Friday, January 14 390 Miles    Didn't bother to set an alarm and I feel guilty again for not leaving at dawn. The days are very short and I feel a sense of obligation to ride as far as I can while its daylight out. I sleep like a rock till 10 AM. The bike rests patiently beside me as I unzip my sleeping bag and peek out. I sense the scornful look of the bike for not heading out early. Lately, every time I look at the cycle it still seems to speak to me. It begs me to ride, ride off for no apparent reason.

The results of my muddy encounter,  note the high-tech (cardboard) wind deflectors

I pack up and ride off through the forests on Highway 24 to the main road listening to the radio as morning DJ's hammer out a supposed witty funny banter. In moments, they are out of range as I now head west. I've mapped out a route on the main highway that continues consistently across Alabama. I keep waiting for the Duke Boys to race past in the General Lee as I ride the country roads of southern Alabama. The thought makes me laugh. I wonder where Hazard County is anyway.     I come along to a herd of goats in a pasture alongside the road. I sense a moment to pause, stretch, and drink in the scene so I pull to a stop. The head goat must have decided my big metallic blue machine was more foe than friend. He bolts at full gallop up the rise to the opposite side of the green hillside pasture. His buddies follow suit, and their buddies, and their cousins, and sisters brothers and pretty soon the whole entire goat herd is stampeding away from me as fast as their stubby legs will carry them.     At the same time, down the road is the farmer's driveway to which he just happens to be driving his pickup out to the road. He must have seen this whole episode take place. He sees his goats all running one way, which is away from me. He reaches the road and pauses. Sensing the moment for drinking from my canteen is over, I mount the bike. I start the motor letting it idle. I wait to see who will move first.      He heads my way. I decide it's too early in the day for conversation and take off. I wave as I go by, might as well be friendly to the locals. He nods in recognition. A scruffy beard adorns his face and a cap covers his brown hair. In my mirrors he does a U-turn as soon as I go by, then pulls back into his driveway. So goes my first encounter with the locals in Alabama. I'm still waiting for the Duke Boys to go shooting past in the General Lee though.     I head north on Highway 55 to Andalusia where I catch breakfast. One of the first intersections I come to after wolfing down some pancakes, I pull over to change into a different pair of leather gloves having misjudged the temperature. As I proceed with obtaining them from the hardbags, a few feet away an old 50's flatbed truck pulls from a driveway up to the road. Just as the truck reaches the road, it sputters, and with a gasp, dies.      Through the open window the driver is muttering colorful words about his ongoing relationship with his truck. It sounds as though it's been going downhill for a while now. He does battle with the door and it finally pops open with a protesting screech. He hops out to the ground with a battered metal gas can in tow. His partner in the mud-covered pickup pulls up behind him and joins in the task of reviving the tired old truck. I finish my task and leave it all behind.      Southwestern Alabama at first reminds me of northern Wisconsin with its pine forest uninterrupted only by a road cut through the forests. The temperature reaches into the 50's with the sun shining down upon a beautiful day.      After the town of Herbert, I ride into the sprawling metropolis of Evergreen, Alabama. When I see the town cop in his police car, I can't help but chuckle to myself. It's the oldest, dirtiest, most beatup patchwork cop car I have seen in a couple thousand miles. It even sports hubcaps that look as though they were straight from the local hubcap collector. It sort of looks like an old Dodge Diplomat or probably even a Fairmont, I can't even place the car. I've never seen anything so peculiar.     I stopped laughing rather quickly. He saw me, then pulled out and followed me. He didn't tailgate, for all I know it could have been just a wild coincidence. As I hit the opposite edge of town, he stopped, turned around, and went back the other way.     The bike eats up road and towns with names of Belleville, Gosport, Suggsville, Whatley, and Grove Hill come and go, one after the other. The distances are more in like 30-mile increments rather than 100-mile chunks as it is on the freeway.      Logging trucks rumble by displacing tremendous slipstreams of air. The trucks come hurtling at me one after the other. I crouch down behind the fairing as the rush of air slams into the bike and I. They carry a type of tree I haven't seen before. With all its branches cut off and its trunk loaded to the front of the trailer, it's skinny top sticks out from the rear of the logging trailer. Must be a short tree.     Certain areas along the road have been stripped of all life from the logging. Other clear-cut areas are slowly growing back as replanted pines grow once more. At least the stripped areas devoid of all life, ugly as they are now, will be replanted soon. I come upon Duke's Auto Sales and I pass it by laughing at the name. He is perched on a hill, no town in sight, his inventory parked right up to the edge of the road. The vehicles have been placed all over his front yard with the driveway in the middle of the yard leading up to the house. I can't help but stop after thinking about it for a half mile. So I turn around and head back to discover an original condition 1930 Chevy 2-door sedan.  I've always liked the old cars.

Church, Southern Style

I once had a fetish for a '46 Chevy that I passed by every day on my way to work years ago. All original, black with wide whitewall tires. I had to stop. A picture seemed appropriate. A bright orange van that should be used as a warning beacon in the middle of the ocean is parked alongside the sedan. No good. I decide to hit the road.      I can picture 'ole Duke standing there grinning from ear to ear. I'd never make it out of here alive. I'd have to drive the rest of the way across America in a 1930 Chevy sedan. I just knew only Duke could sway my loyalty to the bike.      Zimco, Coffeeville, and Isney bring an end to Alabama and a large sign welcomes me to Mississippi. 12 twisty miles wind their way to Waynesboro, the name itself just has a nice ring to it. I fill up here with only a few odd looks from the locals.      Outside the town of Sanatorium, Mississippi I pull off at a reststop and follow the road down to a man-made lake where an inviting picturesque scene greets me. I debate staying here and relaxing awhile but I just can't. That desire to cover distance rears its head. I can't stay more than a few minutes. It's like a sense of urgency to just keep on riding and never stop. The bike waits patiently at the waters edge as I snap a picture and freeze the moment in time. That was as long as I could get myself to stay.

Mt. Olive, Braxton, Piney Woods, and Richland precede Mississippi's capital of Jackson and I hop on the freeway making for Vicksburg. I've decided to head north, cross into Arkansas, and tour through the state. Riding over the top of Louisiana sounds good since I have already traveled through it. I know, I know, I didn't see much but nevertheless this is a game of crossing states off the list.     I'm gliding along for a few minutes when a blue Miata and a BMW pass me. I can't explain it. I was somehow pulled into the slipstream behind these two hotrodders. For the next 30 miles, the three of us travel speeds averaging 80 mph as we hurtle into dusk. I don't know why but I loved every second, the incredible rush of adrenaline, the intensity of speed.     What seems like mere minutes ends quickly as I reach my turnoff just outside the city. I break off from our charge on Vicksburg and head north as the sun begins to set.. The first vehicle to impede my progress is a rusty old pickup truck covered in mud. A gentleman with white prickly stubble adorning his chin is within chewing his gums. He lazily plods along without a care in the world. A hunting rifle with clip inserted lies in a rack in the window. I drop down two gears, roll on the gas, and roar past him.      Ahhh, Mississippi.      The temperature held in the high 50's for most the afternoon. In the next 30 minutes I am bewildered at the change in temperature. The sun falls over the horizon as the temperature drops 20 degrees within a half-hour leaving me astonished and quite freezing. I didn't even know that was possible in such a short time. The wind begins blowing more intensely from northerly origins. The cross winds must be 20 or 30 mph, maybe more, and I fight to keep the bike on the road. Gusts, one after the other sweep across the fields. The bike sways back and forth beneath me in my lane of the highway.     I am getting worried because my gas is starting to get low. I've no idea how far the next major town is. There are towns on the map but they turn out to be 3 building towns with gas at $1.75 a gallon such as one called Blanton. A couple of muddy pickups are parked outside one building. A one building town? It's been 90 cents to a dollar a gallon all over the south, and I don't feel that desperate yet. I count 11 miles to Rolling Fork and cross my fingers.     I make it without incident and pull into the first gas station alongside a muddy pickup as a 30 something farmer guy gives me a sideways glance. He looks at the bike then back at me than at the bike again.     "It get cold on that thing?" his curiosity asks as the wind whistles between us. The chill of wind tugs and pulls at what little warmth I have stored. His face spells of marvel as he looks at this man in black and the motorcycle parked next to him. Gusts blow between us and we both lean into the wind cocking our heads to the side.     "You get used to it." is all I can think to say. He is the first person I have spoken to all day. He asks where I am from in a curious tone I have gotten used to. A surprised look of wonderment spreads across his face as he discovers I'm a Californian running around Mississippi for no apparent reason in the middle of January. It occurs to me as I say the words that this trip might be a little out of the ordinary. That's funny, I never thought of that before. Californian, January, Mississippi, motorcycle, no, those don't seem to go together.     "You be careful now." he says with a thick sounding accent as he gets into his truck.     I go in to pay as a bunch of teenage looking kids are all standing around the counter, talking with the cashier and jabbering nonstop amongst themselves. Something about the incoming cold.      The cashier punched the machine and without looking at me stated the cost of my gas. The accent was so thick, I couldn't understand what she said. She said it once more, this time a little slower, and then I repeated it in my accent just to make sure I had it correct. Maybe I'm just not used to hearing things in this thick southern accent.     As I walk out the door, an arctic blast slams into me blowing me back a half-step. I lean into it and head over to the motorcycle. I start to shiver and shiver but there is nothing to do but push on. The refuge of a motel never even enters my mind. I punch the starter, and the bike starts up obediently. The slightest of warmth from the motor helps to quench my shivering. I always stop shivering once I am up and running. I head east to try to find a campground I spy on the map called Blue Lake. A stiff wind is still blowing me all over the road. The temperature is dropping, I sense it.      As I head into Delta National Forest, the thick trees hide me from the wind yet it's so cold. I can feel every extremity slowly losing feeling, and my hands begin to tingle. I don't think I can even feel my toes.     I ride awhile, then turn around and backtrack. I decide the only turnoff in miles that I just passed must be the road. No sign and it's a gamble. The road in the darkness is merely a muddy path through the woods. In this black night, I can see nothing beyond the illumination of the headlight. It's slippery and endless puddles of water remain from the storm that passed over me two days ago.     The muddy road is as driving on glass. Suddenly the front wheel plows. My heart skips a beat and every muscle tenses. The most alarming rush shoots through me as the entire bike almost slips right out from underneath me. I keep the bike at idle and maneuver around the puddles. Out of the night a large puddle appears, one I cannot negotiate around quickly enough. It splashes cold water all over the bike and upon my legs. I plot a relative dry course slipping and sliding about on the Metzelers. After about what feels to be a good half-mile into this forest, a road appears. It leads into what looks like a picnic area yet I don't see any campsites. I circle looking for a spot to settle in.      As I pull off the road onto the grass, the Metzeler tires sink in the soft spongy ground. I fight to keep the bike moving and find a high spot to stop. I can't possibly imagine getting this big of a bike stuck in the mud. There are no other people for miles. I am completely alone.     As I hop off the bike careful to hold it steady, I attempt to prop it up on the center stand. The first attempt, the bike almost falls right over. I discover my strength eludes me at the end of this cold day. I hold the centerstand down with the right foot, balance with the left, hold the handlebars with both hands, position my 5'9" frame alongside the bike, and heave backwards. The centerstand sinks right into the ground. Balanced precariously on two wheels and the centerstand, the bike stays upright. Gently taking a step backwards, I pause to make sure nothing is tipping over.  After unpacking the sleeping bag and my poncho, I lie down upon the wet ground upon matted grass of what once was a picnic area. I crawl in removing only my boots and curl up to create more warmth. The bike and I settle in for a well-deserved rest. Despite the cold, I'm asleep in minutes.

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