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| 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 café/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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