Even before we got to Arkansas, Melissa told me we needed to take a motorcycle ride to the Oark Cafe. (No, I didn’t forget the letter Z in Ozark. That’s how it’s spelled.) We had some time and perfect weather on Saturday, so we decided to go for it.
The ride down Route 23 and the Pig Trail was as expected — beautiful, scenic, and spoiled by road construction and long one-way traffic lights. (I look forward to riding the Pig Trail once all this is gone, but at the moment, I can’t recommend it as an epic motorcycle road.) Halfway down, we turned left onto Route 215, and everything changed. The construction and traffic were gone. The road was narrower, even more twisty, and extremely scenic, with rock formations on one side and the Mulberry River on the other. Sixteen miles of amazing riding later, we were there, along with every other motorcycle in northwest Arkansas, it seemed. We had to park far away in the back just to get a parking space.
According to Arkansas Heritage, this building was originally the general store, established in 1890, for the tiny town of Oark. Until modern roads made their way there, it was an isolated town and the central hangout, the post office, and a place for trappers to sell their furs.
Today, this same building has been turned into a cafe, with limited seating inside and quite a bit more outside. That was good because this place was flooded with bikers of all kinds, from stereotypical Harley dudes to serious dirt riders and everyone in between.
We were fortunate enough to grab a table inside. I had the Steak N Cheese sandwich, while Melissa got the Angry Hornet burger. They were delicious. Partway through our meal, a couple of riders politely asked to share our large table. This is fairly normal since seating is so limited. We invited them to join us. Soon, we started swapping motorcycle stories, as motorcycle people do anytime we get together. One of them had ridden his Indian all the way from Nebraska just to get the Angry Hornet. I told him about the Indian Springfield Dark Horse I rode while covering the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally for RideApart in 2019.
Eventually, we parted ways and started heading back. After some navigation errors, we ended up going back the way we came, back up Route 215 to the Pig Trail. Once on the Pig Trail, there were more motorcycles than cars on the road. We hit the first construction traffic light at the moment it turned green, catching up with stopped traffic but not having to stop ourselves. At the next light, we ended up stopping behind three large BMW adventure bikes with license plates from Sonora. I’ve spent enough time in Arizona to know that Sonora is the Mexican state right across the border. Sonora plates are a regular sight there, but certainly not in Arkansas.
I’m not sure exactly how it went down, but the Mexican riders and the car in front of them somehow communicated their desire to get ahead of the car and link up with a pair of Harleys at the front of the line. The driver was happy to let them go, and we joined them as well, lining up on the shoulder to go around the car. When the light turned green, he waited for all of us (and got friendly waves in gratitude), and then we were a group of about eight motorcycles with an open road ahead of us, which we enjoyed thoroughly. We were first in line at the third traffic light, where the Harley guys waved us adventure bike riders ahead of them, knowing that we were faster in the curves. After more friendly waves, the Mexican BMWs and I took off. They slowly pulled away at a more spirited pace than I was willing to ride, especially with Melissa on the back, and that was okay. I caught up to them as they turned onto a side road, where I gave them a friendly toot of the horn as I passed. The rest of the ride was uneventful, with a side quest into town for a few things before returning to Melissa’s place.
The Oark is a bit over an hour away from here, making it ideal for an extended lunchtime ride. Now that I’ve been there with Melissa (I wanted to save the first trip to go together), I can see myself heading down there on occasional weekdays when there’s less traffic. If nothing else, I need to go back to try some pie, something else they’re famous for. We didn’t stick around long enough to indulge in any since the place was already so busy. Pie probably would not survive very well for an hour-long bike ride, so it will be forced to go into my belly.
Smokey Da Van 