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.