Omaha rose off the plains like a shimmering oasis. We stayed at a fantastic Marriott and spent the morning seeing a few sites. The Lewis & Clark landing seemed particularly appropriate for the western-ho part of Motorpool.com’s road trip.
Where Lewis & Clark once stood.
Before leaving town, Kim and I swung by the Omaha World offices to see if we could get some print coverage for Motorpool. Kim, God love her, marched right up to the security guards and pestered them until they sent down some poor intern to interview me.
Don’t dally, World-Herald peeps. Write the story. It’s a good one.
Then it was on the road again, bound for Kansas City. I should note here that the windshield wipers cooperate for about five minutes. We’ve developed a bit of a routine with them. You see, I’ve sent my tired, broken windshield wiper unit to Ficken “The Wiper Man” in New York. With a little luck, he’ll send me a working unit in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, I borrowed an extra windshield wiper motor from David King (see the Brougham Spa Detroit), which is an unrestored original.
Cadillac used vacuum wipers for their silent operation. It’s real silent now.
The wiper motor works well initially. Then it mysteriously stops and no amount of fiddling with the switch will make it come back to life. It feels as if it uses all the vacuum in the system, and then simply dies. Or maybe there’s a vacuum leak somewhere. If I turn off the car and say, have lunch, when I return the wipers work normally again. Luckily, most rainstorms have not lasted longer than five minutes.
The wipers also have one other hilarious feature. On certain days (don’t ask me why) they decide to mysteriously rise up into the fully extended position to where they’re splayed at the far extremes of the windshield. Add a little vacuum pressure and they’ll retract–but only until I run out of vacuum. Then it’s back to the spread-eagle position.
Filling up in corn country with a little help from a local.
Fortunately, the drive to Kansas City began to clear. We stopped for some premium with ethanol to put in the classic car. The alcohol isn’t ideal for the Brougham’s rubber seals, but I’ve resigned myself to using it–especially in corn states. I figure in California I’ll be lucky to be putting anything flammable in the tank. The Golden State may make me fill up with organic grape juice or lark’s vomit.
In the heartland.
Going to Kansas City
At Kansas City Airport, I bid goodbye to Kim (boy I’ll miss her) and waited to pick up my next riders for the trip, Dr. & Mrs. Charles Bugg–Charlie and Bebe to those who know them. The Buggs are the kind of friends you wish you’d had all your life. Charlie founded BioCryst and Bebe makes crack cocaine in the form of pimento cheese and chocolate toffee. We all share a love of the outdoors, our respective pews at Independent Presbyterian Church, and beer. Mrs. Murphy and I are also enormously fond of Charlie and Bebe’s granddaughter Brooke, who remembered to send along my car cover lock with “Big Bebe.”
While waiting for the Buggs, I cleaned off the Cadillac. I’d rocketed through seven states without giving her so much as a wipe down. The cleaning helped the Brougham’s ego, I think. Many of my friends are clamoring for me to name the car. I just haven’t found the right moniker yet. Thoughts? Leave them in a comment on this blog and if we pick your name suggestion, we’ll send you a free Motorpool.com t-shirt.
With the Buggs landed and safely ensconced in the full luxury of Motordom’s Masterpiece, we drove immediately and without delay to Arthur Bryant’s. Bryant’s is quite simply some of the best BBQ on the planet–a place where I’m proud to say I once cooked in the kitchen while serving as the food critic for Southern Living.
We ordered “meat and fries” for everyone along with a pitcher of beer. While we devoured the back end of a cow, Bryant’s security guard kept a watchful eye over the Brougham (you know you’re in an outstanding barbeque shack when the security guy packs heat and the place is still packed).
Stuffed beyond words, we motored over to the Intercontinental Hotel overlooking Country Club Plaza. I wish I’d had a weekend to enjoy K.C. I consider it one of the most exciting and well-rounded cities in America.
A precious moment
A fine cup of coffee at Country Club Plaza relaxed us for the day and we were soon headed South on Highway 71. After a few hours, we eventually wound our way down to Joplin, Missouri. A curious sight arose from the highway. “Visit the Precious Moments Chapel,” the sign said.
How could we resist?
A few miles off the highway we found the chapel in all its precious glory. Gentle souls who love “Precious Moments,” stop reading here.
Precious Moments have a saccharine, dewy-eyed approach to religion. All the figures have big heads, big eyes, and a sad look about them. They give me instant Tourette’s Syndrome.
And here I was going straight into the heart of Precious Moments country. An enormous welcome center and parking lot greeted our entry to the P.M. campus. Statues of Precious Moment children, larger than life, decorated nearly every available surface.
Once we escaped the enormous Precious Moments gift shop, we found ourselves in the garden (which helpfully labeled the less-than-exotic plants with signs such as “Boxwood.”) A bride and groom were taking pre-wedding pictures near the chapel fountain. For some reason, the photographer suggested they climb the ornate fence, which made them look like they were trying to escape from an attack of deranged Precious Moments figurines.
The chapel itself was simply a horror. No other way to put it. Pattered after the Sistine Chapel at the Vatican, tiny dewy-eyed Precious Moment children gazed at us from every angle.
Other rooms led to a a Victorian sub-chapel and a stained glass window hall. When we arrived at the memorial room, where I could have bought my very own Precious Moments tombstone, I had to leave. Fast.
I just love old Arkansas
The original schedule called for a straight shot to Tulsa, Oklahoma, but the car was running fine, the day had the sort of sparkle one only finds at the beginning of summer, and I’d had a very tall cup of coffee for breakfast. So we decided to head for Bella Vista, Arkansas, to check another state off my list.
How many states have I motored through thus far? Missouri ranked as my 28th state. Arkansas would be 29 and we’d make 30, Oklahoma, by the end of the day. Hot damn.
In South Missouri, we stopped to get gas in Anderson. Many people approach the Brougham at gas stations. A giant, blue, be-finned spacecraft does merit a “howdy,” and everyone seems to smile when they see it. Well, except Prius drivers. But a lot of Prius passengers give me a thumbs up and probably wish they were floating along in my Detroit Dinosaur rather than their souped-up toaster oven.
While at the Conoco, a friendly woman approached and we chatted about the car. When she discovered I was on a road trip across America she immediately said, “Well, my family is having a big reunion with a tent, music, and beer just over the hill here. Take Mud Spring Road and you can’t miss us.”
That did it. Linda Jefferson (for that was her name) said the magic word: beer. So Charlie, Bebe, and I loaded up the Caddy and floored it for the crick. Mud Spring Road is a road for about 100 yards. Then it turns to a hay field, which might have scared the average classic-car owner. Not me. My car spent its life bouncing over the oil fields of Oklahoma, so no hay field was going to stop me from a family reunion. Sure enough, the Brougham took to that field like a woman to chocolate. We didn’t feel anything. The air suspension wouldn’t let the car bottom out and if we ran over a cow or two, we never knew it.
Down by the creek, we were greeted by the Pearcy family. What a great bunch of people. I love a reunion, even if it isn’t my own family. Shoot, maybe it’s more fun if it isn’t your own family. This could be a movie: Reunion Crashers. Men were cooking all kinds of deceased things: fried turkey, fried fish, Elk, and ham. A pair of pretty cousins sang the national anthem in harmony and everyone paused to put their hands over their hearts and listen. Aunts and nieces clucked over babies. Young children played in the crystal-clear spring. Grandmamas complained about the heat and the potato salad.
You can’t get more American than the Pearcy family. In fact, the property where we stood has been in the family’s hands for generations. Great-grandad Pearcy homesteaded the place in the 1800s. Developers tried to buy it a few years back, but Judy Rickett and her daughter Julie wisely managed to avoid a sale. Julie, a former Navy boatswains mate, was married here last year in a swimsuit and t-shirt. When her father, an avid Civil War re-enactor, passed away, his wish was to have his ashes spread across the property by being blasted from a cannon. Naturally, his family fulfilled his wishes. So we were on hallowed Pearcy family ground and the Murphys and Buggs felt very welcome, indeed.
In fact, the reunion was so big, half the clan didn’t know the other half. Charlie was greeted with, “Why, I haven’t seen you in 30 years!”
“At least that long,” Charlie replied.
One family member, clearly the Pearcy family rebel, was going by the name Pocahontas for the weekend, perhaps in a protest to all the name tags.
“I’d wanted to be Sacajawea, but that #*$% was too hard to spell,” she told us. Her husband, Chief Rows-a-Lot, nodded along. Pocahontas, as it turned out, was a motoring enthusiasts. She’s hoping to expand her “five wheel” to mount their motorcycles.
Then I chatted to TK, who owns a 1959 Cadillac (my kinda lady). A banker and a style mavin, TK introduced us to the Voodo Daddy musical group and gave us a copy of their latest CD for the road. Truly, it’s a fantastic group.
With afternoon creeping upon us, we decided to load up the Cadillac and make tracks for Tulsa. After another four hours of driving, with the Cadillac running 75 mph the whole way, we arrived at the hotel by 9:15 p.m.
Oklahoma City
There are a handful of restaurants in the word that I get really, truly excited about. One is Cattlemen’s Restaurant in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.
Cattlemen’s isn’t fancy. It doesn’t have fine china or white linen tablecloths. What it does have are the best steaks on earth. Truly. You know you’re going to get a good steak when there’s a stockyard next door to the steakhouse.
In fact, Oklahoma City has the largest stockyards in the world. And plenty of riders. It’s an easy place to get Western Fever.
What’s Western Fever, you ask?
Western Fever is what happens when you are in a western town, such as Aspen, Dallas, or Oklahoma City and try on a 10-gallon cowboy hat, pointy cowboy boots, or anything with fringe and say to yourself, “Damn, I look good.” And for the most part, it’s true: you do look good. Everyone looks good in fringe. But you only look good in fringe in the west. If you’re wearing cowboy boots, fringe, and a 10-gallon hat on Fifth Avenue, you look like a lost cast member of Annie Get Your Gun.
Western Fever usually wears off after a few days in another part of the country. Yet relapses can occur–one hit me pretty hard when I went into what is now my favorite store in Oklahoma: National Saddlery. What a place. Even if you don’t have a horse, you’ll want to buy their saddles. I was trying to figure out what I could put a saddle on. My mower? A kitchen stool? Maybe I could slap one on my English Springer Spaniel, Gilbert?
National Saddlery is full of leather. Leather chairs. Leather sofas. Leather saddles. Leather bridles. They even have leather coozies for your beer. Now that’s thoughtful.
And the folks in National Saddlery are charming. Kayla Rule, the daughter of one of the owners, was working today. Kayla owns nine horses and rides competitively. Her favorite horse? Brumby, a barrel racing horse who happens to have just one eye. Amazingly, Brumby is the most talented horse she owns, despite his sight. I told her she needed to write a children’s book about that: Brumby: The one-eyed horse.
Even though National Saddlery is beautiful, it’s a serious horse shop. Jo Wiens, the co-owner, breeds horses and owns a total of 35. That’s a lot of big mouths to feed.
After motoring through the Stockyards, we made our way to Duncan, Oklahoma.