Saturday

Forrest and I signed up for the Tunica Tour de Blues bicycle ride. He texted me Thursday that the forecast was for rain.

"We'll go anyway," I responded.

"They say it's on rain or shine," he let me know.

I have a raincoat made for cycling. Funny how no amount of searching could produce it. Maybe it will be warm enough that getting wet won't matter, I mused.

Saturday morning came with a 4:00 am alarm. I hate it when that happens. I got up, dressed, loaded my bike and made it to Forrest's a little before 4:30. We were at McDonald's a few minutes later. After paying and driving to the pickup window, I booted my Garmin watch and noticed that it was only six minutes and forty two seconds after the watch came up that we received the full order. Not to worry; we were still early.

I drove slowly and it rained furiously. I wasn't too optimistic on a nice outing. It was 61 in Greenwood. Tunica is north of us about 90 miles, and yes, that does make a difference, especially this time of year. We got to Tunica, parked, and at 7:00 I walked over to what I thought might be packet pick up. It was.

"I think we are going to cancel," a man, whom I later found out was Webster Franklin, told me. "We will refund your registration." Not a problem I think I said, and when he found out I was from Greenwood, I found out he was too. He now lives in Tunica and works for their tourism board or department or whatever it is. When he found out my name and my son's name he really became animated. Everybody knows Forrest, and he was eager to speak to my popular so, which he did. 

So we got out packets and drove off the Crenshaw while I told my son, probably for the tenth time, about his great-great grandfather who was abandoned in Utah in 1895 and at the age of twelve walked back to Mississippi. George Henry Quinton, my great grandfather died while living in Crenshaw. When I found that out last summer, Penny and I made a pilgrimage to the tiny town that very day.

We drove Highway 4, my first time on that thoroughfare, and some of Highway 3. We made it and rode over the whole town before leaving for Sledge where Charlie Pride hailed from. Sledge is not much larger than Crenshaw and with the exception of a single sign, one would never know a famous person came from there.

When we got home, I was eager for a nap. The cats joined me. I did some studying for Sunday's sermon after I woke up, and then I went to the pool. I guess the 9,250 yards yesterday and maybe the 4:00 a.m. rise put a hurting on me. I didn't have it. I slowly swam

1,700
2 X 50 @ 1:09
400 kick with fins
100 easy
100 finger paddles
total: 2,000 yards = 1,828 meters. 

That is at least better than a poke in the eye. Thank you, Lord.