The sun was shining on me and my bike. I slowly gathered my things from the hotel room and checked out. After warming up the bike, I headed into the heart of Nashville. It was Sunday and the roads were quiet this morning. I made good time into the city and decided to explore a little before my stops opened for business.

Nashville was quiet. It was slowly waking up. I rumbled down the streets taking in every little shop and street I could. I found so many little spots I could spend hours at. I finally filled my tank and headed for my ultimate destination. Third Man Records. A small little record shop run by one of my all-time favorite musicians. Jack White. Navigating the streets, I quickly found it tucked away from the main stretch.

Black and yellow adorned the walls inside. It was much smaller than I thought. Just three rooms. Records littered shelves. The famous recording record booth was there. It felt wonderful to finally be there. To visit something I had always wanted to see. To me, this was my generations Sun Records. It was a small little record label, churning out great music. I was finally there. After soaking everything, I bought a souvenir, a little Thrid Man Records zippo lighter. Before leaving Nashville I stopped and saw the old Grand Ole Opry, now the Ryman Auditorium, and the new one more outside of town.

It was noon now and I had miles to do today no matter how much I wanted to stay. I said goodbye to Nashville and headed east for Bristol, Tennessee. Hopping on the interstate, it was back to business. A weird feeling had come over me. A feeling like I was working. Essentially everything I had planned to see was behind me now. It felt as if my trip was over but I still had work today. The interstate was getting to me. It is not how I travel. It’s boring. A quote of Charles Kuralt I love is “Thanks to the Interstate Highway System, it is now possible to travel across the country from coast to coast without seeing anything.” How fitting. It felt so true right now.

The road maneuvered through forests and over hills, completely passing by everything of interest. Traffic soon started to back up as we entered Knoxville. The sun was beating down and I headed off the interstate to find a way around this cluster of cars. Sitting at the stop light, I had pulled up behind an old man on a Harley. He looked back and smiled at me waving me to pull up next to him. I did so. He asked me where I was headed and I said, Bristol. He informed me that he knew a way around this traffic jam and can get me into Knoxville. The light turned green and with no other questions, I followed him.

We headed down back roads, passing through beautiful trees full of the fall colors. The road was fun. His Harley puttered in front of me and I followed with blind trust. He seemed nice enough and seemed to know his way around. He had noticed my Oregon plate when we were on the highway. We entered a small town and we pulled up to a stoplight. He told me how to get back to the interstate from here and I thanked him and we said our goodbyes. I never got his name or anything. A truly good person helping someone for no reason other than to help.

Back on the interstate, I continued towards Bristol. I battled with my mind. The road was incredibly boring. I struggled to enjoy my ride. I navigated through traffic as I became more and more stressed. I had enough. I stopped and had some food. I regained my composure and set off this time enjoying myself.

Bristol soon came into view and I arrived at my campground for the night. I ran back into town to grab food. Chatting with people at the store, I was warned of the clowns. The crazy clown thing had gone viral and there were a few sightings here in town. This frightened me. Dark set in as I arrived back at my camp. The office of the campground had closed and I was left to fend for myself for firewood. I scoured the ground and found twigs to start a fire. One other camper was here. They were on the other side of the campground. I was alone.

Leaves littered the ground. Crunching noises echoed through the forest. The clowns the people warned me about were first in my head. I hid in my tent. I kept my knife close to me. I spent the night listening to podcasts and keeping an eye out my tent door. The cold crept in my tent. Sleep came over me. The Smokey Mountains lay quiet. A sense of sorrow overcame me as I realized my trip would end the very next night.