Pushing My Bike Outta Clarksdale
After leaving Memphis, I headed south into Mississippi and the town of Clarksdale, the site of the famous crossroads where Robert Johnson supposedly sold his soul to the Devil to gain mastery over the guitar and the blues. I also wanted to check out the Delta Blues Museum located there and see a little Mississippi culture.
Well, the museum is basically one big room with a lot of guitars in it (like a Sam Ash with history), the local culture is that of a very depressed Southern town, and the legendary crossroads has two gas stations.
After sampling Abe's famous BBQ (just off the crossroads, but Abe clearly did not sell his soul to gain mastery over BBQ), I headed south towards New Orleans. About 40 or 50 miles out of Clarksdale (before the heartburn set in), I noticed that the DL was handling sort of funny. The front end seemed less responsive than usual, and when I gave it more gas, it seemed to be particularly sluggish. Oh, shit - I bet I know what it is, I thought, and sure enough, once I'd pulled over I saw that my rear tire was totally flat.
Fuck. OK, well, you know the drill...
I'd prepared for this moment mentally at least twice, so I was marginally prepared to deal with the situation. Also, I had a flat repair kit with me, so I knew that I wasn't necessarily screwed.
Fuck me, this thing is HEAVY with a flat, I said as I pushed the now 12,000 lb. bike to a more secure spot off the road. Alas, the shoulder was only about three feet wide (not nearly wide enough to do tire surgery on safely), so I started pushing the bike towards a small turnoff that led into the cotton fields.
Ughhh - is this thing actually getting HEAVIER?!? I looked longingly at the turnoff, a mere four telephone poles away, and realized that I would be dead long before I got there. Then, in a flash of common sense (yes, it happens occasionally, don't get all excited), I decided to start the bike up, put it in gear and gently let out the clutch while I guided it from the side.
Once I had the bike off the road and on to the turnoff, I found a spot with firm enough dirt to support the bike on the centerstand and broke out my repair kit.
Now, I've often imagined over the five years I've owned this kit how proud I would feel when, stranded in the middle of Bumfuck, West Egypt, I repaired my own tire and rode into the next town to triumphantly order a new tire without having to call for a tow truck.
Alas, last Thursday was not to be that day.
When I found the hole, I honestly had to marvel at the size of the damn thing. I could almost stick my pinky in it. Still, undaunted, I dutifully followed the instructions on the repair kit and inserted the plug into the tire coated with nasty green rubber cement (no, I'm not mangling the English language - by the time I was done, both the plug AND the tire were coated with nasty green rubber cement). I pushed the plug into the hole and it went in WAAAAY too easily, basically right through the tire. Ever the optimist, I started squeezing cement into the hole to fill any gaps (HA!), and when I was satisfied that I had enough of the cement on my hands, I grabbed the carbon dioxide cartridge (like you use in BB guns) and screwed it into the adaptor that attached to the tire to fill it up and get on my way.
Well, it was fun listening to the carbon dioxide whistle through the unpatched hole for about 1.2 seconds, and then I started inventing new expletives. After that, I came to my senses and, humbled, called my insurance company/life support system for a tow. They promised that they would get someone out there in about two hours(!) and I sat down to wait in the ungodly hot Mississippi sun.
Not ten minutes later, a Crown Victoria pulled over to the turnoff on the other side of the road. Awwe, that's sweet - someone wants to help, I thought. I walked across the road to tell them that in about two hours or so I would be just fine, thanks, but it turned out that they also had a flat. A tire company conspiracy, perhaps?
No, it was just Mississippi. It was then that I decided that the Devil's mailing address, if not his permanent residence, is definitely in Mississippi.
The couple with the Crown Victoria were in their seventies or so, and the gentleman driving the car took it upon himself to start changing the tire. I offered to help and was goaded on by his very sweet white-haired wife (He has a HEART problem, you know, she said), but was rebuffed the first 40 or so times I offered. Finally, he relented, so I grabbed my toolkit and his jack and went to work on that tire like a chubby 12 year old boy on a chocolate Easter Bunny.
A few minutes later, a cop pulled over. Oh, shit, now we're screwed I instinctively thought, then realized that cops could actually be USEFUL in situations like this. However, he was really there more for moral support than anything else, and it soon became clear that only a gunshot wound (or worse) was going to force him to get his nice clean khakis dirty. The old gentleman and I finished putting on his spare under the watchful eye of John Q. Law, who really was very nice, if less than helpful. Tire changed and my tow 90 minutes or more away, I went back across the street to my bike to wait.
John Q. Law (his name was actually Lawrence, and he turned out to be a Detective) decided to join me in waiting. Since I've been uncomfortable around cops basically forever, I volunteered that I would be fine and he could go catch the bad guys if he wanted to. No, he said, he really didn't feel like working that day (I quote verbatim), so he'd sit tight and wait with me.
Boy, was I glad I'd hidden the crack and the hand grenades before he showed up.
Anyway, he did turn out to be a very sweet guy, and he even drove to the local Wal Mart to get me a bottle of water. However, it was either that or respond to the call he got on the radio about shots fired (I shit you not), so the choice was pretty clear, but I still appreciated it.
Finally, Allen the Tow Truck Guy showed up. He was an OK guy (even if he did spend the rest of our time together regaling me with stories of the corpses he'd seen as a volunteer fireman) and totally hooked me up in my moment of need. There was a little bit of uncomfortable tension between him and Detective Lawrence, however. Detective Lawrence was black and Allen TTTG was clearly a bit of a "Good Ol' Boy," so it was a little weird, but they were cordial to each other and eventually I was on my way with my baby secured on the back of Allen TTTG's flatbed. An hour or so later, Allen TTTG dropped me off at a (not so) Super 8 Motel off of I-55 and promised to take care of my baby and to pick me up the next morning at 7:00 AM to take me to a dealer who could help me out.
Well, I had no choice but to make the best of it and head over to the Shell station across the highway for some dinner (mmm, prepackaged sandwiches!) and try to get a good night's sleep. I watched the movie "My Girl" (starring a pre-cocaine Macaulay Culkin) and fell asleep dreaming that the Devil was using my bike for batting practice.
I woke up at 6:00 the next morning (damn, some people do this willingly every day?) and got my stuff together to meet Allen TTTG. He was right on time, the Devil clearly had not been molesting the DL since I'd last seen it, and we were on our way. An hour later, the bike and I were sitting in the parking lot of the Madison, MS Suzuki dealer waiting for them to open and to spoon a shiny new tire onto my baby.
The manager was very nice, but immediately informed me that he had no tires in stock that would fit my bike. He and his staff spent the next hour on the phone calling every bike shop in the greater Jackson, MS area and finally located a shop that had a couple that would fit. I drove down to the shop with one of his guys and bought a new Metzeler Tourance for my baby, then drove back and waited for them to put it on so I could get back on the road.
By early afternoon, the new tire was on, I'd gotten a slightly premature oil change, and I was on my way to New Orleans.
I was still convinced that the Devil lived in Mississippi, so I was determined to get the hell out of his yard before he sicced his hounds on me. An hour or so from Louisiana, however, I stopped to get some gas, an unfortunate necessity. As I filled up my tank, I looked over to watch my helmet get PUSHED off of my seat. I lunged forward to grab it, but had to watch helplessly as it tumbled face-shield first onto the pavement.
Arrrghhhhhh!
So, now the face-shield doesn't close quite right (which provides me with a lovely singsong of wind noise above about 10 mph) and it has enough scratches on it to make my entire record collection look positively new.
After that, I got back on my bike and got the hell out of the state. I could swear I heard laughing behind me when I crossed into Louisiana.
So, a big fat thanks to Detective Lawrence and Allen TTTG, as well as all the guys at the Madison, MS Suzuki dealership. I really appreciate all of your help.
However, if I ever recommend setting foot in Mississippi again, please kick my ass until I return to my senses. I've spent enough time providing laughs for the Devil, thank you very much.
Well, the museum is basically one big room with a lot of guitars in it (like a Sam Ash with history), the local culture is that of a very depressed Southern town, and the legendary crossroads has two gas stations.
After sampling Abe's famous BBQ (just off the crossroads, but Abe clearly did not sell his soul to gain mastery over BBQ), I headed south towards New Orleans. About 40 or 50 miles out of Clarksdale (before the heartburn set in), I noticed that the DL was handling sort of funny. The front end seemed less responsive than usual, and when I gave it more gas, it seemed to be particularly sluggish. Oh, shit - I bet I know what it is, I thought, and sure enough, once I'd pulled over I saw that my rear tire was totally flat.
Fuck. OK, well, you know the drill...
I'd prepared for this moment mentally at least twice, so I was marginally prepared to deal with the situation. Also, I had a flat repair kit with me, so I knew that I wasn't necessarily screwed.
Fuck me, this thing is HEAVY with a flat, I said as I pushed the now 12,000 lb. bike to a more secure spot off the road. Alas, the shoulder was only about three feet wide (not nearly wide enough to do tire surgery on safely), so I started pushing the bike towards a small turnoff that led into the cotton fields.
Ughhh - is this thing actually getting HEAVIER?!? I looked longingly at the turnoff, a mere four telephone poles away, and realized that I would be dead long before I got there. Then, in a flash of common sense (yes, it happens occasionally, don't get all excited), I decided to start the bike up, put it in gear and gently let out the clutch while I guided it from the side.
Once I had the bike off the road and on to the turnoff, I found a spot with firm enough dirt to support the bike on the centerstand and broke out my repair kit.
Now, I've often imagined over the five years I've owned this kit how proud I would feel when, stranded in the middle of Bumfuck, West Egypt, I repaired my own tire and rode into the next town to triumphantly order a new tire without having to call for a tow truck.
Alas, last Thursday was not to be that day.
When I found the hole, I honestly had to marvel at the size of the damn thing. I could almost stick my pinky in it. Still, undaunted, I dutifully followed the instructions on the repair kit and inserted the plug into the tire coated with nasty green rubber cement (no, I'm not mangling the English language - by the time I was done, both the plug AND the tire were coated with nasty green rubber cement). I pushed the plug into the hole and it went in WAAAAY too easily, basically right through the tire. Ever the optimist, I started squeezing cement into the hole to fill any gaps (HA!), and when I was satisfied that I had enough of the cement on my hands, I grabbed the carbon dioxide cartridge (like you use in BB guns) and screwed it into the adaptor that attached to the tire to fill it up and get on my way.
Well, it was fun listening to the carbon dioxide whistle through the unpatched hole for about 1.2 seconds, and then I started inventing new expletives. After that, I came to my senses and, humbled, called my insurance company/life support system for a tow. They promised that they would get someone out there in about two hours(!) and I sat down to wait in the ungodly hot Mississippi sun.
Not ten minutes later, a Crown Victoria pulled over to the turnoff on the other side of the road. Awwe, that's sweet - someone wants to help, I thought. I walked across the road to tell them that in about two hours or so I would be just fine, thanks, but it turned out that they also had a flat. A tire company conspiracy, perhaps?
No, it was just Mississippi. It was then that I decided that the Devil's mailing address, if not his permanent residence, is definitely in Mississippi.
The couple with the Crown Victoria were in their seventies or so, and the gentleman driving the car took it upon himself to start changing the tire. I offered to help and was goaded on by his very sweet white-haired wife (He has a HEART problem, you know, she said), but was rebuffed the first 40 or so times I offered. Finally, he relented, so I grabbed my toolkit and his jack and went to work on that tire like a chubby 12 year old boy on a chocolate Easter Bunny.
A few minutes later, a cop pulled over. Oh, shit, now we're screwed I instinctively thought, then realized that cops could actually be USEFUL in situations like this. However, he was really there more for moral support than anything else, and it soon became clear that only a gunshot wound (or worse) was going to force him to get his nice clean khakis dirty. The old gentleman and I finished putting on his spare under the watchful eye of John Q. Law, who really was very nice, if less than helpful. Tire changed and my tow 90 minutes or more away, I went back across the street to my bike to wait.
John Q. Law (his name was actually Lawrence, and he turned out to be a Detective) decided to join me in waiting. Since I've been uncomfortable around cops basically forever, I volunteered that I would be fine and he could go catch the bad guys if he wanted to. No, he said, he really didn't feel like working that day (I quote verbatim), so he'd sit tight and wait with me.
Boy, was I glad I'd hidden the crack and the hand grenades before he showed up.
Anyway, he did turn out to be a very sweet guy, and he even drove to the local Wal Mart to get me a bottle of water. However, it was either that or respond to the call he got on the radio about shots fired (I shit you not), so the choice was pretty clear, but I still appreciated it.
Finally, Allen the Tow Truck Guy showed up. He was an OK guy (even if he did spend the rest of our time together regaling me with stories of the corpses he'd seen as a volunteer fireman) and totally hooked me up in my moment of need. There was a little bit of uncomfortable tension between him and Detective Lawrence, however. Detective Lawrence was black and Allen TTTG was clearly a bit of a "Good Ol' Boy," so it was a little weird, but they were cordial to each other and eventually I was on my way with my baby secured on the back of Allen TTTG's flatbed. An hour or so later, Allen TTTG dropped me off at a (not so) Super 8 Motel off of I-55 and promised to take care of my baby and to pick me up the next morning at 7:00 AM to take me to a dealer who could help me out.
Well, I had no choice but to make the best of it and head over to the Shell station across the highway for some dinner (mmm, prepackaged sandwiches!) and try to get a good night's sleep. I watched the movie "My Girl" (starring a pre-cocaine Macaulay Culkin) and fell asleep dreaming that the Devil was using my bike for batting practice.
I woke up at 6:00 the next morning (damn, some people do this willingly every day?) and got my stuff together to meet Allen TTTG. He was right on time, the Devil clearly had not been molesting the DL since I'd last seen it, and we were on our way. An hour later, the bike and I were sitting in the parking lot of the Madison, MS Suzuki dealer waiting for them to open and to spoon a shiny new tire onto my baby.
The manager was very nice, but immediately informed me that he had no tires in stock that would fit my bike. He and his staff spent the next hour on the phone calling every bike shop in the greater Jackson, MS area and finally located a shop that had a couple that would fit. I drove down to the shop with one of his guys and bought a new Metzeler Tourance for my baby, then drove back and waited for them to put it on so I could get back on the road.
By early afternoon, the new tire was on, I'd gotten a slightly premature oil change, and I was on my way to New Orleans.
I was still convinced that the Devil lived in Mississippi, so I was determined to get the hell out of his yard before he sicced his hounds on me. An hour or so from Louisiana, however, I stopped to get some gas, an unfortunate necessity. As I filled up my tank, I looked over to watch my helmet get PUSHED off of my seat. I lunged forward to grab it, but had to watch helplessly as it tumbled face-shield first onto the pavement.
Arrrghhhhhh!
So, now the face-shield doesn't close quite right (which provides me with a lovely singsong of wind noise above about 10 mph) and it has enough scratches on it to make my entire record collection look positively new.
After that, I got back on my bike and got the hell out of the state. I could swear I heard laughing behind me when I crossed into Louisiana.
So, a big fat thanks to Detective Lawrence and Allen TTTG, as well as all the guys at the Madison, MS Suzuki dealership. I really appreciate all of your help.
However, if I ever recommend setting foot in Mississippi again, please kick my ass until I return to my senses. I've spent enough time providing laughs for the Devil, thank you very much.
posted by Mathew Elsner at 10:12 PM
1 Comments:
Sounds like a classic story of good vs. evil to me.
Mock the devil at the crossroads, will you? Suffering is Satan's way of reminding you to practice your guitar.
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