Spring Break Tour
"Where y'all headed today?"
An older gentleman about to start his ritual Friday morning walk around Jackson County Park with his noisy terrier beckoned the default inquiry anyone might ask a pair of riders preparing for an outing.
"Up to Sewanee and through South Pittsburgh," Mark responded. After a brief conversation about our shared interest in riding, we clipped in and started our Journey of a Thousand Miles, jersey pockets filled to the gill with food and other essentials.
Our route would take us on a scenic tour of thousands of rural homesteads that I could never imagine living in, yet fascinated by the prospect. Following a route mapped out on Mark's garmin, we hit several smooth, flat roads that had the added bonus of tailwinds flying over the surface. We made good time on these backroads that no one save for the locals and Fedex trucks would have reason to transverse. Even the stock carved from the hillside quarries were transported via rail. Church after church passed in and out of view. Aromas from the multitudes of livestock and roadkill invaded our senses intermittently and the constant bark of a loose dog always seemed to be coming from the next front yard. We didn't pass a single retail store for probably 35 or 40 miles.
The hills rose from our left and right but the road continued its winding coarse even past the boarder before it finally had a significant grade. Eight miles beyond the Tennessee State Line sign, the long climb onto the looming plateau began. Ever the mountain king, Mark ate the climb up; I wouldn't see him again until I reached the top myself. Along this pleasant mountain road, gaps in the trees gave way to picturesque Tennessee vistas; a scene I can comfortably say no other Huntsvillian that day would be graced with. An apt reward for the work put into the climb. I passed a small parking lot off the side of highway 56 and saw signs for a designated "natural area." Just beyond the parking lot I saw red markings on trees, a trail head. As I daydreamed about exploring those virgin woods with only my legs to carry me, storms were brewin' to our west.
By the time I met Mark at the top, some 1900ft above sea level, the bottom dropped out and we were quickly soaked through. With our LED's flashing behind us, we eventually made our way into Sewanee for our first rest stop. By then the rainclouds and their hail-like precipitation had mercifully moved on.
The Friday lunch crowed had gathered in the Blue Chair Bakery and Cafe, escaping the wet outdoors. Conversation flowed normally, practically undisturbed as two dripping wet men with helmets on clacked their cleated shoes on the wood-paneled floor. Sewanee, obviously a town familiar with the celebration of the southern outdoors.
We parked ourselves on an outdoor picnic table and dined on the local pastries made probably just hours before. Though neither of us said it, it was clear that our bodies and minds were in need of a pick me up. Maybe the sun could shine its face on us for the first time this overcast day? Our words were few at that table, keeping to our own thoughts for a moment only pausing at time or two to extol the virtues of a well made blueberry muffin.
A man passed on the sidewalk and mused at our sight. He began telling us about how much he liked riding and, inevitably, asked "where y'all going/ where'd y'all come from?" He referred us to a bike shop called "Woody's" just around the corner. Deciding this would be a good opportunity to get some proper "performance fuel" in the form of some powerbars and to get a weather update, we parked our bikes and headed in to the humble store. The proprietors were eager to have the company and pulled up the radar on their lap top. Fortunately the weather was looking like the front was moving on but there was a possibility that another would be moving through later in the day. Oh, and one last thing. Woody, the shop owner himself, advised us to "be careful" on a particular road we told him we were heading down to get off the plateau. Apparently the road itself was a bit gravely at times and we should "watch out for pot holes." We would later find out that this could be a candidate for the world's most understated warning.
Refueled and ready as ever to move on, the overcast skies still hovered above, not in any hurry to reveal our solar system's star. We continued east along state highway 156 and descended on slick roads into South Pittsburg. The time passed quickly as it had already been over two hours since our cursory visit to the University of the South. By now, I had surpassed my previous distance record on the bike. We were pushing eighty miles.
Needing a bathroom break, we hit up a Dollar General where I picked up a tallboy can of glorious mountain dew. The store patrons tried not to look phased at the sight of some damp, smelly cyclist but the fact that I had nothing in common with these people save for the English language made for a somewhat awkward exchange of salutations.
Bladders empty, for now, we started climbing our second big hill of the day, the same way we came into town. Soon we were back at a particular three way intersection that we road past earlier (the trip in to S. Pittsburg was an out 'n back from this point). Now, about that road we were cautioned about.
Turning onto Orme Road, several more dogs gave us chase before the decent began. At first it wasn't too arduous. Simple break application kept our gravity aided movement under control. Then the road, which probably hadn't see a human pass by in a decade, turned to gravel and our speed was shunted. Our bikes were out of their comfort zone rolling over all this loose rock.
Another mile or so down, we found the house of the South's most isolated weirdo, no doubt up to some dubious activity. And, of coarse, he had a dog, a big one, that we couldn't hope to out sprint on this crappy jeep road. For some reason, after he chased us for a few feet, he got lazy and turned back. Maybe he'd never been that far away from home before.
Figuring the worst of the road was over, we gritted our teeth and held on the the handle bars with white knuckles and numbing fingers, hopeful that this gravel bumpiness would give way to real pavement soon. It would, but not before doing its best to send us head over heels into the dirt.
All the sudden, a particularly washed out piece of road lay right in our path. With too much momentum to stop myself I plunged into wheel wrenching loose pebbles, sharp rocks and all other manner of tire-splitting earth. This was it. I was going to crash and die out here at mile 92, still far from home, a mangled mess in a desolate, forsaken "town" called Orme.
After the most recent events of my life finished flashing before me I rolled to a stop where the Orme deathtrap road terminated at a stop sign. I was alive and still upright. How this happened I'm genuinely not sure. I caught my breath and thanked the divine above that my knees and elbows were not bleeding and oozing all over the ground.
For the next five miles, Mark and I road side by side just shaking our heads and our good fortune, or lack thereof depending on how you look at it.
Over 100 miles had passed under our tires and we were on the home stretch. We took turns drafting off each other to save our strength and sustain some sort of speed. By the time we were riding through Stevenson, that second storm front caught up to us. In no mood to put our heads down and tough out the pelting rain, we pulled into the nearest fire station for shelter. I imagine the fireman that saw us will have a story to tell when he gets home.
Five minutes passed and so did the rain. We were finally casting long shadows, the sun now setting over our right shoulders. Rolling through Hollywood, AL, I'm guessing named out of irony this being one of Alabama's least glamorous cities, my body was starting to feel drained. Neither of us were talking much. Mark even had a close call when he ran over a small stick on a corner. We had eaten so many powerbars and GU's along the way but the furnace needed more coal.
With just 5 kilometers left, our spirits were picking up. We uneventfully rode through downtown Scottsboro and scratched to a halt in that small lot from wince our first steps were taken days ago, er, hours technically.
"Well, Mark," I said, "that was fun. We should do it again sometime. You free tomorrow?"
He laughed. Funny, cause I meant every word.
An older gentleman about to start his ritual Friday morning walk around Jackson County Park with his noisy terrier beckoned the default inquiry anyone might ask a pair of riders preparing for an outing.
"Up to Sewanee and through South Pittsburgh," Mark responded. After a brief conversation about our shared interest in riding, we clipped in and started our Journey of a Thousand Miles, jersey pockets filled to the gill with food and other essentials.
Our route would take us on a scenic tour of thousands of rural homesteads that I could never imagine living in, yet fascinated by the prospect. Following a route mapped out on Mark's garmin, we hit several smooth, flat roads that had the added bonus of tailwinds flying over the surface. We made good time on these backroads that no one save for the locals and Fedex trucks would have reason to transverse. Even the stock carved from the hillside quarries were transported via rail. Church after church passed in and out of view. Aromas from the multitudes of livestock and roadkill invaded our senses intermittently and the constant bark of a loose dog always seemed to be coming from the next front yard. We didn't pass a single retail store for probably 35 or 40 miles.
The hills rose from our left and right but the road continued its winding coarse even past the boarder before it finally had a significant grade. Eight miles beyond the Tennessee State Line sign, the long climb onto the looming plateau began. Ever the mountain king, Mark ate the climb up; I wouldn't see him again until I reached the top myself. Along this pleasant mountain road, gaps in the trees gave way to picturesque Tennessee vistas; a scene I can comfortably say no other Huntsvillian that day would be graced with. An apt reward for the work put into the climb. I passed a small parking lot off the side of highway 56 and saw signs for a designated "natural area." Just beyond the parking lot I saw red markings on trees, a trail head. As I daydreamed about exploring those virgin woods with only my legs to carry me, storms were brewin' to our west.
By the time I met Mark at the top, some 1900ft above sea level, the bottom dropped out and we were quickly soaked through. With our LED's flashing behind us, we eventually made our way into Sewanee for our first rest stop. By then the rainclouds and their hail-like precipitation had mercifully moved on.
The Friday lunch crowed had gathered in the Blue Chair Bakery and Cafe, escaping the wet outdoors. Conversation flowed normally, practically undisturbed as two dripping wet men with helmets on clacked their cleated shoes on the wood-paneled floor. Sewanee, obviously a town familiar with the celebration of the southern outdoors.
We parked ourselves on an outdoor picnic table and dined on the local pastries made probably just hours before. Though neither of us said it, it was clear that our bodies and minds were in need of a pick me up. Maybe the sun could shine its face on us for the first time this overcast day? Our words were few at that table, keeping to our own thoughts for a moment only pausing at time or two to extol the virtues of a well made blueberry muffin.
A man passed on the sidewalk and mused at our sight. He began telling us about how much he liked riding and, inevitably, asked "where y'all going/ where'd y'all come from?" He referred us to a bike shop called "Woody's" just around the corner. Deciding this would be a good opportunity to get some proper "performance fuel" in the form of some powerbars and to get a weather update, we parked our bikes and headed in to the humble store. The proprietors were eager to have the company and pulled up the radar on their lap top. Fortunately the weather was looking like the front was moving on but there was a possibility that another would be moving through later in the day. Oh, and one last thing. Woody, the shop owner himself, advised us to "be careful" on a particular road we told him we were heading down to get off the plateau. Apparently the road itself was a bit gravely at times and we should "watch out for pot holes." We would later find out that this could be a candidate for the world's most understated warning.
Refueled and ready as ever to move on, the overcast skies still hovered above, not in any hurry to reveal our solar system's star. We continued east along state highway 156 and descended on slick roads into South Pittsburg. The time passed quickly as it had already been over two hours since our cursory visit to the University of the South. By now, I had surpassed my previous distance record on the bike. We were pushing eighty miles.
Needing a bathroom break, we hit up a Dollar General where I picked up a tallboy can of glorious mountain dew. The store patrons tried not to look phased at the sight of some damp, smelly cyclist but the fact that I had nothing in common with these people save for the English language made for a somewhat awkward exchange of salutations.
Bladders empty, for now, we started climbing our second big hill of the day, the same way we came into town. Soon we were back at a particular three way intersection that we road past earlier (the trip in to S. Pittsburg was an out 'n back from this point). Now, about that road we were cautioned about.
Turning onto Orme Road, several more dogs gave us chase before the decent began. At first it wasn't too arduous. Simple break application kept our gravity aided movement under control. Then the road, which probably hadn't see a human pass by in a decade, turned to gravel and our speed was shunted. Our bikes were out of their comfort zone rolling over all this loose rock.
Another mile or so down, we found the house of the South's most isolated weirdo, no doubt up to some dubious activity. And, of coarse, he had a dog, a big one, that we couldn't hope to out sprint on this crappy jeep road. For some reason, after he chased us for a few feet, he got lazy and turned back. Maybe he'd never been that far away from home before.
Figuring the worst of the road was over, we gritted our teeth and held on the the handle bars with white knuckles and numbing fingers, hopeful that this gravel bumpiness would give way to real pavement soon. It would, but not before doing its best to send us head over heels into the dirt.
All the sudden, a particularly washed out piece of road lay right in our path. With too much momentum to stop myself I plunged into wheel wrenching loose pebbles, sharp rocks and all other manner of tire-splitting earth. This was it. I was going to crash and die out here at mile 92, still far from home, a mangled mess in a desolate, forsaken "town" called Orme.
After the most recent events of my life finished flashing before me I rolled to a stop where the Orme deathtrap road terminated at a stop sign. I was alive and still upright. How this happened I'm genuinely not sure. I caught my breath and thanked the divine above that my knees and elbows were not bleeding and oozing all over the ground.
For the next five miles, Mark and I road side by side just shaking our heads and our good fortune, or lack thereof depending on how you look at it.
Over 100 miles had passed under our tires and we were on the home stretch. We took turns drafting off each other to save our strength and sustain some sort of speed. By the time we were riding through Stevenson, that second storm front caught up to us. In no mood to put our heads down and tough out the pelting rain, we pulled into the nearest fire station for shelter. I imagine the fireman that saw us will have a story to tell when he gets home.
Five minutes passed and so did the rain. We were finally casting long shadows, the sun now setting over our right shoulders. Rolling through Hollywood, AL, I'm guessing named out of irony this being one of Alabama's least glamorous cities, my body was starting to feel drained. Neither of us were talking much. Mark even had a close call when he ran over a small stick on a corner. We had eaten so many powerbars and GU's along the way but the furnace needed more coal.
With just 5 kilometers left, our spirits were picking up. We uneventfully rode through downtown Scottsboro and scratched to a halt in that small lot from wince our first steps were taken days ago, er, hours technically.
"Well, Mark," I said, "that was fun. We should do it again sometime. You free tomorrow?"
He laughed. Funny, cause I meant every word.
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