Waking up in Newkirk, OK has me moving slow. The extra miles to get there the day before drained me and I enjoyed being indoors for a while. Figured I would go right up until checkout time before leaving. With the bike loaded, I backed out of my parking space…or attempted to. The bike didn’t move as easily as it should given that it was on a slight decline. I was geared up, it was very humid and I was on the way to get gas just down the block, I would just look at my flat tire at the gas station. My flat — the third in as many days. It was beginning to be difficult to maintain a positive mental attitude. Perserverance was giving way to procrastination.

“I’ll just go to the auto parts store in town and pick up an electric pump and keep pumping it up. It’s just a slow leak,” I think into my helmet as I ride the three blocks from the motel to the gas station. This is obviously a bad plan, but I was really tired of changing tires and especially pumping them up with my hand pump.

At the gas station, I pull up to the air compressor. “Free air, push button” was printed on it and it was running. Putting the gauge to the valve, it doesn’t even move the stick. It’s a miracle the bead didn’t unseat. I guess riding at 10 MPH down Main Street saved me that honor. As it turns out, the “Free Air” sign must have been referring to the air that had left my tire and the air I was breathing, because the compressor did not work. It ran, but would not deliver air to my flattened tire. I was already drenched with sweat before I pulled my hand pump out again and filled the tire. This shit was getting old. I pumped it up to around 30 PSI and went inside the gas station and got a bite to eat. It was already after 11am and the humidity was oppressive. Google said there was an auto parts store in town so I went there to find an electric pump.

Locke Auto Parts is your typical small town parts store. There’s a gentleman behind the counter shooting the bull with a local perched atop one of those Champion Sparkplugs barstools at the parts counter. I walk in the door looking like I’ve just come out of a swimming pool wearing riding gear, yet I go unnoticed. There’s a serious problem solving session going on and it is centered right there at that parts counter.

After looking up and down each aisle, I ask about a compressor. No joy. Guess I’m just going to pump the thing up until I can’t take it anymore and then change it…..again. The air feels like a sponge you could reach out and wring. It’s not raining yet, but I’m wishing it was.

My strategy is a pretty bad one. I know this. I just can’t get my head around changing the tire again. About five miles outside of town, I can hear that low-pitched rumble that a full knobby tire gives off when every single knob on it is on the ground. The tire is flat again or at least pretty close.

“5 PSI,” I mumble to myself. The cheap gauge with electrical and duct tape stored on it was barely registering. Just 20 minutes ago it had 30 PSI plus. Putting 30 PSI into a motorcycle tire with a hand pump while in full riding gear when the dewpoint is equal to or possibly greater than the temperature is miserable work. I opted to carry a pump for a couple of reasons: 1. It’s lighter and more reliable than an electric compressor. 2. I figured I could use the exercise pumping up a tire would give me. In my motorcycling career, I can count the number of times I have had to repair a tubed tire in the field on one finger. I definitely didn’t foresee this sort of trouble. It was harshing my mellow for sure.

This cycle of ride/pump/ride/pump was set to go on all day. I’d bumped in to the DR boys in town and they were headed to the Moreland Farm to do oil changes and I was just trying to get there to change my tube in a shop with an air compressor and hopefully some shade. They were getting gas and food so I left out ahead of them to try and find the Moreland Farm on my own. I pumped that tire up five times on the way and pulled in at a house with “Moreland” on the mailbox. Two cars were in the driveway and the front door was wide open. I felt very strange walking up to a stranger’s door and knocking, but the Moreland Farm had put their name on the Trans America Trail list as a place with water, camping, and an extensive repair shop so I rang the bell with no answer.

My bike was parked in front of a very large shop building and in the yard was a storm shelter. I started seeing these things in Mississippi. Surprisingly plenty of homes have storm/fallout shelters in tornado prone regions. I’m kind of fascinated by it. I offload my bags and pull out my tools. I ready a tube and prepare to remove my wheel when the DR boys pull in. Not long after they arrive, a F250 pulls into the drive. It’s Mr. Moreland. He explains that the Moreland who’d invited us to use his shop and camp was his son about a half mile down the road. Mr. Moreland is 84 years old and still going strong. He radios ahead to his son and lets him know we’re there. I’d almost rather just change the tire in this spot since I already had a pretty good start, but the DR boys convince me to repack my things and join them down the road.

Once we get to the Moreland Farm, it becomes obvious this is the place. Matt Moreland farms 10,000 acres and his is a huge operation. His shop is extensive and well-insulated. He explained how he got involved with the TAT and put his name in the hat as a place to rest, camp, and repair bikes along the route.

“In 2006, we were putting in a 10″ water line down the road there and pretty much had the road completely torn up and closed. We were working on it one day and a guy shows up on a bike all loaded down and asks if he can go through my field to get around the construction. I tell him sure, but I’ve been seeing you go through here for months and we’ve been working on this project for weeks. Why’d you come this way knowing we have the road closed? He said, ‘That wasn’t me! You’re on the TAT, man!’ So I looked Sam up and let him know to tell the riders they could stop in if they wanted to. We’ve met people from all over the world.”

The DR boys get to work changing oil and I get to work fixing my flat. It’s still humid and it’s getting hotter, but being on a cold cement shop floor and in the shade helps my morale and the work doesn’t seem quite so difficult. The stiff sidewalls on the non-DOT motocross tire are a real pain, but eventually I have the tube in and the bead back on the rim. This is when I am reminded why I will never take a handpump instead of a compressor and CO2 again — the air chuck on Mr. Moreland’s air hose won’t reach my valve once it’s on the wheel. The angle just won’t line up to get air into the tire. Who’s hand pumping his tire again? This guy!

While I was finishing up my tire, Jon and Eugene were finishing up their oil changes. Jon’s bike wouldn’t start for some reason and he killed his battery trying. It wasn’t making sense. All he’d done was change the oil…..and cleaned and oiled his air filter. With no filter oil available, he substituted 90W gear oil. This proved fatal for the mighty DR350. It was a snowball of errors after that, I believe, caused the bike to not run until a nearly complete teardown of the carburetor, the removal of the valve cover to check the timing, checking the valve clearances, checking the fuel filter and lines, cleaning all of the oil off the air filter, and anything else we could come up with. For seven hours, Jon worked without a break to get his bike running maintaining, for the most part, a positive attitude. Looking back on it without the heat and fatigue, I think what happened was this: The oil from the filter was pulled into the carburetor’s jets and passages and completely prevented fuel from reaching the cylinder. When Jon first tried to start the bike, it was locking up under compression, mimicing being out of time. That was probably caused by the gear oil on the filter essentially sealing off the intake and causing a vacuum lock for the first few starting attempts.  Chasing the causes of the symptoms took us all over the place for hours.

Mr. Moreland and his sons would occasionally come by the shop in the course of their work and check on us kind of surprised that we were still there working on a sick motorcycle. We were kind of surprised, too. I could have left, but it’s not really in my nature to leave a situation where I could be of help to a fellow rider. The DR Boys had been looking out for me and provided a net just in case.

Mr. Moreland stopped by again. He was cleaned up and obviously on his way somewhere. He’d asked us earlier if we were thinking of camping and if we had any food with us. We’d not planned on staying this long and we really didn’t have a plan. Nor did we have any food. Matt put a package on the tail of my bike and explained we could cook those burgers and camp on his property for the evening. For reasons I cannot disclose here, Matt’s hospitality is over the top. He didn’t know us from Adam and welcomed us into his shop and his home.

When I set out on this odyssey, I hoped to shed my cynicism and find faith in people again. Mr. Moreland and his family, among others, have helped move me in that direction. What he did for us, however small in his mind, was pretty incredible.

The struggles with my tire all but went away the next day and it’s been good ever since. 

Port Orford or bust!

Author’s note: Posts about my ride prior to this are in draft form and will be published at a later time. I want to catch up and try to write more present tense now that I am getting ready to enter Colorado! Thanks!