One in a Million

So... the response to my refusal to buy cigars for minors was a drive-by-two-pound soda to the head. To which, my response was a police report and crying on the lawn of the nearest Pizza Hut. The east coast has not been my favorite of places to bike through. The population density and the inability to find an un-urbanized area to camp had been frustrating and demoralizing. Up until today I had not met a single malicious person, only wonderful, generous, and interesting people everywhere from Oregon to North Carolina. Literally, one person in several million has gone out of their way to try to cause me harm. I can still live with odds like that.

I have covered a lot of distance since leaving Shreveport, LA. I finished crossing Louisiana, cut through a corner of Arkansas, rode straight across Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, and north through South Carolina. My first day in North Carolina has been memorable, but not fondly. It is times like now that I remember all the wonderful people who I have already met along the way: Jim the geologist who was in the camp site next to me at the Grand Canyon. Who better to cook dinner with at the Grand Canyon than a geologist? Louise and Michael, old friends of the family who gave me the opportunity to sit around, drink lime-aid, and read books in the sun for a week in New Mexico. The city workers who opened the community center for me to sleep in when it was 110 degrees in Arkansas. The man who gave me a ride to the store for parts to fix my tire in Mississippi. All my family members who I have visited along the way and a few members who I met for the first time. And everyone who has pulled over to offer help whenever I sat on the side of the road fixing a flat tire. There are so many good people who are willing to go out of their way, be late for appointments, and offer an incredible amount of trust to assist a stranger. I cannot believe that humanity as a whole is evil. I can only be so prepared to face the world. It is the “figuring-out-what-to-do-with-the-world-as-it-hurls-things-at-me-through-a-car-window” that makes an adventure worth while. It is the personal growth that will make me better as a person and the problem solving skills that can only develop for the better that I will look back at and rely on long after my bicycle is mounted to the wall of my future garage with bald tires and rusted out spokes. As life continues and I make plans for the future trips, one bad day won't mean a whole lot.

Bourbon Street

Two weeks in Shreveport, Louisiana, another week on the road, and a lot has happened. My cousin-in-law Cassie and I took a weekend trip to New Orleans by car and had a few adventures. We car-camped at an RV park in a part of town that was flooded by hurricane Katrina in 2005. There were still remnants of the wreckage scattered around town, but very little as most has been cleaned up or rebuilt. After taking a bus and a trolly into town, Cassie and I began walking around the French Quarter and we wandering into a small street that looked interesting. We were several blocks into it before we realized that we had wandered down Bourbon street. Historically, Bourbon street has been home to the upper class, brothels, then jazz. Today it is best described as a “tourist trap.” It was all excellent fun, but even when trying to avoid it, Cassie and I found it easy to get sucked back towards the lights and sounds of Bourbon street. Being a music major, I was looking forward to finding jazz in New Orleans. There were several bands playing in various pubs along the street. We found an '80's cover band, one ska-washboard band, and a three-piece blues group in a very crowded pub. The ska-washboard was the most interesting. I had never seen or heard a washboard solo before, but now I have rejuvenated respect for percussionists. I entered music as a percussionist, so I find myself overly critical of garage band drummers and tambourine players. At the pub with the ska-washboard band, we also had a drink called the “Turtle.” The ingredients are kept a secret, but internet chat forums suspect Everclear is the main ingredient and one drink was certainly enough for an evening on Bourbon street.

Public transportation in New Orleans is an adventure in itself. Cassie and I work early to get downtown so we had time to ride back to the RV park for showers and a jump in the pool before evening festivities in the French Quarter. After the trolly ride to the bus stop on the way back to the park, we had a 45 minute wait. Several people were gathering for the bus and not all of them were sober. A very drunk and mentally handicapped man was listening to his ipod and dancing between lanes in a four land highway. Drunk man #2, who had been doing his best to get the attention of a girl, decided to get drunk man #1 out of the street. In a few minutes they went from best buddies to not wanting to talk to each other anymore. Drunk guy #1 did a bit more dancing in the street then went inside the bus shelter and out of sight of most of the people waiting. Drunk guy #1 found Passed-Out-Drunk-Guy #3 and decided to steal his wallet, booze, and shoes. I didn't realize what drunk guy #1 did done until the bus came and people started laughing and saying “he took his shoes!” Drunk guy #3 was left in the bus shelter with turned out pockets and no shoes. Drunk guys #1 and #2 got on the bus with us and #2 eventually fell out a door and stumbled away. #1 stayed on the bus beyond our stop, but all the while, people on the bus were careful to not let anyone sit next to him and kept telling him to stop cussing.

On the way back downtown for dinner and drinks, Cassie and I were waiting by the tracks for the trolly to take us from the bus stop back to the French Quarter. Next to me was an older gentleman with a cane, who I would have guessed to be a school teacher or administrator. Within a few minutes he began talking with a younger guy and in the minutes before the trolly arrived, I overheard the better part of their conversation on price negotiations for the crack one was selling to the other. The teacher/administrator was very insistent on his price and seemed to have experience in heckling.

After our touristic fun on Bourbon street, Cassie and I drove back to Shreveport and the next morning on was back on the bike. Over the next several days I alternated between early morning, late night, and all night rides. Day temperatures were around 100 degrees Fahrenheit and impossible to bike in. I crossed into Arkansas, Mississippi, and here I am in Alabama. I cross into Georgia in a couple days and will head north from Atlanta. I think it will feel weird traveling in a new direction after so many miles of heading east.

Lots of things to do and see on the east coast! I can't wait.