4/3/99
Ghosts of Mississippi, or One Man's Boil
© 1999 by Steve Bream (If you're going to distribute it, please don't alter it, and please keep this notice attached)
I have returned from the warm and lovely wilds of Mississippi, where spring has sprung and all is in bloom, where the men are strong, the women are beautiful, and the children are all above average. At least that's the way it seemed at the Smith's place this weekend.
I wasn't sure that I was going to make it to the Crawfish Boil until I was almost 100 miles down the road, having been the victim of cruel fate and my own bad judgement. I retrieved the Connie from the shop at 6 pm on Thursday (after it was promised on Tuesday afternoon ), and needed to give the freshly-bled brakes a shakedown cruise and change the oil before leaving for McComb, if I was in fact going to leave for McComb. Deadlines loomed at work, obligations loomed at home, and I was a little hesitant to take off for the weekend, but I really wanted to go, and reasoned that I could pay for my playtime when I got back.
I packed Thursday night, figuring that this would keep my options open, so on Friday all I had to do was finish a little work, change the oil in the bike, and roll, if I was going.
To make a long story short, I went.
Left Chapel Hill at about 11:00 am EST and rolled South on I-85 towards Atlanta. Got rained on all the way through SC and most of GA, where there was still snow on the ground from the morning's flurries. That's the fickle fate part.
The bad judgement part was pressing on knowing I would hit Atlanta very close to 5:00 on Friday, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. What I hadda do was sit in traffic on I-285 (more bad judgement) waiting to crawl around to I-20.
Question: When I would let traffic roll 10-12 yards ahead of me while I rummaged in my tankbag for granola bar or a swig of water, the woman behind me would honk at me for not moving. Where did she think she was going to go?
Once free of Atlanta, I ran as hard as traffic would allow through the rest of GA and AL, swearing to myself that I was going to purchase a Widder vest at the first opportunity. If you could buy those things in truck stops I'd have 3 by now.
Bad judgement and a lack of knowledge about the lay of the land (and MapsOnUs, but I'm not blaming them, for reasons I'll explain later) sent me right through Birmingham in dark and heavy traffic on 20/59 (many thanks to Duke Colley and Gary for pointing me at 459 around B'ham on the return trip, definitely a much better way to fly).
>From there on it was simple matter of sit here and twist this, with one final gas stop before reaching McComb, MS. Did I mention that:
- I lost the sheet of directions that Shane (or more likely Karen) sent,
and - I left the route notebook containing the directions posted by Bill Boyd sitting on my coffee table, where I'd put it down while making one final check of gear?
MapsOnUs came to my rescue, however, leading me unfailingly to Page Dr., McComb, MS, and the Smiths, at 11:30 or so CST. A few hardy souls were still stirring, Jeff Gordy and Steve Wilson among them, around the fire, and I had a seat as close as I dared to the flames to try to force some warmth into my chilled bones and make a little conversation before heading off into the dark to pitch my tent.
Bad judgement time again.
In packing, I had selected my 40 degree sleeping bag, as it packs nicely on the bike. Unfortunately it was in the 30s in McComb Friday night, and a 40 degree bag is as helpful as a kickstand on a crutch in those temps. Despite sleeping in long-sleeved Tshirt, thermal shirt, sweatpants, and 2 pairs of polyprop socks, I woke up some time during the night freezing. I donned my FirstGear and crawled back into my bag, not only pleasantly warm, but nicely padded as well. Forget how warm or waterproof your riding suit is, how well does it sleep?
Saturday brought a host of folks crawling from their tents. I chatted with Steve Wilson, whom I'd failed to recognize around the fire the night before, Duke Colley and Gary emerged from their luxury condominium cleverly disguised as a tent (note to self: from now on, travel with Duke. The man goes first-class). Karen got me properly checked in with name tag, tshirt, and secret directions to the shower.
The hotel folks started rolling in at this point, Art Holland, Airyn Darling, Bruce Barge, and too many others to name, so much drinking of coffee and general BS ensued. I eventually pulled myself away long enough to grab a quick boat-shower (water on, get wet, water off, lather, water on, rinse) which felt wonderful, then found the Putts and the Brooks' chatting in the basement and spent awhile enjoying Harold's hilarious recountings of IBRs past and the pros and cons of sleeping on your bike. Karen related Daytona disasters, and Vince wondered where to put his Screaming Meanie so that it would wake him up (Vince, if your SM won't wake you up you're not asleep, you're dead ;^).
Shane had begun smoking mass quantities of sausage early in the morning, and they were delicious, but before I could enjoy a third a move was afoot to go for a ride. A nap seemed like a good idea, but then Art made the magic sounds, Natchez Trace Parkway , and I was hooked.
Art, Airyn, Bruce, Terry, and I didn't exactly race to our mounts. With the exception of Art, who patiently waited while the rest of us got ready, we looked more like a bunch of teenage girls getting ready for the prom than a group of seasoned, hard-core endurance veterans preparing to roll, but the corsage matched my FirstGear, and we all eventually got moving.
We never actually got to the Natchez Trace Parkway, but after droning along MS 24 for awhile, Art found some really great twisties, set in beautiful scenery, and away we went. We did eventually get to Natchez (certified retirement community, which I guess means that you can only retire there if you're certifiable). We didn't gamble there, deciding instead to head back to McComb for a spot of rest before dinner (note to self: when you travel with Bruce, you get to stop every so often and stretch your legs, since Sledgamatic will only go 120 miles on a tank of gas) . The others peeled off to their hotels, and I stopped at the BP down the road from Shane's to call work (since technically I was on call this weekend, but since somehow none of my new code made it into the build, I felt reasonably sure I didn't break it this weekend ;^) The first beer run didn't pan out, putting me back at Shane's in time to see Mike Sachs and his wife, Mary Breen (no relation), roll in, and later Airyn and I had a nice tour of downtown McComb while looking for the liquor store (note to self: next year remember that it's behind the Burger King) . As a reward for our perseverance, however, I was delighted to find that the liquor store in McComb stocks the rare and treasured Boodles Gin, so a fifth traveled home in my saddlebag.
With beer gathered, we returned to Shane's to find a horde of slavering bikers dismantling crawdads as fast as their fingers could fly. We bellied up to the trough and I commenced to grub. I watched Art, who'd abstained from the beer run and apparently eaten his own weight in crawdads before we arrived, patiently instruct Airyn in the fine art of crawdad dismemberment. I took over the job of teaching her the fine art of crawdad finger puppets (come on, you all thought about it, didn't you?)
Unlike some cowards who've already checked in on the issue, I sucked heads. I sucked heads left right and center. Go ahead, make your crass remarks, I don't care, I sucked heads and I pinched more than my share of tails (and yes Bruce, I'd have pinched Airyn's, since I managed to wrangle a place near the front of the line, but I noticed she was carrying the Delica, and I need both fingers to type ;^)
The gumbo was so good I almost gave up the mudbugs, but there's just something about seeing a huge pile of steaming crawfish on the table that kept me going back. I probably could have eaten more but kept getting distracted by all the faces that go with the names I know from online. I joined the legions who have expressed their appreciation to Warren Harhay for so lyrically giving voice to what so many of us have felt while on the road, and for casting his critical eye on nearly every motorcycle known to man. The evening passed much too quickly, and soon it was time to lay my weary head down in preparation for the return home.
I ended up doing this in a bed at the Best Western. I rationalized it by saying that I'd get a wake-up call, I could pack the tent and sleeping bag that night and be ready to go in the morning, I wouldn't wake up my fellow revelers at 0500 local (what's the O stand for? O my God it's early!) , and so on. The truth is that I remembered how cold I'd been the night before, and I hate to be cold.
So, after downing a couple of Benadryl and a Tagamet to combat the unexplained shellfish allergy (no details forthcoming except to say that I look good in red), I slept the sleep of the exhausted just, rising in the morning at the crack of pre-dawn to charge north-east into the teeth of my still-fresh memories of the trip down.
I shouldn't have worried.
As many things as went wrong on the trip down went right on the trip back:
- I-459 around Birmingham is a great strech of road, and traffic moves well. (note to self: you owe Gary a beer)
- Charging into the heart of the Beast in Atlanta led to sticking it in the HOV lane and only moving over when an airport shuttle threatened to run me down from behind (embarassing to admit, but I was already doing 90 indicated, and I didn't feel comfortable going any faster than that in a 55mph zone!) My hat is off to Mike Sachs and all the rest of you who commute in that crap, but I do wonder how you manage to sit in the saddle with balls that big. (note to self: you owe Mike a beer)
- Despite Bruce's disparaging remarks about I-85 through Greenville, SC (which I agree with completely, btw), I carved that mother like a Christmas goose and kept booking North.
- The weather was excellent, and I took advantage of the chance to hone my edge in pursuit of my own personal goal, a 65 mph average speed over a BBG suitable route. 4 stops, MS, AL, GA, SC, I didn't time them, but except for the AL stop, when I broke out the socket set and attempted, unsuccessfully, to fix a bad case of mirror flop, they didn't last long. Cram a Nutri-grain bar into my mouth while pumping gas, take a piss if I had a drink at the last stop, have a drink if I took a piss at the last stop, with the AL stop being the only one that had both.
The result: SA6 says my route was 825 miles, my time was 11h 45m, for a corrected average speed of 70.2 mph. It isn't Nevada Jackrabbit speed, but I'll take it. More importantly as I contemplate a BBG attempt in the coming months, it would have broken the back of a BBG attempt, allowing for the inevitable dulling of the edge that comes with hanging it out in the wind for 24 consecutive hours.
For some months now I've been trying to find a ride that clears my head. I ran a Saddlesore in December hoping it would do it, no joy.
I rode to Daytona seeking what many claim is the soul of motorcycling, no joy.
I ran to McComb, unsure of whether I should even go, cursing the weather and wondering why the heck I was doing this, and then I was warmly welcomed by Shane, Karen, and Sandy, ate like a king, toured beautiful country, and was welcomed like an old friend by people I know only electronically, if at all.
Joy.
I hate to go all soft on you guys, but thanks to all of you who made that happen. steve, an unapologetic head-suckin' fiend