Day 11 (August 20th): Tennessee Foothills to Nashville

I covered a lot of ground on this day, mainly because I cheated. I did tell some of you before I left that I am not a purist, and that if I have to take a bus during this trip, I would. Well, I did lie a little bit. I am a purist, and am thus a little troubled that skipped about 110 miles of Tennessee by taking the Greyhound from Crossville to Nashville, where my cousin Kathleen was waiting for me. I stayed in a fantastic (read: sketchy) budget motel in Rockwood, Tennessee, and, after a nice conversation with the man sitting in the lawn chair in the parking lot, set out for a 25-mile ride to Crossville. I climbed the last of the winding hills this day, through the worst heat I've encountered so far, passing into Cumberland County and the Central Time Zone. These hills are strange to see on a map - long diagonal spines running parallel to the TN-NC border (guess that's why the border's oriented that way, huh?). My legs were really protesting the whole way, and I knew I needed a longer break than just one evening off. The road was very remote, just a two-lane Highway 70, with a nice, wide shoulder through the green hills. A woman slowed down to tell me that she was a cyclist and 'you never see them around here.' We chatted, then she turned around. About an hour later she passed me again, this time with a pen and paper to write down the brand of my saddle (bike seat). She said hers always hurt after even 30 miles. I was chased by my first wild dog today - I'd read a lot about dog trouble on some other cyclists' blogs, so I have been on the lookout. This one was a salt-and-pepper miniature Schnauzer wearing a green kerchief. I somehow didn't feel all that threatened as he barked his way along the grassy shoulder. I guess the dogs get bigger and badder as you go west. I missed several towns along my route, somehow, and think that if it is possible to miss a town on a bicycle - especially when you are looking for it to calculate your mileage - does it really exist? I don't know the answer to that, but by the time I got to Crossville, I was blown away by its urbanity (it straddles I-40). I walked in to a cafe owned by an Italian couple. The Italian-Tennessee accent is lovely and odd. Then, one by one, four more Italians walked in to talk with the owners (in Italian), all sitting down to enjoy a San Pellegrino. I ended up at the Crossville BP Station for five hours or so, waiting for the Greyhound to Nashville with a couple from Arkansas and a Seventh-Day Adventist from Fort Worth, all of whom were praying for me to convince the bus driver to allow my bicycle on the bus, which is against the rules (without being boxed up). I think everyone should take a trip on a Greyhound, even a short, two-hour one like mine (many people were riding through the night to Texas). I was there, dirty and sweaty, with a cell phone (and other hidden gadgets) and fancy, if slightly beat-up, bicycle gear, among folks traveling with their clothes in garbage bags (why couldn't I have just strapped those on my bike rack?) trying to keep their young children from crying. Thankfully, my Southern accent kept me from being a complete oddity, though even in my own country, in a place very close to my true territory, I stuck out. David made the observation that it's odd to be from a place and return to it feeling a bit of a stranger (for him, the mountains. For me, the feeling was most distinct in the Better Burger in Troy). In our cycling outfits, we certainly look like city slickers. Part of this whole trip may be an exploration of a sense of my ownership of and kinship with different places, landscapes and people. Tonight, I'm writing from my rest day in Nashville, which is full of fashionable beards, hats (old time porkpie and cowboy) and unabashed ambition. It's the first of three state capitals I will be passing through, and the last big city until Carson City, Nevada. Unless I take a big detour, which is quite possible.