Day Sixteenth: Van Buren AR, to Ridgeland, MS

I was just here, two weeks ago...

My little mascot during the trip

420 miles to go, to get back, to end the journey, if that is possible. I slept well and by 6:30 I am awake, get dressed and go have yet another variation of Motel Breakfast. I noticed for the first time the morning air is warm and heavy, as if the night was not enough to cool the earth. I pack the bike one last time, noticing I left the bike cover in the previous motel, one notch on the few losses I had on this trip, along with a pair of sunglasses and some cheap Walmart slippers that went AWOL on the first night.  Nothing serious, I am not too worried. Time to saddle up and hit the road, East-Southeast to Little Rock, then on to Mississippi.

This should probably be a time to reflect on the trip, take stock of what I have seen, the places I have been. But I am hot and tired. The cooling vest no longer works due to the high humidity in the air, and the temperature gauge hovers around 90 F/32 C, although it feels much higher.

After Little Rock I leave the freeway, the rest of the trip on secondary sleepy roads. I remember after going by a church that it is Sunday. During this trip I completely lost track of time, and any effort to align my head with the calendar was quickly thwarted as I went back to a more natural Day One, Day Two, Day Three manner of reckoning time. But now I see it is Sunday, the entire South, it seems, is indoors, singing and praying. Outside churches I see small groups of people dressed in their Sunday best, little children jumping around in their little suits and ties and dresses. Somethings never change and that somehow gives me a sense of comfort. I ride on, unchurched but for the silent prayers in my head, of thanks for the beauty I have seen, the safe passage I have had, and my destination a few hours away, that it may hold, no harm to man or machine. I have become very fond of Blue, I must say.

I ride through green fields that stretch to the horizon, the fertile lands of Arkansas merging into those of Mississippi. Lush, intense green that seems almost unnatural, and beyond a sky so blue it make me almost forget that I am hot and sweaty and tired.

In small towns whose names I do not recall I pass by bronze images of generals and soldiers gazing into eternity, made anonymous by time but not forgotten, reminders of the folly of man, and of the bravery of some. There is so much silent history in the South, like a wind, whispered, the past here is less gone than in other lands.

On Highway 65 I follow the elegant arch of lake Chicot and come to a beautiful white bridge, suspended over the Mississippi. I cross the river and am there, and the greens I had seen seem even greener as I head down country lanes, and fields.

I stop to get some gas and get a drink and the big black girl who takes my money seems to believe I do not want my 8 cents in change, as she does not offer them. Next to her, a big white girl with several teeth missing, smiles and wishes me a good day. Sometimes I do not know if I have crossed some invisible line between reality and the land of stereotypes, but there are times when I have serious doubts.

After Yazoo City I ride through miles and miles of what seems like a carefully manicured lawn. I don't think you get too many highways in the country that look like this, but you do in the South.

Blue and I, safely where we started

I finally get to know territory heading down towards the Natchez Trace Parkway. I wind my way trough shady alleys of trees and into Ridgeland. I am back after two weeks, no one to greet me, no one to ask anything but I don't care. I stop Blue's engine and put the kick stand down. I pat the bike's tank as if it were a living creature. It is almost anticlimactic, as I unload the bike and climb the stairs in the hot, humid afternoon air, wondering what I can make for dinner. Perhaps I will dream of the open road tonight, great stone arches, snowy peaks, and remember all the wonderful people we met.

16 days and  4,101 miles. What a trip.