Architecture, Nuclear Power, Floods and Kudzu
One of the driving forces behind this particular (Hybrid) blog site is one that has been left aside somewhat. I have attempted to analyze the type of material that you, the reader, want most. But from the start, I wanted an avenue to express the pure experience that I feel when I am traveling our roads from the seat of a motorcycle.
The year has been difficult, to say the least. On a personal level, I had difficulties that predated the vast specter we now know all too well, COVID-19. Without divulging a lot of details, suffice it to say that for several months, a recurrent issue has resurfaced with a graduating crescendo that peaked simultaneously with the first serious Anti-COVID-19 actions.
As a result, I found myself more or less frozen to a point where my riding was limited to short, local trips. Then the order came to “shelter in place,” which meant little to me as an “essential” worker. But gradually, things began to get serious and between work preparations, shortages of food, toilet tissue, and cleaning supplies, well, there just wasn’t a lot of motivation to ride my bike. From my point-of-view, work became an exercise in thinking of potential situations, potential problems, and potential disasters, worst-case-scenario type stuff. I have to say that the leadership teams at the three hospitals in which I provide Information Technology support are an amazing group, and have worked tirelessly to address every potential situation that may arise due to this global pandemic. Thanks to the efforts of many, we are prepared to the point that we can be. We now deal with a trickle, then the waxing and waning of virus activity, and we watch the horizon in search of the tidal wave that we fear, yet hope never appears.
With preparations made and precautions addressed, I found myself a Saturday morning with good weather, chores caught up, and time. I fired up the bike and I set out. A friend inquired as to my destination and off the cuff, I said that I was going to Alabama. With wheels rolling, along with the fact that everything on the planet has shut down, I quickly decided that Alabama would be a destination for later. Instead, I navigated to the West, with the notion that the Natchez Trace Parkway might be the best route for scenery on a beautiful spring day.
Last fall, while the Harley was still within its 500 mile break-in period, Melissa and I rode over to Natchez, Mississippi. From there, we found the Southern terminus of The Natchez Trace Parkway and followed it for 60 miles or so to Highway 27. It was a perfect idea I thought because the Trace has a strictly enforced 50 MPH speed limit and Harley Davidson recommends keeping a new bike under 65 MPH or so for the first 500 miles. Additionally, I had traveled the Trace only once before and that was in a van at night from Jackson, Mississippi to Nashville, Tennessee. This is something by-the-way, that I wouldn’t recommend. Not unless you want to dodge deer for the entire trip.
So last Saturday as quickly as the idea of riding to Alabama crossed my mind, it was replaced by thoughts of the lush green trees, Cyprus, the Pines, the Oaks, and such. My first sight of the Trace was about 80 miles from home, but there were no entrances to it from Hwy 547, so I continued farther into the town of Port Gibson, Mississippi. To this point, I knew little of the town, in fact, the only thing I knew of Port Gibson, Mississippi was that it is home of a church with a steeple, complete with a golden finger pointing to the heavens. As I approached the town, I noticed large red brick buildings. I didn’t know what the buildings were, but the property was clean and well kept, though I could tell the buildings were very old. I didn’t see any identifying signs, but then again, traveling on two wheels demands substantially more attention to the ride, rather than looking for signs. The road came to a “T,” and a decision had to be made. As my goal was to find a connection to the Trace, I opted to turn right toward the downtown area, and hopefully find an exit. I began noticing beautiful houses that looked to be from a different era and then several churches all with fascinating architecture. Then there was a building that looked as if it might be something one would see in Russia or India. The courthouse there is beautiful as well.
Port Gibson is definitely a city that I will visit again when the world returns to normal and the “shelter-in-place” orders are lifted. A visit there will require time to park and walk around to take pictures, but for the moment, all I could do was ride around and look. A few blocks behind the courthouse, stood the remains of some sort of old factory with huge buildings and what looked to be silos, grain elevators, and an old rusty water tower with vines growing up its legs, now well past the halfway mark.
I decided to continue on that street to see where it would take me. Interestingly, as it led out of town, I saw a sign indicating that the entrance to the Grand Gulf Nuclear Station was up ahead. I found the entrance and it was interesting for three reasons. First of all, I didn’t know that such a place existed in the state of Mississippi. Secondly, I noticed that it appeared to be a joint venture between Entergy and Cooperative Energy.
I have a daughter and a few friends who work for Cooperative Energy. Finally, Kudzu grows very well on that side of the state. It is everywhere.
I kept going past the nuclear plant and within a mile or two, I ran out of road.
The Mississippi River lay just ahead, and out of her banks, obviously. I took the time to take a picture or two, then back to town and back to the Trace. I considered a time or two that I should take more pictures, and I regret it now, knowing that I would, but I also knew that my original goal was to ride the Trace, so I looked at the nav system and started in the direction of the Natchez Trace Parkway.
Within five minutes, I was cruising at 53 miles per hour, Southbound, and pretty much had the road to myself. Don’t get me wrong, I love the sights, the destinations, the photo ops, but what I like most is to be out there, wheels turning, the wind blowing, and the hum of the Harley. It doesn’t matter if I’m limiting myself to 53 miles per hour, or if I’m out on a highway, pushing it up to 90 and knowing from experience there is more. I’ve shared that my late mother hated motorcycles, and there isn’t a week that goes by when I’m not reminded of how dangerous riding is, or how “I’ve lost family members in motorcycle accidents.” Some may go into that bike purchase with the goal to see just what they can do. Trust me, I have considered the activity and I’ve seen the statistics. I am acutely aware that every time I leave my driveway on a motorcycle it may be the day that I don’t make it home. Like the quote from Warren Zevon above, the “When all is said and done” train leaves nightly and I hope that everyone knows that I am prepared for that eventuality. Certainly, I will be judged, here and above. I believe that at least in recent years, transparent as it may be, I’ve lived a life that lends itself to the conclusion that the preacher’s words will be at least, believable.
As I rode down the parkway, taking in the sights and reading the signs, I kept going. Ignoring this point-of-interest or that, just content in the ride and the conviction that DBeazy is doing what DBeazy most wants to do. Besides my feelings for my family and close friends, there is no other Earthly love that compares to the freedom of the ride. I’m not ignorant of the fact that there are those who think it the stupidest thing ever. But the same is said about anyone who is passionate about an activity.
For me, the ride is worth that much and I can only hope that others find what I find in the ride, in their hunting, fishing, boating, shopping, reading, sex, golf, movies, you name it. It is my genuine hope that when your train leaves, it arrived while you were doing that one thing that you identify with most, so it can provide comfort to those left behind, and to allow them the words, “at least he/she left this planet doing what he/she loved to do.” Often, it is this distinction that defines a successful life and a more acceptable death.