Natchez Trace. Four hundred forty miles of gently, rolling pavement runs from Natchez, Mississippi, to Nashville, Tennessee. The highway is a federal park with restricted access, meaning commercial traffic is prohibited, thus no giant semi-trailers blasting past bicyclists who struggle to remain upright when a seventy mile an hour, multi-ton vehicle careers past.
The Trace is a two-lane highway with no shoulder. Ordinarily, bicyclists wouldn’t choose it for an extended journey, but the speed limit is restricted to fifty miles per hour, which is reportedly strictly enforced, although I saw few law enforcement vehicles. Because there are few on and off ramps and virtually no intersections, with most intersecting roads passing under the Trace’s overpasses, there is little local traffic. Most vehicles are tourists enjoying the forested landscape and in no particular hurry to arrive at a destination.
Since there are no semi’s, the road isn’t littered with the flat-tire-causing debris left by shredded, recapped truck tires. There are no fast food joints, truck stops or boiled peanut stands located on the Trace. To buy gasoline, MacDonald’s or firecrackers one must get off the Trace and drive into one of the small southern towns located miles away. All of which leads to a relatively litter free journey.
Pull offs, although generally lacking amenities, feature historic markers detailing the lives of early settlers, travelers and Indian sites, every few miles. I guess motorists find an exit and drive into a nearby town when nature calls, but as for bicyclists traveling at fifteen miles per hour, the frequent, tree shrouded pull offs offer respite by stepping a few feet into the tree line.
Now you need to understand a bit about long distance bicyclists. They tend to fall into two distinct groups. The first group consists of young people, usually just out of school, who have little responsibilities and are seeking the adventure of exploring the world at fifteen miles per hour at relatively low cost.
The second group is made up of largely retirement or close to retirement aged middle class or professional people who can afford both the time to travel and the money for expensive bikes and gear. A good road bike can easily run a month’s salary for an average American. Adding the cleated bicycling shoes, padded shorts, helmet, Lycra jersey and Patagucci rain jacket quickly runs to another week or two’s salary. Not exactly a working-class recreation.
Traveling with three other senior cyclists, the youngest in his late sixties, the original plan was to commence pedaling in Natchez, ride forty or fifty miles per day north, while rotating driving the trailer burdened SUV that brought us from the flatlands of Illinois south on the “Double Nickel”, that is Interstate 55, to Mississippi.
The trailer, bore our luggage, as well as deli meat stocked coolers, filled with our lunch provisions. At the end of the day’s ride, bikes went into the trailer and off to one of the chain hotels in towns like Jackson, Vicksburg and Grenada.
While the plan was to alternate drivers so that each cyclist bore some of the driving duties and all could enjoy the fall drive, it didn’t work out that way. Tuesday morning, the first day out of Natchez, dawned cool and gray, threatening rain.
After much discussion as to whether to ride or to drive to Vicksburg and tour the battlefields, the riders elected to risk getting wet. Three began pedaling, while Mark, chief logistician and owner of the SUV, took the first driving segment. Five miles up the Trace, Mark steered into a pullout, offloaded his high-end, Cervelo road bike with electric shifters, and commenced riding south to meet up with the north-bound three.
Wearing his Patagucci rain jacket (Patagucci is the insider’s derisive term for the always expensive Patagonia outdoor clothing line), Mark didn’t mind the light rain.
Mark quickly spun through the gears of the Valentine red Cervelo bringing it up to cruising speed on the wet highway. A mile and a half southbound to meet his oncoming riders, he downshifted to power up the first of a series of rises.
“Snap! Ka-chug, ka-chug. Grrrrr.” The nearly new bike shuddered to a halt. Glancing down, he saw the dangling chain suspending a broken derailleur hanger enmeshed in the spokes of his rear, carbon fiber wheel. For you, non-bicyclists, this is bad news. The derailleur moves the chain up and down gears. The hanger attaches it to the bicycle’s frame. Carbon fiber wheels are expensive. A chain and derailleur hanger enmeshed in the spokes of a carbon fiber wheel means a big- time repair bill.
Dismounted, Mark, a seventy-eight-year-old retired lawyer, who regularly rides metric centuries (that is sixty-two miles in a day) and the occasional century (one hundred miles), swings the bike over his shoulder, reverses course and commences marching back toward the parked trailer.
An hour later, after consultation with a bicycle mechanic who happened to be in the pullout supporting a bicycle tour group, and a phone call to the best bicycle shop in Jackson, Mississippi, confirmation that parts for the bike aren’t available.
“Now if it were an old Trek, like his,” the mechanic said, pointing to my five-year-old bike, “I could fix it. I’ve got the parts here in my van. But I don’t have the parts for a new one like this.”
Bad news for Mark. His bicycling ended for the week. Expensive repairs on the horizon upon return to Springfield, Illinois. Probably a new derailleur, maybe a new sprocket, new chain, likely a new wheel. Ouch, looks like five hundred dollars with only a mile and a half ride on the Trace to show for it.
Good news for us. Now we, the other three, don’t have to take a break from cycling to drive sag.
A week later, more bad news for Mark, the broken derailleur hanger is out of stock. None to be had. But good news, carbon fiber wheel and spokes undamaged. Sprocket good. Cost for new hanger only twenty-four dollars. Springfield bike shop pulls a new Cervelo off the floor, removes the hanger and puts it on Mark’s busted bike.
Back in business. Thirty-one miles through the corn fields of Illinois that day. The next day, fifty miles. It ain’t the Trace, but every day on a bicycle is a good day.
