastrop deserves a visit and a nose about, you never know what gems you'll unearth.

Hwy 21North took me to 290East and my route for Houston, through some pleasant rolling farming districts, some of the farms obviously the "hobby" variety, the owners wanting a rural experience while commuting and working else where, Austin most likely. I'm not sure a hobby farm would be much of an experience unless money wasn't an issue as I seriously doubt there's any financial return from the place. However, plenty of people are into it so there are obviously some benefits, either real or perceived.

My final stop was Giddings, even if it was unplanned. As I rode into town my attention was grabbed by this big pink pig sitting on side of the road. I couldn't keep going, this I had to take a close look at. In the midst of a wide range of weird and wonderful sculptures in the front yard of the "Cabbage Patch Cottage" a large pink porker sits in all his, or her, glory, just waiting for someone to come along and take it home. There must be a market for pink pigs because upon exploring the inventory I found another one, although this was smaller and had wings. Maybe pigs do fly, in Texas anyway.


Next door to the Cabbage Patch Cottage was the Bethel Union Baptist Church, later to be re-named St. Paul Baptist Church, a fellowship started in 1871 by a group of ex-slaves with the Rev. I. Tolliver it's first minister. One of it's prominent members, ex-slave Matthew Gaines became a minister, a state senator and a spokesman for civil rights.


Giddings started it's life as a railway town in 1871 when the Houston and Texas Central Railway came to the area. In the 1980's it was an oil town sitting atop the the oil laden Austin chalk. The oil boom has since passed, now Giddings is eased back into a quiet rural community servicing the local district. The town's motto "Experience Hometown Hospitality" was colourfully illustrated with a large mural on a downtown building wall.

Mid afternoon, time to head for home, east on the notorious 290 into Houston. I say notorious because as the freeway gets closer into the city the traffic gets thicker, the lanes seem narrower, especially the left hand lane which has no shoulder, just a concrete barrier. On a bike with no escape route in an emergency, it is a hairy piece of road.

Total Distance: 266 miles (426kms)
Ave. 44.5 mpg
Top Speed: 96.6mph (154kph) - I can't help it, the Triumph just goes fast.

Name Change

The Triumph has to have a new name, Gayle says Trumpie is too Donald.

610 Loop on a Warm Sunday

A prolonged spell of cold and wet weekends has meant very little riding of late. Sunday 17th Jan. the sun finally showed itself, the temperatures rose to an acceptable level. Mid afternoon seemed like the perfect time to wheel out Trumpie and go for a quick spin around the 610 Loop. It was all of 50 miles but it was sheer pleasure to wind her up and let some cool Texas air blow out the cobwebs. Two weeks ago I had set out for La Grange then across to Roundtop on to Brenham and home, but by the time I reached Columbus I was too cold to go any further. A hot meal at a local family restaurant and I was on my way home.

I'm still experimenting with the seat in an effort to eliminate, or at least minimize, the sore bum issue. The Corban seat is very comfortable but being vinyl it has no absorption qualities, on a long ride the bum gets warm and moist, therefore quite uncomfortable. Yesterday I tried a gel seat-pad under sheepskin, a slight improvement but I'm not there yet.

I recently purchased a pair of seamless Dryline undergarment shorts. The theory is they will draw moisture away from the skin, kind of like Nike running gear is designed to do. I'm thinking a combination of the Dryline shorts worn under a pair of relaxed fit Levi's and the sheepskin may just work.

The next improvement/modification will be to fit 1 1/4" handlebar risers. The '07 Sprints were fitted with higher bars as standard, this was done to increase the comfort for the wrists, arms and lower backs. The risers will bring Trumpie up to '09 spec. Since she already has the Triumph high performance stainless steel exhaust and a re-mapped engine system there's not much else to do as far as the mechanics are concerned. Just some accessories to make life a little easier, a top case, a GPS, a communication system, some new riding gear including some decent boots. Given time I bet I can find a few more things I just can't live without. But hey!

This coming April I plan to see some more of Texas, get out on to the Great Plains up in the Panhandle, take in the wild flowers in full bloom, visit those towns that pop up in so much Texas music.

Goliad, Texas - A Day Trip, Nov. '09

On a warm, clear Saturday morning I donned my riding gear and set off for the historic town of Goliad in SW Texas, a little over 150miles (240kms) from Houston. I had first come across Goliad in James Mitchener's epic "Texas." It was a town with an infamous past as well as some important historical buildings. And to be honest, I needed an excuse to get on my Trumpie and go for a ride. Gayle was well into her first seminar of her Masters program, and a quiet house without me rattling around allowed her to put in some valuable study time.

59 South is a big, fast freeway out through Sugarland, Richmond and Rosenberg before getting into farming country. Crossing an overpass on the southern outskirts of Rosenberg I saw a beautiful sight, a reasonably good sized cemetery in full floral colour, every grave stone adorned with flowers. From a distance, it was something to behold. Unfortunately, I was travelling a bit too quick to stop and as there was no where to turn around the opportunity to take what would have been a wonderful photo was lost. I had no idea what the flowers were all about until I stopped for gas and a bite to eat at the country town of El Campo - what a brilliant name. There at the Shell gas station two WWII veterans were selling raffle tickets to raise funds for their association. How could I resist these cheery old men, I bought $5 worth, feeling sure I'd be riding out to the town in a week or so to claim my prize/s. Alas, no luck. But it dawned on me that later in the week was Veterans Day, or as I grew up knowing it, Armistice Day, the 11th Nov.

From El Campo it's an easy and interesting ride to Goliad through flat cultivated land, with some wonderful old and abandoned farm houses and buildings. Whenever I see these places I wonder, who built that? Who lived there? Where are those families now and what are their stories? As with much of modern agriculture, the small family farms have become unsustainable, swallowed up by larger operations. The tragedy of economics - history, tradition, and family connections to the land mean nothing unless a profit is being made.

Earlier this year along with Gayle, my son Tristan and his girlfriend, Beth, I had visited The Alamo in San Antonio, a low point in the state's military history. As brave as the Texans may have been, they were completely out-numbered and out-gunned at The Alamo. It was a disaster for Texan's aspirations for a nation free of Mexican control, nothing less, but it became a symbol of heroism, defiance and independence that has to this day characterised Texas and her people. The bumper sticker seen on nearly every second vehicle in the state, "Don't Mess With Texas" seems to say it all.

Goliad, another defeat at the hands of the Mexican army, was even more tragic. At The Battle of Coleto the Texans, under the command of Col. James Fannin had, in the face of over whelming odds, laid down their arms and surrendered. For nearly a week they were held captive within the walls of Presidio La Bahia before orders came from Santa Ana that the Texans were not prisoners of war but pirates, to be treated as such and executed immediately. Although he had beaten the Texans at The Alamo his victory had been a costly one, now he would exact his revenge. Despite fervent pleadings from Gen. Jose De Urrea to spare the lives of his prisoners, on the 27th Mar. 1836 over 340 Texan revolutionaries were marched out of the Presidio and shot. It thus became known as The Goliad Massacre. Less than a month later Santa Ana would be defeated at San Jacinto by Gen. Sam Houston. After years of struggle Texas was at last a free independent nation.

I rode into the historic district of Goliad a little after mid day, it was time for a meal. Thank goodness there are no fast-food places or chain restaurants in the square. I did a walk around to see what my options were, finally settling on The Empressario. A full restaurant is a dead give away, the food must be good and servings must be generous, country folk are sure to know the best place in town. I was not disappointed, for less than $10 I had a hearty meal, more than enough to keep this ol' soldier marching for the rest of the day. In a recent edition of Ride Texas (Jan. 2010), the Empressario was recommended as a good place to eat, I fully concur.

Dominating the square since 1894 is the Goliad County Courthouse, an impressive building by any standard. Swift and often harsh justice was dispensed within the Courthouse, many a poor soul went to meet their Maker at the end of a rope swinging from the Hanging Tree just outside. Times were tough back then, the Texas Rangers, sent to establish law and order during the Cart War of 1857, were ruthless in carrying out their duties. Life in the early days of Texas was not for the faint hearted, especially if you got on the wrong side of the law. Today Texas has this great and colourful legacy, an independent spirit that seems to say to the world "We're doing it our way, keep your nose out of our affairs."

After a browse through a couple of antique shops and an art/craft shop it was on to the Mission and the Presidio, both located a few minutes out of town. First stop was the Mission Nuestra Senora Del Espiritu Santo De Zuniga, built in 1749. Quite a mouthful for a church, but what stunning building it is, recently re-whitewashed, it almost shone in the afternoon sun, a gleaming white contrasted against the rich green of the nearby oaks. I read in a brochure, I now cannot find, that this Mission is the last remaining fully intact building of its kind in Texas. The interior, while very Catholic with its religious icons and symbolism, is beautifully preserved.

Just a little further up the road is the Presidio La Bahia. I arrived to watch the last 30 mins. of a military re-enactment, about 20 or so participants in full uniforms, guns and cannons, camps, etc. It gave me a perspective of the nearby Battle of Coleto where Fannin and his Texan troops were defeated and surrendered to the Mexican Army led by De Urrea. The Presidio has a small but extremely interesting museum as well as a mini theatre showing a film that tells the story of the events that put Goliad into the annuls of Texas history.

It was time to start thinking about getting on home. After topping up the gas tank I headed north on Hwy 183, through some rolling cattle country to Cuero, Hallettsville then up to Schulenburg on 77. A very nice strawberry milkshake at the local Dairy Queen and it was on to I10 East for home.

Total Distance: 345 miles (552kms)

Gainesville, Florida, Sept. 2009

Late last year I rode down 59South to Cycle Gear, a motorcycle clothing and accessories shop. Right next door there just happened to be Eximports, a motorcycle dealership selling Ducati's, Aprilia's, BMW's and Triumphs, each a European marque. Curiosity got the better of me I have to admit, Cycle Gear could wait for another day, there were new bikes that needed checking out. It was there that I saw it, my new bike, a shining gunmetal grey Triumph Sprint ST, calling to me, "I am meant to be yours, buy me". So I did as any responsible man would do, I walked to the door.................and along the way I found the salesman to get the low down on this dream machine. All was going well until the matter of the trade-in value for my Buell was brought up. Seems that pre-owned bikes don't have much value, especially at Eximports. So for the time being the Triumph would remain a dream.

That rebuff, however, gave me time to do some research on the Sprint, to see whether ol' Dennis the salesman was being fair dinkum or just giving me the spiel. I Googled bike reviews from both the US, Australia and Europe, all were glowing in their assessment of the bike, shortcomings were very minor, all praised the handling, power, comfort and, above all, the value for money. I was hooked, this was the one I wanted. BMW's are way too expensive, at least another $6k more than the Sprint, but are they $6K better? Perhaps, but I don't have $20K plus to spend on a bike anyway. The Kawasaki Concours 14 and the Yamaha FJR1300R both cost more than the Sprint and didn't offer anything much more than larger cc 4 cylinder engines.

With the trade-in value of my Buell an important consideration I started looking at pre-owned Sprints online. Interestingly, there were very few for sale, especially when one considers the size of population of this country. Maybe there haven't been many sold, but that didn't make sense, there are several Triumph dealerships in every state. Furthermore, magazine write-ups seem to suggest that there are plenty out there who've bought them. I found several reviews from Sprint owners who just loved their bikes. Maybe the reason why there were so few for sale was that people who had one actually liked the bike so much they felt on need to replace it.

It was to Ebay that I finally turned. Again, very few for sale, some months only a couple, other times more, but never more than 5 or 6. Now I acknowledge that the sellers want to sell, and some of their comments need to be taken with a grain of salt, but without exception all raved about their Sprint's, they couldn't all be outright liars, surely. For various reasons some had to sell their bikes, loss of a job, getting married and the wife-to-be didn't like motorcycles (then why marry her?), wanting another style of bike but couldn't have two, and so on. Others had circumstances change and a bike was no longer a part of it, still some had just had enough of riding.

For the next 10 months I kept an eye on Ebay and a couple of used bike websites, watching the comings and goings of the Sprint market. I got a fairly good idea of the prices for any given year model, what accessories and modifications different owners were installing, seeing the whole range of colours available. It was a valuable time of learning for me. I even had a dabble at bidding for a couple, never really being too committed however.

Early Sept. I found her, a cool looking silver '06 model with burnt orange trim and a few important extras. The starting price was low and better still, the bike was in northern Florida, an easy round trip from Houston. Nine days later after some negotiating with the seller she was mine.

So it was early on a Saturday morning that I flew to Gainesville, Florida, via Atlanta, to take delivery of the Sprint. A little after midday I was on my way back to Houston on board an '06 Triumph Sprint ST, with a 1050cc 3 cylinder engine purring away. The bike was smooth, I mean really smooth, effortless acceleration through a 6 speed box that was just too easy to use. My biggest issue was going to stay on the right side of the law, this baby could fly.

Gainesville is the hometown for the Florida Gators, the Sat. I arrived was game day. I was advised to stay well away from the downtown area to avoid the inevitable traffic congestion, and as I planned to be back in Houston the next afternoon I had no wish to get caught up in the football crowd. I was directed to I75 by going around Gainesville rather than through it, a few extra miles, but on this particular day a lot less time. So I saw very little of the city, just the outskirts, but that's ok, it'll still be there for a future trip.

I75 is a good road north through Florida, traffic was light, I guess everyone was at the game, so I made good time. To tell the truth I took very little notice of the Florida countryside, I was more concentrated on the Sprint. It had a totally different feel to my Buell, riding position, clutch action, throttle. Before long I'd turned west on to my old favourite, I10, Houston in my sights. My plan was to make Mobile, Alabama, stop there for the night and Houston early Sunday afternoon. All good plans go astray somewhere, mine was no exception. Late afternoon I began feeling the cold, I stopped for gas and put on everything I had including thermals. But I think the damage was done, by the time I neared Pensacola I was extremely cold, shivering uncontrollably. I rolled into the nearest Motel 6, signed in, unloaded my gear and ran a bath. Where's the hot water? I could only get warm. Where's the complimentary soap and shampoo? For $37 I guess you can't expect too much. After a wild night of what was perhaps hypothermia followed by a fever, I awoke early Sunday feeling like new, well almost.

Thank goodness for McDonald's, we all know there's better food out there, and there's worse, but Macca's is consistent, neither really good nor really bad, the same everywhere, kind of comforting, safe and dependable. Anyway, I don't care, I like Macca's, always have done, I know all the foodies turn their noses up at the mere sight of the "golden arches", but for me it's all good. After a "big breakfast" and a couple of cups of pretty good coffee I was on the road right at 6.30, a warm sun on my back. The Sprint felt even better as I sped west.

The home ward journey was uneventful, traffic was relatively light. No matter what they say in Washington DC, this is still a Christian country if church car parks are anything to go by. All that I saw along the way through northern Florida, Alabama and Mississippi were full. I10 winds through some beautiful country, magnificent trees rise above the road like towering green barriers protecting the land beyond from the ceaseless procession of east and west bound travellers. If I'd had more time I would have stayed on I10 down through New Orleans, and maybe taken the big bridge over Lake Pontchartrain, but that's for another day.

Crossing the mighty Mississippi at Baton Rouge is always a thrill for me, this iconic river that has played such a vital role in the history of this nation, the boundary between East and West, the main artery into the vast interior. It was losing control the river that spelled the end of the Confederacy during the Civil War. The Mississippi is everywhere, music, literature, art, cuisine, folklore, politics, history. As a boy I'd read Mark Twain, seen the movies of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn and dreamt of one day seeing this place for myself. It was in 2004 that I first saw and experienced the River, at Hannibal, Missouri, where Twain wrote his classic stories. I've revisited the Mississippi many times, as far north as Quad Cities, Illinois, where I put my feet into the waters and collected a couple of stones, New Orleans, Natchez, and of course several times while on I10. I never tire of looking out at the great body of slow moving water. A road trip planned for the future is to follow the great river from New Orleans to it's source. I'll need a month or so but it'll be an amazing journey through the heart of America.

Crossing the huge Achafalaya Basin and the Henderson Swamp is the other highlight as I make my way on I10. It seems an eerie and foreboding wilderness, an unwelcoming place where the laws of nature appear to take precedence over anything man may attempt to impose. The vastness of this wetland is none the less captivating, almost daring us to enter it's forbidden world. The fact that there is supposed to be an "unknown" number of people, the Cajuns, who have for generations made this region their home, survived and prospered in this watery realm only adds to the mystery. I can see a Swamp Tour happening one day.

From Lafayette, Louisiana, it's pretty much a straight run to Houston, more traffic the further west I go. By now I'm feeling very much one with the Sprint, I've had a taste of the powerful potential this machine has, it is a delight to ride. But, as it would be on any bike, 450 miles is hard on the bum, and mine was no exception, another Buell experience. A short rest somewhere west of Beaumont gave the nerve endings some relief, then it was one last push for Houston. I rode into 503 Roy St at 4.00pm, 520 miles for the day, to be met by two excited corgis and my wonderful wife. It doesn't get much better than that.

The Triumph Sprint ST is a brilliant bike purposely designed for touring, with power, comfort, great ergonomics, excellent fuel economy, good sized panniers, all put together in pretty smart looking package. I was delighted with my "Trumpie". This is the bike I will see North America on, it's that good. Now I have two bikes, for how long is any ones guess. Maybe Gayle could get her motorcycle licence?

Top speed: 102mph (163kph)

Ave. speed: 63mph (101kph)

Ave. fuel consumption 44.5mpg

Riding time: 12.3 hrs

Total distance: 830miles (1328kms)

ps. the best bumper sticker I saw: "Jesus is Coming, look busy"

Christmas in Alabama, 2008

Our trip to Alabama to spend Christmas with the Haynes family was a last minute decision. We had planned to have a quiet time at home doing not much, but with Gayle's Mum being in such poor health we thought it wise to drive back to Wedowee to visit her, who knows how many more Christmas's she may have.

The decision was made, we would drive, leaving Christmas Eve straight after work. Personally, I would rather drive any day as opposed to flying, and Gayle was glad to relax in the passengers seat, surrounded by pillows and blankets. We loaded the Jeep and hit the road just after 6.30pm, missing most of the east bound traffic on I10 out of Houston. This trip was going to be special, we had our two girls, Maggie and Millie, with us. Maggie had not up to this point been a good traveller, she would be in an agitated state just going to the bark-park, going to Alabama was going to be a test for all. Millie, on the other hand, was relaxed and almost asleep by the time we turned off Nth Shepherd Dr on to I10, she wasn't going to be a worry. Maggie resigned herself to the fact that this wasn't another trip to the bark-park and all the huffing and puffing wasn't going to change her situation. By the time we reached the outskirts of Houston she'd pretty much given up and was dozing away with Millie. We had no issues with them for the whole journey, they were glad to get out for a walk and toilet break when we stopped, but just as glad to get back in the car.

Our drive was uneventful, stopping often to stretch our legs, once for an hour sleep, Gayle had packed food so we didn't have to worry about finding places open to eat at. We arrived in Wedowee late morning Christmas day, tired but happy to be with Gayle's family.

The Haynes farm is now 42 acres of rolling pasture. The girls took an instant liking to the wide open spaces, running, chasing each other, rolling around, enjoying the freedom that only the country can give. I took many walks with them up hill and down dale, they seemed to have boundless energy, exploring everything as corgis will do. It was a delight to watch two happy dogs at play. Once back at the farmhouse they would crash on the floor and sleep for hours.

Four days of happy and sad times with the family. Gayle's mum, Nel Haynes, was not at all well. We spent time each day with her, doing what we could to give her some cheer. I observed the love of a daughter for her mother, as Gayle tried to make a frail woman's life a little more comfortable - rearranging the pillows, getting an extra blanket, placing flowers in a vase, bringing strawberry thickshakes from the local Burger King. Life for the elderly in a nursing home isn't easy, but Gayle demonstrated her deep love and affection for her mother in both word and deed. I saw a beautiful part of Gayle's character in action, she is a fine woman.

New Years eve we packed our gear, loaded up the Jeep, let the girls have one last run in the field and hit the road for home. Houston may not be the most picturesque city, but it's home for Gayle and I, we're happy here. It was great to see the downtown high-rises come into view as we came along I10, we glad to be home, tired and ready for our own bed. A New Year awaited us, filled with challenge and promise, '09 was going to be a good one.