Northport to New Orleans, Day One
By 10 a.m. the August heat had given way to morning coolness. I took a left onto Pickens County Road 30 in the Coal Fire community, leaving a busy U.S. 82 with its log trucks and reputed drug traffickers from the West Coast. I had departed my house at 6:30 this morning: got my credit card, walked out my door, got on my bike and embarked on a six-day circuitous route from Northport, just outside Tuscaloosa, Alabama, to New Orleans. I hoped the solitary trip would be healing rather than harmful.
A short six weeks ago – it seems like much longer – I lost my wife of almost 28 years to renal cancer. Sherry and I had covered much of the route ahead of me together. Me on a bicycle, and Sherry coming later in the car. She referred to herself as SAG support.
While I've taken numerous bicycle trips without Sherry, my most memorable were the ones we tackled as a team. I would leave early in the morning and she would meet me at day’s end at our chosen destination – NOT camping for Sherry. A NICE motel with even nicer dinner plans.
Although once an athlete having achieved an eighth-in-the-nation ranking as a tennis player in her early teens, Sherry now had little, make that no, interest in cycling with me. I adjusted quickly and decided all the better -- she can bring all the stuff!
My 24-year-old daughter, a mother of two, had obviously inherited my mother's penchant for worry and, better yet, laying on the guilt. As I told her of my travel plans, she grimaced and said, "Dad, I don't want to lose you too!" Well, the guilt trip didn't work and I continue my westward route with plans of spending night one in Mathiston, Mississippi, just short of the Natchez Trace and some 111 miles from home.
Much to my chagrin the only motel in town has a sign on the office door: "Closed until 10:30 pm." By 10:30 I had hoped to have been asleep for two hours! Apparently 10:30 is when "rooms-by-the-hour" business is best.
I try to decide whether to don my "pity" persona or "charm" persona as I go into the local florist shop for some help. A bit of both gets me some assistance contacting the French Camp Bed and Breakfast some 27 miles down the Natchez Trace. I arrive there at 6:30 p.m. -- exhausted and a 138-mile first day behind me.
Lesson from Day One: Make motel reservations in advance.
By 10 a.m. the August heat had given way to morning coolness. I took a left onto Pickens County Road 30 in the Coal Fire community, leaving a busy U.S. 82 with its log trucks and reputed drug traffickers from the West Coast. I had departed my house at 6:30 this morning: got my credit card, walked out my door, got on my bike and embarked on a six-day circuitous route from Northport, just outside Tuscaloosa, Alabama, to New Orleans. I hoped the solitary trip would be healing rather than harmful.
A short six weeks ago – it seems like much longer – I lost my wife of almost 28 years to renal cancer. Sherry and I had covered much of the route ahead of me together. Me on a bicycle, and Sherry coming later in the car. She referred to herself as SAG support.
While I've taken numerous bicycle trips without Sherry, my most memorable were the ones we tackled as a team. I would leave early in the morning and she would meet me at day’s end at our chosen destination – NOT camping for Sherry. A NICE motel with even nicer dinner plans.
Although once an athlete having achieved an eighth-in-the-nation ranking as a tennis player in her early teens, Sherry now had little, make that no, interest in cycling with me. I adjusted quickly and decided all the better -- she can bring all the stuff!
My 24-year-old daughter, a mother of two, had obviously inherited my mother's penchant for worry and, better yet, laying on the guilt. As I told her of my travel plans, she grimaced and said, "Dad, I don't want to lose you too!" Well, the guilt trip didn't work and I continue my westward route with plans of spending night one in Mathiston, Mississippi, just short of the Natchez Trace and some 111 miles from home.
Much to my chagrin the only motel in town has a sign on the office door: "Closed until 10:30 pm." By 10:30 I had hoped to have been asleep for two hours! Apparently 10:30 is when "rooms-by-the-hour" business is best.
I try to decide whether to don my "pity" persona or "charm" persona as I go into the local florist shop for some help. A bit of both gets me some assistance contacting the French Camp Bed and Breakfast some 27 miles down the Natchez Trace. I arrive there at 6:30 p.m. -- exhausted and a 138-mile first day behind me.
Lesson from Day One: Make motel reservations in advance.
posted by Olivia at 10:31 PM
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