Written by Brannon Pack
Sitting and waiting at 4:30 pm on a Friday at my brother’s home, I look at my watch again as if it will help move either time or my brother’s arse quicker. The marauder is packed and the bikes loaded, I just need his bag of bones in the vehicle. The traffic in Northwest Arkansas is about to explode. Hwy 49 is about to turn into full-fledged fury road. With road construction and wheel taco-ing barriers, you are left to fend for yourself as the driver next to you posts selfies on Instagram and huffs silver paint as their halfway in your lane. Fortunately, I am driving a paid-off battering-ram with light armor, the problem is that I have three mountain bikes on the back and one on the roof. If I brake check or make a sudden rollover inducing turn, the bikes (worth far more than my vehicle) would be lost. I just need to get from Bentonville to Fayetteville, then once we pick up “The Wolfman” and his gear we are headed to Red Star.