STILL MORE OF TEXAS. Well, hey, its a big place.

We all know Texas means Big, Huge, Gigantic and other such superlatives, so it is going to take me a while to get through all this. So settle back. My decision to stay an extra day in Lockhart, just so I could eat more, was bitter sweet. Sweet because it bucketed rain all day long, and I was able to hang in my motel room all day, warm and dry, tubing beers and watching The Players Golf Championship from Puente Vedra, Florida. (Just me and the cockroaches). Bitter because I had no way of getting to Smitty's BBQ for dinner without getting seriously wet. Ride? No, too pissed. Walk? No, too far. Taxi? In Lockhart? Don't make me laugh! So I opted for Mexican next door to the motel, and even that was tricky. However, next morning it had finally stopped raining and I was no longer pissed and therefore able to ride around and grab some quick photos.

This is Smitty's. You'd never know how good it is from looking at the building, (that's the back, by the way, and its the good side!) and sadly now I'll never know either.

And this is Black's. Another crappy building, but man can they cook. Why would you even go in there if you didn't know about the joint? How could you not go in there if you did know?

Now this is the kind of building that screams "Come on in". But its Lockhart City Hall. No BBQ there. Good building though, don't you think?


Just before I left Lockhart, I visited the last of the big three, Kreutz Market, again on the advice of both Mike and Steve, thanks once again guys.You have spoken nothing but truth! This place is a giant BBQ eat-orium. First up, I really liked the signs in the entry. The first one said "We shoot every third salesman. The second one just left". The when you get in a bit further, another sign says "Vegetarians this way. Normal folk that way," and points towards the grill. The vegetarians door leads back to the car park. Love it! This is my kind of place. Anyhow, was 10.30 am too early for a Texas sized BBQ feed? Nope, not around here. Might have been a bit early for half a bottle of the red hot chilli pepper sauce though, I ruefully concluded a bit later. And it was such a little bottle too. Suitably sustained, and as soon as I could see and breathe again, I headed for San Antonio with all speed.

On my map, San Antonio was a BIG yellow blotch, indicating an intimidating megalopolis. A lot bigger than Austin, by the look of it, and Austin had given me some problems. Oh well, I've got the GPS, what could go wrong? Nothing at all, as it turned out. (Hah, bazinga!). It was remarkably simple to get to my hotel, just one turn off the Interstate, and a couple of miles later there it was.  The downtown area is actually quite compact, and with some very interesting looking architecture. I decided to go roach free, and had booked into an upmarket joint right on the Riverwalk. From the website description of the hotel, and the prices, I had visions of a private balcony from which I could look down on the plebs walking past, and if I so chose, I could do a bomb dive straight into the river. Well, the hotel is right on the river, no argument there, and my room, as promised, is close to all facilities. It is close to the lift, in fact its right next to it, and it is also just across the hall from the ice machine which sounds like a brake press on steroids and runs 24/7. And it does have a commanding view of the alley at the back, and an uninterrupted vista of the side wall of the building next door. And the river? Well, I've seen bigger stormwater drains. In fact, that's exactly what this alleged river thing is, I even found a plaque awarded by the American Society of Civil Engineers citing that very fact. So as stormwater drains go, this one is quite literally a winner, and I'm a guy who can appreciate a bit of first class flood mitigation work when I see it. But my lawsuit against the hotel for several counts of deceptive and misleading advertising is unlikely to ever get off the ground, so I will just have to make the most of it. This is the essence of the discount hotel deal on the net, people. Someone has to get the less than ideal rooms out the back, and the scenery belongs to those who pay full whack. But the room itself is pretty good all the same. But I better not see any goddam roaches in here, I can get those a lot cheaper.

                            The award winning stormwater drain, aka The Riverwalk. It gets better.

                       See, told you. It even has boats on it. This is the good side of my hotel.


First thing I did was head down the street to the Alamo, only about 300 yards away, as it happens. Interesting place with an interesting history. What kid who grew up in the fifties didn't know about Davey Crockett in his coonskin hat ( that's racoon skin, by the way) and Jim Bowie and Co. defending the Alamo against General Santa Ana and all those pesky Mexicans (and losing). But hang on, didn't those pesky Mexicans actually already own the joint because they got here first anyway (in 1691to be precise) and hadn't they already grabbed about a quarter of what is now the US?  Minor point, I know. And I think the Mexicans want it back. Some would argue that they have had quite some success at getting it back and all. And Santa Ana even got a major freeway named after him. Anyway, now there is a Crockett Street, a Bowie St, a Crockett Hotel and a heap of tasteless tourist shops selling tasteless tatt to the tourists. And some of the crap on offer has nothing to do with it. Like Ripley's Believe It Or Not museum and the Tomb Rider 3D ride. But I've seen worse examples of crass commercialism. Niagara Falls, for instance. And don't start me on Las Vegas.

 Part of the surprisingly compact front wall of the Alamo, which was one of several Spanish missions built along the course of the San Antonio River.

 

                                  And this is the church where the big names finished up.

 See, they're all in there. Now here is some of the more interesting architecture in the downtown area. In my opinion, its quite distinctive and different.

Even the newer stuff is a little "out there". This is the Alamodome, with its cable stayed roof structure.

The other thing even a blind man couldn't help noticing around here is that there are fresh faced Air Force rookies everywhere, a lot of them walking around with their families, all over the Alamo and the Riverwalk precinct. A bit more digging turned up the fact that this is an Air Force city. There are not one, not two, but three big Air Force bases here. Randolph, Lackland and Brooks. One is the main USAF recruit training base, and another is the primary flying training base, I believe, but I'm not sure which is which. No matter. The thing that I find intriguing, amusing even, is that some of these guys (and gals) don't look old enough to cross the road by themselves, and yet their crisp Service uniforms are already decorated with a substantial strip of ribbons above the left breast pocket. I guess you must get a medal if you cut yourself shaving, or if you have to eat the same meal more than twice in the same week, or if you can spell Afghanistan. I can't imagine any of these guys (or gals) have actually shot down a MiG or bombed the crap out of the Taliban just yet, but I fervently hope that they will. Meanwhile, decorations in the Australian Defence Forces are about as common as rocking horse shit, even to those that really deserve them. To be honest, I really can't figure out the mindset of either approach.

After all this, I don't know what possessed me to visit Market Square, the largest Mexican market in the US, so they say. Colourful? Holy moley, it was like an explosion in a paint factory that the Fire Service had extinguished with rhinestones, and then planted crucifies at the top of the smouldering pile. I came out on the verge of epilepsy, my senses reeling, eyeballs like spirals, but I must admit I did get quite a few laughs in there, as well as some tasty snacks. And even my limited Spanish got a bit of a workout. All good fun, and who needs to go to Mexico anyway?

MORE OF TEXAS

After leaving Huntsville, I decided to head in to Austin, in particular to Lone Star BMW. I had  several reasons for this. When I was bike shopping, the most helpful guy I dealt with was Eric at this dealership. He worked really hard to set up a deal and absolutely nothing was too much trouble. Unfortunately the guy trading up from the bike earmarked for me dropped the ball, and I had to buy elsewhere. So I wanted to thank Eric for his efforts in person. Plus, I had to buy a few bits and pieces, and I knew these guys were well stocked. First on the agenda was a set of Rockstraps to replace the Andy Strapz I am using on my big bag. The Andys are just a wee bit short, (read: I have too much stuff in the bag) and are folded over a few sharpish edges on the rear luggage rack/plate. It would have been only a matter of time.....but it would have improved the handling big time.

Next I needed to replace my BMW summer gloves. Why? because the stitching on the palm of the left hand had split apart. This continues my experience of BMW accessories not being anywhere near as good as BMW thinks their stuff is. This is the only pair of gloves I have ever had that failed in this way. Matter of fact, I have a pair of smart looking yellow and black summer off road gloves I bought in 1972 which I still use in the garden! BMW gloves and boots are the only BMW accessories that fit me properly, none of their other stuff feels comfortable on me at all. Still, if you aren't a short fat bastard with a head shaped like a cinderblock, what hope have you got?

First thing I saw at the showroom counter were two motorcycle cops buying some stuff. I couldn't stop myself them that at home, our cops get issued with all the gear they needed. They took it pretty well, although it reminded me of the silver miners I saw in Bolivia, last year that had to bring their own dynamite to work.  Just as I was leaving, a slightly mangled 1200GS pulled in. The guy had just ridden up from Guatemala. Turns out he had crashed on some ice (yes, in Guatemala!) and had to leave his bike down there till it was rideable again. He had just been down to collect it. Turns out this guy is a paramedic, and works at.... would you believe.....Prudhoe Bay! I hope I don't meet him again in his professional capacity. I shouldn't even joke about stuff like that, it's bad karma. Anyway, spooky as it is, we may well meet again. The world is not as big as people who don't ride bikes think it is.

OK, so after that refreshing bit of social intercourse, if you'll pardon the expression, I pushed on to Lockhart, about 50 miles south of Austin. There is basically only one reason anyone goes to Lockart, and that is to eat meat. It is the acknowledged home of the Texas style BBQ, and both Mike and Steve put me onto it. So last night, I tried Black's BBQ restaurant. Established in 1932, it has been operated by the Black family ever since. And I think that was probably the last time anyone spent any money on the decor. It looked pretty crappy from the outside, but inside, it actually turned out to be much worse. Plastic tablecloths with lots of rolls of absorbent paper towels on the table. I was hoping for a decent steak, but no chance. Ribs are the go down here. So I said ok, I'll have ribs. When the guy put one, yes just one, rib on a plate, I chickened out and said that's enough! I felt like Fred Flintstone. Then when I sat down I noticed the only cutlery available was a plastic knife & fork. Turned out it didn't matter, the meat just fell off the bone. Then I noticed how everyone else was gnawing on bones like a pack of werewolves. OK, when in Rome....it was pretty messy, but it just tasted superb. I think I just connected with some primeval evolutionary force and started looking around for something else to bite.

Immediate change of plans. I'm saying an extra night, and tonight I'm going to the other equally famous establishment, Smitty's. Right now, I'm really glad I made that choice, because its bucketing down outside, but I may only be delaying the inevitable. Its only a short ride to San Antonio, but the weather radar looks really ugly. I wonder if Smitty's deliver? Photos when it stops raining.

IF ITS TUESDAY, IT MUST BE.........TEXAS

Greetings People, Where the hell am I? Well I woke up this morning in Mississippi, spent most of the day riding across Loosie-ANNER, (that's Louisiana to you and me), and finished up in Texas, as the above photo attests. In fact the sign exhorts people to drive friendly, the Texas way. Well so far nobody has shot me, so I guess that's friendly. But I will be in Texas for a while now, so time will tell. I have gotten the knack of seeking out the backroads, where there is a lot less traffic, and you dont have to fight with trucks. Even roads that look like on the map they should be no more than goat tracks, actually turn out to be pretty good. Plus you get to see real people going about their real business, maybe even talk to a few of them. Not that anyone can understand me (and vice versa, don't worry about that). I got asked if I was from Scotland the other day!  But even the GPS got confused today, and when I ended up almost on the runway at an Air National Guard base, even I suspected a mistake.  I have developed a  blind faith in this technological wonder, but you do have to keep it honest and use your brain every so often.

Interesting place Texas, apparently its the only state in the US that can opt out of the Union whenever it wants to, and I have read (but have not actually observed) that it is also the only state that flies its state flag above the Stars and Stripes. Everything in Texas is supposed to be big, including egos apparently. Right now I am in Huntsville, the home town of Sam Houston, I'll have you know. Sam who? Well, go look it up, do I have to explain everything?  The forecast this morning was for severe thunderstorms in the parts of Texas that I was aiming for. If the one that hit Natchez last night was anything to go by, I was in for a treat sometime today. However, I got this far and stayed dry, but decided to cash in my chips at about 4pm while I was still in front. And not a moment too soon either. Kaboom, just as I unloaded the bike and scurried into the EconoLodge. No Indians behind the front desk this time. Did I mention I got another Indian establishment in Natchez, which made an astounding five nights in a row. This time I was greeted at reception by a nice young senorita. Ay caramba! I am starting to get the idea now. Anywhere near an interstate, there are motels and fast food joints galore. So far, I have been able to eat and sleep with very little trouble, or pre-planning for that matter. At first I thought it might be too noisy to sleep, what with the traffic and all. The traffic has been the least of my problems.

In the el cheapo motels I gravitate towards, the plumbing makes more noise than the trucks, and the ever - present rednecks in the car park make a fair racket also. Fortunately, I have ear plugs, plus I'm half deaf anyway due to working at the Largs Pier and putting up with Jimmy Barnes screaming his guts out. What is weird is that even though you don't have to go far to eat, its pretty tricky to get there unless you drive! There are virtually no footpaths, and pedestrians are viewed with total disdain. Like, whats wrong with that guy, did his car break down or something? And if you have a basket of goodies like a few beers in plastic bag, you feel vulnerable, like you are almost asking to be mugged. Especially when a carload of the brothers cruises past. At least abbos just pester you for a handout, they don't just take it (yet).  Culture shock, and then some.


Central Loosie-anner was pretty....pretty flat, pretty hot, pretty soggy, and pretty weird. Check out this photo, which was fairly typical of today's ride. Thick green foliage on both sides, but I most of the time I was riding on an embankment which I reckon was about 3-4 metres high. At the toe of the slope, the trees looked to be standing in water, with lots of creeks, lakes, culverts and bridges in evidence. Probably alligator country I reckon. I also saw heaps of snakes on the road, mostly roadkill. I also like the way they scratch a line of short transverse divots in the bitumen just on the edge of the road, beyond the white edge line. This creates some audible feedback to the driver the instant a wheel strays onto it, and is a really good idea. For cars, I mean. If a bike rider ever gets onto it, it really is time to find a motel.

Speaking of which, I went through a very long stretch of roadworks somewhere today, probably about 5 miles total, where the bitumen had been cold planed off, in preparation for a resheeting operation. This was an absolute bastard to ride on. It continually felt like the front wheel was dropping into a rut but wanted to immediately climb out again, so it was wandering all over the place. I had to get up on the pegs just to stay on top of it. And I am carrying that much weight at the back, and its spread out so far with those stupid  pannier shaped outriggers, that the bike feels dead, and wont respond to steering input from the feet. So some real dirt will be fun...not!

Still in Louisiana, this is what I meant by weird. I'm still trying to work this one out, hours later! Clearly no pig is safe in these parts. Or is that the name of some new franchise operation coming to a town near you?  I'm just thankful the bike didn't break down anywhere around here. I was sure I could hear banjo music.

And here is another one. What the hell did this guy do??

PHOTOSHOP

 

OK here is some stuff I should have posted earlier. Mine Host Steve Linden & me on the Blue Ridge Parkway near Asheville, North Carolina, with more of same below. Craggy Bikers, more like it.

Last shot of Blue Ridge, above.























The Natchez Trace Parkway. It pretty much looks like this all the way through Alabama & Mississippi, with an occasional break out into more open countryside, and a big detour around Jackson MS. Very pleasant riding, cool & shady, no trucks, and not too much other traffic either.





















The bridges across the Mississippi between Natchez MS and Louisiana on the other side, as seen out my hotel window.

 Ditto.

 Natchez has a commanding view of the river from these clifftops, where there was a fortress built by the French. Now there are some big hotels hogging the view.

 Tamales, anyone? The sign on the door says "Y'all come on in "

 Magnolia tree, just starting to flower. In  full bloom these must be magnificent. Missed it by that much!

A large hotel hogging the view.

Various Ante Bellum Period (ie before the Civil War) Houses, with one Post Bellum car, breed unknown (to me, anyway)

 So called Spanish Moss hanging from the trees is common down here. It got the name because it looked to the Indians like the beards of the Spanish conquistadores, apparently. No doubt in the Ante Bic Disposable Razors period. What the Indians called it before the Spanish got here appears to have been lost to history. And yet more mansions below. At least one of these has been converted to a boutique hotel, probably a very expensive one, one is owned by the US government Park Service, and several are for sale. The uber rich must be feeling the pinch of the GFC, but who could afford to buy one? The lawn mowing and watering costs alone would be horrendous.

Bye for now, I'm going to let my feet cool off. Back in the saddle shortly.

NYIT, NYIT, NYIT...........INDIANS!!!

I was going to put up some photos of Steve and me, and some of the scenery on the south end of the Blue Ridge Parkway. When I work out how to unravel and save the photos, I will. In the meantime, if I find a 10 year old kid that can help me, it will happen sooner. So, no photos for a while, just read on.

So, here's the thing. I could not help noticing that there are lots of strange looking people around here. The South has a reputation a bit like Tasmania, if you get my drift. I was standing in a servo at Bryson City when a beaten up old pick up truck pulled in alongside. Out gets Li'l Abner, about 350 lbs and wearing denim bib and brace overalls and chewing nineteen to the dozen. There is a confederate flag on the pickup. That figures. He looks in my direction, makes eye contact, then ejects a stream of dark coloured saliva from his mouth on to the driveway. I think the guy was chewing tobacco, either that or he should see a doctor. He checks me out, then dismissively walks into the shop, no doubt to buy a ton of pork rinds for breakfast.
In fact, a visit to a servo or Wal Mart, or just a walk down the street is guaranteed to turn up some pretty strange people. I mean, you 'd give the average dill a fair go, but I'm starting to think there is something in the water around here. The number of people from Central Casting who look like Cletus, the slack jawed yokel from The Simpsons, is just plain scary. Its the shallow end of the gene pool for sure.

I haven't finished yet. Yesterday I made a detour to Lynchburg, Tennessee. Not my spiritual home, but the home of my favourite spirit, namely Jack Daniels. I walked into the visitor centre and yelled "Honey, I'm home!" Aaaah, what bliss! Unfortunately I was unable to fall into a vat of the stuff. Shortly afterwards, I called into a shop in the town to buy a souvenir, and while I was there a 300 lb new mother walked in, covered in tatts and wearing shorts and a t shirt bursting at the seams, and clutching the world's unluckiest baby. Apparently hubby wanted a shot glass with the baby's name on it in case he forgets it. The staff went gaga (anything for business) and asked the kid's name. "Stormy", answered mum. Groan!  Right  in front of me stood the concluding argument for the Affirmative case on the  License To Breed issue, if not compulsory sterilisation.

Permit me another politically incorrect observation. For the fourth night in a row, I am staying in a budget motel, all of them different franchises, but I am getting a weird vibe. They are all run by Indians. Not your  native Americans, I mean the "It Aint Half Hot, Mum" type. On the first night at the Relax Inn, the guy just overcharged me on the internet booking rate, but I couldn't be bothered making a big deal over it. But when the rest of the Ulysses contingent turned up and looked like leaving again due to ripoff, the guy dropped the price, and I even got a $10 cash refund the next morning. The next night at a Motel 6, first the key card wouldn't let me into my room. Back to the office. Next minute, three other Indians turned up to pull the lock apart, all jabbering away like monkeys in Hindi, then the manager showed up. So there were four guys standing in my room discussing the condition of the lock while I am trying to unpack, one even took a stroll around to see what the room was like, and nodding his approval, even turning on a tap or two.  He left footprints on the carpet, which was covered in Gyprock/Drywall dust due to the recent renovations that hadn't been cleaned up. When they were all satisfied that the lock was fixed, I brought them back to earth by reminding them who spanked their arses on last summer's Test Cricket tour of Australia, and they rapidly buggered off. Next, the wi fi didn't work. So back to the front office to use the facilities there. They didn't work either. Why was I not surprised? When is that goddam country going to stop haunting me?

After checking in to motel no.3 and staring incredulously at the sub-continental trifecta winner behind the desk, I had no complaints about the third night, you will be pleased to hear, other than the fact that I finally got a room with a fridge in it, only to find that the supermarket across the road (or any other shop in town) didn't sell grog, as the whole County was dry. Tonight I am in a town called, coincidentally, Kosciusko, Mississippi. Not sure what if any connection there is with Australia's highest peak. But here at the Super 8, there is a fridge, there is grog, there is a Pizza Hut next door, and yes, behind the reception desk is Apu from the Quickie Mart. "Thank you, come again!" This is getting scary. If it wasn't for the $7 a bottle Chateau de Weasel I am quaffing right now, I'd be really freaked out.

I have spent the last four nights in four different states, which is weird. The bit of Alabama that I saw was noticeably rougher and not quite as prosperous as North Carolina or Tennessee, but Mississippi is decidedly worse off again. However, I spent about 100 miles on the Natchez Trace Parkway today, which was pleasant enough, but not nearly as scenic nor as much fun to ride as the Blue Ridge. For those at home, this parkway is an old Indian trail (just like the one I'm on, see, there I go again) which was used by the early river traders. Apparently they used to build timber boats to transport produce down to the mouth of the Mississippi River, sell the produce, and the boats as well, then walk all the way back home. to Kentucky and points north. How long that took or what tribulations they faced, I have no idea, but it sounds like hard work to me. Not too many fat bastards around in those days, I imagine.

NORTH CAROLINA

I have been a bit pre-occupied to add to the blog for a while, so let's get up to speed. My time in Charlotte was busy, as I had to get all the camping stuff I could not bring with me on the plane due to size, weight or other restrictions. I had sussed out a chain called Bass Pro Shops, so off I went to the local branch. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. The place was the size of Bunnings (Home Depot for you locals) and filled with all manner of goodies. I had to fight with myself not to fill the trolley. I particularly liked the gun section, which took up more space than I thought possible, and where I could have bought an AR15 assault rifle had I wished. The thought occurred to me that the remaining deer, bears, fish and other critters of America don't stand a chance, and anyone you dislike might at best be a 50/50 proposition.

The journey out to the shop consisted of a combination of bus and light rail into the city, then a taxi out to the store and back to the hotel. It cost me less than $2 to go into town using public transport, and $110 for the taxi fares. The good folks at the hotel desk could not tell me how to use public transport, but they were kind enough to call one of their darker hued employees to explain the system. Turned out there was a bus stop right across the street, which nobody knew about. Such is the car culture here. A short wait and I was on a near new bus to the near new metro station & into the city very quickly & comfortably. Reminded me of the time I was the only white guy in sight at a Bob Marley concert in London.

Next came the tricky bit. The bike was waiting for me in Rock Hill, just across the border in South Carolina. I had no option but to use a taxi again, and carry all the riding stuff I needed to bring it back. It all went without a hitch, even getting fuel which is a whole story on its own, but I was pretty nervous all the same about mixing it at 75-80 mph on the interstate and trying to navigate strange surroundings from the opposite side of the road as well. My impression of Charlotte was that the parts I saw were smart, almost too neat and tidy if that makes sense, so I'm not sure if I just got lucky but I really liked what I saw.

So after repacking my luggage for bike mode, & dumping any surplus at the hotel, I headed out onto the Interstates once again. It was time to get the show on the road and do what I came here to do. This time I was heading for Hendersonville, about 3 hours away. About 20 minutes later I was back in Rock Hill, so I knew I had blown it. I had missed my first turn completely! To an outsider, the US system of navigating takes some getting used to. We tend to think in terms of destinations, here it is all route numbers & compass directions. The heirarchy of route numbers is an added complication to the uninitiated. First there are the Interstate Routes, the the National Routes, State Routes and Local Routes, all with their own symbol and route number. Of course these often overlap, so it is common to see a cluster of signs all at once as the various bits converge and diverge again. When you have no idea where you are, let alone which direction you are facing even before you do a few corkscrews at a cloverleaf  road junction, its tough. A guy looking for a direction sign to Hendersonville will cluelessly drive right past a forest of signs saying among other thing, lets say US 74 West, to his eventual demise. And if you ask for directions, they might as well be speaking in Klingon. "Khrrr schmigg arrrrghtt 74W thropppscchhdd - what are you, stupid??" I've got it sussed now but Klingon was bloody hard to start with. I'm still working on the roadsigns.

Nevertheless, somehow I managed to get to Hendersonville and to the home of Steve and Vici Linden, good  friends of Mike and Tina Valenti back in San Diego. The way this trip has unfolded is really uncanny, but it is essentially bike karma, bikers doing what bikers do for each other, as I'm sure anyone who has read this far will understand. My hosts for the next few days live in a beautiful part of the country, and they pulled out all stops to show me around. I am very grateful for their generosity, so thanks again folks. We got out for a ride on the Blue Ridge Parkway, including the summit of Mt Mitchell and up to the top of Mt Pisgah, with spectacular views across the Appalachians. I could not believe how lush and green the countryside is, and how thick the trees and foliage are, and how different it is from home. We also enjoyed some great eateries & a local craft brewery. Small town America may not get better than this, I reckon. One night the bird feeder on the back porch of the Lindens' house got raided by a pair of young bears, who succeeded in breaking it open for the seed. That's something we don't have to contend with in Adelaide. Rodents the size of a car.

I had another interesting experience when I went for a haircut. Actually when I think about it, getting a haircut on the road is always fun! From the $3 buzz cut with free scalp massage which went on just a little too long in Islamabad, to the shapely babe that destroyed two inches of beard on each side of my face in Cusco while I was busy checking her curves out in the mirror instead of remembering the Spanish word for " trim ". This time I thought I had walked through a portal into the 1940's. There was a sole barber about 100 years old and four other guys about the same age in the line up. This would take a while, assuming it is really a barbershop, and not a wax museum. Still, I'm not in a hurry. I took in the decor- this was your razor strop and hairoil kind of joint for sure. For reading matter I could choose between two copies of the bible, a magazine about rifles and a few about pickup trucks. Religious quotes were attached to the walls. I thought better of asking if they had the latest copy of Sushi Today, Naked Schoolboys or a Koran. I listened to the barber drone on in standard barberspeak to the guy in the chair, his voice barely above a whisper, enquiring about last weekend, the weather, next weekend, the weather, etc. Nobody else said anything. I started to prepare my answers. It took me back to a time when the barber was Mr Burns on Kilkenny Rd, where cigarette smoke hung thick in the air and I had to sit on a plank across the chair to get my head at the right height. That hour or so was worth every cent.


Just before I reluctantly left Hendersonville, I got a call from Brian Cullinan. He and Val, Bjoern and Sigrid were just 20 miles away in Asheville, having ridden all the way from the start of the Blue Ridge Parkway. I rocked up at their motel shortly thereafter to catch up and compare notes. Even though none of us had been away from home for long, it was great to see them right here in the US of A after all the dialogue of the past year or so. They had set up their bikes really well for the adventures ahead.

So we headed off in the same direction before reconvening that night at the same motel in Bryson City, where it was drinkies and dinner in a local Italian restaurant. The following morning we would head to Deals Gap and ride the infamous Tail of the Dragon together, with all of its 318 curves in 11 miles.

The Dragon starts on the North Carolina border and runs downhill into Tennessee, and there were dozens if not hundreds of bikes everywhere. Squid central, for sure.That's local speak for hoonville. Down at the bottom, I thought it was hyped up out of all proportion. I thought my ride the previous day to Gatlinburg and back through the centre of the Great Smokey Mountains National Park was a far superior ride, and even the road into Deals Gap from Bryson was more enjoyable. There you go, but the legend is good for business. I suspect the reality is that a lot of guys come to ride the Dragon, but a lot of others come to enjoy the superb riding the region has to offer generally. Sure the Dragon is a nice fun ride, but there is a 30 mph speed limit on it, & there were cops at the top and worse, more cops at the bottom where you can't help cracking on the throttle when the road finally straightens out. Plus, we were all fully loaded up with travel gear. As it happened, Brian got pinged for doing about 41mph in a 30 zone, but fortunately the cop let him off when he saw how much work was involved in getting his registration papers out of his luggage, or I would hope rather when he realised he hadn't caught a hoon on a sports bike out to break the record or die in the attempt, but just a victim of gravity. Our plan is to reconvene in Flagstaff AZ on 18 May, if not before, now that communication has been established. OK, Tennessee is next.

BOURBON STREET

After the paddleboat cruise, I headed up to the French Quarter, which I had reconnoitred earlier in the day. It was going off well and truly, Bourbon St was absolutely jam packed but I think I got there too late. About 30 years too late!! It is first class sleaze, with hundreds of noisy bars, full of people getting (or already) pissed out of their brains, strip joints for people of all persuasions, and weirdos on every corner. Just like the Boaties Tent at the Aussie Surf Lifesaving Titles, really. Didn't go much on the pervading stench of overflowing garbage bins & vomit though, but I'm sure I saw a couple of the Village People in one joint. Nevertheless, in the seventies I would probably have been in there with my ears back, & I probably would have started at breakfast time. (I still dare not show my face in Pamplona after the fiasco of the Running of the Bulls in 1977, & thats all I'm saying).  But at my current stage of life, active participation would have been just pathetic, so I went back to the hotel, kind of cheesed off at the whole place. Or cheesed off at being 60, probably.

I decided that the following day would be much more enlightened, so I turned to more cultural pursuits. I took a bus ride out to two old plantations, one of which was the magnificent Oak Alley, a fairly typical southern mansion, but with the added bonus of a stand of exquisite 300 year old oak trees lining the approach. It has been used to shoot scenes in lots of movies, apparently. Look familiar? Fletch 2 was my guess. I was surprised to find they didn't grow cotton in this latitude because it is too humid, here they grow sugar cane. Remember that, it may come in handy.

 Of course, everyone knows the slaves got a raw deal, so there's no point me going over all that. Suffice to say the living conditions out the back in the staff quarters were pretty rough, yet somehow still better than some of the septic tanks Chris Phillips & I stayed at in the west of Pakistan, or the room I had in Peru last year with no glass in the windows.

Later in the day, I took a stroll around the so called Garden District of New Orleans, where some of the well- to- do built their town houses. I think its fair to say the parts I saw had seen better days. Nice houses, but most are built of high maintenance timber, and with 150 years of tropical humidity, the damage level was high. Also because the whole city is built on a swamp, there are subsidence problems galore, and there is evidently a huge problem with termites here as well, with the conditions being ideal. OK, no more free  building advice, I'm retired, but here's one of the better ones.

I was also able to revisit the French Quarter, and this time I discovered a whole world of culture away from Bourbon St itself. There are many exquisite buildings in the other streets comprising the French Quarter, with lots of antique shops, art galleries, cafes, hotels and residences. It has a very relaxed feel, & maybe because it was a Sunday, there were lots of buskers around, and some impromptu bands playing all kinds of neat stuff, mainly trad jazz, but other stuff too, and most of it was high quality.

OK, good stuff, glad I've seen it, but now its time time to move on. I flew up to Charlotte, North Carolina today, & I have just settled into yet another hotel.  A noticeable drop in temperature of about 15 deg C was immediate as soon as I stepped out of the airport. I will do a bit of sightseeing, this actually looks like a very nice city so far, and a bit of shopping for more camping equipment while I wait for the bike to arrive later this week. Yippee, I don't have to carry that bloody big bag around any more, I will soon be able to actually wear most of its contents & stack the rest on the bike. I look forward to giving the bag to a homeless person to live in, and getting ON THE ROAD...... AGAIN. Blue Ridge Parkway, here I come. There is a chance I may rendezvous somewhere in this area with fellow Ulyssians Brian, Val, Bjorn & Sigrid in the next week or so, if they can get out of the snowstorm that just hit New Jersey & the north east of the country. The weather really is all over the place, unseasonal & very variable. Currently 40 deg in Phoenix, with snow in Yellowstone, and rain around this area. That's adventure riding!