The Bridge is Out

Riding along racing the fading daylight in the north LA woods I came along to the Thompson Creek bridge. It was a beautiful bridge, old and wooden, with soaring rusted steel trestles spanning an eighty foot gorge where Thompson creek ran. This pretty bridge was adorned with faded graffiti and a curious sign: Bridge out. There were barricades in front, and a mound of dirt blocking the way. Well, I'm three hours down this road, it will be dark if go back, I thought. Here before me appears to be a bridge, so let's just see how out she is. As I made my way onto the bridge I was very aware of the creaking cross timbers, rotting and not quite moored down. Now this isn't so bad, thought I, unsafe in a car but surely not impassable. And then I came to the last fifty feet or so on the far side, and I saw that there were no cross timbers there, just the solid support beams stretching to the far side. I sat for a bit, cussed for a while, offered up a prayer to the patron saint of cyclists. Then I unpacked Bessie and began my balancing act, a highwire performance for the forest and creek. Two trips for the bags, and one for the bike and I was across. As I was packing up on the far side a man in a truck pulled up and asked if the bridge was out. I gave him my qualified opinion. He then asked me if I was out here alone and I almost said yes before the Houston kicked in. "No sir, I'm winning the race," said I. "What race is that?" "Well the Baton Rouge chapter of the NRA's annual Battle from Baton Rouge to Biloxi. We do it once a year to raise money so we can lobby for less stringent concealed carry laws." "Good luck to you son, ya'll ride safe."
And on down the road I went.

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.

photolink

photos can be foundhere

The Mayor of Centreville

It's one hundred miles down the road to the next marked campsite, but the office of the camp I stayed at last night doesn't open till eleven. I coulda left out at dawn, but I have to keep up the goodwill for the cyclists what come after me. Besides I got a hot shower, some free lean cuisine, and a copy of Steinbeck's Travels with Charley out of the deal, so I came out on top. Since I couldn't make the mileage today I called the Centreville police station about fifty miles down the road and asked about camping on public land. "Hang on son," said the officer, "Lemme just ask the Mayor... Yeah come on through, Mayor says you can camp outside city hall." So tonight I get to camp free outside of Centreville Mississippi's city hall, by mayoral decree. Sometimes all you have to do is ask polite-like...

I'm a Level Seven Hobo, Chaotic Neutral.

To quote Patton Oswald, "Sometimes my nerdiness gets in the way of my dorkiness."

I gained 15 xp from sleeping in the city park. What kind of magical fairyland is this where joggers apologize for waking up a bum in the park? It must be my mithril sleeping bag (+3 warmth +2 charisma). When I become a level ten hobo I'll be able to cast trashcan fires at will, and at level fifteen people will just start handing me money, but they won't know why. Time to pack up camp and get a cup of coffee (+1 humanness).

After Lunch

I must be doing something right. Ten miles and one big ass river from my campsite I learn the Mississipi river ferry is out for some undetermined amount of time. I'd have to make the ninety mile detour through Baton Rouge. Now I'd allready gone forty-five miles today, and I did't have another ninety in me, or enough daylight left for that matter. I stopped outside of a service station on the Baton Rouge route and waited. Mr. Ronnie Plauche talked with me for a while about his younger days long distance hiking, and then he hand drew me a map of the old river road so I could get to Baton Rouge without going down hwy 190. Then he gave me twenty dollars!!! (plus one hobo level all at once.) John Dixon took me the fifty-five miles into Baton Rouge in his pickup. I think he gave me a ride mostly so he could figure out why I was doing what I was doing. "But what possessed you?" was phrased in a variety of ways that hour. I did some confused riding in B.R. during rush hour till I found my route. Then I rode thirty five miles off into the sunset down Hwy 61! Awesome! It's settled then. Life imitates art.