Hillbilly Iron Butt (2007)

Hillbilly Iron Butt (9/6-12, 2007)

“There are only two kinds of music, good music and bad music.” (Duke Ellington)

“There is only perspective seeing, only perspective ‘knowing’; and the more affects we allow to speak about one thing, the more eyes, different eyes, we can use to observe one thing, the more complete will our ‘concept’ of this thing, our ‘objectivity’ be.” (Nietzsche, Genealogy of Morals, Third Essay, section #12; trans. Kaufmann.)

Recently I learned several things that set off a round of intense enthusiasm. First, I learned that there exists an organization called The Iron Butt Association, which sponsors long distance motorcycle rides and rallies. Their entry level event is a thousand mile ride in less than 24 hours. The rider picks a route, rides it, and documents it by means of witnesses and gas station receipts. I’ve always liked to travel long distances at a pop, and I did a lot more than 1000 miles when I rode La Negrita (the Harley Sportster) from Heidelberg to Alcantara a year or so ago. But the idea of doing it more “scientifically” appealed to me. Second, when we went South earlier this summer, I learned about the Crooked Road, a 253 mile stretch of road—much of it Rt.53—that winds through southwestern Virginia and passes a number of sites crucial to the tradition of bluegrass and old time music.[1] We visited several of the spots near the Blue Ridge Parkway, including the Old Fiddlers’ Convention at Galax. This experience set off intense bluegrass frenzy. Late in the summer, this stuff was dancing around in my head, and I decided to “multi-task”: ride my 1000 miles down to Tennessee and then backtrack to cover the Crooked Road.

I played around with several internet mapping tools, and I decided that Cookeville Tennessee would give me the distance with a bit of cushion. I confirmed the route with an AAA triptik. I pumped myself up by reading Ron Ayers’ book about long distance biking.[2]

On the musical side, I read Joe Wilson’s guidebook[3] and watched movies including “The Carter Family: Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” “Down from the Mountain,”[4] “High Lonesome: The Story of Bluegrass Music,” “Bluegrass: Country Soul.” I ordered a bunch of records, including a 5 CD set of the Carter Family.

Thursday, 6 September. I got on the road at about 5 o’clock a.m. The ride went off without any major hitches. I quickly settled into a pattern of going hard for about 150 miles and then stopping for gas. As I went farther, I stopped several times at rest stops and stretched a bit. The part of me that hurt most was my right hand, which always had to be on the throttle.

The experience was in many ways like running an ultra. The same basic strategies apply. You must concentrate on what you’re doing now rather than thinking about what’s supposed to happen way down the line. If a little problem arises, fix it before it becomes a big problem. And just keep it comin’.

My favorite part of the ride was at sunset, when I was in the southern Virginia coal country. The blue mountains with their soft pink halo, the warm breeze bearing country scents, and a relative lack of traffic, made for an agreeable stretch.

When night fell, however, things got a bit more boring and nerve-wracking. I passed countless “exit cities,” glaringly illuminated oases in the endless asphalt, all with an almost identical configuration of chain motels, fast food restaurants, and gas stations. I think that very soon America will resemble a giant “Monopoly” board, with countless iterations of “houses,” and “hotels.”

Then back out into the blackness. Suddenly I would be surrounded by 4 18-wheelers, all lit up like Christmas trees, passing at 85 miles per hour. They set up a wild pattern of crosscurrents that promoted a wrestling match with the bike.

After Knoxville, I was ready to finish. As I entered the city by-pass, my odometer clicked onto “1000.” However, my AAA triptik (which was my “official” routing) called for Cookeville, and I ended up doing an extra 77 miles. I finally reached the “Super 9” motel that I’d chosen for my destination; it was about 1:30 a.m. I got the desk clerk to sign my witness form, and I went over to the nearby Seven-11 and bought a large Foster’s lager. I put bluegrass on my IPOD and contentedly fell asleep.

Friday, September 7.

I left Cookeville at about 10:30 and retraced the 200 miles back to Bristol, the city that’s half in Tennessee and half in Virginia. I gleefully exited the Interstate and was on “The Crooked Road.”

The 20 miles to Hiltons confirmed my expectations that I would be in spectacular country. The vegetation was often almost tropical, with dripping green trees that reminded me of Louisiana and Mississippi. There were hills and hollows. The curves were frequent and demanded constant attention.

In Hiltons, I detoured 3 miles to the Carter Fold, the complex of performance space, restored grocery store, and former home. The road is called “A.P. Carter Highway.” No one was around, but a sign announced a concert the following day.[5]

I got back on Rt. 58 and rode past Gate City, Norton, Coburn, and took a scenic mountain road—suggested by a local--to Clintwood.

I was amazed by the number of Churches I passed. They were mostly varieties of Baptists: “Primitive” Baptists, “Regular” Baptists, and “Free Will” Baptists. (I wondered if these latter were libertarians or Humean “soft determinists.”) Outside each church was a billboard, with messages such as “Pray constantly,” “America Needs a Faith Lift,” “Salvation Is Not Guaranteed,” and “God reads Knee Mails.”

I found myself thinking about Donna, the woman I lived with in Indiana during the 60’s. She was a disabled coal miner’s daughter from West Virginia, raised as a fundamentalist. I remember taking her home one time and going to church with her. She was ashamed of her origins and cultivated a British accent, which went oddly with the Appalachian syntax and diction. She was a perfect “hippie” girlfriend, and I loved her a lot. I wonder what’s become of her.

Clintwood is the location of the Ralph Stanley Museum, one of the cameos of the Crooked Road.[6] They were just closing, and there would be no music in town tonight. They did, however, recommend that I go 20 miles north to Haysi, to a restaurant called Maws, where there would be a good bluegrass band in several hours.

So on to Haysi. The restaurant, Maws, was located in a charming ramshackle building and is an arts & crafts center as well as music venue. It’s been hosting neighbors since the 1930’s, presided over by “maw” (as in “ma”). It is now run by her very charming and friendly granddaughter named Jane. (The old lady died at 101.)

Alas, no music here tonight either, since the scheduled group would be taking part in a benefit for one of the locals who needed a lung transplant and had no insurance. It was close and would start soon. After eating Jane’s cooking, I repaired to nearby Dave’s Diner, whose parking lot was already packed with pickups, some sporting confederate flags.

The place was filled with people listening to a band. The whole scene was “the real deal”: just what I’d come to see. I think I felt like Stanley after he encountered Livingstone.

People were uniformly nice and friendly, and it was disconcerting to discover that I could understand very little of what they said. A man, who later turned out to be the mandolin player in the main band, came over and began a conversation. But he might as well have been talking Polish. Very embarrassing. The same thing with the announcer, a man with very long hair and no teeth, who periodically interrupted the music in order to auction off various donated cakes, pies, and a T.V.

One of the groups was a husband-wife duo who sang religious music. He was squeaky clean and never cracked a smile. I would guess that he was first in his class at Bible College. She was zaftig and reminded me of Tammy Faye Baker. When they sung about Jesus you could tell that they really meant it.

When the music was right, many people got up and danced. There were 300 lb. teenage girls, old grizzled gray-heads gleaming with hair tonic, and young children skillfully doing two-step.

Thoroughly satisfied and contented, I rode the 7 miles of twisting mountain road to Breaks State Park, on the Kentucky border, where there was a thoroughly suitable motel ($60). It had been a wonderful day.

Saturday, September 8.

I rode back to Clintwood and spent several hours in the Ralph Stanley Museum, mostly listening to music and narration from Ralph Stanley via the state of the art computer displays. The place is very nicely done.

Then I rode about 50 pleasant miles back south to Hiltons and the Carter Fold. The music started at 7:30 and featured a very good group from North Carolina. The place was reasonably full; there were several tour buses from Tennessee. The crowd was mostly seniors, many of whom danced animatedly. There was a concession open during the concert, which sold things like BBQ pork. (I passed on that.)

I rode 20 miles back to Bristol, got on I-81, and soon found a Budget Inn for $45. Another fine day.

Sunday, September 9.

I explored downtown Bristol. The main street is the state line separating Tennessee and Virginia. I saw a mural commemorating the city as the birthplace of country music. A record producer named Ralph Peer made some historic recordings here in the late 20’s, instantly rocketing groups such as the Carter Family into stardom.

I ate breakfast at a bagel joint—in Tennessee, I think--run by real Jews. They also sold religious paraphernalia such as yarmulkes. There was literature on the tables. I couldn’t figure out whether they were Zionists or Jews for Jesus. Go figure.

After a short stretch on the interstate, I again picked up the Crooked Road, which took me through Galax, where we’d been several weeks earlier and is one of the principal spots for music. Back on the Blue Ridge Parkway, I pulled into the Blue Ridge Music Center as my watch read “2:02” and a sign out front said “concert at 2:00.” Pure serendipity. I enjoyed several hours of top-notch music from groups associated with the Crooked Road who were preparing to go on tour out west. This was a formal rehearsal. My favorites were “No Speed Limit” and a young woman, Elizabeth LaPrelle, with a haunting voice. I happened to meet Joe Wilson, the author of The Guide to the Crooked Road. I bought two CDs of the groups I’d heard.

I again enjoyed the Parkway to Mabry Mill, a picturesque, perfectly preserved saw/flour mill. I had pancakes and biscuits at the nearby restaurant.

About 10 more miles brought me to Floyd, where I got a room in a rustic lodge (Oak Haven Lodge, $68).

Yet another super day.

Monday, September 10.

The Floyd Country Store—one of the main places to hear music on the Crooked Road—was closed. After breakfast at the Blue Ridge Restaurant, I visited “Country Sales,” which bills itself as the largest bluegrass/old time music store in the world. It’s in fact a warehouse serving the internet trade, but they are glad to let people wander around and browse at their pleasure. It bought several CDs and a book.

I got back to the Parkway and spent several enjoyable hours cruising. At one point I pulled off and took a nap in the woods.

It had to come to and end, however, and I reluctantly returned to I-81 and the kamikaze match with the truck drivers.

I made it to Frackville, PA, and took a room at the Econo-Lodge ($58), which turned out to be sort of front for a migrant labor camp.

Tuesday, September 11.

I woke up to pouring rain. I dithered a bit but soon decided to wuss out and spend the day in the motel.

I read for a while and then went out for a spaghetti lunch at a nearby restaurant, run by Mexicans, but playing Italian music.

Frackville is very depressing. Whatever was here before has gone away and left the decay without any of the charm. The main street is lined with abandoned buildings, pizzerias, and even a store-front “prayer house.” I spent the rest of the afternoon reading, snoozing and drinking beer.

About 6:00 I decided to go outside and join the party that was going on in front of my room. There were Mexicans, Salvadorans, Trinidadians, and they soon offered me a beer. After drinking several with them, I walked across the street and bought a six-pack to offer my new pals.

One young Mexican was particularly simpatico; he kept remarking on the fact that he’d never seen a white guy who could speak Spanish like I was doing. He offered to send Blanca an e-mail expressing his approval.

In sum, a boring day with a nice ending.

Wednesday, September 12.

I got up early and rode the rest of the way home without incident. The weather was fine, although a little windy.

The trip was a great success. I think that my learning curve on the music was as steep as the mountain roads I enjoyed riding. I gained another set of “eyes”: more “objectivity.”

[1] Apparently aficionados distinguish between bluegrass and “old time music,” and some are willing to kill and die over the distinction, which is also controversial and sometimes highly technical, e.g., involving different styles of banjo picking. Richard D. Smith (Bluegrass: An Informal Guide, 1955) cites ten differentiating criteria. Surprisingly, bluegrass appears to be a modern form, dating back only to the 40’s and Bill Monroe and his Blue Grass Boys. I must admit, however, that it all seems pretty much the same to my ear. [2] Going the Extra Mile: Insider Tips for Long Distance Motorcycling and Endurance Rallies (Whitehorse Press, 2002). Also helpful were Chris Scott, Adventure Motorcycling Handbook (Trailblazer Publications, 2005), and Gregory Frazier, Motorcycle Touring (Motorbooks, 2005). [3] A Guide to the Crooked Road: Virginia’s Heritage Music Trail ( John Blair, 2006). [4] This is a documentary about a concert put on by the musicians who contributed to the highly successful movie “O Brother, Where Art Thou,” which certainly helped to introduce old time music to a wider audience. It features Ralph Stanley and Allison Kraus. [5] The Carter Family was comprised of A.P., wife Sara, and sister-in-law Maybelle. The Fold is the work of A.P. and Sara’s daughter Janette, who dedicated the last part of her life to preserving the Carter heritage. [6] I read Ralph’s story in John Wright, Traveling the High Way Home: Ralph Stanley and the World of Traditional Bluegrass Music (University of Illinois Press, 1993).