Biking Across America (16 page)

Scattered storm clouds still scurried overhead as I navigated my way out of Paducah the next morning. Heading south on Route 68 near Sharpe, Kentucky, I was intrigued by the Apple Valley Hillbilly Gardens and Toyland Museum. The sign said “Sorry We're Open,” and I admired such brutal honesty. The place is quite an attraction—or perhaps
distraction
would be a better descriptor.

The owner is an artist who turned everyday junk into eclectic objects of art. Lawn mowers hung from trees. A bicycle had been cut in half and welded to a lawn mower, creating a riding mower . . . of sorts. A sign above an open commode showed folks where to place gossip.

Enjoying my stroll through the artist's ingenious creations, I chuckled at a thought. If all his creations were left on the ground, this would surely be called a junkyard. However, with a little creative flair, this junk now had value. In reality, I was strolling through an elevated junk pile.

This was my only full day in Kentucky, and for most of the day my bike rolled through rural areas. Besides my departure city of
Paducah, only three towns appeared along my route. I felt right at home in the first town. The sign at the town line said “Welcome to Benton.” Benton, Ohio, has several hundred friendly people; Benton, Kentucky, has over four thousand. Murray, at slightly over seventeen thousand residents, was home to Murray State University. Hazel was the last small town I pedaled through before entering Tennessee. Only a few more than four hundred folks call Hazel home.

It did pay to visit Hazel. I was just leaving a service station where I had stopped for a cold beverage when the Tennessee state line appeared ahead of me. Another state behind me! Then something else caught my eye, a silver blur on the roadside as my wheels rolled by. The day had already yielded a decent take of roadside spoils, and my coffers had been enlarged by nearly fifty cents. I turned around.

Collecting dust beside the road was a silver money clip. Its surface showed some wear, undoubtedly from its time on the roadside, and it gripped what appeared to be several dollars. I shoved it into my pocket, believing I had increased my net worth by about three dollars. I guessed the larger value of my find was in the clip itself; it looked like solid silver.

I was soon in Tennessee and one state closer to my journey's end. In two days my cousin from Sarasota, Florida, would meet me in southern Tennessee and ride with me through Alabama, Georgia, and part of Florida. Elated at entering another state, I quickly forgot the loot in my pocket.

In downtown Paris, Tennessee, I encountered a street vendor selling hot dogs. Finding a good hot dog ranks high on my “pleasurable events” list, right up there with finding money. The hot dog was great, and my conversation with the street vendor was most productive. He gave me directions to a motel with a good restaurant adjacent. I concluded my day with an hour's nap in the
tub, submerged in ever-cooling water. The Italian meal next door was delicious, as promised, and I was quite happy and contented as I slipped under the covers.

“That money clip!” I almost shouted. I had forgotten to count the money Hazel had given me. I grabbed my pants from the floor, rummaged through the pockets, and pulled out the clip. The wad of money was tightly packed into its silver sheath. I was correct about one thing. There were three ones. I peeled those away and revealed a few twenties. And inside the twenties,
seven
Ben Franklins had convened. For those not sure where Ben Franklin's visage appears, it's at the center of one hundred dollar bills. My hands were shaking as I counted.

Instantaneously, I remembered the twenty I had handed Joe. Yesterday morning, I'd given a homeless man a single twenty, knowing he could never repay me. What had not occurred to me at the time was that God is only too happy to bless a cheerful giver. I had given a twenty and received over seven hundred back. You can't out-give God. Hmmm . . . maybe I should have given the man forty dollars.

The following day, I called the local police department to see if anyone had reported losing such a large amount of money. The phone line was busy. I then tried to call several businesses in the area where I found the loot, but had no success. I do believe God intended it for me.

Since then, I've had several folks proclaim their joy and gratitude to me for finding their money. If you're thinking of claiming this wad, describe the design of the money clip and the money is yours. Thus far, no one has come close to doing that.

Leaving Paris early the next morning, I glimpsed a vignette of quiet patriotism. In front of the courthouse, a man was raising an
American flag. His hat was off, held respectfully in one hand. He never saw me silently gliding by.

There are many things going wrong in this country, but there is also so much good. I thought of the many freedoms we still enjoy. I'd traveled almost four thousand miles so far, and no policeman had stopped me or challenged my passage; I was riding freely from town to town, state to state. Churches openly advertise their services. The majority of Americans are still decent, law-abiding citizens. Strangers showed me many kindnesses. I always parked my bike and left it unsecured, and no one ever bothered it.

I will admit, however, that the habit of leaving my bike unattended now produced an uneasy feeling. That money clip and its contents rode at the bottom of my pannier. Can you imagine the surprise of any bandit absconding with my bicycle and discovering the bounty hidden deep within my pannier?

I don't know where the proverbial Bible Belt starts or stops, but the abundance of churches convinced me that I was riding somewhere along its buckle. Church signs of all shapes and sizes and construction broadcast clever messages and short, one-line sermons. Although I was amused at many of the witticisms, sometimes a message spoke to me so directly that I cringed. The August weather was hot, and the signs capitalized on that. “Our church is prayer conditioned,” one read. “The temperature in hell never changes,” warned another. Whether serious or lighthearted, all the signs were posted with one intention—to win the lost and exhort everyone to love his neighbor as himself.

Outside Camden, Tennessee, a lady was struggling to change a flat tire.

Go help that lady
, breathed the Spirit.

“No, I don't think so,” replied my human nature. She was on the other side of the busy highway. “Someone in the other lane can help.”

Do you see anyone stopping?

“No, but there's a lot of traffic, and we're in the Bible Belt. With all those church signs proclaiming the love of God, surely someone will help her.”

But the prodding would not cease.

“Oh, all right, I'll do it.”

I pushed my bike across the highway and approached her disabled vehicle. She was bent over, making a valiant effort to remove the deflated tire.

“Good morning, can I help you change that tire?”

She screamed and jumped in fright. She was so absorbed in her task that she hadn't seen me arrive.

“Yes, I sure could use help,” she said. “I've been stranded here for two hours. You're the first person to stop. I've been trying to pry this wheel cover off. It just won't come off.”

“Let me take a look.” I took a look. “I don't mean to be rude, but you could keep prying away there all day and never get it off. You have your pry bar on the rim. The strongest man in the world couldn't pry off that rim.”

She looked at me with a sheepish grin when I popped the wheel cover with one quick flick. Through laughter and tears she recounted how she had called everyone she could think of to help her, but no one could come to her aid until later in the morning. And although we were on a busy highway, no one had stopped. “So I decided to just change it myself. If you hadn't shown up, I'd probably be here all day.”

After the spare tire was on, I turned to leave. She shoved a twenty-dollar bill into my hand.

“Oh no, I don't want your money.” I said.

But she insisted I take it. Two days before, I had given a homeless man twenty dollars; now money I didn't need or deserve was coming my way.

As I continued my journey, everything at once seemed lighter and brighter. The sun was shining, my spirit was lifted, and the journey was light. It is a good thing to help other folks. How often do we see a need and think that someone else will fill it? Perhaps if it has been revealed to us, then it is our duty to act on it. Money can't buy the peace and joy that fills you when you listen to that prompting from the Holy Spirit.

By noon I had crossed over I-40. Midway between Nashville and Memphis on Route 641, I changed my course. My cousin Marv would be meeting me in Pulaski, Tennessee, the following evening, so I looked for a route that would take me farther southeast. Judging from the map, I'd be doing a backcountry trek through small towns with no lodging.

At a convenience store, several local ladies assured me there was a small inn located in downtown Linden. I made that town my destination for the day. This would also set me up to reach Pulaski the following day.

The one thousand residents of Linden have undertaken a complete makeover of their downtown. This area is famous for good hunting and fishing and spectacular scenery. Local artists are involved in the renaissance, and their talents are visible on murals throughout the downtown.

The Commodore Hotel Linden on East Main Street was just completing a major overhaul. This historic inn was my destination, but when I walked in, the price quoted to me apparently covered the entire cost of remodeling my room.

“Will I get the deed to your building too?” I joked. They took my humor in the same spirit it was given, so I put on my saddest tired face and told them about my hard day biking through the rugged Tennessee countryside. The truth was, my choices were limited.
The next town was Hohenwald, another twenty hilly, winding miles away. I really had no other choice but to stay here. “I'm writing a book about my journey. Perhaps I could make you famous by including you in it,” I said. And a deal was struck. At about half the previously quoted price, I could have a room; in return, I would mention them in my upcoming masterpiece.