Now that we're East of the Mississippi, everything looks, sounds, tastes and smells of The South, with all of the cliches intact. Our day off in St. Francisville had been a necessity, and went by way too fast. Yesterday morning was spent in a futile search for brunch. We walked all over the small, Disneyesque town by the banks of the Big River, admiring the perfectly restored antebellum buildings, the old cemetery, and the towering trees. We found three restaurants in town which obviously catered to tourists, but all of them were mysteriously closed on Sundays, so we ended up at Sonic Burgers on the highway outside of town, where Mars raved about the lime squishee.
The afternoon was devoted to laundry and f.t.p.'ing. By the pool a young Southern belle was sunning next to a baby alligator in a cooler. Her fratboy hubby and his loud pals came by later with another tiny gator. Apparently they had found them next to their roadkill mom and planned to raise them for a few months before releasing them into a bayou, but the way they were handling the poor reptiles, I'd be surprised if they survived the day. Gloria, who drove us to the ferry two days ago, had told us that St. Francisville was in the hilliest part of Louisiana, to which we laughed since we hadn't seen a hill in days.
But nearly a hundred miles of riding up and down and up and down have convinced me that she was well-informed. Thankfully, Louisiana's Hill Country is much tamer than its Texan cousin; I didn't have to use my granny gear once all day, perhaps because the tailwind we were blessed with fairly blew us up all the hills. Today's first stop was at Oakley Plantation, where John James Audubon and his young male assistant (the guide informed us that they shared a bedroom, and we only saw one bed in it) spent a few months, making prints and tutoring the owner's daughter.
The house, its \"dependencies\" (like the kitchen and the slave quarters) and the grounds were in exquisite shape. On the tour with us was a group of demonstrative French people who were very impressed with our feat; they made a big point of poking at my quads and glutes and told me of their plan to rent a motor home in Phoenix after touring the South. From here the road wound through verdant canopied roads, past columned plantation homes and tarpaper shacks. The air was heavy and moist, carrying the sounds of birds, crickets and frogs. The overall impression of Southerness was almost overwhelming.
In Norwood we stopped for lunch. Fred ordered what is likely to be his last chicken fried steak for a while: it looked like pounded, breaded placenta. A gregarious blond guy at the table next to us expressed curiosity over our route and told us how to pronounce the names of the towns we were to pass through on the way to Franklinton. By the time we reached Chipola (accent on the second syllable, provoking us to dub it \"Shithola\"), all evidence of Southern opulence had disappeared. Most houses were trailers, with multiple autos on blocks in their front yards and lots of mean barking dogs (\"forty acres and a mule territory,\"
my brother noted). But the scenery was still gorgeous and the road a dream. At mile seventy-five came Tangipahoa (which we'd forgotten how to pronounce by the time we reached it), more a ruin than a town. Lots of nasty dogs and sullen-looking little black kids. The last twenty miles were especially hilly, just when we were ready for the cycling day to be over, but the gorgeous quality of the light and the perfect rolling pastures more than made up for the pain. Franklinton isn't much to get excited about, but it is probably the biggest town we've been in since DeRidder.
Coming into town, our welcoming committee consisted of an asshole in a blue Cadillac Sedan de Ville with Louisiana plates WXJ I45, who thought it clever to lay into his horn for the several minutes he drove behind us. We're now lounging around our fleabag motel, wondering whether we should take a mini-break in New Orleans tomorrow... rider/writer Mars** A day for the olfactory sense. The above-mentioned fleabag is good indication that most of this part of the country has been soaked in stale, stinky backwash for a good, long time. Our motel room was no exception. Since our impression of Franklinton was less than favorable, we decided to pedal 20 or so miles to Bogalusa for breakfast.
(A personal profile note of interest: Bikebrat Fred has the metabolism of a hummingbird and cannot operate effectively without frequent ingestion of high-energy foods. Fred also admits to being cranky, and even fell while stationary in front of a few amused rednecks. \"I don't like riding before breakfast,\" he explains.) We woke to a thick, threatening sky, with wind pushing dark clouds in various directions. Since towns are now few and far between, we have good reason to be fearful of getting stuck in a storm with no shelter. While en route to Bogalusa, I held my breath several times passing some ripe roadkill at various stages of decomposition.
Everything smells ripe. The air is sweet with honeysuckle and cow dung. The ever-present ditchwater smells like ditchwater, but worse. Are we in India? Bogalusa, a relatively thriving metropolis of 14,000, is obviously industrial, and centered on what was formally the largest paper mill in the country. We tried the first breakfast place into town and entered a desolate and again stinky little place with nobody in sight but Bob Barker on the blaring TV. It smells as if the carpet was flooded and never dealt with... mildew to the tenth power. Two ladies emerge and say they're between meals---try \"The Boxcar.\"
Their contorted directions, which include no street names, but many red lights and train trestles, somehow lead us easily to a quintessential diner. The Boxcar is a train car with maybe five tables. This is truly a family-run operation---two brothers own the place and their infirm mother seems to hang out just for moral support, or a cheap nursing home. They are extremely friendly and genuinely interested in our trip. The owners pull all of their customers into the conversation (\"y'all gotta get a bike and go to Florida with these boys!\"), and before you know it, everyone is either helping us with route planning, offering us words of encouragement or just staring at us slack-jawed, in utter disbelief.
The breakfast is huge---two full plates of food each. We all are given grits, whether we asked for them or not. The extremely tentative waitress (\"Y'all done with your ice?\") tells us that she doesn't eat that grits crap and is unable to tell us what grits really are. If anybody out there knows what they are, tell us! As we leave Bogalusa, which we have cruelly and incorrectly dubbed \"Bogusloser,\" there is an anti-climactic bridge-crossing into Mississippi. The meteorological advice offered at the Boxcar and our own built-in barometers (my knee) tell us storms are on the way. Our original intention was to go some 40 more miles into the heart of nowhere and camp tonight, but A+F are relative newbies to the camping phenomenon and opt not to be deflowered in such nasty conditions.
Our travel advisor at the Boxcar said that there aren't any hotels near where we were headed (Wiggins). A decision needed to be made quickly. At the first town in Mississippi, appropriately called Crossroads, we decided to turn south toward the coast for protection from the storm, despite paying the price with a raging wind out of the southwest. (Side note for Blues fans---I believe that this is the \"Crossroads\" that legend Robert Johnson sang about. Since my historical point was lost on the brats \[\"who's Robert Johnson?\"\], I thought I'd throw it into cyberspace). The scenery is still lush, stunning, and stinky as the miles into the wind get tougher.
We trade off miles breaking the wind and watch the odometer carefully. The brutal humidity drenches us and fluid intake is at IV level. Our next country store stop doubled as a butcher shop, where we quaffed Gatorades 'n stuff and received still more directions. The garbage from the butcher was stacked in flimsy boxes by our bikes, and we offered various theories on what was the source of the worst smell of the day. Not pretty... Cleanliness is not a big priority down here. Our minds become focused on getting to the coast before the storms do. The promise of many beaches and casinos in Gulfport seems to motivate us a bit and takes the edge off of our nerves and tired legs.
En route, though, we stopped through butt-ugly Picayune and Kiln, the hometown of Green Bay Packer great Brett Favre. Even Andy, ambivalent to professional sports, feels his Wisconsin roots emerge and remarks on the spiritual nature of our Packer pilgrimage. The final miles into Gulfport were very easy and light-hearted. We gleefully pedaled along the ocean toward the tall Grand Casino, arguably the best hotel in Mississippi. The last smell of the day is that of ourselves, which must not impress the bellboys in front of the hotel. We are coated in sweat, sunscreen, road detritus and fatigue. After another 90+ mile day, we relished the luxury of our room, tasty dinner, blackjack tables and clean shower.
Our Gulfport R&R felt justified as we watched the Weather Channel documenting the severe thunder showers and tornado warnings that were pummeling our intended route. Gambling was obviously not the right distraction for me. My cash card demonstrated its unwillingness to be party to this type of debauchery. It seemed to be incompatible with all the machines in the casino. Proving my ATM card correct I lost a \"Ben\", Marty dropped the same. Andy was our sole winner walking with over a hundred smackers. The experience reminded me of the taxi driver I had a few years ago in Las Vegas.
She asked, \"Are you a gambler?\" When I said no she said \"Good! Look around you; this place was not built on winners.\" Most of the folks in the Gulfport casino were retirees hypnotized by the flashing lights and deafening noise of the slots. The din and distraction of these vile machines give me the shivers. Took the opportunity of our downtime to hit the local bike shop. Rode there on Seigfried (my bike) without my packs. Odd to ride the beast unburdened. Felt clumsy and unstable pedaling without sixty pounds of gear. I wonder if I'll ever be able to appreciate riding this way again?
Gulfport drivers menaced me en route to the shop by driving too close, cutting into my path and not yielding right-of-way. When I finally arrived at the local Schwinn depot I was greeted by a most unknowledgeable shopkeep. He pacified his ignorance listening to a Christian radio station and told me he had found this vocation recently. He had taken over the shop from his lessee a few months earlier and had no experience bicycling or running a shop. After giving him a few tips on what products he might consider carrying I rode off with what I could find from my shopping list.
On the way back to blue-haired zombie land I had cause to declare butthead driver of the week. This car drove off an empty road onto the shoulder directly next to me and began to try to push me off the road knowingly and then sped off. Foolishly, I sprinted to catch him at the next light. I was so furious I could scarcely breathe. I rapped on his passenger window and the driver's mother rolled down the window. Two deep breaths and I reeled on him \"What were you thinking? Would you have driven that close if I were your son, daughter, brother or friend?\"
\"You did come awfully close honey,\" added his mother. I capped it off eloquently with \"You are a loser!\" which made me feel better especially since he didn't \"cap\" me with a gun or run me over after I rode away. I changed our chains, cleaned our drivetrains and then spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the grease from under my nails. We had a big evening planned and I intended to look my best. The woman who answered the phone at Joey's, the club we were to go to, told me that we were only five miles away. After 12 miles and an \$18 cab fare we arrived.
Luck was with us. Wednesdays are \"drink and drown night.\" D&D means that you pay admission, are given a cup and can drink as much as you can until midnight for free. Nothing could appeal to Andy's parsimonious side more. I had a few beers while Andrew tried to satisfy the second \"D\". We played pool with some sharks and lost badly while a lawyer from USX tried to pick up on Andy. Mingling was fun. We met a gargantuan drag named Simone who stood 6'5\" barefoot and was the same height as the Eiffel Tower in heels and her wig.
I had visions of a cartoonish end for her if she were to get too close to the overhead fans. Everyone seemed sort of drunk or stoned and the music blared so loudly that I too began to feel dizzy. I left Andy there to pursue D&D to its fullest and retired to our hotel. On the way back the talkative driver told me of all the benefits the Casinos were bringing to the community. The morning came too soon for all of us, especially Andrew. Our trip began on a busy coastal four-lane number without a shoulder. Andy's new chain was giving his derailleur heartburn and his bike would not stay in gear.
Mechanical problems, hangover, and riding conditions all taken together marred poor Andy's riding experience. After a few stops and tense moments his bike was finally functioning. Mechanical failure would be one of this day's themes. The sky was dark and threatening, traffic obnoxious and the roads were poorly surfaced. Mars saved the day by navigating us onto quieter roads and by lunch the sky began to clear. An unexpected diversion came in the form of a big dead bear by the side of the road, which bore an uncanny resemblance to a rug after being picked clean by buzzards. Lunch was a revelation.
It was on this leg we discovered the ultimate fast food lunch, Wendy's Pita Pocket; tasty, caloric and healthy all packaged together. Difficult to order in the deep south without a laugh. Seems their accents make \"Pita\" sound like \"Peter\", and when our hostess barked our order of \"Peters\" to the kitchen everyone in the queue had a chuckle. Quieter roads, sunny weather and favorable riding conditions made the afternoon more palatable than the morning. We stopped to snack at convenience stores in small towns where Mars experimented with new incarnations of his favorite junk food flavor \"Blue raspberry.\" We contemplated where in nature the elusive blue raspberry occurs while Mars tried it in \"Now and Laters\", taffy, gum, Gatorade and countless other forms.
As we approached the coast the wind became stronger and Andrew's rear tire began to fail. It was a slow leak so we would stop every few miles to refill it. Finally as sunset began to approach we decided it was time to change it. Readers who have traveled or lived in areas plagued by insects know that just before sunset is prime feeding time. \"Nit-Nits\" or noseeums descended on us as soon as we stopped. I stopped working with Andrew to replace the tire to pull out our bug repellent but it was too late. We had already been chewed to bits by the little buggers.
Mars opted to pedal on rather than be eaten alive. Unfortunately the changed tire failed once again after only a few miles and we had to change it again receiving the tidings of the little nasty gnats again through our industrial strength \"Deet\". All day we had had visions of camping on a deserted beach on Dauphin Island. We imagined a peaceful beach and idyllic sunset sipping cocktails as we watched a full moon rise over the Atlantic. The second tire change altered that vision. Andy and I envisioned our entire bodies covered with insect bites and convinced Marty that we should seek a Motel.
We did watch the sunset over the Atlantic, and Andy and Mars did manage to find a margarita, so some of the fantasy was realized. As a bonus our other vision came to life as welts rose on my legs, arms, neck and scalp all courtesy of my friends the nit-nits.