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The Buckstaff bathhouse left me lighter, clearer, scrubbed clean inside and out. Something in me shifted forward and I felt the road calling me again, asking not for reflection, but motion.
I wanted to put myself within reach of Wichita Falls, Texas, the next day—somewhere near Mena, Arkansas, would do. That afternoon’s ride through the Ouachita Mountains was transcendent—miles of gentle sweeping curves unfolding beneath a soft spring sky with enough big trees on either side of the road to buffer whatever wind came along. I hadn’t known until then that the Ouachitas ran east to west, unlike the north-south spines of the Appalachians and Rockies. The experience was custom-made to remind me to exhale and thank my maker for such a beautiful landscape.
Real Gas and Good Roads
As the sun slipped behind the hills, I pulled into a country gas station on the advertised promise of unleaded, non-ethanol fuel—what I call “real gas.” It’s easier to find near marinas and in energy-producing states like Arkansas and Texas—places where folks understand what small engines need. If I have to settle for the modern corn cocktail, I carry an additive to blunt the damage it can do to metal parts and rubber components like fuel lines and gaskets.
I applied lube to the chain and checked my rear tire. So far, so good, but I expected I’d need to replace it in Arizona for the return journey.
When I first started riding in 2010, plenty of people warned me I didn’t know enough about motorcycle engines to be safe out there on my own. But I don’t know much about car engines either, and nobody tried to scare me out of driving. I carry basic tools and roadside assistance. If I get into trouble, I’ve got a phone and enough good will in the universe to find someone who knows what they’re doing. So far, it’s worked. Once, when a bearing went bad in my engine, fellow riders in Saint Louis hosted me over the July 4 weekend while waiting for a part to ship from Germany.
I aimed for Mena’s Ozark Inn on the strength of its four-star reviews, most praising its cleanliness and firm mattresses. It turned out to be a throwback roadside gem, clearly once part of a national chain. I shared the parking lot with a group of side-by-side riders vacationing in the Ouachita National Forest. Their rigs were muddy, their laughter easy. I was firmly in Ozark country now.
Belonging, Under Surveillance
The motel was run by a South Asian family, likely from the Indian subcontinent. This is common in the American motel industry, but I still marvel at the sheer courage it must take to start a business far from one’s cultural home. I couldn’t help but wonder what it’s like for them in a small town like Mena—population 5,618—where, if anti-immigrant sentiment existed, it didn’t need to be loud to be felt. Did they worry about belonging? Or had they become good immigrants in the eyes of their neighbors, proving themselves through cleanliness, efficiency, and quiet industry?
Earlier that day, walking toward Bathhouse Row, I’d met another family navigating questions of belonging. The wife, somewhere in her thirties, was clearly delighted to see a woman motorcyclist, and stopped to say hello. Her accent placed her from Central America—Guatemala, as her white husband revealed when introducing everyone to me by name.
I smiled warmly, proud to represent the sisterhood of riders. “I hope people are treating you well here,” I said to her.
Her husband jumped in before she could answer. “Here in the South, we judge people by their character. Not skin color. Not accents. She’s here legally. Did everything right. They won’t come for her.”
He said it with force, like he’d practiced the line.
I tried to meet the moment gently. “That’s good to hear. It just seems a bit crazy out there right now. I saw a story about a green-card holder mistakenly deported to El Salvador.”
“What they’re doing is essential,” he said of the ICE agents. “There’s a lot of bad hombres out there, and they all need to be rounded up. If they sweep up a good guy or two in the process, I’m sure they’ll return them.”
I changed the subject. But I think about that woman often. She was warm, curious, open, and perhaps naive. Or was it more that she felt protected?
The juxtaposition of those two families—one running a business in a rural town, the other on vacation—stayed with me. They were both carving out lives in places where they might never be fully at ease. Showing up. Working hard. Smiling when it may have been easier to avert their eyes from my gaze.
Riding Shotgun to Buckskin
Once I was settled into my motel room, Dad called. He’d been doing that since Day One—calling or texting for updates and check-ins.
“How was the ride?”
“Did you get rain?”
“Should your mother and I plan to visit Hot Springs sometime?”
His questions weren’t just about logistics. They were his way of being on the ride with me, this time riding shotgun to Buckskin.
I didn’t remind him of our earlier conversation—how I’d tried coaxing him and Mom to meet me in southeastern Arizona to tour some of the ghost towns, mining exhibits, and history museums we’d long talked about: Tombstone, Bisbee, Gleeson. I’d suggested we base ourselves at a hotel or Airbnb nearby.
But he’d declined. “It’s just more comfortable for us to stay here where we have everything we need.”
I knew what he meant: CPAPs, medications, routines. Towels and washcloths Mom could trust were clean. Still, I took it like a gut punch.
The sting of his no wasn’t about missing the ghost towns. It was about realizing something fundamental had changed. My parents, who once reveled in the open road, had chosen to stay put. And if it could happen to them, it could happen to me someday. Mom and Dad are just eighteen years older than I am, so the horizon that always seemed so distant was suddenly closer. Too close to ignore.
But now Stagecoach the old war horse, was getting a sniff of gunpowder, as the saying goes. He had his road atlas out, asking questions about the route, the views, the forest. What did this portend? Would he change his mind about taking one last road trip?
As night fell in Mena, the voices from the side-by-side crowd drifted across the parking lot. I pulled the covers up and tried to hold it all—beauty and unease, movement and stillness, love and loss—just long enough to fall asleep.
Writers, download craft tips and memoir writing prompts based on this dispatch at this link.
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