People Who Laugh Well

Helena West continues the chain of down-and-out towns. Arriving after dark, wishing we were here at any other time. Cars swerve across the roads, not inattentively, but instead playfully. As a teenager does the first time he gets to drive a car with his friends. Stoplights are roughly obeyed, and one seems to be delivering its last few, dim red lights. Finding a food mart, Wes waits outside as I venture in, hoping for dinner materials. No go. Returning outside, an ungrateful man, in which Wes already helped out with food coupons, has tried to stealing from Wes' backpack. Creating diversions through conversation and another man, Wes' backpack is unclipped. 

"Let's go anywhere but here." says Wes. 

It may be hard to imagine, but there's areas of our country living below the world poverty line. People living on a couple dollars per day. Crime is a means to an end, and it becomes a career. It consumes a place when all else has left. It separates classes even more, creating a cycle which perpetuates itself. Although we've steered clear the entire trip, a brightly lit Walmart was recently built in town. Wes' turn to gather groceries. My bike magnet is engaged, but luckily attracts friendly attention. Hunter walks by, dressed in camouflage, and shows me a picture of a hog he shot today. It's black, plump, has small tusks and is hanging from its feet above a bloody pan. I tell him it's a big boy. 

"Big girl! She weighs 250 pounds." he exclaims proudly. 

I notice the man isn't as friendly to select others. As he talks to another by the door, he spits on the ground in front of every black person who walks by. Racism is delivered differently by specific people and areas. This man carries racism on his sleeve. It's there for all to see, despise, or unfortunately admire and encourage. I want somebody to spit back at Hunter's feet, but none of them do. 

Pretty near my height, with dark wrinkly skin, a short scraggly beard, wearing a baseball cap and clean fleece. Older and thin, he's still handsome. Probably a charmer growing up. Handsome Man starts asking me about my bike. I'm distracted by a stutter he has when trying to speak certain thoughts. I'm not distracted by the specific act of it, but instead to how similar it is to my brother's stutter, primarily during adolescence. There are entire thoughts without any interruption. Others making it only a few words until he hits an audible wall. It's effected by his comfort and excitement. Similar to my adolescent brother, this man has created physical movements to help, or simply accompany, his stuttering. "Let me tell ya somethin'" and "aye" are used whenever he has difficulty with a word or phrase. He says them well over fifty times during our conversation, sometimes repeating it five times in a row with pauses in between, yet never has trouble doing so. They're placeholders for the words he's trying to find. He snaps his fingers, in a long whipping motion, as he says them. It makes him comfortable with a conversation. Sometimes he fights through it by clicking his lips, rather than using his safety phrases. My dear brother dealt with this first-hand, but it therefore became a big part of my childhood also. Being patient, frustrated, understanding, pushy, and standing up for him. 

Handsome Man can tell I'm a bit nervous about my possessions after the recent food mart encounter. He wants to clear the air. 

"Let me tell ya somethin'...aye...aye...let me...I'm not gonna ask you for money, food, or anything. I simply wanna hear your story...

...let me tell ya. It's not very often somebody like you comes through this town."

He holds out his hand. 

"My name's Jerry."

My eyes find moisture once again and I smile at Jerry. I want to explain the depth of this experience for me, but we both seem to equally enjoy the casual nature of the conversation. 

"We gonna be eaten by hogs camping out here?" I ask. 

"Ah man! Aye...we got WILD hogs down here! Let me tell ya...they'll eat yo ass up down here!"

"ARG ARG ARG ARG ARG," he makes a hog's chomping noise as I laugh. 

"Aye...let me tell ya somethin'...aye...the only way I'd go to sleep out there...aye...is with a shotgun in both my damn hands!"

"I ain't lyin'!"

He makes me laugh repeatedly and makes a few circles in disbelief as I tell him more about what our days consist of. He puts a fist up to his mouth in exaggerated shock. Wes has returned from the store and joined the conversation. Jerry's friend Curtis has now walked up to join the commotion. Curtis is in his early 70s, thick, wearing a burnt orange fleece, paired with leather shoes and hat. Both born elsewhere, I ask Jerry what brought him to Helena West.

"A woman! The destruction of most men!" he responds with a laugh. 

"What about you?" I ask Curtis. 

"The Devil! That's about the only thing that'll get anybody into a town like this!" roars Curtis. 

"Aye...aye...ain't they the same thing?" Jerry questions his friend at a higher volume than the statement. 

Both men laugh wildly as they slap each other's shoulders and hug. I can tell both these men laugh their way through life, regardless of the reason. I envy them for it. 

We bid them farewell, keeping our eyes on our back, as suggested by Jerry. Finding a well-kept rail trail, we camp about a hundred feet off it. Hammocks are hung in trees more closely resembling vines in shape and curvature. After dinner, an armadillo pays us a visit and walks within ten feet of our camp, regardless of both our bike lights shining it down. It looks and moves like a tank. Somehow they still seem to be the most common road kill. I guess these tanks move slow and cars weigh more. In the morning, I climb the wriggly trees and read for a bit, only drawn back down by water boiling for cocoa. 

Arkansas is divided into two definite regions. Three, if you want to consider the Ozarks a separate region. Two regions are greatly distinguishable though. The flat expanses of the Mississippi delta flood plain, and the forested hills west of Pine Bluff. Flat days consist of taking turns drafting as we rip across the countryside. Views go nearly as far as one can see, interrupted only by strips of trees separating different plots of acreage. Occasionally, large farming equipment ends up coming down a road towards us and we pull over to let them by. We're a bit more durable than hay, but still wouldn't have a chance. Roads occasionally turn to loose gravel and we realize this is the point where we might have to start following car directions more often. 

We hit days of rain, although they usually burn off to provide a little sunshine in the later hours. One day it's relentless though and soaks us thoroughly during the entire ride. Cold day of riding, followed by cold camp, and holding similarity the next morning. My Achilles' tendon has been acting up since the day before Memphis. I simply tried to "be easier on it." Finally, after doing a little research, I've lowered my seat a single centimeter and all the discomfort has ceased. One of those times in life where I realize a 1-minute action would have prevented a whole week of distress. Knowledge for next time. It always is.

Pine Bluff is a big town, with the liveliness of a small town. Dividing the two regions, it's the central hub of the area, complete with a university. Streets and homes are lonesome, lacking attention and usage. Old Victorian-style homes hold onto their last supports. Curfew signs remind teenagers they must be indoors after 10pm. Pedaling lightly, we coast through the entire town, even riding uneven sidewalks for sections of it. We stop at a gas station to fill up on water. As we ride further south, the more word travels like wildfire everywhere we stop. One person asks us a question as we load up our bikes, then tells everybody inside about it. Cashiers must have the story memorized by the time we leave. My favorite two questions of this stop are:

"Y'all been on the news?"

"Maine...what's that?"

Pine Bluff puts another section of the trip behind us. Back to rolling hills in Arkansas. Throughout the days, I ponder the area I'm in, and my thoughts keep leading back to the laughs of Jerry and Curtis. 

Mississippi Muddin'

Crossing into Mississippi, we enter Tunica county. Until the recent legalization of gambling in the county, it was the poorest county in our nation. Since then, an influx of big casino presence has brought jobs and a stronger economy. However, the unemployment rate is still at 34%, nearly 3.5 times the national rate. Similar to sections of Memphis, it's an area with a bit of roughness. Shattered glass is blanketed across every shoulder, packs of feral dogs sleep in grass patches as we ride by, sides of the roads collect graveyards of automobile tires, lawns take more water than feasible to keep green, there's a dead pit bull laid across the edge of the road, and cars pass by with custom rattle-can paint jobs. Passing a few hundred feet over the state line, shoulders become very narrow and carved out by rumble strips. We ride into the first completely flat section of our trip. As far as we can see, the road extends, with the only inclines being bridges to cross intersecting roads. Sun's shining and all we need to do is pedal forward. Many of the crops seem dead, reflecting a recent drought in the area. Fields lack watering machinery and therefore must rely solely on clouds for life. Eventually, a police car has slowed down traffic by weaving back and forth, turned its lights on, and pulled up next to me. 

"You must remove your bicycle from the highway." comes through the loudspeaker. 

Pointing towards the edge of the highway, the officer then pulls ahead and stops to aid a disabled vehicle. Maps say we're allowed to ride on this highway, but I think she's simply noting some people will line up their hood ornament with us. I agree with the officer. This is a tiny shoulder to ride on, considering the plenty side roads paralleling it. 

Looking at our GPS, we spot access to the muddy beaches of the Mississippi, through a casino access road. Tailing off Wes' rear fender, I follow him down the beginning of the access, which leads to the levee protecting the Mississippi flood plain from rising waters of the river. Our tires slowly begin sinking into the mire deeper and deeper, as we travel further down this scarcely traveled road. There's a chain strung between two trees, blocking the road, but it's nearly sunset and we see no other options. Ducking under, there's sections where riding a bike isn't an option. Unbroken leaves scatter the road, showing the area possibly hasn't been accessed in weeks. Our tires form trenches as our feet slide through any uneven patch we step upon. It reminds me of running around a basketball court in socks, as a kid. Although, I'd probably still partake if anybody actually wanted to do it these days. 

This is a milestone of the trip. One of the grande landmarks which signify to us the distance in which we've rode. New York City, Shenandoah National Park, Great Smoky Mountains and now the Mississippi river. Each and every day seems exciting and accomplishing, but it's these days in which we really step back and recount it all. Recognizing where we stand in relation to Bar Harbor, Maine. The Mississippi River, one of the major dividing points in our country. 

Less than a mile after the gate, trees open up and we find a clearing, which looks out over the river. We push our bikes through the loose sand towards it. Beautifully spaced trees line the flat, muddy banks. Growing right out of the sand, somehow finding the water and strength to become tall and broad. We take our shoes off and shuffle our feet around in the cool sand. It pushes between our toes and allows our feet to decompress after a day of riding. We bought two Red Stripe lagers earlier in the day and now cheers them as we look out over the river. Sun's setting and showing all the little ripples caused by currents and critters. Barges travel up and down the river consistently, only dipping there flat bottoms a few feet beneath the river's surface. Each one has a high-power spotlight in which it places on the next bend of the river. I'm assuming to make its presence known to barges traveling in the opposite direction. Luckily we're on the opposing bank of the nearest corner and are never beamed with light. Each of the barges seems to move slower than the river. We wonder if we walk faster than a barge and soon agree we surely do. Barges' paths in and out of our sights consume a minimum of twenty minutes. 

We've come a long way and the Mississippi proves it to us. We talk about our experiences in Maine so long ago, during the childhood of our friendship. Sure it's only been three months, but quite the three months, in which we've laughed, learned, argued, rode, smiled, stretched, cramped and spit. We sit on the banks of the Mississippi and it reminds us why, something we already knew but is now reinforced. I lay back in my hammock, enjoy my book, while sipping some tea, and look out over the grand division. Never thought I'd be camping here. 

Being as large of a river as it is, it's not feasible to have numerous bridges across it. The next crossing is nearly forty miles further south. We slowly rise and find the cool sand to now be cold. Wes almost always wakes up earlier than I, and uses his morning to brew some coffee and walk along the river edge. Grains of sand inevitably find their way into my grits, but I don't mind. They'll allow me to carry a bit of the river bank with me for a little longer. 

Progressing towards the bridge, we chase the never-ending white line of an old country road. Alternating fields of hay and cotton pass by. Large farming equipment, operated by smiling men in overalls, cut down the hay. All the cotton seems overgrown and ready to me, yet we never see it being collected. There must be something we don't know. Shoulders are covered in tuffs of cotton. I can't determine if it's carried away from the fields by wind or if lost from the back of trucks during transportation. Wes is certain there has to be a better method of transportation. For us, it creates a unique sight, which I will always relate to Mississippi. The cotton roads from its muddy river. 

Nearing a small town, an 80s Buick, brown, pulls up next to me and slows down a pinch. While the front window is up, the rear window is cracked about five inches. I look over my shoulder right as it's passing and see a figure slouched back in its seat. Nearing closer, they move their mouth closer to the opening, yet remain out of sight. 

"Ya dead!"

Taken back by it at first, I eventually smile back and wave until the car drops out of sight. It's the only defense I have on the road. 

We pass through towns which don't seem to get many tourers. 

"Where y'all headed?"

"Oh, hell no!"

"Pedal, pedal, pedal!"

"More power to ya."

Each of these are yelled to us as we pass by. It's a weekend and everybody seems to be having a barbecue at their house. Cars sit still as groups walk from one house to the next. Everybody seems to know each other in these towns. We ride through the downtown strips and find them deserted. I feel like the cowboy in a western film where the shopkeepers lock up their doors as I turn onto the main drag. There's no standoff in our version though and we pass through after taking a few photos. 

The bridge crosses from Mississippi, into Helena West, Arkansas. Its arch is the most elevation gain we've experienced since before Memphis. Built before architects considered a bicycle might want to cross it, we feel the trucks pass by us. Their wind tunnels pushing and pulling us away from the railing. We want to stop and admire the view, but decide against it. We manage to time our sunsets perfectly, as this one presents itself throughout the duration of the bridge. As we reach the peak, we look out over Arkansas and its great number of trees, compared to Mississippi. Hopefully another hammock-friendly state. 

Country's Come a Long Way

Carrying out the usual routine, we start the morning off by pulling up Google Maps and searching for a body of water surrounded by a decent patch of trees. This is how we decide where we'll be camping that night. We're able to pick through a forest, 50 miles away, and choose the exact trees in which we'll hang our hammocks at the end of the day. Wes calls a tree, I call a tree. Then we call our second trees. Sometimes we point out a tree we'll share. How romantic. We find bodies of water and note if they're muddy, then pick out the bank in which we'll cook dinner upon. Maple Creek Lake... It seems deep blue, easily accessible and within our desired distance. For the remainder of the day, we enjoy the sights, smells and conversations of the daily ride, while honing in on a specific 30 square foot sanctuary of sleep.

As with most of our days, the hours slip by and we watch the sun dip away as we're still ten miles from camp. On a deserted road, we haven't encountered a car in nearly an hour. Darkness consumes the road, but I keep my headlight off. Pulling right along side Wes and using the periphery of his flooding light. Enough illumination to distinguish a pothole in the road, yet separate enough to feel like I'm cruising along in only the moonlight. Keeping my eyes off the focus of his beam, my eyes are able to partially adjust to the darkness. Everything seems quieter while riding like this. Trees seem more looming, yet distances seem endless. Nearing Maple Creek Lake, I notice something flying directly about our heads. Many somethings above our heads, making abrupt path changes. Feeding off each other's activity, clouds of bats pop in and out of our airspace. In most instances, it seems as if we ride into such swarms and therefore we leave their area almost as quick. We're the outsiders in their cloud of bats. Passing through the last bat cloud before camp, one bat takes a keen interest in the odd bicycle tourers. Matt, fitting for a bat, flies around, ten feet above my head, dipping up and down as I ride level. I wish he'd land on my helmet for a bit, but I guess that's pretty wishful thinking. After a few hundred yards, he must realize I'm not something he can eat, and furthermore that he has left his colony behind. Dipping one wing, he instantly makes a complete change of direction and zips by at eye level. I'm positive Wes' turtle and Matt would have been much happier if they came with us.

Maple Creek Lake is the most turbid and brown body of water we've arrived at. Google Maps has deceived us once again. I pull up my thermals, wade out into the water, collect a few pots worth and strain it using a bandana. Beavers smack through the surface tension of the water throughout the night.

The Natchez Trace parks are unique in numerous ways. Lined with intermittent patches of dense trees followed by lush areas, free of timber. Nearly all the pine groves were planted here, over a century ago, to combat erosion issues. Pine have grown big and strong, yet the lush undergrowth makes its presence know. Vines encapsulate most of the trees. Some vines reach to the highest branches of them. Also unique, the Natchez Trace parks present themselves with very little automobile use, including maintenance vehicles and staff. Old Natchez Trace Road seems to be shut down just for us, or at least it feels that way. Maintenance doesn't seem to be as thorough as we have seen in other parks, but it creates a unique atmosphere. Picnic areas are overgrown, informational signs with indistinguishable peeling letters, and decrepit wildlife display cages. Our own little apocalyptic national park. Lawnmowers have run out of gas. Sign builders focused on survival. Animals of the decrepit cages have leapt from their cages as caretakers found a shortage of food. The Surly Snails are the last remaining survivors and can now pedal this doomed road in peace.

Camp is a quaintly nestled patch of thorns. Pushing away from the road, the first few thorn grabs cause us to stop and slowly unhooked them from our clothes and skin. Holding them away until our bike passes by, this buys us a few more yards before the next thorny shoot becomes highly personal. Eventually, I look ahead and watch as Wes has grown tired of careful navigation amongst the thorns. Pushing straight through, he'll put up with the prick from those which wish to snag him. I do the same. Camp in place, dogs howl nearby, Wes occasionally thinks he's seeing a flashlight, and something crunches through the brush around us. Creepy, but we fall asleep quickly.

BAAAAMMMMM!!!!!

Morning time, sun's risen, a gun shot explodes from the road, about 100 feet away. Redneck has opened his truck door, taken no more than a few steps, and begun unloading into the woods. Various guns. Pistol, rifle, and a quick burst from some sort of auto. Already standing out of my hammock, I drop down to the ground and lay there for a bit. Without any words, Redneck continues to pump lead into the forest. Minutes pass by, he walks back to his door, jumps in, gives the door a solid slam and drives off. Our first authentic western Tennessee "good morning."

Nearing Memphis, we encounter our first cotton fields. They're beautiful, in a strange and rough kind of way. Unlike the soft finished product we wear on our backs, cotton plants are fairly tough and rigid. The stalks scratch one's skin and snag on everything. White puffs of cotton are interspersed throughout all heights of the plant, creating a sea of white tuffs.

In Memphis, knocking on Dan's door is quickly responded to by the three hounds inside. Howling and pushing only their front feet off the ground in a sort of teeter motion, as Dan holds their collars while we open the door and push our bikes into his living room. He knows exactly what touring cyclists want to eat and therefore has two pizzas and local micro brews waiting for us on the table. We sit down and chow as the hounds try to jump up and claim their share. He's a man of various skills and interests. Playing the French horn for the past 38 years, he now teaches horn for the University of Memphis and its Mighty Sound of the South. During the 80s and 90s, he did a great deal of touring and eventually became a trip leader and route researcher for the Adventure Cycling Association. Around his house are numerous photos, bicycle knick-knacks and old seats mounted to the walls. We sit at the table and explain our navigation method as he divulges the difficulties of navigation in the past.

"There were no cellphones. If people were split up, you simply had to ride ahead and hope they showed up at the planned camp. If they didn't arrive an hour after nightfall, I'd have to call the ACA base and hope they had found a pay phone to leave a message for me. I had a bag full of quarters and on days off from riding, I would spend 5 hours calling ahead to make camp, hotel, and restaurant arrangements."

Yawns become more consistent and it's now time for bed. Wes lays down on the couch and is immediately smothered by Cassie, while Morey and Joe sprawl out on the pull out bed I'll be sleeping on. Takin up a large portion of the bed, they both stare at me and give an expression of "Try it. Try and move us." These hounds are made of lead. Condensed lead, if it ever existed. Laying down in the shape of an S, I cater to the placement of the hounds. As Morey licks my face and tries to snuggle closer, I have to make some sort of change. Bracing my back up against the end of the couch and pushing forward with nearly all my strength, the only way I can budge Morey. I've claimed my domain amongst the hounds. I drift off into an obscure dream, yet wake up to the hounds howling at 6:30am. Cassie stares me in the eyes as she howls, seeming to acknowledge that I want to sleep longer, but knowing she has the excuse of being a hound.

Departing Dan's house, we put off riding in the morning cold by retreating into a book store. Searching for specific books, we overhear the silly conversations people have in book stores. Wes helps out a man in front of the bookshop who doesn't speak English, but is trying to find the landowner of a house he wants to rent. Siddhartha and Cats Cradle accompany my grip as I walk out of the store.

As we jump back on our bikes, the morning cold still bites at our fingertips. Sun is shining, but the air needs more time. Roads into downtown are in rough condition and create occasional dip and jumps. Knowing the wheels of the loaded bike can't take much jumping, I try to avoid all bumps, but smile in excitement when I accidentally launch off one. Sandwiched between the university area on the outskirts and the downtown near the river, there is a section of distressed city. Everything is rundown and lacking windows, replaced by boards and bars. Sidewalk curbs all seem to be crumbling into the street, which hasn't been swept in years. People stare blankly towards us as we ride by, as they wonder what we could possibly be doing. Exhaust pipes on cars all seem to have holes right after the manifold, as if it were a registration requirement for the area. Some form of industry has left the area, leaving old brick warehouses with plants growing up through cracks in the foundation and surrounding asphalt. Passing by three liquor stores, each one has overturned milk crates in front, with guys sitting together in a semicircle. Just as abruptly as we find this area, it ends within a single block on its other side.

Eating a pulled pork BBQ lunch, we try out the food of Memphis. Known for its BBQ, we douse everything in various sauces and chase it down with a sweet tea. Across the street is the Lorraine Motel, now known as the Memphis Civil Rights Museum. I recognize the large motel sign from numerous photos in high school history textbooks. Rounding the corner to see its front, we encounter the bluish green railing and matching doors. There's a wreath hung in front of room 306 and two old sedans parked out front. I stare at the balcony and don't know what to feel. I've always been the person to note that regardless of what happened there, it's still just a balcony. Without history, it's like any other other Memphis motel balcony. This isn't any other balcony though. This balcony held Martin Luther King Jr. as he was gunned down, in Memphis to aid sanitation workers who were striking due to unsafe work conditions and unfair discrimination. Leading to the strike, two garbage truck workers were crushed during a mechanical malfunction while sheltering from the rain. In 1968, only 45 years ago, city law forbid black sanitation workers from seeking shelter from rain anywhere but in the back of their compression trucks. Although it's just a balcony, it carries a different meaning. It encompasses an era. It feels fairly morbid to stand there and stare at it, but it also feels necessary.

There is silence, aside from an occasional recording explaining the circumstances of the times. I lay on a grass embankment, soaking up the sun's heat from above, while the cool water from the morning sprinklers infiltrates my back. Sunglasses on, I begin to doze off.

"Excuse me sir. Can you please take our photo?"

I look up to find a man, in his mid-70s, black, dressed nicely, wearing a kangol hat and wool sweater. His wife stands next to him smiling widely with big, bright teeth.

"Of course! Not a problem."

They stand in front of the Lorraine motel sign as I put the sun behind me. She continues to smile largely, as he stares into the camera, and therefore my eye, with a look of understanding. I'm happy with the first photo taken and hand the camera back to his wife. She reviews the photo and thanks me. Stepping towards me once again, the man holds out his hand and shakes mine, but doesn't let go immediately. He's taken off his glasses right before approaching me and is now holding unbroken contact between our eyes.

"Thank you. Since we're here, I gotta let you know, there was a time in my life when I could have never asked you that."

There's a look in his eyes begging me to fully understand what he's saying.

"Our country's come a long way, son."

He shows me a closed lip smile, as he gives a quick nod and slight wink. Instantly flushed with emotion, I can feel my face swelling. My eyes produce moisture and I feel a surge of warmth pass from my lower back, up to my neck. He lets go of my hand, turns slowly and walks out to the parking lot with his wife. Speechless, and nearly thoughtless, I stand in the open plaza area. Only a minute has elapsed, yet I'm already recreating the man's look in my head. He had passed the desire for any explanation and now simply wanted it to be known. I lay back down on the grass and watch as others take in the scene.

I notice a giant now walking towards me. Nearly 7 feet tall, handsome, black, incredibly ripped, with a closely buzzed head, sporting fresh Nikes and long shorts. I've seen this man's face before, somewhere, many times. As he walks by, within ten feet, it clicks. Dwight Howard is out for a stroll in Memphis. I nod towards him and receive an equal or lesser nod back. I'm sure he deals with hundreds of nods and glances daily. He's chatting on his phone as he walks by the respectfully silent area surrounding room 306. Walking up onto the balcony, he stands in front of the room. I lay back and watch as one of today's most recognized African American figures stands where one of the leading figures in the civil rights movement last stood.

On that note, we pedal south out of Memphis. Towards the bridge where we can cross the great Mississippi River.

Two Dolla Hot Dog, One Dolla Wata!

Throughout the last few weeks, our ride has consisted of steep mountain grades throughout the Blue Ridge and Smoky Mountains. Occasionally we'd spend a day riding in a valley, but it would always result in a steep grade back out of it. Leaving Knoxville, we've now encountered the rolling hills of Tennessee. They're surely bigger than I always imagined, but don't present themselves as great precipices among others. Each uphill seems to be a little taller than the previous descent, but never by much. Bringing our faces down to the handlebars, tucking our elbows in and pedaling through each descent enables us to only slow down for the concluding hundred feet of each hump. Wes powers ahead in each of these slowing moments and I catch up with him on the following descent. It creates a rhythm we enjoy and from a side profile, I imagine the road as a sound wave in which we ride upon.

While the sound wave I picture produces a sense of awe, as if rode while a rainbow trails our bicycles, the actual sound of the road carries a much different bearing upon us. Cars are extremely loud. Louder than one may typically imagine. We usually hear them while they gently idle in the driveway or pass by on a city street. Passing by at high speed, only a few feet over, each one sounds like a freight train. Rubber tires on gripping asphalt, having the most distinct whine. Each car sounds like it's in the bike lane, nipping at my back tire. There is one exception, and we call this anomaly a "creeper". Slowly creeping up behind us, they hold the same speed as us, waiting for a very open straightaway, with clear sight, before passing us in the far shoulder. These drivers are either overly careful/conscious or confused on how to approach two tired cyclists as they try to hug the edge of a road as closely as possible. These can be the most concerning drivers for us and we therefore either try to wave them past or give a purposeful little swerve before they approach, in order to show we don't always have complete control. It's not good to have somebody think I can shoot a straight line when it isn't always the case. More prevalent in very rural areas, unaccustomed to seeing a loaded bicycle, we're now encountering it much more. Their presence is usually accompanied by a "DUN DUN...DUN DUN, DUN DUN, DUN DUN!" from one of us. "We've got a creeper!" works fairly well too.

Outside of Knoxville, we spend the evening on the bank of a small lake. We arrive half an hour before sunset, set up our hammocks and recline with a beautiful pink hue penetrating the forest. This is how many of our evenings in Tennessee will be. Arriving late, but setting up just in time to recount the day amongst the retreating daylight. Hammocks require camping amongst trees, usually paired with canopies, and therefore we rarely hold a direct sight of sunset. Instead, the sunlight sets upon each forested campsite in a homely, yet wild, embrace. At this specific site, we've camped in a mountain bike nature park and wake up to riders zipping by on the trail, only forty feet away. One man is repeatedly riding the same lap. His slapping chain is like a snooze button which repeats every 15 minutes. Today we climb up onto the Cumberland Plateau.

Through various readings, discussions and photographs, the Obed National Forest has been introduced to me numerous times. Always tied to a discussion or photo related to climbing, and therefore I've always shrugged it off. People around here call it "world class climbing", although every area claims to have the best view of their outdoor stomping grounds. One gent even tried to tell me the Smokies is the biggest and most wild forest in the United States. Regardless, we're now riding into the Obed and it's becoming more apparent with each stop we make. I have difficulty understanding each new person a little more than the previous. Conversations become largely one-sided. Individuals will ask a simple question or comment on the bike and all I can return is a smile in agreeance and something along the lines of "sure", "yes" or "thanks." Tennessee man at the gas station register, with a folded ball cap and fire department fundraiser shirt, is probably asking me something along the lines of, "Where you boys start?", with a look on his face showing he won't believe the answer. "Definitely. Thank you." I reply with a smile, having no idea what the man was trying to ask me. Going through periods of trying to understand this language which is nearly foreign to me, I'll often have individuals repeat a question 2-3 times, but in the end they often still receive little more than an "of course!" We're pedaling further out of the city and into the small towns, which dot our route to Nashville. Obed makes the route seem homely, as our route drops us down to a creek, at its center. Although clearly a day use area, this section of Clear Creek is picturesque. Flow has reduced greatly in the late months and now sections of it seem to be completely still, not divulging the moving current in which it all partakes. Lily pads loft upon the surface and tall grass shoots up through the soggy edges. Walking towards it, numerous frogs hop into the water, unsure of our intentions. Yes, it's another closed national park area, but yes we intend to camp here regardless.

Waking up to a park service ranger once again, Ranger Matt steps out of his vehicle wearing a black fleece and lacking the distinguishing badges of a ranger. "They've caught us once again!" Wes exclaims to me from his hammock, sporting a smile through the words. From the first sentence of Ranger Matt's interest, I can see this will be a far different experience from Ranger Rick. "How far you guys riding those bikes?" he asks us, carrying a look of peace and kindredness. He has so many questions about our trip and each seems sincere. He speaks in a very crisp tone and I'm thankful. His father rode bicycles a great deal and he always wishes he could "go the distance" on one. We discuss the government shutdown and he explains that while he isn't getting paid now, it'll surely all be reimbursed when the parks reopen. Until then, he says he's happy to walk around comfortably in a fleece and hat. Upon Wes informing him of where he's from, Ranger Matt briefly states he spent some years in Boston, but moves to another topic. Further in, after curiosity through Wes, Ranger Matt explains he graduated from Harvard Law, but after a short period at a firm, realized he found more happiness in the outdoors than he ever could among the courtrooms and money they entailed. He claims his heart simply wasn't there. It's refreshing to hear of an individual dropping what many would call a "sure thing" in order to go a different direction, purely in the pursuit of happiness. Informing us he is supposed to tell us we can't camp and to move along, he says he doesn't care, to take our time and have a safe trip. We depart from Obed National Forest, without seeing a single rock formation or characteristic rock of the area. I can only picture the climbers scaling trees and mounds of dirt. I'm sure there's magnificent rock faces somewhere in its depths.

Onward, Genesis Road leads the way to our next camp. Our destination is never considered San Diego and is rarely determined as the next state. Destination often lies within the next big city, but it usually accompanies our thoughts as a pair of two beautifully placed trees at the end of our day. Genesis Road leads to such a destination, lined by ever-changing colors of fall. Forested sections, which make up most the road, are buffered from the road by a wildly trimmed 40 foot expanse of grass. The forest seems dense, with few signs marking private property. As wind strikes with an occasional gust, leaves are thrown from the trees and scurry across the asphalt. Homes are small and display disconnection. Beat up pickups lay throughout the yards and children's toys are scattered across the yard. Foundation homes have porches, while mobile homes offer lawn chairs surrounding front doors. Unless they display a squeaky shine due to being newly built, all the homes are white, yet masked in grimy dirt. Confederate flags greet us from the back window of some trucks, American flags from others. This road has culture.

It also has a plethora of dogs! Since then, we've now coined Tennessee the "dog state." This is the first road in which all dogs investigate us. Previously, we'd pass by many without receiving anything more than a simple glance. Here, either with good or bad intention, every dog gives you its attention and makes its presence known. Running out to the end of the driveway, running along side us for a couple hundred feet, snarling their teeth, simply yipping with excitement, barking protectively or silently testing whether or not they're faster than us. We yell towards the fierce ones, sweet talk the loving ones and race the fast ones. We don't talk with others during our riding portion of the day, so encounters with dogs fulfill the interaction with another thoughtful being. At one point, Wes, jamming out in his headphones, is completely unaware of the boxer coming up being him. This boxer is not wondering if it's faster than Wes, nor is he wagging his tail. He means business. Fifty yards back, I can't tell if yelling to Wes would help or if the single second for him to turn around and respond would offer the boxer enough gain to achieve its prize. I silence my yell and luckily Wes is jamming out to a speed in which the boxer cannot attain. Slowly, it trots back to its grassy perch near the mailbox, still staring at Wes, unaware of my presence until I've passed.

The Cumberland Plateau is beautiful, but in a very ordinary sort of way. Nothing stands out or grabs my attention, but nothing seems dull. We pedal through the days, stopping occasionally to admire something unusual to our eyes. We start seeing pigs feet being sold. Cruising through a farming area, we witness cows having sex and therefore put off eating lunch for a bit. Only a short period though before having lunch in a ditch. We meet a woman who claims to walk 18 miles per day, and I want to believe it due to the odor her and her companion put off. Green and smoking, a van pulls up to a gas station, a traveling band within. Arriving, a girl plays guitar in the passenger seat. Departing, she drives while a guy takes his turn on the guitar. People continue to speak to me in a way of which I'm not familiar. Rain keeps us consistently soggy. Nightly rain, dripping on us through the morning and holding a wet haze throughout the day. Camp is tromped about barefoot each evening, as the wet leaves stick to our feet. Wes finds a turtle while searching for camp one evening. He gives the turtle a precious name, promises him unlimited lettuce and safe passage to California. Pulling into his shell, we set him between us and begin setting up camp. Within 10 minutes, we find the little guy to have disappeared, forever, regardless of our search party efforts. He's now eating far less lettuce than he would be with us.

We arrive in Nashville, ready for a hot shower and taste of Music City. Wes and Anna went to school together at the College of Charleston. She's now working for a microbiology lab in Nashville. The two of them sit at the kitchen table and reminisce about times had and laughs shared. Living in a rough neighborhood, Anna would always have Wes race her home on bicycles in order to make sure she arrived safe. Competitively driven, losses in Mario Cart were not taken lightly and often resulted in friendly glares. It's set up once again, in the present, and we do our best to outdo the others. Four races, each ending with the same result. I'm in last, Anna holds a close second, as Wes earns each win and the glory which goes with it. We sleep in as Anna has to work. She gives us ideas of things to do while she works, but we end up sleeping in pretty close to when she gets home. Our recently anticipated night in Nashville is now upon us. We enjoy some local microbrews and discuss music, government, and science. Broad spectrum of conversation, keeping all interested. Arriving on Broadway is quite overwhelming. Streets are packed, bright neon signs overhang every establishment, and music emanates from every door, window, vent and crack. Visually it reminds me of a small scale Vegas. Not Reno, picture a place with an actually distinct culture. In one door, we find ourselves in a place modeled after the inside of a trailer home. Sticky green carpet and all. Outside, a hot dog vendor is selling food at ten times the quantity of those near him. His success is through being awesome and revolutionizing the hot dog cart market. As a coworker carries out the money/dog transactions, the vendor is repeatedly rapping, through an amplified microphone, a very short and catchy phrase.

Two dolla hot dog, one dolla wata!

Two dolla hot dog, one dolla wata!

Two dolla hot dog, one dolla wata!

Two dolla hot dog, one dolla wata!

One dolla wata, we got it on ice!

Ketchup, onion, mustard, sauerkraut, relish!

Jalapeño...jalapeño, ya!

Jalapeño...jalapeño, ya!

Two dolla hot dog, one dolla wata!

He's more popular than Elvis. Even when he takes breaks, people walk by and deliver his rap back to him. I wonder how long he's been doing this. People give him hugs and high fives. I buy a dog from him and it really isn't anything special, yet I go back to him for another dog later in the night. The man has power.

We dance at various places along Broadway. One band is dressed like an overdone, blacked out, punk band, yet is singing country music and Johnny Cash covers. His voice accurately mimics Johnny Cash's. We find others playing Skynyrd, Gloria Gaynor, and Aretha Franklin. I stride along the music walk of fame, admiring the ones I know and reading about the ones I don't. On a side street, a band is mixing in and out between their own originals and Black Keys covers. The night has grown late, city lights glow beautifully, fog rolls in, and I choose to walk back to the house. I admire how the city looks and lives outside of its center. I stop in at a bar called No 308, drawn in my its music. Young and lively, a punk band is playing only Modest Mouse songs, with a very distinctly punk delivery. It puts a twist on both my elementary and high school music interests. Although I pass on the drinks, I notice they're all named after writers. Standing next to me, a man drinks a Charles Bukowski, which is a half pint of Miller High Life.

Through the weekend, Anna welcomed us warmly, had dinner for us when we arrived, took us out for a night on the town, shipped out a package for us since places to do so were closed when we left on Sunday, gave us gift cards to our favorite restaurant while touring, and set us off with bags full of leftover protein bar samples from her work. One of the kindest souls on our trip. Back on the road, we pedal southwest.