Lucky in Louisiana
This is neither the beginning nor the end, but it is my favorite story of the whole trip so I will start here.
We had traveled just shy of 10,000 miles, two-up on a motorcycle, through Rocky Mountain passes snowy cold in mid-August, where we pulled red kerchiefs across our faces to protect them from the biting cold. Deserts, searing hot, where stopping was no option even though my four-gallon gas tank was getting lighter. Big, strange cities and dead ends in cow pastures. Kids wiping the dust from my windshield in a Mexican border town. Nights spent on quiet beaches, cheap motels, and once being roused from our sleeping bags by a plains tornado that chased us right into sunrise. It was time for something a little more civilized, even if we were in Louisiana.
I told Bet _ promised her _ we would stay in a hotel once we hit
New Orleans. We had been there once before, flying in and renting a car for a
couple of days just after we were married a year earlier. This time we came
from a different direction, and on a motorcycle. We were a bit saddle sore and
it was time to chill.
On our way out of Texas on Route 73, we got caught in a thunderstorm, but managed to dry off as we hugged the Gulf Coast toward Cameron. I reaffirmed my promise that we would make for New Orleans no matter what, and there we would rent a fine hotel room downtown, dine on oysters and shrimp and take in some sightseeing. Walking, after days of riding on a motorcycle, could be such a treat.
We passed bayous, saw pelicans and cranes, and almost everywhere pieces of offshore oil rigs and boats of all sizes, shapes and level of seaworthiness. We wiggled our way through coastal towns as we made for Morgan City, just above the Mississippi Delta on Louisiana Route 14. A muggy midday gave way to the late afternoon when, glancing into my rear view, I noticed what looked like a long, dark gray wave forming a front across the sky behind us. Apparently the storm we had hit earlier was on our tail.
I made a turn from a two-lane onto a four-lane highway, giving the throttle an extra punch as I straightened out the angle. The rear tire went into a slight wobble and I knew we had a problem. I let the bike coast to a stop and then pulled it up on the center stand. Sure enough it was flat. I took a deep breath, almost as if it would summon some benevolent god to fill the tube. That sore of thing, of course, doesn't happen in real life.
But this did: As I scanned the area to make sure we were away from traffic, I noticed that the bike had come to a stop directly across the highway from a building that housed a motorcycle shop on the left, and a seafood restaurant on the right.
"We'll eat first," I said to Bet as I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. Waiting for an opening in the traffic, I pushed the bike across the four lanes, set the stand, and we went in and found a table.
About half of the tables were taken in the neat little storefront restaurant. As we pulled the wooden chairs from the table to sit, the place seemed to go silent and all eyes were on us. We were used to this by now, being strangers every place we went and not always looking our Sunday best in denims, boots and wind beaten shirts.
A basket of rolls was soon brought to our table, glasses beer appeared and we talked, I thought quietly. But quiet, I admit, can be more of a whisper when you've been on a motorcycle all day, and I soon sensed that all of the other diners' antennas were absorbing our Yankee-accented chatter.
My oysters and Bet's shrimp arrived and we wasted no more time talking. We had barely stabbed my first oyster when a young man who had been sitting alone rose and walked toward ours. I had seen "Easy Rider," and at once my hunger was replaced by a pang of worry: Yankees are not necessarily welcome in the deep, deep South, or so goes the movie's story line. He nodded and stopped at our table.
The short fellow, whose reddish hair was close-cropped, introduced himself. Or at least I think he did. His thick accent obscured virtually every word he uttered to us, but I began to decipher he spoke on.
"I heard you talkin'," he said, "and it sounds like y'all have a problem with your motorcycle."
I asked him to sit, but he chose to remain standing.
"That's right. Were we talking too loud?"
"Naw," the fellow told us. "But I just couldn't miss the accent."
"Don't hold that against us," Bet said, attempting to break the ice.
But we would soon see there was no ice to be broken in this steamy southern Louisiana night.
He introduced himself, Randy, from Abbeville. He said he was working construction in the area, and seemed interested when we told him where we'd been.
"Let me see if I can help you. It's a flat, you say?"
"Appreciate your offer," I said. "Have you eaten?"
"Just finishin' up."
"Well, if you want to join us, we can eat and then take a look."
"That's all right. Why don't y'all finish up and then we'll see what we can do."
"Is that shop next door, the bike shop, closed?"
"Tighter 'n a drum. See you in a bit."
We finished eating and met at the cash register. Outside, the rear tire was still flat. I took a deep breath and started taking the rear axle off, removed the wheel and broke out the tire irons to get the tire off the rim.
Randy brought his van around and we rode to a gas station a mile or so down the road. The puncture turned out to be along the seam, but we fitted the 25-cent patch into place and filled it with air. It seemed to hold, so I packed the tube back in and put the tire back onto the rim.
With the tire distraction, Bet and I had given no thought to where we would be staying for the night until Randy asked where we would be staying. I asked if there were any campgrounds around, or a cheap motel.
"Stay in my room," he said, his offer sounding more like an order. "It's air conditioned. Nice. Y'all sleep in the bed."
We rode back to the seafood restaurant and remounted the tire. I insisted on buying Randy a beer or two, a small token for his thoughtfulness. He didn't seem to be much of a drinker, but politely joined us.
It wasn't easy keeping up with the news along the way, but the TV in the little bar brought up up-to-date on the big story of the day: the Muhammad Ali-Leon Spinks fight in New Orleans. Of course, the fight wasn't televised, but soon the news came over that Ali had won.
So it turned out that if we had made it to New Orleans that day, Sept. 15, 1978, there wouldn't have been a room anywhere in the city. Maybe we were lucky to have gotten a flat.
We had another beer and Randy said he'd lead us to the motel where he was staying.
The heat and humidity were unrelenting, but when we went into the room Bet smiled in relief as the air conditioner hummed away. Randy insisted we sleep in the bed, explaining that he'd be out by 4 a.m. anyway so he's be at work on time.
But I said we couldn't take that away from him after he'd been so helpful. We opened the double sleeping bag on the floor, was covered with white shag carpeting, so it turned out to be pretty comfortable anyway. Much better than a lot of places where we had spent night along the way.
We slept in until 8, maybe 9 a.m. I opened the door and it was sunny and blazing hot already. Randy was long gone. We left him a note, packed the bike, and headed off to New Orleans.
