Hoping for a Tail Wind

Takes me a little longer to get moving this morning, so I’m not packed up and moving out until just before 8am. I’m one lazy motherfucker come Saturday morning. 1 mile up I hit the John Coffee Memorial Bridge over the Tennessee River. Good name John, I’m glad they named this bridge after you, whoever the hell you are.

Then I hit the state line. In the words of Arrested Development, “Tennessee”. If you’re playing along at home, that’s state number 4.

Today is all about dumb inclines, fun declines and in-between times. I stop at the Wayne Visitor Center. Fill up on water. Oooh, a free cookie. Sure. And peppermints? I never eat candy, I’ll take two. Thanks. Outside I find a power outlet and meet a guy named Tim. Clearly loaded down for long term off road biking (fat tires, tube bags, no panniers, etc), he is on a race from North Carolina to Oregon. And he looks lost, especially when my answer to “which way you headed” is simply, “north”. I’ll stick to roads with my skinny tires. Good luck Tim.

A couple dozen more miles up, I arrive at my intended daily terminus, the Meriwether Lewis campground. You know, Meriwether from the championship tag team exploring duo of “Lewis & Clarke. The dudes who never die of dissentery or cholera in Oregon Trail. They were definitely the Hall & Oates of their time. Well, good ol’ Meriwether died right here. And he’s buried right here. So even though, I respect the idea of an explorer being buried wherever he drops dead, this campground ain’t really working for me. I decide to use the last two hours of daylight and push another 23 miles to the last “bike-only” campsite before Nashville. Take that leg cramps!

What the fuck did I do? The biggest hill yet was laughing – just waiting for me to make this decision. Do you know what it’s like to pedal 3 mph for 38 minutes up a ridiculous grade to only have moved 1/4 mile toward your destination. I do. It sucks. You can’t do it you wanted to, it can only be thrust upon you like a grand piano falling on your head from 11 stories up. The whole time I wonder how many people have made it up with as much weight in tow and without stopping or walking, and which I will be. I remember words from the auto/bike shop owner Chris in Natchez: “rather we ridin’ slow than walkin’ fast”. It’s so absolutely true. I did deeper and never put my foot down. Thankfully, there’s no one waiting at the top with a medal for me.

Arriving to the Gordon House restroom stop, I fill up on water and look at my map for info on the nearby bike campground. Turns out I have to exit the Trace for 1/4 mile and find the campground along the horse trail? Nope. Not gonna do it. Once again the sun is setting and I think I’ll just pop my tent up near the water supply and this here covered picnic table. Same as the last few nights. Makes for a much more enjoyable stay.

This time though, I’ve even got the company of Olga, a Ukrainian woman who says this bathroom stop is “her spot”. She apparently comes here for a couple hours on Saturday nights to exercise, listen to nature and meditate. She’s a very nice lady who used to volunteer as a yoga instructor in nearby criminal rehabilitation centers. We both eat our dinners (mmmm Ramen) and chat a bit about a variety of things, much of it not the run of the mill bullshit. And we do some of that word renowned National Park rest stop yoga. It’s about to go viral, so catch up and ditch the goats, hipsters. Olga shares some great stories of growing up in the Ukraine and not having very many luxuries – like a daily shower. Clearly this was her way of telling me something about my current scent, even though I took a dip in a spring and got poured on all day, I do indeed smell horrible. Olga also tells me an amazing story about how her grandmother and great-aunt not only weren’t split up – but survived a Nazi concentration camp together. She says they didn’t get split up because as her grandmother put it, “there were good Fritzes” (Fritz is German for soldier) The key to survival was apparently to not take showers because as it turns out those “showers” didn’t have water, just gas. Score one for me and knowing not to shower when cyborg Cheeto Jesus puts us all into Children of Men-style camps come 2031.

In all seriousness though, it was nice to have a deep and personal conversation with a complete totally random stranger. Bicycle travel brings out the humanity in humans. We get outside our bubble. We get comfortable being uncomfortable. We embrace strangers rather than fear them. Let’s go back to that state of being.

Hello boys and girls. Week 2’s initial mileage is brought to me by complete body inflammation. La palabra del hoy es butt hurts. No matter what language, this is the sorta thing that feels like I’m watching some raved-about old classic of a movie — but then don’t quite understand why this shit is supposed to be considered good — and now I just wanna turn it off… but I can’t, because “film”. Probably not the best metaphor, but I’m getting new pains here and there to go with the ones I had there and there and there. And course there. With no way out. Then a big ole’ dragonfly crosses a bridge with me at 14 mph and weaves around in rhythm to the Whatnauts. I forget all about my physical ailments and pick up the pace. If I had a GoPro and more consistent power outlets you’d thank me for that footage. But I don’t. So you won’t. Also, shout out to my good friend Count Bass D on the playlist, Instantly New and some of his earlier classics get me up a couple of those granny gear uphills today. So it’s gonna be close, but I may run out of food before the end of the trace. I ate most of my peanut butter today with 2-3 days to go, but I really don’t want to get off this gorgeous parkway. Just the thought of dealing with traffic and road conditions keeps me from dipping off for a Gatorade at every small town. I’ll probably choose hunger over traffic when it comes to it. A simplified mode of living enabled by bike touring has always provided me with my most enjoyable experiences:

Wake up. Ride. Eat. Ride. Eat. Ride. Eat. Sleep.

Riding the Trace has afforded me the opportunity to take that simplified mode of living a step further. We are all conditioned into different versions of the same “buy, consume, repeat” routine – it’s hard to notice it in ourselves sometimes. It’s ingrained in everything we do. We typically can’t even use a bathroom or drink water without paying for it. I’ll probably expand on it in a later post, but if you’re keeping score, I have not purchased a single thing for three days now. It’s setting a entirely new standard. Living the last few days off just what I have on me feels more like living than anything I have else ever felt.

2000 year old Chickasaw burial mounds

A flat tire at the state line sets me back about 30 minutes. Shitty little metal wire got through the Kevlar reinforced tires and then the valve stem blew on my replacement. Got moving and got myself into Alabama. After a brief picnic table top nap near a creek, I push on another 15 miles and set up camp down at Colbert’s Ferry on the Tennessee River for what will be my first over night spent in this state which has no official state nickname (but has been referred to as the cotton state, the yellowhammer state and the heart of Dixie, so I can sorta see why). I’ve got a solid water supply and even scavenged a random power outlet, but damn all these wild Alabama animals like to get it on at night. Freaks.

PS. That food thing is real though, so if anyone wants to meet for a cheeseburger and an ale at the northern terminus of the Natchez Trace come Sunday afternoon/evening, I’ll pick up the check.