border crossing, white panel van, miss monetta, and most stuf

October 20, 2021

Day Twelve: Tishomingo State Park to Collinwood

When I woke up at 7:45 Melvin and Amanda were, unsurprisingly, gone. It was chilly, but beautiful with the mist swirling over the lake.

Melvin and Amanda's tent had been behind the picnic table at the very center of this picture.

I got everything almost packed up, then remembered that I should check my tire. Not a big deal since, really, why would it be flat?

I was pretty disappointed when I saw it was flat. This is really concerning. I’ve changed dozens of flats in my life… why wasn’t it holding air? When I originally replaced it I very carefully checked the inside of the tire, the rim, and the tube, but found no precipitating cause other than the piece of metal. Just like I did yesterday evening, I spent ten minutes methodically inspecting the inside of the tire to see if there might be a discreet thorn or piece of metal which could be the problem, but found nothing. Sometimes there's something wrong with the rim or rim strip, but they looked okay, too.

Once the tube was patched and inflated, I loaded the bike and left at 10:45. I stopped at the gate where I was able to fill my water bottles, and made it to the Natchez Parkway at 11:00. The weather was perfect, and I had a tailwind, but after 7 miles I noticed that my tire was low. I pumped it up and continued on, making it to the Mississippi/Alabama border where I took the obligatory pictures. I also realized that I forgot to turn on my RideWithGPS app, so my mileage will show short today.

Seven miles later my tire was flat again, so I put on my spare after (again!) very, very carefully inspecting the tire, rim, and rim strip. I rode 3-4 more miles and found myself riding on another flat. I’ve patched it and replaced it five times so far, and now that I have two punctured tubes and no way to find out where the holes are, I’m not sure how to proceed. I can’t really patch it without a water source, and if I do I suspect it’ll just go flat again.

This is becoming a very familiar scene:

A biker headed in the opposite direction did stop and offer to help, but he rides on tubeless tires and didn’t have a spare. After some consideration I realized that I needed to get to my next stop to get this issue addressed, so I decided to hitchhike.

I've only hitchhiked once, in 1982, in order to get across a huge causeway with no shoulder, and because I'd never done it before and it seemed like something I should do at least once in my life. (You can read about that trip when I finish transcribing the journal)

I only stuck my thumb out when I saw a truck, not a car, and only had to wait about twenty minutes before someone stopped. It wasn’t a truck, but a guy in a van who had been right behind a truck. He pulled over and helped me load everything up.

Some would say that climbing into a white paneled van with plastic tarps and chainsaws in the back, then allowing a complete stranger to take me someplace might not be the best idea, but seriously, what could go wrong?

[That was his last entry. The rest is being completed by family members]

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No, seriously, it's still me.

The van was ornamented with the business’ logo: “Handy Andy’s Repair.” The driver was a 5' 10" stocky, muscular guy with a manly beard. His name is Anthony and he was going back to the office, but said he could take me about halfway before he needed to turn off at the Florence exit. Anthony is from Sandusky, Ohio, and just moved here three months ago after his divorce five months ago. He’s been working for his brother, whose name is, I assume, Andy.

After about five minutes in the car, he picked up his Bud Lite, took a sip, and offered me one from the cooler. After I declined, he said “I don’t drive drunk or nothin.’” He told some interesting stories, one of which was about his Democratic grandmother who got arrested after T-boning a guy who cut her off in a giant truck sporting a Trump flag.

He had said he could take me as far as the Florence cut-off, but ended up taking me all the way to Collinwood, and when he dropped me off he refused payment, stating “My grandma would never forgive me. Just pay it forward.”

After I got my bike and all of my bags out of the van he took off. I rang the doorbell but no one answered, so I called the number on the sign. Apparently, there are two Miss Monetta’s Country Cottages and I was at the wrong one. I loaded the bags back onto the bike and walked the half block to the correct Cottage where I met Diane (I never found out who the mysterious Miss Monetta is), a woman in her 70s and her husband, Larry, who later told me he just turned 75. I was fortunate to be able to reserve the cottage since they’re booked up through next week; they had had a cancellation right before I called.

I wanted to address my tire problems right away, before unpacking or eating, and Larry offered his help. He brought out a tub of water so I could see where the leaks were. I found they were both on the patches, one of which started as a slow underwater leak and gradually began gushing air as I watched. I therefore suspected that I had some faulty patches (although I had used some from two different patch kits). Maybe it was because they were the self-adhesive kind that didn’t require a tube of glue, or maybe they were just old. One of the holes was on the tire side and one was on the rim side, complicating the puzzle even more. After I realized it might be a patch problem, Larry drove me in his golf cart to the hardware store where I bought a new tube and a new patch kit, this one with vulcanized rubber glue. The tube was pretty small for my wheel, but would do in a pinch. Back at the house, I patched the two leaky tubes and put in the new one, hoping that between the three I’d be okay.

After that I rested from my exhausting 15-mile day and journaled. Looking in the guest register (“If you don’t sign it before you leave I’m gonna sign it for you”) I saw that Jeff, the cyclist from Henderson, KY, had stayed here.

Just about dusk I rode on inflated tires to the only restaurant in town, where I saw a couple of touring bikes leaning against the outside wall. They looked somewhat familiar and, upon closer inspection, I realized that they belong to Melvin and Amanda. I went inside and found they were just finishing their meal. Melvin and I chatted while Amanda talked to someone on her cellphone. He mentioned how delicious the granola breakfast was and asked if they could have the recipe. We said our goodbyes again, anticipating this would be the last time we got to talk.

The menu for this small town cafe was as expected, and I ordered a cheeseburger. Since my pepper packages recently disappeared, I asked the cashier/waitress if I could buy the pepper dispenser. She looked around then just told me to take it. It was the kind made of hard cardboard and must cost all of twenty cents, but I was grateful nonetheless.

I stopped at the local convenience store, a HastiMart, and my eyes lit up when I saw some Most Stuf Oreos. I’d seen this magical and elusive item only online, and haven’t been able to find it anywhere in stores. Larger than Double Stuf, these mouthwatering morsels of black and white confection made my day. To counterbalance the nutritional aspects of the Oreos I also purchased some Reese’s peanut butter cups and three packages of M&Ms.

Once back at the cottage I talked to Heather for a while, did a video call with our nephew for his birthday, journaled, read, and fell asleep around 11:30.

~15 miles
251 feet climbed
6.6% grade
1:31:12 total time
33:17 moving time
32.3 mph max speed
12.7 mph average moving speed
128 calories
579.1 total miles

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