December 7, 2009 – Bicycling to Graceland

We often remark when travelling, “Wow, this place is beautiful. I could live here.” But we spend our week; get back on the plane, fly home to the frozen north and soon forget our palm-tree passion place. Travelling through this big, beautiful country has given rise to many such moments and with no real agenda – other than getting to Graceland of course – the decision to move on from a comfortable spot has often been difficult. But there’s always another campground yonder down the road, so I re-pack the anvil and bellows and we hit the trail.

Previous reports may have led you to the conclusion that ours has not been a “tourist” trip. It has. For instance in Nashville we attended the Grand Ole Opry – complete with a close up view of Lorrie Morgan (oo la la) – visited Gruhn’s Guitars on Broadway Street to sample the multitude of vintage Martin and Gibson guitars and toured with Dolly through the Country Music Hall of Fame.

I even tickled the ivories on Elvis’ favorite piano in the world, the Steinway grand at the still-active Studio B, where hundreds of #1 hits were recorded by such artists as the Everly Brothers (All I Have to Do is Dream), Don Gibson (Oh Lonesome Me), Roy Orbison (Crying) and the King himself (Are You Lonesome Tonight).

In 10,000 km of driving, through nineteen states, we have observed precisely two housing starts – three if you include the restroom restoration at the historic (circa 1979) Elvis Presley RV Park and Shooting Range, in Memphis, Tennessee.

Our host, a man of small stature and wide girth detailed the vagaries of operating a business in brotherly Memphis.

“Course I got a handgun. Ever-body in Mimphus got a gun. My little lady here is packing a .357 magnum.” His ponderous wife smirked from behind the counter while she discreetly handed me the security code for the shitter.

“Myself I got just a pee-wee shooter down here.”

He pointed proudly to a fold in his mid-section. I had assumed he was sporting a fresh pack of Certs or was still elated after stiffing me an extra $10 for one night’s internet hookup.

“You got to pack when you’re in this industry”.

Anyone who has camped knows just how dangerous RVers can be.

Later behind drawn curtains we warily observed our neighbor. An elderly man from Wisconsin, he was futilely attempting to sanitize his campsite armed with a leaf-blower. We kept watch with sharpened guitar picks at the ready. One can never be too careful where geriatric Wisconsinites are concerned.

Our newly clapboarded bathhouse was only a two-block pedal, through a land mine of broken bottles, discarded Elvis memorabilia and condoms to the gates of Graceland. We bought the “prestige package” tickets and waited for the mandatory bus transportation across the street and up the King’s driveway.

The place was tourist-empty so, unaware of the hidden surveillance cameras tucked into the faux-fur ceiling of the jungle room, we engaged in a little Fun In Acapulco. Rudely interrupted we were ungraciously expelled for “conduct unbecoming the spirit of the King”.

Out on the sidewalk, stripped of our dignity – and our audio tour headphones – we hurried down the driveway toward our bikes but were herded to the compulsory bus for the taxing 200-yard exit. We stepped forward quickly, self-consciously, but were stopped in our tracks by a black steward.

“Wait here, this bus fo’.” We checked our tickets. The buses were not numbered. We could take any available bus. We surged forward. He repeated, “This bus fo’.” Chagrined by our Graceland humiliation, we waited for bus five.

“This bus fo’. You wait. Nex’ bus be empty,” “Fo’?

You mean full?” we said, pleased at having translated the dialect. “That’s what I said, fool. Now sit down, wait fo’ da nex’ bus, one what ain’t fo’.”Remarkably our southern neighbors have often demonstrated an inability to understand me. I’ll ask harmlessly, “Gee it’s cold, eh? Give me a pop while my wife goes to the washroom and I rest here on the chesterfield and adjust my tuque.” I am confronted by a mute expression of incomprehension. What is wrong with these people? Can they not understand the Queen’s good Alberta English?

The Natchez Trace Parkway winds gently for 444 uninterrupted miles from southwest Tennessee, through a corner of Alabama and into Mississippi until terminating at Old Man River hisse’f. “Ken Taiks” (early Kentuckians) floated their wares by barge hundreds of miles down the river but, without propulsion, had no way of getting back upstream.

The Trace became a well-travelled walkway beginning in the late 1700s. The advent of steam engines and the paddle wheeler around 1820 marked the end of the Trace and the many “stations” supplying room and board along the walkway. Today it is better enjoyed by car cruising through leafy meadows, past cotton fields and cypress swamps listening to the sweet melody of Cindy Morgan’s Beautiful Bird, while snacking on freshly-shelled pecans picked from low-hanging roadside branches.

Gerry and Florence