Adventures in the Deep South: I’m Just a Po Boy

Day 1: Asheville, NC to Ocean City, MS

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“How Freddie Mercury sent me on an 850-mile errand for a sandwich… ”

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I had the strangest dream. As always, there were scary clowns doing scary clown stuff. I’ve surely mentioned this before, but we live fairly close to Biltmore Village. When the kids were in middle school, they’d walk down with their friends to the pizza joint to get food and play ping pong. They’d always text when they were on the way back - and I would start my stopwatch. I had it timed out perfectly so I’d know exactly when they’d be on the road that has no streetlights. There was this one section with woods on either side, and it was always pitch black. At the perfect moment when I felt they were in the deepest and darkest spot, I would text them a series of photos of scary clowns. They knew it was coming, and they hated it (while secretly loving it) - and I would laugh my ass off at their reactions in the text thread. “DAD STOP!” I wish I had a screenshot of one of those exchanges. It’s something I would frame and treasure. Now I’m getting nostalgic and sad. This was surely one of my crowning achievements as a parent. You have to give them something to talk to a therapist about, and you have to give them some good material they can use at your funeral. If you do those two things, you are a successful parent.

The scary clowns were dancing around in my dream, but then Freddie Mercury showed up out of nowhere and said, “Heyyyy oh!” Then there were more clowns. Freddie eventually came around again and sang “I’m just a poor boy.” But what I heard was Po Boy. Then Freddie turned into a po boy sandwich. He looked good. He looked real good. I woke up immediately, opened my eyes, and realized that I had an uncontrollable urge for an authentic po boy sandwich. Stronger than an urge really. More of an undeniable, inevitable dictate from the universe that I would have no choice but to obey. I found this strange, because I am not especially known as a lover of the po boy sandwich. Regardless, the obvious next step was to throw a T-shirt in a bag, start the motorcycle, and head south on a quest for the most authentic po boy sandwich I could find. I’ve always felt that life was absolutely pointless and that you have to make your own meaning however you can. A partner. A passion. A career. Those are good places to start. But a quick 850-mile (one-way) ride for a sandwich is just about the perfect amount of meaning for me. The dumber the project, the more I’m into it. The more meaningless it is, the more meaning actually doing it adds.

I pulled out of the driveway at 6 am with a very long ride in front of me. For those of you who don’t ride a motorcycle, I must insist that you do. There is something about pulling out onto the road on two wheels that gives you a feeling that anything and anywhere is possible. After all, my driveway is connected to just about every single road on this continent, one way or another. I could go to: Nova Scotia, Prudhoe Bay, Tutoyaktuk, Baja California, Managua, Santo Domingo, I could get across the Darien Gap somehow and stop in to Medellin, Lima, São Paulo, and I hear they make a mean grilled cheese in Ushuala. Any of that is possible. All I’d have to do is point the bike and go. That is a wondrous fact to think about. But today, I’m headed to wherever the most authentic po boy sandwich in the world is waiting for me.

About an hour in, I hit a downpour, pulled over under a bridge, rain geared up, and kept going. I would like to say without hesitation that Rainex is bullshit. I’d treated both the windshield and my helmet screen, but the beads of water just sat there like the total assholes that they are. Even at 75mph, they just stayed where they were. What sort of physics is being ignored here? The rain came and went as I slipped through Atlanta and into Alabama, where, after being on the bike for 4.5 hours minus one short gas stop, I grabbed a coffee. I stayed on the interstate for a long time, probably 9 hours. I despise the interstate on my other bikes. They feel squirrely and dangerous. But the Goldwing? That’s what it was made for. But I eventually got bored and bailed west onto the country roads somewhere about 50 miles south of Montgomery, adding hours to my trip, which I felt would be worth it. I’ve talked about my love of the weirdness of the Deep South many times before. I don’t know what it is about this part of the country. I’m a Yankee and grew up mostly in Newtown, Connecticut. Being an outsider in the south is one of the things I love about it. I don’t like feeling comfortable or at ease. I don’t want to fit in. I want to feel on edge. I want to feel like something is slightly off. I want to feel like things could get weird at any moment. And the middle of nowhere, Alabama is a good place for that feeling to come to full fruition. There’s a heaviness to the south. There’s a feeling. I don’t think a southerner can feel it. You may have to be from somewhere else. I can’t say that I love the feeling, and perhaps I’m a bit afraid of it. But I’m permanently enthralled by it. I’m obsessed by the south.

The Goldwing is a spectacular bike. It is beyond comfortable and so fun to ride. If you took off the ridiculous fairings and massive windshield and shed the luggage compartments, it would be the best sports bike you’ve ever ridden. I rode a 125cc motorbike across the country, and it took 30 days. This is an 1800cc beast that could do it in three, no problem. It’s 800 plus pounds, and it is the smoothest ride on two wheels, hands down. There is nothing better. Only two years ago, I would have made fun of anyone riding one of these old man monstrosities. Now, I mentally flip off everyone who gives me their condescending looks as I whiz by. I know better. This is by far my favorite bike. It’s the best bike I’ve ever owned. It’s not versatile, it’s good for one thing, and that’s touring. And that’s what I’m doing. It is a constant pleasure. It’s like singing your favorite song. It never gets old.

I can’t say the scenery was much to write home about. Farms, dilapidated buildings, cinder block juke joints long closed, constant properties clogged with old cars on blocks, tractors, and general junk that will never be used for anything ever again. And I can help but wonder with each place I pass - who lives there? What are they doing right now? What’s their story? There is a fascinating documentary that could be made for every single mile I rode.

Twelve hours from the moment I left my driveway, I found myself in Ocean Springs, Mississippi. I pulled into a roadside joint and grabbed a hamburger and a beer. The ride was hotter than hell, and the beer tasted like a resuscitation or a shot of Naloxone must feel. I texted my wife and checked the emails. I got on the bike, stopped at a CVS for a tall boy Michelob Ultra and some much-needed sunscreen, and rode another 15 minutes to a campground. It is hot like only the Deep South can be hot. I hate the heat. I hate the heat with a passion. And it makes sleeping in a tent extremely unattractive. The guy in the RV from the site next to mine came over to say hi and welcome to the neighborhood. He made a roundabout sort of apology for having an air conditioner as he looked at my Tent, aka Sweat Lodge. Normall,y this guy would have me looking at my watch, running through escape plans - there’s always something more important to do. But not when I’m on a trip like this. I genuinely have the headspace out here to be interested in whatever this guy wants to tell me. I have all the time in the world. I’ve got nowhere to be. There was a lot of talk about RV things breaking, which I know something about. I nodded and laughed at the appropriate spots. Then he told me to “look out for the coon, must be 35 pounds, friendly but ornery, don’t leave any food about…” I wonder how long he’s been at this campground to be at the stage where he’s doing character studies of the local wildlife. We both know instinctively that we have absolutely nothing in common, and we both ignored that with no hesitation. Because proximity lends commonality. We’re human beings at a certain spot at a certain time. And that should be all that you need to have in common to make a friend. It can be enough. It should be enough. It is enough. Many words later, we shook hands, and as he walked awa,y I said, “Enjoy that AC!” He laughed and slammed his door. I didn’t take the slamming door personally, and I sincerely hope he does enjoy that AC. The bastard could have at least invited me to sleep on his floor…

I grabbed a shower in the bath house where feet go to get fungus and wrote this at a picnic table dripping sweat onto the keyboard. I have absolutely nothing to complain about. I’m a lucky person to get to drop everything to follow a ridiculous whim. I’m far from home, which makes me appreciate home. Tomorrow - there is a po boy sandwich somewhere near where the Mississippi empties its guts out into the Gulf of Mexico with my name on it - and I’m going to find it and eat the fuck out of it. Chompe Diem.

Authors Note: To anyone who makes a comment about the Gulf of Mexico - please go ahead. That will tell me everything I need to know about you.

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I want to thank MotoCampNerd.com for sponsoring this trip. If you’re looking for gear, get it from these good folks.

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