Camden to Jackson

March 25-26, 2009 Camden to Jackson

I knew it was too good to last: two days of beautiful spring weather with partly sunny skies and warm temperatures. But Tuesday night the storm clouds rolled in. Marcia, her mother, Josh, and I sat in The Catfish Place happily doing our part to support the local economy (channel catfish is the official state commercial fish). Using his ubiquitous Blackberry, Josh obtained the weather forecast: thunderstorms through the night, rain possibly continuing until noon on Wednesday. It was that word possibly that disturbed me. If it was seventy percent or more chance of rain, I could honorably end my riding for this trip and return to Nashville with Marcia and the rest. If it was only a slight chance of rain, I could continue my ride in confidence. But with an almost even chance, I’d either have to dig out my clunky rain poncho and prepare for a wet ride OR chicken out on the ride and maybe live to regret the wasted opportunity. In the end the words wasted opportunity disturbed me far more than the word possibly. So I bid the others farewell and secured a room for the night.

Why was I so worried about rain, anyway? Didn’t I start this ride in the rain last fall near Newport? Yes. And didn’t I thoroughly enjoy beginning this fabulous adventure, even in the rain? Yes. And were my soggy wet clothes really that uncomfortable? Yes. (Oh well, two out of three ain’t bad.) But rain is part of the fabric of Tennessee as surely as colorful leaves, historical sites, and tasty catfish. Indeed it plays a major part in the culture of agriculture so prominent in West Tennessee. Agriculture and Commerce—that is the Tennessee state motto. On this part of my ride I would experience the overlap of both as I rode through several small towns whose livelihood depends largely on the produce of the surrounding farms.

I took the luxury of sleeping in late Wednesday morning. Not only was I tired from two days of riding, but I also wanted to give the rain that had been falling all night a chance to dissipate. Loading up on a breakfast of bacon, eggs, biscuits, and gravy at the Best Western Inn in Camden, I prepared to meet the rain head-on about 9:00 a.m. To my utter amazement the clouds showed signs of breaking up as I started out. The rain had slowed to a mere mist. I donned the poncho, tying my backpack straps around my waist to keep the plastic from billowing up around me as I rode, and took off. My pedaling took me within three miles of the site of the plane crash that killed Patsy Cline. What a rich, expressive voice she had. It took my mind off the misty cool weather.

Bruceton was the first of numerous tiny towns I would traverse on my ride this particular day. It looked like a ghost town. I don’t recall seeing anyone there, just an occasional passing car. One of those temporary advertising signs in a parking lot in front of a boarded up building seemed to sum up the local mood: “Where the ____’s my bailout?” Maybe the next town would be a little more inviting. Hollow Rock. Yes, now I was definitely in Carroll County. Believe it or not, I had been to Hollow Rock before, actually knew a resident there. She was a fellow freshmen at the University of Tennessee at Martin back in 1972, a girl named Pat. My roommate John Claxton (fortunate enough to have wheels, a 1966 Chevy II) had given me, Pat from Hollow Rock, Debbie from MacKenzie, and Linda from somewhere, a ride to Nashville, where they attended a Christian conference and I attended to my (then) girlfriend Marcia, who was finishing high school that year. On the way back to campus Sunday evening, Pat talked John into swinging by her house for a few minutes, where we visited with her mother. Hence, my introduction to the town through which I was now pedaling. A cute little community, it didn’t appear to have changed much in thirty-seven years.

Soon the houses and businesses of a larger town came into view. Huntingdon was the last town I’d see before I began to pass the large open fields of West Tennessee. Huntingdon boasts about 4300 residents. John and I knew a UTM upper classman named Bobby Tucker from here. He called the city “the capital of Carroll County.” I guess it is—the county courthouse is located here. I stopped at a bank off the courthouse square looking for a familiar ATM that wouldn’t charge me a user fee. I was down to $8.00 cash, and small towns still run largely on cash, not plastic. A friendly teller informed me that my bank didn’t have a machine in the area. However, she was impressed with my bike ride and suggested nearby Mallard’s restaurant for lunch. Instead, I pedaled on out toward WalMart, where I could buy some cheap needed item with my debit card and get cash out for free. Stopping on the way at CB’s Barbecue, I enjoyed a pork plate, which left me a dollar to spare. A few minutes later I found WalMart, bought a cheap tire gauge, and obtained my needed cash.

I hardly recognized anything in Huntingdon from my UTM days passing through here. However, I recalled another student, Debbie Cannon, who made her home in this town. She had survived the devastating tornado that ripped through the area in 1970. Debbie, who had a strong faith in the Lord, calmly went through the house opening windows (as experts suggested in those days) as the funnel cloud was approaching. The Lord spared her and her family’s house. Debbie once told me that the town was named for a carving a hunter left on a nearby tree, “Hunting done.”

Huntingdon brought me to another decision point: U.S. 70 splits into 70 going to Jackson and Brownsville and 70A going to Milan, Humboldt, Bells, then Brownsville. I wanted to explore both routes and see all the Tennessee I can. So I hit on a compromise: 70A to Humboldt, lodge there for the night, and then on back to Jackson on a different highway. Next time I could ride Jackson to Memphis on 70. Not exactly U.S. 70 all the way, but hey! it’s my ride, isn’t it? Oh, the freedom of starting out here and going somewhere before day’s end.

The rain was long gone by now. But everywhere I looked around me I could see the fruits of its labor: fields with lush green wheat (it turns golden-amber by June) or the remains of last year’s cotton or corn crops. When I was a young college student, West Tennessee had struck me as bland and unattractive. But bicycle speed improves one’s perspective. I was riding through some of the richest farm land in the country. And those open fields and big sky were frequently punctuated by patches of woods and the cute little houses of hard-working families who made their living off this land.

The highway itself was not the best I’ve ever pedaled over. The shoulder, when present at all, was composed of eight inches of rumble strip, designed to keep vehicles from straying off the road. Personally I resented this design by the same Department of Transportation I once worked for, which favored the safety of numerous cars and eighteen-wheelers on this route over the comfort of the occasional bicyclist like me. Where are their priorities? At least the motorists seemed to know how to drive around bicycles. The traffic was annoying at times but not frightening.

The road between Atwood and Milan revealed that the term agriculture takes in more than just crops. It also includes the raising of livestock. I saw a variety of animals in the fields along this stretch of highway, including goats, mules, donkeys, cattle, and horses. Rounding one bend, I came upon fifteen large black bulls lying in the grass next to the fence, barely ten feet off the road. Another bull was standing, facing them as if he were giving them a lecture on cleanliness or proper grazing etiquette. As I pulled up to snap a quick picture of this bovine conclave, I apparently spooked the principals involved, and the cattle conference dispersed. Further down the highway I passed a field full of spotted, speckled, and mottled goats. I wondered if they were descended from Jacob’s flock (see Genesis 30:25-43). And how does one differentiate between a donkey and a mule? I really don’t know, but if you take your best guess and identify them with confidence, probably no one will challenge you (they don’t know either).

Outside of Milan I made another one of those serendipitous discoveries: the West Tennessee Agricultural Museum on the site of the University of Tennessee’s Research and Education Center at Milan. The museum showcases the agricultural products of the area, including a variety of products made from cotton and cottonseed oil. There are also displays commemorating the hard life of early settlers in Tennessee as they cleared and cultivated the land. One display, however, revealed the more recent pioneering efforts on this very site by Tom McCutcheon relative to conservation tillage.

Tennessee is blessed with good, rich, fertile soils in many parts of the state. Unfortunately, these soils are often highly erodible, a major problem for farmers. But the tireless research efforts of McCutcheon and others developed the agricultural process called No-Till. This method allows planting in narrow slots or small drilled holes without extensive tilling of a field, both cutting down erosion by sixty percent and dramatically reducing production costs. No-Till is now the preferred method of tillage by most Tennessee farmers and is appearing in many other countries as well. Since 1981 Milan has hosted the bi-annual Milan No-Till Field Day to highlight the latest innovations in this agricultural method.

The curator of the museum was quite helpful in explaining the displays and suggesting a place for lodging once I made Humboldt. She studied at UTM at the same time that I was there. I asked if she knew Debbie Cannon from Huntingdon. “Dr. Debbie Cannon,” she corrected me, had earned her doctorate in home economics and done quite well. I was not surprised.

Was West Tennessee not as flat as I remembered? Or were even mild upgrades wearing on me after nearly three days of pedaling? I don’t know which, but I was sure glad to see Humboldt come into view. I knew very little about the town. Another former UTM acquaintance, who went by the moniker Chickee, had called Humboldt home. And a sign on the outskirts informed visitors that Doug Atkins is a native son. Atkins played football for the University of Tennessee in the early 1950’s, was personally recruited by Coach General Robert Neyland, and went on to play pro for the Browns, the Bears, and the Saints. He was inducted into both the College Football and Pro Football Halls of Fame.

But despite those glowing recommendations, I still had some trepidation upon entering the city. One store clerk I had met a few miles back had warned me not to ride my bike through the city—one side of town was pretty rough. Not wanting to get shot this trip, I planned to lodge out on the bypass, then bypass the downtown on my way to Jackson the next morning. And, spying a decent-looking mom and pop motel, I opted for a second opinion on the lodging. At a major intersection a car full of twenty-somethings stopped at a red light. A young man yelled and pointed, asking what was that strange-looking stick protruding from my helmet. Taking optimum advantage of the quickly waning red light, I hastily replied, “My rear-view mirror. Do you know Humboldt? Where’s a good place to stay the night?” As the light greened up, he pointed across the highway and waved as the car sped on. Who could argue with such a sterling recommendation? I stayed the night there. It was clean. I think they’d even washed the sheets.

The next morning early I did a brave thing: ignoring the clerk’s warning, I pedaled on into downtown Humboldt—right through the rough part of town—and lived to tell about it. Actually, I’ve ridden my bike through worse areas. Why let one individual spook me? This was my opportunity to see Humboldt firsthand.

As I entered the quaint downtown area, my feet exerted their independent will and pedaled right past Highway U.S. 45 to Jackson. Their message soon reached my brain. Why not pedal on to Bells, then back to Jackson? Marcia would not be down from Nashville to pick me up till almost noon, I had plenty of time, and I’d never been to Bells. Oh, the joy of starting out here and pedaling somewhere.

What a morning for a ride. This was one of the prettiest stretches I’d seen in West Tennessee—mild hills, groves of trees, and of course open fields, similar to what I had ridden the day before but somehow more picturesque. The early morning sun threw my shadow off into the adjacent pasture as I pedaled by. A yellow halo encircled the shadow. I snapped a quick picture as I rode (in between passing eighteen wheelers) and continued on to Bells.

A charming little town of 2171 residents, Bells was founded by John and William Bell, who in the early 1800’s bought up land at a dollar an acre. Originally called Bells Depot and located in Haywood County, the name was changed to Bells and the town annexed into Crockett County in 1887. Bells sports a homey downtown with a diner, bank, scattered stores, attractive homes, and one of the largest frozen vegetable suppliers in the United States, the PictSweet Company, specializing in blackeyed peas, okra, sweet corn, carrots, and other local commodities. An annual highlight of this city is the West Tennessee Okra Festival, which features a horse show, beauty pageant, street carnival, and other activities. Everything in this end of the state seems tied to agriculture. A nearby state historical marker even informs that large-scale strawberry growing in Tennessee was brought into the state by David Brandenburg of Maryland in 1867.

I finally departed U.S. 70A for Highway 412 and the twelve miles back to Jackson, where I would link up once more with U.S. 70. The only noteworthy sight along that interstate-like route was the old house with a junked vehicle in the front yard—not the usual car or truck but a car-turned-helicopter. I have no idea the story behind that out-of-service rustbucket, but I wouldn't be surprised if it had something to do with agriculture.

Agriculture and Commerce—an appropriate motto for the state I’m pedaling through.

Dickson to Camden

March 24, 2009 Roots and wings—those are two gifts all parents should bestow on their children. Marcia was sitting in a Nashville restaurant with her brother Wilburn. They were recalling family memories in the wake of their father’s recent passing. Wilburn observed the value of giving children roots, i.e., a family heritage and values. But it is equally important, he continued, that parents also give their children wings, i.e., permission and blessing to leave home, pursue their goals, and stand on their own two feet. Cutting the young ones loose involves risk; but if a foundation of family heritage and godly values is established early, the rewards far outweigh the risks. Josh and I would reconnect with some of our roots while enjoying the fruits of our wings on our second day of riding together.

It was a sunshiny Tuesday morning as we started out from Montgomery Bell State Park en route to Waverly and beyond. Despite the troubles of Monday, our spirits soared. We were riding! We were beginning here and going—somewhere. If we hit more trouble, Marcia could come fetch us. Besides, a bad day bike riding is better than a good day working.

Plan A was to look for a bicycle shop in Dickson. Perhaps they could fix my out-of-round back tire. But alas, even the waitress’s brother Carroll at a local diner where we stopped for breakfast did not know of one. However, between bites of biscuits and gravy, the massive white-haired man did encourage us with the news that the hills would flatten out within a few miles.

Plan B was to find a gas station with an air hose—not one of those that you feed quarters while it dribbles out air, but one with some real pressure behind it. Jeff at The Bike Zoo in Knoxville advised me (by cell phone the evening before) to deflate and inflate the tire, massaging it till the flat spot popped out. But on our route I spied no such station. So I bump, bump, bumped all the way to McEwen, about fifteen miles away.

McEwen is a town of 1700 residents located in Humphreys County. When we reached there, the hills would magically flatten out, or so we were told. As we entered about mid-morning, our first order of business was to find a drug store. A passing delivery van a few miles back had slung some roadside glass up at Josh and given his left knee a significant cut. We needed fresh band-aids. He also needed an ace bandage for his ailing right knee. Despite his wounds, Josh was performing quite well with the ride that day—no soreness, handling the hills like a pro. Surely McEwen would have a drug store. But I held out no hope of a bicycle shop in a town so small.

Then I saw it: the solution to my tire problem, right there across the highway. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? “It” was Abernathy’s Tire and Auto Repair. O.K., so their specialty is car and truck tires, but just maybe. . . . I sent Josh on ahead in search of his bandages while I approached a big thirty-something good ole boy about my tire troubles. His name was Billy. (I’ve always wondered why average timid Williams like me go by “Bill” and big tough Williams like this guy prefer “Billy.”)

Billy was friendly and helpful. In no time his boss David had my bike up on a rack rubbing the rear tire with tire grease. Within a few minutes the flat spot popped out, and David had it aired up full. I was even more pumped up than the tire! My bump problem was solved!

David wouldn’t let me pay him anything. He and Billy seemed interested in my cross-state ride. Billy was raised in Humphreys County. As I told him I of my roots (way back) in that area, I was shocked to learn that he’d actually heard of my great-grandfather William (“Pa”) Horner, the horseback physician from a hundred years ago.

Josh had found his bandages and rejoined me. I was eager to get started again toward Waverly and another Billy I’d never met before who also knew of my great-grandfather—primarily because Pa Horner was his great-grandfather also.

We met Billy Tucker in Waverly after a quick sandwich in the early afternoon. My Dad having told me about this cousin, I had talked with him by phone a few weeks earlier. He agreed to show Josh and me some sights connected to our roots.

Billy is a lean, tanned outdoors-type with thinning hair (O.K., so he doesn’t fit my previous assessment of “Billys”). In his seventy-six years he has worked hard both as a surveyor for the Tennessee Department of Transportation and a businessman managing his properties in the area. His father and my father were first cousins.

Josh and I parked our bikes and climbed into Billy’s car. Our first stop was Pa Horner’s old home place. It is only a cleared lot now out on Clydeton Road, backing up to Kentucky Lake, which inundated most of the farm when the dam was built in 1944. I had not seen the site since 1960 (at age seven). Billy stepped off the locations of the front porch, back porch, and Dr. Horner’s eight by twelve foot office, where he often saw patients. But Pa also made house calls on horseback to see his patients. One winter night on a late call, after fording streams to reach a house, Pa required assistance to chop ice out of the stirrups so he could dismount. For such dedication Pa was often paid in chickens and vegetables.

Billy told me a Pa Horner story I’d never heard before: On one particularly difficult case he asked a respected doctor in town, Dr. Slayton, to make a house call with him. After attending the patient, they each presented the man with a bill for services. Dr. Slayton’s bill was $4.00; Pa Horner’s was $2.00. “Why,” asked a puzzled Dr. Slayton, “did you charge him so little?” “You don’t know that man like I do,” Pa replied. “He’ll never pay a dime to either of us. So you’re out $4.00, and I’m only out $2.00!”

I responded to Billy with a Pa Horner story he’d never heard before. In 1936 Pa’s son Bill (my grandfather) received a long distance call from his brother Jesse. Long distance calls back then were expensive and unreliable, so Bill knew the matter must be important. “Pa died,” he heard his brother say. “Can you come on down here?” Bill assured him he’d leave Nashville immediately. What did he think about during the (then) long drive to Waverly? It was so unexpected—Pa was elderly but had been in good health. When Bill finally arrived to the spot on which Billy, Josh, and I now stood, a small group assembled on the front porch to meet him. But Bill stood and watched them in utter shock. For there in the midst of the group was the “deceased” Pa! Fortunately Jesse saw Bill’s face and discerned immediately what had happened. Pulling his brother aside, Jesse explained that Bill had heard wrong—it was Ma who had died. They never told Pa about the mix-up. Pa lived another eight years, still practicing medicine most of that time. He died at ninety-six, his county’s oldest resident and his state’s oldest physician.

Billy showed Josh and me the graves of Pa and other relatives. He drove us around to others sites I had not seen in decades. It was a wonderful afternoon for one who has lived many places, but never long enough to put down permanent roots.

Pa Horner gave his eight children roots. A strict Primitive Baptist, he sought to instill a love for God and proper values. Several of his children remained in that area all their lives.

Pa was wise enough, however, to give his children wings also. He allowed them to use opportunities to develop their potential, even if it meant their moving away. Among his progeny over the generations would be country music performers (George Morgan and daughter Lorrie), a Washington lobbyist for the U.S. Post Office, businessmen, farmers, technicians, a T.D.O.T. surveyor, and even a preacher/bikerider. The behavior of some of his descendants, I’m sure, was disappointing at times. But the blessing in giving children wings far outweighed the risk.

Pedaling on to Camden, I crossed the scenic Tennessee River into West Tennessee. I had now crossed two grand divisions of the state and entered the third. By this time Marcia had caught up with us and picked up Josh. I rode a little further, pondering the blessings I’d experienced that afternoon, reconnecting with my roots while simultaneously enjoying my wings.

I rejoined Marcia and Josh at The Catfish Place in Camden for dinner. The waitress brought us out plates piled high with more catfish fillets and hush puppies than I’d ever seen assembled in one place. And those cats died for a worthy cause! Our meal consisted of local pond-raised, grain-fed catfish. (They taste a little milder than river catfish and are served boneless.) But I’m sure their ancestors came out of the Tennessee River some generations back. So even these catfish had roots. But apparently they also had wings—which ultimately landed them on our plates. Roots and wings—what a blessing!

Nashville to Dickson

March 23, 2009

“You’re doing great, Bill!”

I didn’t feel great. In fact, I felt like a wrecked car on its terminal trip to the salvage yard. The future looked bleak, uncertain. As I strained to see ahead, life looked like a dead end street.

But Dr. Smith was an experienced surgeon. He was also brutally honest, no-nonsense, even gruff. Barely three weeks earlier he had operated on me, removing my colon for ulcerative colitis. At the time of the surgery, he himself—at age seventy—was recuperating from an auto accident. He still wore a large metal brace about his chest. He was a heavy smoker. Nothing seemed to stop him. And he was adamant that I was doing well. “Bill, the day I operated on you, you had one foot in the grave! You wouldn’t be alive now if we hadn’t operated when we did! You just need time to heal,” he insisted, almost angrily.

Maybe he was right. Maybe the end of the road up ahead was really just a ninety degree bend in the road.

In the fall of 1975, barely two months after Marcia and I married, the inflammatory bowel disease that had been smoldering in my body for two years suddenly burst into flame, putting me into St. Thomas Hospital for a ten week tenure of more pain and sickness than I had ever experienced. Drs. Richard Schneider and Roy Elam, excellent physicians both, struggled to no avail to bring me into remission as I wasted away to a skeletal wraith of my former self. Finally, they called in the late Dr. Daugh Smith to perform the life-saving surgery. It was a long recovery.

Those dark, uncertain days were but a distant memory as I stood outside St. Thomas Hospital recently with family and friends to celebrate God’s grace and my health at age fifty-five.

My bike ride across the state of Tennessee ended for the winter last November at the intersection of Eighth Avenue and Broadway in downtown Nashville. Now on this cloudy March Monday morning I was beginning again. The day would prove to be full of uncertainties. Would the rain hold off? Could we make it the five miles to the hospital for our 8:45 am celebration without being stopped by a flat tire (a common problem on major city streets)? Would anyone even be present besides Marcia? A new aspect of this ride was my partner Josh. Living in Ohio, he was not used to pedaling the rolling hills of Middle Tennessee. Would we make our ultimate destinations of Montgomery Bell State Park that afternoon and Waverly the next day?

Many of my fears flew the coop as my son and I pedaled up the driveway into the St. Thomas complex about thirty minutes later. There waiting for us were a small group of family and friends, including two hospital representatives, Paul Lindsley and Jerry Kearney. And celebrate we did. The irony was not wasted on any of us. Here I was a senior citizen riding my bicycle across our great state and stopping in to salute the hospital where I lay dying as a young man. What a difference thirty-three years makes! And how gracious is our Lord. Paul snapped photos for the hospital newsletter. He and Jerry commented on the boost to morale their 1800 employees receive in hearing success stories from former patients.

The St. Thomas experience certainly lifted my spirits. But there were still clouds on the horizon—literally (and riding in the rain is no fun). Maybe the rain would hold off. I was becoming concerned, though, by another emerging problem: Josh was slowing down considerably on the steeper hills. I had forgotten about his knee injury from playing football a couple of years ago. Tennessee grades were taking more of a toll on it than flat Ohio roads. Would he and I be able to crest the dreaded Nine Mile Hill? (I was a little out of shape myself after a cold, wet winter.) My Dad had warned me once that it is not all downhill to Memphis. But “Nine Mile Hill”? What was it—nine miles worth of steep upgrade? We were greatly relieved as the nine mile marker came into view at the top of one not-so-daunting hill. The name merely referred to the distance out from town. We had crested the hill and lived to tell about it.

We pedaled out of Nashville, pausing just long enough to take pictures of Belle Meade Plantation. It was turning out to be a good dry day. Hugging the muddy Harpeth River, the highway wound its way through Pegram and past the Narrows of the Harpeth State Natural Area. Josh remembered well the day fifteen years ago that our family hiked around there and saw the tunnel and remains of an old forge run by Montgomery Bell (whose namesake state park would be our shelter that evening). We found a trilobite fossil back then near the old slag pond. Years earlier my high school pal John Claxton and I had camped a couple of nights at the top of a nearby ridge. I enjoyed reliving such memories and sharing them with Josh.

Still about six miles shy of White Bluff, we stopped a few minutes, ostensibly to check our map. A lunch break in that town could provide some needed refreshment. I was becoming increasingly concerned that Josh might have to end his part of the ride that evening, but I so wanted him to make it to Waverly on Tuesday and meet a cousin who lives there. When a grizzled local man of about sixty approached us on the roadside and asked if we needed directions, I confessed to him that the primary purpose of our stop was rest. We took the opportunity to ask him a question we would ask frequently after that: was the road ahead hilly or flat? He told us it was “uphill both ways” to White Bluff. But he assured us that a good Mexican restaurant awaited us there. I hoped so. My only previous recollection of the town was from my high school days when we passed through there on a long trip, pulling a pop-up camper behind our car. We had eaten lunch in a diner only to come out afterward and discover that someone had stolen the spare tire off the back of our camper.

El Monte Restaurante would be a more pleasant experience, however. It certainly lived up to its recommendation. It felt so good after thirty miles of pedaling to sit at the table wolfing down sizzling fajitas and drinking cold tea. We were amused at some of the local good ole boys’ attempts to communicate with the meseros waiting the tables. “Fway-go! Mooey cally-entay!” they exclaimed in mock protest, pointing at their enchiladas. Our delightful Latin dining experience was spoiled, however, as we mounted up and began to pedal off. I heard and felt the sickening bump, bump, bump that signaled a flat tire. Normally a flat is just a minor annoyance, a fifteen-minute fix. This one would prove to be a threat to the rest of my ride however. For try as I might, I could not get the tire properly inflated. It was badly out of round. We limped the few miles left to Montgomery Bell State Park, but I had no idea how to fix the problem.

Meanwhile, we encountered another challenge: the approach to the Inn at the park was a one-mile-long steep upgrade. I knew we could get up it, but I was sure it would be the straw to break the camel’s back for Josh. He had not complained all day, but I doubted he would want to tackle another day of such hills. And then, as if to add insult to injury, the desk clerk at the Inn could not find our reservation. She came up with a room for us anyway. It even had a nice view of the lake. I couldn’t enjoy it much, though, for trying to fix my back tire. So the day that started with uncertainties ended with the same.

But as I suggested to Josh that Marcia could drive out and pick him up the next morning, he asserted resolutely, “I want to try to make it to Waverly.” He had trained for this ride. He didn’t want to let a few hills stop him. Wonderful! If he was willing to try it one more day, I could bump, bump, bump my way into another town and perhaps find a way to fix my tire. Maybe that end of the road ahead was really just a bend in the road. The next morning would tell.