Gerald Lawson

Gerald Lawson of Bonham, Texas, registered for the 1999 Mother Road Ride/Rally® and was kind enough to send us this account of his run from Joplin, MO to Oklahoma City, OK. Jerry lived on Route 66 as a child and his father was involved with the construction of Route 66 in their home town of Luther, OK. The Rally took him back to his roots and proved beyond a doubt that you can go home again. The pictures are his as well. Jerry's e-mail address is: glawson@netexas.net

The Honda Pacific Coast still gathers stares and questions as to what kind of bike it is. I tell anyone who will listen how much I love it for its handling quality and racy good looks. To the uninitiated, it is a totally enclosed sport-touring bike with an integrated luggage compartment behind the rider and under the passenger seat. Being bright red draws attention in itself. Many people mistake it for a scooter, not realizing that under that plastic shell whines an 800cc V-Twin engine capable of pushing the bike to speeds well over 100 miles per hour. I also love the bike for its forgiving nature, especially in the twisties. It's a sure footed, cat-like machine that will let you make small mistakes and have time to correct them. Most other bikes will spill your butt on the highway if you screw up in the slightest. Mind you, it still appreciates a skillful master in its saddle and will show it with many miles of dependable service. It sure satisfies this senior citizen.

Joplin is much more forested and hilly than I remember. The outskirts are very attractive with expensive looking homes nicely positioned on large, landscaped lots lining the boulevard leading into the city. I intentionally avoid the city center and choose to connect with the Mother Road on the western edge of the city. It is two in the afternoon and I officially start the Route 66 ride. I have put on 330 miles to get here from my home in Bonham, TX and am tired. I turn west for what is left of the day.

Within minutes and totally without fanfare, I slip out of Missouri into Kansas. Galena is the first of many towns that time forgot...this one for good cause! My notes and tourist information tell me that the area just north of town was named Hell's Half Acre for the land damage caused by mining and was one of the primary sites of the bloody United Mine Worker strikes between 1935 and 1937. I point my camera toward the train station now converted into a museum. I feel a need to start the tour proper and the station happens to be the only logical target my camera lens spots.

The only remaining arch bridge on US Route 66 is located just west of Riverton, Kansas. Leaning into a sharp curve left, I see the stark white relic in the distance...lonesome because it's no longer the main ticket across the river. Bypassed long ago, it now serves mainly tourist traffic. Ignoring any possible traffic, I park my bike crossways in the middle of the bridge for a photo...the painted Route 66 emblem on the road as a foreground. Now I was beginning to feel the heartbeat of US 66.

The afternoon is slipping away. I slow a bit for Baxter Springs. A few spins of the odometer and Im in Oklahoma again clicking off those house-hold named towns of Quapaw, Commerce, and Narcissa. Commerce is Mickey Mantle's home but it might as well be Mickey Mouse for all the fanfare evident. I did notice a sign in a field just outside town that read President William Jefferson Clinton, The Nation's Fondling Father.

Highway 66 through Oklahoma has been known for many things: the Grapes of Wrath, Main Street of America, and the Will Rogers Highway of America. The old highway runs the gamut of hot and cold, hills and prairies, beauty and ugliness. History says its path through Oklahoma has evolved from trails and footpaths worn deep in virgin prairies and blazed through blackjack tangles. Jealousy and rivalry played their part in its growth, for the brash new towns of the young state all wanted to be on the highway which connected the east with the rapidly growing center, Amarillo, Texas, to the west. In 1916, the part of US 66 linking Oklahoma City with Amarillo was improved as a postal highway.

US 66 runs southwestward to the center of the state through mining districts and oil and gas fields, then westward to the Texas Line through farming and stock country. Part of the route traverses the area visited by Washington Irving and his party in 1832, when the land was a virgin wilderness. Irving had a special interest in American Indians and how they lived. A lone historical monument on the highway just east of Arcadia marks his campsite. He related his adventures in A Tour on the Prairies, published in 1835. I'll make a point to stop there this afternoon because I like his writings, especially the book, ASTORIA or Anecdotes of an Enterprise Beyond the Rocky Mountains, of which I own an 1897 Tacoma Edition.

I'm struck by sadness seeing the mountains of mine tailings all through this area. It reminds me of the destruction of lands along California Route 49's Gold Country Highway. There too, lie miles of rock piles...a sad monument to greed and avarice. Here they call these man-made mountains of waste rock, chat. They occupy the landscape along the highway for several miles. (Editor Note: The area has been designated as a Super Fund site but the clean up will be years in the doing) The Big Business Corner was the name given to this flat, desolate corner of Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri. Shortly after the Civil War, zinc and lead deposits were discovered by adventurers searching for gold. Over the years, the land was ripped open, ravaged, and dug through until all the zinc and lead were exhausted and the oil and gas deposits were sucked dry. All that remained were the poor dirt farmers and the mountains of chat! When the dustbowl winds of the 30s blew all the topsoil away, most of those remaining farmers packed their few belongings and left too. They joined the westward migration to the California dream. I can still visualize those cars heading down Route 66 with a couple of mattresses tied on top and an extra tire or two strapped to the spare on the back...canvas water bags swinging from the bumpers. If they had known what kind of trip was ahead, most wouldn't have left.

The afternoon shadows lengthen as I coast into Miami. I missed a turn somewhere and ended up downtown. It was nearly deserted this Sunday afternoon. I couldn't miss the marvelously restored, ornate exterior of the Coleman Theatre. Someone cares here in Miami and it shows. I wish I had time to go inside to look around. Maybe another time. The missed turn means that I probably missed the hotel where I'm supposed to meet the other group of riders. Too tired to backtrack, I press on to Claremore, the home of Will Rogers, to the Day's Inn.

As I reflect on the short stretch of Highway 66 thus far, I'm disappointed in what is left of the historic route. Much of the highway has been four-lane expressway with little to remind me of the days when I traveled back and forth across the state with my folks. Oh, the waitresses are still pleasant and you can still get a great piece of banana nut pie at the Route 66 Cafe in Afton. But the charm has faded away along with the historical service stations, motor hotels, and roadside cafes. Maybe I'll feel better after a good night's rest. I say to myself as I turn into the motel in Claremore.

A half hour later, I gobble down a couple of cheese enchiladas at local Mexican food cafe up the street and am shocked when I walk to the door to leave and see it's raining again! I wait for it to slacken a bit and decide to walk back despite the rain...I get soaked! Noah would have been proud of this rain! Of course, the minute I enter the lobby, it stops raining. I'm soon dried off and in bed. I'll be turning off the light now. Goodnight.

The alarm rings its way into my dream as an unanswered phone. I reach for the clock to turn off the alarm and open one eye just enough to squint at the clock. It's 6:30am. I want to be on the road early so showering and packing the bike will allow time to grab a cup of coffee, juice and maybe a breakfast roll at the motel's free continental breakfast bar. Oh well, an English Muffin will suffice. At half past seven I accelerate into the rush hour traffic that's heading to work in Tulsa. Why do we say ôrush hourö traffic when it's actually all morning? This isn't exactly what I had in mind when planning to ride the quiet back roads of America's Main Street. All things considered though, it isn't a bad day at all. It's beautiful, sunny, and cool... around 60 degrees.

In between keeping a sharp eye on the drivers on all sides, I catch glimpses of the signs whizzing past for any hint that the Historic Route 66 would take a detour away from this traffic. Would I get lucky or would I have to bear with this traffic all morning?

Whoa! What was that? I had just crossed the long bridge over the Arkansas River Navigation System waterway entering Catoosa when I spied the Old Highway 66 street sign off to the right. I have to make a U-turn to check it out. Secluded in the woods near the waterway stretched a two-block long, curved section of the original Highway 66. On either side of the road, beautiful, expensive brick homes sprawled over their individual estate-sized lots. Can you beat this? An original concrete section of Route 66, complete with curbs, being used as the main street of a development of homes. I had to spend some time here. At the other end of the development, huge boulders stretched across the road marking the dead end of the street...but not the end of Route 66. As far as I could see into the woods, the concrete ribbon snaked through the deep undergrowth. The venerable route is being swallowed up foot-by-foot into the metaphoric tentacles of time. For a moment it was 1946 and I could hear the strains of Bobby Troup's Get Your Kicks on Route 66. Or maybe it was one of Woody Guthrie's compositions about this famous highway. I slowly ride back to the main highway. Maybe the old road still has some life in her after all. I thought wistfully. I hum to myself as I work the bike up through its gears.

I press down hard on the right handlebar to force the bike into a sweeping downhill curve. Somewhere along here is a rare sight I've only read about. Even though I was looking for it, it still shocked me by its size! The Blue Whale of Catoosa...floating in a pond right across the highway from the Arrowood Trading Post. This man-made leviathan is big as life...even bigger! The very sight of the whale explodes on your senses...if not for the bright color, then for its size! Who would think of building this gargantuan monster of the deep right here in Oklahoma?!?! It sports a fresh coat of sky blue paint. In it's heyday, it must have been a singularly, unique swimming park attraction. (Pardon the redundancy, but a ôsingleö adjective isnÆt sufficient) With its mouth gaping open as the entrance, the inside is decked and sports a waterslide that protrudes from the side near the whaleÆs head. The deck continues through the whale's open-backed mid-section to the end of the tail. At the mouth opening stands a huge cane fishing pole with its line and hook firmly fastened to the whale's upper mouth. Quite a catch! This place must have been just the antidote for nearby TulsaÆs hot summer days. I linger for a while standing in the whale...wondering about Jonah centuries before. There was a significant difference in circumstances though. Jonah's fish was real and he had a totally different mission. My next town was Tulsa...not Nineveh!

Traffic bogs down as I approach the outskirts of Tulsa, Oklahoma, home to more oil company home offices than any other city in the world. I quickly dismiss any thoughts of riding through downtown. I'll just stay on I-44 through town and exit just west of Tulsa. There's the off ramp to Route 66 on the left. Once again I'm working my way southwest on the original Route 66 into Supulpa, home of Frankoma Pottery and Rock Creek Bridge. I'm not particularly anxious to stop for anything here so I continue down the road toward Bristow, Depew, and Stroud. I couldn't help but notice a sign pointing to the town of Slick...10 miles south. Slick! Its residents probably never think it a strange name for a town. After all, they could point to any number of other towns with more unusual names. Having spent most of my life in California, I got used to towns named for their Hispanic heritage. I had almost forgotten the names of towns in this area of my birth until this trip. There are many towns with American Indian names like Shawnee, Wewoka, Tishomingo, Tecumseh, Ouachita, and my favorite, Pushmataha. They seem perfectly natural again... well, except for Slick.

In Stroud I pull to the curb at the Curious Gifts shop on Main Street to buy a Route 66 coffee cup. Across Main Street is the historic Rock Cafe where the sign on the roof boasts Hickory Smoked Bar-B-Que. But no more...another classic is closed. The City of Stroud has maintained much of its original downtown area in its near original condition. The streets are clean and wide, the buildings a study in brick architecture. So much detail is lost in our construction methods and style today. No more frills, overhangs, indentations, or ledges adorn the buildings. They say it is too costly to do that now. I think they just don't know how.

Continuing on my journey, I slip through Davenport and on to Chandler, home of the outstanding Museum of Pioneer History, the Lincoln Motel, and the Crane Motor Company Building and the historic Phillips 66 Filling Station. Seeba's Filling Station is located another six miles west.

Warwick and Wellston spend but a moment in my rear-view mirror and before long I arrive in my hometown of Luther, Oklahoma. I was actually born in Oklahoma City but Luther is where our farm was located. There's not much left of the town that was home for my first five years of life. Most of the old homes have been replaced by newer ones, including those where we lived after moving to town. The only original business left alive is the lumber and hardware store...what's left of it! I dismount at the end of Main Street and look up the nearly abandoned street to where I remember my brother and me squeezing skinny Pauly Palmer into an old truck tire and rolling him down the hill into town. That tire picked up more speed than we guessed it would and bounced up over the two-foot high curb and sailed several feet into the air...just before it ricocheted off a red brick building like a spent bullet! Pauly was ejected.... none too worse for the experience, but we couldn't get Pauly into that truck tire again! After a short visit to the Luther School that was constructed by the WPA under my dad's supervision, I thread my way back up to Route 66 toward the final leg of my trip to Oklahoma City.

Needing a fill up of gas, I pull into a service station across the street from Hillbillie Chicken in Arcadia. After paying for the gas, I ride up the street to take photos of The Round Barn, a familiar Route 66 landmark built in 1898 by W.H. Odor. A group of Harley riders are also parked there. I ask if they are participants of the Mother Road Rally. They nod a yes and say they were going all the way to Santa Monica. Before I can count them...there were eight or ten of them...they follow their U-Haul support truck down the road. The unmistakable Harley rumble leaves my ears ringing! I love my Honda!

After the route was designated a National Highway in 1926, improvements were made to the 1917 roadbed. The original road between Arcadia and Edmond was constructed by convict labor. The highway through Arcadia was paved in 1929. This last section marks the end of my ride on Route 66. I have a renewed respect for those that labored to build it.

It's twelve noon as I head south into Oklahoma City on I-35. I hug the ramp to the I-240 bypass that swings east around the south side of Tinker Air Force Base. This will lead me to I-40. I see evidence of the recent tornado that ravaged its way across 40 miles of central Oklahoma. Twisted sheet metal is wrapped tight, like a second skin, to whatÆs left of the trees that were in the tornadoÆs path. Wreckage of buildings and piles of debris lay not forty feet away from buildings that sustained zero damage! Unlike an earthquake that is indiscriminate, the tornado is a very selective monster...sometimes blowing away every house on one side of a street while not touching a thing on the other side! Go figure!

I kick the old red bike in the flanks and motor past Shawnee and turn south toward Seminole, Ada, Durant and home to Bonham, Texas. I turn into my driveway around 5pm. I logged about 750 miles over the two days. I ease the bike into the garage and cover it up. It loves being home too.