The Tennessee Three...

It was with much relief that I left the state of Tennessee yesterday, after a few days there with plenty of drama. The spill on Cherry earlier in the week when I arrived in the state was the first thing to hit me. I sprained my ankle quite badly, although I never realised it until later in the day, and it really didn't help that it took a full 36 hours to be able to get a bandage on it. The second thing was yesterday, after I'd topped up Cherry's oil, and was too distracted to remember to put the bung back in before I set off. I left it in the driveway of the place I was staying at, and drove ten miles to a gas station to find, of course, oil everywhere, the bike covered and smoking with it, and of course I couldn't ride back to get the bung and couldn't get anyone back at the house I'd left (just ten minutes earlier!!!) to answer the phone. I was pretty much stranded and panicking and, in the end, a Kind Stranger (No.1) and his wife saw what was happening and took me the 20 mile round trip back to get the bung and go back to the gas station.

I got cleaned up, hit the road, then a few hours later, in rolls number three... one of my leather saddlebags caught fire and ended up totalled at the side of the freeway, along with its contents, which luckily didn't amount to more than a few items of clothing etc. The saddlebag hadn't been sitting on the exhaust but a few inches above it, and as I'd come very many miles already with no drama on that score, it never occurred to me that any oil would have sprayed up onto the underside of it, after the episode with the bung. It did, of course, and acted as a heating agent, as oil tends to do. The saddlebag would have got progressively hotter until the contents ignited, which was inevitable, as some of it was synthetic flamable fabric. A car overtook me with a woman gesticulating wildly at me, but they didn't stop. They simply carried on and left me to it, so I pulled over onto the hard shoulder and noticed the bag smouldering away with flames licking out of the bottom of the bag. After a few seconds where I felt suspended in a stunned state of disbelief, I acted quickly to take off the frame pack that sat on top of the saddle bags' interlacing straps, and unlaced the bags, whipped off the burning one, and laid it on the side of the road to smoulder away from the bike and the rest of my gear. That was a task straightforward enough, and I felt a lot better after I'd made sure the fire couldn't spread. The big problem was trying to get ANYONE to stop and help me! I'd used up all the water I 'd started out with, to keep me hydrated as I was riding. I tried to get at least two dozen cars to stop, but nobody would, even though they could all clearly see what was happening. I thought if someone stopped quickly with some water, I could maybe save some of what was in the bag. It felt like a nightmare, trying to get anyone to stop. I was just beyond a slip-road too, and cars were slowing right down to pull off, but still none of them came to help. Just as I was shrugging my shoulders, and resigning myself to having to write off the entire contents of the bag and figure out how to repack everything to continue, Kind Stranger number two did an illegal u-turn on the freeway and pulled up behind me. He leapt out of his truck and used lemonade to put out the fire. I was game enough to open the bag at that point, and I managed to rescue just a couple of things, but we came to the conclusion that the bag itself and most of what was inside it was toast (so to speak!). He helped me to repack my remaining stuff safely back onto the bike, made sure I was ok, and waited until I set off before he did another illegal u-turn to resume his own journey. He was from Arkansas. Not Tennessee. Nobody from Tennessee would stop, which I found incredible, but he was from Arkansas, and he did, and he wasn't surprised that nobody else did. He told me that there's a lot of crime in the area where I'd stopped, and people are just too suspicious of others to want to help them. I was disgusted about that, and incredibly grateful to him for stopping and helping in the most practical ways possible. I pulled away and left the saddlebag on the freeway grass verge, with the contents wrecked beyond saving, rode with relief out of what had started to feel like a pretty hostile Tennessee, across the border into Missouri. I was philosophical about the loss, apart from mourning the demise of my beloved black and gold paisley velvet and lace dress that scrunches into a tight ball and always comes out of a bag looking shiny and gleaming and fabulous. Not this time, it didn't. It was a tangled, melted lump of smoking, holey, blackened fabric. Its an irreplaceable item, and I was totally gutted. But, mindful of the fact that it could all have been horribly, hideously worse, I just resolved to keep my eye out for something similar in the future, and put the whole experience behind me. I did actually laugh, when I remembered dragging out several pairs of lacy undies in pretty much the the same condition.

And did things get better? Not immediately, no. Gas stations off the freeway in that part of Missouri are few and far between. I picked up a signpost to a gas station, left the freeway to look for it, and when I found it, several precious reserve-tank miles away from anywhere else I could get help, it was derelict and boarded up. U-turn, on the last thimble-full of fuel, to cough up to a farmhouse, where the third Kind Stranger of the day gave me water and gas. I'd called in there to ask directions, because I was pretty disoriented at that point, with no clue where the nearest gas station could possibly be that I could make it to, and she refused to take any money. Instead, she plonked me into a knackered old golf cart and drove me around the back of the farmhouse to the gasoline tank, filled a container, and drove me back down the long driveway back to my bike, with two bottles of water as well.

Luckily, this was one rare place where I could get mobile phone coverage, so I called Red Dog and Kathy to let them know what had been happening. I made it to their place in Arkansas after dark, having been met 100 miles down the road by Jay, Red Dog's mate on his beauuuutiful bright yellow beamer and escorted back. As I rolled up the driveway, splattered with bugs and with wobbly knees after negotiating their gravel driveway in the dark (me and gravel aren't best buddies, even in daylight!), and quite traumatized by a long day of thoroughly surreal experiences, a bunch of people there in the driveway were leaping up and down, waving, cheering and holding out their arms to me. I got off the bike to huge hugs, an ice cold beer, a garage area for Cherry and a hot bowl of spaghetti - the first thing I'd eaten all day. That welcome was extraordinary, and much appreciated. All those beaming faces, with every single person just waiting to hug me, is something I won't forget. I had to pinch myself toconvince myself I'd actually made it! Today is Sunday. I'm doing very little today, apart from letting Jay check the bike over, resting the ankle, and hanging out with these nice people at this lovely house, where Red Dog has been known to stroll out of the den into the carport and shoot a venison dinner without having to go any further. There's a small lake on the property that is stuffed with fish (Kathy is a keen fisherwoman), and there's a cold tub in the garden! During the week they call Dog Days here - the hottest of the year - what a blessing that tub is. I'm headed there right now!