Under cover of darkness...that's how Bessie and I roll. Oh-dark-thirty I headed north, successfully beating the deluge of rain that would happen later that day in Central Florida, on my way to Macon Georgia. I have always loved watching the rising sun turn the horizon first pink, melting into yellow and gold as a new day dawns. It is a brief gift, before the blazing summer sun heats the landscape.
As Bessie and I cruise along a virtually deserted SR 27, I am dreading the short ride up I-75. Motorcycles are made for back roads, not interstates. The early hour assured me I would not encounter much traffic, until I hit 75. At least the traffic on the interstate was not nearly what it would have been a few hours later. I was in no hurry this morning, no one was waiting at the other end of the ride, so I stayed in the 'go slow' lane of the interstate, clicked Bessie into cruise control, propped my feet up on the highway pegs and enjoyed the ride as maniacs rushed around me in a hurry to get...where?
At Alachua Florida, I left the interstate and picked up 441; although I have been on this road many times in various other parts of Florida and Georgia, this section was new territory. 441 blends with 41 up to Lake City, which used to be the main artery bringing tourist to Florida before I-75 was constructed. North of Lake City, 441 crosses the Florida-Georgia state line. It is remote, as it borders the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge and the Okefenokee Swamp. The road is surrounded by thick, swampy woods. The air is fragrant with a loamy, fecund smell. Its one of those roads I find myself on with Bessie thinking, 'if I break down it will be hours before they get to me.' Which perversely, is how I like it. A few hours into the trip, it didn't take me long to realize, a solo ride on Bessie is exactly what I needed.
I enter a tiny little town called Fargo, Georgia; a wide spot in the road, not even a traffic light. The only convenience store/gas station is attached to the minuscule post office. Their claim to fame is the gateway to the Suwanee River. The few businesses I see are associated with expeditions on the river. Great ride through the swamp, I can count on one hand the vehicles I passed during my two hour ride in this section. A ride on Georgia back roads is a trip through time. Old shacks sit idle and decrepit; if only the walls could talk. Tobacco and cotton fields still exist, a mere shadow of their former glory. The elderly sit on the front porch of the 'shot gun' houses that are scattered along the road. These people preserve the fine art of porch sitting, something that has been lost over the years. They understand the therapeutic value of the activity as a legitimate pastime, designed to heal the soul. I slow Bessie to a cruise and wave when I see a porch sitter, they wave back, as if I'm a one woman parade, they the sole spectator. It is a connection. The last moments I spent with my Grandmother were swinging on the porch swing with her as we watched the birds in the feeder. Both of us quiet, content, at peace with the world. That is how I always remember her.
I missed the 441 bypass around Dublin, Georgia which turned out to be serendipity. Dublin is a quaint, southern town full of history ; stately Victorian homes line the streets, the heady frangrance of Magnolia trees and dogwood perfume the air. There is a mural of Dr. King and a declaration that Dublin is 'where the dream begins.' A 15-year-old Booker T. Washington High School student from Atlanta, Martin King, Jr., won an essay contest with his writing, 'The Negro and the Constitution.' He was invited to deliver the essay as a speech at the First African Baptist Church in Dublin on April 17, 1944. Little did the congregation know, they were witnessing the first public speech of a man who would turn the tide of the Civil Rights Movement and change the world with his words.
By the time I stopped for lunch in Dublin, the sun had hit broil. I checked my GPS and headed for downtown Macon. My sole purpose in visiting Macon is to pay my respects to Gregg Allman. The Big House Museum on Vineland, Duane Allman Memorial Blvd and the Barry Oakley Bridge, is where the members of the Allman Brothers Band lived in a communal arrangement in the '70's. I parked Bessie under the 'One Way Out' sign. The backyard is a quiet, southern landscaped garden, with memorial bricks forming a walkway. Huge flower arrangments from Greggs recent funeral, withering from the sun and heat, are positioned everywhere. The front steps leading up to The Big House are awash in flowers, bottles of whine, fifths of Jack Daniels, photos, ticket stubs, and other memoriabilia that fans have left as tokens of their devotion.
The house is beautiful; carved woodwork, stained glass, polished wood floors. The fact that it is a museum to rock n roll history is beside the point. I'm surprised by the plethora of memoribilia that is stuffed into each room. I was transported back, back to my youth, the early '70's when peace, love, and rock n roll was the anthem. So many musicians whose music comprised the soundtrack to my youth have passed on. We will always have the music. I spend a good hour wandering the rooms, reading, listening, remembering. The volunteer at the desk gives me directions to the Rose Hill Cemetary.
The cemetary is ancient. Tombstones and monuments scattered across hills; concrete roads strewn with gravel, barely as wide as a small car, snake their way through the cemetary. It is broiling, Bessie is heavy, and it is difficult to navigate the cemetary road and slipperly gravel. I hit a wide spot atop a hill, pull close to the grass, and switch the engine off. I decide I will do better on foot, although I'm dressed for riding, not hiking. I pull the map out of my back pocket, try to get a handle on where I am in relation to where I want to be, and suddenly a person appears - seemingly out of no where - in the middle of the road in front of me. He is tall, gaunt, dressed in camo shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. He is facing the oppossite direction of where I think I'm going, but he is another live person in this sea of dead, so I say 'hello? Do you know which way I can find the Allman graves?' He looks around, as if my presence startled him, and says, 'sure, follow me.' Hell. Why not? He takes off with giant, loping steps, and I'm practically running to keep up. Ancient steps take the visitor up and down hills to where burial plots are laid out. We hit a flat spot, I come even with my 'guide,' he thrusts out his hand and says, "I'm JT by the way." I grasp his hand in greeting and say, 'Debi. Thanks for showing me the way." Without provocation, he announces 'I'm a certified paranormal investigator.' Silly me, I respond with, 'Oh, I'm sorry, was I interrupting something?!' What is it about me that always attracts the weirdos, the nefarious creatures, the fascinating personalities? He launches into a full description of his work, his father who rode motorcycles, his inability to ride his own since his back surgery....and more. I'm thinking (and sweating profusely) how much farther? Then JT stops abruptly, points over a rise and says, 'down there.' Then he admonishes me for not visiting sooner since DUANE ALLMAN has been buried here since `1973. He is really upset about that, I apologize (why, I don't know) for my lack of respect to DUANE. I head over the rise, thinking JT will disappear as well to communicate with the dead. There are several people milling about, talking, remembering, laying flowers at the fresh mound of earth that is Gregg Allmans resting place. His brother Duane is nearby. After paying my respects to BOTH of the Allman Brothers, I head back up the hill, hoping I can find Bessie without too much more effort. But there is JT, waiting on me. I claim, 'I left my motorcycle somewhere at the top of a hill.' As if his paranormal skills would help me locate her quickly. He takes of in his giant, loping steps as I scurry to follow. We climb, and finally I turn to see Bessie waiting patiently a few blocks away. Relieved, I thank JT for his personal tour of Rose Hill. He reminds me the grave of Elizabeth Reid is 'just over there,' but I decline. I promise I'll listen to the song instead. I inquire about which way will take me back to Riverside Blvd., and then I realize, there's 'Only One Way Out.'
As Bessie and I cruise along a virtually deserted SR 27, I am dreading the short ride up I-75. Motorcycles are made for back roads, not interstates. The early hour assured me I would not encounter much traffic, until I hit 75. At least the traffic on the interstate was not nearly what it would have been a few hours later. I was in no hurry this morning, no one was waiting at the other end of the ride, so I stayed in the 'go slow' lane of the interstate, clicked Bessie into cruise control, propped my feet up on the highway pegs and enjoyed the ride as maniacs rushed around me in a hurry to get...where?
At Alachua Florida, I left the interstate and picked up 441; although I have been on this road many times in various other parts of Florida and Georgia, this section was new territory. 441 blends with 41 up to Lake City, which used to be the main artery bringing tourist to Florida before I-75 was constructed. North of Lake City, 441 crosses the Florida-Georgia state line. It is remote, as it borders the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge and the Okefenokee Swamp. The road is surrounded by thick, swampy woods. The air is fragrant with a loamy, fecund smell. Its one of those roads I find myself on with Bessie thinking, 'if I break down it will be hours before they get to me.' Which perversely, is how I like it. A few hours into the trip, it didn't take me long to realize, a solo ride on Bessie is exactly what I needed.
I enter a tiny little town called Fargo, Georgia; a wide spot in the road, not even a traffic light. The only convenience store/gas station is attached to the minuscule post office. Their claim to fame is the gateway to the Suwanee River. The few businesses I see are associated with expeditions on the river. Great ride through the swamp, I can count on one hand the vehicles I passed during my two hour ride in this section. A ride on Georgia back roads is a trip through time. Old shacks sit idle and decrepit; if only the walls could talk. Tobacco and cotton fields still exist, a mere shadow of their former glory. The elderly sit on the front porch of the 'shot gun' houses that are scattered along the road. These people preserve the fine art of porch sitting, something that has been lost over the years. They understand the therapeutic value of the activity as a legitimate pastime, designed to heal the soul. I slow Bessie to a cruise and wave when I see a porch sitter, they wave back, as if I'm a one woman parade, they the sole spectator. It is a connection. The last moments I spent with my Grandmother were swinging on the porch swing with her as we watched the birds in the feeder. Both of us quiet, content, at peace with the world. That is how I always remember her.
I missed the 441 bypass around Dublin, Georgia which turned out to be serendipity. Dublin is a quaint, southern town full of history ; stately Victorian homes line the streets, the heady frangrance of Magnolia trees and dogwood perfume the air. There is a mural of Dr. King and a declaration that Dublin is 'where the dream begins.' A 15-year-old Booker T. Washington High School student from Atlanta, Martin King, Jr., won an essay contest with his writing, 'The Negro and the Constitution.' He was invited to deliver the essay as a speech at the First African Baptist Church in Dublin on April 17, 1944. Little did the congregation know, they were witnessing the first public speech of a man who would turn the tide of the Civil Rights Movement and change the world with his words.
By the time I stopped for lunch in Dublin, the sun had hit broil. I checked my GPS and headed for downtown Macon. My sole purpose in visiting Macon is to pay my respects to Gregg Allman. The Big House Museum on Vineland, Duane Allman Memorial Blvd and the Barry Oakley Bridge, is where the members of the Allman Brothers Band lived in a communal arrangement in the '70's. I parked Bessie under the 'One Way Out' sign. The backyard is a quiet, southern landscaped garden, with memorial bricks forming a walkway. Huge flower arrangments from Greggs recent funeral, withering from the sun and heat, are positioned everywhere. The front steps leading up to The Big House are awash in flowers, bottles of whine, fifths of Jack Daniels, photos, ticket stubs, and other memoriabilia that fans have left as tokens of their devotion.
The house is beautiful; carved woodwork, stained glass, polished wood floors. The fact that it is a museum to rock n roll history is beside the point. I'm surprised by the plethora of memoribilia that is stuffed into each room. I was transported back, back to my youth, the early '70's when peace, love, and rock n roll was the anthem. So many musicians whose music comprised the soundtrack to my youth have passed on. We will always have the music. I spend a good hour wandering the rooms, reading, listening, remembering. The volunteer at the desk gives me directions to the Rose Hill Cemetary.
The cemetary is ancient. Tombstones and monuments scattered across hills; concrete roads strewn with gravel, barely as wide as a small car, snake their way through the cemetary. It is broiling, Bessie is heavy, and it is difficult to navigate the cemetary road and slipperly gravel. I hit a wide spot atop a hill, pull close to the grass, and switch the engine off. I decide I will do better on foot, although I'm dressed for riding, not hiking. I pull the map out of my back pocket, try to get a handle on where I am in relation to where I want to be, and suddenly a person appears - seemingly out of no where - in the middle of the road in front of me. He is tall, gaunt, dressed in camo shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. He is facing the oppossite direction of where I think I'm going, but he is another live person in this sea of dead, so I say 'hello? Do you know which way I can find the Allman graves?' He looks around, as if my presence startled him, and says, 'sure, follow me.' Hell. Why not? He takes off with giant, loping steps, and I'm practically running to keep up. Ancient steps take the visitor up and down hills to where burial plots are laid out. We hit a flat spot, I come even with my 'guide,' he thrusts out his hand and says, "I'm JT by the way." I grasp his hand in greeting and say, 'Debi. Thanks for showing me the way." Without provocation, he announces 'I'm a certified paranormal investigator.' Silly me, I respond with, 'Oh, I'm sorry, was I interrupting something?!' What is it about me that always attracts the weirdos, the nefarious creatures, the fascinating personalities? He launches into a full description of his work, his father who rode motorcycles, his inability to ride his own since his back surgery....and more. I'm thinking (and sweating profusely) how much farther? Then JT stops abruptly, points over a rise and says, 'down there.' Then he admonishes me for not visiting sooner since DUANE ALLMAN has been buried here since `1973. He is really upset about that, I apologize (why, I don't know) for my lack of respect to DUANE. I head over the rise, thinking JT will disappear as well to communicate with the dead. There are several people milling about, talking, remembering, laying flowers at the fresh mound of earth that is Gregg Allmans resting place. His brother Duane is nearby. After paying my respects to BOTH of the Allman Brothers, I head back up the hill, hoping I can find Bessie without too much more effort. But there is JT, waiting on me. I claim, 'I left my motorcycle somewhere at the top of a hill.' As if his paranormal skills would help me locate her quickly. He takes of in his giant, loping steps as I scurry to follow. We climb, and finally I turn to see Bessie waiting patiently a few blocks away. Relieved, I thank JT for his personal tour of Rose Hill. He reminds me the grave of Elizabeth Reid is 'just over there,' but I decline. I promise I'll listen to the song instead. I inquire about which way will take me back to Riverside Blvd., and then I realize, there's 'Only One Way Out.'
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