I woke up to train whistles.

Loud.

Close by.

And once they started, they didn’t stop.

It made sense. Chattanooga… Choo Choo… all that. I’m just too dumb to make those kind of connections. Thankfully it was the rising morning, and not the wee hours. I was sleeping poorly enough as it was. Whether or not I want or need or love my time traveling alone in the van, in the same way I require a wee dram of bourbon or ambient fan noise at night, I’m also conditioned to sleeping with a person all up in my shit. I know that some couples sleep on separate sides of the bed, or sometimes even in separate rooms (from past experience), and that they maintain these as their own private, sacrosanct spaces. But Dorothy and I sleep close: Smashed against and draped across each other like goddamned puppies. (It’s honestly pretty fucking great)

But she wasn’t there, so I tossed and turned and dreamt of water, distraction, and disappointment instead. The next morning, as I drank coffee and did my usual walk-around of the van, I couldn’t help but notice… ummm… this:

It’s my own small nod to superstition, but I try not to talk about how well (or not well) the Van of Constant Sorrow is doing from day to day. When people ask, I put a gentle but urgent finger to my lips and admonish them to hush, lest they summon a ghost. But I will cautiously and quietly whisper that lately, the van has been doing pretty ok. There’s a fuel pressure issue that makes the fuel pump buzz at idle and leads to occasional hard starts, but it almost always does what it needs to. And when the temperature fluctuations are big enough, and hoses swell and shrink, and there’s the usual “spotting” underneath. Creaky suspension. CV joints in constant need of attention. A sliding door that likes to magically and spontaneously unlatch and swing open when you’re on the highway. And sure, there’s always some bulb or fuse out somewhere. (yes, fuse) But otherwise?

Hush.

This, however, was new. The conspicuous but small coolant stain wasn’t awesome, but not unusual. The giant amorphous dark patch that seemed to originate from the same space under the van was. And begged the question: did I just happen to park directly and coincidentally on said dark patch… or did it come from the van? And if so… why?

I crawled around underneath for a little, looking for telltale drips, but never found anything to explain that much stain. And after a few deep breaths, she started up just fine.

Until she didn’t.

After the usual warm up, I decided to run into the Walmart for one more constitutional before finding the trails, moving from my “campsite” on the periphery of the building to a parking space at the forefront. And upon returning… she wouldn’t start. Or she would, but would turn off immediately. So I did what I normally do. Took a few breaths, gave the dashboard little pet, and said, “Hey… It’s ok. We can try again in a little bit.” Then went back in to the Walmart, walked around, and imagined what it would be like to be trapped in there while monsters roamed outside.

She did eventually start, with some not so gentle urging from the gas pedal, and once I was satisfied with the idle, I headed cautiously up to Raccoon Mountain. But as bright and sunny as it was, there was now a small cloud over the day, and I definitely did a quick Samba search of “VW mechanics near Chattanooga.” Just in case. (IYKYK)

One of my super powers is apparently to randomly pick a place to go and discover that something is already happening there. When I’d committed to my spontaneous westward odyssey, I told Dicky I was thinking about Bentonville. He responded immediately. “Outerbike!”

Oof. That wasn’t what I wanted. I wasn’t trading one social engagement for another. What I’d hoped to find in Bentonville was NOBODY. Maybe dinner with some local friends, but otherwise… just me on a trail. By myself. Outerbike was the opposite of that.

And yet… maybe that would be fun? I’ve long lamented the death of Interbike and everything that came of it. Whether it was the long distance friendships, the torrid affairs, the Surly tent, or just being in the desert on a bike. Maybe it would be fun to be “industry” again for a weekend. “You can meet Jess the Maker and tell her you are Watts the Destroyer,” Rich texted. Then proceeded to send me screenshots of all the vendors who were going to be there. Hmm…. maybe. But I still wouldn’t arrive until late Saturday, and even that would be a haul. And that haul was ultimately why I had turned south toward Chattanooga instead.

Pulling into the trailhead at Raccoon Mountain, there were tents and tape everywhere. Obviously some kind of event. Again… my super power. “Ok,” I thought… “worst case, maybe I can register for whatever this was and “race?”” Turns out I couldn’t, as it was a NICA event, and I’m a far cry from a youth these days. But I could still squeeze in some miles before they started on the main loop.

Just as I was looking at the map, trying to find the trailhead, I spotted a familiar face across the parking lot.

“No fucking way….”

Once upon a time, Chris was just one of those faces I would see at pretty much every race. Then he became a face that I could still beat, but who made things interesting. Then he became a silent curse muttered under my breath if I spotted him at a start line. Then he became the guy standing “above” me on the podium. But beating me or not, I always like to see his bearded visage.

Chris was there in a NICA capacity, but put in a hot lap with me before he had to get to “work.” I kept going, trying to ride everything Raccoon Mountain had and after thoroughly wearing myself out on some pretty challenging trails, sat in the van and clandestinely sipped/(accidentally spilled everywhere a beer), plotting my next stop.

Bentonville was pretty much shot at this point. Or at least I just wasn’t feeling it. So I turned my gaze south. I love riding the gravel roads of southern Georgia and North Florida. And I heard that middle and southern Alabama has some gems. Which made me think of Anniston. It was rumored to have some pretty great trails, and well…. I’d never ever been. So that was it.

A quick update to Rich brought an equally quick reply; “Coldwater Mountain Fat Tire Fest!”

Well, damn. Something was literally happening everywhere. A quick perusal told me everything I needed. Camping in a park downtown. Beer. Food. Rides. Sure… let’s be social. The question was, whether or not I could even finesse my way last minute into an event I hadn’t registered for.

I did.

Next up…. Part Three of some stupid trip that happened over three months ago, but that I apparently need to finish writing about before I can move on to other topics, because I kind of made some stupid New Year’s resolution to finish the things I start.

Damnit!