Nashville, TN -> Tullahoma, TN
When I tell people that I'm motorcycling across the country, many of them will say something along the lines of "wow, that sounds hard." Maybe it's my distaste for sounding too cocky (even I have my limits) but I will usually answer "the bike does most of the work." Today, the work was more evenly distributed.
I woke up in Nashville early with an upset stomach. Evidently the hot chicken had gotten to me. After settling myself and trying to grab a few more winks of sleep, my departure to Atlanta was further delayed by rain. Rain is the enemy of the motorcyclist. It lowers your ability to control the bike, gets you wet, and the drops can hurt at speed. Between these sentiments and my natural Californian instincts, I was forced to sleep in longer still. I finally left Nashville just before eleven in the middle of a shower, yuck. I resolved to make my first meal of the day lunch in Shelbyville, a small town in Tennessee of about twenty thousand. Home to a coke addict I used to work with at a candy shop in Santa Barbara. Along the way I noticed the system I had rigged up for charging my phone was beginning to malfunction. No doubt due to the evil wet coming from the sky. Phone cables, even nice ones, are not prepared to cope with the demands of motorcycling.
About fifteen miles outside of Nashville was where things really began to take a turn for the nasty. The screen on my phone went black. No doubt due to the evil wet coming from the sky. I pulled over to blow on the magic box and slap it in some vain attempt to coax life out of it. I knew that only the screen had failed because I had music streaming from my phone into my helmet (Carol King's Tapestry, it's a good rain album). This was also how I heard "911, do you need help?" coming from my phone. As best I can tell, my vain button mashing caused the phone to dial 911 and hang up. A classic no-no. I got a follow-up response from the local operator to check in. That was the call I knew about. What my now rogue phone didn't tell me was that it had put the operators in touch with my emergency contacts, my parents, who were beginning to assume the worst. As I was sitting in the shade of an abandoned gas station fiddling with the magic box I got another call, this one from my father asking if I was okay. After that he passed the phone to my mother who was extremely happy to have been told my a 911 operator that her child was in distress outside of Nashville. I tried to shut the damn thing off in vain and made my way to Shelbyville. It was just as well that it stayed on. Siri was already running directions there for me and I was able to confirm with her that there indeed was a phone repair store in town. I placed the phone in my pants pocket to keep it dry which was how I felt it getting oddly warm. The bastard box is thinking again, but what? So went the next half hour to Shelbyville wondering what the next 911 call was going to be about. I made it to the phone repair shop where they got me in and out with a new screen. A local was transfixed with my sopping wet presence as he peppered me questions about the maraijuana habit he was sure I had. How cool I must have seemed.
When I got my phone back I was able to see that it had been cooking itself in an effort to share my location with both of my parents and the operator as I made my way to Shelbyville. Each one of them was updated no less than seven times by the misguided robot before I completed my journey. I hurriedly proceeded to Waffle House and had my breakfast at half past one. Ouch. It was time to reassess the situation. My phone was working but was almost out of juice. My charger was broken and the only power bank I had was my laptop. I was four hours from Atlanta not including the hour lost to time zone changes and pee breaks. I attempted to find my way to the interstate with a mental map of the area, realized that I had contracted a mild case of 'getthereitis', and formulated an alternative plan. Locate a coffee shop, order a drink, charge my phone, and ruin the atmosphere with my stench. Bell Buckle Coffee Shop was the target of my assault and I siphoned off precious electrons while sipping green tea and trying to make sense of what my day had become. By now it was rolling around to three, this meant Atlanta at eight thirty at the earliest. Hell no. I apologized to my friend in The Gate City for delaying my travels, pushed my lodging up by a day, and set about determining where I could rest for the night.
Halfway was Chattanooga. Besides having a geographically convenient location, it was the hometown of a crazy man I lived with freshman year and I was curious to see the land that bred him. I began to realize just how tired I was from the day's excitement. Too tired. Less than an hour away was the town of Tullahoma. I booked a room at The Executive Inn to rest my weary head and bones. This hotel has it all, a tube TV, incandescent lighting that mostly works, and half a door latch. What more could a man ask for? Truthfully I am most disappointed that I was unable to take part in a noble motorcycling tradition, bringing your bike into your crapy motel room. The door was simply too damn small and I was too tired to finesse the mirrors around. That simple act of rebellion would have made this all worth it and would have produced an excellent photograph. No photos today, I was too busy sweating. The bike did not do most of the work.
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