The greyhound ride was long. I thought about this lyric of his a lot
Leavin' ol' chicago, with its rain and snow. Lord, won't you help me ride this greyhound home.
I listened to another song by Norman Blake (I am so fed by his voice and guitar that I do not desire food while I listen to his creations. For those familiar with my food blog, this reveals the gravity of my connection to his road songs) during the entire time of my trip. It floated along with me when I'd wake up rested but aching in Birmingham, walking the midnight streets in Memphis, just waiting, sometimes letting me get a glimpse of the rough lead feel of a trucking life, when waiting for the bus to come in Charlotte , drifting into sleep and sliding into supine position in that lovely awful greyhound station, and the first song I sang when I stepped out of the megabus hours earlier and looked at the sky with its urban stars and scrapers thereof, bright neon and LED in the strange comradery of the cool night. It was a victory song.
Annie, Orphan Annie, are the Nashville nights still warm? Somewhere off to west of town is the coming of a storm. Is the river dark and muddy, where the green swamp willows grow. Nine more days and I'll be home, backing of the road. Pickin' and a' fiddlin' and a' playin' the game, listen to what I say. Oh I wish I was in Nashville town, 'bout Fifth and Broadway. Where the Cumberland rolls and soft breeze blows, and home it ain't far away.
I saw bright nashville on my westward journey, but that old grey dog went south of it on my return east. Nashville
was musical and alive. Such a shame it was a momentary stop on the
rideshare I had been blessed to receive. It was enough to make me hungry
for more, assuring my sweet return. I will never forget the happy storms that rose along the western foothills of the Appalachians lapping the ground and trees rather than beating upon them -- just three days after a surprise freeze gracing the western foothills of Appalachia. The next day, enter leather-rubber tramp, Lonepine. I had shot out of the mountains into Gatlinburg, the colors having just been made perfect the day before, orchestrated just for me. Riding my bicycle through the wind and waves of light sprinkles of the Farragut night. A purely tropical storm, made gentle by Georgia and Alison's serenades. I was now in the north path of the gulf tropic winds, buffered only by the noble hills i had left a mere thirty hours prior, it felt so right!
After months of cold camping, I think about the word warm. Not just a temperature, but a come-home feeling, a type of breeze running through your arms and at your bicycle that makes you hungry to move. But not only that, warm is the after-feeling of a stiff river breeze on your moonlit cheeks as you gaze out into the waters. It is being enrapt in the arms of your woman, a feeling of being touched by the soul-words "Everything is beautiful just for now," and a ray of sunshine on your face adorned with sweat during a break in cycling.
