9000 miles on an 84 fj

[azure]

Another thing I really liked about Alabama!

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Passing though Russelville, Moulton, and Red Bay, and the impressively named Burnt out on rt 24, I entered Mississippi, and proceeded towards Oxford, repeating the one verse and chorus I knew of Tupelo Honey at the top of my lungs at the appropriate time. Sounded pretty good with ear plugs wedged firmly in place too! I passed a mom and daughter walking down a hot, dusty road, and waved. The mom smiled, and the little girl waved back, just the three of us in the middle of cotton fields that stretched forever. That moment and feeling of solidarity made a wordless mental image that felt really good.

I stopped for the eve In  Oxford, a place that I have wanted to see since reading Faulkner as a teenager.

Faulkner, a writer who imparted to me the lugubrious pace, and desperate sense of being part of an environment that supported and strangled one at the same time, filtered through a haze of honeysuckle and hydrangea, captivated me. I remember his sense of humor, particularly in regard to the Slopes family, a stereotype of inbreding, greed, and stubborn will. In one scene, I don't recall the book, perhaps the Hamlet, that features a subplot concerning the mentally challenged Ike Snopes, who falls in love with a sheep... physically. When his brother finds out, he starts an enterprise, charging towns people admission to watch Ike and the sheep. As a teenager, I was impressed by the fertility and perversity of the author's mind. He taught at Ol Miss in Oxford, lived in a place he fixed up in town, named Rowen Oak, writing in a shack on the property. Heck, if I was going to see the US, I had to see the place Faulkner used for this inspiration.

I couldn't have asked for a more enlightening place to stay than the Ol Miss motel.
Oxford , being a Mississippi showcase university town, charges considerably for the privilege of staying over night. I frankly chose the Ol Miss because it was the most reasonable alternative available.
It also had the requisite porch overhang so that I could keep my bike dew free, and under my window.
There were many signed photos of many celebrities I had not heard of, plastered all over the office. Initially I thought this a good sign, but I later came to realize that like guarding an unwashed hand after shaking with a movie star, no one appeared to have cleaned the sheets and bathroom after said celebs had stayed. Heck there were even celebrity cigarette burns on the bathroom sink. In situations such as these, where there appears no apparent alternative or recourse, my first instinct is to turn on the a/c full blast. The old machine under my grime smeared window shuddered to life after pushing the appropriate grubby button. After off loading and securing my bike, I decided to go for a walk, see the town, and let the room air out!

[azure]

I have always loved the feeling of being in college towns, having lived for 10 years and innumerable semesters in Amherst MA. When people ask me where I went to school, I periodically reply Amherst, a half truth if there ever was one. The other half is that I went to the University of Massachusetts, which is IN Amherst. In any case, I flourish in an environment of unabashed optimism coupled with an unbridled passion both negative and positive, for things one has read about, but never experienced. I have frequently felt like the experienced older brother in college towns. In bygone years, this had sometimes had a positive effect concerning my interaction with the feminine student population. I realized on visiting Oxford, however,  that with the passage of time, several members of the student population looked like the grandchildren of friends,  and the young and pretty hostess of the restaurant I ate in, and chatted with, rushed to open the door for me as I departed, both creating a nauseous reaction curiously similar to food poisoning.

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Oxford town square

[Firehawk068]

You have quite the way with words!

Either you are a writer, or you have enjoyed a great many story-books.

Enjoying reading your adventure.  

[azure]

Thank you Alan!  I hope I can continue to remember my thoughts and experiences on this trip, and write about them in an interesting way.  I always wanted to be a writer, but it seemed too solitary, and I never worked at it. I love music, and even though I didn't feel as facile playing music as I did writing, I put my efforts into music as my primary pastime, along with motorcycles and, when i was younger, bicycling. It's been frustrating at times, I think in the way some golfers feel about their game, but I am very proud and fond of the friends I've made along the way. I think my ability to tell a story musically, and as well to express my feelings, continues to become easier  both for me to do, and for fellow players and listeners to grasp. I keep trying!

[azure]

I woke relatively late on Friday morning, the day was already coming through the  solitary threadbare curtain, in my freezing cold room. I needed a cup of coffee, but more so felt the need to clean the road grime off the fj, before leaving town. I find it helps to save napkins and paper towels, keeping a stash in my tank bag for regular cleaning and chain lubing. The good thing about doing so is that it's possible to see problems, such as loosening bolts, and weeping fluids before they become a hassle. I carry some Honda polish Iike, a small jar of Mother's Mag polish, a decreaser that is safe for o-ringed chains, and a wax based chain lubricant that smells good to me. I have a tool roll with metric wrenches, a couple of adjustable wrenches, some small T handle allen wrenches for specific applications, needle nosed pliers, plastic ties, big and small, and a favorite flat and #2 Phillips screw driver. I have a plastic case that houses a set of 1/4 " drive sockets, a couple of 2" extensions, and as well as 3/8" breaker bar that is about 8" long, and just barely fits in the case. I have a tire repair kit, a couple of pencil pressure gauges, an  electric inflator ( thanks Anders), and a couple of small CO2 containers.  I have a multimeter, and after realizing that I didn'the have any, some shielded wire. I carry an spare quart of oil as well. My fj used about a half quart every 2000 miles, and I checked it cold every day, just before I cleaned and oiled my chain.

I like cleaning my bike, and spreading my stuff on the side of the parking lot begin, as other guests, perhaps also famous but unknown to me, depart. I had noticed a fellow about my age who appeared to be traveling with a woman, perhaps his wife. I remember thinking they looked as if they too had been too tired to change lodging once they had found their room. I said hello to the man as he walked by me, and he stopped to chat. Turned out, he had ridden a Valerie around the country several years before at age 69, but now at 74 no longer felt confident with the weight and bulk of his machine. " I dropped it a few times" he told me, quietly, a slightly embarrassing confidence. I nodded sympathetically, and we talked and talked about things we'do done and seen on our respective trips.
Sometimes, one meets a sympathetic soul serendipitously, and the conversation just keeps going. Sometimes the pace of conversation is fast and passionate. This can sometimes lead to differences of opinion. If the conversation is too slow, it usually ends prematurely. With my new friend from Jackson, there was an affable and comfortable lope, which we each contributed to. This went on for quite some time, until all the cars in the parking lot were gone, except for his. His wife came over, and we were introduced before she gently told us that they had to leave. I finished my cleaning, mounted my bags, and headed over to Faulkner's residence, Rowan Oak. I was a bit concerned about making time, and really only dismounted to take a quick look before heading towards the Mississippi delta, and Arkansas.

[rlucas]

In any case, I flourish in an environment of unabashed optimism coupled with an unbridled passion both negative and positive, for things one has read about, but never experienced.

That, my friend, is a fine piece of writing.

[Pat Conlon]

Yes, what a treat!

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Thanks Guys! I am sure I forgot some of the stuff I saw or thought about, but I wonder if what makes what I've written enjoyable to look at, is that my thoughts are not unique, but perhaps very similar to what you might have also thought in the same place and time? Makes you consider what it is about riding, and perhaps more specifically cycle touring that attracts us. I took a day to think about what the attraction is for me. First, it's a chance to be on my own, and perhaps to be more organized and focused than I normally am. Some would argue that managing 5 tee shirts, a couple of pairs of pants, underwear, and socks, is not really a challenge, but each one of those garments becomes a bit precious enroute. I wrote a note to a friend early on this ballade, as the French would call it, saying that I thought vanity might be defined by chucking 1 of 5 shirts because it did not look good.

I think as well that somehow it's a test, of rider and bike. Planning, endurance, coping, hopefully not surviving, and not the least enjoyment are all skills that need to be well honed to make it home successfully. Self evaluation is a sub conscious, but daily part of the routine, just like chain lubing and adjusting.

[TexasDave]

I agree it is a test of rider and bike with the added bonus of meeting some fantastic people along the way. Keep the installments coming!  Dave

[azure]

Thank Planning, endurance, coping, hopefully not surviving,

Whoh, " hopefully not surviving"?  I think I meant that the adventure was hopefully not a test of survival.

[azure]

I agree it is a test of rider and bike with the added bonus of meeting some fantastic people along the way. Keep the installments coming!  Dave

The absolute feeling of joy that accompanies meeting and speaking with people on the way, is maybe the best part for me too, Dave. It seems easier to do when riding solo. Thanks!

[azure]

I somehow passed through the Mississippi Delta, just north of Clarksdale without seeing much indication that the dilapidated juke joints that fermented what became known as the Blues ever existed. The Delta is primarily about farming, a lot of cotton, and what I learned was soy bean. I also saw some pretty dry looking corn. Must have been a parched summer, as away from the river everything looked baked and burnt. It reminded me of the dust bowl stories I had read as a kid.

One factor that contributed to my quick exit from Ol Mississip was the pace of travel. Speed limits on secondary roads, when 4 lane and divided, which happened alot, were 70 mph, and traffic was moving 10 mpg faster. I let the western part of the state disappear on me.

I had wanted to see the area where so many famous musicians grew up, but was apprehensive that I would not find any authentic remnant of the environment that had nurtured the music they made. In my mind, I saw a juke joint as a visually unimpressive place in daylight, that after dark became an inviting social meeting place for local townspeople looking to relax, and blow off a little steam. Local enough so that outsiders were, at very least, thoroughly, and perhaps suspiciously, inspected on entrance. Dark enough to foster intimacy, and a slight feeling of potential excitement and danger.

I was lucky enough to have frequented bars and road houses that were still open at the tail end of the Chitlin circuit in the early and middle 70s, so I was, for a time, comfortable and unselfconscious about watching and participating within.  Now, I was a little apprehensive about how I would present myself  should I be lucky enough to find an interesting spot.

In any case, in some ways I am glad to have not found Morgan Freeman's bar or a Hard Rock cafe, on the site of a former juke joint.

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The first thing I thought about, on crossing the Mississippi River into Arkansas, was where is Delight?
Perhaps because there was not much to look at. Flat, brown fields that stretched forever, with few shade trees in sight. But Delight is the birthplace of Glen Campbell, one of the few people that I knew who's origins are in Arkansas, aside from Bill Clinton. I became much more appreciative of the state on my ride east, and was happy to note that Johnny Cash, Al Green, Levon Helm, Louis Jordan, and a host of other heros grew up here.

It was hot by 10 am. It took a while to attend to any  infrequent roadside stops, as I tried to find enough shade to make stopping comfortable enough to for myself, and as well the fj. Route 49 through Marvell and Clarendon, then onto route 70 through Carlisle and Hazen. Straight, featureless roads that prompt little recollection. Route 10, which actually had some turns, took me up past the  congestion of Little Rock to Fort Smith, where I tried without success to talk the desk clerk at the Hampton Inn down from $94.

Instead, I rode under the route 40 overpass, and got a room at the Motel 6.

For $44.00, I got a view of the highway, and a second floor room that over looked the parking lot. I chatted briefly with an old guy in white loafers walking a miniature poodle, a woman in her 40's smoking on the back stairs, with enough wear and tear on her face to seem 10 years older, some young helmetless  kid taking a younger helmetless  kid on the back of an Electraglide, tearassing around the parking lot.

It was Friday night, and I was excited to meet up with Peter and Vlad tomorrow. I was tired of solitary life on the road, and even thought briefly about chatting up the woman on the stairs.