Route: From Sulphur, LA: 82E to 27N to 14E to 90E to Nawlins. 90E out of NOLA and continue on 90E through Mississippi (which is only 79 miles across). Continue on 90E to Alabama, then 188E to 193S to Dauphin Island. Toll ferry across to 180E to 182E to camp at Gulf Shores State Park.182E joins up with 292E and then 98E into Florida.
“For I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I’ve lifted, pulled, chopped, climbed, made love with joy and taken my hangovers as a consequence, not a punishment.” – John Steinbeck
The morning after St. Patty’s day does not greet me with the pulsating headache that habitually makes its annual appearance, but rather thrusts me into a groggy conversation of which takes me a few minutes to digest and realize what quagmire has ensnared me. Sipping a cup of coffee and noshing on muffins and Danish that is the Microtel’s continental breakfast, lips, teeth and tongue operate groggily to provide the day’s energy. In a less than coherent state that coincidentally resembles the hangover that should be, a white-haired man wearing a sport coat made from David Lynch’s red velvet curtains approaches and asks if I want a “free ticket.” Without thought, a yeth is uttered through muffin crumbs and a drink of coffee is taken to correct the speech impediment. He hands over a pamphlet promising to absolve me of all my sins and begins the elevator speech to my own personal redemption. Intrigued for a hazy, bleary-eyed moment I thumb through the pamphlet and realize that it’s only about 3” x 4” and only 4 total pages. Unfortunately to be absolved of my “sins,” it’s going to take a much bigger pamphlet. Yet another reminder of the heavy stream of influence that flows underneath the bible belt, that cinches across the south like a leather corset and the foreign territory explored and now called home, I excuse myself with coffee almost gone and cup of sin still full, it’s time to mount up and move out. 
A quick chat with the morning desk clerk brings a promise of local experience that the route through the bayous will be clear and that there will not be a repeat of the mosquito laden horror from the night prior. It’s a promise that is trusted and after a brief, early morning idle, Betty grumbles her way down to highway 82. Her word is as golden as the rapidly ascending sunrise that keeps the hundreds of thousands of vampire invertebrates at bay and attempts to warm the arid, cold morning air. The road today is friendly and the wildlife preserve is peaceful, a complete 180 from the night before leaving the white knuckles and black mosquitoes a twinkle of a memory in yesterday’s dark of night.82E runs along the bottom of the Louisiana coastline and leaves plenty of time to apologize to Betty for not having the time nor the opportunity to wash or change her bug-crusted gown. An unexpected detour is forced as a remnant of hurricane damage presents itself in the form of a washed out bridge. Under repair from local workers, the bridge is the only in the area and they are confident that there is no other close. This hiccup leads to a route that is further north than desired, but being the only option...well, it’s the only option. It’s a shameful sort of situation because the ride has been lone, peaceful and encompassed by a recovering beauty of nature’s relentless fight to reclaim its tiara from its natural adversary. Feeling dejected as the trip north courses away from this silent battle, thoughts are immediately reversed once I turn onto Hwy 90 and a surprising turn of scenery threatens to move attentions from the road to the sides of it. The trip so far has been mainly farmland, desert or bayou until this turn is made and now lush forests surround this narrow concrete byway.
Despite rigorous tests of prowess better suited for a dual-sport, the Harley Davidson Muscle has been performing perfectly under conditions that may not have been in mind when this performance bike was built. Betty has combated gravel, rocks, potholes, dirt roads; hard-packed sand paths and city streets that make a lava field look like fine-bone china, always coming up with the title belt. Back on a smooth road is a welcome luxury, given the angry nature of the back roads that were previously travelled. Wanting to keep the tires on a pothole free highway for a while, partnered with my lust for the French Quarter, I push on Hwy 90 until New Orleans is realized and the labyrinth of city streets once again claims me as a victim of uncertain direction.
Unbeknownst to me (and I assume all newcomers to the city), New Orleans’ French Quarter is a small, but daunting maze of one-way streets that change names when hitting certain others. Canal St runs to the river and everything north of this has one name and everything south another. Since they are one-way roads, the signs only are read from the direction that is pertinent. Good info to know and being slow, in the blistering heat (only because every scrap of my suit of leather armor is adorned) it takes a solid, sweaty hour to figure out where the supposed hotel is located. Streets are jam packed with the not-so-typical spring break crowd and it is assumed that this city of sin always behaves in this uncooperative manner. As the bike idles on a street corner trying to get bearings, Steve Zahn stands next to me looking just as confused as I am. He’s wearing a Kentucky t-shirt complimented by a Kentucky visor and the realization that I’ve just entered New Orleans during spring break AND the March Madness tournament slaps me in the face as gently as Lenny pets the rabbits. Sh!t. I’m not getting a hotel tonight, am I? Having not eaten since 10 hours prior, the hanger sets in and a growling stomach confirms the perspiring contempt of the moment. Plan: get a hotel, shower and eat. STAT!After a daunting search, a hotel has a last-minute cancellation and offers a reprieve, but for one night only. It’s Thursday and the hopes to explore Nawlins for a couple of days are merely on pause, but not stopped completely. The room is taken for the night and if must comes to must, all gear, clothes, bags and whatnot will be dutifully moved to any hotel that will put me up for the night, no matter what the cost. With Betty safely in the garage and all the gear hoisted to the 4th floor the shower starts to wash away the hanger that has been all consuming for the past few hours. The walk over to Canal and up Bourbon Street is inspiring, energetic and it feels as if the last golden ticket has been delivered to its rightful owner. Remoulade’s menu glistens in the front window, no it shines in the front window and promises to soothe the overpowering craving that hit once the Louisiana got under the Harley’s tires. Catfish nuggets and cold beer. I’m happier than Admiral Akbar watching the Death Star blow up. The meal is perfectly wonderful .The catfish nuggets are rolled in cornmeal and fried to the point that once it hits your lips, pixies appear. The beer is ice cold and compliments the nuggets better than Sam compliments Frodo. Sated and stuffed, the town is for the taking as long as a pair of waders is available to muck through the stream of spring breakers. It will be a happy day when there is no longer a contention for a hotel room with these hordes of former mes.
The bartender at a house of libations which the name of has now been released from the grips of memory pours a tall, tall, golden whisky over eagerly awaiting ice cubes and the stool is just as comforting after a long day’s ride. Ponied up to the bar, while watching the band belt out spring breaker favorites such as Journey and Bon Jovi, an easy conversation is struck with the trio standing to the left. Two locals, originally from Wisconsin, Ben and Angie are entertaining Ben’s cousin Pete for a much needed vacation. Like the few remaining Cheerios in the bottom of the bowl, Sconnies have a tendency to float towards each other in any bar and strike up an immediate rapport. This night is no exception. Ben is a decade veteran of New Orleans and his job as a deep sea diver keeps the beer flowing in his glass. We hit it off and that good old Wisco hospitality is alive and well on Bourbon Street, they extend an invitation to let me tag along and the acceptance drools out of my mouth. Jimmy White’s is the bar that does us (me) in. Just off of the main drag, it is a low-key, friendly, dark bar that acts like deet to those buzzing spring breakers. Shots are poured, beers are drunk and the good times flow and conversation covers everything under the sun. These are my people and after a while, the impression made must have been a good one because they invite me to an authentic crawfish boil that upcoming Saturday. Acceptance is a shoo-in.
After mutitudes of the cheapest shots and beer that has gracd these lips in ages, Ben, Angie and Pete call it a night and while they jump in a cab to go home, I jump into the next bar, of course. More Bon Jovi and Journey, what a surprise. Astonishment barely contained, I once again pony up to the bar and with spirits fairly high for 1am, order a lesser of the evils, the old stand-by, rum and coke. Striking up a conversation with a couple of sisters from San Antonio, I eventually take a sip of common sense and amble back to the hotel. I wish that I could recount for you, the reader, all the establishments that provided the evening’s entertainment, but…well… you know how it goes sometimes.
Eyes slowly creak open like a rusty door hinge and the light hits with the force of a jilted lover’s backhand. WHAT IS THIS PAIN?! Riiight, alcohol has been busy and not had the time to swing by for a visit for quite some time and apparently wants this reunion to be extra special. The pain is overwhelming, but the need to switch hotels hurts more. A call is made to the front desk to see if they will allow just one more night under the room’s current tenant. An excruciating 5 minutes pass while the clerk checks with the manager, time drawn like taffy between 7 year olds fingers on a cold day. The handset clunks on the desk top as the clerk delivers the winning lottery numbers for the day.
“Yes sir, you can stay in the room for tonight.”
If it didn’t hurt to smile, I would have. Sleep drills through the pain and noon pops up with headache’s best friend, hunger. Bound and determined to get what’s possible from this magnificent city, the water from the shower beats the tender skull like a snare drum, clothes are thrown on and a rigorous climb to Café Du Monde is set upon.
A delicious early afternoon breakfast of beignets and café au laits lands on the table after wait that would be considered false imprisonment if it happened on a tarmac. While the delicious, fried delicacy drips the over coating of powdered sugar down my gullet, the coffee makes sure that swallowing the dry mass is possible. An absolutely fantastic combination. Hands coated in powdered sugar, a crotchety old man sees an opportunity at a table holding only one and asks if he may sit down and partake in the New Orleans tradition. Obliging, hesitation is obvious as the cantankerous retiree tries desperately to order, with no avail. Trying to diffuse the situation, I start to pry. There may be 500 blank faces in a crowd, but once you start to dig, pages of volumes of fascinating stories begin to turn. This gentleman is a former air force aerospace engineer that developed the gyroscopes that keep the international space station balanced in orbit. Wow. Once the initial crust is peeled from his granite demeanor, the conversation is friendly and I’m glad to have had the opportunity to meet such a unique individual. We part ways and the rest of the day is spent cruising the French Quarter. St. Louis cathedral and Jackson Square amaze eyeballs used to coastlines and deserts. The French Market is perused with hopes that a smoothie will soothe the savage hangover beast and it does. The gypsies are all selling their wares of all kinds. Palm readings, artistry, photographers, dancers and jazz bands abound. The particular quartet that I currently ogle even has their own version of Flavor Flav, stuffing his face with herring from a tin. He dances, jumps and gets the crowd going and if more encouragement is needed, a woman presents him with a bottle of vodka which he promptly downs without breathing.
The trek around town takes me into an absinthe museum and a movie set that looks like a b-list Lady Gaga video, complete with b-list Cirque de Soleil performers. There is jazz around every corner, filling bodies with exuberance and recharging the listless masses that still suffer as I do. Walking down the river walk, a young man no older than 23 provokes a beautiful moan from a clarinet and the wailing notes pace my footsteps while I walk down and continue to the end of the walk. The events of the day chaperone to dinner, which comes more quickly than expected, so Redfish is chosen and while the jambalaya is consumed, hopes that it is not a chain of Redfish, that I can get in Chicago adds a sour taste of discouragement.
Bound and determined to see the famous Ghost Tour, ticket is purchased and the line of hordes of people is attacked with mediocre vigor. The tour guide looks exactly like Jean Reno and with his Creole accent, it’s a strong possibility, although I much rather enjoy him in movies. The Ghost Tour is filled more with the dark history of the city, having burned down 3 times in 60 years or so and causing thousands of deaths. The tour gives a dark underbelly to an already shady town. When the tour is over, there is a meeting of the dead, all the guides rally for a beer and compare tips. I wonder if the winner has to buy.
The night is closed out in perfect fashion with whisky and blues at The Blues Club. Troy Turner sings a pulsating set that brings young love as well as old to slide and hold their partners closely on the dance floor. Slow, rhythmic, wet and thick, the music is like sex for your ears, stimulating all your senses and I leave to go back to the hotel room, completely and utterly aurally satisfied.
The night closes and the morning comes quickly, more clearly and with a renewed energy and hunger. Due to impending storms and the push to get into Florida, the most regrettable and unfortunate decision to pass on the invitation to the crawfish boil is made. This is a regret that will be carried in my saddle bags for the rest of the trip, but it must be done. Heading into Mississippi, the bugs are relentless and cleaning the helmet’s face shield is a constant and continuing battle and the loss is not falling on the bugs’ scoreboard. Highway 90 once again proves to be the right choice and is lined with cypress, tall pines and a beauty to be appreciated. While Betty chews up the miles, thoughts of the distance between people chew on my mind. It seems a dreadful shame that there is a greater chasm that separates people based on prejudice and perception than there is actual physical distance. The thought leaves a despondent mark branded in my gut. 
Mississippi proves to be a mere 79 miles across the coastal edge and the trip goes continuously, save for a break to eat a fried oyster po’ boy at Snapper’s Seafood. The sandwich is cooked as thoroughly as the waiter, who seems to have spent just a little too much time in the sun. Maybe he was catching the seafood himself. The meal is devoured ferociously as the war against the rapid weight loss of the first month of the trip has been a losing battle. Alabama once again rears the strange mix of tropical mixed with a Midwest forest. Its beauty foreign, yet eerily familiar. Thanks to help from the Dauphin Island ferry, the trip across Alabama trumps Mississippi’s, being only 68 miles from edge to edge. The gulf is a muddy brown, a disconcerting foreshadow of the eco-disaster that is to come to this area, although at this time, I do not know it. Camp is set up at Gulf Shores State Park, on the eastern edge of Bama, for the night and every effort to combat the storm that has finally caught me is made and I dive into my nylon turtle shell a few minutes before the storm begins to pound its wet fists against the roof of the tent. Betty under the protection of a weighted down tarp, the loose parts flap in the gale-force wind like a wounded duck. Midnight brings the true fury of the storm and the Eureka breathes in and out, struggling obstinately against the stakes holding it firmly in place. The walls breathe in and out and I feel trapped in a nylon lung, with no escape as the weather continues to pummel from outside. This is the first time that the tent leaks, but it is not until the storm has nearly screamed itself to exhaustion and it has held up admirably.
I pack up a wet camp, in a residual wind that seems to not have lost its power and put the gear away wet. Bound for Florida, hopes are that the storm took no break to sleep overnight and that it is far east enough to prevent me from catching it. Betty is perfect.
“The bike may break me. The road may take me. I’ll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart.”
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