September 28, 2019

Summer 2019 Sliders

I had no idea what “sliders” were when I first saw them on a menu in Nashville. I discovered that the White Castle hamburger chain popularized sliders starting in the Depression era. They are cheap miniature hamburgers that were soon nicknamed sliders because they are so greasy and small you can easily slide ‘em into your stomach. 
Courtesy of The Krystal Company
I’ve learned they can keep right on going downward until sliding out yer ass. In short, they are five stars yummy, but occasionally colon blow. Not unlike these blogposts of mine.

What follows are a few Rising Family™ summer 2019 summaries.

I ask you: who doesn't love summer? The warmth, the sensation of the sun on your skin, watersports, BBQ, camping, the freedom of romping outdoors whenever you want. You need more reasons? How about riding on motorcycles wearing only a T-shirt and shorts. Jumping off a cliff into a cool lake. Humidity like lanolin on your skin. That certain clean feeling after a mid-afternoon shower. Then heading outside for more heat. 

I love Nashville summers. The summer of 2019 did not disappoint. In fun ways through to the mundane, I had a great time. Here are a few reasons why.


The Almighty Lawn
In my youth, I mowed my parents' lawn and thought it wasn't worth the trouble. Now in middle age, I revel in keeping the weeds at bay and resurrecting our rented home’s neglected Bermuda grass. Southerners love their lawns and mini John Deere mowers. I caught the fever. 


Canada Day
We are modestly patriotic, we Canucks. Once overseas, we recognize what a great thing we have going in the Great White North and raise our flag-waving game. I made my point with my American co-workers on July 1. I declared my office a temporary Honourary Consulate of Canada for the day. We avoided diplomatic rancor. Laughter is the best way to achieve a constructive bilateral relationship.


Going to Memphis
Mr. Maczynski, a co-worker from South Africa, was on a temporary assignment at my office during the summer. I took him on a music-inspired tour of Memphis during the Independence Day long weekend. We toured Graceland and Sun Studio, ate hyper-local wet BBQ, drank local craft beers, and rocked it. 
I saw parts of Memphis’s storied musical history that I otherwise would not have had the chance to see. Thanks, Kyle! Even the night drive back to Nashville on the I-40 was exciting. A flash thunderstorm and mega rain made one stretch super-adrenalized. Rock and roll.


Kentucky Fried Carburetor
With no family around, I was free to hit the road on weekends. In July, thoroughly enjoyed a motorcycle tour north to Kentucky on Hobo Bike accompanied by William Matsusiak. For shaved ice. And for fun.

September 8, 2019

NatchezBall Run II

Courtesy of doityourselfrv.com
More Main Dish - Days One & Two
Speeding through southwestern Tennessee I finally felt I was On The Road. I wasn’t in a Hunter S. Thompson gonzo mood; it felt more like relief to be moving forward again. Putting the ill-fated start with Hobo Bike behind me. I did some mental gymnastics to convert the bile of adversity into the champagne of positivity. 
After all, I was driving a shiny pickup truck and gawking at landscapes in parts of the rural South I’d never seen before. Moreover, I was putting miles down on pavement. I think I am at my happiest when in motion.
My optimism didn’t prevent the rainfall. It began soon after I met up with Stevie Y. and WMD at the Black Belt Overlook milepost outside Tupelo. While the rain didn’t dampen my upbeat mood, wistful Elvis ballads played in my head. My riding buddies empathized with my bad luck. They generously offered to take turns driving the truck (a.k.a. our command module) to give me some road time on their German motorbikes. Danke shoen, meine Kameraden. That’s pure friendship right there, folks. It’s also the reason we had a total of eight wheels on the road: 4+2+2. We switched our rides and WMD took the wheel of the trusty Frontier. I jumped on his gleaming BMW.
Later, somewhat soaked, we arrived at a hamlet called French Camp in a pastoral part of Mississippi. We stopped for warm beverages at a tired-looking cafĂ©/gift shop in an old farmhouse next to a church. There was a palpable Children of the Corn atmosphere there. 
Giddy, chilled, and with the prospect of heading out into the rain again, we repeatedly broke into laughter. At that point, we were roughly midway. Distance-wise, 190 miles left between us and our goal of Natchez, Mississippi.

We pressed on. I drove Steve‘s big Beamer. Its heft felt like a Mark III Tiger tank compared to my Kawasaki.  I was concerned about braking on a slick pavement with the alternating drizzle or downpour. Soon, Steve Y. boarded William’s machine. It was late afternoon by then and this motley caravan bombed down the last quarter of the parkway. We saw a young, indecisive deer dart across the road ahead. An armadillo waddled across the highway, and flocks of bats flew above us in a clearing at dusk. The precipitation grudgingly petered out to a sprinkle. We drove through several verdant green pastures. Other patches on the highway had trees forming a canopy overhead, covering the road. Fallen trees lay on the side of the highway, victims of a recent hurricane. Plenty of dead critter carcasses on the highway, too. As time wore on, we became a little concerned about creeping darkness; driving a motorcycle at night can be dangerous. Still, there weren’t that many cars on the road as dusk set in. We gradually increased speed in an attempt to reach Natchez before nightfall.  As a group, we cruised between 50-65 mph for almost two hours during the last 110 miles to our destination.

I was in that state where my comfort level with the bikes, coupled with growing fatigue, had generated a true sense of contentment, of mentally being in the moment. The speed, dimming sunlight, and the thrum of the motorcycle engine, were soothing. With no other distractions, these elements combine to produce a mild euphoria. I only feel that particular kind of exhilaration when motorcycling or scuba diving.
We arrived in Natchez just before the sunset. The light was a salmon pink that assaulted my retinas, and defies apt description. Just look at the photos! 
We checked in at the hotel, and quickly left for a local Applebee’s to indulge in food, beer, and fellowship. I had a celebratory beer: what a terrific way to mark my birthday! WMD did a Facebook post about the first leg of the journey. I tried to get a nightcap upon our return to the hotel…no luck. So, off to Slumberland. Day One had thrown us a few curveballs, and we needed to ready for more the next day.

Day Two 
All hands on deck for breakfast. Flawless kickoff at 0730, clear blue skies, and Stevie Y., WMD and I were in cheerful mode. In a defiant nod to the “three states” part of the trip’s sales pitch, we added a fourth state. 
We roared over the bridge into Vidalia, Louisiana, to fill up our gas tanks and sniff the Mississippi River aura. For the hell of it. 

Then we hit the road for the ride back to Nashville. Our driving was smooth, fast, and safe. I enjoy going on trips with a band of likeminded, capable drivers in which an agreeable pace and synergy develops. Like it did on this trip. We were averaging between 65 mph and 70 mph. We saw hardly any state troopers on the roads. Few other cars on the highway—everyone was at church! That serendipitous Zone I wrote about earlier returned. We endured another deluge of rain before and after we stopped at a Dairy Queen in Tupelo for lunch. 
All were soaked again after taking two or three turns swapping among the bikes and the truck. The rest of the afternoon was pleasant, uneventful-- meaning there was little rain. The driving was satisfying. 
I’ve done a few motorcycle adventures over the years. It's times like these when you recognize you are in harmony with the road and your friends, despite hundreds of miles covered, and all is right with the world. That was my headspace at three quarters of the way.
We eventually made it to the end of the Natchez Trace Parkway northern terminus. I noted that my Hobo Bike’s mechanical mishap had occurred between markers 430-431, just after the Double Arch Bridge. There was a long oil slick still visible on the highway surface. But we’d persevered and completed the trip. Steve, WMD and I quickly took a group shot to mark its end. Tired, but pleased with the safe completion of our quest, we all went our separate ways.

The Postscript
For me, this trip ended up being a mix of Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and The Cannonball Run. The former is a classic tome. It's a philosophical take on romantic and practical approaches to life’s challenges through a first person narrative, under the guise of describing a motorcycle trip. Zen’s prose is dense. Three times I doggedly tried to finish it only to end in abject failure. Conversely, The Cannonball Run is a 1981 movie, a screwball comedy about a cross-country car race starring Burt Reynolds, Roger Moore, Dom DeLuise, and Farrah Fawcett. It’s dumb, entertaining, full of late 70s/early 80s slapstick comedy and late-era Rat Pack hipster gags. 

Given my callow personality, it’s no surprise this NatchezBall Run was more Cannonball, less Zen. And what fun I had. Thank you, Steve Yarsynski  and Will Matusiak .
I wrote this post one month after the trip. The only physical reminders I have left are a big toe still blackened by the dye from my sodden black riding boots. Also, my motorcycle is still at the shop awaiting repair. I miss Hobo Bike!
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