Riding my motorcycle in 106º heat in early August of 2023, at my ripe-mature age, is not for the faint of heart. On this day, it is an experiment of my own human endurance. Could I survive this day? Could I be able to endure a six to eight-hour motorcycle ride on the high plains of Nebraska and Kansas? Travel the Highways/Interstate system, to live to tell of the ordeal? That was the question I needed to answer.

To learn more about why this is such an important subject for me, take time to read this blog first. 👇 (You’ll notice that the stories have the same first paragraph, because, this was the catalyst for two different, but very related stories.)

Now that you have a bit of historical background, let me tell you how this extremely hot day came to pass.

Over the past week, the mid-west states had suffered one of the worst heat waves this summer, perhaps in a decade. It wasn’t merely the high temperatures, but it was exacerbated by extremely high dew points as well. Which makes the ambient heat feel magnified, like pouring water over hot dry rocks in a steam sauna. This day was the last forecasted to top out over 100º, and the next two days were to lessen dramatically to the mid eighties, and make the rest of my trip more tolerable. I still needed to make it through this first full day.

I left my home at nine a.m., it was a cool 68º with very little breeze, in every respect, a great day for a ride. It was sunny, and beautiful, as comfortable as a person could ask for on the back of a motorcycle in the beginning of August.

Heading south across the valleys and plateaus, down the small, two-lane blacktop road, it took me about an hour and twenty-minutes to reach Interstate I-70, I turn east-bound onto the on-ramp, with the desire to reach Hayes KS, which is another hour and ten-minutes along the way, where I wished to make my first ‘pit-stop’. I would most definitely need to take a restorative break, relieving my bladder, back-side, and refueling. It would be well deserved, after any normal two and a half hour, morning ride.

It’s amazing just how fast it can turn hot out on the high plains. The thermostat on my digital display was already pushing 90º. The wind has picked up a bit from the south, adding to the heat. I now was starting to wish I had stopped at the first rest-area, the one located just a couple miles from the on-ramp. I was about twenty-five miles from my first scheduled stop. I felt the sweat trickling down my spin, the only part of my exposed figure that wasn’t blown-dried from the hot wind. my legs and arms where over-heated and in want of relief, for shade, of any shade.

I keep pushing on, not wanting to dwell on my thoughts, the obvious struggles of wanting to just pull over. Because, after all, there wasn’t anywhere convenient to pull over. No trees, no awnings or campsites, it truly is, a barren plot of highway.

I turned my mind, to think of the beauty all around me, anything but the one thought that consumed me, I needed to cool off. So I forced my concentration, to focus on anything but that damning heat. So, as the country-side swept by, I started to leave my realty behind. I grew to appreciate the serenity of the rolling hills, the fields that produced such good fortune and sometimes broken dreams. My mind started to wonder as I thought of the people who had dared to settle such a tough landscape. What was it that pushed them to turn and till such an inhospitable land? I could feel their struggle to survive, I was not needing to imagine this, it was all too real for me at this very moment. In a matter of minutes I would be off of this highway and dismounting my hot motorcycle, walking into a modern day, air-conditioned artificially made environment. This would not have been a possibility for those early settlers. They would just need to endure it, hour upon hour, until after the sun settle behind the expansive western horizon. Even though, in heat like this, the temperatures can linger long into the early morning hours. I couldn’t shake the unbelievable reality that they had endured, and so I must push on, I could last a few minutes longer. I will not give in to a lessor struggle, a struggle of just a few more miles.

I made it, I had just exited onto the off-ramp and rode into Hays. So, yes, by now, I was feeling the heat more throughly than most rides I have suffered in the past. I searched for a gas-station – one with an awning covering the pump stations.

I fueled up, used the facilities and ride another short distance to a fast-food place. Parking my motorcycle in the shade of one of the few places that had a tree to provide it. This was my deciding factor in choosing where to eat, it had absolutely nothing to do with what I wanted to eat. I was desperate for shelter. I need to shade my black painted bike, somewhere, anywhere, that could shade it, to keep from turning into a branding iron!

I took my lunch break and enjoyed the air conditioning. I felt much better after drinking the large iced-tea and the soaking-up of the artificially cool temperatures the dining-room offered. I was sweating, and that is a good sign. When you stop sweating, it’s a dangerous symptom of an oncoming heat-exhaustion. After fifteen or twenty minutes, I headed back into the unrelenting heatwave, and the next four to five hour ride. The heat hit me like a shockwave as I left the restaurant. I tried to walk in the shade of the building, as I skirted it back to my waiting ride.

I dowsed my face with ice cold water, of which, had melted in the cooler. I also acquired my MiraCool® Neck Bandana – soaked in ice water. These are a Godsend, they wrap around your neck to keep you cool. I spritzed my shirt and wrist with the small spray bottle I also kept in the cooler. Now I felt like I was ready for the next leg, dressed for battle, I mounted, turned over the engine, and started for the on-ramp. It was just now noon.

At this point of my trip, from then on, I could not ride more than an hour at a time. The heat would soon eliminate the cooling methods implemented within twenty to twenty-five minutes. After this I would endure the heat for about another twenty to thirty minutes. I would be getting lite-headed by this time and must find a pull-over, or, not to sound melodramatic, but risk the chance of dying. The span from heat-exhaustion to heat stroke is a mater of minutes.

The good news is, the interstate system of the United States, requires that there be rest-areas every forty to fifty miles. I used every one of them on the way to Kansas City this day. They became a beacon on the highway, a keystone to my survival.

Riding along, just after cooling off at one of the rest-areas, this is when it is such a pleasant ride. The openness of the vistas, the smell of the wild flowers or the freshly cut grass on the shoulders of the road. Sometimes you can smell alfalfa blooms, or feel the cooling mist of water wafting across the highway from a nearby irrigation system. The dust from a nearby wheat harvester, a smell that draws me back in time. A time when I grew up on the farm and ranch as a small child. This is when your mind wonders over less trivial concerns, from those that normally stress you out, on any other day. But not these mental meanderings, these wistful musings calm and wrap your mind, like a misty cloud. You can not even recall what you are thinking about, because the mind is just not concerned with what has passed through it. Like a dream that wakens you from in a deep sleep, it fades from you, like a fog that dissipates from the rising of the sun. These are the moments that are worth all the discomfort of the unrelenting heat, it is why I ride. It has nothing to do with going through a second-childhood, or trying to put a broken heart to amends. It is simply the letting go of the trials and tribulations of our stressful lives we live. So, I open my mind up to the mundane meanderings that wash over me, while I straddle a hot saddle, on a machine that seems almost poetic in its gliding fashion, as it takes me to somewhere else, both logistically and mentally.

With these extra cooling down breaks, that lasted ten to fifteen minutes. I extended my travel time, exchanging speed for comfort. But, also extended my ability to travel the full distance, without needing to stop for a hotel. And this is what I was trying to find out when I set out on one of the hottest days in recent history. The strategy worked, for the most part, until the last stage of the journey.

I arrived at my hotel at six-o-clock this evening, the four-hour and thirty minute ride, extended to just short of six hours with the pit-stop breaks to cool down. The entire ride was nine hours from start to finish. The last hour and twenty minutes were the most brutal. I was so close to KC and a cold shower, I didn’t want to stop, so I pushed on.

When I pulled into the hotel, A place name, ALoft, I was so exhausted, I could hardly catch my breath. I was weak, dizzy, had a terrible headache, and was lite-headed. I let another customer check in before me, while I cooled down and rested before doing so myself. The staff could tell, I was done-in, and needed to get to my room as soon as possible. I must have looked like a ragged, worn out mess, disheveled and slightly disoriented from my ordeal.

After acquiring my room card, I went back to my bike to grudgingly load my gear onto the luggage trolley I had retrieved. I headed back into the lobby, straight to the elevator, when I heard my name being called out.

“Mr. Longnecker, Sir. Mr. Longnecker?”

Hesitantly, I stopped and turned.

“Yes?” Trying to conserve my energy, I didn’t think I wanted to venture to say anymore.

“Do you like showers or Bathes, I heard you mention, taking a shower, while checking in? I just notice, the room you chose on-line, it only has a tub, there is no shower in that room.”

Finding renewed energy, I responded with vigor.

“Yes, I hate baths! I was in a hurry and on the side of the road when I chose the room.”

“I can switch you to a shower only room, it would only take me a minute or two.”

“Oh my gosh, now don’t take this wrong, but, I could kiss you on the lips right now! Yes, please make the change.”

All three attendant standing behind the check in pedestal, laughed heartily at my forward sense of humor.

The shower, reset my internal cooling system to normal once again. My headache went away, I was coherent and felt energy pulse back into my body. The funny thing about heat-exhaustion is that you can reverse the symptoms very quickly. You must get cooled off thoroughly.

I was now ready to walk down the couple block to the Plaza for supper. I already had a few places in mind. I say I walked down the street, because it is quit literally, down a steep hill. Perhaps a ten to twelve degree slope, if it were icy, you could not possibly stop until you were a block past the leveling of the streets below. We’ll cover more of this return trip, soon.

The Country Club Plaza is a very distinct shopping district. It was designed in 1922, in the fashion of Seville Spain, on old European city. With spired porticos, and colonnades adorning most of the buildings, none of them more that a few stories high. It is populated with bronze sculptures and water fountains usually located in gardened patio areas. It is like walking into the past and onto a different continent. There is an energy here, bolstered by the beautiful facades and scattered arts. People everywhere, seem to be in a state of celebration through osmosis of the gay mood the district exudes. There are more than seventy luxury shops, with some of the best dining in all of the mid-west. People are here to enjoy the travers into a fantasy world, created to celebrate the subsequent vacation from the ordinary.

I have an intimate history here. I once worked on the Plaza, at Helzberg Diamonds, which is now closed, I assume, since the turning of the pandemic. I pass by the store front on my way to dine. It sets empty and forlorn, my heart fills with sadness at it’s lonely, darkened windows, now void, but once were full of sparkling romance and beauty. Now just a ‘location to let’. I mentally shrug and walk on, gladly leaving the sadness behind. I move on.

I came to my destination four blocks from the the hotel. At the intersection, are two, very fine, restaurants. The Season’s 52 and The Capital Grill. The Season’s on the sunrise side of the street had a very fine looking patio entrance with a beautiful sculpture as it’s focal point. I took it as a sign of good things to come.

As the image is testimony to the scene, I will not flourish on about it.

I stood to admire the grandeur and beauty of this impressive statue for a long minute or two. Then I entered the restaurant’s lobby. The waiting staff, were not impressive as the welcoming art, just outside the doors.

I always am offended when maître d’s ask me, “How many will be dining with you?”.

I dine out by myself, a lot, and, I almost always travel alone. So, I hate the assumption that I have a gaggle of friends tailing, somewhere, unseen, behind me. I do understand that this is most always the case. That I would be naturally assumed to be the lead scout, tasked with settling the table arrangements for the small group, they being held up finding parking, or just simple stopped at a window, to shop. None-the-less, it still serves as a lonely sting, of the assumed, or canned addresses upon my arrival, to my obvious solitude.

The question was off-putting to me, it set my mood back to uncertainty, as to my former intentions, of dinning here. So, I tacked, I swerved my ship to avoid a catastrophe, to allow for the possibility to change my course for better offerings.

“I am alone, do you have a lounge with a bar? I would it be okay if I just set there.”

“Of course you may, it is just around the corner, to your left.”

The bar was mostly empty, not a good sign. The lounge was mostly full. I settled in and waited for almost five minutes before the bar attendant, a tall, good looking, but dour young man, addressed me.

“Would you be dining with us this evening?”

“I am not sure, I would like to see the menu and wine list first.”

“Of course, here you are.”

He handed the menus to me.

“I will be back with a glass of water.” Turned and walked away.

He returned after another irritating five minutes hiatus, you see he wasn’t overly busy, he was merely chatting his co-worker up. I ordered the Ahi Tuna, with the suggested paired rose’ wine.

The wine was a perfect accompaniment to the tuna. I thoroughly enjoyed it. I had also made up my mind to go to the other restaurant, the one just across the street. Surely, it could not be any more worse than this one. I just wanted to feel welcomed, and served with some small amount of respect. Was that too much to asked for, after a long hot, grueling day in the heat?

I paid my tab, and I left. The tip was an insult, I am sure he felt the full measure of the meaning.

The Capital Grill, located on the sunset side, is not as imposing or overly pretentious as the Seasons 52. The Grill is well designed but less overtly decorated upon walking past it. There is a sense of highbrow taste, yet nothing that could ‘put one off’. Outwardly it was elegantly simple, if you can find your attention past the two silver clad African lions. They being perched upon what appears to be black marble steps, fictitiously accenting from somewhere below the restaurant. Perhaps are to guard the less worthy, from venturing past their prideful steadfast charge. They abut, one, on each side, of the glass double-door entryway. It announces to everyone who enters, that this, is a place above the rest. Have you made your prior arrangements? It seems to ask, and I had not. So, when I pulled the heavy door open and stepped in, I knew this is not a place to enter mentally unprepared. Perhaps, I should have asked one of the lions for a bit of advice, on how not become a silly fool. I immediately knew I was heading for possible folly and disappointment once again, if things did not go my way.

I waited in the foyer, there were several persons standing near the maitre’ d’ pedestal. In the mean time, I was fine with trying to gain some composure before I was summarily shown the ignominious exit, that at this moment, was a firm possibility.

Finally, after about four or five minutes of what seemed to be astutely, controlled chaos, one of the stewards addressed me directly.

“Good evening Sir, may I help you?” She had an open friendly face, with a warm smile.

“Yes, I was hoping I could find a table, I do not have a reservation, but if not, I would be happy to sit at the bar.”

She looked pained. “We are very busy, but let me see if I can find a place at the bar.”

She looked at the scheduler before her and frowned. Looked up and said. “Please follow me, I will see if we can fit you in.”

After a disappointing trip to the bar, and further inspection proved to be a fruitless folly. We returned to the pedestal. She centered herself in-front of the scheduler, and asked me if I wouldn’t mind waiting for a while? I responded the affirmative, and she immediately asked me for my name, then phone number, and my address. I thought, that is pretty thorough, but okay, I obliged, and transferred the desired information.

“Mr. Longnecker, if you wouldn’t mind waiting a while? We will try to find a table as soon as possible.”

I was thrilled with the attention, the obvious effort, and the glad desire to see to my wishes. I was really impressed with the start to this next culinary adventure. A reception that was, a world apart, from that of my earlier disappointing attempt, at the Season’s 52.

I waited for maybe ten minutes, I didn’t mind, I was quit entertained by the wine cabinet, in a hallway that was located parallel to the foyer and separated by a glass wall. There were small square, brass screened doors, they had name plaques placed upon them. There were wine bottles safely secure inside. I have discovered these are exclusive member wine vaults. I was well entertained just seeing the many different wines secluded within each chamber.

I heard someone call me name. “Mr. Bill Longnecker.”

“Yes” I raise my hand in response to the beaconing.

“We have found a table for you, please follow me.”

I was placed on a window seat facing Ward Parkway, the street to the south side of the restaurant, I choose to place my back to it to better enjoy the interior. I am familiar with the street view and wanted to really explore this interior, to set it to memory. It was a great placement, maybe not the very best, but it wasn’t the worst. I was very happy just to have a table. I felt like I was one of the many who are already accepted as one of the, ‘in-crowd’.

As I studied my surroundings, I had already recovered my journal from my messenger bag. I was starting to write about the days happenings and some of my internal thoughts. When a very nice lady came to deliver the menus to me. Explaining she would return shortly with water. She seemed very pleasant but just a bit busy, as was to expected. The room was abuzz with activity and lots of casual commotion. All the normal sounds of a busy restaurant. Metal flatware clinking, crystal stemware chiming as careless hands ding the edges of ceramic plates. There are some voices that carry too well, many others are murmuring, and an occasional exuberant laughter raises and fades away, all these, co-mingling as one well practiced orchestra. The music of the night.

My waitress appeared with the water.

“Good evening Mr. Longnecker, welcome to the Capitol Grill. Do you know what you will be drinking this evening?”

Wow, they really are on their top game here, Mr. Longnecker!

I told her I need to study the wine list for a bit longer.

“Well perhaps you will be interested in The Generous Pour event.?

“I am not familiar with that.”

She explained they are offering a wine tasting of seven different wines from select vineyards. She proceeded to introduce a few of them, lightly covering the choices. I was familiar with the name Orin Swift, a very reputable vineyard, I was definitely interested.

“How much would this be?”

“Thirty-five dollars.”

“That sounds great, I’ll have that.”

“Wonderful, do you know what you are having tonight?”

“Not yet, I will need a few more minutes.”

“I let you look at the menu then.” Smiling, turned and hurried away.

I was thinking the Fillet with fried brussel sprouts and soup depending on what was available.

She returned quit promptly with another white, heavy stock, paper flier, titled ‘Intertwine’, then, ‘The Generous Pour’.

“Here is the information on the wines I will be serving you.”

“…I just realized, I haven’t introduced myself yet! My name is Patrice.”

“Nice to meet you, Patrice. I am Bill, nice to meet you.”

She seemed a bit shaken at the, foo pa, of leaving out the introduction, or perhaps she was just in a hurry.

Patrice started to deliver a impassioned introduction to the wine flight that I would be experiencing this evening. She went into great detail and seemed to love wine as I do, I was very impressed.

She took my order and soon returned with my first flight of wine. A French Rose’, oh my, it was divine! She had placed a bread basket on my table also. The bread on later inspection was a cornucopia of marvelous samples. Almost a meal in it’s own right.

I continued to write in my journal while enjoying the bread and wine. A somewhat lost art to me as of the Pandemic. I used to dine-out all the time at home, we have a wide selection of very good, and some excellent restaurants back home.

I couldn’t help but notice the two young men seated next to me. Both were very good looking, obviously successful, and engaged in a lightly casual conversation. I could also tell, they seemed to be on a first date. They seemed to be hitting it off, very in sync, leaning in towards each other in a lightly flirtatious way. Soon I notice them sharing taste off of each others plate. Definitely on a date.

The soup had arrived in the careful hands of my attendant, Patrice. It was delicious, and I made it disappear in a ridiculously hurried fashion, like I had not eaten in a week.

There was now before me, my second, and third glass of wines, a Pinot Gris – amazing, as well. The Other a Chardonnay both from J Vineyards, both are show stoppers.

Soon, Patrice came around to my table to check on me and remove my empty soup cup. Sweeping up the bread crumbs with a brush and pan. Very classy!

“How is everything” she asked.

“Wonderful.” I looked up from my journal.

“Your entrée, will be here shortly.” With a curious smile, she turned and walked away.

I returned to my writing.

Not long afterwards, my steak and side dish arrived.

“Please enjoy your steak, Mr. Longnecker.”

I took a few bites of the steak and side dish, when Patrice came by to check in on me.

“Here is another wine from J Vineyards, a Pinot Noir, I hope you enjoy it? How is your steak Mr. Longnecker.”

My journal was closed with my pen holding my place while I ate. Like all wait staff, they have an uncanny ability to drop by with your mouth full.

“Excellent.” I muffled it out through my half devoured bit of steak.

“I noticed you’re writing.” There was a slight pause before she continued. “Are you shopping me?” She said this quit quietly but nervously.

I was very amused, and laughed a guffaw, before smiling at her uncomfortable inquest.

“No, That’s funny though, because I used my journal at a London restaurant, to make them think I was a food critic. It worked like a charm! I even wrote a short story about it on my blog!”

“You had me worried!“ she gushed with relief.

“I just write, I journal to record my travel adventures and my thoughts.”

“Where are you from? What brings you to Kansas City?”

I needed to get away for a long weekend, I rode my motorcycle here, I have been working too hard.”

“So, what are your plans this weekend?”

“I am an artist and I love to go to the Nelson-Adkins’s, when every I get the chance.”

“It’s a wonderful museum, I hope you have a good time.”

“Thank you Patrice,”

We were now friends it seemed, the barrier between diner, and host was now reduced by measures. I truly felt relaxed and at home with my new, friendly acquaintance.

One of the young men at the next table removed to the other room. His companion sitting by himself, caught my eye, he smiled.

I ventured to share with him the amusing situation that just transpired.

“The waitress, she thought I was a food critic or a secret shopper!”

“Really, that’s funny.” He said

We then started a short conversation, I asked if they where on a first date. He told me they have been dating for a couple years. I told him they seemed very happy with each other.

Come to find out, he was from a small town in Nebraska also, lived in LA and was back to move his boyfriend there. We talked until his partner returned and he relayed to bits of our conversation and the local connection we shared. They introduced themselves and we continued a polite and interesting banter, back and forth. I realized, I was dominating their quiet date and excused my interruption. They both were very nice men. I had made more casual friendships this evening, I was very content.

Patrice returned, checking on me. The other red wines she had just poured. Orin Swift, a red blend and a Cabernet Sauvignon. I was feeling the wines and a good buzz now, Glad I walked tonight.

“You are enjoying yourself?”

I am, very much so.”

She started to introduce me to the two new table companions in the crystal stemware. She definitely knew her wines.

“You are a wine lover as well?”

“Yes, I am,” she suddenly sat down on the benched seat next to me, and we entered into a patient conversation, one that only wine lovers can appreciate. The conversation turned to my writing, my blog and I showed her my book that I had published just a couple months ago. I told her the broad strokes of the London dining store on my blog. She was quit impressed.

“Are you going to write a story about tonight?”

“Oh, absolutely I will.”

We wrapped up our pleasant conversation and she brought me my bill, with a big brown gift bag.

“This is yours to pay when ready.” She slid the billing wallet towards me.

“And, this is from us at the Capitol Grill, a little dessert for when you return to you hotel. I have enjoyed getting to know you and look forward to reading your blog.”

At the end of the evening, I was walking up the hill, heading to my room at the Aloft. It was a very steep climb, I was full, a bit intoxicated and feeling my calves strain at the aggressive grade of the two block – improvised mountain climb. I was fulfilled and looking forward to getting home and finding time to record todays adventures, both parts, the grueling, and the satisfying.

I can’t wait until tomorrow, a day among the greats in art history.