Kimball, TN to Clarksdale, MS - a long day in the saddle, 354 miles

A fairly uneventful and long day. Immediately after leaving Kimball,  We entered Alabama. A whole different world (maybe universe?) in Alabama. Neil Young’s song, Alabama, kept repeating in my head. Going south, we paralleled a river, maybe the Tennessee, or a large lake, for about 60 miles. Nothing special about the roads or the scenery. Once we started heading west towards Tupelo, the road surface alternated between newly paved and last paved in the 60s. More and more Confederate flags appeared. At gas stops, hardly anyone wore a mask except the employees working the cash register. 

Lucinda attracts a lot of attention, especially in the south (note: between Kimball and the Arkansas border, I saw only 3 motorcycles. Besides Neil, the final Easy Rider scene kept looping in my brain). People were friendly and genuinely curious about my trip, though they were confused when I told them I was going to Colorado. The biggest problem I had was understanding what people were saying. They could understand me, but I couldn’t understand them. Because of Lucinda’s size, the first question a bubba asked me was “how fast she goes”? 

The weather was doing strange things to me. Evidently, there is a potential hurricane brewing in the gulf. I could feel the change in pressure - I had a constant head ache and my sinuses were clogged. But the biggest change was the wind. We were pushed around the roads for the entire day. 

The resulting cloud formations were interesting. A few examples:

Once we passed Tupelo, the roads became more interesting. Rolling hills, fairly gentle curves and some nice forest portions. Then we arrived at the Mississippi border. The Delta. Flat land and more flat land. Cotton and more cotton, acres of it. The temperature kept rising into the lower 90’s. I though about how awful it would be to have to pick cotton all day. I thought about how awful it would be to have to wear two layers of riding gear and a full-face helmet in conditions like this.

I realized that cotton has a distinctive smell. To me, it smells like burnt plastic. 

The day ended in Clarksdale, MS. To many, the birth place of the blues and the spot where Robert Johnson made a deal with the devil so that he could play the blues like no one else.