Bikes, Blues[,] & Bayous 2019

I met my son, Forrest, on Howard Street, and we forced out way into the mass of humanity and machinery that was the riders of the 2019 Bikes, Blues[,] & Bayous. While we waited, waited for the start, I could tell that Forrest was a little apprehensive, a bit nervous. This would be his longest ride ever. We only rode about six times and our longest training session was 34.9 miles, barely half of what we had chosen to afflict ourselves with today. I tried to reassure him and told him that a good strategy was to ride from station to station. Just focus on riding to the next aid station and know that there is food, drink, and rest when you make it.

Before the start

We finally got the horn at 7:01 a.m., and the huge mass of cyclist began to move like an Alaskan river that is breaking up in the spring. First we just pushed along with one foot on the road, then we mounted our cycles, and then we began to ride slowly at first and gaining speed little by little.

By the time we were on Highway 49 South, we were an invading army occupying the entire southbound lane. When we turned off the highway at Malouf Trailer Park, I noticed two gargoyles up ahead of us on mountain bikes. I know you think I am bad, but I am. These guys looked like gargoyles and their being on mountain bikes immediately offended me. We weren't out to set any speed records or anything, but this hurt my feelings so I gave chase.

I passed them. When we got onto that big bridge between Greenwood and Sidon, they passed me back. Everybody passed me on the uphill. That hurt my feelings even more. After we got on the other side of the bridge, I tried to get over my hurt feelings by relaxing, finding a rhythm, and enjoying the scenery. The delta is pretty this time of year. There were beans on the left and cotton on the right. With the cotton full of purple blooms and the beans a dark healthy looking green, the landscape was lovely.

We turned north onto Highway 7 and pedaled our way into Itta Bena. I was hopping wheels, and at my age I cannot turn around and look behind me. I didn't know it Forrest was keeping up or not. When I dismounted in downtown Itta Bena, I looked back and saw no Forrest. He came in three or four minutes later. Mayor Collins herself was out there handing out bananas, congratulating us on our journey, and welcoming us to town. They have a nice aid station.

When we left the rest stop, Forrest got a jump on me. Besides not being able to look behind me while I am riding a bicycle, another thing age has brought me is the need to always start slow. Even though we had ridden over twenty miles, I still have to take it easy for a few minutes before getting back to full speed. Forrest was way out in front of me. Finally three rides came around me who were going just a bit faster than I was. I hopped their wheels and thought, they will pull me up to Forrest.

As we drew near the intersection of Highways 7 and 82, we realized something was wrong. There were a lot of vehicles up there and blue lights, a bunch of blue lights. Then I noticed an ambulance and several cyclists. One rider was bent over at the waist, in pain? Later I thought maybe he was regurgitating over what he had seen. There had obviously been either a pileup crash of bicycles or someone had been hit by a car. I noticed a cyclist on the ground and several people on their knees around this person. Things looked serious, and everyone around me started praying out loud. Later we learned that a cyclist from Vicksburg had been struck by a pickup truck and killed.

The other riders did pull me up to Forrest. I kept drafting. There was a couple surnamed Robbins and a Black woman from Alabama. I knew the names from the bib numbers we had. The black woman was one of a dozen or more African Americans who had jerseys that said something about Major Taylor. After chatting with Gina, the Black woman from Alabama (I assumed she was from our neighboring state because her jersey said she was a member of the Major Taylor Cycling Club of Alabama), I asked her who this Taylor was. 

"He was the first Black cyclist," she told me.

I know, I know. 

Later I looked him up. He was the first Black professional cyclist in America. 

We drafted and started a strategic paceline that took us all the way in to Schlater. There we found another good aid station that featured pickle juice icees. I kid you not, and if you have never had one, buy a bicycle, train up, and come get some next year. You know how something cold will sometimes knock the top of your head off if you take it too fast? The pickle juice icee will knock your whole face off. Let's just leave it at that.

Schlater

After Schlater, every pedal stroke brings you closer to the promised land, the Minter City Untied Methodist Church. It is the best aid station in the history of aid stations. When we got there, I saw Davo Pitman, who was not riding, but he can't stay away from the cycling scene. Then I went and got in line for some food. They lay out a spread of sandwiches, cookies, orange slices, and grapes. There are tables and tables of Gatorade and water, huge fans to cool you off, shade trees galore, and dozens of happy cyclists. It really is the bomb.

A line of cyclist trying to get to the
 food at Minter City.

When we left there, Forrest and I both admitted we were tired, but we knew Money was the next stop. Money is nice. It doesn't have the shade of Minter City, but when you get there, you feel like, "I've got this." From Money, the finish is only eleven miles away. And those eleven miles are ones I am intimately acquainted with as is every cyclist who lives in Greenwood. Will Freeman, a former student of mine, was there on the steps of the old Ben Roy Service Station where Dad and I stopped so many times when I was a boy. He was playing live music, and it sounded good. Someone offered me a Coke, and although I rarely drink a soft drink (the give me kidney stones), I took it and drank it with great delight.

Will Freeman playing music at Money.

Then Forrest and I joined forces with Rob Spiller and began our final leg home. We rode easily but steadily and even stopped at the tents out by Tallahatchie Flats. I drank Gatorade there and ate a Shipley's donut. When we crossed the bridge onto Grand Blvd, we were all happy. At the finish line, I dumped my bike, picked up a sandwich, and ate like a hungry man. Forrest left after a short while and then I did too. Another mile home and my athletic day was done. It was a good one for most of us. God help the family of the man who was killed. And God help those unfortunate souls who witnessed the tragedy.

Thank you, Jesus, for keeping us safe.