THERE it hung: Steve McQueen’s dirt bike, attached to the ceiling, caught in mid-jump.
Chris Martin, of the Vintage Iron Motorcycle Museum, was telling the tale of how Thomas Crowne’s pride and joy ended up on Main Street in Miami, Oklahoma. It started the way many stories do, at an auction in Las Vegas.
“It was either this or the Vincent Black Shadow,” he explained. “We’re just lucky that Angelina Jolie didn’t outbid us on this one.”
Indeed, that little nugget of information is inscribed on the plaque in front of the bike’s display.
We reflected for a moment in silence — as men do in the presence of machines — before Martin made another movie reference.
“You ever see that movie ‘Cars?’ That’s really what it looks like here in Oklahoma. Ugly and flat as heck.”
Like the town in “Cars,” Miami was a stopover on Route 66 that lost business when a highway was built nearby — in this case, Interstate 44; a highway that connects St. Louis, Missouri with somewhere inconsequential in Texas.
What traffic there is here today comes from tourist gearheads and bikers plying the plying the iconic route, or what’s left of it. Hence, the placement of a vintage motorcycle museum on Miami’s main street.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering, it’s pronounced my-am-uh.
Many of the car and bike aficionados come for the Ribbon Road, a stretch of the original Route 66 preserved just as it was in the 1920s. In this case, “as it was” is a single-lane wide — that’s a single lane for two-way traffic to share. The constructors thought that they could get twice as much road if they built it at half the width.
The shoulders are made of gravel and it’s rutted from overuse, but it is indeed an original 13-mile stretch of the Mother Road, never widened from the original incarnation. Not that you can always tell you’re driving on hallowed ground. Amanda Davis, Miami’s Convention and Visitors Bureau Director, told me that marking the road is no easy task.
“Every time we put up a ‘Route 66’ sign,” she says, “someone drives off with it.”
Miami’s stretch of Route 66 excepted, the roads in this part of Oklahoma are arrow straight — deceptively so. I learned the hard way after catching the attention of the Oklahoma State Patrol on the Cherokee Turnpike, driving towards Tulsa.
But the highways here don’t just provide revenue for the state. (Thanks for letting me off with just a warning, officer.) They also serve as a feeder, bringing gamblers to Miami’s Native American casinos, one of the area’s big economic engines. The county is home to nine tribes, many with their own casinos.
I met John Froman, the chief of the Peoria tribe, at their Buffalo Run complex; we shared crab cakes with his wife and daughter at the Coleman House, the casino’s restaurant. Proceeds fund scholarships and other projects for the tribe’s members.
Just short of the turn for Buffalo Run is another one of Oklahoma’s long, straight roads. It’s a narrow country lane, one that gets mighty dark when the sun comes down. And, on Saturday night when I was in Miami, it led to the annual Peoria Pow-Wow, marked by nothing more than a handmade sign. Money from the casino helps support events like this pow-wow, now in its twelfth year.
Spread out over the course of the weekend, the focus of the pow-wow was a dance competition. Part fashion show, part physical challenge, competitors of all ages (and tribes — there are no full-blooded Peoria left) danced and paraded their traditional costumes in the stifling heat.
The costumes were a mesmerizing combination of the old-fashioned and the homespun: feathers and fringe, yes, but with traffic-cone orange or fuchsia trim. The dancing, especially from teenagers, wasn’t different from what you’d see near the front of the stage at a rock concert — more joyous and liberated than you’d expect teens to be at a family event.
Onlookers cheered on the dancers while wolfing down fry bread and Indian tacos (that’s fry bread topped with, you guessed it, taco fixings). A loquacious emcee rattled off announcements all night long, including a ceremony towards the end of the evening thanking everyone who organized the event and presenting them with a blanket or another gift. There was even a competition for “tiny-tot” dancers, kids who were all declared winners at the end of their routines and rewarded with handfuls of candy.
A DYING BREED
A few decades ago, Waylan’s Ku-Ku Burger was one of many in a fast-food chain, targeting college towns throughout middle America. Today, the Miami location is the only one left.
The product is reminiscent of fast-food burgers from decades back; thin, juicy patties (in Oklahoma, one expects proper beef) that have sustained drivers on the road for generations. The Ku-Ku maintains a joyously anachronistic feel, from the neon sign out front to the food cooked to order and barely higher in price than when Gene Waylan took over in the ’70s.
Also old-fashioned: Waylan’s hands-on stewardship of the place. He’s always there, overseeing the cooking while greeting locals and visitors alike. Even at 10 a.m. on a Sunday, he was there to hand me my cheeseburger.
Driving out of town and watching people exit the Interstate, I couldn’t help but think how the invention of the internal-combustion engine has been a mixed bag for a place like Miami.
Route 66 gave the town its first boom, and now supplies enough interest from tourists to support projects like the Coleman Theater, an Art Deco palace from 1929 restored by volunteers. They’ve even got the original Wurlitzer organ and pipes, sourced from an organ collector in Texas. Yet, the Interstate obviates the need to stop here, unless you’ve got a mind to do so. The switch from Route 66 to I-44 is the difference between passing through Miami and simply passing it by.
It’s easy to look at towns and say they’re not like the rest of the state — or the country — and that’s what makes them special. Miami, though, captures all these little pieces of America and Oklahoma in one place. Heck, right by the Ribbon Road you’ll find Mickey Mantle’s childhood house, a shotgun home with a barn where he practiced throwing. Who’s more American than the Mick?
Here, the Native American tribes function much as a Kiwanis Club would elsewhere. Their casinos bring tourist dollars, yes, but some of that profit comes back to Miami itself. The Peoria, for example, sponsored the renovation of a block of seats at the Coleman. It’s small-town life, just like anywhere else.
Miami’s charm comes from being of America. It’s so thoroughly rooted in our culture, though, that it blends in — making it all too easy to keep driving.
That would be a mistake. Next time, take the exit and pull in for a burger at the Ku-Ku. All roads don’t lead to Miami anymore, and we’re not necessarily better off for it.