Crossville to Smithville

Nov 19, 2008 The northern route just made more sense. It is shorter, flatter, and looked far more interesting. Good accommodations for food and lodging are more readily available. The southern route looked bland by comparison. How could such towns as Smithville and Liberty possibly compete with the major university and railroad museum of Cookeville? Liberty’s claim to fame is—honest to goodness—the caricature of a mule painted on a local bluff by a local resident. Besides, I had already ridden seven miles down the northern route west of Crossville on my previous ride. Yes, the northern route was the logical choice. So I chose the southern route.

Just west of Crossville I had a decision to make: U.S. 70 splits into U.S 70N, which follows a northern path through Cookeville and Carthage, and U.S.70, which winds a southern path through Sparta, Smithville, and sundry other small towns. All along I had planned to ride U.S. 70N. At the last minute, on a lark, I opted for the southern route. After all, I had never been to Sparta or Smithville that I could recall. Besides, this route crosses the Caney Fork River/Center Hill Lake, and bridges spanning broad bodies of water are always fun to bike across. At any rate, I would see some Tennessee I had not seen before. I was game. And I was in for some surprises.

This ride was different from those I had taken so far. Being this far west now required more creative planning to get dropped off and picked up at the right place at the right time. But with a rental vehicle and with the time zone change working in my favor, I set out on Wednesday morning to Crossville. The clerks at Enterprise were actually encouraging—if they thought I was crazy, they didn’t let on—as I set out in 28-degree cloudy weather. I didn’t have Marcia in the area for a safety net. Yet the whole day had the feel of a “Go!” A good start would be the first of many serendipities on this trip.

ser·en·dip·i·ty--noun: the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for ; also : an instance of this[1]

The term serendipity was coined by Horace Walpole of England in 1754 after a Persian fairy tale entitled The Three Princes of Serendip. In the tale three men on an adventurous road trip make many seemingly irrelevant discoveries which prove in the end to be quite fortuitous. In layman’s terms a serendipity is something real good you weren’t looking for.

The road to Sparta reminded me that there are still Tennesseans who are not ashamed of their Christian faith and values. One billboard loudly proclaimed, “Jesus said, ‘Ye must be born again.’” A little further along a lighthouse and large sign marked the home of Jesus Never Fails Church. A few more miles revealed The Way Café and Pizzeria (its sign shaped like a cross). The tiny stop-in-the-road town of Pomona boasted no less than four churches (two Baptist, one Methodist, and one Full Gospel). Of course this is the Bible Belt, but I don’t always see much evidence of the faith anymore, even here. A nice little serendipity.

Bad surprises can come along, too. Guess what? It’s not all downhill to Memphis from Crossville! There were plenty of hills that morning and a raw headwind to boot. But how could I despair? Middle Tennessee hills are milder than their East Tennessee counterparts. Besides, the day had turned out beautiful—clear skies of deep blue, a waning half-moon setting over the western horizon, trees reluctant to let go of their colors. And I was finally on my way again, no longer stuck in Crossville. I was on my bicycle and going somewhere despite major logistical problems. Serendipities all.

As even these mild hills began to work a number on my leg muscles, a long downgrade suddenly appeared ahead—with no corresponding upgrade! I was finally coming off the plateau. I had earned this easy, breezy section many times over, but I did not expect it so soon. Half way down this hill and around a bend a scenic overlook beckoned me to stop and rest and enjoy the vista of hills and valleys. How soothing to both the eyes and legs—a real serendipity. Near the bottom of the downgrade, a sign lured me onto a side road to see the “Historic Rock House.” This one-room, 187-year-old native sandstone building was used as a toll house and stagecoach inn for decades in the 1800’s. Such notables as Andrew Jackson, James K. Polk, Sam Houston, and Sequoia had spent nights within the same walls in which I was standing. Proprietors Bill Austin and his mother Girda graciously showed me numerous historic relics and gave me a detailed and colorful history of this wayside station. Girda even gave me pointers on where to eat lunch in Sparta. This stop was a delight I was not anticipating—a serendipity!

Sparta is a charming town with friendly people and obvious civic pride. It is the home of the late Lester Flatt. The Calfkiller River, which winds through it, begged me to pause and snap a picture. This scenic stream is much more docile than its violent name. Lunch took place at the 2nd Act Deli (Girda’s first choice). It is not a deli and has more of a Hollywood than Broadway motif—but they serve swell hamburgers. Pictures of Audrey Hepburn, Paul Newman, James Dean, and of course, Lester Flatt adorn the walls. The owner came around to make sure I enjoyed my serendipitous meal.

Around 3:00 pm, my bones weary, I finally came upon the Caney Fork River/Center Hill Lake crossing I had been looking forward to. If you’re expecting it, it’s not really a serendipity. But this was an old two lane steel truss bridge, only the second one I’ve encountered on my ride so far. With my engineering background old bridges fascinate me. And the lake was breath-taking with the afternoon sun cutting across it. Only six more miles from there to Smithville and the mom and pop motel I was searching for. Actually it was about five miles, but I was trying to fool my mind so my destination would appear sooner than expected (such tricks rarely work). But I was no sooner off the bridge and up the hill than the Center Hill Inn came into view, farther out from town than I thought. Nicole, the pleasant desk clerk, said I arrived just in time, for she and the other employees were about to close up and leave. I would be the only guest that night at this twelve-unit establishment that sat high upon a hill overlooking the lake with a fantastic view. And Nicole graciously stayed long enough to fix me a meal off their restaurant menu so I would not have to pedal all the way into town and back out that evening. A wonderful day, a wonderful stay. Serendipity!
[1] Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary

Kingston to Crossville

Oct 23, 2008 The worst is over! I’ve leapt the last major hurdle. I’m biking down easy street now. It’s all downhill to Memphis. If it’s not, I don’t want to know. After nearly 150 miles of steep grades, I am finally atop the Cumberland Plateau. Not bad for a senior citizen.

I am riding my bicycle the length of Tennessee on Highway U. S. 70. My purpose is not to draw attention to (or raise money for) some worthy cause. In fact my goal is pure, wholesome pleasure—enjoying what God has given us richly to enjoy: the privilege of living in Tennessee. This ride is a challenge for one recently turned fifty-five years of age, trying to ward off the onset of senility and atrophy for as long as possible. My inspiration for this adventure is twofold: television personality Art Linkletter, who at nine-six years of age advocates such challenges to stay active; and a pastor friend, Lon Chenowith, who hiked the entire Appalachian Trail over a fourteen year period. Lon helped me see that a dream can be achieved in stages. I, too, am a pastor fulltime with a tight schedule and cannot leave my duties for weeks or months at a time to pursue my interests. But utilizing my day off and occasional vacation days, I can complete this project in stages. In the past month I have already pedaled from the North Carolina state line to a point west of Crossville on my way to Memphis and the Mississippi River. My wife Marcia drops me off and picks me up.

Tennessee is a fascinating state, but the average tourist misses so much in a fast car at interstate speeds. The old secondary roads, especially at bicycle speeds in the open air, allow the rider to experience the sights, the sounds, even the aromas that make this state distinctively Tennessee. Last Thursday was the fourth leg of my journey—Kingston to Crossville. Quite frankly, I was dreading it. The average elevation of Kingston is 764 feet. The average elevation of Crossville is 1890 feet. Do the math. It’s all uphill. Yet, even constant upgrades and sore muscles could not dampen my spirit once I got out on the road.

The day was a typical, run-of-the-mill, breath-takingly beautiful fall day in Tennessee—temperatures brisk but not cold, the sun bright but muted enough to allow maximum enjoyment of the colors. The trees were still not at peak, but there were blazes of color among the green. This kind of day makes Florida retirees kick themselves for settling down there and not here. And nowhere was the beauty of the day more observable than in a small community with a name that sounds like an environmental concern.

Ozone was established along the old stage coach route from Knoxville to Nashville more than two hundred years ago. The original name of the town was Mammy (after the local creek), but when a post office was located there in 1896, apparently the locals desired a more sophisticated name. Hence, the name Ozone, for the clean, fresh smell of the air after a thunderstorm. One of the best kept secrets in Tennessee is the waterfall of the same name, located on Fall Creek. This waterfall is barely a quarter mile off the highway (indeed, in the winter motorists can see the falls from the highway through the bare trees). Fall Creek Falls in Middle Tennessee is also located on a Fall Creek. The two waterfalls look strikingly similar, though Ozone Falls is not as high (110 feet vs. 256 feet for Fall Creek Falls). But few Tennesseans even seem aware of its existence. Viewed from the top or from the pool at the bottom in the gorge, this natural wonder is worth pedaling up the mountain to see. On this day the water had slowed to a trickle due to dry weather conditions. But rain was predicted for the next day.

Is predicting the weather an art or a science? Benjamin Franklin once said, “Some folks are weather-wise, most are otherwise.” But apparently ole Ben never knew the late Helen Lane of Crab Orchard. As I pedaled through this community, I kept a sharp eye out for wooly worms, a sure indicator of the coming winter, according to Ms. Lane. As a boy in Knoxville, I marveled at her ability to do with squirrel furs, hornet nests, and other signs of nature what trained meteorologists needed satellites to do. An elderly deacon in my church in Campbell County predicts winter weather by sunflower seeds. He would have loved to compare notes with Ms. Lane.

About 3:00 pm I arrived in Crossville. True to its name, it is a crossroads of several major highways. Even U.S. 70 splits here into 70 and 70 North. Established around 1800 as Lambeth Crossroads, it took on the name Crossville about thirty years later when it received its first post office. Coming in to town, I was delighted to pass Plateau Lanes Bowling, just another reminder that I had indeed scaled the mountain, that I was now on the flat. My dread was unfounded—the ride up the mountain was not difficult at all. So the worst is behind me. The worst? But I have enjoyed every minute of the ride so far: the mountains, the valleys, the cities, the country. I am having a blast rediscovering the Tennessee I have known since childhood but never took the time to see up close. And it’s all downhill to Memphis from here!

Knoxville to Kingston

Oct 10, 2008 You cannot even find it on most maps. There is not much here but a few businesses and some old-timers’ memories. Yet it has a name that radiates southern down-home elegance: Dixie Lee Junction. Even with the Icearium and Little Joe’s Pizza flanking the more quaint Court Café, this unincorporated town has the feel of decades long past. Riding through the crossroads, one can sense its former significance: the major intersection of two major highways. Dixie Highway (U.S. 70) was originally built to connect the Midwest with the southern states. Lee Highway (U.S. 11) tied New York City with San Francisco, via the South. And they crossed right here. Rumor has it that the town was named after Bing Crosby’s first wife, Dixie Lee, who grew up in nearby Harriman. The less romantic but more likely origin of the name is the highways. Traveling down the interstate at freeway speed, you’ll miss this slice of Tennessee altogether. I didn’t want to miss it. I don’t want to miss any part of the state I love. So I have gotten out the Ben-Gay and embarked on a dream.

I am in the midst of a fabulous adventure, a long-time desire. I am riding my bicycle the length of Tennessee on Highway U.S. 70. I began at the North Carolina line east of Newport several weeks ago. I have pedaled through Dandridge and Knoxville, and on a recent fall day I traversed Loudon County. I am a fulltime pastor with a tight schedule and cannot afford weeks or months at a time to pursue such interests. But utilizing my day off and occasional vacation days, I can complete this project in stages. My wife Marcia drops me off and picks me up on down the line. My goal is Memphis and the Mississippi River by next spring. I am not in a hurry.

This ride is a challenge for me, recently turned fifty-five and officially now a senior citizen. Who knows? Perhaps it will ward off the onset of old age and senility for a few months. My purpose is not to raise awareness of (or money for) any worthy cause. Rather, I am riding for the pure, wholesome pleasure of it, enjoying what God has given us richly to enjoy: the privilege of living in Tennessee. My inspiration for this adventure is twofold: television personality Art Linkletter, who at an active ninety-six years of age encourages seniors to accept new challenges; and my fellow pastor Lon Chenowith, who over a fourteen-year period hiked the entire Appalachian Trail. Lon’s experience showed me that a dream can be realized in stages. So I don’t imitate Lance Armstrong, I don’t even wear spandex. I sit up straight and enjoy the ride.

Hence, my discovery of Dixie Lee Junction. Having lived in Knoxville as a teenager, I had heard that name before. I’d even passed through here without knowing where I was. Decades ago at the end of an enjoyable Sunday afternoon drive after church, Dad took Mom and us kids to a barbecue restaurant called Otts. I remember the odd name and the strong recommendation of my Dad’s coworker. (It was good barbecue.) Imagine my surprise at seeing it again after forty years—this time by bicycle.

Loudon County held some other delights for me that day as well. I have traveled through the county scores of times on the interstate but only rarely on U.S. 70, and never at bicycle speed. A beautiful fall day, rolling hills, blue skies, pleasant temperature, fields with huge hay bales—such a time and place explain why people leave less fortunate states to move to Tennessee. I thought I could die of pure pleasure on this ride! If Moses had been pedaling along with me, he might have seen the blazing yellows, golds, and reds of the trees and thought the Lord was speaking to him again.

The ride was not all sweetness and light, however. I discovered that Loudon County is mostly uphill, in the wrong direction. One long, steep upgrade seemed never-ending—up and up, top a rise only to see another rise unfold before me. Would this upgrade never end? My muscles aching, I pedaled by faith, just knowing the next bend would reveal a long, breezy downgrade. It didn’t happen. I thought I could die of pure fatigue! When I did finally hit some short downhill sections of highway, I learned from bitter experience Murphy’s Law for Bicyclists: Downgrades never equal upgrades. My thirst was raging, my legs crying for relief. Rounding a bend, I happened upon an oasis: a little convenience store with cold drinks, shade, and a clerk named Jessie, who allowed some conversation and a bench to sit and rest. No I-40 rest area ever looked so good.

Ten minutes rest was sufficient to remind me that, even at its worst, this ride is a pure delight. At its worst? I am having a blast rediscovering the Tennessee I have known since childhood but never quite experienced in this way; seeing reminders of decades gone forever along a once-bustling highway. Dixie Lee Junction, Loudon County, rural East Tennessee—a veritable feast of sights for the long-time local or the tourist passing through. But slow down! Get off the interstate. Take the time to see it all up close. And I recommend bicycle speed.

Three Grand Divisions, Two Capitals, & One Long Steep Upgrade

Oct 10, 2008 I am seeing a Tennessee I have known all my life and yet never experienced quite like this before. The view is different along the old byways. And at bicycle speed it all comes into sharp focus.

For the third Friday in a row I mounted my Diamondback Crestview and started down the highway. The still active ninety-six-year-old Art Linkletter urges senior adults to take on new challenges to stay young at heart. So at age fifty-five I have taken his advice and begun my adventure: the length of Tennessee by bicycle. I am traveling via U. S. 70, from the North Carolina state line to the Mississippi River at Memphis. As a working man I must carry out my dream in stages, as my ministry at First Baptist Church of LaFollette allows opportunity.

As any Tennessee schoolchild knows, our state is comprised of three Grand Divisions: East, Middle, and West. (I have always loved that expression Grand Division; it sounds so majestic!) But the grand divisions I experienced on a forty-mile ride from Knoxville to Kingston last Friday were: big city, rural countryside, and small town.

This leg of my journey began at Chilhowee School, my elementary alma mater. It’s amazing how schools and prisons change so little over the years. Feelings of dread resurfaced from my first day there forty-plus years ago. We had just moved to the city, and I didn’t know a soul. But even imposing old Chilhowee School could not dampen my spirit on this day. I was biking through Knoxville, where history was made. Established around 1786, this city was the capital of Tennessee until 1817. Personal history was made here, too. Pedaling up Magnolia Avenue (near my boyhood home), down Gay Street, past the old Tennessee Theater (where I first saw The Long Ships with Richard Widmark and Shenandoah with James Stewart), past First Baptist Church (where our family attended for years), and through the University of Tennessee’s campus (where I graduated with a B.S. in Civil Engineering), I relived various stages of my raising in Tennessee’s third-largest city.

Kingston Pike with all the noise and traffic characteristic of city life quickly brought me back into the twenty-first century. I discovered that traffic lights not only know intuitively to stop motor vehicles as often as possible, but they also like to stop bicycles as well. And motorists are not always respectful of bikers. I looked forward to getting out of town and hitting some open highway.

The road from Knoxville through Loudon County and on to Kingston is pure Tennessee country. Rolling hills, blue skies, shirt-sleeve temperatures, fields with huge hay bales, woods with trees timidly giving up their green in lieu of yellows, reds, and golds—such a day is why people leave less fortunate states to move to Tennessee. I thought I could die of pure pleasure! But then the steep upgrade began—up and up, top a rise only to see another rise unfold before me. Would this upgrade never end? My muscles aching, I pedaled by faith, just knowing the next bend would reveal a long, breezy downgrade. It didn’t happen. I thought I could die of pure fatigue! I finally did hit some short downhill sections of highway, but I learned a new corollary to Murphy’s Law for Bicyclists: Downgrades never equal upgrades. My thirst was raging, my legs crying for relief. Rounding a bend, I happened upon an oasis in the desert: a little convenience store with cold drinks, shade, and a clerk named Jessie, who allowed some conversation and a bench to sit and rest. No I-40 rest area ever looked so welcome.

Kingston, a busy little town centered around the Roane County Courthouse, came into view after a few more upgrades. While it has traffic, red lights, commerce, and lots of people like the big cities, it nevertheless has the charm and personality of a small town. I proudly took a picture of the courthouse with my bicycle in front only to discover that there was a second courthouse right next door, a much older one. A plaque beside it informs the world of the town’s claim to fame: for one whole day Kingston was the capital of Tennessee. Apparently, in order to satisfy a treaty agreement with the Cherokees, the capital had to be relocated from Knoxville to Kingston. So the Tennessee General Assembly convened there—for just one day. Afterward, they resumed meeting in Knoxville. I couldn’t help but wonder how the Cherokees and lobbyists reacted the next day to find the capital missing.

Knoxville, Kingston, rural Tennessee—What a city! What a town! What a state! You might even call them Grand!

Newport to Knoxville

Oct 3, 2008 I am not Lance Armstrong. I am not in a hurry. I ride a moderately heavy hybrid bicycle with old fashioned turned up handlebars and a nice, large, thick-padded seat. Multiple gears are acceptable, twenty-four of them to be exact, but they are for steep grades, not speed. If time were a factor, I’d get on I-40 in a fast car. But on a pretty Tennessee fall day, I elected to make the trip from Newport to Knoxville along the old highway at bicycle speed.

Last Friday I completed the second leg of a journey that will ultimately take me to Memphis and the Mississippi River. It is a long-time dream, a hurdle over the mid-life crisis. In May I turned fifty-five—officially a senior citizen. This project has the potential of delaying my departure into old age for at least a few more months. I am riding my Diamondback Crestview the length of Tennessee via U.S. 70. As a fulltime pastor in LaFollette, I’ll have to complete this adventure in stages as I have opportunity. But I am on my way, having pedaled from the North Carolina state line through Newport and Dandridge and into Knoxville in the past two weeks.
Tennessee holds many delights for the tourist or native traveling through the state. But there is so much more to experience in the open air at bicycle speed than by auto at interstate speed. For instance. . .

Somewhere outside Dandridge, the second-oldest city in Tennessee, I topped a rise and found myself face to face with a huge brown bull. Not liking the way he was eyeing me, I skirted around him on the opposite side of the road. He was entering the traffic lane as I pedaled past him; he may be quarter-pounders by now. (Ever encounter a real live bull on I-40?)

In need of fuel (I average 150 mpgg, miles per gallon of Gatorade), I stopped at a convenience store near Kodak. The sixty-something lady behind the counter started to tell me the price, immediately stopped herself, and asked the “Are you alright?” greeting I rarely hear anymore but came to love in my childhood days in Knoxville.

Pedaling across the Holston River on Asheville Highway took me back to my early teen years. My pal Eddy Shoemaker and I often rode our bikes to that bridge. An unfortunate man had once jumped to his death there. Eddy and I were convinced, however, that a successful jump could be made without bodily harm. We planned to try it (with proper equipment and precautions, of course), but that summer Eddy’s family moved to Atlanta. We had to put our plan in the inactive file (where it remains to this day).

I passed by my elementary alma mater, Chilhowee School, which looked as imposing and stern as ever, then made it as far as Chilhowee Park before a flat tire stopped me. By then, aching muscles from forty-three miles of steep grades demanded I call it a day. My wife, always somewhere in the general vicinity, appeared in no time to pick up me and my bike.

Thank God for interstate highways that get us places we need to go quickly. But thank Him also for the old byways that allow us to experience a slice of Tennessee, especially at bicycle speed. Lance Armstrong should try it.

NC state line to Newport

Sept 26, 2008
I felt like an idiot. Even the dogs along this route seemed to have enough sense to come in out of the rain. But I was afraid to put off the project even one more week. I could feel the dream beginning to slip away. So I mounted my bicycle—in the pouring down rain—at the North Carolina state line and began to pedal toward Newport.

I am a pastor from LaFollette, Campbell County, who is looking for new challenges to keep active and fit in my senior years. Having just turned fifty-five, I take Art Linkletter’s and Mark Victor Hansen’s advice seriously, to make “the rest of my life the best of my life.” Therefore, I have embarked on a long-time dream: to travel the length of Tennessee by bicycle on U.S. Highway 70. There is so much more to see and do along the old secondary roads than on the interstate highways. (CBS’s Charles Kuralt once said interstate highways make it possible to travel from coast to coast without seeing a thing.) And the best way to experience these byways is by bicycle. A car is too fast. Walking is too slow. Pedaling is just right. It allows the traveler to smell the wood of the sawmills, see the wild turkeys, and hear the rush of the French Broad River. The traffic was light, the grades not too steep. I was amazed by the variety of bridges along this route, including a tired old steel truss bridge eagerly awaiting its partially-built, reinforced concrete successor to take over. The view by bicycle is a different experience altogether.

So last Friday was the beginning, the North Carolina line to Newport. (The goal had been Dandridge, but the rain and a broken spoke cut it short.) As a working man I’ll have to complete this project in stages: soon, Newport to Knoxville. Then I’ll tackle Knoxville to Cookeville, Cookeville to Nashville, Nashville to Jackson, and Jackson to Memphis and the Mississippi River. My wife Marcia will shadow me along the way in our car. My target date to finish is March of 2009.

But this visit was not my first to Newport—just my first by bicycle. One Saturday ten years ago I entered the town in a Ford F150, driven by the late Norman Gary Hughes. Norman grew up in Newport. A loyal and dedicated man, he served as a deacon in the church I pastored in Bristol. Norman wanted to introduce me to his old stomping grounds, so we drove down one Saturday, stopping first at Brocks, where we purchased Philly cheese steak sandwiches and a large roll of paper towels to use as napkins (we needed them!). Afterward he bought me a suit at Newport Dry Goods Store and introduced me to the proprietor, Carroll Kyker. Norman worked there during his high school years. As we stood outside the store looking toward the railroad track, I had the distinct feeling I had been on that street before. Suddenly it dawned on me. “I’ve seen this town from the train, when I was a boy!” I told Norman excitedly. Big, quiet Norman pondered that revelation and then asked, “Well, why didn’t you wave?”

In 1965 Southern Railway still ran a passenger train from Knoxville to Columbia, South Carolina. I would ride it on occasion to my grandmother’s house in Hendersonville, North Carolina. The view of Tennessee by train is altogether different from the view by highway. It affords a look at the back side of numerous towns, as well as valleys, rivers, and bridges not seen along any highway. But I was always intrigued by the town with the store fronts facing the train track and shoppers scurrying here and there. It seemed as if the train were traveling down Main Street. I never knew that the town was Newport. Nor could I have guessed that many years later I would be entering one of those stores with such a supportive friend on a trip down from Bristol. Or that even more years later I would be visiting these now familiar sights yet again, buying good dry clothes on a rainy day from Newport Dry Goods, and feasting once more on a super-messy, super-good Philly cheese steak sandwich—but this time by bicycle. It’s like seeing the town from three different viewpoints. Tennessee is a fascinating state and Newport an interesting town, whether seeing them by train, Ford truck, or bicycle.

Why Am I Doing It?

What would make a mild-mannered Baptist preacher like me embark upon such a project? Am I off my rocker OR am I really on to something?

On September 26, 2008, I began a journey at the North Carolina state line that will ultimately take me to Memphis and the Mississippi River. I am riding my hybrid Diamondback Crestview bicycle the length of Tennessee via US Hwy 70. I began in the rain and have since pedaled in the heat of the sun and even in the cold and light snow. Alas, as a working man I can ride only on my day off or vacation days. Therefore, this dream will have to be completed in stages. To date I have reached Jackson, a total of 489 miles. I hope to reach the Mississippi River when I ride in late June.

Again, why such a ride? I am not raising awareness of (or money for) some worthy cause. And I am not in a hurry. Rather, I am riding for the pure pleasure of it, enjoying what the Lord has given us richly to enjoy: the privilege of living in Tennessee. Traveling the old secondary roads, seeing the state I love up close at bicycle speed in the open air, and then writing up the adventure afterward together form an unbeatable combination of experience. This ride is a dream in the fulfilling, an opportunity for a recently-turned-senior citizen to leap over the mid-life crisis. And when I pedal the miles away and drink in the scenes around me, I feel God's pleasure!

No, I am not crazy. I am really on to something wondrous.


JUNE 30, 2009 I have finished the ride! On this date, with long-time friend Barry Chamberlain pedaling with me for moral support, I reached my goal of the Old Bridge across the Mississippi River in Memphis, 585 miles total across Tennessee. I am currently working on a book (complete with pictures) on this fantastic bike-riding adventure, even as I weigh options for my next major ride.