Barq's Root Beer

Root beer is often associated with childhood, but it is very much a part of my adulthood as well. I’ve gone through phases where I tried to avoid caffeine and where I tried to avoid high fructose corn syrup. Root beer generally met both criteria. There is a wide variety of root beer brands, mainstream and craft brews, and you can even brew it yourself at home. It’s not just for kids. Lately, I tend to avoid the big brands: Mug, Dad’s, Hire’s. One exception, for me, is Coca Cola’s brand: Barq’s.

Although I was born and raised where it snows, my parents eventually moved to the Mississippi Gulf Coast. And I’m pretty sure that’s where I had my first taste of Barq’s. Like so many things, I cannot simply enjoy them – I must know their story. And if its history has something unexpected then I’m compelled to write about. Aren’t you lucky.

My expectation was that Mr. Barq started brewing root beer in his tub somewhere in the South, grew from local to regional and eventually got bought out by the big guy. All true. Well, maybe not the part about the tub, but they also had some controversy about the “other Barq’s”, and some Soviet slight-of-hand to give this story some bite.

French Quarter

Mr. Barq, Sr. is Edward Charles Edmond Barq and he was born in New Orleans in 1871. His mother moved him back to France at the age of two, when his father died. I believe he attended a university and learned the art of flavor chemistry from the masters in Paris and Bordeaux. But to avoid French military service, he returned with his brother, Gaston, and opened the Barq’s Brothers Bottling Company in the French Quarter of New Orleans (giving Louisiana claim to the original “Barq’s”). Gaston died but Edward carried on, buoyed by a popular orange flavored soda called Orangine which won the gold medal at the 1893 World’s Fair in Chicago.

By 1897 he had closed Barq’s Brothers, married Elodie Graugnard and moved to Biloxi, Mississippi. In the winter, he worked as a chemist on Louisiana sugar plantations, and in the summer, he would return to Biloxi to bottle artesian water and experiment with soda flavors. (Note: I was raised saying “pop”, but now I say “soda” and I don’t believe anyone should ever say “soda pop”.) In 1898, Barq opened Biloxi Artesian Bottling Works and within two years he was producing their first root beer (giving Mississippi claim to the original “Barq’s Root Beer”). Different than other root beers, Barq's had more "bite", partly from a higher level of carbonation and lower sugar content. It has less of the foamy head. I don’t know if it contained caffeine from the beginning but it probably did. Regardless, 1898 is thus considered the founding of Barq’s as we know it today.

Biloxi Blue

Early bottles were clear with blue lettering and had a diamond pattern on the shoulder. They were embossed with “Biloxi Artesian Bottling Works as well as "E. Barq, Prop." and "Biloxi, Miss." They dropped the word “Artesian” from their name and expanded with another plant in Gulfport in 1902. These bottles can be identified by the embossing of "Barq's Bottling Works, E. Barq, Gulfport, Miss."

Although he attended a university in France, Barq did not speak much English and could not write it, so what records there were, were in French. Through the years, he had partners in the family business. Mr. Court, perhaps sometime around 1900 and Mr. Hartner around 1907 – some bottles have Hartner’s name on them.

The clear glass and blue lettering is associated with Barq’s of Biloxi. I need to say that because there are were also red-lettered bottles from a different Barq’s in New Orleans. I’ll get back to that, later.

“It’s Barq’s son, just Barq’s”

Root beer is made from sassafras or sarsaparilla, usually, and first commercial credit goes to Charles Elmer Hires. He wanted to call it “root tea” but apparently opted for “root beer” to appeal to his local clientele from the Pennsylvania coal mines. When Barq’s root beer was introduced it was just called Barq’s to avoid the Hires trademark. That eventually went away and we had Barq’s Root Beer.

I’ll tell this story, but I don’t believe it. Supposedly, one of the franchisees – Richard Tuttle of Cincinnati, Ohio –added red dye to the amber-colored Barq’s Crème Soda, creating what became “red pop”. I’m from Michigan so I’ll continue to believe that Faygo Red Pop is the original red pop (I guess there is something called “Big Red” but I haven’t looked into this yet).

Now, you probably know that Barq’s root beer contains caffeine (diet Barq’s does not, by the way, and usually the fountain version of Barq’s won’t either – so they can make regular and diet from the same syrup). In 1938, the federal government banned caffeine in root beer. Barq simply changed the name of his drink to “Barq's Sr.” after the old man himself. Decades later, the government reversed its caffeine ban (1960). So they dropped “Barq's Sr.” and went back to the original name – which caused a bit of confusion. This is my favorite part of the whole story – the old man supposedly put an end to it by saying, “it’s Barq’s son, just Barq’s.” People still say this down on the Gulf Coast.

“Barq’s has Bite”

Barq’s has come up with interesting slogans and marketing ideas over the years. In the early years, soda was sold in six ounce bottles for a nickel. The story goes that his son, Edward Jr., came up with the idea of 12-ounce bottles and kept the price at a nickel – a first in the soda industry. He said it would give “a sense of satisfaction which comes with getting more of a good thing than the price seems to warrant.” Obviously, the 12-ounce bottle or can is still the most common size today – but not at a nickel anymore.

One of the earliest slogans was “Barq’s has Bite” – which I always thought referred to the caffeine. But apparently it was the higher level of carbonization. The popular slogan, “Drink Barq’s. It’s Good” appeared on restaurant boards and apparently on pencils and rulers handed out to schoolchildren – and it didn’t cause obesity back in my day. Somewhere along the way in the 1970s it picked up the banner, "Famous Olde Tyme Root Beer". But still everyone said “Barq’s is Barq’s”.

Ed Jr. died in 1970, leaving the company to his children, Ella and William. A few years later, they sold the company to John Koerner and John Oudt. They hired Rick Hill to be their VP-marketing. Despite graduating from Cornell University, with a Wharton MBA he euphemistically marketed Barq’s “like he was 200 bucks short of the rent money, and willing to gamble it all on the turn of the next card.” Never a follower, Hill endeared himself to the Baptist preachers of the Deep South by sponsoring MTV’s Head Banger’s Ball. But his craziest idea came in 1992.

Hill decided to buy an old Cadillac that was once owned by Elvis Presley, cut it up, and offer these pieces with proof of purchase. But the Presley estate insisted on over $1 million in licensing fees. The back-up plan was offering Soviet Union tchotchkes since the Cold War had just ended. He pitched the idea to Koerner, Barq’s president, “He just stared at me, and finally said, ‘Do you have anything else?’ When I told him no, he finally shrugged and said ‘Go with it.’” That year’s key summer season promo would be “The Soviet Union Going Out of Business Sale.” Crazy, perhaps, but even crazier because they didn’t have anything to give!

With an open airplane ticket, a lawyer and $70,000 in checks, Hill went to Russia where he negotiated with members of the “Soviet Mafia.” “After all,” he explained, “The country had just gone to hell, and the only people able to do any business were the criminals.” Ten days later he’d purchased “4,000 pounds of stuff, to be shipped FOB New York, for around $75-$80,000.”

“We filled a container with matryoshka dolls, Lenin Day pins, tank commander watches and military medals,” Hill reminisced, “we even had complete Soviet Army uniforms as bottler premiums. Of course we were offered MiGs and tanks, but we declined.”
Koerner became so successful with Barq’s that he was named “Executive of the Year” by Beverage Industry magazine in 1994. Hill later went on to work for Hewlett-Packard.

Battle of New Orleans

Supposedly, at some point in the early 1900s, Barq took in a local boy from a broken home and raised him like a son. His name was Jasper "Jesse" Louis Robinson. Barq’s biological son, Ed Jr, must have been about the same age and would eventually take over the company when Barq Sr. died in 1943. But what about Jesse?

As an adult, Jesse Robinson operated a Barq's production facility in New Orleans – I’m not sure if Barq initiated this or merely helped it happen. In 1934, Barq gave Robinson the right to use and even modify the Barq's formula and gave him the right to the Barq’s name to sell root beer in all of Louisiana, excluding Washington Parish, while Barq maintained the exclusive rights to operate in Mississippi. Barq’s of New Orleans became a separate company. Because of Robinson’s success, many New Orleanians think of Barq’s as their own hometown drink – thems fightin’ words! (Here I’m siding with the folks in Biloxi.) These bottles generally were green glass with red lettering.

Wikipedia says the marketing plans of Koerner and Oudt were complicated by the existence of the Louisiana-based Barq's which was owned by Robinson's heirs. The legal battle went all the way to the United States Court of Appeals, 5th Circuit which ruled in favor of the Robinson heirs. It’s surprisingly murky, but I believe the Biloxi company then purchased the New Orleans company in 1988. The headquarters was moved to New Orleans. Koerner and Oudt finally sold the New Orleans-based, former Biloxi company to Coca-Cola in 1995.

Almost Happily Ever After

In 2010, a lawsuit against Coca-Cola charged that they did not have the legal right to purchase certain portions of Barq’s that were passed down through the Robinson family. This case was dismissed. And then asked to be reviewed again, but denied. Unfortunately, one relative had some apparent mental instability and a violent reaction to the outcome. This happened a few months ago!

According to the police, the relative used his pickup truck to run over a man from the other side of the lawsuit – twice! The victim was knocked unconscious and suffered numerous broken bones, police said. Then the relative went to a local hospital and took an employee hostage at gunpoint. A negotiator persuaded him to surrender. The relative pleaded guilty to aggravated assault and was sentenced to five years' probation.

In accepting the plea, the Judge ordered him to serve two years in the court's intensive probation program, which includes a mental health evaluation, classes and random screens for illegal drug use. "I can't begin to stress, you need to undergo that evaluation and treatment," the judge said.

Yankee Perspective

Having grown up in the Midwest, it’s hard to believe most of this story. But having spent a lot of time on the Gulf Coast, I can see how people claim Barq’s as their own. It’s like family, even the weird relatives – and you’ll defend them against any outsider.

Through my research, I’ve found that there’s a book in the works. I will definitely buy it. And I’ll fix the details that I’ve got wrong. No two stories that I’ve found so far have corroborated more than a few details. So it will be nice to have something more authoritative. Meanwhile, I think I’ll get some vanilla ice cream and make myself a root beer float. Barq’s is Barq’s.


NOTES
http://www.beveragehistory.com/2007/06/history-of-barq.html
http://historyshortnotes.blogspot.com/2011/11/history-of-barqs-root-beer.html
“Digging for facts... A history of the Barq Bottling Works” Douglas Bremenkamp, http://www.bottlebooks.com/questions/September2001/digging_for_facts.htm
“Grandchildren of Barq's founder are challenging sale of root beer rights to Coca-Cola” Jaquetta White, The Times-Picayune, October 17, 2010 http://www.nola.com/business/index.ssf/2010/10/grandchildren_of_barqs_founder.html
http://americanprofile.com/articles/edward-barq-sr-invented-barqs-root-beer/
Barq's, Since 1898 (cokegirl@sodatraderz.com) http://www.angelfire.com/tn/traderz/barq.html
Barq's Page Two, Kat Bergeron writes for The Sun Herald in Biloxi, Mississippi, http://www.angelfire.com/tn/traderz/barqs2.html “FROM RUSSIA WITH ROOT BEER”, June 1, 2003, Chief Marketer Staff, http://www.chiefmarketer.com/from-russia-with-root-beer/
http://andspeakingofwhich.blogspot.com/2012/05/barqs-root-beer.html
http://msbusiness.com/2014/10/granddaughter-barqs-root-beer-dies-90/ “Federal judge dismisses lawsuit filed against Coca-Cola by grandchildren of Barq's founder”, Jaquetta White, The Times-Picayune, January 07, 2011, updated January 07, 2011
“After losing legal battle over Barq's root beer, man goes on rampage, NOPD says”, Helen Freund, NOLA.com, The Times-Picayune, March 13, 2014, updated March 14, 2014, http://www.nola.com/business/index.ssf/2011/01/federal_judge_dismisses_lawsui.html “Barq’s founder’s relatives appeal suit’s dismissal”, The Associated Press, February 2, 2011, http://neworleanscitybusiness.com/blog/2011/02/02/barqs-founders-relatives-appeal-suits-dismissal/#ixzz3nvRKmdHR
“ROBINSON v. COCA-COLA COMPANY”, NO. 11-30130, United States Court of Appeals, Fifth Circuit, Filed May 22, 2012, http://www.leagle.com/decision/In%20FCO%2020120522133/ROBINSON%20v.%20COCA-COLA%20COMPANY
“Losing plaintiff in Barq's lawsuit pleads guilty to assaulting Elmwood hospital worker with gun”, Paul Purpura, NOLA.com, The Times-Picayune, July 21, 2014, updated July 21, 2014, http://www.nola.com/crime/index.ssf/2014/07/new_orleans_man_pleads_guilty_13.html

Recounting the Natchez Trace Parkway

It's good to be home with access to a real computer.  Rather than edit my previous posts with observations in hindsight and in pixels, I'll consolidate them here.  I know you won't go back and re-read the day-by-day, blow-by-blow.  But if you insist, here's your portal:

• Before the start
• Day 1
• Day 2
• Day 3
• Day 4
• Day 5

The pale blue line represents the whole trip, including
the little circles near Gulfport the previous week.

A year ago, "Natchez" was the name of an old-time riverboat on the Mississippi River - that's all I knew. But Greg tipped me about a special road that the Heart Across America ride would take, and I hatched a plan to visit my parents and do this Natchez Trace Parkway. 

I rode the start of the ride back in March (1, 2 and 3) and had a full range of experiences. It was overwhelmingly positive and optimistic and wrapped around the cause. Five days in Mississippi would be completely different.

It was still wrapped around the cause as we took every opportunity to share it with people, but there weren't that many people. Being just the two of us on bikes - and solo at the end of the week - made it quieter, with time for reflection.

The Magnolia State

Southern Mississippi

The actual Trace, a footpath

The city of Natchez was established in 1716, Curtis told us that - they've got an anniversary coming next year. At 300 years old, it is older than most cities in the United States.  Who knew?

Dave heard that the whole Natchez Trace Parkway covers five degrees of latitude. The changes in geography were perceptible as we rode day after day.

The Natchez Trace Parkway is a National Park, roughly 800 feet wide and 444 miles long. The trees on either side of the road are thick enough that you cannot see or hear what may be on the other side until you exit. Sometimes there a county road or state highway with strip malls, gas stations and hospitals.

Overlook from Jeff Busby

Texas and Montana are big states.  Not only do they cover massive area, you can see forever. Mississippi is a relatively big state.  But on the Trace, because of the trees, your sight is limited - making Mississippi a small state. Only on rare occasions did the Trace rise up and offer expansive views. And even then, you can't see from the Trace itself - you need to take a short road to the edge of the park. And if you sprint, you might take the KOM.

Otherwise, the southern third of the Trace offered a canopy of trees to shade and protect us. That was welcome, but it focused our impressions to that of the road and immediate surroundings.

Mid-Mississippi

My bike, with everything I brought stuffed in that pack, looking out from Baker Bluff

Aside from the suburbs of Jackson and the area around Tupelo, the towns are small. The history of the Natchez Trace as a means of travel were constrained to the early 1800s as far as written history is concerned (written by people of European descent). It improved from a trail to a passable road. With the advent of better roads elsewhere and steam power to travel north up the Mississippi River, it became obsolete. The consequence was that no major cities grew.  The towns we stayed in were classic little towns with a court building in the center, surrounded by nearly empty storefronts along the square and then a strip of fast food places nearest to whatever state highway aimed toward the interstate.

Dave and Dennis on the square in Houston, MS

The middle of the the state has slightly more elevation change, but still hardly any hill above 4% grade or 600 feet elevation above sea level. There is a perceptible change in density and type of trees. It's more farmland. But there is still plenty of water: swamps and at least one slough.

Clearly, I recommend that you ride the Natchez Trace, it was a very positive and memorable experience. If you go, don't go alone - it's more fun with friends.  And when you book your rooms, contact Randy from Natchez Trace Travel. Trust me.

Northern Section (Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee)

The Trace runs northeasterly, veering away from the Mississippi River which goes past Memphis. The area near the river is the "delta" where the "delta blues" come from. The Trace, however, finds hilly territory and apparently "hill country blues" originated here.

Like a bad billiard shot, it misses the corner of Mississippi and crosses into Alabama near Muscle Shoals. The spelling is correct, although the intention may be a reference to mussels - Wikipedia is unclear. You'll recall, of course, The Swampers - they've been known to pick a song or two.  The Muscle Shoals Sound (from the recording studio, FAME, founded by The Swampers) influenced Sam Phillips before he started Sun Records.

I only spent an hour or so in Alabama, before I entered Tennessee. But it took me another day and many steep hills to get to Nashville.

Numbers

A personal quirk of mine is a mild obsession with numbers. Strava gives me plenty of fodder - although I have not yet purchased a power meter. (I'm fond of saying "there's always somebody crazier" and those are the people with power meters.) Recently, I upgraded from the Jawbone UP24 to the UP3. It's basically a step counter and a sleep timer. A new feature in the UP3 is a resting heartrate measurement.  While I sleep it checks my pulse and estimates my resting heartrate overnight.

The four dots towards the left are the nights before my trip, 44bpm. The next three are the visit with my parents; I think I needed to adjust to the humidity. The high point of the week (the worst point) was the night before the first ride in Natchez. I attribute that to the two margaritas and two beers - that's more than I usually drink in a whole week. As the week went on, I got better. Thursday and Friday were more strenuous days on the bike which seems counter-intuitive, but that's the data. And the last data point is home sweet home.

Cool, huh?

I didn't weigh myself during the ride.  But by the time I returned home, I had gained five pounds. Considering how much I ate at regular meals, especially once I got to Nashville, it's not surprising. I doubt it was the instant oatmeal for breakfast every day. My body is used to burning this many calories and I'm less concerned about what I eat after a few beers.  And on the flight home, since I gained two hours, I managed to gain an extra meal, too. And that't probably why I gained weight.

I failed in my desire to have catfish or a po' boy (or a catfish po' boy).

The Natchez Trace Parkway is 444 miles; we diverted around a few. Adding in the ingress and egress miles, I logged 469.3 miles overall. Before that, I did 107.5 miles over three days in Gulfport, MS, where my parents live.

In addition to the missed catfish, there were also missed Brewvet opportunities. That's "brew" like in beer, and "vet" like in the French word brevet.  In Gulfport, my hotel was only a couple miles from Mississippi brewing - but it seemed weird to go out for a beer on my bike instead of visiting with my parents. But at the time I thought I'd have plenty of opportunities along the Trace. But aside from a Negra Modelo at Bel Piatto (yes, an Italian restaurant), there were precious few good beer drinking opportunities

If you ever need to prove you know obscure Fisch Facts, mention Dave's "Crazy Ivan" maneuver at the bottom of the hour. Okay, not *exactly* at the bottom of the hour and probably not even once an hour, but Dave gets out of the saddle simply to change his position - even on flat roads. That can be a surprise when you are drafting him. I almost ran into his tire several times.

Grinders Stand (like a motel), where
Meriwether Lewis died
(of Lewis & Clark)

Bridge at Birdsong Hollow

I've become a coffee drinker because of cycling. This was not a good trip for coffee. The hotel rooms tended to have one-cup coffee makers with single-serving packets of "regular" or "decaf" - very descriptive names.  Less than inspiring.  Unlike cycling *outside* of a National Park, there are no coffee shops along the way for that mid-morning recaffeination.

If I think of anything else, I'll edit this and make you read it again!

Heart Across America Day 54 (Natchez Trace Day 4)

Today is a big day for me. I'm combining the Heart Across America ride with a randonneur 200k permanent. That means 60-some miles with Dave, and the comfort of knowing Dennis is back there. And then I keep going until I complete138 miles, unsupported.

This is nothing new for me, but it still causes me a bit of concern. Locals have said the stretch around Tupelo during rush hour is the worst.

The water from the tap was rusty, so I fill up from the filtered tap in the breakfast room. Consolidation begins on my possessions, some things go. The rest needs to fit in my oversized seat bag. I saved enough Skratch Labs drink mix for Friday and put it in a Ziploc bag.  Do you think anyone would question the white powdery substance? Nah. Cheese Danish, instant oatmeal and "bold" coffee for breakfast. Dave's chatting up a couple out in the parking lot. She's got a German accent, he's surprised we aren't crossing the country on bike trails made from abandoned railways. Some guy in an orange T-shirt wandering away from the hospital next door asks us how to get to the gas station that he went to yesterday. Okay, well ...let's ride.

Since I'm doing a randonneur event, I need a timestamp from a place chosen by the organizer (Michelle Williams). Unfortunately in a town like this and the town in Alan Jackson's "Little Man", sometimes even gas stations go out of business. Texaco is gone, but there's an Exxon close enough. Now for worry #1, dogs.

We have several miles of side streets and country roads before the Trace. As soon as Dave mentions the mace he's carrying, I hear barking. It's a Chihuahua, but still. Dave tries to educate me about screaming "AARRU" because it sounds like a dog. Sure, a dog on a bike with tastey ankles. It's total paranoia. We're staring at every run-down home and trailers (profiling, I'm sorry). Then a pack of three dogs come charging from a rather nice home (profile failure). It could have been a hundred, but I was gone. Dave had dropped back and was riding beside the van (white goose). Nice dogs, actually. Mercifully, we reach the Trace.

Life returns to the surreal experience that has us spoiled for the whole week. Perhaps there are flaws, or perhaps we're bored, but I start to point out small dimples and discolorations in the road ...as in previous days. At one of the blur of historic stops about a once-proud native culture, Dennis spots some rather large nail-heads in the van's tire ...bolt-heads, actually - huge. So we send Dennis ahead to Tupelo to get it fixed and run some errands and find us some lunch.

Now Dave and I are alone and unsupported. Dave appreciates this feeling. I'm ambivalent. Along with being navigationally challenged, I quickly forget when the van is back there. I don't have a rearview mirror like Dave and on more than one occasion I've been startled by the van. Life is always interesting for me!

Dave detects a wobbles in his front wheel. A broken spoke. And we're unsupported. Before I thought to photograph the event, he had removed the offending piece, performed some rudimentary failure analysis, adjusted the other spokes to compensate and was ready to roll. I'd still be there.

I'm anxious to read Dave's blog because I thought we rode at a workmanlike pace. With the late start for worry #2, I was pondering worry #3, how long would it take me to finish. 6pm? Certainly well before 8pm. Honestly, I couldn't go much faster and still have enough for 138 miles. Tupelo traffic never materializes.

Around noon, we hit the big visitors'center. Incidentally, there must be a segment that ends near the bathroom instead of the main entrance, because Dave's got a 2015 KOM and I got nuttin' - 15 minutes behind. Dave's blog probably won't mention that I got there first. Anyway, I love that place. Books, maps, pins, giant maps made into the tile floor. But alas, we roll.

Eventually we hear a honk. Dennis is back. Lunch. Dennis got me a Turkey Reuben sandwich - he heard me say that I liked Reubens before I went vegetarian/ pescitarian (except on big bike rides when I'll eat turkey and drink regular Coke.) We are a laugh riot at small-town restaurants with all our quirks. Hopefully, Kenny is normal - my replacement for next week.

Soon Dave's exit arrives while mine is 70 miles further. It's tough. But it's what we had decided to do long ago. I look over my shoulder and watch Dave shrink out of view. Big exhale. Damn, miss him already. Okay, I hope I helped.

These memories will last a lifetime and I'm glad to share them with Dave. Many times, this poem has crossed my mind. Dave knows it by heart, or at least used to - as do I.

The True Gentleman is the man whose conduct proceeds from good will and an acute sense of propriety, and whose self-control is equal to all emergencies; who does not make the poor man conscious of his poverty, the obscure man of his obscurity, or any man of his inferiority or deformity; who is himself humbled if necessity compels him to humble another; who does not flatter wealth, cringe before power, or boast of his own possessions or achievements; who speaks with frankness but always with sincerity and sympathy; whose deed follows his word; who thinks of the rights and feelings of others, rather than his own; and who appears well in any company, a man with whom honor is sacred and virtue safe.

By John Walter Wayland

Back to part two. I'm tired, I've got no one to draft and I need to make good time. A pair of touring cyclists had passed, so I run them down. Two guys with Adventure Cycling doing the Underground Railroad tour. They're going to Toronto. One is a bluesman with a guitar on his back. (The other is not Ralph Macheo.) We chat until they exit. I pick up the pace again. A bit.

What's this? A hill. I flip my Garmin display to show elevation and rate of incline. 7%, ouch. Screw it, I've stayed in the big ring all week and I'm not downshifting now!

Not much of a descent. And another 7%-er. Where's Dave? Oh yeah, he's showered and having a beer about now. But the scenery has changed. There are rock outcroppings. And very light rain, and it seems darker. I'm feeling okay. It crosses my mind that Don Brennan might be with me. My smile surprises me.

We, I mean I, cross into Alabama. It looks different. There's more climbing, more differentiation. There's the Alabama/Tennessee state line and another historic marker. Now I'm in Tennessee ...seems like I was just in Mississippi.  Now I'm starting to focus solely on the mile markers. Whoa! Opening up before me after a welcome downhill stretch is the Tennessee River. Which means I've got a bridge to cross. Very cool, I thought this might be worry #4 or whatever it's up to. That was refreshing.

Back to the countdown. I'm really tired. My 17-18mph pace is now 15mph. I muster a few historic stops (to eat). I'm checking my water. Another mile marker. I pass a pair of touring cyclists. Wave.

I pass a guy heading south. When I stop to photograph a bridge (really just stopping to give my butt a break), he loops around. He's a local, trying to get back in shape. The Heart Across America story spills out. Time to roll, should be 45 more minutes.

In my focus on mile markers, I miss two things I wanted to see: the stepping stones at Rock Spring, and the Wichahpi Stone Wall. Oh well, nine miles to go. Four. One. Zero, and I'm still going. (No, it's not a navigation problem.) Okay, there it is. And no dogs.

Collingwood, Tennessee, is small. I find the Exxon station I need for my randonneur timestamp. Snickers and a chocolate milk. I ask for directions to Miss Monetta's Country Cottage while I pound down my purchase.

Miss Monetta's Cottages are basically single-family homes on the edge of town ...a B&B. It's awesome. So my bike is in the garage, I've woofed down the complimentary snacks and water and spent way too much time writing this. If I've shorted anything, it's Miss Monetta's. If I've neglected anything for PC reasons, it was dinner.

Summary: my wrists, butt, neck, ankles and every last muscle suffered today. It's been a long week. One more tomorrow. What's it been like for Dave?

Heart Across America Day 53 (Natchez Trace Pkwy Day 3)

Does anyone remember "if it's blue, this must be Boise", an old TV commercial? This sort of cycling has similarities to business travel: New city, new hotel, unpack just what you need, repack and roll. Most of the time we dispense with the hotel's alarm clock and use our phones. In Natchez, the clock was at some random time so I set it and then carefully set the alarm for 5:45 - specifically AM. But I had set the time 12 hours off. In Clinton, it was perfect. Here in Kosciusko, there was no alarm indicator, but it worked. Regardless, in every city so far, I have woken before the alarm.

I get coffee, banana and a muffin at 6:30. That means I was technically "early" for breakfast. Back to blogging.

I'm not late for breakfast yet, so I'll give you one thought I failed to publish so far. Across the river from Natchez is Ferriday, Louisiana (comment if you think it should be Faraday) - birthplace of Jerry Lee Lewis. Tomorrow, we will pass by Tupelo, Mississippi - the birthplace of Elvis Presley.

After oatmeal with Dennis and Dave, we roll. I'm certain we go left to where we exited from the Trace yesterday and then continue in that direction. Dave's electronic gizmo collection cluttering up his handlebars say the opposite. I'm wrong. Today we have sunshine, so I know east from west. I am not to be trusted. Dave says "68 miles, then we turn right."

To those of you reading Dave's blog as well as mine, I apologize for the lack of photos or video here. Read his first. Or check my Instagram or Strava.  The issue for me is that I'm writing on my phone and attaching photos causes irreparable problems.  Nonetheless, I took some *amazing* photos of swamps and trees and only-in-Mississippi sorts of things! Trust me. I start saying "left in, left out" as a memory tool - so I know which way to go as we exited each stop.

Would you like a glimpse behind the scenes?  Dave's the star, I'm comic relief and partial wind blocker. Dennis drives the grey goose, a Mercedes sprinter van that you've likely seen on earlier photos. The van generally trails anywhere from a few hundred yards behind us, to immediately behind us. When he's close, he's filming us with a hood-mounted Go-Pro. Sometimes, he's miles behind if he spends more time at some historic point of interest.

When we stop, he stops. My water bottle magically gets filled, I can get sunscreen, snacks or wipes for my glasses. I deny most things, being a randonneur, but I'm only human. There's no espresso machine. If Sean Maloney were here, there would be espresso. Once we get close to the finish each day, Dennis drives ahead to go check in.

Today is quite nice. The weather is nearly cloudless and the temps are mostly in the 70s. Cycling perfection.

We stop at the frequent points of interest. We aren't focused on speed at all. We see a line of trees that once represented a territorial border. Similarly, Line Creek marked another border. There are sections of the old Trace - a dirt path through the woods - so we ride on the old Trace. We climb "the wall" - a 6% grade hill that I just named. It's nice to climb. We met two couples from Texas at one stop, chatted, then now meet them again at the next stop!

This is a stop called Jeff Busby. Thomas Jefferson Busby was a congressman in the early 1900s. He's the one who made this National Park a reality. I think it was approved around 1930, but the very last section (ironically, mile zero in Natchez) was completed in 2005. At 603 feet, this is the highest point on the Trace.

It's a campground. At the other end of camp is the scenic overlook where you can almost see Alabama (I made that up, but I posted a photo ...trust me). The drive is paved. And another hill, an actual hill. It's called "Little Mountain" - says so right on the official sign. Dave wimps out and drops to the little ring but I'm out of the saddle feeling my instant oats. I wish I had my single-speed. We are rewarded with a fantastic view!  It's a low, wide valley completely void of civilization. More photos.  Had I pedaled another twenty feet, I probably would have scored a 2015 KOM. As I walk around, Strava tells me I just completed a segment. Hmm. (Editor's note: I checked Strava and my time was about 17 minutes to Dave's 4 minutes ...that's my story.)

Have I mentioned how much I like Dave? He gave me a slice of his cold pizza from last night. If you know me, well, I love cold pizza. Time for a fast descent down Little Mountain.

Alas, no cyclists going our way all day. But we did spot a small peloton heading south. We wave, they reciprocate. Here's a touring cyclists with double panniers. He waves. He 's turning a high cadence. I assume he's on his way to the tip of South America. Maybe not. Now here's a woman who may be on a Trek, but is not on a trek. Is she with the other guy? Do they not really like each other?

I begin to notice a mix of pine and deciduous trees ...maple? And less and less of that wonderful canopy over the road. Now the pavement is no longer sandy colored, but dark grey asphalt - still smooth. Around mile marker 205 we see a sign referring to tornado damage from 2011. It does look more sparse. Are we climbing or are my legs fading?

We notice more heat from the road. It's still nice, maybe 80 degrees. Dave's gizmo central indicates a subtle climb and a long descent. He's being cruel. Yes, a subtle climb. Then four or five bike lengths of descent. I question his sanity and ask politely about the oasis of free-wheeling that never materialized. He says we're at -1%. So I roll a bit at 20mph - like eating sand at a mirage.

And now the cycling gods respond to Carol's prayer and the canopy returns! Life is good. A few more stops for historical markers and we reach the exit for Houston.  For a few minutes, we endure the reality of public roads until our hotel. Nice. Good internet. Clean towels.

After the daily ritual of laundry and showering and recharging the electronics, we find food. No beer - it's a dry county - but good food. The locals seem to find us interesting ...or they fake it well.

Before dinner, we walk around the courthouse square. It's just like Alan Jackson's song "Little Man" ...just a set of streets, ...historic district, ...wouldn't sell beer. We stopped in the Recall pharmacy. My mom worked for years in a little drug store with a fountain. Her name is Elizabeth Jane but she's called Betsy. This drug store has a fountain. We talk to the pharmacist's wife, Jane ...Elizabeth Jane Pearson. Cool.

Oh, the clock comments at the beginning of this post? The clock here wasn't even plugged in.

Heart Across America Day 52 (Natchez Trace Pkwy Day 2)

The clock in my hotel has three-inch high numbers so I can read it without my glasses. In the three o'clock hour it's raining heavily. As forecast. Back to sleep. It's a gift, I can go back to sleep. 5:45am, the alarm goes off. I'm two minutes late for breakfast ...Dave's finishing his yogurt (no oatmeal).

The forecast was for rain overnight, a respite starting at 7am for a few hours before thunderstorms return. We should roll. But the nice thing about free breakfast (besides being free), is the familial atmosphere. You'd think a couple of guys wearing spandex shorts would repel people, but it doesn't. Carol and Gary fall prey to Dave's charm.

They appear to be retired and currently live in Sarasota, FL. They're going to Portage, MI to see grandson Todd graduate high school. I actually lived in Portage briefly and grew up 10 miles from there. And this may also surprise you, but my name is Todd! By now Carol has spun her chair around. The conversation shifts to the Heart Across America. As with nearly every encounter, they've been affected by heart disease of some sort. Carol already knows about the carotid artery scan from her nursing days. Gary's 97 yr old mom gets her's checked. Dave gives her a card so she can follow our progress. She offers to pray with us, so we all hold hands as she talks.  Her recall is amazing. Of course she remembers *my* name but she's got all the details including Dennis' roll as driver and defender. I see them leave with their cute little Schnauzer, Jessie Jane.

The timing is great for the weather but awful for commute traffic. Unlike yesterday's ride with a couple dozen cars all day, we have dozens at a time queued up behind Dennis in the van. Most are cautious and considerate as they pass. But some take undue risks. With virtually no shoulder, we stay right but oncoming traffic veers to their right and I see one hit the brakes to avoid a passing white pickup truck. The Natchez Trace is a National Park, people! - not a place to play chicken. A few miles of that and we are back to our old personal playground.

The skies are overcast and the roads are still damp. I don't have a fender. I apologize. Dave's bike has a stubby little fender that only protects a portion of his ...um, well, you know. He's not apologetic. And he doesn't need to be because there is no spray to speak of.  We get down to work.

Around mile 20, Dave yells "wabbit" ...a cyclist ahead!  The power ratchets up as we reel him in. The next five miles disappear as we take turns talking to Caleb Snyder. He's the track and field coach at Belhaven College in Ridgeland, out for a quick out-and-back before going to work. Interesting guy.

By now we're more than a third of the way and haven't taken a break. Oh sure, little historical turn-offs appeared every other mile yesterday. We give up waiting and pull off onto the grassy shoulder. I look for snakes. Can't be too safe. I call my randonneur friend, Michelle Williams. She writes the Crooked Letter Cycling blog and is the hub of cycling in this part of the Magnolia State. Caleb knows who she is... Nice. Just so friendly. Wish we had more time.

Espresso Gu since Sean Maloney isn't here to have a double and we're off again.  I must have joked about our average speed dropping below 19mph, because Dave's down on the drops and I'm playing catch-up. Fine, my turn. Oh yeah? We roll past an scenic stop. Peripherally, I see a wooden walk-bridge. So I get my reprieve from hammertown and we turn around. It's like a Louisiana bayou. Oooh, even better, we see people!

Reversing roles, I start chatting while Dave goes to take pictures. Mind you, Dave's camera has a two-foot long boom with a bike attached. Before long I know Linda and Donny Studnick's (or Studnička, it's Czech) life story. Donny is living with 100% blockage of one of his carotid arteries; the other is perfectly clear so surgery was not recommended. He drives. They laugh about the occasional wrong turn - not related to the carotid. Another joke about trying to focus the auto-focus camera. I love these two! And I'm thinking "you're going from Nebraska to Oklahoma City, and you're in Mississippi ...heading south?"

I gave them my card; hopefully they get to read this.  Send us a copy of that photo. (Unless it's blurry!)

Okay, hit resume on the cruise control. (You can hit the fast-forward button.) Wait, what's that in the road? It's sorta moving. It's a turtle. I suppose that says something about the traffic volume, he's almost all the way across. Dave nudges him. He clams up. Sorry, bad metaphor. I try to pick him up gently. I don't really know what happened but he startled me enough that I never really picked him up. Now he's shell-sided down and peeing like a racehorse. Fortunately, it's going the other way. I assume it a defense mechanism. He stops and I right-side him. He's okay now ...off the road, in the grass.

Resume cruising speed. "Dave! Did you see that snake?" Continuing to make questionable choices with nature, we loop back. About three feet long and as big around as your fist. Dave says he's alive. I regret this with every fiber of my being. I thought his head was smashed, but he's eating something that's already smashed. Morbidly fascinating. Perhaps cannibalistic, I think he's eating a snake! It's hard to tell from my safe position behind Dave. He asks if I want to take a closer look. I turn my bike around and leave. I don't like snakes.

Another uneventful 15 miles and we're in Kosciusko. Apparently there are several acceptable pronunciations - some taking great liberty with the actual order of the letters. I think Costco is one of them. My favorite is Cozy Couscous (I made that up).  I shouldn't joke; this is serious.  It's named for a Revolutionary War general from Poland named Tadeusz Kościuszko.  Before that it was called Red Bud Springs. It's part of the Mississippi Blues Trail, which I've noticed signs for throughout this trip.

Significantly, Oprah Winfrey was born here. (See how I gave her her own paragraph?)

It's barely noon and we hammered out 75 miles, hoping to avoid thunderstorms. We did. And now we are hungry. Dave wants pasta. Since he can easily make me suffer at speeds slightly over 23 mph, I am motivated to make Dave happy. Actually, I'm the only one who noticed the Italian restaurant. As we start to order, the waiter can't quite follow Dave's question. Now I can't, because Dave's switched to Spanish. Now we're getting special beer "from the back" ...not on the regular menu. I love Dave. And it's not just the beer talking.

Check Dave's version of the story, it might be different. Perhaps neither is accurate.

Heart Across America Day 51 (Natchez Trace Pkwy Day 1)

Canal Street in downtown Natchez runs along the mighty Mississippi River. I can see it from my third-floor hotel window. Even from a distance, you can see the strength of the current. It's heading to the Gulf of Mexico. We're heading north.

It's been 49 days since I rode with the Heart Across America. I should be fresh, they should be tired. It's appropriate that we're next to a bridge over the river, because there has been a lot of water under it since Day 1. The toll has been documented, but Dave looks great. Second wind, tail wind, whatever wind ...he's strong and very much in tune with what his body needs to achieve this continental goal. I'm literally along for the ride. After I drop off my rental car.

In 1809, the first stage coach was able to navigate the Trace. Of course, for thousands of years, the Choctaw and Chickasee and their ancestors used the Trace. Now, with GPS and carbon fiber bikes on skinny tires, we do the same.

We have a local cyclist, Curtis Moroney, to guide us out of town. Curtis is more than a local cyclist, he's a former racer and state champion and current go-to guy for all things cycling related in Natchez. He's a native Natcheezian. We met him last night and hung out at his house swapping cycling stories - I have no doubt several of them were true. This morning he's got to go into the office so he does an out-and-back to the 10-mile marker.

At least one car passed us, maybe two but no more in the first ten miles. We rode three abreast most of the way. He told more stories ...history, cycling friends, markers for local rides and races. It was really a pleasure to have him join us. He had a beautiful old Tommasini bike. Dave and I were subtly geeking out over it.

If all dogs go to heaven, then all bikes should do the Trace. Slowly undulating hills, barely perceptible at 3% or 4%, kept us exerting and relaxing. The road surface was as smooth as a billiard table with a sandy colored chip seal that only a National Park could have. Boringly perfect, we started pointing out imperfections as if they were road hazards. And we started sprinting for bridges (my fault) - I was winning until I told Dave what I was doing! Then I had to fake an unclipped pedal to save my ego. We stopped that, of course, with 60 miles to go.

The trees made a canopy and occasionally opened up inexplicably for a verdant meadow or grand oak tree. We stopped a few times for sights and food, but basically we just rolled on. As we approached the Sunken Trace, the skies opened up for a welcome rain. The thick, heavy drops came and went soon enough so we didn't need rain gear. For a few miles, fenders would have been welcome but riding side by side was fine. We talked the hours away and spent some time in comfortable silence.

Around mile 30 or 40, we saw cyclists. And more cyclists. Apparent touring cyclists on hybrid bikes mostly with street clothes (and one winter jacket). We waved, they waved. They seemed to be enjoying themselves on an easy ride.

I just can't tell you what a wonderful road this is. I can see how it might get boring, especially solo. But the lack of traffic, of turns, of any uncertainty, made it very serene.  There was plenty of time for reflection. Time for talk of family and how we miss them. Time to recharge, as if a 90 mile day could actually afford that.

Any bike ride has it's moments of concern. What's that noise? Did I feel a twinge? Heartrate, cadence, vibrations, weather, bonking ...the constant survey. Not much today. There was a noise, though. Not from our bikes. Distant. Like a train, no, like a subway train. Like a constant high-pitched note. Cicadas. Billions of them. Turned up to 11, Nigel. In some areas you could hear them distinctly, deafening. At mile 88 they almost completely shut off, or at least down an octave.

That's when we reached Clinton, on the outskirts of Jackson (the capitol).  Motto: You Belong Here.  Yes, from time to time, I heard Johnny and June singing "I'm going to Jackson..." Now, I'm gonna look around.

(Also read: http://heartacrossamerica.blogspot.in/2015/05/day-51-natchez-to-clinton-mississipi.html?m=1)

My Head's in Mississippi

I planned this trip months ago. When the Heart Across America crew first announced their cross-country bike route, I knew I wanted to ride somehow. One of my commute buddies, Greg, mentioned they would be riding a road in the southeast that is special for cyclists. I looked it up and immediately knew I wanted to ride it: the Natchez Trace Parkway.

It helped that it wasn't too far from my parents' house. And it was even better that they would come through on Mother's Day. So that's the plan: Mother's Day in Mississippi, then ride the Trace with the Heart Across America.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

It was 49 degrees when I woke up. Cold. In a few days I'll be longing for cool temps and low humidity. I had disassembled my bike and packed it the night before. My wife drove me to the BART station. The train took me to Oakland and a shuttle conveniently to OAK airport. Bike checked, tall Americano and I'm waiting to board.

I'm not one to talk to strangers, but I was compelled by the guy across from me. We exchanged small talk about West Coast Conference basketball and intern opportunities for psych majors. He was Marley Biyondolo, sophomore guard for Pepperdine University. He's from Australia. Nice kid.

Tracing to the Trace

In March, the Heart Across America crew left from Palo Alto, CA. Many of my friends joined Sean Maloney to kick off this great event. The camaraderie was fantastic, the scenery was awe inspiring and the optimism was high. I rode for a few days and then turned for home while a smaller group headed down the coast for San Diego. My flight from Oakland connects in San Diego.

From there, my flight takes me over the path they took in April. When I booked the trip, I was confident that they would stay on schedule. The schedule is in tact, but it's nothing like what anyone imagined. It's not an easy ride but no one expected tradegy. Read Dave's blog.

Smell the Humidity

Touch down in New Orleans, pick up my bike and now it's off to Gulfport to see my mom and dad for a few days.

It's late, so I grab some fried pickles and margarita pizza at Chili's. I order a Samuel Adams and they bring me two ...it's happy hour.  I stare at Strava for awhile to pick a route for the morning.  The Best Western has clean towels, comfortable beds and free wi-fi. And an in-room coffee maker.

5:15am, the alarm goes off. Need to roll before dawn to beat the heat. Except near the highway, there's not much traffic. Several dogs were up, though, and they wanted to chase. Within half an hour the humidity fogged my glasses! I managed to stay on course, not get lost and make it back in time for the free breakfast. And I was awarded with a KOM somehow. Okay, there were only seven riders on that segment's all-time list but still - a KOM is a KOM.

It was nice to visit with my parents again. It's been too long. I spent several days riding at dawn (top 10s, but no more KOMs), visiting, slowing down, nearly off the grid, going to bed early.

Clever Insights

I'll spare you the family minutia and offer my thoughts on riding in Mississippi. No one else was out riding, as far as I could see. Forensic Strava data shows they're here, but not many of them. Most seem to be triathletes and many segments were TT loops. Strava needs a sprinter award because "KOM" implies a mountain or at least a hill. Not here. There was an occasional depression near a bayou or creek and a fractional-percentage climb afterwards. 100 feet of climbing per 10 miles is typical - no way to hit the 100 feet per mile metric we seek back home.

There's hardly any shoulder, but drivers gave me the whole lane when passing. Some just trailed me for miles until they could pass. Either they were in no hurry (highly likely) or my high-viz kit created a spectacle (equally likely). Given the TT segments, I pushed a big gear all the time. Not much free-wheeling. The strangest thing was the cloudy glasses. It was so humid that they fogged up and wouldn't clear. I'm sure that my aero tuck was negated by the glasses halfway down my nose ...gramps can't see. Which also meant that I nearly had to stop to read street signs. Probably cost me another KOM (kidding).

No gators. Don't laugh! The aforementioned dog chases were my biggest concern. For those of you keeping score, there were more opossum than armadillo carcasses. No snakes (they have poisonous water snakes here).  Jim Stafford sang, "Black water Hattie lived back in the swamps where the strange green reptiles crawl, snakes hang thick off cypress trees like sausage on a smokehouse wall." Over and over in my head. The downside of solo cycling - song lyrics on endless loop.

Plot Twist

Finally, I had a cyclist sighting. Saturday at breakfast, after my ride, after my shower. By the way, hotel breakfast buffet consists of cheesy scrambled eggs, biscuits, gravy, sausage and mini cinnamon rolls. A few of the people were super thin, the rest took multiple plates if you know what I mean. Back to my cyclists. Full baby blue TREK kits; not the lean muscular types. From across the room I could detect an accent (anyone seen "Legally Blonde - the Musical? ...gay or European?). I interrupted them. Sweden! Riding cross-country from San Diego to Florida, a few more days to go. Cool. I shared my Natchez Trace plan and the shortest version of the Heart Across America story. Ya, good.

Cliche, perhaps, but I did laundry at my parents' house. Now it's time to go to Natchez.