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.