Monday

We had a really great day in Memphis on Sunday.  Went to the National Civil Rights Museum housed in the Lorraine Motel where MLK was assassinated.  Very well done exhibits and so very thought provoking and sobering.  It is just crushing to know and see evidence of (again) the sacrifices and the struggle of so many people for so long and to hear on the news, as we did right before we went to the museum, of more race-based strife on our streets and in our institutions.  The situation in Baltimore (not to mention Ferguson, Sanford and countless other places), now, in our day, is so very sad.  The museum did a good job of reminding visitors that we still have a very long way to go.  Too sadly true.

After a quick sandwich in a very Memphis bar/restaurant, we took a tour of the Gibson Guitar Factory, a relatively new facility in Memphis.  Very interesting to see all the steps of the process as we walked right through the factory floor with our safety goggles on and dust flying.  All kinds of people streamed in for tours on the hour every day.  We resisted buying a shiny new guitar from their showroom.  I have a lot more practicing to do before I earn one of those.

From the sobering, to the sublime to the ridiculous, we marched right over to the elegant turn-of-the-last-century lobby of the Peabody Hotel to see the duck march.  Forty-five minutes before the appointed hour (the ducks march out of the fountain at 5:PM to the elevator and a ride up to their penthouse home; they march back into the fountain from the elevator at 11:AM), the lobby was filling up fast.  Exactly fountain-side, there was an older couple at a table for four.  We, in good tandem cruise ship style, asked if we could share their table.  After a disconcerted minute on their part, they said ok.  They were visiting from Detroit, enjoying retirement from patternmaking in a factory there.  Pretty soon the “ringmaster” in his red jacket and top hat announced the rules for the duck march:  stay in your seat (mean-looking bouncer prominently stationed), or stand behind the ropes and children may be SEATED in front of the ropes in a single row.  At five to five, the red carpet got rolled out, and the drum roll began.  An Italian visitor was given a fancy gold-topped cane and appointed assistant ringmaster.  At one minute to five the ducks hopped out of the fountain and began waddling around the rim.  At the stroke of five, cue the music and the ducks hop down the red-carpeted stairs placed for them from the fountain to the red carpet.  Waddle, waddle, waddle along the red carpet into the waiting elevator, with waiting attendant and it was all over in two minutes.  Raucous applause and cheering and then people disperse or turn back to their drinks and snacks.  So weird and yet strangely funny and diverting.  This has been going on for the last 80 years (this is the fourth ringmaster), after a drunken group of duck hunters decided to put their live decoys in the fountain.  And the crowd went wild.  So, they stayed.  Of course everything at the Peabody is duck related from napkins and swizzle sticks to t-shirts and hotel awnings.  It’s hilarious. 

So ended our Memphis 2.0 tour, a day of startling contrast.

 

Tuesday (Happy Birthday, Emilia!)

We packed up the car, put the bike on the back and set out for first stop on the way home:  Bowling Green, Kentucky.  Or so we thought.  We’ve used Lexus Inform many times and have always reached the correct destination no problem.  We had scouted out a 20-mile group ride at 5:30 in that town and after signing into the “MeetUp” app, let the ride leader know that we would join them. Drive, drive, drive, still in Tennessee, still in Tennessee, wow, Bowling Green must be right on the border, I thought we’d be in Kentucky by now.   We had good weather, making really good time thinking wow, we will have plenty of time to get ready and find the ride.  Then, as we pull into a Courtyard by Marriott, we hear the lovely voice saying, “You have arrived at your destination.”  Except that it wasn’t.  We actually still were in Tennessee at some random town that was fortunately on the way to Bowling Green, but unfortunately another 100 miles away.  Arrrrrgggghhhhh.  We can still make it, but now we’re hungry.  And out in the middle of nowhere.  Spotted a funky-looking Subs and Pizza place called Tiny Town.  Actually the subs weren’t bad.  Back in the car zooming toward Bowling Green, thinking we can make it.  A little bit of traffic heading into town, we can make this, yes we can.  Get to the Marriott with five minutes to get ready and still make the ride.  One guy ahead of us at check in, who of course, had issues.  I look at Joe, “It’s over.”  We both drop our shoulders and let it go.  I go back into MeetUp and send regrets.  Finally up in our room settling in, Joe says, “Where is my iPad?  Do you have your checkbook?”  “No.”  “The safe in Memphis!  We left it open and forgot to empty it!”  Arrrrrgggghhhhhh. Again!  So Joe made a call to the the security desk at the Sheraton is Memphis, the guy went up to the room and thankfully found our stuff, which also included cash, computer cables, etc., etc.  Relief.  Sushi at an out-of the way place that had plenty of Asian clients, so we figured it would be OK.  It was good.  End of another crazy day.

Wednesday

We had been invited by our new friends Rhonda and Richard to stop by their house in West Virginia for an overnight on our way home and we took them up on it.  Richard is an engineer through and through and offered to do some fiddling with our bike, including loaning us a more comfortable saddle for me, and a new kind of pedal for Joe.  So, OK, we’d love to come visit.  He was born and raised in South Carolina and she in Tennessee and their hospitality knows no bounds.  We were welcomed into their huge empty-nest home and given our choice of bedrooms, king, queen or another queen.  They fed us a wonderful dinner of enchiladas and margaritas (or home brewed beer—delicious) with entertaining conversation, which we ate outside watching the birds and squirrels in their wooded back lot. 

These are the people whom we met on our stopover in Crossville, on the way to Memphis.  They spend much of the year traveling the U.S. in their “coach.” We went to see it after dinner.  This is one awesome rolling house.  One and a half baths. Richard is remodeling it all by himself and it is truly spectacular.  We had tons of questions, most of which boiled down to “how do you DO this????”  They are heading out at the end of May for a long weekend century ride in Lexington and then out to an annual “convention” of fellow Newell (the brand of their coach) owners in Tahoe.  They will then tour the northwest and return in October to regroup before they head for Florida for a couple of months.  We were invited to spend a week with them there.  Yes and thank you!!  They are avid hikers, bikers, orienteers and then there’s the trail running.  I don’t even know what that is. 

Thursday

Richard and Rhonda fed us breakfast like royalty and Richard perfected several things on our bike and then they fed us lunch like royalty.  It was a bittersweet good-bye.  But there’s Florida to look forward to.  What a great feeling to find wonderful new friends.

We drove in and out of downpours through West Virginia.  The sunny parts revealed glorious mountain scenery.  It really is wild and wonderful.  Stopped for a final hurrah in Edinburg, Virginia for a late lunch/early dinner at a cool little one-of-a-kind restaurant, and chatted with the owner as we ate, since we were the only ones in the place.

When we finally walked in the door back in Burke around 7:30 PM, we heard desperate cries coming from Jose upstairs.  He had fallen two hours earlier and had clearly broken something.  All of us (including him) had agreed that Nubia (his day care-giver) could leave at her regular time, as we would be home and he stays for several hours alone all the time.  Well, he decided to go to the bathroom (Nubia had told him to stay in bed until we got home) and boom – he tripped over his slippers.  He didn’t want to go to the hospital that night, which we understood.  Been there, done that, and emergency rooms at night are no place for anybody who can help it.   We knew either a hip or leg was broken, but he was comfortable after we got him back in bed if he didn’t move.  Tomorrow will be a good day for the hospital.

So ended our Mississippi trip.  Adventures never end, wherever we may be.  

Friday

What a morning. Bill had arranged a “critical mass ride” through the French Quarter, led by the varsity coach of the Tulane University racing team, who is also a local hero because right after Katrina, he snuck through police lines, stole a boat and saved something like 28 people during a 5-day period.  When they caught him, they made him a Coast Guard honorary boson or something like that.  We chose not to participate in this ride.  The streets were narrow and crowded, and even though the concept of the critical mass means that you can run lights as a big group, there would be lots of starting and stopping in close quarters.  Not fun for tandems.  Many hearty souls did go, however, and said it was great, even though there were a few bikers that went down.  This ride was not sanctioned by the police and Bill and Jan rode up front with the guy “so I’ll get arrested, not him.”  Needless to say, nobody got arrested.

Meanwhile, we had to get our bike ready and repack all our stuff because the truck was going to carry whatever we didn’t need for the next 3 days back to Memphis.  We got our bike down early and then went through the ridiculously excruciating hassle of repacking and deciding what to send and what to keep.  Got our bags down to the truck by what we thought was the deadline.  According to Bill, who told us in no uncertain terms, that the bags were supposed to be down before bikes to fit everything into the truck, which was almost full.  Huffing and puffing in more ways than one ensued.  I exited stage left, while Joe helped Bill and others unload some of the bikes so that our luggage (and one other couple’s, thank heaven) could fit and then the bikes on top.  Yikes.

On a calmer note, we then took off with our neighbors Tim and Francine for a short carriage ride through the French Quarter (see pic), had lunch—Po Boy of course—and did some gargoyle shopping (see pic).  No further comment from me.  Drop by our house if you want to see it for yourself with your own eyes.  We take no legal, or any other kind of responsibility, for what might happen to you next. 

Finally, out to dinner with our lovely niece, Sarah, her new husband Clint and lovely stepson Devlin (see pic).  It’s always a rollicking good time with Sarah and this was no exception.  We went to a very cool pizza place where the cooks have to train in Naples before they can work there.  Yum!  Sarah kindly drove us back to the boat. We were sad to say good-bye.

 

Saturday

Good news and bad news on this day.  OK, good first.  We disembarked early without incident and made it to the Hyatt where we would be staying for the night, and they actually had our room ready at 8:AM.  This was Joe’s plan all along and of course it worked.  We had a fun lunch with a high school friend of Joe’s and his wife, Manny and Pam Fuentes.  We had gone to their wedding 32 years ago and might have seen them once in the intervening years.  It was good to catch up; especially for Joe.  Those life-long friendships are precious.  Later that evening (after some bad stuff) we strolled back into the Quarter and ended up scoring a table for two, at Mr. B’s Bistro (B for Brennan…. Breakfast at Brennan’s anyone?  Not this place but the other place on Canal Street), actually run by the original Mr. Brennan’s niece.  Great meal in a hopping, packed place.

Bad stuff:  We checked into the Hyatt (see good stuff above) after an early morning short cab ride over from the dock, with the woman cabbie complaining the whole time basically about how income inequality was not fair.  No question.  We agree.  I, for one, certainly can acknowledge the squirm factor, given our position.  Be that as it may, while Joe was checking in, I looked down at the bags and suddenly realized that my purse was not among them.  Heart jumps into throat, mad dash outside to try to catch her, security guy checking camera to see if he can find a cab number (of course we did not note it on that short ride).  No luck.  Meanwhile, Joe calmly sits down and tries to do an Apple “find my phone” for me.  I can’t remember my Apple password (gotta fix that soon).  More calm thinking, thinking, thinking from Joe.  He remembers that we have an app called Life 360, on which I am registered along with Joe and Anna for emergency location (Emilia, Dave, Brian, Hetty, get on the stick!!!! Don’t you want us to know where your phone is every minute of your lives???????).  He locates “me” a block away.  I start running and by the time I’m out the lobby rotary door, the cab has pulled up.  I dove into the back of the cab, with our cabbie friend saying, in her Hatian or West African accent, “I didna touch it, I didna touch it!”  I’m like, “Thank you, thank you, I believe you, thank you, thank you so much.”  All I had in my wallet were two $50 bills.  I whipped one out and she said no, no and I said yes, yes, thank you so much.  Whew.  Faith in humanity renewed and another big lesson re-learned.  Actually a few.  Know your iPhone password, get Life 360, and oh yeah, don’t leave your purse in a cab.

Other bad thing.  The weather was cloudy but OK in the morning and at lunch.  Our afternoon plan was to head straight to the New Orleans Jazz Fest, which I had been looking forward to for YEARS.  The night before, they closed it down an hour early due to storms with lightning.  We’re just about ready to go:  downpour with lightning.  OK, we’ll wait till it lets up before we hop on the shuttle to the fair grounds.  The last one leaves at 4:30 and the Fest closes for the day at 7.  2 PM pouring.  3PM pouring.  I’m looking out the window every few minutes.  We were sadly not equipped to spend a day in the rain and the mud.  No rain gear, no chairs, no guts.  We did not know that Wellies (rubber rain boots for the uninitiated), raincoats and portable chairs were the JazzFest uniform.  With a broken heart, I gave up hope at 4:30.  Of course the rain stopped and the sun came out at 5, just as The Who took the stage for what was reportedly a kick-ass two hour set, opposite John Legend at another stage and Robert Cray at another.  Heartbroken.  So what do you do in that case?  Snuggle in to watch “American Sniper” in a hotel room, of course.  THEN, after that and it still hurts like hell, when one item on your bucket list falls through, what do you do?  You add four more:  Newport Jazz Fest, Montreal Jazz Fest, Montreux Jazz Fest and New Orleans Jazz Fest (do-over)!!! We are going back armed and dangerous.  We rationalized by telling ourselves that we were trying to squeeze in too much by adding a no-other-option-mad-afternoon-dash to an already overwhelming vacation trip.  Next time, we need to go down just for the Fest and go prepared.  Live and learn.  Nevertheless, the heartache (literally and physically, for me anyway) lasted for the next two days.

Sunday

We took it easy in the hotel in the morning.  Walked two blocks to the train station lugging our luggage (I guess that why it’s called luggage).  Got to head up the “seniors” line to board The City of New Orleans back to Memphis.  Those who need assistance first, then seniors.  A few advantages to admitting your age.  It was a FREEZING and super-rocky 9 hour ride.  Interesting to see all the little towns from the tracks.  Both sides of the tracks often seemed to be the wrong side, and we had several discussions about what happens in rural America when all the dying little towns actually die.  I don’t know.  Does anybody?  At dinner time we shared a table in the dining car with a very young woman pharmacist who travels for Freddy’s Pharmacies all over the south training their employees.  She said Freddy’s is trying to preserve the hometown feel of a neighborhood pharmacy.  I put my foot in my mouth when I expressed my delight with mail-order pharmacies.  “We hate them,” she said without a smile.  End of discussion on that topic.  We moved to her two-year-old and our kids and granddaughter.

When we arrived in Memphis at 11:PM, there was a white painted school bus waiting to take us to the hotel.  More bag-lugging from train to bus and squeezing all the tandem riders from that train into said bus.  It was as cold out in the air in Memphis as it had been on the train.  A hot bath back at the hotel would be the cure.

It was another complicated ride plan involving many miles, a must-catch ferry (see pic of hand drawn map) and iffy weather.  After four straight days of riding, we decided to stay on the boat.  We went to the peace and quiet of the empty Engine Room Bar (see pic) to work on the blog.  After lunch, Joe took a nap while I hung out on the deck as the boat moved to the final docking location of the day.  Except there’s no dock!  It was—like most other stops except for Memphis and New Orleans—just this huge 5-story steamboat sidling up to what was literally a small boat ramp for people to launch their rowboats or canoes or kayaks.  The paddle wheel would stop, the side thrusters would fire up and we just snuggled right up to the shore where the gangplank was swung out by hand with just rope and pulleys.  It was carefully placed on a country road or ramp so bikes could roll off or on.  Then the crew would find an anchoring cable on shore, or in this case, under water (see pic of the guy in hip boots searching in the much and muck).  So finally the boat gets tied up just below a levee in front of The Houmas House Plantation and Gardens in Burnside, Louisiana.  As a crawfish boil and Cajun band get set up, we climb the levee and walk to the beautiful grounds of the plantation house for our pre-arranged mint julep and tour.  The bar was the entryway for one of several out buildings.  This one was one of two octagonal structures (at least the beginning of it), called “garconierres,” where, the plaque told us, young men of a certain class were brought to learn the “vices” of a gentleman.  The smell of tobacco in the bar was so strong I could swear the walls were papered with it.  As we moved further into the structure, it opened into a long hall way which in turn opened into an elegantly furnished dining room with a long table that could seat 30 or more young gentlemen and guests.  Yet another room beyond that was the card/chess room with large horned hunting trophies all over the walls.  The plaque also said that there was a bed chamber upstairs, but we did not see that.

 

Back outside, we decided not to wait for the next tour of the big house, as we could hear the Cajun music over the levee and did not want to miss the crawfish or the music.  It was around 6 PM, and bikes were still riding up and down the steep levee to the boat after their day-long ride.  Our leader Bill was playing washboard with the band as Jan greeted returning riders and telling them about the crawfish appetizer before dinner on the boat.  We boarded and just hung out on the deck for awhile, enjoying the music and the people dancing and enjoying the evening.  Such a fun and lovely memory.

After dinner and a long and confusing talk by Bill about the disembarkation process in New Orleans, the show was “The New Orleans Jazz All Stars.”  These are older men who have played all their lives in and around New Orleans.  Think Preservation Hall bands.  They were great!

This was another interesting day but for different reasons.  We never know the real story of each day's ride until the "ride talk" on the morning of that day.  We get a minimal preview at "Bill's Talk" the previous evening before the show which are mostly description of the places and sights on the route.  Specific questions about the rides themselves are skillfully deflected.  We think the primary reason for this is that Bill and his team will spend part of the prior evening and early morning finishing or completely changing routes.  This is especially true on this trip because the river is still rising after all the rain of the previous week and some planned docking spots are under water.  They have really been scrambling to make adjustments almost every day and to do it with as limited a negative impact on our overall experience as possible.  There are complaining malcontent participants on every trip, of course, but I say if you can't go with the flow on a Santana trip, better not sign up.  Which brings us to the logistics of getting all of us to and through Angola prison.

At the morning route talk, Bill announced that the ride one way would be 25 miles, plus 10 miles within the compound itself.  So, knowing that only a few of us would want to ride 60 miles (although he added a couple of side attractions so people could ride 70 or 75, and some did), he had to split us in half:  one group would bus and truck bikes out in the morning and the other half would ride out and bus/truck back.  A coin was flipped in front of the whole crowd and it was determined that the even numbered rooms would ride out and the odds would ride back.  Being in room 509, this was NOT going to work for us.  We were exhausted from the previous days' rides but I was determined that we were not going to miss Angola and only completely disabled people were allowed to ride the bus both ways (which pride would not allow us to do anyway).  So. Any hope for us would be to ride first, and die later.  There was one option that allowed us to go in the morning without breaking the rules:  if we could find a couple that was in an even numbered room and who planned to ride both ways, we could go in their place in the morning.  So while Joe stood in line for the new rout sheet, I ran madly around the boat looking for Richard and Rhonda and confirming that it was their intention to ride both ways and could we partner up with them.  Done. 

So we set off with our friends and rode through the small town of St. Francisville, along a short stretch of four-lane highway and then turned down a two-lane road that would take us straight to the gates of the penitentiary.  Well, not exactly straight (there were some curves) and, as usual, there were some hills.  Once again, our riding companions were much stronger, but they kindly tried to not let us drop too far behind.  As before, they disappeared on the hills, but let us catch up on the downhills and flats.  It was a lovely rural road and then we finally pulled up to the sound of live gospel/soul/blues music, savory smells of jambalaya, and riders milling around under lovely green shade trees.  Just a few more steps and there was the front gate of the "Louisiana State Penitentiary." 

As I mentioned in the last post, the band were inmates released from work to play for us and they were wonderful.  Really good musically and very heartfelt. We were able to mingle and talk with them between numbers and they seemed to really appreciate our appreciation of them.  Yummy lunch of jambalaya, salad, rolls and blueberry cobbler.  In the building behind us was a museum containing all kinds of information and historical artifacts of the prison, including a replica of the electric chair "Gruesome Gertie," which could not be avoided on the way to the ladies' room. 

The group that took the morning bus was returning from their ride-tour of the complex and we were finishing lunch.  The a quick call to get on the bikes and with the cry of "We're rolling!" 200 people on singles and tandems took off with a jeep escort in the front and another in the rear.  We were told to not leave gaps, but that's difficult with so many riders and especially with tandems.  Nonetheless, we were on our way.  The first third of the ride looked like riding through a large farm.  The whole place is 13,000 acres and we were told that it was prison land as far as we could see.  We stopped once so a guide with a bull horn could tell us about the agricultural activities and products of the prison.  An interesting comment was that they found it was more economical to sell the cattle we saw being raised and buy cheaper cuts of beef on the outside for the prisoners to eat "in their meat sauce."  Also, there were no milk cows because it was discovered that people did not want to buy "prison milk."  We scratched our heads over that one for a while.

The group took off again and passed a medium security section of non-violent offenders who had been moved there from other prisons that had been closed down elsewhere in the state.  We waved to inmates who were out playing basketball on the sunny afternoon and they waved back.  We passed a couple of pens with some bison, bulls and for whatever reason a camel!  Rode past the maximum security buildings which Joe noted did not have air-conditioning units.  This was confirmed later, but they do have fans.  On this April afternoon, it was already hot.  We rode past the rodeo arena, where last weekend they had their annual Angola Rodeo.  We were told that the inmates were not "forced to participate" but many did, enough to draw crowds from all over to come and see the rodeo.  As we rode by, inmates behind razor wire fences were breaking down colorful booths and other festival-like stuff.  It felt strange.  And then, we rode past a beautiful, tranquil golf course where people from the outside can come to play (the inmates cannot).  One last stop under the trees for a Q&A with our guide, and an opportunity to meet and talk with a couple of dogs and their handlers.  There were lots of questions from the group and it was interesting.  My question was, are there any women in the facility, and the answer was no.  The youngest inmate is 15, with a life sentence for murder.  They are keeping him separately "until he is mature enough to join the general population."  Whatever that means.  Except for the small medium security facility we passed, almost all the inmates are either on death row or in for life without possibility of parole.  The average age is high and there is a hospital and hospice on the grounds.  All very sobering stuff.

We left the prison, grabbed a snack, made sure our bike was loaded onto the truck and got on the bus.  As we passed the riders cycling on the route home, we were very glad we weren't climbing those hills again. 

Tuesday at Cedar Grove Plantation, April 21, 2015

Tuesday was an interesting day.  There were the usual 35, 50 and 75-mile ride options, all converging at a catered lunch on the grounds of Cedar Grove Plantation.  The ride back to the boat was billed at different times as 8 miles or maybe 11.  We were tired after the 48 from the day before, but didn’t want to miss lunch.  So, OK.  We’ll ride the home route backwards to lunch, leaving around 12 to get there around 1, after the noon rush but before the end time of 2.  No problem.  Nice leisurely morning, maybe get some of the blog up. 

Well, predictably the Internet wasn’t working well (or at all) and one of us got frustrated and went up for a morning nap and one of us wrote in her journal in the Ladies’ Parlor.   Meanwhile our fearless and ever-resourceful leader, always negotiating—if not to say scheming--for the benefit of his clients’ entertainment, happiness and well-being, was in serious talks in the Gentlemen’s Card Room with the American Queen executives, the River Authority reps and Louisiana State Correctional officials. This was to allow us to dock in a certain spot, thereby displacing a previously scheduled riverboat to another less-desirable spot.  Additionally, Bill wanted us all to be able to ride into Angola the next day in two big groups (remember, his former trips here were 180 people or so, and we are pushing 400) AND have all the perks he previously enjoyed which were:  inmates released from work time to play blues for us during lunch, a full catered lunch from the prison’s food service while NOT being able to offer an exchange as in years past which was a day on the boat for the State of Louisiana to hold some kind of one-day conference with lunch while we were all out at Angola.  Yep, he got everything he wanted and they got nothing.  That’s our Bill.

Back to Tuesday’s ride.  We set off more like 12:30, climbed a hill into a lovely tiny riverside town and promptly dropped a chain right on Main Street.  OK.  Not hard to put it back on.  BUT, from then on out through lovely but tight neighborhood streets of lovely southern homes, and then highways, Joe struggled mightily with gears that were clinking and clanking and not going into the smallest gears we needed for the hills.  This ride was actually advertised as relatively flat, but we should know by now that means very hilly and it was.  We lost the chain again at the top of a hill on the shoulder of a busy highway.  Well, we fixed that and then clanked along up and down “rolling hills,” now on more quiet back roads.  We kept going and going and wondering where lunch was.  The GPS said 8 miles, 9 miles….11 miles….we finally began to see bikes coming our way back from lunch and found some hope and motivation to keep it up.  12 miles…..13……no lunch.  Then finally we saw the trucks and bus and pulled into the lovely lawn of the plantation as the caterers were beginning to wrap things up.  We gobbled down some etouffe, red beans and rice, salad and lemon bars under gracious trees while the mechanics fixed our mechanical problem.

In a rush so as to be not the VERY last out, we hastily packed up the bike and shoved off, with only a couple of bikes and the ride leaders behind us.  Fortunately, retracing a ride always feels faster than going out, and in this case, it definitely was, what with no mechanical issues and a couple of other bikes for company.

We made it back with just enough time to clean up, meet our friends Richard and Rhonda for a drink before a raucous dinner at a table for 6 with another fun couple who are leaving here for a self-supported, self-planned 6-week tour of the Southeast.  They do one long trip like that in the spring and another in the fall.  Amazing.  The evening’s entertainment in the Grand Saloon (see pics) was a local band called “Super Chicken,” consisting of an experienced (let’s say), black blues musician with a super-enthusiastic while woman keyboardist and back up singer, a tiny, catatonic, eccentrically dressed Asian woman on bass and a very laid-back (don’t see those very often) young black woman drummer.  They ably did original blues material and covers, so much so that even with tired legs, I couldn’t help dancing my heart out in a balcony box.

Today was epic (for us). It will be hard to describe in writing, but I'll try.  After an intense storm with high winds during the night (was that banging bikes flying off the deck?) steaming from Helena to Vicksburg, we woke up to our 6:AM wake-up call, got dressed to ride an went to breakfast, then to the ride talk.  The original plan was a 70+ mile option to ride 30 miles from the boat in Vicksburg through the small town of Port Gibson with several sights, to lunch at Mr. D's, 12 miles down the road, then 35 more miles down the Natchez Trace to Natchez and the boat.  As usual, there were shorter options involving buses for people and vans for bikes with pick-ups and drop-offs at several spots along the way.  For some reason, the first leg became unavailable, so the decision was to bus everybody to Port Gibson and load ALL the bikes onto two trucks and deliver them to Port Gibson.  We were happy to ride the bus to Port Gibson (our plan from the start) which we did and then spent an hour and a half exploring the tiny town with a wonderful quilt museum and a working cooperative of women teaching quilting to poor local  people for income.  Some of that time was sitting on or near the Courthouse steps, waiting for the truck with the bikes.  One truck finally arrived.  By some strategic parking of our bike before leaving Vicksburg and some luck, our bike was the second-to-last to come off that first truck.  The second truck never came.  We found out later that the tour staff and four or five volunteer riders had a frantic and chaotic time trying to fit all the remaining bikes into the 2nd truck (Bill had unsuccessfully tried to rent a third on short notice).  There were bikes of all sizes this way and that and they apparently considered strapping a couple on the top of the truck.  By ingenuity and effort they finally got them all in, but not before Jan had ushered many irate riders into buses to go to lunch, with sworn promises that their bikes would all arrive safely there in time to ride the last leg down the Trace to Natchez.

We, personally, had a lovely ride to lunch with the couple who are our next door stateroom neighbors from Colorado.  He is very tall with thighs like tree trunks, she is about a third his size and is still recovering from a year's worth of treatment for an aggressive form of breast cancer.  See what I mean about intrepid?  And, as we found out in Croatia, those Colorado couples just do nothing but climb mountains on their bikes all day.  On the way to lunch, Tim and Francine kindly did not drop us. 

Lunch was crazy good.  Mr. D's is an ancient general store in the middle of nowhere with the walls lined with shelves of everything, presumably for sale, from stacks of vinyl records (not in jackets) to old lamps in various conditions to knick-knacks of all kinds.  Jan and Bill found this place years ago and have been fast friends with Mr. D and his grown children ever since.  Their claim to fame is the best fried chicken in the country and boy oh boy, they lived up to it!!! Needless to say, any dietary restraint I might have had for the last 6 months went right out the window.  Ohmygoodness, it was sooooooooo good!  There were also tons of choices like collard greens, yams, ribs, baked chicken, fish, cole slaw, you get the picture.  While we were gorging on fried chicken, Mr. D kept coming out of the kitchen to sing to us about his chicken, then his son came out to sing about his daddy.  Meanwhile Jan is trying diplomatically to get them back in the kitchen as riders continued to stream in, becaaaaauuuuussssse Mr. D is the only person who fries all that chicken.  Apparently, Mr. D doesn't delegate that task for quality control purposes,  Whatever his secret, it works!  

So as we waddled back to our bikes, other riders were steadily taking off (all the bikes DID make it to Mr. D's).  We began our ride down the incredibly beautiful and tranquil Natchez Trace.  Our friends Tim and Francine politely tried to stay with us, but it was impossible to match them on hills and when their engine gets going (as for most of those super strong teams) it's hard for them to hold back.  No worries.  Everyone rides their own ride.  The two-lane parkway was smooth and with only an occasional car carefully passing far to our left.  It was tandem heaven.  EXCEPT that, the grades sneak up on you in rolling terrain like this.  Later, we learned that those sneaky grades are called "false flats."  They look flat to the eye, but when you look at the bike computer, they are 3% or even 4% grades!  We had already ridden 12 miles to lunch, and now we were committed to 36 more.  Without going into gory detail, it was a true challenge for us.  But we made it and in the end celebrated a personal best :-).

We went to bed on Saturday night not knowing the ride options were going to be for Sunday.  It's a moving target for our ride organizers because all the recent rains are bringing the river level up and some previously planned docking locations are now underwater.  Jan and Bill (the owners of the company that makes our bikes and the touring agency that plans these trips) have been furiously consulting with the boat captains and lunch caterers and van and truck rentals on a daily basis).  In any case, at the 6:30 AM Sunday morning route talk, (we're already in riding togs, slathered with sunscreen) we are told that if you get off the boat with your bike at the mandated 7:45, you would either have to ride 70 miles because the boat would be moving to the next port during the day OR choose to ride 30 miles in the morning to lunch at "Ground Zero" for the birth of the blues, then sit in a bus until 4:PM OR sit in the bus on a ride to lunch, then ride 40 miles on the bike (delivered to the lunch location in a Rider truck) to the boat and make it by 4:PM when the boat pulls away OR stay on the boat all day.  BUT FIRST, there will be a "Convocation" at the old theater in the small town of Helena, Arkansas at 8:AM.  So, decisions, decisions.  Plus it is now RAINING with rain predicted pretty much all day.   

Let me tell you, these riders are intrepid.  The vast majority were suited up in their biking rain gear and pedaling up away from the boat as we boarded the bus for the Convocation in our street clothes, deciding to sit the day out on the boat.  The Convocation was a black Baptist preacher offering a prayer and thanks to Jan and Bill for bringing us all out to fill up their theater, which rarely happens in that tiny and decaying town.  Reverend Hughes then introduced

"The Hughes Sisters," five of his sisters and nieces, who sang several heartfelt gospel songs without any kind of accompaniment.  One more prayer and we were back on the bus as probably more than two-thirds of our group took off in the rain on their tandems and singles.  We spent the morning in the "Mark Twain Lounge", full of river artifacts, books, Twain memorabilia, heavy, dark Victorian furniture and a large picture of Samuel Clemens surveying all.  I worked on the blog while Joe tried unsuccessfully to upload pictures.  The internet is very very sketchy on the boat, hence the delay in this getting out to you. 

By lunch time (or before) of course the sun was shining brightly, but it was definitely windy.  It would have been a long day no matter what and we were satisfied with our choice.  Explored the boat a little more and had a great nap in the afternoon.  The evening show was terrific.  Some great musicians, calling themselves the "Suns of Memphis" who took us through a rollicking show of Elvis (complete with gold jacket), Jerry Lee Lewis (fantastic antics on the piano including playing with his foot a couple of times and kicking out the piano bench), Carl Perkins ("Blue Suede Shoes", of course) and Johnny Cash. They ably recreated the feel of the "million dollar quartet" we saw in the famous picture at Sun Studios in Memphis, without being cheesy impersonators.  I LOVED it.  Felt 13 years old again.  So, so fun.

            Friday evening we met up again with our new friends Richard and Rhonda, and walked down again to the dive called Westy's which was much livelier than the previous day's lunch.  They have an extensive menu of wild rice concoctions that we needed to try.  I ordered the shrimp, onions and mushrooms  wild rice with the "Goldcrest 51" beer that owner had stopped making 30 years ago and just started up again.  My bottle was from the first batch in all that time.  Tasted good, too.  Joe added Gouda cheese to his wild rice concoction and a good time was had by all.  Then back to the room for an early night to get ready for the big day ahead.

            Saturday:  Our first "official" ride was nine miles to Graceland through downtown and then along the 4 lane not-very-pretty Elvis Presley Boulevard.  First stop was at the visitors center where we doffed our helmets and jackets for the one-at-a-time carefully staged ride through the gates of Graceland for a photo op (compliments of Santana).  After parking our bikes on the very front and very green lawn of the mansion, we walked back across the street to stand in line amidst pretty controlled chaos for our audio/iPad headphones and device.  While in line we were ambushed by the typical tourist trap of "we're going to take your picture against this backdrop and you'll have an opportunity to buy it at the end of your tour."  Then we got on the tour shuttle up to the doors of Graceland mansion.  The inside (and outside for that matter) was pretty much as I expected to be, elaborately, lavishly and eccentrically decorated.  The only surprise for me was that the infamous "Jungle Room" was on the first floor rather than in the basement which was an elaborate media lounge.  The audio commentary (voice of John Stamos was unwaveringly reverent and complimentary with equally worshipful audio clips from Priscilla and Lisa Marie).  There were rooms full of gold and platinum records and a whole wall of charity checks Elvis wrote to mostly Memphis beneficiaries and a few wider causes.  As most of us know (and for me for sure, having read Peter Guralnik's 2 voume biography), it wasn't all sweetness and light in that house by a long shot;  but Graceland promotes the myth of the kind, generous and playful country boy who hit it big with his talent, charm and good looks.  It's OK; it's the 2nd most visited U.S. historical home after the White House.

            Lunch was back across the street in Elvis' car museum.  Catered specially by Santana, we sat among Elvis' fabulous (partial) collection of priceless Jaguars, Rolls, Caddies and Mercedes and  ate delicious BBQ, coleslaw, baked beans and pecan pie.  Back on the bike, we said a fond farewell to Graceland and had a great ride through residential streets of all different kinds, waving at kids and adults alike.  The ride thankfully included two lovely state parks, before we were back in the industrial area we had ridden the day before, and down along the river where the American Queen was waiting.  As in Croatia, its' a thrill after a long ride to pull up to the sight of a huge special ship that will be our "home" for the next week.

            The first look at our stateroom on the 5th deck was absolutely breathtaking.  19th Century Victorian elegance.  Twice as big as our stateroom on the Adriatic Trip with polished wood louvered French doors opening  onto the deck and railing, it was way beyond my expectations.  Exceedingly comfortable and beautifully decorated.  After a lovely dinner in the stunning main dining room, we went to the "Showroom" for the first of our nightly concerts designed to guide us through the birth and growth of the blues rock 'n roll and soul.  A great band backed an older black woman singer and raconteur from Memphis.  So ended a jam-packed totally wonderful day.  

We left Burke around 11:30 on Monday after the usual pack-till-midnight ordeal the night before and up-early-but-still-can’t-get-out madness (our relaxed-goal-because-we-are-retired was 10:AM).  Never mind, nobody got too ugly because, yes, we ARE retired, and we have allowed 3 days to get to Memphis and we can drive 4 hours a day and ride before we have dinner and hit the hay.  Well….it poured all the way down Interstate 81 to Blacksburg.  Very low visibility at times with trucks zooming by on all sides and the bike bravely hanging off the back of the car in its trusty Draftmaster carrier (see pic from day 2 at a bathroom stop).  But even in the rain and low-lying clouds covering the mountaintops, the beauty of spring shone through with the vibrant redbud trees punctuating the freshly intense green of new leaves and grass as well as huge swaths of perfect daffodils.  At times the clouds creeping down the mountains took on a mystical quality.

Had a lazy afternoon in the Fairfield Inn, and after a lengthy Yelp search, found the only restaurant in Blacksburg with four stars (surprising, but there you go).  We drove the “scenic” route to get there, much to Joe’s irritation, but when you’ve never been to Blacksburg, a person might want to explore a little.  Actually I was determined to see part of the cycling route that I had spend literally two hours (part of the previously mentioned midnight madness) researching, called “Huckleberry Trail.”  Any Rails-to-Trails is of interest at this point.  Failing at that, we arrived at a renewed old house in downtown (?) Blacksburg and had a lovely meal of salad and scallops at the “Social House.”  Turns out that a Huckleberry Trail trailhead was a block from the restaurant.  On the way back to the hotel, I forced Joe to stop and let me out so I could check it out (in the continuing rain).  Lovely.  The trail I mean, not the weather.  Hopefully we can ride it on the way back home.

Wednesday morning, we took our time getting out of the motel (SO different from the non-retired operating mode) and again hit the road in the rain.  Went through periods of downpour and low visibility; carbon copy of the day before except we were in Tennessee and not Virginia any more.  The planned stop (selected by time segment to Memphis and another heavily-researched ride through the lovely Tennessee countryside) was Crossville, Tennessee.  Another lazy afternoon in a Holiday Express this time, and again a lengthy Yelp search for dinner.  Found a four-and-a-half star place (4 reviews, bear in mind) across town.  Pulled into the parking lot and circled the place a couple of times looking for the perfect spot to put the car within view and out of danger of the bike getting accidentally hit.  Think dog circling a resting place and you’ve got the picture.  Walking through the parking lot we notice a car covered with stickers like “Moab, Utah,” “Hiked It, Liked It,” and other adventure-related slogans.  So we enter the restaurant and immediately a guy sitting with a woman at a table for four calls out (loudly), “Hey, come and sit with us!”  As we hesitated and Joe did his automatic and instantaneous danger/discomfort assessment, the guy persisted:  “It’s OK, please come and sit with us,” at top volume.  I’m in my head like, “it’s an adventure, what is there to lose?”  So as we (not too cautiously) approached the table, he assured us: “Sit down, and I’ll tell you why.”  Then the woman says, “Are you going to Memphis?”  Of course they had watched our peculiar parking process, seen the tandem and knew we, too, were going their way to the Santana Big River Adventure.  We had a GREAT time getting to know Richard and Rhonda who live (sort of) in West Virginia but who spend most of their time traveling the country in their large motor home (which they left for this trip in WV), hiking and biking and orienteering.  They are both retired Johnson and Johnson engineers; he’s an avowed “gearhead” and we will know who to ride with if we think we are going to break down.  Two hours later we said a happy goodbye and see you in Memphis.

Thursday leaving Crossville, there were more periods of driving rain and news reports of rain all week across the South.  Oh well.  The sun did finally come out as we crept along in traffic behind an accident that closed the eastbound lanes and prompted the usual rubbernecking delays in our direction.  Reached Memphis maybe five hours later and checked in to the Sheraton already crawling with tandems and colorful jerseys.  Ran into at least two couples we had met on the Croatia trip, and went for a late lunch at Westy’s down the street (see pictures) with lots of local color.  Strangely tired after driving but not riding, we rested and then went by car in search of some good Memphis BBQ, which we found (thank you New York Times – 36 hours in Memphis) at The BBQ Shop and ate!  Dry, wet and glazed, we ate ‘em all.  Plus enjoyed some tasty local beers (see pic).  Done and done as far as BBQ is concerned (I sincerely hope).  It was back to oatmeal for breakfast and 3-day-old smoothie brought from home for lunch today.

Speaking of today, Friday, it’s still very cloudy and drippy.  Which did not hamper us driving to Sun Studio for a fabulous tour.  This is a place I have dreamed about and pictured since I was 12 years old.   The energy of the birth of rock ‘n roll is truly in those few and small rooms.  We stood where Elvis stood (the exact spot marked with an X) when he recorded “That’s Alright, Mama” and so many more.  Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, on and on and on.  I felt like my 12-year-old self again.  What a sweet treat.  Check out the pictures of Sun Studio in the photo section.  After returning to the hotel and sorting out our stuff to leave in the car and getting that parking settled, we actually headed out for bike ride along the Mississippi River (under cloudy but not raining skies), and rode through a couple of industrial areas before we turned around.   We totaled 10 and a half miles and it felt good to finally be out on the bike.  Stay tuned.  Tomorrow we ride en masse (350 people on tandems and singles) through the gates of Graceland and have a catered lunch in the garage where Elvis moved back his cars so little Lisa Marie could have a skating birthday party.