We rode all morning and came back to the motel for lunch and some rest. Then we went for another ride, one that took us to a ferry across Table Rock Lake, through downtown Branson, and back to the motel. However, something happened along the way. In Branson. Where our motorcycles always break down.
"That's just the fan," says Cliff, who not only can't hear well normally, but hears even less this weekend because he left his hearing aid at home.
"No, I have NEVER heard this noise," I said, panicking.
Finally he turned the key off. But the starter wouldn't quit. It was stuck.
"Don't you want me to get off?" I asked the question twice before he finally said yes.
He got off, with the horrible noise still going on. He did this thing and that thing, and finally disconnected the battery. That stopped the noise.
"Find that book with Gold Wing riders' names in it and see if there's anybody in Branson."
I found three people, and he called one; there was no answer, but Cliff left a message. While he was doing that, I suddenly remembered that his Kansas brother, Donald, was camped out at Table Rock Lake, not a half-hour away. And he's a mechanic.
"Cliff, you have a brother here right now," I told him.
I saw instant relief on his face. "Oh, yeah; that's right!"
Our vacation will proceed as planned.