Friday morning report

SAVANNAH, Tenn. – Well, not actually Savannah, but close.

The rain arrived about 1:30 a.m. and continued off and on until about 3:30 but my Galyan’s Special Edition Eureka tent kept me and my stuff completely dry.

I just finished a so-so buffet breakfast at the state park inn. I’ll continue to eat here, thought, because the Internet access more than makes up for the food. And the view isn’t bad either.

Apropos of nothing, I noticed yesterday that U.S. 45 south of Jackson, Tenn., is designated as the Rockabilly Highway.

I crawled out of my tent about 6:20 a.m. and walked over to the port-o-lets and on to Registration where perpetual coffee pot was waiting for me and about a dozen other guys.

I chatted with other riders through two cups of coffee and then walked back to my tent, stopping at the shower/restroom building to brush my teeth.

The temperature was in the low 60s and the cold front that followed the rain brought a brisk breeze that kept the mosquitoes at bay, even in the piney woods.

I loaded the bike for a day ride and rode over to the inn, about 5 minutes from the campground.

I noticed in my National Parks Passport yesterday that there are four significant historical sites within easy riding distance, so my project for the day is to collect rubber stamps from at least three of them down around Tupelo: Brices Crossing National Battlefield Site, Tupelo National Battlefield, and the Natchez Trace. I figure I’ll ride over to the Shiloh National Battlefield tomorrow.

This strikes me as a splendid way to spend the front end of the day, since my Indianapolis friends won’t arrive until this afternoon and the weather has turned sunny and pleasant. The campground is still sparsely populated, but I expect it will fill up quickly today.

I paused to get a photo of the Estes Kefauver Memorial Bridge last night and again this morning in daylight. It’s named for a Tennessee senator who was Adalai Stevenson’s running mate in the 1956 presidential election, losing to the Eisenhower-Nixon ticket for Ike’s second term.

It occurs to me that more than a few of my readers have no personal memory of 1950s politics. It also occurred to me while riding over the bridge that the watchword of my generation in the late 1960s was “never trust anyone over 30.”

I think that may have morphed into “never trust anyone under 60.”