We roll into Knoxville tired, smelly and on-edge from a day of numerous dog encounters. Through Warmshowers, Robert has provided us with a place to sleep for the night. We arrive at his house as he greets us, with a holler, from inside his house. Walking out to his front steps, he's around six foot, barefoot, with wavy brown hair, brown eyes and a hairy chest. Hairer than any 21-year-old I've ever met. Telling us to relax in whatever way we choose, he offers us a beer and strikes up conversation as we go through our "house arrival" routines. He's a bicycle tourer himself and therefore knows the routine very well. "Unload your panniers, sit down on the couch, collect your dirty clothes, or run straight to the shower first. Do whatever you guys need to do," with a tone of utmost hospitality. Wes seems to have a process, while I sporadically jump from one task to the next, often blankly staring at my panniers, without a plan. After little fight, I recline on the futon, putting all tasks off until a later hour. Sitting in the living room, there are three distinct sections. Speaker stacks, an amplifier and record player occupy one wall of the room. They must enjoy music and possibly dance. Next, a row of bicycles reach a few feet into the room. This must be a house of cyclists. In the far corner, and amongst the bicycles, are various musical instruments, including a piano. Musicians must reside here.
The roommates arrive at home, from a day of work, play or something in between. Kelsey, has big, round eyes, wavy red hair and is wearing a multicolored turtleneck, which I soon realize must be her favorite sweater. For some reason, she reminds me of Shirley Temple, with even redder hair. Jonathan walks in the room next and I instantly recognize his resemblance to my brother, Jerry. Complete with his height, build, demeanor, hair and facial features. Jonathan will later tell me he thought "brother?" when first seeing me. It really is astounding how similar we look. He wore a tank top during most of our visit, paired with shorts and sandals. This great man doesn't own a bed, but instead sleeps on his bare floor. He claims beds are difficult when one changes location often, but I think the only explanation is his stature of simplicity. He doesn't need one and therefore doesn't have one. I like it. I'll also be looking for a bed as soon as I finish this tour. Jonathan, I never received your phone number or email. Please send one to me!
Within an hour of arriving, Robert tells us about a group of friends putting together a mutual dinner at a nearby house. Considering our recent arrival, we don't have anything to contribute, but they assure us a shower, and resulting absence of bike tourer stench, will be enough. Our bicycle mob ensues. Six of us taking up a full lane, as is legal in Knoxville. Lights are blinking, while conversation is thrown back and forth across the lane. I ask how many people populate Knoxville and Jonathan tells me a couple hundred thousand, while Kelsey says a "dozen dozen". Neither Wes or I are used to using a full lane and take advantage of it by making long sweeping bends between the inside and outside lanes. Jonathan, the simple man he is, carries a pot of rice in his left hand. Dangling it as he leads the pack.
We arrive at the home of Rose and Elias, to find a stove covered with various dishes. Everybody is snugly close in their small kitchen, only a few arm lengths across. Walls hold shelves of dried spices, jars of tea and vegetables of unknown names, or origin, to me. I can tell this is a friendly group of people. Everybody shows interests in the doings of others and speaks little of themselves. Bubbles of comfort blend into a room of warmth. Dinner is amazing, especially with Elias' homemade fermented hot sauce. As my gullet rests, Robert's best friend, Mitchell, walks through the doorway. Average height, shorts above the knee, rolled up sleeves, impressionable eyes and an awesome mustache. We sit against the refrigerator and converse about bikes. I haven't geeked out about bikes in a while and it feels good to do so. Tangents are found, followed and next thing we know, Mitchell is talking about the book he's reading, about trench warfare. Trench foot, mass casualties to take out a single sniper and how the Germans always had the most tidy and ornate trenches, with wallpaper and placemats. As he speaks, he reminds me more and more of an old friend, Chema. Dresses like no other, loves bikes and climbing, carries a mustache, enjoys talking about literature and is know for throwing a hefty dance party. All the while, the remainder of the house is sitting out on the front porch, playing music together. Kelsey plays the guitar and sings country music, while the rest of the group grooves to her rhythm. Tired from a long day of descending the Smokies, we retire back to Robert's house early. Weaving through the slow streets and tucking down a large hill near his house.
After a night of needed rest, we meet up with Mitchell and Robert for coffee in an older part of town. Brick buildings, cracked asphalt, faded lines, yet there's still bike racks in front of every establishment. I like this place. Robert shows us bicycle touring blogs he follows and we end up talking about his cross-country trip. Starting in the Seattle area, he pedaled down to San Diego, then cut across to Nashville, stopping at various climbing destinations along the way. Essentially, he rode a mirrored "L" of how we're crossing the country. From Seattle to San Fransisco, Mitchell, Robert and other friends all rode together, until everybody flew home for school and Robert continued on alone. He shares his experiences with the Southwest and tells us where we can stop to watch dung beetle racing. Photos of the barren landscape make me appreciate all the trees we now take advantage of for hammocking. Mitchell bounces in his chair with each new discussion and explains how antsy he is to get back on a bike tour.
Mitchell manages the university bicycle shop, as part of the outdoor program. Though it's closed, he gives us permission to stop by and use the facilities for as long as we need. Roberts brings us there and lets me loose on the stands and tools. My Surly hadn't had a proper tune since it left Truckee, months and thousands of miles before. Wheels come off, rims are trued, pads are sanded, limits are set, all bolts are tightened, shifting is made buttery smooth. Both our derailleur hangers have bent in the past months and therefore we haven't been able to utilize 2-3 cogs. Everything is straightened out and, once again, the Surlys feel like brand new bikes.
Walking around the University of Tennessee Knoxville outdoor program (they call it UTOP), I'm overcome by nostalgia. There's a boat room, where all the kayaks and canoes are neatly organized, likely after years of trying out different storage methods. Across from the front desk are the coordinator offices. It reminds me of the supportive talks I had with my friend and mentor, Geoff. Frustratingly influential discussions with Merp. Lighthearted conversations with Nicole, about eating Phil's lunch. All conversations which helped pave my path through, and out of, college. Beyond the entrance area, lies a full service bike shop. It holds all the characteristics of a university bike shop. Labeled tools and organizational shelves, distinguished using a label maker. Tool box holding more specific tools. Dry erase laminate, keeping track of maintenance done on rentals. Truing stand with some missing spoke keys. Two mechanics working who know very little about repairs, but are eager to learn. While I'm there, I show the guy he's using the wrong crank puller, and teach the girl how to properly align a disc brake caliper. Past the repair area, a rental storage room is full of KHS and Ironhorse mountain bikes. There aren't any cheap university cruisers and, in that way, I envy the mechanics. I explain the cruisers to the mechanics and they think it's a great idea. If only they knew. Across the main room, lies UTOP's own set of industrial washers and driers. Wet sleeping bags hang from a metal cord and all I can think about is custom pink hanger boards.
Roughly 25 student employees make up UTOP and many of them seem to be here now. Whether they're working, hanging out, tinkering on bikes, talking about trips or simply flirting, each of them seem to enjoy being a part of the UTOP community. I can tell work is only one small part of the community's dynamic, as it was for me during my years with the Boise State OP. This building and the opportunities it creates, are what these students will remember most once they graduate. They tell me about how awesome my trip is, but I wish I could trade shoes with them and experience it all over again.
We're told we can, and should, stay another night, because Mitchell is having a dance party at his house. There's a constant urge to keep moving forward, but we realize there's certain episodes we shouldn't pass up. Rolling the bike gang back in action once again, we arrive at Mitchell's house. One group of people sit around a table on the softly lit porch. Soul and funk music is billowing from the windows and doorway, from large speakers in the dining room. There's a handful of lively individuals dancing on the hardwood floor. Some doing their crazy dance, while others exhibit their knowledge of true dance aesthetics. Robert makes me a whiskey sour and I move from one corner of the house to the next, chatting with the few people I've met. Zack, a genuine guy with a warm demeanor, works at a greenhouse which his family has owned and worked since the 1700s. Rose is a compact ball of energy, using the entire dance floor as her playground. Spencer, Mitchell's brother, is a peculiar (in the most positive sense) guy, with a killer mustache, an intriguing way of pivoting his feet across the floor and a passion for the banjo. Tori is able to provide the most random, yet interesting conversations, while sporting a shiny vest and delivering a perfect Blue Steel. Robert is getting what he calls "vegan, bike tourer crazy". Another way of saying he doesn't party much, but enjoys having a couple beers and chatting with people on a friendly porch. Hours go by as chatting, dancing and listening to music ensue. Numerous times, people try to teach me proper dance technique to pair with certain genres. Each time, I end up twirling away and doing my own ridiculous shoulder dance. I'm a solo dancer and dig it.
Eventually, it's time for most to go home. People give Mitchell high-fives as they walk out the door. Each person throws their helmet on, illuminates a blinking taillight and rides away on their bike. I love how this city is made up of so many bicycle commuters. As everybody winds down, either sitting on the living room couches or standing barefoot out in the damp front lawn, a group of five start playing music. Each of them multi-talented, but all having their instrument of choice. Francis, with his roughly clean clothing, Stetson hat and soft face, leads the group on his fiddle. This is how I pictured Tennessee. All the times I went out snowboarding or skating with friends, I pictured Tennessee kids growing up playing music together. Generalized, sure, but I liked the thought, and now here it is right in front of me. I relax on a sofa and delight in the collective atmosphere. I'd love to listen until my eyes droop away, but I should probably head back to Robert's. Mitchell and I make plans to mountain bike later in the morning, yet I ride away knowing sleep will probably trump any thought of spinning cranks.
I wake up to find my assumption completely false. Mitchell has breakfast and visiting friends to occupy his day, but all I have is Robert's bike staring at me. It's a single-speed Bianchi, with riser bars and some good knobbies. I swap my platform pedals onto it, plunge a peanut butter covered Clif bar down my throat, mentally trace a route on a map Robert has given me for the local trails, and head out down the road. I haven't ridden a hardtail or single-speed, let alone a mountain bike with platform pedals, in years. Regardless of the specifics, I haven't been on any mountain bike in months, and it's where my passion lies! Topping out at 14 mph makes getting to the trail take an unusually long amount of time. I plug in my headphones, bob up and down to the rhythm and become extremely excited. I'm riding a mountain bike!
I reach the trails and make turns based upon the names which stand out from my quick view of the map. Gently folded in my pocket, the map sits, but I can't fathom stopping my ride for anything. Each trail seems to take me to more riding and that's all that matters at this moment. Tennessee mountain biking is far different from anything I've ever ridden. I'm accustomed to a long ascent, followed by a steep descent. That's how our trails work in the west. In this trail system, it's a constant rhythm of up and down. I probably stayed within a 400 foot elevation range, but still seemed to be consistently climbing. With the terrain being fairly rocky and rooted, I bounce all over the place on the hardtail. Riding platforms, I'm constantly thrown off the pedals, with hopes of landing back on them. I feel as if I'm learning how to ride a bicycle again. It reminds me of the days when rides were more frustrating and painful, yet incredibly accomplishing. Ascents seem to pass by quickly, across well-built bridges, through tight tree gatherings, and occasional groves of bamboo. Victor Ashes trail is the least travelled, yet most fun ride I pedal upon. Smooth and flowy corners, dipping down into fast descents lined by vine-covered trees. I fall in love with mountain biking all over again. I've tried to pan over it, but it grips onto me, I miss my green beauty, mi esposa, my Enduro, my bike of the dirt. Riding a little over twenty miles, I relax near a quarry pool where the trails meet civilization. Knoxville used to be called 'Marble City' and was once the largest marble export community in the world. Now its remains are shown in massive blue quarries, throughout the Knoxville area, which creates a cool sense of serenity among giant walls of marble.
Stay another night? Don't mind if we do. We cook up remaining brussel sprouts and quinoa from the night before. The Tour de Knox is happening tonight and is said to be quite the spectacle. One large group of cyclist roams the city, from venue to venue, bar to bar, too see various local bands play at scheduled times. Jonathan is playing at one of the venues and therefore, the bike gang mounts up once again and rides across town, via the Gay Street bridge. We encounter the bridge as it's backdropped by an orange sunset, with other cyclists and pedestrians making their silhouettes more noticeable than they think. I love riding through sunsets and quirky events. Combine it all at once and I find myself producing a constant, smiling laugh.
Jonathan is playing bass for a band at a community house venue. Burgers and hotdogs are being sold, with all proceeds supporting the community house. This is how I justify eating more food than I need, as usual. There's a treehouse, without a ladder, in the yard, and a mural painted upon the side of the house. Inside is a free-exchange library. I sink into one of the foamy recliners and find myself within a photo book, which captures the unique esotericism created every year at the Gathering of the Juggalos festival. Leaving the library, I find Jonathan filling in as the bassist for his friends' French pop band. Tall, slender, and tapping his bare foot in the corner of the room, he plays the role perfectly. One light, shining upwards from the floor, expands his shadow across the back wall. Encountering unwarranted rudeness from the guitarist, the night before, I have to leave once he starts controlling the show.
We leave as the rest of the group does, in a mass of bicycles. Various riders have drums attached to their bicycles, filling the dim city streets with rhythm and pep. Walkers, passerby and food vendors dance as the procession rolls by. As the collective arrives at the next venue, we decide to call it a night and head back to the house, stopping first to get some Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Wes and I retire to the downstairs, which we've made our temporary home. For the first time in years, I'm able to stop watching a movie I've started, falling asleep under an itchy blanket.
Three days have passed and we must now give our farewell to Knoxville and all those who made it such a memorable experience. Hugs are passed between the roommates and us. In a short three days, we've shared enough time to create little sayings and jokes with each of them, and we spew them out a few last times. Wes hides Robert's "vegan cheese" under his pillow, to be found and incorporated into a dream.
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