Day 1: The Horseshoe of Lightning, a Fried Stator, and the Legend of “Captain Tugboat”

ByPete

If you want to experience the true, unpredictable spirit of a cross-country motorcycle trip, you don’t look at the days where everything goes right. You look at the days like July 30th. This was a 270-mile saga stretching from the woods of Missouri to just short of Tulsa, Oklahoma—a day defined by failing charging systems, a brilliant tactical dodge of a rainstorm, and pushing a dead bike into a bank parking lot under the cover of darkness.

Grab a drink. This is a wild one.

The Morning Log: Split Squads and Radar Dodging

The crew split up early. Pete and Blake kicked up their stands and took off at first light, enjoying a beautiful, crisp morning ride through the rolling Missouri woods. Unfortunately, the peace didn’t last. Well before reaching Springfield, Blake noticed his battery gauge plummeting. The voltage dropped off a cliff, the engine cut out, and just like that, they were stranded on the shoulder calling for a flatbed wrecker to haul them to Springfield Harley-Davidson.

Meanwhile, Mike and Andy Dean had a different start to the morning. Waking up at 5:00 AM, a quick glance at the weather radar showed an absolute wall of rain everywhere. The play? Go back to sleep and wait out the worst of it.

By 6:30 AM, the heavy cells had pushed north, leaving just a light drizzle. Andy calculated that if they timed it right and rolled out around 9:00 AM, they could “shoot the gap” between storm systems and stay dry. The gamble paid off perfectly; they rolled out at 9:30 AM and made it all the way into Springfield without dropping a single raindrop on their leather.

Slaying Time in Springfield

As Mike and Andy rolled into town, a text from Pete confirmed Blake’s bike was down. With time to kill before the tow truck arrived, they went on a classic roadside safari:

  • Fueled up at the local Kum & Go.
  • Grabbed a hot dozen at Krispy Kreme.
  • Wandered the massive aisles of the Springfield Bass Pro Shops, where I picked up a premium folding camp chair for the road.

By 1:00 PM, everyone converged at the Springfield Harley dealership just as the wrecker backed in.

              [ ROAD CHEF REVIEW: BRAUM’S ]

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The Mission: Mid-breakdown lunch run while the tech digs in.

The Highlights: Grabbed a quick burger, but the real star of 

                the show was the cherry limeade. Absolutely 

                awesome and exactly what we needed to cut the 

                humidity.

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While we were finishing up lunch, the service department called with the diagnosis: the stator was completely fried. Luckily, they had the parts in stock and got right to work.

While waiting in the shade at the corner of the Harley parking lot, we ended up shooting the breeze with a local motor officer who was dropping his bike off for service—one of those great, spontaneous conversations you only get when you’re hanging around bike shops.

We also used the downtime to hunt down a Sena S50 headset. I had borrowed one of Dean’s for my helmet because Pete and I both forgot to order ours before leaving home. Harley was out, and Pitbull Powersports next door didn’t have one either. Finally, we tracked down a pair at a shop called Gene’s Gallery across town. I rode over, secured a dual pack for Pete and Blake, and we figured we’d settle up the tabs when we got back home.

The World Grew Up Around Route 66

With Blake’s bike buttoned up and sporting a brand-new stator, we finally hit the asphalt of historic Route 66. It’s wild when you ride the old road; you quickly realize just how much the world has grown up around it. What used to be open highway is now a patchwork of tight turns, sudden twists, and rough pavement winding directly through modern subdivisions, public parks, and around lakes.

We were cruising along, soaking in the vintage architecture, when the gremlins returned. Blake’s amp gauge started dancing erratically and his lights began flashing. We managed to limp the bikes into Joplin, pulling over right by the famous Giant Coke Sign to assess the damage.

The sky was bruising into an ominous dark gray. The radar showed lightning and heavy downpours encircling us. We put the choice squarely on Blake: do we park it here and find a Joplin dealership in the morning, or do we risk a run for Tulsa?

Blake didn’t hesitate: Let’s ride.

Racing the Horseshoe of Lightning

What followed was one of the most intense evening runs of the trip. As darkness swallowed the highway, lightning began violently cracking on three sides of us. It felt exactly like we were riding inside a giant, glowing horseshoe of electricity. Miraculously, the storm stayed on our flanks, and we stayed bone dry.

Then, about 20 miles outside of Tulsa, we hit the toll roads.

That’s when Blake’s bike began its final surrender. His lights went pitch black, and the dash lit up with a Christmas tree of warning alarms. We pulled over into a dark gas station parking lot to check our options. Because his Harley still uses a manual, mechanical throttle cable rather than a modern electronic/hydraulic system, he still had throttle control. He sat there revving the engine up to about 2000 RPM to keep the dying charging system alive, and we made the executive decision to keep pushing.

We made it as far as Claremore before the bike gasped its final breath and died completely.

Not wanting to abandon a broken Harley in a dark gas station lot, we manually pushed the heavyweight touring bike down the road and tucked it into the secure parking lot of a local bank—right under the glaring view of their security cameras. We grabbed Blake’s gear, piled onto the remaining running bikes, and finally made it to the Homewood Suites for the night.

Enter “Captain Tugboat” and Domino’s Logic

We pulled into the hotel completely exhausted, looking to park the bikes out of the elements under the front canopy. Instead, we found the entrance completely blocked by the night desk clerk’s personal car. He had just arrived and was lingering in the driver’s seat, casually chatting up the departing daytime clerk like he was trying to score a date, completely ignoring the row of motorcycles idling behind him.

We asked him if he could move his car so we could get under the canopy. He flatly refused. When he finally hauled himself out of the vehicle, the man had to be easily 550 pounds and had an incredibly distinct, swaying walk. Right then and there, the crew officially christened him “Captain Tugboat.”

We finally dragged our gear up to the room, and Blake saved the late-night food situation by finding a Domino’s Pizza that was still delivering. We sat around the room, inhaling pizza, staring at the walls, and trying to figure out what our mechanical options were going to be for tomorrow.

A hard-fought 270-something miles. The bikes are broken, the routing is shattered, but the crew is safe. Tomorrow, we hunt for another stator. Keep your fingers crossed for us.