Witch Dance

I came one night to a cyclist only campground not half a mile from the old Bynum mounds, where those who came along before us pale faced interlopers buried their dead. It was thought that in earlier times witches came to these woods to dance by the light of the moon and stars, and where their feet touched the earth, no grass would ever grow. It being a goodly and full moon out I did what any god-fearing Christian boy would do on a dark night surrounded by burial mounds at the site of a black and ancient sabbath: I found a patch of dirt where no grass grew, stripped naked and danced till I could dance no more.

Thoughts on the Natchez Trace, Scalpings,

The Natchez Trace Parkway is an absolutely phenomenal cycling route. Four hundred odd miles of commercial free traffic (Screw you eighteen wheelers!)going through a national park. No gas stations, restaurants or billboards the entire way! I passed within two hundred yards of a Wal-Mart and if I hadn't gone into Kosciusko (pronounced Ka-zee-ess-koh)in search of a post office I would have never known it was there. It seems that here on the trace the southern hobby of throwing light beer cans of the Miller, Bud, Coors or Natty variety out of the window every mile or two seems to have been curtailed.
When I look at the untamed wilds to the left and the right of my path I can't help but think of the people who came before me, the Kaintucks who walked these wilds and called it a trail. Three months on foot through the snake, bug, and spider infested wilderness, with nothing more than a knife, a gun, and a canteen. Hunting for their dinner, searching out clean drinking water, not knowing where the next stream might be, or meal might come from, waiting for a native's arrow or a bandits bullet to sing out of the shadows signaling luck run out. Folks in their S.U.V's with a flip down dvd player and a bag of Doritos drive it in a day, blind to nature's beauty. I spend a week pedaling down a paved route bitching about the hills and the heat. We've become soft.

Busted Flat Spoke in Baton Rouge

I busted a couple of spokes somewhere in Louisiana, but couldn't find anywhere to replace them till Ridgeland Mississippi. The cycle shop wanted thirty five dollars (not counting the two dollars for spokes) to replace the broken ones and retrue the wheel. Oh, and they wanted me to wait for two weeks till they got finished with all the other repairs they had ahead of me. I figured, "how hard could it be?" So I asked to use their tools, and it took me about forty-five minutes and cost me two bucks. The price was right. I met a man named Larry at the Ross-Barnett reservoir campground. Larry was driving an 88 Toyota pickemup truck with a camper on the back, accompanied by a dog named Sparky. The truck had over four-hundred thousand miles on it, and it still got twenty seven miles to the gallon. They sure don't make em' like they used to eh? When he was seventeen Larry bought a Schwinn ten speed and rode from Detroit to Miami. He liked it so much he took a couple of years off and hit the four corners of the country, stopping whenever a place struck him as pleasant, or he needed to earn some money. Hardcore. Now at sixty two he does the same thing in the truck. I asked him if he had ever read Travels With Charley, and when he said no I gave him my purloined copy. I pretty much had to.