Jackson to Memphis--Part 3

June 30, 2009



Barry and I were standing outside the BP convenience store on Riverside Drive sipping on yet more Gatorade waiting for someone we’d never met to come pick us up. Alas, our ride was officially over. Or was it? For a few hours more we would be basking in the afterglow of the experience.

after-glow 1 : a glow remaining where a light has disappeared 2 : a pleasant effect or feeling that lingers after something is done, experienced, or achieved

Yes, the ride was over, but after all, the journey itself is the destination. And there was still more journey to go. Jeff Jones soon arrived in his air conditioned minivan, loaded in two tired bicycles and two tired bicyclists and conveyed us to a Baptist Collegiate Ministries building a few blocks away. Jeff is the director of this student ministry organization for the University of Memphis, formerly Memphis State University. Jeff told us that not all alums are happy with the name change. Jeff is a Union University (Jackson, Tennessee) grad. He and his wife have four kids.

The BCM building had showers where we could clean up so as not to offend clientele later at the Peabody Hotel or Rendezvous Restaurant. The building is located adjacent to the campus of the University of Tennessee School of Medicine, where missionary Bill Wallace received his training many decades ago. Wallace, a native of Knoxville, served as a medical missionary to China and endured the Japanese invasion during World War II and the Communist takeover that occurred after the war. The Communist officials falsely accused him of espionage and confined him to prison, where they eventually beat him to death, to the sorrow of the many Chinese who loved the compassionate doctor. The BCM building has a library dedicated to this martyr’s memory.

Refreshed and smelling a little sweeter, we climbed back into Jeff’s van and headed toward the Peabody Hotel. The Peabody is an institution in Memphis, another classic example of the preservation of southern tradition. Jeff proposed to his wife on the roof of the Peabody. The cavernous lobby of this luxury hotel exudes elegance and includes a huge marble fountain which serves as the daytime playground for five ducks. The ducks live in their penthouse home, Duckingham Palace, at night. Every morning at 11:00 a.m. a “Duckmaster” in resplendent uniform with a fancy cane rolls out a red carpet from the elevator to the fountain. The ducks march out to their oversized birdbath to the background music of John Phillip Sousa’s “King Cotton March.” At exactly 5:00 p.m. the Duckmaster escorts the feathered celebrities back down the red carpet and up to their rooftop home. When a lady in the crowd of spectators asked the Duckmaster why he had to wait until exactly 5:00 p.m., he replied, “Because ducks do not expect to leave until five o’clock! Besides,” he added, “it’s a southern tradition.”

The tradition began in the 1930’s with two inebriated duck hunters sneaking their live decoys into the fountain as a joke. Within a few years hotel Bellman Edward Pembroke, a former animal trainer, began to march the ducks out to the fountain every day. He would continue in the capacity of Duckmaster for the next fifty years. The pomp and circumstance on display as the ducks march is truly a sight worth seeing in Memphis.

After witnessing the spectacle of the ducks, we needed to sample only one more Memphis tradition to make this trip complete: a rack of Charles Vergos’s famous Rendezvous ribs. After pedaling ninety-six miles in two days, we were ready for a hearty meal. Rendezvous did not disappoint. The outside of the place doesn’t look like much. The entrance is accessed by a narrow alley. Once inside the front door, a narrow staircase leads the hungry customer down to the underground, windowless dining area, where somewhat brusque waiters serve the patrons. Memphis memorabilia adorns the walls, while paper placemats regale the diner with the virtues of the establishment’s dry rub ribs: “Not since Adam has a rib been this famous.” “Hard as it is to believe, some folks don’t eat pork ribs every chance they get.” And my personal favorite, “About as far as a pig can go in this world.” The ribs were not the fall-off-the-bone kind; you have to work and chew to get the meat off. It truly adds to the culinary experience.

A retired student minister joined us for the meal: Charles Ray Griffin. Barry had recently reconnected with him and invited him to meet us at Rendezvous. This gracious servant of the Lord was thrilled to see Barry again, whom he knew as an MSU student in the 1970’s. Charles and Jeff had not met previously but had much to talk about regarding student ministry.

So with bellies full of barbecue and hearts full of memories, we started back to Jackson. Jeff and I compared notes on our respective ministry experiences as he drove. Old traditions, new friends—that ‘s what this ride has been all about. And let’s not forget old friends as well. Barry and I would drive on from Jackson to Nashville that night, where his parents had offered me lodging prior to returning home the next morning.

Tennessee is not universally beautiful and wholesome. It has its share of problems. I did encounter some negative, though minor, facets of the state. However, I ignored or downplayed these aspects. My desire is not unlike that of the late Norman Rockwell, who painted the wholesome view of Americana to the exclusion of anything negative or depressing. Rockwell did not believe our society was actually so pure and unspoiled; but he wanted to help people see the beauty and goodness around them and inspire them to something higher and better. Likewise, my desire has been to help my fellow citizens see the evidence of the hand of the Lord even in an imperfect Tennessee. Such blessings have made this slice of Tennessee a rare delicacy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll have me another slice.

Jackson to Memphis--Part 2

June 30, 2009
“Bed & Breakfast” implies a good night’s rest and a savory meal in the morning. Little Acorn Farm did not disappoint on either front. The bed was just the right combination of firm and soft. And the advertised “farm fresh breakfast” truly was: egg and potato casserole, honeydew melon, apple sauce, sausage links, toast with jelly (on fancy bread, I might add), and orange juice. The day was sunshiny and warm. What a way to start the last day of the ride that began in the chilly rain near Newport last fall. Thanking the Bodanskys for their kindness, Barry and I set out, eager to encounter still more examples of carefully preserved southern tradition before day’s end.

The next town down the road was Galloway. When I had earlier researched lodging options on the internet, it actually had listed a third possibility in this area—honest to goodness, a nursing home in Galloway. Barry and I may be graying up, but we didn’t think we were quite ready for that destination.

Stopping for a water break, Barry urged me to snap a picture of a pervasive if unintended southern tradition: kudzu. Sometimes called “mile a minute vine” or “the vine that ate the South,” kudzu is a legume native to southern Japan that was first introduced into the United States in 1876 as a forage crop and an ornamental plant. However, in the South the Civilian Conservation Corps planted it extensively for erosion control. With ideal growing conditions and no natural predators, it quickly became an official nuisance weed. It takes only a few weeks for this rapidly-growing vine to cover stone walls, trees, even old junked cars (by the way, another pervasive southern tradition). After a few minutes Barry seemed impatient to get started again. I don’t think he liked the way the kudzu was looking at us.

Soon we crossed the lazy, winding Loosahatchie River. Barry, always the geologist, noted that we were now in the Mississippi Embayment, part of the Mississippi Alluvial Plain. According to Wikipedia it is a northward continuation of the fluvial sediments of the Mississippi River Delta to its confluence with the Ohio River at Cairo, Illinois. (I don’t know what that means, but it sounds impressive.)

Soon after we entered Shelby County and Arlington, we encountered the built-up area that would continue unabated for the rest of the ride. The day was quickly growing hotter and more humid than the day before. The terrain was surprisingly hilly (hey—I thought it was all downhill from Crossville). We still had much riding ahead of us. There was no way, however, I was going to let such trivialities keep me from finishing this ride. I was too close. I could almost taste it. I was confident Barry would make it to the finish line also. But if not, I’d note where he went down and phone the location to the paramedics. In the meantime, nothing could stop me, except—a two-inch cotter pin lying in my path. I never saw it. I just heard the sickening pop! and felt the familiar bump bump of a flat tire. Undaunted, we set to work and had my spare tube installed in no time. We patched the old tube as best as we could, but the tear was so long I wasn’t sure the patch would hold. And there was still a lot of Memphis to pedal through, and I’d be without a reliable spare. But I’d pedal on the rims to the River if I had to!

Memphis is familiar territory to Barry, a University of Memphis (formerly Memphis State University) grad. He led us off US 70 for several blocks onto a parallel road to avoid the heaviest traffic. We rejoined the highway again where it runs past Overton Park. Talk about preserving southern tradition—the Park not only is home to cultural offerings ranging from an art school and museum to a sprawling zoo to a nine-hole golf course; in addition, this 342 acre enclosure in Midtown Memphis boasts one of the largest old-growth forests in any major metropolitan area. Surrounding the Park are many old stately mansions, still well-maintained. Except for a few improvements, the Park itself has remained undisturbed since its establishment in 1906; therefore, local residents were understandably upset when construction plans revealed that Interstate 40 would cut a swath through the heart of the area. After much wrangling and even a U.S. Supreme Court ruling in 1971, the Department of Transportation backed down and routed I-40 over the existing I-240 route around the city. Apparently, citizens of Memphis wanted to preserve its traditional park. And why not? After all, Elvis gave his first public concert here in Overton Park Levitt Shell.

Speaking of Elvis, Barry and I were to see another landmark of tradition as US 70 traversed over Union Avenue: Sun Studio. Elvis got his start here. When he auditioned at the (then) Sun Record Company, they asked him who he sounded like. The eighteen-year-old aspiring singer said, “I don’t sound like nobody!” And the rest is history. Elvis, it appears, was more interested in starting traditions than preserving them. The studio is famous also for giving Johnny Cash, Roy Orbison, and Jerry Lee Lewis their start as well. Huge photographs of all four are displayed on the side of the old brown brick corner building.

Memphis is just brimming with sites preserving traditions of the old South. But the day was hot, humid. Even Gatorade was having difficulty boosting our stamina. I suggested to Barry that we make a beeline to the Old Bridge. We did, tipping our hats (or helmets) to Beale Street as our route intersected it. At last the Old Bridge was in sight. I almost cried. Was this 56-year-old senior citizen really about to realize his dream? In a way it was anticlimactic. This ride never was just about the Old Bridge or state lines. It was about the smell of the sawmill in the rain outside Newport; the memories of my childhood in Knoxville; the history exuding from a little stone stagecoach inn visited by presidents and governors; a salute to the hospital (St. Thomas) that saved my life decades ago; reconnecting with family in Waverly; meeting new friends on the road, in the bed and breakfast, and elsewhere; and of course, the famous Peabody Hotel Ducks and Rendezvous ribs (you’ll have to wait for Part 3 to get those stories). Truly, the journey itself is the destination.

Barry and I crossed the line into Arkansas high above the Mississippi River on this same bridge where I first crossed it in 1961. We took pictures like two buddies having just scaled Mt. Everest. The Mayor, the Governor, and the cable news reporters were conspicuous by their absence. Never mind—we knew we were making history here and adding to southern tradition. So where do I go now? What do I do next? I’m still working on that one. In the meantime let me savor my recent slice of Tennessee.

Jackson to Memphis--Part 1

June 29-30
How do I begin the last write-up of an adventure that began small and suddenly took on a life of its own? Exploring the state I love by bicycle down yesteryear’s main street (Highway US 70) has been somewhat akin to reading a good mystery novel: as the finish grew closer, I had the mad desire to reach the conclusion; yet, I did not want the experience to end. Indeed, I have come to realize that the destination is not the purpose of the trip: the journey itself is the destination.

This ride being so far to the west, the logistics were more of a challenge than ever. My old high school buddy Barry Chamberlain from Houston would make the two-day ride with me from Jackson to the finish line. Getting to the starting point was no problem. I met Barry at his parents’ house in Nashville on Sunday evening, June 28, and we drove to Jackson to lodge for the night. Neither Marcia nor Barry’s wife Mona was available to drive the chase car and bring us back from Memphis. However, two appeals to southern hospitality solved the problem. Brian Wimberley of Poplar Heights Baptist Church arranged for us to park my minivan at their church parsonage for safe-keeping while we pedaled to Memphis. I found Brian on the internet and called him out of the blue. He was most gracious. And it turns out that his uncle Mike Wimberley and I shared the same dorm suite at the University of Tennessee at Martin in 1972. The more I’ve ridden across this state, the smaller it has become.

My second appeal was successful as well. The director of the Baptist Collegiate Ministries at the University of Memphis agreed to drive us from Memphis back to our vehicle in Jackson after we completed our ride. (I promised him dinner as part of the arrangement.)

One problem proved more troublesome. The lodging options between Jackson and Memphis along US 70 are quite limited. Nothing seemed to be available anywhere near the half-way point of our ride. Finally, I located a small motel via the internet near Stanton that looked suitable. We were ready to ride!

Southern hospitality is still very much alive in Tennessee. Barry and I would encounter it frequently in our two days on the road. It’s a southern tradition. And this end of the state holds on to such customs fiercely. There is a large sign, for instance, on a farm near Brownsville proudly proclaiming, “100% Pure Estate Bottled Sweet Sorghum—Preserving a Southern Tradition.” Discovering such traditions and watching local folks preserve them would make this ride an interesting one.

Jerry gave us a sampling of hospitality early on the first day as we stopped at a convenience store for a Gatorade fill-up. Jerry’s attire gave the impression on his being on the lower rungs of the economic ladder, as did his mode of transportation: a bicycle. He had ridden a half mile from home to the store. Being a bike rider himself, Jerry was quite interested in our ride to Memphis. As we started off again, he stopped us and asked, “Can I ride with you as far as my house?” So we had another partner in the ride, for at least the next half mile, after which Jerry peeled off and bade us goodbye.

More hospitality awaited us in Brownsville. This town of about 11,000 was named for Jacob Jennings Brown, who served as an officer in the War of 1812, the war in which Tennessee derived her fame as “The Volunteer State” (and yes, the nickname really does pre-date University of Tennessee football). Brownsville is the only built-up area of any size between Jackson and Memphis. As we stopped to rest in the shade on the lawn of the (traditional) courthouse square, Barry made himself at home lying down on the grass. Soon I noticed a smartly dressed older man speaking with him. Oh no, I thought, he thinks Barry’s a vagrant. But their subsequent laughter eased my mind and puzzled it simultaneously. It seems that a foreclosure sale slated for the courthouse that morning had been cancelled. The kind gentleman simply wanted to make sure Barry wasn’t waiting around for it. Barry replied, “No, but tell me what you’ve got—I might be interested.” Mona would have loved that one—Barry rides with me and comes home with real estate in Brownsville.

Lunch in Brownsville revealed another West Tennessee tradition that the locals defend vigorously: pork barbecue. Backyard Barbecue proved to be no disappointment, with its pulled pork sandwiches, good cole slaw (always a test of a good barbecue establishment), and classic movie posters adorning the walls. We were to find out however, that many such establishments compete for the customers, and every local can tell you which one is “the best.” Indeed, I had already been advised of several “best” barbecue restaurants in Memphis; however, my heart was set on the ribs at Rendezvous.

The deliciously cool morning had quickly turned into a hot afternoon. The stretch of US 70 west of Brownsville has little shoulder, but the traffic was light. Since the power lines ran along our side of the road, the few shady spots usually appeared on the other side. I couldn’t resist stopping at a produce stand some young people were tending in front of their house. It wasn’t the produce—it was the shade of the awning. Enzo and Robin were quite friendly and glad to share their shade with two weary bikers. But our first figurative dark cloud appeared on the horizon as they asked where we were staying that night. The motel in Stanton, I informed them. They scratched their heads wondering what this crazy biker was talking about. “There’s nothing in Stanton,” they informed us. We thanked them politely and rode on, knowing that the internet told us there was a motel there and the internet does not lie!

But as we arrived in this community of 615 people, we discovered to our chagrin that the locals know more about Haywood County than the internet does. We met a friendly young man named Carson at a convenience store (the only commercial establishment in town) who told us our motel was seven miles off the highway near I-40. There were no more motels on US 70 before Memphis. And we weren’t even to the halfway point of our two-day ride. Staying at that motel would put a sixty-plus mile day ahead of us the next day, a doubtful goal in the increasing heat and humidity. While we pondered our dilemma, Carson excitedly told us of the Justin Timberlake movie that was filmed in Stanton (Black Snake Moan). Carson was proud of his little town. Personally, I was less concerned about the cultural offerings of Stanton, than I was about where we’d stop and sleep. Where did Justin Timberlake sleep during the filming? the motel at I-40? Before the day was out, Barry and I might truly be vagrants.

I did have one more drawing card: my internet searching had turned up a bed and breakfast somewhere in the area, Little Acorn Farm. But B & B’s tend to be more expensive, would require advanced reservations, and typically had only one bed per room (not an attractive option to two sweaty bikers). But we were desperate. I pulled out my cell phone (thankfully, I’d written down the number just in case). On the strength of one cell bar, I soon found myself talking to Jaynee Bodansky, who along with her husband Les, runs the B & B. And in a true display of southern hospitality, she welcomed us to come out and even offered us two rooms for a quite reasonable price. The location would put us in a much better position for our next day’s ride. So a few hours later, Barry and I, cleaned up and enjoying our sandwiches on the Bodanskys’ front porch, became acquainted with this delightful couple. We felt right at home. Les took us out back to pick some blueberries for the bowls of ice cream Jaynee was preparing for us. He showed us around the grounds and expressed the hopes they have for Little Acorn Farm. They have been there less than two years and only recently started the B & B. Their establishment was a life-saver to us that day. This sweet couple did as much as anyone we met over our two days on the road to preserve the tradition of southern hospitality. That is significant since they just recently moved to our state from Canada (Vancouver).

We had one more day of riding to reach my original destination of the state line / Mississippi River. But as we enjoyed the southern traditions of the area, capped off by good fellowship with the Bodanskys, I was reminded that the journey itself is the destination.