Road Trip

A window of opportunity has presented itself, so here is my a synopsis of my road trip. We set off on our nine state odyssey early on Tuesday morning, driving through three thunderstorms on our way to the home of Jack Daniels whiskey, Lynchburg Tennessee. A big up tom yhe G-Spot, the satnav worked like a dream, as we made our way 529 miles on our first leg. I decided from the off to flout the speed limits, as my GPS dared me to reach my destination quicker than the time it had allotted. At first everything went smoothly, till the car in front flashed it's sirens somewhere in mid Kentucky. Curses, I thought, as the Elster called me a few choice expletives. He moved onto the central reservation as I practised my best English toff accent and tried to think up some excuse. But nothing happened. He didn't get out of his car, and after five minutes reversed back and rolled down his window. "Can I help you sir" he said. I asked if he was pulling me for speeding. "No sir, I am parking up" said he, as I said nice one and peeled off due south. The JD tour was good, and the local motel cheap and clean, but it a one horse town, where everything shuts at 6 p.m. and even worse, it is smack in the middle of a dry county! An early night was the only option. The next day we set off early to visit Elvis's birthplace in Tupelo, Mississippi. I wasn't expecting much, but surprisingly liked it. We pulled up and went to reception to buy tickets for the museum and house where he spent the first thirteen years off his life. The museum was good, nothing flash, but informative and put together by people who genuinely seemed to love the King. "How do we get to his house?" I asked the usher when we came out. "You walked past it on the way in sugar pie" I was informed. It was easy done, as the place was the size of my garage. If Crespo would have been there, I know for sure he would have sang the garden shed song. We stayed an hour or so, before setting off on the last lag of our 320 mile journey to Memphis. We checked in at the Heartbreak Hotel, and although I have stayed in much worse accommodation, it was a little disappointing. Not in a bad way, but the building was in need of some TLC and seemed to have seen better days. Of course it was Elvis by the bucket load, they even had a channel playing nowt but Elvis movies, but seeing as we had got in late, we decided to head for Beale Street, home of the Blues. It was fucking brilliant. The street it shut off to everyone but motorcycles, and everyone is walking around drinking and lstening to bads play the blues. My personal fave was Wet Willies, which had a bark of squishy machines full of various cocktails. Bender Squad heaven. After a couple of Margaritas, and several beer chasers we retired for the evening as we had a busy day planned, we were headed to Gracelands. The tour is good, the house is a monument to 1970's taste, the Jungle Room, with it's green shag piled ceiling, a definite highlight. It is not as big as you would imagine, but it is tastefully done, the collection of jumpsuits is brilliant. After spending a few hours, it was time to fill up and take off. The area must have been a lot nicer in the King's day, as I dodged pan handlers at the gas station 800 metres from his house. Time was not on our side however, and we decided to head for Indianapolis instead of St Louis, as it meant we were nearer to home on our last night. The GPS still said it was a 470 mile trip that would take around seven hours, a challenge if I ever heard one. We crossed the Mississippi river twice, drove through five states, one twice, and pitched up in Indy at around 8 p.m. We checked into a hotel, and hit Hooters for wings, then an Irish bar for a night cap. In the morning we set off with just a quick 250 mile drive to get home, and I took off intending to beat the TomTom once more. Just out of Indianapolis though, I heard a siren, looked into my rear view mirror and saw I was being pursued by the law, and this time it was no mistake. I pulled into the side off the road, and waited for the officer to approach. I noticed I was in a 55 m.p.h. zone. "What's the hurry?" he enquired. "I thought I was in a 70 m.p.h. zone" was all I could think to say. "But you were doing 90!" he replied, and I knew the game was up. He looked at my English driving licence, and went back to his patrol car. After what seemed like forever, he came back and gave me a ticket. "I don't know if they will raise a warrant if you don't pay this" he said, "that's up to you, but you need to slow down!" And off he went, leaving me clutching a $165 dollar fine. It succeeded in slowing me down whilst I was in Indiana, but once we were back in Ohio, the pedal hit the medal, and I was back in Tiffin 40 minutes ahead of the GPS estimate. I haven't decided what to do about the ticket, but it is unlikely I will cough up for it, I will just have to steer clear of Indiana.