batesville part I

I'll skip the emergency room tale, since that's inevitably boring. all emergency room stories are the same...not that this has kept me from repeating the previous emergency room story incessantly. but I'm moving on. I'll pick up the batesville thread on the way out of the white river hospital. I stiffly staggered out of the ER around 9pm, sore mostly from lying on a backboard for two hours, and wearing a ripped t-shirt and shredded leather pants and armored boots. wallet and phone in my possession but little else...all my luggage was with the wrecking company. so I tracked down mr baker the wrecker and negotiated a gear transfer. had to be right now because he was off to bed, and sunday was out of the question because of church and other commitments. his place was a fur piece (at least), so not immediately accessible. and I've packed efficiently for a six-week trip, but standard luggage plus hiking backpack plus helmet was a bit much to lug on a 5-mile walk around batesville. spending all day sunday in shredded leathers wasn't a great option, though. taxi? by that point my hapless/vulnerable and polite-for-a-yankee schtick had attracted some attention at the admissions desk. the woman who had taken my IN-surance information kindly offered to ferry me out to baker's and then back to the motel strip during her smoke break. there was much talk about southern hospitality and a long discussion about how best to arrive at 2105 n central ave. turn by wigguns'? or out past the western sizzlin' toward the fairgrounds. or even through the bayou? I was about to suggest they googlemap it, but it was resolved with bystanders' assistance. (that community spirit again.)

so I climb into lisa's wrangler and get the life story...she's a transplant from valparaiso, but was plenty dixie-transformed. we discussed the standards...what motorcycle accidents usually look like, her conviction that everything happens for a reason and that perhaps my stay in batesville would lead to great things (this was a hint), maybe god stopped me here so as to avoid a worse fate further down the road, and so on. we find mr baker, I rouse him from evening TV, he generously fetches the truck that's storing my gear, and we're headed back down the hill past the independence county fair. I settle on the super8 as the cheapest option, and as I grab the last of my gear out of the jeep, she hands me a napkin on which she's scribbled the phone number of her friend denise. denise will surely be happy to show me around batesville and vicinity, so I should give her a call. lisa also helpfully notes that denise is single, 'real cute,' and has blonde hair and blue eyes. and, most importantly, she's a 'real southern girl.'

I wake up sunday with a hip too sore to run on but in need of bandages and food with which to eat antibiotics, so I grab the camera and a book and head up the hill to town, completely unsure of what I'd find. everyone the night before had happily emphasized that there's nothing to do in batesville -- and that it's mostly dry except for josie's and a drinking club at the ramada that you can join for $5 -- but it's got a hospital and is the county seat, so I knew it couldn't be too small. a sign at the top of the hill announced that batesville was the 2nd oldest town in arkansas, founded in 1812. promising. wandered east along the ridge toward lyons college first through quiet shady neighborhoods. gave up on the college after a few blocks and almost stopped into a just-starting baptist church service. really should have pulled the trigger on that -- what better smalltown southern experience than the SBC? -- but methodist propriety stopped me since I was wearing shorts, tshirt, scruffy hiking boots. that and haphazardly wrapped bandages (not easy to wrap one arm with the other hand), a camera, and the inconvenient choice of vine deloria's god is red for the day's reading. really the outfit wasn't out of place in southern casual, and I'm sure nobody would have cared about the rest -- just my picky propriety. anyway, crossed over to the main street side of town and found grand victorian mansions identified by family name, including the house of one JW Barnett Barnett. authentically picturesque and a little bit run down, sprawling chicken processing plants by the river. finally found food back on the commercial strip at Kelley Wyatt's -- southern fried buffet by that point packed with the after church crowd.

I made the call to denise, unsure of whether lisa had informed her friend that she was passing her phone number out to stranded/possibly concussed bikers. we arranged to meet at 5 after she was done babysitting her new granddaughter and after the 45-minute drive into town (!) from the nowhere burg of strawberry somewheres out in the hills.