4/8/15 – Tucumcari NM to Shamrock TX
Morning in Tucumcari NM, the light from the sun breaking over the far plains has that reddish-yellow tinge, spreading its color over the prairie grass and sage, bringing the heat that will again start the winds. On advice from Kevin, I walk down to Kix on 66, the breakfast place in town. It is in the former Denny’s, built here when 66 was still the main road and I-40 was a project in the works. Now Denny’s is out on the interstate and Kix is an independent place with a can-do attitude, making the best breakfast for miles, many miles, around. The perky waitress brings me a house specialty, a ginger spice latte’ (not my usual breakfast drink but she seemed so proud of it, I couldn’t refuse…and she was right) and my eggs & bacon which she says she cooked for me herself. She’s good at her work. There are the locals in here, the ones you find in every early morning breakfast place in the US, with the main difference being that many of these are wearing cowboy hats. Mostly men, of course, it usually is at this hour, older men.
Back at the Blue Swallow, the rig is rolled out of the garage for the loading up and Sidecar Delay Factor strikes again. A middle aged couple from Pennsylvania walks out of their room and begins quizzing me about the rig. They are riders, back home, who have just purchased a trike for the wife after she had an unfortunate encounter with a guardrail on her two-wheel motorcycle. They have an acquaintance, a lady from their town who also bought a rig from DMC, though one with a lot more bells and whistles than mine. The husband offers that if I will take his place going to visit his kids in Phoenix, he will ride the rig back east for me. I decline his offer.
Kevin has recommended a locksmith in Tucumcari to make spare keys for the 650. The bike, a 2006, came with only one when I got it and I’ve been concerned about the prospect of losing it. In more than 50 years of doing this riding thing, I’ve never lost a motorcycle key….but then, I’ve never had just one. The locksmith, a pleasant fellow who tells me that he has often visited Kentucky when he lived on the east coast, makes the two keys from the blanks I provided and charges me just $2.00. He won’t take more.
I take old 66 again for a while, but hit I-40 again to make up some time.
The Midpoint Café – Home of the Ugly Crust Pie
I have a mediation set on the 14th and can’t be late. There is one detour I have to make, at Adrian, Texas, to stop at the Midpoint Cafe, the halfway mark on the Mother Road. The specialty there is “ugly crust pie” which the menu tells me is better than it looks. They are correct. I eat two pieces, one apple and the other chocolate peanut butter. That will do for lunch today.
Much of the rest of the day is a drone across the Texas panhandle, watching the brown dusty plains and the cattle pass by. I came through here in 84 and spent the night in Amarillo, though I can’t recognize anything familiar when I pass through again.
My brother-in-law, Jay Smythe, left Kentucky on Monday, in the rain, to ride out and meet me somewhere on the road. In Shamrock Texas, we rendezvous in a Chevron station and go to look for a room for the night at the local Motel 6 across the road. We’ve both had enough Texas for one day. I unload the rig and Jay climbs in the car for a tour of Shamrock. He’s only my third-ever passenger but I don’t hit anything or eject him while flying the car, so I must be getting the hang of it. He says it’s fun, though strange to be riding that low to the ground. A stop in the local gas station/ “beer cave” reveals that domestic brews, owned by the giant Imbev corporation are preferred here. There is one sort of locally made option, “Third Shift Amber” which says it is from Ft. Worth. Pretty good, actually.
The motel, a clean and serviceable place, has a “family” restaurant next door. We arrive a bit early for dinner, while the staff is still discussing last night’s game, the local high school happenings and what somebody did that perhaps they shouldn’t have done. Eventually the regulars begin to trickle in, greeted each by name, and head for their “own” tables. Thank goodness we didn’t inadvertently pick one of those. Dinner is acceptable, though nothing to write home about…though I guess that is exactly what I’m doing.