Day Forty-Six: East Oklahoma City - Checotah

We were up ‘n out much earlier than usual this morning, as there really was no restaurant nearby where we could loiter for hours and overstay our welcome with nearly empty coffee mugs as an excuse. On our way out of the KOA, we ran into the owner of the campground, who stopped us to ask a few questions and tell stories of his travels. He used to live near Mt. Baker (small world), so we joked back and forth about the stark differences between the Northwest and the South. Slater and I dropped into McDonald’s before taking off and ordered one Big Breakfast each, then packed up snacks from the gas station and went on our way.

As per usual, it was hot as hell. The drivers in their air-conditioned icebox cars must have known just how much hell we were going through, too, since one of them decided it was a great idea to throw his 32-oz. styrofoam cup of soda at Slater. Mind you, they were going nearly 80 mph, so the cup blasted into an explosion the second it hit his bike, and we both wasted no time being polite, and instead threw up our middle fingers—the best we can do. We’ve decided that we need to start carrying rocks or pellet guns or something of the sort, just so that we can take revenge on those sons of bitches. We carried on in frustration, and made it 35 miles down the road to a Love’s truckstop. We ate lukewarm veggies with ranch dip and sipped sparkling drinks while eavesdropping on job interviews that were taking place in the booth next to us (they were painfully horrible, my ears were bleeding). Having had enough of that, we left the station and rode further, a total of about 60 or 65 miles, until I felt an abrupt flat once more on my back tire.

Slater was a ways ahead of me, so it took three long screams, “Slater! Slaaaaater! SLAAAAAAAAAATERRRRR!!!” before he turned his head and screeched to a hault. He walked my way to pump up my tire, hoping that it would hold some air until the next exit, and thankfully, it did. We leaned our bikes against the scratchy walls of yet another Love’s truckstop and put off fixing the flat until we had chugged a couple of cold drinks. We were dreading another repair, so we were ecstatic when we heard a man’s voice mutter, “Which way ya headed? Need a ride?” He mentioned the clouds rolling in, and we peered above us to witness a thick covering of grey pillows over our heads, ready to unleash hell on the town below. We were in the “Red Zone” as the Weather Channel calls it, meaning extreme storms were heading our way. We instantly nodded YES we needed a ride, and threw our bikes in the back of his pickup truck without having fixed the flat. Randy, our savior of the day, was clearly a down-to-earth southern man, just hoping to complete a good deed for the day, and he did exactly that by driving us down the road to a campground. We thanked him hugely, wondering how that day might have gone, had we chosen to fix the flat and ride through the storm.

The KOA was one of the nicest yet: it had a complete restaurant next to the front office, a well-kept pool, and various playgrounds and structures for visitors. Unfortunately, the amenities weren’t put to use that night, due to those aforementioned clouds. After eating grilled chicken, pulled pork sandwiches, and berry cobbler in the restaurant, we threw ourselves back into the harsh outdoors, where a storm awaited us. We took shelter in our tent as it started, and the rain was absolutely relentless. It continued into the night for nearly three hours, flooding the grounds and pooling up alongside our rain fly until it finally seeped its way underneath us, creating a waterbed-like cushioning below the tent. We woke up multiple times, sporadically, running our hands along the creases of the tent to feel the water starting to pool not outside, but INSIDE of the tent, and imagined the trials we would experience in the morning with sopping wet gear and clammy bodies.