Day
03: Kentucky, Illinois, Missouri, Arkansas; 597 Miles*
In the morning my neck wouldn't turn. For the next two days, anytime I wanted to change lanes, I would have to turn my whole torso in order to check my blindspot. Clearly not as young as I once was.
Breakfast consisted of road snacks. Coffee was another matter. KungBrew Cafe is located in Covington's Main Strasse neighborhood, a blend of funky little shops and 19th century architecture. The cafe itself blends Japanese teahouse aesthetics with contemporary espresso offerings. My oatmilk latte was delicious, and I followed it up with an equally fabulous cortado. Espresso was Van Life by Urbana. It was quiet.
I wrote for two hours before I realized that my parking meter had expired. I cut my visit short, and left without any pictures.
Getting gas on my way out of town, I remembered the end of Rule III – Follow your whims. “Fuck it,” I said.
Back at KungBrew, I purchased a bottle of something called “Ale81” (apparently pronounced “Ale Eight One”), which Google tells me is a local ginger-citrus soft drink. “Give him the discount,” my barista from earlier told his colleague. “He's been here three times today.” The place was packed with regulars this time around. Several of them brought their dogs, much to the delight of the staff. The soda tasted like ginger ale.
Spring had come to Kentucky. The trees had leafed out, the pale green of Easter baskets. The highway slashed through bedrock of sandstone and limestone, looking almost artificial in its rectangular striations. Red-tailed hawks rode the thermals overhead. A good day. On to Checkpoint Four.
Were I writing a book, I could devote entire chapters to the rise and fall of Cairo, Illinois. Instead I'll confine myself to a few points.
Once the Mecca of American river trade, the past century has seen Cairo's population plummet from an all-time high of 15,000 to roughly a tenth that. Those that remain live amidst the boarded-up, broken ruins of that former greatness.
I stepped into Shemwell's Barbecue, one of the few downtown businesses that remains. An enormous wall-mounted TV dominated the interior. A scattered half-dozen regulars sat at the tables and counters. Someone asked if there had been any progress on one of the city revitalization efforts that had been announced some time ago. Apparently not. Otherwise, no one spoke. I couldn't tell if this was the ease of life-long familiarity, or the shell-shock that comes with watching your home become a ghost town. The barbecue sandwich was excellent, and the slaw alone was worth stopping for.
One year when I was a child, we took a road trip to visit my sister in Texas. I remember crossing the Mississippi River in Louisiana, the bridge seemingly endless, the water stretching to the horizon in all directions. Surely this was a lake, or an ocean, I thought. Not a river.
The crossing to the south of Cairo is nowhere near as long or dramatic. But I still felt a thrill as the bridge climbed toward its apex. Like that first hill at the start of a rollercoaster.
Missouri is so flat, you'd almost think you could see the Rockies on a clear day. I-55 South appears to be where most tires go to die. I've never seen so much shredded rubber along a single stretch of road before. And yet, the road itself is smooth, kept in almost pristine condition. Maybe the tires get bored to death.
I reached my final Checkpoint just as the sun was setting: the Johnny Cash Boyhood Home in Dyess, Arkansas. The museum was closed when I got there. It would be closed the following day, too – a Sunday. I snapped a quick photograph of the little house through the chain-link and left, tires scrabbling in the red gravel of West County Road 924.
I made my way through the increasingly dark Arkansas countryside. Eventually I found the highway again. A short while later, another parking lot (gods bless Big Blue!). Again I slept like the dead.
*Mileage is approximate. Somebody forgot to reset the counter until he was already on the road.
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