A Ride Through the Deep South

A motorcycle enthusiast embarks on a journey through the Deep South on his bike, meeting colorful characters, exploring the diverse landscapes, and contemplating risking his financial stability on a longshot writing career - as he confronts his fears and life choices.

I listen to the humming growl of my 2013 Harley Heritage Classic’s Twin-V engine as I twist the throttle. The sound is soothing, and the wind cools my face, relieving the scorching heat of the Southern sun. Mentally, I merge with my iron steed, and we become one, plunging ahead towards the Southwest. Mike, my best friend from childhood, and I embark on our annual motorcycle journey.

We thunder through Nashville. A city that is a fusion of the old antebellum, country western and hipster cultures. There are cranes erecting new skyscrapers which collide with the old southern vibe. The old church and the science center are situated across the street from each other. The juxtaposition is a testimony of the old and the new clashing and struggling for supremacy. The hipsters mingle with the cowboy-boots and hats-wearing crowd. The guitar-toting musicians are peppered throughout the bars, singing their country-music-hearts-out. Young women are milling around in sundresses and cowboy boots, emitting vocal twangs of their southern-western accents to which any self-respecting blues guitar-plucking musician would offer a low-key admiring nod. The sapping, merciless heat triumphs over the city, depleting the indestructible energy of the collage. The pervading smell of the river and marsh are pungent.

The next day, we ride through the serenity and the gentle curves of Natchez Trace Parkway, which we picked up fifteen miles south of Nashville. The woodsy areas shield us from the sultry sun, the pleasant breeze blowing through my beard. I ride on in a meditative trance, listening to the resonating rev of my Twin-V. My thoughts fleetingly wander to my business and then images of my wife and three sons float in my mind. I feel the sharp edges of guilt permeate my consciousness, knowing I will miss Joshua’s, my middle son, departure for his senior year of college. Unfortunately, I couldn’t postpone my trip due to the upcoming business obligations. Running a financial firm stealthily chips away at my soul and freedom with its meetings and deadlines, while providing me with certain financial autonomy and a comfortable lifestyle for my family. I’ve been struggling with the paradox for the past twenty years and still unable to resolve it. I fantasize about resigning from my senior management position and becoming a writer, knowing the high financial stakes – especially considering my age. I grapple with my guilt and my fantasy. Nevertheless, my guilt becomes less poignant as I ride on, fading with the wind. My thoughts are now focused on the next town, Tupelo, MS.

We leave the bikes at the hotel in Tupelo, and we walk through the quaint downtown of Elvis’ birthplace. The streets are sparse with people. A few empty bars and the King’s first guitar store catch my attention. I imagine young Elvis plucking the strings of his very first guitar. I catch a glimpse of a few college-age girls in the bar next to the store, probably hoping to catch a glimpse of the King as they sip on their cocktails. We eat dinner at a snazzy restaurant in town, enjoying the local cuisine of blackened catfish and pecan beer – a culinary delight for a relatively cheap price. Satisfied, we head back to our hotel to rest up and continue our journey the next morning to Jackson MS via the enchanting Natchez Trace Parkway.

We roll through the downtown of Jackson MS. There’s a weird, lonely vibe. There are a few people wandering the streets under the hot sun. The hotel where we’re staying is sprawling but old, decrepit. A few creepy characters are in residence. It appears that it was popular and high-end forty or fifty years ago, but now it resembles a decomposing carcass with a few parasites feeding off its remains, after the vultures and hyaenas had had their fill. A few unsightly characters, a paroled emaciated, pasty con with a pockmarked rat face and a fast-talking black-almost-purple-hued pimp, are the current residents of this defunct resort. The pimp speaks with a local twang and legato sentences, sounding as though he’s spitting mumble rap, offering us his strung-out, heroin-addicted harpies from his stable for a small fee. Without interrupting his flow, we listen. Then, we let him know perhaps later, knowing the later will not come. An aging Asian female owner presides over the eclectic patrons.

We consider gunning it to New Orleans three hours away, then reconsider. I’ve been there twice on different occasions. However, neither of us have ever been to Atlanta GA. After a short contemplation, we turn our iron stallions toward Atlanta at warp speed! Downtown Atlanta is a regular big US city. Nothing remarkable. Feels like D.C. or midtown NYC but with smaller and shorter skyscrapers. Clusters of homeless residents wander the streets, like zombies roaming some wasteland. A middle-aged, soft-spoken, former New Yorker pimp who drives a large, old-school Lincoln - is showcasing his young, pretty chattel to the patrons of a strip club. There’s no Southern vibe here, unlike Nashville. In the morning, we hit Cracker Barrell for breakfast and indulge in the feast of eggs, steak, grits, biscuits and gravy, and baked apples. Another culinary delight for thirty bucks. During the meal, we decide to check out Charlotte NC.

Charlotte has a clean, well developed downtown. The money is flowing in since some major banks and financial groups are headquartered here. We hit a local strip club that has a lot of heifers there. No eye candies. I have no idea what the owner was thinking. They were spinning on the pole like hunks of beef on the meat hooks in the butcher shop, dangling their cottage-cheese cellulite like it was the latest fashion.

Heading back North, we ride through a quiet Route 28 towards Virginia. Twenty miles from Manassas VA, we pull in to fill our tanks. It’s drizzling. We book a room eighteen miles away. We choose not to don our raingear. The twenty-minute ride in the drizzle is doable. Five minutes into our ride, the torrents of rain pelt my face. My full-face helmet fogs up. The darkness envelops the town, and I’m hydroplaning in the dark, blinded by the bright headlights of the oncoming traffic. I lift the glass part of my helmet to help clear up the fogginess and see the road. The rain lashes my eyes. I squint. The wind whips me and my steed from side to side. My handlebars shake as I attempt to steady my bike. I fear that I might get blown into the oncoming traffic or to the ditch on the shoulder. I’m riding half blind. Mike’s back light is flickering in front of me, then disappearing beyond the bend in the road. Soaked, I ask God if this is the end. I’m terrified, yet I can’t stop thinking that this is the glorious end – the way I always envisioned it, to die on my steed riding rather than of old age and sickness in my bed. I’m shaking from both elation and terror. Suddenly, I spot the dull lights of a gas station. I pull in and park under the awning, my clothes are dripping wet, and my feet feel like swamps. Mike is already there, soaking wet and flustered, shaking from both fear and chill. He stands there with a deranged smirk on his face and a sparkle in his bright blue eyes, happy to be alive. We wait for about an hour for the downpour to taper off and then we carefully navigate to our pre-booked hotel through the flooded streets of Manassas.

The next day, with half-dried clothes, we point our bikes home, to NYC, riding on the D.C. Beltway – one of the busiest traffic-ridden expressways. Riding next to an eighteen-wheeler, I imagine its rear tire blowing, and the sheer force of the explosion bucks me off my bike and I go flying into the traffic at seventy miles per hour – my family finding my body mangled and unrecognizable. The exhilaration from that dread enhances the euphoria of the ride on the expressway. Although I use expressways for expediency to get somewhere quickly, I prefer the solitude and the meandering attributes of a smaller road, with majestic scenery and wild Nature. Nevertheless, we arrive home safely on the ninth day, my bike covered with road dust and a graveyard of dead bugs splattered on the windshield. I pull the bike into the driveway, determined to enter writing contests, and start querying for a manager.