I've concluded the worst drivers in the world drive Dodge Ram pickup trucks. In a hurry, unaware, and utterly oblivious of others, they seem to all wear mirrored wrap around glasses, tailgate relentlessly, and pass on two lane bridges. Go on by, here, go on, rush, you're first, see you at the stop light, Jackson! I brushed it off somewhere near the Red River in that brilliant corner where Texas meets Oklahoma meets Arkansas, north of Interstate 30, on the rolling, curving roads, through Albion to Broken Bow, then over to DeQueen. I was on my way to Nashville from north of Dallas, and at the beginning of a 10 day solo road trip to spend some time with my father in Wisconsin; taking the gonzo route, taking my time.
Rolled into Music City around mid-afternoon, checked into my rented riverfront condo, and took a late afternoon ride through the nearby downtown area. Nashville does it right with the bicycling scene--paved paths, navigational signs, cool bridges, and a flair of art throughout. The natural beauty of the hills and trees and cliffs centers around the Cumberland River. Steady moving and full, it's still a working river. Barges of all sizes, carrying lumber, oil, and dirt. The irony of moving dirt on a barge down a river.
Of course, there was the cliche Party Pontoon Saloon boat to ruin the calm. Lit up, blaring new country, and full of maniacally laughing tourists. Nothing wrong with tourists and laughing, but keep it low profile, start out low key, fall into the local culture. In truth, the boat mirrored the Nashville nightlife: Crowded, expensive, inauthentic, and bland. Trying too hard, just let it flow like the river.