Storm Chased

It was days like this that I cherished the simple fact that there were no invisible speed bumps or intangible loads to slow or weigh us down. Even with the last predicament, I managed to put it behind me and fetch a pair of jeans and a shirt from a local Goodwill. I was back on the road in no time, drama free, worry free, and as I used to oversay, "hakuna matata."

There wasn't a great rush to join back up with the Mississippi since I developed a fondness for the Old Trace Parkway. Who knew what I was missing out on back on the banks but for now, who cared? The moment was all that mattered and it was refreshing to be committed to the spirit of spontaneous adventure again. With that, not much thought passed through my mind than did enjoyment in my heart, thus, for the most part, all there is to share are a plethora of pictures and footage attempting to capture the ever-elusive, under-appreciated present.

Every so often, Chance picks up a single stock of grass and there it will be for hundreds of miles. I keep the naturally decorative vegetation there as if it were the plume to a hat or better yet, the rural ode to Huck Finn's mouth.

The rains came early in the day but it was enjoyable!

This is what my smile looks like.

Although, the bleeding dye in the leather was making my fingertips look funny.

Then, just before the rain permeated through my supposedly waterproof jacket, a patch of blue appeared.

With a little bit of speed and distance, I was dry once again.

Then came another downpour! At first, I laughed!

Just as we pulled over, it became quickly evident that I was officially soaked down to my underwear! I ran into a part of the trace and tried to locate cover. The huge droplets beat down on my head so constantly it seemed too deafening to even think. Hastily, I ran around seeking a place to set up at least a temporary camp but the ground was either mud or the beginnings of a creek.

To have a Washingtonian running around as if the sky were falling was a testimony to the monsoon-like rain I was experiencing. For once I grew concerned for my motorcycle to be taking on this much water!

The options didn't seem readily apparent so I figured the best we could do was suit up and do our best to ride out of this storm cloud.

Here we go!

My damped briefs didn't dampen my spirits! I carried on, exploring every point of interest along the way.

At one point, I noticed that the treeline that I had become accustomed to flanking me was gone. A sign soon announced the area as damaged by a tornado just a couple months ago. The setting was a little eerie!

 

When I returned to the bike after one of my forest expeditions, the rain had stopped again. The sun wasn't out, though, and strangely I'd rather be swimming through the rain or baking in the sun's rays. Either way, I'd stay warm instead of simply enduring the chilling winds in my wet gear!

I thought it amusing to see my chrome pipe's look aluminum now. The shine can take a break; this suits us just fine.

The other side was within reach!

Huzzah! After that torrent, even with temperatures in the 90s, the direct warmth was well-welcomed and certainly worth writing home about.

But, as was the pattern for the day, my clothes just started to dry before the road pointed me straight at another stretch of dark clouds ready to burst. At this point, my knees were pressed up against the tank to keep from shivering and I graciously declined from getting anymore wet. We took the nearest exit which dropped us off in Tupelo, Mississippi. It's a unique sensation to return to the present day after being on what seemed like a forrest-hidden tunnel through time.

With that brief brush with culture shock that never seems to get old, so did Chance finally vocalize the wear of the journey. A harsh rattling could be heard underneath me in the lower gears and RPMs. Begging my two-wheeled trooper to hang in there, we sought out the nearest motel to give her a rest. The moment the kickstand went down, however, the last downpour of the day commenced, giving me no chance to perform any maintenance.

The fix up would have been sloppy at any rate for I was exhausted as well. Having every muscle shiver that long felt like a marathon by the day's end so we both agreed to just call it a night.

There's just no getting away from a little drama, is there? I suppose that's what keeps a story compelling! However, that's easy for my readers to say, now isn't it?

The sky looked very much the same the following morning after I rolled into a shaded, abandoned part of a shopping center. I had just forked over the cash for both a menacingly and comically large wrench with serious leverage to get the machine-tightened axel nut off the rear wheel. The incredible slack in the chain appeared to be the culprit for the rattling heard the other day so it needed a good tightening before we'd get any further.

It was a simple maintenance job but I sure felt proud onced it was done. Now for a test ride!

One lap around the lot later...

Rattle, rattle, rattle... Well, now we're in a pickle. My mechanical expertise only could go so far but thankfully my next home stay was with a motorcycling couple in Memphis who lived to fix engines. They had been eagerly awaiting my arrival, having just returned from their own trip just a couple days ago.

Over breakfast I checked to see if the distance would be too demanding for the cycle but what did I know, really? Next was the weather report. Again, nothing but thunderstorms for the entire week. My thoughts turned back to the television the night before when nothing seemed more interesting to me than the Weather Channel. A special report of lightning safety was broadcasted on account of the Southeastern United States which has seen rather constant storming since, well, my visit to New Orleans. What got under my skin was that the only safe place to be was inside your home or a metal-roofed car and far away from flat open spaces populated by the occasional lonely, doomed tree. That and the disturbing statistics at the number of lightning strike fatalities versus, say, snowstorms, hurricanes, or tornados! So much for the romanticized ideas of gaining super powers post-strike.

I had to difficult decision to make. One, we get to Memphis to treat Chance but get stuck there on account of the storms and burn through cash meant to gas just to subsist. Or two, we push north to avoid the storms and keep the progress from stagnating but risk serious damage, or worse, a breakdown. This wasn't a choice to be made on my own; my ride had just as much say.

The bike and I had a little pep talk. The miles on the odometer compared to the shape she was in told me Chance was willing to prove to me that no other motorcycle would be as dependable as her. If I had anything to learn from the first spill was that she was no engine to baby. Her stalwart disposition, which just could have been mistaken for an inanimate object, got me behind the idea of racing out of the South.

Somehow, as if somewhere in that assembly of a metal skeleton, hydraulic veins, pipes for lungs and an engine for a heart that beats over thousand times a minute at rest, she heard me. The rattling was gone. There was no time to lose!

We were in such a rush that I didn't even bother to mount the camera for the Doppler radar was showing amassing storms that were reaching well past Memphis. Outrunning that demanded the use of the interstate so there wasn't much to see anyway. Only hours later would I wish it were ready to capture the darkest, most threatening storm front I had ever seen in all my years.

Chance and I bolted northwest then hopped off the freeway outside of Memphis when the initial fireworks show was well behind us. The celebrations were postponed at the sight of a cloud formation that developed dead north of us. For once I can use colors to describe the scene despite my handicap since this cloud was incontestably as dark as a charcoal shade of grey. It dominated the sky like those collossal spaceships in that Independence Day movie. The road forced us to square off with it and seemed as if we'd enter right into the target zone if we dared to venture under it. This storm, still quiet, held my attention so mercilessly that I nearly plowed right into a truck in front of me who was probably just as mesmerized by its sublimity.

I resolved to skirt under it, daring to pickle the beast and hoping hell would wait to be unleashed in my wake. Bad timing. The storm's intimidating shadow heralded our entrance into a Mordor-like atmopshere. This sudden shift from day to twilight would have one think the sun, itself, was being eclipsed. The precipitation came down so hard and so suddenly that cars before me slowed to nearly half the speed limit in shock and maintained the crawl with fearful caution. The two of us zigzagged through the paralyzed traffic, still determined to get through to the other side. I knew we were in over our heads when the wind shifted out of nowhere from the normal forward resistance to left then right in one overpowering sweep, challenging our balance. Were we about to experience our first tornado? My mind raced almost as fast as we did. The crack and boom of thunder never sounded so loud to me so it had to be close. A curtain of hail announced itself on nearly every square inch surface of my front side, so instantly I buried my chest against her tank and pressed on just looking over the tops of my gauges. Confidence was quickly regained as the nimble motorcycle spirited us skillfully out of the minefield of skittish cars and trucks. In the corner of my eye a familiar sign with a green circle beckoned me for a last minute escape--

Before I knew it, after following what seemed like a rabbit hole maze through residences, I was on a lonely country road stretching to infinite, catching my breath while the storm continued to erupt a safe distance away. The sudden peacefulness was awe-inspiring. We had somehow found ourselves back on the Great River Road.

What had just happened minutes ago was lost to the moment. My helmet came off to let my face soak it all in and then the camera made its return. Now unhurried, we continued north along the banks of the Mighty Mississipi.

The sun never looked happier to see the two travelers it had strayed away from had survived in its absence.

The moments of tranquility were briefly interrupted by a strange figure on the horizon behind us. It looked like a giant spider of sorts was heading our way and I'd be a lier if I said I wasn't spurred flee. Only one photo was taken in my panic and it was still far in the distance.

When the giant on two tall legs seemed just yards away, about to bowl us over, it turned at a junction in the road. It looked like a futuristic military vehicle but it may have just been a bizarre farming equipment. Back to having not a care in the world, we followed the road whose wet surface shined as gold as the sun.

Bliss. It meandered, twisted and rolled around the contours of the river. At one point, I made a u-turn to explore a dirt road.

It was beautiful to be this close to the river. My imagination ran away with me when I started to picture building a raft much like the one the lepers built for Che. If only the river drained northward, Chance and I could float our way up to Minnesota. These innocent thoughts were eventually reprimanded by the encroaching thunder. We weren't out of the woods just yet.

The same front endured earlier was catching up so the race was still on! I didn't know where this road would take me but as long as the sun was at my left with the river then at least we were heading north. If only the storm was all I had to deal with; my fuel was getting low! Between the rush of escaping the storm and getting caught up with the juxtoposed beauty of this river road, gas just didn't cross my mind. We could only hope that the small settlement up ahead had a pump.

In vigilantly riding through, it became dishearteningly apparent that it was not so much a town than a small collection of farmer's residences and a church. Past it seemed like endless corn fields. With maybe 35 miles at best left in the tank, I had to pickle with the beast once more, for a ways back there was a sign indicating a connection with the freeway where gas had to be present. Sliding into home this far without getting tagged out will be a miracle.

The scenery heading back looked so different than when it was first so pleasantly traversed and the air was full of tension as well as building static. The two of us had to backtrack an unknown distance to find a junction that we could only hope wasn't already enveloped by the storm. That's right, we were diving right towards the storm! It would be about ten miles into the dark before that gut feeling told me to turn around as fast as we could.

I couldn't believe there was a time I was fascinated by this display of nature's raw power. As a motorcyclist and pilot, one comes to respectfully avoid and appreciate a violent storm from afar - not move towards it like a moth to the flame. This fellow can be as foolishly daring as the next immortally-minded young man but this was dangerous for even myself!

Refuge was temporarily found underneath a skinny awning attached to the small chapel where I hastily tried to triangulate my location on a partially loaded map with the thunder getting closer and closer. It was useless!

Some yokels were standing outside their lawn, gawking at the lightning display. I rode right up and shouted where I might find the nearest gas station. A woman managed to understand me over the explosions and pointed in the direction I was already headed, which looked like towards a dead end of corn fields. Her details couldn't be heard but I was satisfied with at least a heading. Chance revved up and bolted us out towards the hidden roadway where my concern turned to the likelihood of being stranded out in the open. My only contingency plan was to roll us into the thick of the tall stalks of corn and wait out the storm, praying that a charge of electricity would find us less attractive a target. Praise the heavens, there would be none of that!

A roadsign appeared out of the blue - or gray, rather - and told us we could slow down a bit. The next town was just five miles away. By the time it was reached, I reckon my machine had only another five to ten miles in her so it would be my second near-empty experience.

The storm ceased it's chase and it was safe to say the worst was now behind us.

We came to rest at the only lodging available after sunset: an inn in front of a large, shallow body of water known as Reelfoot Lake. The owner told me an earthquake in the early 1800s caused the Mississppi River to actually flow backwards for nearly half the day to fill in the subsided land. I later read that the name of the lake came from a Chickasaw Native American prince who went against their deity's wishes not to steal a neighboring tribe's princess in marriage. The Great Spirit stamped his foot in anger and raised the river's waters over its banks to flood Reelfoot's homeland.

In reviewing my map, the location of the lake revealed that we had been chased all the way into northern Tennesse, just a few miles short of Kentucky. It's surprising how far one can get with a little "motivation." On that note, the radar was predicting thunderstorms to continue clawing their way northward. The first city that didn't seem to forecast any of that anytime soon was St. Louis and there happen to be a hostel with a name that sold me!

The wheels were rolling early the following day. It was largely uneventful for a change once I left the countryside for the interstate on the Missouri side.

We had left early enough to miss out on most of the lightning extravaganza. But there was one strange storm formation...

This was my right.

This was my left.

We were traveling through an arch of storms!

Was this the South's send off? My own Arc de Triomphe for playing cat and mouse all over five or six states? Whatever it was, Chance and I limboed under unscathed and were happy to be arriving at our next destination dry for a once. I looked back over my shoulder knowing that despite nearly my entire time down there not going how I had imagined in my idealistically quixotic mind, at least it would be a hell of a story! Stress on the word hell.

Eventually, us, two weary river travelers washed up at the shores of our new transient home: The Huckleberry Finn Youth Hostel!