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.
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