November 16, 2013

           A balmy 72 degrees overnight at the Walmart Arms. It was all I could do to keep from sleeping late. But the memory of the San Antonio roadways got me on the trail to Houston long before morning rush hour. I got mostly through town (Houston) when I found the source of the oil leak. Piston 2. Since I never did learn how to check the sidecar oil, I put in six quarts and drove around in circles in an empty parking lot until it stopped smoking. Then I got off the freeway and took SR-90 to Beaumont.

           That's the first city you hit westbound from Louisiana. I found a coin laundry, but my oil-soaked clothes, some of my best, are ruined. So, I drove to the LogOn Cafe. Think more of an Internet saloon than and Internet cafe. Yeah, that's got it. A bar, with live entertainment, but the computers are detuned and won't upload photos. And it also depends on how "live" you consider two guitar players doing stock material. Mind you, a few of their tunes had been arranged for duet and they were great. You know I base so much on proper arrangement.
           Since by now everyone knows I rode the train to Memphis, around here is a photo of one of the countless towns. The red caboose at the city of Hazelhurst. It’s out there. The addendum today discusses this train ride, since it is material that didn’t really fit elsewhere.
           Hammond, LA, who remembers that? Well, I’ll be passing through there on Sunday if the Honda oil plug repair is effective. Hammond is the train station north of New Orleans, first stop northbound for the “City of New Orleans”. This trip has been long enough to test almost every feature of the machine and rig. When the tank is full, the Honda pulls slightly left, for the remainder, slightly right. It isn’t much but that tiny pressure is constant.
           You see, my dislocated shoulder from last January now feels it. I’ve been 6,500 miles with no real time off. Drive time involves the throttle grip in addition to the drive pressure, so it is a demand that never lets up. At day’s end or a few hours later, I feel a fatigue that lingers a bit more each passing day. It is nothing, but this old dialer* has learned not to ignore Mom Nature. I’m needed a break from driving, is what I’m getting at.
           (*Dialer? If you don’t know by now I’m ex-phone company, you been poling the wrong barge. But since in me you are dealing with a complicated and addictive personality here, you are forgiven.)
           Another dimension to this trip is that I still don’t know if the oil matter is a big deal or not. One glance around any time shows I am by far the most ancient vehicle on the road. That’s not a bad thing, since I’m driving an antique, not a beater. I expect breakdowns in the sense that the vehicles I own are always in good enough repair that these episodes are rarely catastrophic. In the end, this careless error of losing the oil cap cost me one day.
           And what is one day to me?

ADDENDUM
           The Amtrack let me park in the overflow lot to the north of the Hammond station. That was jolly nice of them. We [the train] passed a lot of solid bush with very few clearings. The tracks often go through historic districts, other areas are plain run-down. Take note, compared to Florida a lot of these little towns are very prosperous to take a first impression. Otherwise, the trip was uneventful but for my poor right shoulder enjoying the break. Perhaps the tinted windows made it dark by 4:30 PM but over half the trip was after dark. I got out a good book and had coffee in the lounge car. The interior is chilly, bring a sweater.
           I was not prepared for train travel so I’m collecting advice from other passengers. The wide seats are enough for a small person to sleep in. But not me after the luxury of the pod. The stretch room, that is the jewel in the crown of train travel. But beware, unless you wear ear plugs so tight you cannot hear the station announcements, passengers with cell phones can wreck you day. Fortunately, large portions of the track are without service. Good.
           Speed is as high as 75 mph, that’s a guess. There is none of the expected clickety-clack on the rails, but the train pitches from side to side. The train never did go through a rock cut I mentioned around here somewhere due to a hunch I’ve been on this train before. I’ve had premonitions about all manner of little things along this trip—but far to vague to predict anything.

           I did get into Memphis at 11:00 that night. JZ called, a surprise in itself since we never remember each other’s birthdays. He said he was in Memphis once and liked it. No, hold it, he meant Bourbon Street. Different state. Beale Street was full of gorgeous women. I’ll have more to say about that soon. Meanwhile, Memphis is another $200 per day town drenched with synthetic warmth.
           Here is a rare photo of me writing, this time on the train, see Amtrak props on the table. This was very relaxing and my shoulder recovered completely in 32 hours.
           For the record, during this trip I hand-wrote 117 pages of material, more than my entire family combined in their lifetimes. The undocumented life is not worth living. There is an old saying that if you don’t read, you only live one life. I add to that if you do not write, that life expires the instant you do. What’s more, writing is not a burden, but a mind-clearing relaxation. I don’t have to clutter my quiet time remembering anything I took a moment to jot down.
           Since my readership has skyrocketed the past year, many newcomers may have never seen my handiwork, so I’ve reproduced 3 of the 117 pages here as samples. Yep, those are the real McCoy. As shown, these are not scribbles, but orderly, mature and organized workmanship faithfully reproduced in this blog. But you’re worth it.