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Eight hours from Omaha (part 2)


Younder storm approacheth.  Photo: © Bill Fairchild

Welcome to part 2 of "Eight hours from Omaha."  Please give part 1 a visit to get caught up.

It really wasn’t that bad in the beginning.  It was raining, and the wind was picking up but it was nothing like we were to find down the road.  We pulled over initially and took refuge under an over pass, and the cell we had run into passed quickly.  Little did we know that we were in a corridor where cell after cell was fixing to pass through, with each one being bigger and more volatile than the previous.  Back on the road and rollin, it didn’t take long to for the next cell to blow across and this one was packing a little bigger punch.  The wind gusts were now getting vicious enough to blow us halfway across a lane so we stopped again, under the biker’s refuge, another overpass.  

Free light show, hand me a beer.  Photo:

We were playing overpass tag with a couple that was going from NE to GA.  Sometimes you meet the best people under the worst circumstances.  We stayed and chatted with these folks for a while until it started to clear and the rain had let up.  Off again into the stormy weather we went, the spousal unit trying her best to keep up a good front.  

I have always told the spousal unit to tap me on the shoulder if she ever needed me to pull over.  We were following the couple we had been playing overpass tag with, and the rain and wind were flat getting at it. *Tap* *Tap* *Tap*  I nod my head in understanding and turn on my flashers because by now I can’t see squat and I’ve slowed to about fifty miles per.  My rain gear sucks out loud which means the downpour we’re now riding in has me soaked.  I’m starting to tense up because I’m wet and cold, and the traffic is still blowing by at 70 miles an hour in the hammer lane.  I’m thinking “stupid cagers.”  They were probably thinking “stupid bikers.”  Lightning bolts are now weaving jagged wicked lines across the sky from horizon to horizon.  Far out man, lights and sound.  *Tap* *Tap* *Tap*  I nod my head again, more vigorously this time, to acknowledge the fact that we do indeed, need to pull over.  Just as soon as I can sweetheart, dear, love of my life.  *Whoosh* A wind gust that we later heard were in excess of 50 miles per hour hits us and moves us from the right hand white line to the center of the lane.  *Whoosh* Another wind gust right after the first one blows us from the center lane to the dotted white line in the center. 

If you see one of these...  stop and get a motel room.   I'm jus sayin...

*Wham* *Wham* *Wham* goes the fist now pounding my upper middle back like Jeffrey Dammer on a rock pile with a 20 lb sledge.  “I’M SCARED TO DEATH” comes the plaintive cry from the spousal unit, who by now is approaching a state of total and unequivocal panic.  Within seconds “Rest Area ahead” materializes out of the rain and wind.  In the words of Sir Mick “Thank you Jesus.”  “Thank you Lord.”  I rolled off the throttle as soon as I saw the sign, in hopes that my traumatized pillion personage would refrain from continuing to beat me severely about the head and shoulders.

So there we were, thirty miles from home, and the spousal unit had had enough.  By now it was getting dark, and the rain was still coming and going. I knew what was coming, and I loathed the idea, but as anyone who’s ever been married knows, if Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.  To say my SU wasn’t happy is the understatement of all time.  Dear reader and fellow biker, I hate to admit it but I have to.  Thirty miles from home, the spousal unit called the youngest son unit and had him hook up the trailer and come to the rescue of his severely worn out and totally soaked parents.  It was a call I refused to make.  I apologized to MileEater and told her it wasn’t her fault.  She had performed flawlessly and had kept us upright and mobile when she was asked to.  I don’t think she bought it.  She’s been pouting.  

We finally hit the house at about 10:00 pm. Man, there ain’t nothing like an 8 hour run from Omaha to KC.  It was probably best that we did call for the trailer.  It continued to storm and rain all the way to KC, and it was pitch black.  Unfortunately, there’s been talk of the “T” word on our upcoming trip to AR. *sigh*

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  • Patty Davis 5 years ago

    And can you laugh about it afterwards? If you can, that is a good marriage.

  • Randy 5 years ago

    Not following your instructions I read this copy and then had to go back and read Part 1. For those of us that ride this stuff brings a smile to our face. Not a smile of pleasure but one of been there too and lived to tell about it. The only thing I can say is if you don't like adventure then stay off of a motorcycle. That will just give me more wide open spaces to myself..

  • Margo 5 years ago

    That is a great story there Eric. I love being on the back of our bike with my honey, I love the rain and I love the midwestern storms but I must say I would be right there with your SU by that time calling for a ride home.

  • Craig Hover - KC Automotive Examiner 5 years ago

    That's quite a story. Those pictures on this article are REALLY impressive!

  • Mary Baker, Shreveport Motorcycle Travel Examiner 5 years ago

    Great story, Eric. We all have those rain stories, and here in the south a perfect day can turn to crap. I've been caught in tornadic weather, hurricanes beating on the door and simply bad thunderstorms, that each have a story to tell. Thanks for sharing; brings back memories.

  • Gunner 5 years ago

    One of the best rain storys that I've heard.

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