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I rode through Port Bolivar and the town of Gilchrist. The
road comes to an end outside Gilchrist because a hurricane in '87 washed out the
road so north it is then. Marsh grasses line either side of the road, not much
to look at except an occasional bridge over a waterway. Soon I hit the freeway
and simply pull over still having not decided where to go except the general
direction of east. Today is Thursday, four and a half more days... Out come the maps once more. I can't go back the way I came so west is out. South is the gulf
so that's out too. That leaves north and east but a little voice warns me of the
cold awaiting me if I head north.
East it is then as I absorb my map of the entire United
States. I see where I am, at the corner of I-10 and 124 in the town of Winnie. I
could go slowly across the bottom of Louisiana on back roads but it looks to be
just one big bayou and riding all day through a swamp doesn't sound enticing.
New Orleans isn't all that far away, hmm... I make a split second decision
looking at the nation as a whole. Pensacola, Florida sounds like a good place to
head for and judging the distance it looks reachable. I guess about 500 miles,
not bad for an afternoon ride.
Must eat first and lucky me, there's a McDonalds not far
away. I munch away as a creaking pickup coughs into the parking lot. Its doors
burst open and two high schoolish looking guys clamor out. They both wear huge
cowboy hats and pointy snakeskin cowboy boots. Boot cut blue jeans and loud
boisterous rodeo shirts with flames stenciled in. One had a belt buckle large
enough to deflect bullets. It probably prevents him from even bending over. I
think though that it was I, dressed in all black alongside my helmet and
jackets, that was out of place.
At one in the afternoon, I join the freeway traffic as the
adrenalized fire surges through veins reaccustomed to breakneck speeds. I
embrace the feeling as the last two days haven't produced much distance and
toodling along the coast is nice, but slow going. I've decided to ride and keep
on riding till whenever, or Pensacola comes along, whichever comes first. I'll
just let the moment develop. I settle in, lean back against the sleeping bag and
let the towns, cities, even states pass by. Going through some of the refinery
towns is quite an ordeal for the ole sniffer. The smell is pungent, how could
anyone endure smelling this I wonder. It passes as quickly as it comes.
In order to cross the bayous of southern Louisiana, an
elevated freeway on stilts ferries travelers unencumbered of the soft land
below. Occasionally, the bridges go on for miles. They can be bumpy as the
freeway rises and falls into the mushy ground. My monoshock suspension is set
all the way down so the bike rides like a Cadillac. It was a swoopy ride, mile
after mile of elevated freeway, like being on a rollarcoaster. Ride through
Baton Rogue and across the top of New Orleans. Passing near New Orleans, the sun
slams into the horizon on this short winter day. A few miles more, and then
across the mighty Mississippi into the state of Mississippi I ride headlong
right into Alabama.
I am realizing the reason why you don't travel in winter is
because the day is so short. With night comes the plunge in temperature. The
weatherman was right. At one stop for gas in the middle of nowhere, I didn't
even know what state I was in. The temperature was in the low 40's. I struggled
to raise a numb leg off the bike and onto the ground. I just started waves of
shivering, vibrating all over the place. The cold sinks in after a few hours of
this night riding. I pay the lady and away I go within minutes.
Through Gulf Port, Biloxi, up and over Mobile Bay, and I
reach Florida. I have to stop just to survey where I am and how far have I come.
Key West suddenly became very tempting again. Why Key West? I have no interest
in Florida right now but still just to stand at the furthest southeastern point
where the road comes to an end. A place where there is no more road. No more
worlds to conquer. But it'd be a 1000 miles back and I've got class on Tuesday. I'd be on the wrong side of the United States if anything went wrong.
Now there is a funny thought.
I needed a place to sleep as the clock on my dash ticked past
10 PM. For some odd reason this ride just sped by. With night driving you just
ride, nothing else exists. I am alone with the bike, my thoughts, and through
the night I ride. On the map illuminated on my tank by the tiny map light, I
spot Conecuh National Forest just over the state line into Alabama. So much for
Florida. Country roads, the middle of the night, the steady hum of the
motorcycle, this feels so good. North into the forests of southern Alabama
following road signs to what I hope will be a campground. I ride surrounded by
nothing but the rustle of leafless trees. Pure transcendence.
The road rises and falls over hills, a curve here, a curve
there. It invites speed on this still night and I accept the invitation. Then I
almost miss the turnoff. I hit the brakes and U-turn in the road. As I pull in
to the National Forest campground, I misjudge the placement of the road and cut
the corner. The bike sinks into inches of soft mud and just plops over on its
side. It lays their idling. I feel really stupid realizing it must have just
rained here. And I am standing in a mud puddle in the middle of the night in
Alabama in a ditch with mud covering everything.
I shut the bike off from pure embarrassment as if someone out
here even notices. I still feel real stupid standing in the mud. The smell of
gasoline is pungently sweet as it trickles out of the tank and onto the ground.
I struggle to find handholds on the motorcycle. It lies on its side like a
wounded animal. I get a good grip, plant my feet, and start grunting trying to
right my beloved 750-pound hunk of metal. The first few times I try, nothing
happens. I struggle in the dark groping my way along. Finally with a hearty
oofta I get the bike upright. It obediently starts right up. I ease on the
clutch going a mere 6 inches. The front wheel slides right out from under me
along with the rest of the bike.
Now I feel reeeaally stupid, twice in once day in the same
spot even. Same process all over again, grunts here, oofta there. Finally, I
ease the bike back onto the road and ride on in to Open Pond Campground as if
nothing happened at all.
I discover a glass lake right beside my little road that is
merely two rutted tire tracks through the forest with grass growing in-between
the ruts. Thin slivers of moon shadow the scene. Rocks clink against the fenders
as tires skit along the narrow path. The bike beneath me utters a subtle
relaxing tune. I find a secluded space to my liking, and in darkness roll out my
sleeping bag upon a bed of leaves. I lie on my back, my arms crossed upon my
chest staring into the starred sky through tree branches swaying gentle. It's
12:30 AM. I left the McDonald's 13 hours ago.
My, what a great land this is.
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