After our entrée into Alabama society, the boys were all taking off for home and I could not imagine another 2-4 hours on a backless aluminum bench inside the jet engine created by another 100,000 fans, so I decided to stay in the very nice Home2 Suites in downtown Birmingham thinking I would write some of this blog, watch NFL football, talk to friends and family and just hang.

My legend of a roommate was an old software acquaintance and partner over a negotiation or two from the distant past. Clive Harrison is from the UK and is a fine, congenial and talented fellow. I had not seen him in decades; he has been a multi-year participant in Phil Scott’s fishing and college football trips. 

Clive mentioned yesterday, in the middle of our HUGE day, that he was SO sorry he had booked a flight out on Sunday. He is a Formula 1 fan and noted that the 500 mile race held at Talladega every year (named, this year “The Yellawood 500”) was only 50 miles from B’ham (seemingly a standard abbv. here). So I went all Ford and thought “well why not?”  and SeatGeek’d a single cheap ticket in the grandstand, planning to go. 

That was before beginning the epic Saturday just past. By halftime on the cramped hard bench after the climb to the upper reaches of Bryant-Denny Stadium with 100,077 of our closest SEC friends, I knew it. It was very unlikely I’d want to get up and battle the huge traffic jam presented by Talladega’s 1pm start the following morning. By the time we got back from Tuscaloosa via Mickelly’s responsible drive to B’ham and Waffle House with Sean McConnell’s “Best We’ve Ever Been” rolling through my brain, I knew I didn’t wanna. Maybe.

Go to 1:45 for…..

We’ll hang out with all the vampires
Down at Waffle house
We’ll bum a couple cigarettes
Just to let em hang out of our mouths

AND I learned it would rain in the morning – nothing like riding in the RAIN to a NASCAR race I was unsure about attending. Yet hanging out with the departees in the morning, it was realized that….

• Me: “Hey, if I start to ride out there when the race starts, with an hour drive in front of me, I’ll both miss the rain, AND the traffic.”
• When I shared that insight at about 11:30 am, Clive said, “I sure would!” And Marty said, “you may regret it if you do, but you’re MUCH more likely to regret it if you don’t.”

Truer words…. Wound me up. It had become a windy, dry and sunny day after rain through about 11am. It took an hour or so to get my room settled – I HAD to move out of the 2-person suite as the hotel remained sold out. And off we went. 

It was a crowded, breezy interstate all the way, but high speed, so I just had to avoid the trucks. 

But there was NO traffic at this massive event – everyone was already in.

I pulled into the first open gate with the NASCAR “coliseum” and a sea of campers and cars — vehicles of every type lounged in front of me as far as the eye could see. But I had made a tactial error. It took me 20 minutes just to walk from the bike to the FIRST gate, and there must have been another ¾ of a mile of stands before the section in which my seat was likely to be. 

There were very few people out and about and I could hear the faint roar of the engines as I approached. A heavily tattoo’ed, scary looking guy offered that the race was about only 50 laps in and I wasn’t too late. “Hail, yooouw’ll see the bayst pahrt, the feeyenish.” He had a viking two-sided axe tattoo’d on his right cheek and was pretty massive. But very kind and helpful. He didn’t laugh at me when I asked how many total laps there were in the race, as my plan was to watch for 45-60 minutes and then get out before the massive jam-up that was fated to follow the feeyenish. I thanked him, we shared a laugh at my rookie-laden nature as he informed me that it was 188 laps, total. Like it was the Rule of 3, or something. And as I walked away, he said the most charming, traditional “aloha” that NASCAR might offer…,
“Happy Talladega!!!”

To be fair, all I knew about Talladega before today I learned from “Talladega Nights” and when One and I went to Halloween as RickyBobby and Carlie.

There are clearly unique attributes of big Alabama sporting events…, they all involve 100,000 people, long walks and BIG climbs! Or mine did. 20 minutes to the grandstand plus a steep huge ramp up to the venue 

I never did try to find my seat as there were oceans of stands and plenty of seats where people were up and around somewhere. There are “Experiences,” Pit Passes, VIP passes, Grandstands and Towers with every kind of access imaginable. There is a team of announcers, “ON” full time, telling race fans what is happening in the 80-90% of the track they can’t see, or extolling the virtues of Talladega, NASCAR and the organizations, town and fans that support it. 

And then the cars come by with a wall of noise that is at least uncomfortable and likely effectively deafening. In a miracle (for me) of foresight, I simply left my motorcycle ear plugs in except the one time I injudiciously removed them to experience the whole enchilada. 

Clearly, I must prefer partial enchiladas. 

Anyway, seeing the cars roar by at breakneck speed in formations that morph and even seem to breathe…, it’s exciting. It’s pretty exciting the 2^nd time., too By the 10^th time, I am wondering about what I am not understanding. 

Empathy and experience have taught me that significant sets of people think baseball is boring – and I wonder what in heaven’s name they could be thinking.

NASCAR fans, have at it, I am that guy about your sport. 

From George Will,

“Baseball, it is said, is only a game. True.
And the Grand Canyon is only a hole in Arizona.
Not all holes, or games, are created equal.” 

I am sure that NASCAR has devotees that would make similar claims. Who is your George Will, your Ring Lardner, your Roger Angell and I will read up on it.

For now, I am glad that I went. I am sure that I simply don’t understand and can’t see it.

At least not 188 times.

I returned on an empty Interstate to a good dinner and a 49er win.

Happy Talladega!

So far, the trip has helped me reflect — on America, our society and the people in it, and the vastness of the West, foreshadowing impossibly countless possibilities. The road has reminded me of the SCALE of it all – isn’t it what philosophers and authors and artists and, yes, even politicians have been kvetching about for 10’s of thousands of years? What should we do? What does it mean? How do I fit?

What stories, leading me here?
What light, am I chasing after now?
Every mountain I climb,
No matter how out of my mind I get,
Wearin’ baby boomer clothes,
In the heart of the experiment known as
the Western World

                                                                                                                                                — Jeff Crosby

And for so much of my trip so far, it’s been a long lonely highway, where it’s hard to tell there is anything but empty, massive and straight. It’s hard to think creatively in sameness. 

Hey wait, there may be something to that…..

Mark Twain described travel as “the best education there is.” But he did so while travelling Europe and the Holy Land, not the solitary, loneliest road. 

Now that I’m hill-daling and meeting great folks, I’m once again getting edumicated. Like Sam said, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”

So today, east of Lubbock I encountered consistent hills and dales for the first time in days. Long curves and interesting scenery slowed McCovey down AND invigorated thought. In that small portion of the brain still available for thinking as we gaze the length and breadth of the vista for anything that might jump right in front of us. (So far – one deer back in St. George and one bouncing tin can off the back of a contractor’s truck somewhere hence, both easily avoided.) Hillsdale was my first high school and isn’t there a Michigan college of that name (where most students may desperately NEED a cross-country trip, but again, I digress.) I mean is it possessive? Hill’s dale? A broad valley right beside a commanding hill? Seems right. Or is it when there’s a lot of them, like today, hill/dale/hill/dale. Either way, I LIKE ‘em.

So I am off early, diggin’ the early light and I see this sign:

Is there a line? Really?

Jeff, is there really a line? Because, joyfully, I have not noticed one! I mean, yes the man has character and skills and he can flat write, but I haven’t noticed a line not to cross anywhere….

I had a wonderful experience recently I have told many about because it was so meaningful. I had mentioned to Walt Wilkins that I thought he would really like Jeff’s writing, and he said he did. The next day, Walt was walking past my office when Jeff’s Maybe Denver rolled around. Both men had lived in Nashville for a while and liked the town, but not the ethic of the music biz there. Austin seemed much more suitable, where writers and performers could actually be the same artist! The first lines of Maybe Denver are: 

Tennessee I love ya,
But I think we should just be friends….

– Jeff Crosby

And from down the hall, I hear, “Shit! Dammit, what a GREAT first line! Why didn’t EYE write that?!?!?!” Jeff, that is one helluva compliment — just one of the many you have earned.

So, would you believe that IN Crosby County, Texas, there is a town, Crosbyton, replete with a few hills and dales. They HAVE a line, a motto, a prayer for more economic development if you will. I kid you not, it is: “Where the 19^th Century Meets the 21^st Century.” 

Jeff! Need a little help here! Cross the line, baby, and help ‘em out. What does that motto mean? Additional (very quick) research says “Crosbyton was founded in the early 1900s (not the 19th century) by the C. B. Livestock Company, growing from a ranchland town to a county seat in 1910, with infrastructure like a railroad and hospital added in the early 20th century.” 

They have indeed crossed a line.

Almost ran out of gas around Guthrie and had to Waze-spelunk to a hidden gas station called “6666 Supply.” Could it be? The 4 Sixes ranch of Yellowstone, Taylor Sheridan and real cowboy excellence for those that know about that. (That would be my daughter Emma, not me until the TV show,) And YES, yes it was. AND Guthrie was a beautiful little town with not a blade of grass out of place. AND they saved my Sunday bacon. Gas bacon. Bacon-enablement.

I pulled into Mineral Wells to the sight of a beautiful hotel suggested by Walt and Tina themselves. 7 story brick hotel brought back from whatever brink to shiny, spotless, gorgeous old building. And my room, for $150-so bucks, was gargantuan, with a kitchen, living room, bedroom and huge bath. Craft brewery and sports in the HUGE lobby, I had a black lager as my baggage detritus was carried to my room. HEAVEN!

Well earned reward

The final straw of excellence before a long sleep came from my pasta dinner at the seemingly pedestrian PastaFina restaurant. Over simple menu that had some app-ies, and a sort of pick-your-dish pasta menu. You pick spaghetti, ziti, fettucini or tortellini and a preparation method. There are baked, traditional and other methods. I know, yaaaawwwwn get on with it, Ford.

What arrived was a brown-gravy marinara, spicy spaghetti Fra Diavola (pronounced 
“Dea-VOH-lo” by the young, thorough waiter. And it was SPECTACULAR. Spicy, different, with sausage and chicken and I mean VERY spicy. A “4” of “5” on the don’t hurt me scale. Really terrific, and again with generous folk in every direction.

Not your average Italian food. More Texalian, but OH MY, was it great!

I walked back to the hotel, climbed into the soft bed and was left unconscious for a solid 9. Just nice little dale for the weary traveler.

One last note — Crazy Water was only too pleased to provide McCovey with this outstanding parking place, complete (or is that replete) with his own roped area. Step back paparazzi, he’s just doing his job one day at a time, taking each day hoping that the good Lord willin’, he’s doing his part every day. He’s just hoping to help his ball club. He’s just happy to be here. He KNOWS his cliches, you could look it up.

Lubbock, you charming karma-builder. It is an especially welcome sight after the non-descript ride across west Texas. Fort Sumner in New Mexico was a lovely lunch spot with Esther’s and new friends Juanita and Tony who just moved here from Chico, for whom I opened Esther’s door and who invited me to eat lunch with them when they got the last available table. I learned of their move to be near their daughter and grandkids, their meeting as missionaries in Brazil – just one of those wonderful on-the-road moments.

My friend had told me how nice Lubbock was, and while the ride there was non-descript, the town itself has a character and style that was a little unexpected. Great meals around good people with fun college game setting and much more. 

And I just kept falling into good fortune.

I had screwed up my hotel reservation weeks ago and, given Texas Tech’s huge NIL spending, their football team was in the middle of a resurgence. I got a very good ticket for a reasonable price on GameTime and a last minute AirBnB reservation in a Landman-like condo near everything I needed for just $80/night. The hotel with the messed up dates wanted $700! Imagine a duplex where you walk in the coded front door. There is a clean living room and kitchen with a HUGE TV, an industrial pod-based coffee maker tied to 5-gallon jugs of water and a hallway with 3 bedrooms labeled, creatively, 1, 2 and 3. In the other rooms were guys working on wind turbines. And I was the tourist at the end of the hall. The bedroom had a coded entry too, and I entered at about 3pm to a bedroom, private bath and sitting area…, simple but pristine with its OWN huge TV – on the wall at the foot of and wider than my king size bed. PERFECT for playoff baseball and college football in the morning. I showered, set out my stuff for the two-day stay, bought the football ticket, and tried to finish up contracting for a January ArrowCreek show with Jeff Crosby and Cody Braun with baseball in the [HUGE] background. Cody was online and asked where I was on my trip. I told him and he said, “you know, we are playing there tomorrow, right?” I had no idea. Lynn still does not believe me. My friend Mike Gill later said by text when he’d heard the news, “You know, Ford, when you go to the South Pole, Reckless Kelly will be there.”

Maybeee, if my luck continues.

And Cody had passes for me at what turned out to be a private event for the Stock Show Syndicate (I have no idea what that is.) Reckless was supposed to hit the stage at 9:30 in this huge metal building setup, as Lynn said, like a wedding reception for an auction (I had clearly and thankfully missed.) Good performance in a tough room for sound. The boys did their classic great job, although it felt like the kind of gig that musicians simply have to take on because the reward was likely substantial. Clearly they were playing to fans even though the setting was strange. 

As it closed, I was happily wiped out and wandered down a deserted country road back to my Landman stopover by 12:30 or so, prepared for the ride to Mineral Wells. Thanks to Peyton, Cody, Willy, Joe, Jay, Geoff and the Stock Show folks for making me so welcome.

Let the incredible good fortune continue!

From Chinle, it was a long, beautiful and confusing day. We are staying off the interstates this day with over 5.5 hours of riding plus stops for gas and food. AND on the Navajo reservation, it is expected you know the roads. Major two-digit highways are occasionally marked, but when you need to turn at Torreon Mission Road, Power Line Road and on Highway 279, there are NO signs. Zippo el nada brava, my gibberish for “oh, hell, no!”

So I made a wrong turn you can see below. There was a fork in the road, it was not yet 1.7 miles from the mission, so I took the NEXT left and ended up on a 30 mile/45 minute circle back to the mission. 5 miles in, I thought I knew, but, well, wherever you go, there you are.

Maps on a bike without new GPS features (and mine is a 2012 BMW R1200GS and the best EVER, but lacking those features), is necessarily a set of directions. You’d need to develop some weird set of smaller maps by hand and have some method of flipping on the tank bag. Not happening.

… you print out directions

So here was my decision….

On Albuquerque

What a beautiful setting when you ride in from the north. I had several leads on private clubs and music clubs to check out. My Uncle Harold had lived here after WW II and always told the motivating story of going to the car dealership for a job. They said, “no.” Harold-y, my mom’s super-positive brother, told the hiring manager…, “Put me on for a week for free. If you don’t think you want to pay me for what I can do, I’ll eat my crow and go on my way.” He worked there for years as a top salesman before moving back North where he was most comfortable. I loved visiting Bellingham, WA and the Skagit Valley, particularly after the loss of my Dad so young. Harold was just THE most positive person on the planet. “You can put your shoes under our guest bed ANY time!!!” When he passed, Lynn and I went to the service, some 27 years ago. It truly was a celebration of a great human being. The pastor, who Harold helped recruit to his church, was telling us of his many “Harold moments.” He said when being recruited, he just could not say “no” to this man. With tongue firmly in cheek and a big smile on his tear-stained face, he told us how Harold would tell him the same thing every single Sunday. “’Father, if you need any help with the sermon today, just let me know…, I’m READY!’ And every Sunday, he told him, ‘Harold, I have problems enough!’”

I have never done more than drive through Albuquerque, so I had high hopes for finding potential spots for a For the Song chapter in the future. I visited a couple possibilities, but felt like it was not a great fit. The best outcomes came from meeting the folks at the local music club and from Jane, my AirbnB host and her two dogs, Gus and Addie.

It was a hot air balloon week when people all over the town were getting up at 5am to see the show. Uhhh, no, I had things to do. But when I had completed my days, I was treated to a private and quiet living room with two kind dogs and the baseball playoffs each evening. It was a nice way to recharge after two long rides with another upcoming. We’ll have to check out Santa Fe in later times. There is not an Entrada of Snow Canyon here to pair with the very cool LaunchPad music club.

Entrada [noun] — ə̇n‧ˈträdə — an expedition or journey into unexplored territory.

When I first met Jim Cleary, he was GM of our Club at ArrowCreek. He listened patiently to our plans for building a 501c3 that could support touring musicians as they came west with stops at our beautiful Home Base.

Little did we know.

Lynn at an outdoor For the Song show at ArrowCreek

It took time, and it took generous ownership plus  the next leadership group to approve the plan, and we were off! We’ve since hosted 19 artists for 45 shows in Northern Nevada and Lake Tahoe to tremendous results — like this!

When I planned this motorcycle trip around Phill Scott’s generous invitation to the Alabama/Tennessee football game, I thought it would be a great time to scout other Mountain West communities for similar private club environments. We could, should and plan to deliver fantastic touring acts to serve Mountain West communities that would not otherwise see these incredible songwriters and bands. 

St. George and Albuquerque (which we’ll get to later) seem ripe locales to consider building For the Song chapters in 2027. So I perused St. George’s private residential communities. I saw the incredible Troon property Entrada at Snow Canyon, and with ArrowCreek GM Steve Munch’s help, discovered that it is run by none other than joltin’ gentleman Jim Cleary. He is a kind and thoughtful man, but I had no idea if he had really been intrigued by the original idea. But now that we have proof of its success and repeatability, BAM…, we have an excellent possibility! Jim hosed me at the gorgeous Entrada property in St. George – a community of more than 100K residents with an appetite for great entertainment as evidenced by the mini-Red Rocks of Tuacahn, that hosts mostly theater but some music acts, too. Entrada has a history of success with local bands and shows. There is a hunger for more and we can provide it. AND, LOOK AT THIS PLACE!

I love it when a plan comes together. Or even starts to. Thanks, Jim and Steve…, we look forward to NEXT!

“There was nowhere to go but everywhere, so just keep on rolling under the stars.” 

– Jack Kerouac

It’s time to hit the road again. Off on McCovey for a 13 day ride to Birmingham and 5 more to New Orleans. Scout some Mountain West territories for For the Song as it grows, see some college football (okay, a LOT of it in Lubbock, Tuscaloosa and Baton Rouge), see friends old and new, catch some music, reconnect with cousin Jason and introduce New Orleans to my wonderful daughter.

And just enjoy another set of Best Days.