Second Day

PROGRAMMING NOTE:  THERE WILL BE FIVE POSTS THIS WEEK

DAY TWO

I can't say I slept long, but at least it was a good short sleep.  I had avoided Atlanta but now I had a choice to make.  Drive up into mid-Tennessee and avoid Chattanooga and Nashville, or quit the back roads stuff that had not been particularly enjoyable the day before and simply get up North via Interstate.  If I took the mid-Tennessee route I would be risking possible gas shortages and be out of my way by a considerable bit.  If I took the Interstate I would avoid Chattanooga but have to navigate big old bad-ass Nashville for sure.  After spying the map and conversing with Jeff the previous evening who recommended avoiding morning rush hour between 7:00 and 9:00, I chose the Interstate.   Jeff had wanted to meet somewhere along the way so he could escort me back, but the logistics seemed insurmountable.  Maybe on my way back South.  Nice thought anyway, Jeff, and thanks.  OK, all set.  I would arise early, find the Interstate to Chattanooga which thankfully avoided much of the downtown interchanges, and head on through Nashville. Like a modern day knight on his black horse, I would slay that dragon and win the day.  Funny, but that's pretty much how the day unfolded, too.

But first I had to feed the knight.  And yonder beckoned Waffle House.   In order to avoid Nashville rush hour I needed to kill some time and I was up at 3:00 am.  Over to have some biscuits and gravy at 4:00 the place was pretty well deserted, except for a couple ladies.  I found a spot and pretty soon this kid came over and asked I wanted some coffee.  Sure, I said and I also told him I was ready to order.  One biscuit and gravy, raisin toast, and a glass of milk with my food.  The kid just stood there, writing.  And writing.  And writing.  It became kind of uncomfortable, with him just standing there.  I said thanks, hoping that would whisk him off.  But he wrote some more, and then he finally left.  Whoa.  OK, well, it is Alabama after all.   

The cook soon brought over the plate with the biscuit and gravy and I settled into them is fairly ravenous fashion.  And being of a hungry nature, soon the plate was empty.  But where was my toast?  And milk?  And second cup of coffee?  Meanwhile the cook has left for a cigarette break.  Finally I get up and move to the cash register.  I can't be fiddling here all morning, I've got to get on the road.  The kid comes over and sleepily says, "Since you didn't get your toast and milk I'll only charge you $2.00 for the biscuits and gravy."  I replied something like, that's a good thing because you wouldn't get much more than that, and told him I was certainly disappointed by his performance.  Too bad, too, because the only chance I get raisin bread is at Waffle House.   Before I was done, however, I ran into the cook/manager and told him they need to get him a little better trained before the real breakfast barrage started to float in.  The manager tried to explain it by saying the kid's schedule was tough, but said sorry anyway.  I left thinking the Zombie Apocalypse had begun.  And it was all happening at Waffle House.

The run from Gadsden on up to Chattanooga and Interstate 24 was perhaps the prettiest sunrise I have ever seen.  There was a foggy bridge scene that would win photographic awards had I had the ability to stop but once on an Interstate one stays on,  and thus loses the opportunity to take pictures.  For that I am sorry.  But the mentality of a lonely man out on the roads seeking destination sometimes trumps the occasional picture.  Again, I am sorry, but something happened to me whilst lost yesterday.  I wanted to be with my friends, my family, there, and so the shortest route becomes all too alluring.

Nashville turned out to be a breeze.  Seems lane changes are a lot easier when you are all stopped.  All I had to do was ease/walk my bike over in front of a car and that was pretty easy.  The stopped, bumper-to bumper traffic was nice because it s-----l-----o----w-----e-----d everything down.  Once traffic started moving again I seemed to be in good shape and soon, the knight had slain the dragon, won the day and headed off, Northward, on Interstate 24.  With Atlanta, Chattanooga and Nashville successfully traversed or avoided, it was all just "gas-up-and-run" to Illinois.  

The trip through Tennessee was fairly uneventful.  Stopping for gas every 80 miles or so assured me less stress than running the gauge to empty.  It also had the benefit of allowing me to stretch my legs and get blood circulation back to my now-badly-aching ass.  Yes, folks, monkey butt was encroaching on my pleasure and was from this point-on almost excruciating.  Also of GREAT annoyance was my so-called cruise control.  It simply didn't work and I realized that this was a failing on my part.  I should have had the shop work on it while it was there before the trip.  Add to my aching ass a tired and numb wrist as well, and you quickly surmise the deteriorating condition of the driver.  But wait, that's not all!  My helmet has developed a hotspot and so now with everything else I have a headache.  But wait!  There's more.  The protective riding boots I am wearing now begin to feel like 10 pound weights on each leg making my entire body feel like death, or a ditch, would be a relief. 

I finally made it through Tennessee and Kentucky and the above picture is of a DQ in Vienna, Illinois.  This was a place the Wombie and I stopped for lunch one time going  down to Florida, and where my eating disorder kicked up.  It was all rather embarrassing, but the Wombie and I kind of laugh about it now.  

Gassing up somewhere in Kentucky.

Protective jacket now off and strapped to the back, I am really starting to feeeeeeeel this ride.  Up on I-57 I now pass through Mount Vernon, Effingham, Champaign, and Bloomington.  My ass is driving me crazy, my head is sore, my wrist is numb and hey, guess what, it looks rainy in Peoria!  In what looked like a perfect nuclear mushroom cloud I naturally assume I'll have to shut down and let the storm pass.  I hear they are predicting severe weather in the Quad City area at a gas station.  I begin looking for overpasses.  A few sprinkles.  And then, sunshine.  It passed.  I am free to run.  And run I do to Aledo and finally reach Mark and Holly's home.  The last 200-300 miles I have been in a sort of "machine operation-able coma".  I remember the scenery, the actions of driving the bike and the interminable ache of the ass, but I don't think I was fully cognitive.  I would realize my speed was zooming up to 80, and be doing some kind of weird day-dreaming mental thing, too.  I suppose it is called fatigue or some such thing, but looking back it was scary.  What I should have done, and will for the trip home, is to take 3 days instead of 2.  But I had the urge and will to make it and by-gawd I did!  

It is now around 6:30 as I breeze (or struggle) into Aledo, which would be my headquarters for the next couple of weeks.  The Wombie has offered his guest bedroom, free use of the porch, and milk as an incentive to stay with him and Holly.  Seems he and I have something in common:  we both drink milk by the jugfuls.  As I pull in and get off the bike, I begin to unloose the accoutrements of bike travel; the helmet comes off, the jacket next.  As I am doing this and thinking how nice it is to get off that hard seat, the Wombie comes out on his way to a meeting.  He says he'll stick around but I tell him to go and we'll chat when he returns.  Now I get those damn boots off, and I'm sitting in the porch, glass of milk, a few M & M's Holly has handy in a basket by the front door, and I'm home.   

DAY TWO:  779 MILES  (Simply crazy amount of miles on a bike in one day.  Crazy. Crazy, Crazy.)