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.
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