A day like this can only be God's apology for the Winter of '09. The Evil Biker Gang had planned for weeks to join the La-Z-Boy "Relay for Life" fundraising ride, but plans have a way of going wrong.

Back in February, Bruh Ray excitedly told me that La-Z-Boy was planning a huge group ride in April, from Newton to Philadelphia, then to Carthage, then to the Natchez Trace, then across the Ross Barnett Reservoir to Morton, then the old blacktop of Highway 80 all the way back to Newton. One hundred and seventy miles...fifty riders already signed up…$15 a head… maybe more’n a hundred riders...door prizes... and all for charity.

"Great!" I said, "Miz Roo needs a good long ride to wring out the Iron Maiden."

She had been limiting her excursions on my old 2004 Sporty (which she had recently misappropriated) until I acquiesced to her several womanly requests for Heritage handlebars, a Sundowner saddle, ISO grips, Straight Shots, engine guards, a handlebar clock, forward controls, detachable sissy bar with back rest, and the soft leather Harley Davidson travel pouch currently zip tied to Stray Dog.

I gave in to almost every demand. Except for the handlebar clock. So it came as no big surprise when she told me a week before The Big Ride that she was scheduled to be all alone in the thrift shop where she works... All Alone...and SCARED. Oh, and I was not to worry nor let it affect my plans to go on the ride 'cause she was going to be packin' heat and God save any wild-eyed shoplifter if she decided to ventilate their outer garments!

"Honey," I offered half-heartedly, "I could...you know...sort of… postpone...."

"OH WOULD YOU?!" she squealed. "That would be EVER so nice. While you're there at the store with me, could you maybe paint the employee's bathroom and tile the floor and install a new toilet?" (the sound of eyelashes batting furiously).

The hard part was telling Bruh Ray about the change in plans. Half of the Evil Biker Gang would be missing from the longest ride he had ever been on. His friends would miss the best part of the trip, the leg down the Natchez Trace. He’d be so let down. Disappointment of such a high degree should be studiously avoided… so I didn’t tell him until two days before the big ride.

Bruh Ray said nothing. He just sort of grunted and walked off.

Cuz’n Mark stopped by the house early Friday evening. “Didja hear ‘bout the big ride tomorrow?” he asked, busting at the seams with excitement.

“Yeah, we can’t go,” I responded. “Miz Roo’s gotta work. I thought Ray might’ve told you already.”

“No,” he said pensively, “I haven’t talked to Ray. I was just on my way over to tell him.”

“????” said the little bubble over my head. “I think Bruh Ray knows. I thought he had already told YOU.”

“No, he couldn’t,” said Cuz’n Mark. “The club just now announced it.”

“Club? What are you talkin’ about?“

“The Little Rock Riders,” he explained. “They got a poker run tomorrow.”

“I don’t know about Bruh Ray,” I told him. “He’s goin’ on a The Big Ride with La-Z-Boy. A hundred and seventy miles in a big circle. I thought you knew. It’s a charity ride.”

“Sounds more interesting than a poker run,” he said. “But I don’t think there’ll be a lot of riders.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because Harley is putting on a charity ride on Saturday, too!” Mark said. “Oh, and there’s a welcome home parade in Booneville for the National Guard. It’s a PGR event. Hey! That would be a great time to run the Rooster Rig on Stray Dog and show the big flags!”

“Great. Yeah, I’d do that, except that I already promised Bruh Ray I’d go on The Big Ride, and I also promised Miz Roo that I wouldn’t go on The Big Ride. I’ll be working with her at the store all day so she won’t be alone.”

“You’re a saint, Roo!”

My cell phone rang. “Y’hello!” I said. I could hear an engine in the background.

“Where ya at?” the phone said. It was Bruh Ray.

“Home,” I told him. “You?”

“Outside yer garage,” he answered. “Let’s ride.”

I hustled outside for some compensatory conversation. There were bridges to mend. I stood around cleaning pollen from my gas tank and fenders, making small talk, when Miz Roo came into the garage to make sure we weren’t planning nefarious deeds.

“Damn pollen won’t come off,” I told her.

Ray added, “I’ve never seen it so bad. Gonna play hell with my sinuses tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Y’know, I’m really sorry that I gotta miss that ride. It’s just that Miz Roo is gonna be all alone in the store tomorrow…”

“No, I’m not,” she corrected.

“What?”

“I won’t be alone. The owner said he’s not going out of town after all.” She smiled slyly and added, “Sooooo, you boys can both go on The Big Ride tomorrow, after all.”

Big guys. Big bikes. Big grins. Big plans.

On Saturday morning, Cuz’n Mark arrived early at Bruh Ray’s house. I could hear him revving his engine. I hurried to get ready and drove next door as soon as Stray Dog was warmed up. Everybody checked their gas states. I had another eighty miles worth in my tank. Mark had filled up the night before. Bruh Ray’s Honda was showing one hundred thirty miles since his last fillup. He quickly calculated that he could make it to Newton, Mississippi, on what he had left.

He was off by twenty-seven miles.

I was tucked into the #2 slot behind Ray just south of Union when he abruptly slowed down and his turn signals came on. He tucked his arm behind his leg to switch the petcock onto “Reserve” and a few seconds later he had power again. Our little group stopped at the first wide stretch of firm shoulder to discuss his predicament. He quickly calculated that he could make it to the first gas station in Decatur, Mississippi, on what he had left.

He was off by a thousand yards.

We barely made it inside the city limits of Decatur when Ray’s big Honda died. I pulled up next to him and produced a gas siphon from Stray Dog’s Bottomless Bag of Tricks. We fiddled with the darn thing until we could fiddle no more. We couldn’t make it work.

Fortunately, Bruh Ray is related to a third of the native population of Newton County. He pulled out a cellphone and within five minutes, a cousin in a pickup truck delivered a bright red plastic gas can with something inside that we trusted was flammable. Ray filled his bike, balancing the plastic jug on top of his bike’s tank and leaving a two-inch scratch that he would find the next day.

Cuz’n Mark and myself went on ahead to the first gas station, where we applied the lessons learned earlier and filled our own tanks. I was getting hungry, but we didn’t have time for food. We were running late. The idea of two hundred bikes waiting in The Big Ride’s signup line was simultaneously exciting and disheartening. Nobody likes waiting in a long line, so we hurried. Everybody likes long lines of motorcycles, so we hurried.

Newton is only a few minutes down the road from Decatur. The time flew by, and before we knew it we were pulling in to the huge parking lot at La-Z-Boy’s Highway 15 plant. The huge, empty parking lot. I one corner we saw five bikes. Thinking that we were late for The Big Ride, Bruh Ray found the ride coordinator, a short lady named Judy.

No, we weren’t late. No, of course there were more bikes coming. Lots of ‘em. There were just a couple of conflicting events.

We waited an additional hour. Fifteen bikes and a Can-Am showed up. Then the news media arrived to cover The Big Ride. Finally, all fifteen bikes were started up and assembled into a line heading north out of Newton. I was in the #3 slot. Normally, I try to get a position near the end of the formation. The view is better from the back, and I can lollygag without making the entire line of bikes yo-yo annoyingly.

Today, I had to concentrate. Group riding is not second nature to me. I have to continuously check my speed and position, simultaneously watching for hand signals from the lead. Plus, it’s a great day for biking, so I’m watching for bikes going by in the opposite lane, evaluating as quickly as possible whether they’re Harleys or metrics. If they’re Harleys, I have to look closely at the driver to determine whether they’re real bikers or just another bunch of hoo-hah posers. Bikes that pass my tests get the secret Harley wave. The rest get either the “head pat” signal (making them paranoid about whether a law enforcement vehicle is ahead), or an obscene gesture.

Check speed. Check position. Check rearview. Wave. Check speed. Check position. Check rearview. Lead bike makes “road hazard” sign. I’ve forgotten what it means, which gives me a chance to practice swerving. Check crotch rocket going the other way and wave… no, wait, I meant FINGER! Darn, now I’m confused. Look, a girl on a Wide Glide…uh-oh, now I’m a hundred yards back of where I’m supposed to be. Accelerate to seventy. Oh, great, now the lead slows down, so I slow down, so the guy behind me zooms into my blind spot. Check speed. Check position. Adjust rearview. Swerve back into my own lane.

We turn as group onto Highway 16 in Philadelphia, headed west. This is the biggest, baddest stop light system in this sleepy little town. For years, it was a four-way stop, with four lanes headed north, three lanes headed south, one line going west, and two lanes pointing to the east. Confusing, but everyone was courteous and careful. In 2001, the city reengineered the intersection and put up stoplights, killing several careful drivers as a result.

The intersection is still dangerous. Fifteen bikes in a lazy, serpentine line made for an irresistible target. For the first time, I was glad to be near the front. The light turned green just as we got there, and incredibly stayed green until the last bike made the turn.

Carthage was the next stop, thirty minutes away. I wasn’t sure I could make it. Driving makes me tired. My mind wanders. Check speed. Check position. This reminded me of formation flying. I remembered my first ever form hop in the old T-2 Buckeye. Boy, was that a barfapalooza… WOOPS, I’m a hundred yards back! Check position. Here comes a bike, what is it…oh, the hell with it, just honk. Number two drops back to see why I’m honking.

I have no business up in the #3 slot. I’m too tired!

Edinburg slides by, offering two or three attractive locations to pull off. I can’t decide. I’m too tired to stop. Miles of open country, dotted with horse farms, increase my sense of boredom. I’m thirsty, now, and my bladder is full. Suddenly I’m in the right-hand section of the lane!

I swerved back to my position, awake now. A split second later, I made up my mind to pull off as soon as I could. I couldn’t go on.

Our group rolled into the outskirts of Carthage just after twelve noon. A break in the oncoming traffic gave me an opening into a strip mall parking lot. I signaled and peeled off in one move, braking hard to a stop in front of a check cashing store. I shut down and relaxed, safe at last.

Two deep breaths later, Cuz’n Mark pulled alongside. “Are you OK?” he yelled over the nose of his exhaust. “Why did you pull off?”

“I was falling asleep.”

“I’ll stay here with you until you’re ready to go on,” he said.

“No,” I objected. “You go on ahead and rejoin the group. I’m beat. I’ll rest here for about fifteen minutes and then I’m going home.”

He reluctantly agreed and then pulled out into traffic.

Five minutes later, my phone rang. It was Bruh Ray. “Whatcha doin?” he wanted to know. The group had stopped at the gas station across from the Kentucky Fried Chicken in the center of town. That was only a few hundred yards up the street. They’d have food…and a bathroom…and that great Southern brain tonic, YooHoo!

I fired up Stray Dog and carved a path to the gas station. The ride coordinator met me. “Where’s Mark?” Judy wanted to know.

“I thought he was with you guys,” I said. “He left me about ten minutes ago.”

Ray pulled out his phone and dialed Mark’s number. “It’s no use,” I told him, “he’ll never hear you over the road noise.”

“Yeah, but when he stops he’ll check for messages,” Ray answered.

I visited the Little Biker Dude’s Room, ate a chicken finger and chased the aftertaste away with an ice cold YooHoo (shaken, not stirred). For the benefit of you Yankees who are not familiar with the YooHoo Chocolate Flavored Drink, let me just explain that y’all are Yankees and therefore ign’rint.

Editorial Note: Miz Roo has just told me that y’all MIGHT be ign’rint Yankees, but are not necessarily ALWAYS ign’rint Yankees. She’s afraid that some of y’all ign’rint Yankees might take offense. I should point out that she’s from Kalamazoo.

Oh, and chicken fingers aren’t really fingers at all. If they were, it would mean that chickens could shoot small guns, so we’d probably leave ‘em alone.

Bruh Ray’s phone rang. “It’s Mark!” he announced. Then he spoke seriously into the phone. “Yeah…yeah…you’re WHERE? Well, just stay there and we’ll meet you.”

Judy was anxious. “Where is he?” she asked.

“On the Natchez Trace, at Ratliff’s Ferry,” Ray said. “He’ll meet us there.”

“How did he get that far ahead of us?” Judy wanted to know.

I confessed, “My fault, I guess.” I explained that he had dropped out of the group to check on me. Ray said that he had seen Mark go by, but at the time thought that it might have been someone else. Apparently, Cuz’n Mark was accelerating through the intersection, concentrating on catching up with the group, which was parked at the gas station, which he never saw.

Judy called for motors to start. Bruh Ray talked me into rejoining the ride. I’d at least get to ride on the Trace. The Natchez Trace is a national park roadway that meanders through Mississippi diagonally, connecting Natchez to Nashville. It has a strictly enforced speed limit that makes it completely useless as a modern highway. As a result, there is practically no traffic on the Trace.

Today, we had to contend with hundreds of motorcycles, unending sunshine, temperatures in the high seventies, and scenery that soaked through your eyeballs whether you were looking at it or not. No longer fatigued, I lost track of time and distance. Long before I was ready, the group turned left onto Ratliff Ferry Road.
The ferry no longer runs, but a small restaurant and country store makes Ratliff Ferry a popular stop.

The bathroom is located around the corner from the country store, according to the sign out front. What the sign actually means is “Next Clue Over There”. Around the corner, was another sign, pointing to the next clue. The third sign pointed to a fence, which I was in the mood to use when I noticed a fourth sign pointing back inside the country store. And sure ‘nuff, there was the privy.

I finished up, washed my hands, and went looking for eats. The candy selection in the little country store was slim, but I found a Butterfinger and a Dr Pepper. Well, I thought it was a Butterfinger. My first bite told me “LOOK AT THE WRAPPER FOOL”, a brain message normally reserved for those occasions where you mistake a car deodorizer for toffee.

It wasn’t a Butterfinger. I had bought a Butterfinger-like crispy bar. The wrinkled wrapper told me I was eating a “Butt Finger Crappy Bar” (or something like that), and my appetite vanished. I gave the rest of the chocolate covered tongue killer to a large, friendly brown and white mongrel that called Ratliff Ferry home. I had forgotten that chocolate gives dogs the runs, and I should take this opportunity to extend my heartfelt condolences to the proprietors of the little country store.

Judy called everybody together for a photo. Just then, Cuz’n Mark wandered over and pulled off his helmet. Judy was delighted. “THERE HE IS!” she gushed, running over and giving him a big hug. “There’s my Little Lost Lamb!”

Bruh Ray and I looked at each other and silently mouthed the same thing. Before we could make a big deal out of it, one of the other group members stuck a video camera in Ray’s face and ordered him to “Say HI and tell us your name!”

“Uh, OK. Hi. Ray.”

Then the camera went into my face.

“Hi. Roo.”

Then it pointed at Cuz’n Mark.

“Hi,” he said. His lungs drew in just enough air to speak his preferred road name when Ray and I chimed in with a chorus.

“His name is LAMBCHOP,” we both said.

Cuz’n Mark objected strenuously, which had the curious effect of making everyone who was witnessing the event try out the new road name for themselves.

“Lambchop,” said Judy.

“Lamb Chop,” said someone else.

The crowd murmured, “Lambchop….lammykins…lamb chop….”

Cuz’n Mark jumped up and down, clenching his fists and shouting, “No! No! It’s ‘KC’. My road name is ‘KC’, dammit!”

I tried to console him. “Mark, there are a lot of road names that are a great deal worse than ‘Lambchop’, and I don’t think you want to encourage us to start looking at any of ‘em.”

“No,” he whimpered. “KC…kc…”

But it was no use. Lambchop’s future was set in stone.

A few minutes later, the group was back on the Trace, heading south. The beauty of this long drive can’t be done justice with mere words, but as soon as I started imagining appropriate adjectives, we turned onto Highway 43, which crosses the Ross Barnett Reservoir. The open terrain beyond was crisscrossed with back roads and smooth blacktop.

This time, I was running as Tail End Charly, happy to be able to sightsee without disturbing the formation. My mind wandered, as it is so often inclined to do, and then I looked in my rearview and terror shot through my heart!

Big as life! Ultra Glide! Tan and Black! Sticking above the windshield was the matching tan and black half-helmet of the Mississippi Highway Patrol! He was no more than thirty feet behind me!

I did a quick paranoid assessment. Speed…forty-five. Speed limit…can’t remember. Chin strap…fastened. Sober…yeah, the YooHoo had worn off. Was I weaving? I can’t recall. Was I asleep? I can’t recall…Oh, DAMN this old age!!

I heard the pipes as he gunned his huge machine and passed me. I concentrated on driving in a straight line, decelerating slightly to let him go by. Like a dog, I avoided direct eye contact, flicking my focus to the left just a little bit…blue jeans?

I looked up and over at the “cop”. He had a passenger, a girl in a white shirt making “flying wings” with her arms, up and down. My heart rappelled down back into my chest, where it belonged. False alarm.

The group pulled into Morton and stopped at a Shell station, lost. Judy asked how to get back to Newton from there. I pointed down the road and said “That a’way.” Morton led to Forrest, then in quick succession to Lake, then Lawrence, then finally back to Newton.

The Evil Biker Gang decided to stay with the main group as far as Lake, Mississippi. There, we followed a twisty back road through the Conehatta reservation, stopping at a white clapboard service station that had closed its door years earlier.

Bruh Ray said that he was going to ride as #3. He had an uncle he was going to visit, and planned to break off from the group when we passed Stratton Road, about halfway home. Lambchop would follow me the rest of the way, taking his leave when we passed his turnoff, about a half-mile from the farm.

I drove the remainder of the way alone. Miz Roo hadn’t made it home from work yet, so I parked Stray Dog without any fanfare and shut down her engine. I was tired and sunburned and ready for dinner, but there were horses and chickens to feed. The day was getting late and the air was taking on a coolness typical of a warm April day.

Another perfect Saturday in Mississippi.

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(NOTE: "The Incredibly Normal Adventures of RoosterBoots" will finally be available on Amazon sometime during the first week in May. I might actually HAVE a book-signing, someday!)