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!