My Journey Cycling the Natchez Trace Parkway:
The Ups and Downs, the stories, the bumps in the road, and everything in between.
Hitchhiking to Get Back Home
My entire lunch, I nervously developed a game plan to
hitchhike—where to stand, what I would say, how much I should stretch the
truth, etc. After eating lunch, I went to the waterfront, touched the Mighty
Mississippi, and headed back over the bridge to Natchez, with the intention of
biking back to the Trace, where I would catch a ride back to Madison, playing
the stranded cyclist card.
The bridge connecting Natchez and Louisiana was not good (and
very dangerous) for cyclists. It was a highly trafficked bridge, and going from
Natchez to Louisiana, the bridge slanted downhill (Natchez was located on a bluff),
and it was simply a two-lane bridge with no shoulder. So biking the bridge was
loud and dangerous, and sometimes, cars didn’t even switch over to the left
lane. I was pretty fortunate to not get hit.
On the way back, which I suppose was safer in regards to
traffic, the biking conditions were worse. The bridge slanted uphill, and while
there was a shoulder, the shoulder was filled with trash and was rather
difficult to navigate.
So just as I was finishing crossing the river back to Natchez,
on the trashy shoulder, my back tube popped. Fortunately for me, the Natchez
Visitors’ Center was right on the other side of the bridge. So I walked to the
Visitors’ center to check the damage.
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| A picture of the bridge spanning the Mighty Mississippi that popped my tire, Vidalia, LA |
My back tube was not only popped, but there was a large staple
piercing the center of the tire, in other words, the tire and tube were both
done.
Still about 3 miles from the Trace, I elected to try to patch up
the back tube and ride it over to the Trace. After patching the tube, I biked
approximately a mile before the tube went out again. At this point, I decided
to walk the two miles to the Trace, where I would aim to hitchhike back to
Madison.
As I got to the beginning of the Trace, I couldn’t help but
laugh a little. I had been stressing for the past two days how to best
hitchhike back to Madison, whether or not I should lie about the severity of my
bike issues, and how I wasn’t actually desperate. And low and behold, the last
3 miles before hitchhiking, I blow a tire, don’t need to lie and am actually desperate
and actually NEED to hitchhike to get back safely. I guess I got what I
deserved; the world works in mysterious ways.
) |
| Hitchhiking was my only choice. |
So, at about 4:00, a few minutes after returning to the Southern
Terminus of the Trace, for the first time in my life, I stuck my thumb out,
hoping to catch a ride from a Good Samaritan. An Asian guy hitchhiking in
bumfuck Southern Mississippi, at least I’ll have some stories to tell. And
stories I got.
After I stuck my thumb out, the third car that passed pulled
over, turned back around, and offered to give me a ride.
The car was a pretty rundown, dirty, messy sedan. A white
couple--in their low thirties it seemed—in blue collared gear came out and
asked if I needed help.
I explained to the couple that my back tired was busted and I
needed to get to up by Jackson by the end of the evening. They said they lived
up by mile 17 and could give me a ride to up there if I’d like.
Thankful for any sort of ride, and definitely not trying to wait
outside with the voracious gnats, I accepted the ride figured being at Mile 17
is better than Mile 0 (I needed to get back to Madison at mile 105, remember).
A few seconds of chatting with the couple confirmed my initial thoughts:
These two are super country, or redneck, for lack of a more proper term.
We chatted about a few things, they asked me a few questions
about my journey. I told them my story briefly, that I biked all the way from
Nashville. They asked where I stayed, and what animals I saw. They asked me if
I was loaded,* and when I politely said no, (I thought to myself, of course
fucking not), they looked at me like I was insane, and then asked if I had a
knife (I lied here and said I had a switchblade pocketknife, which I also did
not). They then stated how lucky I was to have not been attack by a 300-pound
boar, or even a black bear. Okay, I thought.
*yes, as in loaded with a gun.
Solidifying rural southern stereotypes, about ten minutes after
picking me up, we passed a gal in a pink shirt riding a bike. As we passed her,
the guy joked, “Want us to pick her up, to get you some?”
I let out a fake laugh to be polite. The guy went on: “Hey, do
you know why it’s illegal for women to bike here?” I responded non.
“Because that’s peddling pussy.” He responded.
Both him and his wife, the driver, laughed. On the surface I
laughed. But deep down I was like, what the fuck??? That’s so wrong in like
every way. What the fuck? Why is his wife laughing? I’d like to think I
actually respect women. I guess this is Rural Mississippi, fulfilling
stereotypes.
Despite our cultural differences, it’s clear that the couple was
very nice, and I was grateful that they picked me up and gave me a ride, even
if only a small fraction of the way. As they dropped me off at the rest stop at
Milepost 17, I thanked them for their kindness and stated how they were so kind.
At this point, the lady responded, genuinely, “Oh I know. I
could’ve just shot you right there when we picked you up.”
Again, I laughed on the surface but thought, okay that was
awkward. And then they went on their way.
It was about 4:30 now, and I was at the rest stop Mile 17, back
on the side of the road hitchhiking again. The peace and quiet I had enjoyed in
this area while cycling only a day earlier came back to haunt me—there were few
cars traveling, at times, no cars would pass in up to 5 minutes. Of the ones
that did, most did not stop or acknowledge me. A handful of cars did stop and
ask if they could help with pumping a tire, give me a ride back to Natchez, or
call someone to pick me up. But I had no one to call and didn’t want to go back
to Natchez. So I waited on.
It had been nearly an hour since I began standing at the rest
stop at Milepost 17, and finally a maroon pickup truck hauling a boat pulled over.
“I can take you to Port Gibson” he said, which I knew was around
Milepost 40 or 50.
I accepted, thinking that 40 or 50 is closer than 17, so I’ll
take what I can get. And that’s how I met Sonny.
Sonny was a guy in his 70s, I believe. He was traveling with a boy,
probably like 9-10 years old, who was riding shotgun. The boy didn’t say much,
if anything at all.
Sonny himself was an interesting guy, surely a conservative
southern, but clearly woven from a different thread of cloth than that of my previous
drivers. Like myself, and Sonny had a Master’s in Education. He had worked in
education for over 35 years, worked in administration for over 20 years, and
served as a dean of a community college for quite some time as well. So given our somewhat similar backgrounds, we
actually had a number of talking points to discuss.
At one point, after we had had some discussion, he asked me
where specifically I was going. I gave him the spiel that I biked all the way
from Nashville, and I told him that my friend lived in Madison, and I needed to
get there by that night so I could crash at my friends’ place and rent a car
from the airport. I told him that I couldn’t call my friend to get me in Natchez
since it was far away and he had a lot going on that evening.
Then unexpectedly, Sonny said, “How about this. Let me drop off
my boat at my house just north of Port Gibson, then I’ll give you a ride to
Clinton (Milepost 85), if you can get your friend to pick you up there.”
I was flattered, that would have been
awesome. Doing the math though, this meant that Sonny was offering to go at
least an extra hour out of his way for no other reason than to help me. Being a
person that doesn’t particularly enjoy accepting help from others, and already
grateful that he had been willing to pick me up in the first place, I resisted.
“I appreciate it, thanks, but please,
you don’t have to. I’m grateful in itself that you were willing to pick me up.”
“I insist,” Sonny replied.
I thought about it, and fired back:
“Why would you do that? Why would you
go forty miles out of your way just to help me, at no benefit to your own? You
don’t even know me.”
Sonny turned the tables on me.
“Josh, let me ask you a question.” He
said this in complete sincerity. “Are you human?”
“Yes sir,” I replied.
“Do you bleed red blood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s why I want to help you. Josh,
I’m not going to rape you, or beat you or anything like that, so don’t worry,”
he said sincerely.
“I know.” I responded.
And so I told him that if he could
give me a ride to Clinton that would be wonderful, and that I’ll try to arrange
a ride from my friend to get to Madison.
So Sonny drove me through Port
Gibson—a run-down town that Sonny later told me was 86% percent black—to then
to his house on his farm. It was really a nice plot of land he owned—he owned
some 1300 acres, I believe.
Then as we dropped off his grandson,
his wife and two dogs came outside and greeted us. Sonny introduced me to his
wife as if I was a longtime family friend. He then said that if
dinner—spaghetti and meatballs—was ready he would have invited me to come in,
but since it wasn’t we should hit the road.
He then told his wife the scenario—he
found me on the side of the road. He mentioned to his wife and me that when he
was on his way to pick up his boat, he saw me at the beginning of the Trace,
and said to himself that if I was still there when he returned, that he would
pick me up. I wasn’t at Mile 0, but I was at Mile 17 when he saw me, and true
to his word he decided to pick me up.
He said his decision to take me to
Clinton so matter-of-factly, and his wife understood so clearly. It seemed like
such an obvious and no-brainer decision for them, to help me out. It was super
nice, but pretty strange to me.
On the ride from Port Gibson to
Madison, Sonny and I had some rather deep discussions revolving around education,
politics, and religion.
We talked about people, and he
explained to me that he thought the vast majority of people are good, even
great people—trusting, respectful, caring—and only a very small percentage of
people are bad. He further explained that that very small percentage of people,
unfortunately, ruins it for everyone—everyone becomes defensive, untrusting,
and even rude to others and humanity at large because of this distrust of those
few bad people.
He explained that despite differences
in politics and religion—which he acknowledged that we likely had, given my
background—that we as a society needed to be better at working with each other
and helping each other, despite our differences. He further explained that my
political and religious beliefs—which he acknowledged were likely very
different from his—would never stop him from picking me up off the road and
helping me. Once again, Sonny had some great points. It was rather moving.
At one point during the ride, I asked
him sincerely, “How did you get like this? How did you become a person who
would willingly go out of his way and help a complete stranger for nothing in
return?”
Sonny explained himself. He told me
that his parents were like that, always trying to help others, so he naturally
that same mindset. After picking at him a little more, Sonny revealed that 5
months ago he had a procedure done on his heart. Prior to the procedure, he
explained that he wasn’t worried in the slightest, that he trusted that him,
his family, and everyone else would be taken care of. It was again moving. He
just seemed like a guy so satisfied with his life.
Sonny said to me, in regards to his
genuine act of kindness: “All I ask is for you to pass it on.”
Daniel was off with his family at
dinner, so I didn’t want to bother him to come get me in Clinton. I tried to
reason with Sonny that even though I couldn’t arrange a ride from Daniel at
that moment, I’d be fine in Clinton.I didn't want him to spend even more time than he already had up to this point. But Sonny insisted that he drive me to
Madison all the way to Milepost 105.
“It’s just time,” he said, and at this
point I didn’t push any farther.
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| Not all Mississippians are racists, bigots, or rapists. |
We talked about our lives, and I had mentioned I was originally
from Massachusetts. Sonny told them to tell my friends that not everyone from
Mississippi is a racist, a rapist, a bigot. There are a lot of very good people
in Mississippi.
I decided to get dropped off by Sonny at a Starbucks near
Daniel’s house, where I’d wait until Daniel and his family were done with
dinner. After arriving at the Starbucks, I thanked Sonny for all of his help.
Sonny, despite being an open Christian and believer of Jesus
Christ, did not seem to push religion on me. While he wanted me to believe in
the Lord, he thought it was my choice to make and respected that only I myself
can make that choice. But nevertheless, he then said a quick prayer, which he
thought I’d be offended by, although I’m generally down for this type of
support from others, despite not being openly religious.
After the prayer, I thanked Sonny again, but then Sonny thanked me for our conversation,
and told me that he was so happy to meet me and see a young person getting into
education and looking to help others.
A guy just picked me off the side of the road, went two hours
out of his way to drop me off where I needed to go, and he was thanking me??
We then exchanged contact information, and I ensured that I’d
keep in touch and pass the kindness on. And then Sonny was off.
And just like that, I was back in civilization. Daniel picked me
up and gave me a ride to his place about an hour later.
Day 9 Stats:
Distance Traveled: 24.942 miles
Max Speed: 21.7 mph
Average Speed: 8.9 mph
Time Traveled: 02:46:53
Day 10,
Saturday, May 27:
I woke up on an air mattress in an office at Daniel’s place. His
whole family was at the house, sending off Daniel as he got ready to drive to
Montana, and I was grateful that I was able to contribute by taking a family
photo of them. About an hour after Daniel left, I gathered my things and
Daniel’s dad gave me a ride to the airport.
Although I already had a rental car reservation, I was slightly
concerned something would happen. It was my first time renting a car, as a
recently turned 25 year old, but based on my experience with others, rental car
places always seem to have problems to delay or prevent you from renting
somehow. There was also that thing in which I may or may not have paid for a
(bullshit) speeding ticket I got a few years back. Daniel’s father was kind
enough to wait for me to ensure I didn’t have any issues.
But I didn’t have any issues, and so I rented my first car! Woo being 25!
I drove the car back to Daniel’s place, picked up my stuff and
hit the road to go back to Nashville.
Despite my prior experience taking on long road trips (I
literally have 1 2 3 4 different road trip posts on this very blog), I usually
get a little antsy for long rides, especially when driving.
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| The best BBQ I've ever had. |
But even though I was traveling all day, I had an eery calmness
on this ride. Surely the rental car being a WAY better car than my own car
helped, but I think it was a result of me no longer taking the little things
for granted. Being immune to weather. The AC. Not having to pedal continuously.
Not having to work harder for uphills. The 6.5 hour drive home to Nashville
seemed like a walk in the park relative to biking all day. It was really crazy
to think I biked all this way down.
The drive back was very smooth. I opted to go via Memphis
instead of Birmingham primarily because Central BBQ is the best barbecue I’ve
ever had, and why not. OMG.
And then, after that late lunch, I drove home straight to
Nashville.
“Honey, I’m Home!” I said to my roommate as he answered the
front door.
And shortly after, we returned the rental car, and just like
that, my trip—and very soon my time in Nashville—was over.
Guide
