Month: July 2020

Across America by Bicycle, Part 23: On to New Orleans

Posted on by Pete Schloss

 

When we awoke the morning of August 3, 2010 in Memphis Tennessee, 561 bicycle miles and 9 riding days stood between us and New Orleans. That worked out to an average of a little more than 62 miles per day, known in bicycle parlance as a “metric century” (100 kilometers).

For 12 cyclists who had already covered thousands of miles together, that did not seem to be a heavy lift. However, as we were to learn that day the worst was yet to come.

We anticipated a hot and humid day. Lula Mississippi lay 60 miles ahead, largely following paved farm roads. What we did not anticipate was the searing heat that would soon confront us. The sun blazed from high upon a cloudless sky. It blistered the pavement which in turn reflected “fire” through the soles of our shoes. Christine had her hands full ferrying water to the riders and monitoring our condition out of a very real concern for heat exhaustion or even heat stroke. She did require some riders to call it a day short of our destination and transported them to the end.

For me it was perhaps the most challenging riding day of the summer. I found that although I was well acclimated to higher temperatures, nothing really prepares one for a shadeless 107 degrees with a heat index in the hundred-teens. My body processed water into perspiration at a rate I had never before experienced. Taking my shoes off I could literally pour water out that had accumulated from the sweat of my feet.

Our destination was the Isle of Capri Coral Reef Hotel where we would spend that night. When I arrived I found that I had begun to shiver as if I was freezing. No doubt I was on the cusp of heat stroke. I made a quick dash into hotel’s inviting outdoor swimming pool and within 30 minutes was mostly restored. My experience was not unique among the riders.

We learned the valuable lesson to begin our rides in the pre-dawn twilight. A sideline benefit was less traffic and seeing the beauty of the landscapes as the sun’s ruby rays first burned off the morning dew.

From Lula we continued 60 miles on August 4th to Cleveland, Mississippi where we were hosted for the night at Delta State University, home of the “Fighting Okra”.

August 5th and we arrived at Roy’s Cabins on the shores of picturesque Lake Washington.

On August 6th we continued our progress through “the Deep South” on toward Vicksburg, Mississippi.

On the route we stopped at the “Onward Store” along US Highway 61 near Rolling Fork.

This delightful general store and restaurant sits upon the site of a famed 1902 visit by US President Theodore Roosevelt. Roosevelt, at the invitation of Mississippi’s Governor Andrew Longino, came to hunt bear. Roosevelt made national news for his refusal to shoot a captive bear.

Media cartoons featured Roosevelt and the “Teddy Bear”. Of course, the rest is history. Sadly the store which had operated since 1913 has since closed in 2019.

As an aside, Theodore Roosevelt is the only US President credited with coining a corporate catchphrase. To this day that slogan is nationally famous: Legend has it that in 1907 Roosevelt was a guest at the Maxwell House Hotel in Nashville, Tennessee. Enjoying a morning cup of the hotel’s coffee he declared, “This coffee is good to the last drop!” The quote caught on and was adopted by Maxwell House Coffee.

Regrettably, we did not have the opportunity to tour Vicksburg which is the site of one of the seminal battles of the Civil War. Below is the Claiborne County Courthouse located in Port Gibson Mississippi. Founded in 1729, Port Gibson was the site of the May 1, 1863 amphibious landing the Union Army and the successful campaign that presaged the victorious assault on Vicksburg.

Between May 18 and July 4, 1863 US General Ulysses S. Grant conducted the  siege of Vicksburg that ultimately drove the Confederate Army out of the fortress city. This was the Confederacy’s last stronghold on the Mississippi and the defeat effectively split the South, providing the Union with control of the entire length of the Mississippi River.

In 2015 Christine and I revisited Vicksburg and took time to tour the city and battlefield. We highly recommend the visit.

From Vicksburg we enjoyed a remarkable 87 mile ride that featured travel upon a portion of the picturesque Natchez Trace.

 

This historic trail runs approximately 440 miles from Nashville, Tennessee, to Natchez, Mississippi. It was a well-traveled forest route used for centuries by pre-Columbian Native Americans. Today it is a limited access National Parkway that is maintained by the National Park Service.

On August 8th we rode to St. Francisville, Louisiana, where we were afforded the honor of a police escort. It was from St. Francisville that we toured Louisiana’s State Penitentiary at Angola. (See “The Death Chambers at Angola”)

August 9th and we were on the road to Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

We enjoyed a “rest day” there before continuing on to Convent, Louisiana, where we spent the night at the remarkable Manresa Center.

The Manresa Center is a 130 acre Jesuit operated retreat center that was originally founded in the early 1800’s as Jefferson College, a private school for the sons of plantation owners.

The Jesuits purchased the property in 1931. Today the facility provides “men only” spiritual retreats. Strictly speaking, women are not permitted to remain on the grounds, however the “rules” were bent to allow our entire group to spend the night as guests of this extraordinary place.

From the Manresa Center we rode into New Orleans on August 12th, following the levies that channel the Mississippi River to the Gulf of Mexico.

Next: New Orleans, the “Big Easy”.
Peace Everyone. Pete

Across America by Bicycle, Part 22: The Death Chambers at Angola

Posted on by Pete Schloss

 

Have you ever walked into a room that was exclusively designed to take a life? A room where fewer living beings exited than had entered? Until August 8, 2010 I had not.

The Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola is the largest maximum security penal complex in the United States.

It covers over 28 square miles and currently houses over 6,500 inmates and 1,800 staff. It is naturally secure in that it is surrounded on three sides by the Mississippi River and the inhospitable insect, snake, and alligator infested swamps that precede the river’s edge and surround the prison. As we were to learn, over 95% of the inmates inhabiting Angola will not live to see freedom.

Angola was founded in 1830 as one of 6 plantations owned by Isaac Franklin. Franklin’s wealth came from his establishment in 1828 of the firm Franklin & Armfield, the largest slave trading company in America. Angola remained a plantation until 1880 when it was sold to former Confederate States of America officer, Samuel L. James who had been leasing prison labor in Louisiana since 1869. James was unable to run the plantation profitably with paid labor, but he could do so by utilizing leased prison laborers (mostly Black) from the State of Louisiana.

Post-Civil War Louisiana and other Southern states found that they could recreate a slave labor force by implementing a convict leasing program which was primarily targeted at the Black male population. Arrested for minor infractions, a defendant who could not pay the fine was pressed into convict servitude. Plantations and businesses leased the inmates for a fee and became responsible for the convict’s housing and necessities. At one point in the late 1800’s, over 70% of the State of Alabama’s annual operating revenues were derived from this system. Convict leasing was abolished in 1941 by President Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Samuel L. James’ extensive use of leased convicts in the late 1800’s effectively created the Angola Penitentiary. This was formalized in 1901 when the plantation was officially acquired by the Louisiana Department of Corrections.

We 16 members of “Cycling for Change” arrived in St. Francisville, Louisiana on August 8, 2010. Catholic Charities of Baton Rouge, including David Aguilard and Ms. Tonna Fournet (who graciously hosted us for lunch) were instrumental in obtaining access to Angola for a lengthy and unique tour that included the “Red Hat cellblock” and the State’s current lethal injection chamber. Our tour guide was the prison’s youthful Chaplain, Brad Delaughter.

Brad provided insights into the history of Angola from its early days as an abusive and corrupt system through the reform efforts of then Warden Burl Cain. Cain served as Warden from 1995 to 2016.

Our tour included the Reception Center…

The inmate cemetery…

The inmate rodeo facility where an annual event is held by the inmates that is attended by up to 10,000 paying members of the public…

… And a “road trip” that provided us with views of the various maximum security compounds that are located throughout the 18,000 acre grounds.

Photographs of the interiors of facilities then in use were not allowed. Fortunately, I was able to photograph the infamous “Red Hat” cell block which has been on the National Register of Historic Places since 2003. I have also supplemented this post with images from the internet which are in the public domain.

The “Red Hat” cell block stands alone among open fields as a somewhat non-descript one story concrete building.

It was created after the bloody 1933 escape engineered by Charlie Frazier of George “Pretty Boy” Floyd’s gang. After Frazier’s recapture he was placed in the end cell of Red Hat and his cell door was welded shut. He remained entombed in that cell until near the time of his death 7 years later. Red Hat was finally taken out of service in 1972.

Red Hat derives its name from the red cone shaped hats that its residents were required to wear as they worked the surrounding fields. Guards were under orders to “shoot to kill” any Red Hat inmate who removed their hat outside of their cell.

The building consisted of 30 cells that measured approximately 5×7 feet. Red Hat had no heating system. The cells lacked plumbing. Inmates were each provided with a steel bucket for use as a toilet. The buckets were emptied once a day. Ventilation to each cell was a small 1×2 foot steel grate located near the top of the high cell wall. A solid steel shutter was controlled by the guards who could foreclose even that minimal inmate access to fresh air. There was no view to the world outside the cells. The building was stifling in the oppressive Louisiana summers and frigid in the winter.

Adjoining Red Hat was the former death chamber, home to the electric chair known as “Gruesome Gertie”. The chair currently in place is a replica, the original is on display in the prison museum.

As seen today…

… and when it was operational:

Outside of Red Hat is the generator that gave life to “Gruesome Gertie” thus enabling her to take the lives of 87 condemned, including Elmo Patrick Sonnier who was chronicled in the 1995 movie, “Dead Man Walking”, and Willie Francis who is the only man to ever survive his “execution” in an electric chair. Willie, convicted at 16,  was 17 at the time of the failed 1947 execution. He was successfully put to death in that chair one year later.

Angola is a working farm. Inmates provide the labor. It is known for the quality of the beef that is raised but not available for inmate consumption. It is also known for the husbandry and training of horses used by law enforcement throughout the United States.

The somber “highlight” of the tour of Angola was our admission into the Louisiana lethal injection chamber. It is currently in use and has seen the demise of 8 convicts. 69 inmates currently await execution in Angola on Louisiana’s death row. In the post-1976 “modern era” of capital punishment Louisiana has executed 28 people. Below is my 2010 reflection on our experience in the present execution chamber.

Our visit concluded with Mass and dinner, both attended by selected inmates.

Next: On to New Orleans.
Peace Everyone. Pete

 

“Seven Seatbelts for Angola” (August 10, 2010)

At 3 p.m. on August 9, 2010, the Cycling for Change contingent arrived for our tour of the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola.  Our group was augmented by representatives of Catholic Charities of Baton Rouge, the bus driver (Mr. Washington), and Brad the prison chaplain.

It is 100 degrees outside. Factor in the humidity and that number exceeds 110. The sun is relentless, coating its unshaded victims like molten glass. Our bus briefly stops under a corrugated canopy, and after a guard takes a headcount and examines our picture ID’s the gate opens and our bus proceeds onto the prison grounds.

Angola is unlike any other prison. It was created from former antebellum plantations and encompasses an area that is roughly the size of New York’s Manhattan Island. The Mississippi River, which is nearing the end of its 2,500 mile journey forms an imposing natural barrier on three sides of Angola. The fourth side lacks a perimeter fence, but the dense mosquito infested swamp is considered an adequate deterrent to escape attempts. Brad comments that the last fellow to try his hand at “the swamp” emerged to surrender himself after 5 days, nearly eaten alive by the insects.

There are no imposing walls, and no medieval looking stone structures. Located here and there in Angola are razor wire enclosed “camps”. These are self-contained penal complexes of varying size, each one holding a portion of the total inmate population. Brad tells us that the camps are designated by letter: Camp “A”, Camp “B”, and so forth. We learn that Camp “J” is the discipline Camp, a jail within the Prison housing around 600 offenders who present special problems and risks.

If Louisiana’s prison needs grow, it is a simple matter to build additional camps in Angola. The spacious grounds look vacant, each camp appearing as a distant community separated by flat expanses of farmland. Angola is one of only three agricultural prisons in the United States. There are miles of row crops, vegetable farms, 3,500 head of cattle, and one of the largest horse husbandry stables in the Country. Inmates are the sole source of labor on these grounds. With the exception of the medically, mentally, or behaviorally unfit, every inmate has a job. The grounds are impeccable. There are decorative flower gardens, neatly trimmed right-of-ways, and pristine white cattle fencing. This could easily be Churchill Downs if there were only more trees and a racetrack.

Brad conducts our driving tour of Angola, directing Mr. Washington on where to turn and when to stop. Brad is a curiosity in his own right. He is a man/boy of 27, married and father of two small children, his baby face and soft eyes seem ill-suited for a chaplain who ministers to the spiritual needs of one of the “hardest” of congregations. Brad is a very big man who turned down a major college football scholarship in favor of the seminary and God’s calling. He Brad talks about Angola and its residents with love and respect.

Brad speaks of the reforms that have occurred at Angola over the last 30 years. Gone are the days of the “hot boxes”. Inmates are provided with a well-conceived system of freedoms, privileges, and incentives. He reports that prison gang activity has been largely eliminated and serious inmate on inmate violence has been reduced from over 500 incidents per year to less than 100 annually. Offenders have opportunities to advance their education with GED classes and college courses taught by volunteers from local colleges and Loyola University. Inmates eagerly seek to take advantage of those programs, even if they will never have the opportunity to use the knowledge in the free world.

As we proceed down one of the flat ruler straight roads Brad instructs Mr. Washington to stop at the small one-story concrete structure ahead on the left. This is the “Red Hat Cellblock”.

Angola’s Warden, Burl Cain, is credited with many of the reforms and improvements at Angola. Red Hat was closed by a prior Warden in the 1970’s. Rather than level this structure, Cain had it placed on the National Register of Historic Places as a monument to a penal system of abuse.

The grounds surrounding Red Hat are desolate and forsaken. At the rear of the Red Hat cellblock is a large rusted electric generator. Wires still run from the generator into a side room of Red Hat, the sole purpose of those wires being the delivery of a massive surge of electrical energy into the hand and feet restraints of a stout wooden chair. Within that room is also the original, but now rusted, three blade switch that delivered the lethal current of electricity to end the life of the chair’s occupant. Except for the wires and wooden chair the place is more like a room in a long-abandoned farmhouse; holes in the walls and ceiling, cobwebs, and mud wasps flying about. Returning to the bus we leave Red Hat, but the images of Red Hat will never leave us.

We arrive at the last stop of our tour. The bus pulls into a parking lot. In contrast with our experience at Red Hat, there is a well-maintained parking lot. The grass is trimmed with the precision of a golf course putting green. Flowering shrubs abound in front of and on the sides of the newer single story white building. There is no fence, but the pastel colored doors have curiously large locks, the kind that take keys which are the size of those made for a toddler’s play. We are greeted by uniformed prison staff, and Brad is addressed by name. We proceed into a group room that has 5 or 6 large round tables. The brightly painted cement block walls are decorated by two large murals. They are well executed paintings of Biblical scenes from the Old Testament; Daniel in the den of lions, and Elijah riding a chariot to Heaven.

Brad gives us brief instructions before leading us down a corridor and through another steel door. We enter. On my right is an opened door through which I see two small adjoining rooms which are separated from each other by a sliding wood paneled door. Each of these two rooms has two rows of short but comfortable leather chairs, the kind that might be found around an office conference table. One of these two rooms is slightly smaller and contains fewer chairs than the other. The chairs in both rooms are arranged to face large picture windows that look into our destination room, the lethal injection chamber.

We enter the death chamber in silence. The air is emotionally pulled from our lungs. In the center of the ceramic tiled floor is a single cruciform table secured upon a white enamel steel pedestal. Thin black vinyl pads cover the top and the arms of the table. Without instruction we arrange ourselves around the perimeter of the room which measures approximately 14 feet on each side. Near the head of the execution bed is a small window of one-way glass which conceals its interior and the identity of the executioner. The only connection between that room and the chamber in which we stand is a circular 4-inch port. On the wall near the left arm of the bed are two red telephones. We are told that one is connected to the State Superintendent of Corrections and the other to the Office of the Governor of Louisiana. At the right arm of the bed are the two viewing windows. These windows are crystal clear and provide the witnesses an unimpeded view of the execution proceedings. High above the bed the room’s lighting is furnished by 4 fluorescent fixtures. The light is harsh even though the fixtures’ lenses have browned with age. For some occupants of the bed the light might have been easier to gaze upon than into the eyes of the observers in the adjoining rooms. A large round clock is located ominously above the two red telephones.

“Let those who enter here abandon all hope.”

This is a foreign place. It is a place where few have been. It is a room where fewer have left alive than have entered. We are given 5 senses to know our surroundings, but here our nature resists the use of our senses. The only sounds in this place are those that we make by our presence. There are no smells. There is nothing within for the preservation of life; nothing to taste, nothing to drink. None of us touch the bed even though there is nothing to prevent it. What we know is delivered in stark clarity by our eyes. What our eyes disclose is strange, unfamiliar, not a part of our prior experiences… except that lying upon the cruciform bed I see seven common but out of place objects, and I understand the irony:

About 20 years ago, somewhere in this country there was a factory. Within that factory a worker stood at his or her duty station. It might have been a day like any other for that person. Perhaps the worker took pride in the knowledge that the simple task being performed would result in the saving of lives, the avoidance of serious injury, the enhancement of safety and security for thousands of people. On that day the worker carefully selected and packaged 7 seatbelts, addressing the shipping label: “Louisiana State Penitentiary, Angola”.

Peter Schloss

 

Across America by Bicycle, Part 21: John Bodie, A Painful Reminder

Posted on by Pete Schloss

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts…”
– from Act II Scene VII of “As You Like It”, by William Shakespeare.

So it was on August 6, 2010 that I was briefly cast as a player in a moment of tragedy that was a part of the life of John Bodie:

August 6, 2010
At about 9:45 a.m. today, 25 miles north of Vicksburg, Mississippi, John Bodie drove his small pickup truck south on Mississippi Highway 61. At 76 years old John is an older gentleman who bears a passing resemblance to the actor Ed Asner. John is a lifelong sportsman and one of his joys is fishing. On this day he is pulling a trailer and his small green flat-bottomed fishing boat. The highway closely follows the course of the Mississippi River.

It is a warm day, hot and humid by “Northerner” standards, but only warm as measured by the locals. Highway 61 is a typical Mississippi secondary highway, two undivided lanes of concrete and asphalt with only a narrow unpaved shoulder of gravel and debris. The speed limit is 65 miles per hour. It is common for passenger cars, trucks and farm semis to push the limit.
John navigates a long bend in the road, and his attention is drawn to a line of identically clad bicyclists. His pulse quickens as he maneuvers his truck and trailer into the oncoming lane to provide a margin of safety for the cyclists. He looks into his rear view mirror and is haunted by the face of the lead cyclist… it has been over 20 years. In the panic of a flashback John silently mouths, “Don’t let it happen to them”, repeating the words over and over. He begins to look for a place to safely pull off the road. He is compelled to act by a ghost from his past… a painful reminder.

As I lead our line of cyclists south on Mississippi Highway 61 an older pickup truck, fishing boat in tow, passes us on our left. This courteous driver has given us more room than most drivers, which was especially noteworthy on this well-traveled but narrow stretch of road. Here highway 61 denies us the refuge of even a small shoulder at the side of the road.

A few minutes later I see that the truck and trailer have come to a stop on a flat area of grass far to the right of the roadway. The driver, a heavily built older man, wears loose fitting faded jeans and a well-worn western style shirt. Upon his head sits a wide brimmed sweat stained hat. He stands on the driver’s side of the truck and flags us down. I am the first to come to rest next to him. Is he in trouble? Is his scowl a sign that he is angry with us? His face gives no further clues. His wide hand-tooled leather belt has multiple images of the Confederate “Stars and Bars”. I am apprehensive.

John addresses us: “I saw you all, and I just had to stop. You see around 1987 I was driving a semi loaded with grain. I had a new canvas tarpaulin covering my load. I saw a bicyclist who was dressed just like you all and as I passed him…”

Here John hesitates. He draws a deep breath and looks directly into my eyes. “Well, as I passed him the cover and frame over my load tore off and struck that boy in the head… unlike you all he wasn’t wearing a helmet, but I doubt that it would have done him any good. He was struck in the head and he died.” Another deep breath and John’s eyes intensify their focus on me. “Please, please, please be careful.”

The driver handed me a simple white business card, “John H. Bodie Trucking, Cary, Mississippi”. He took my hand and held it longer than is common for most handshakes. I said that I would be careful. My words were repeated by the other cyclists. There was relief in the way that John’s brow relaxed, and his hard eyes grew kinder. He got back into his truck and repeated to all of us, “Please be careful”… Another embrace of my hand through the open window of his truck, and we parted. John’s painful memory returned to his past and became a part of ours.

PS. Near the end of the encounter Christine pulled up in the C4C van. She lingered and visited further with John after we left. Chris assured him that we would ride safely, and she promised to write to him once we reached Key West. This seemed to give him some peace. Christine and the riders kept their promises to John who passed away on May 28, 2012.

Next: The Death Chambers at Angola.
Peace Everyone. Pete

Across America by Bicycle, Part 20: Encounters.

Posted on by Pete Schloss

 

In the course of our bicycle journey across America it was inevitable that we would encounter others who knowingly or unknowingly were traveling their own life pilgrimage. It was our mission to bring awareness to others of the problem of poverty in America. Yet one does not learn by speaking. It is in listening that we find enlightenment. It is in being connected to the moment that we are opened to appreciate what that moment had to offer.

Sometimes a “message” hangs in the air waiting to be heard… just as every miracle has two parts; that it occurred and that it was noticed. A lesson unheard, a miracle unnoticed, are each in their own way a little tragedy.

It is with this in mind that I pause to share two encounters. I recall them today as if they were yesterday and I believe that each of them nudged the course of my life in a small but meaningful way. This post is the reflection of my meeting with “Steve”. My next post will be of my meeting with John Bodie.

July 31, 2010

On the night of July 30th, in Dyersburg, Tennessee, I walked past one of our two support vans. These vans prominently display our “Cycling for Change” logo, and sponsorship by Catholic Charities. Next to the van was a man who sat astride a tired looking adult tricycle. His baskets held an assortment of “odds and ends” which appeared to be a mixture of personal items, random finds from a tour of roadside parks, and maybe almost every possession that he could lay claim to. The man, perhaps 40 years old and of African-American descent, wore a turban-like head covering and robes made from rough-spun cotton or burlap. Our eyes met, and without hesitation “Steve” (his real name is unknown to me) asked me if I knew who owned the van. I acknowledged my connection and we spoke briefly of the mission of Cycling for Change. As I left, he asked if he could leave some information on the windshield. I saw no harm and told him that it would be “ok”. I thought nothing more of the encounter that night.

The next morning as Christine was unlocking the van she called my attention to a sheave of folded papers under the windshield wiper. I then remarked that it must be from the man that I came upon the prior evening. Together we leafed through the papers… “Steve” had left us a tract on poverty in America, a handwritten note, and two dollars. He thanked us for our work, and for caring. Steve asked for nothing from us.

At breakfast I shared my encounter with “Steve” to our group. One of the riders remarked in humor that maybe he was a “guardian angel”. Throughout the ride that day the irony of “Steve’s” kind wishes and his donation occupied my thoughts. He lifted my spirits and the spirits of our group. He gave us perspective for the day and a greater sense of the meaning of our mission. In this way he truly was a “guardian angel”. The impact that he had on us was disproportionate to his humble contribution. A $10,000.00 donation from a wealthy benefactor would not have eclipsed the value of “Steve’s” gift.

My brief encounter with “Steve” has also given me pause to consider the other “Guardian Angels” who have eased our burden with kind words, encouragement, prayers… my Mother, my children, my grandchildren, my friends, our segment riders. You keep an eye on us and you care. I would list your names, but the peril of an innocent omission is too great. I trust that you know who you are and that I am thankful to you from the bottom of my heart.

Peter Schloss

Next: John Bodie, A Painful Reminder.
Peace Everyone. Pete

Across America by Bicycle, Part 19: Rolling Down the Mighty Mississippi

Posted on by Pete Schloss

The Great River, Old Man River, The Mighty Mississippi… At 2,202 miles from its source at Lake Itasca, Minnesota to the Gulf of Mexico, it is the second longest river in North America. The Missouri, deemed a “tributary” that discharges into the Mississippi at St. Louis, is the longest at 2,341 miles. The Missouri/Mississippi system ranks as the 4th longest river in the world after the Nile, Amazon, and Yangtze. While deemed “mighty” in its length and breadth, its average discharge is only one-twelfth that of the Amazon River in South America.

Cycling for Change had reached the Mississippi at St. Louis on July 25th. After a “rest day” we turned south and loosely followed the course of the middle and lower Mississippi to New Orleans.

With the St. Louis Arch looming over our shoulders we navigated our exit of the urban sprawl into the river lowlands and rich bottom lands of Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, and Tennessee. I and segment rider Ben Harring made a brief afternoon foray into Arkansas on August 2nd which was otherwise a “rest day” in Memphis.

Six riding days to Memphis, 400 miles, an average of nearly 70 miles a day. The cool dry air of the western mountain states was a distant memory. The order of the days had become pre-dawn starts to beat the heat. Unfortunately, the morning air was dense with humidity that condensed like rain on our bikes, clothes, and goggles in those early hours. Humidity was the lesser of the two evils which by late morning gave way fully to the heat.

St. Louis to St. Genevieve, Missouri…

St. Genevieve to Cape Girardeau, Missouri where a bike mechanic at Cape Bicycle rescued me from the near disaster of a frayed cable that had tangled and wound within the precision mechanism of my shifter. He worked hours after closing time, refusing to give up on the bicycle disabling and potentially ride-ending mechanical failure. Eventually successful, he then declined payment for the hours of his labor.

Cape Girardeau, Missouri, through Illinois, a crossing of the Ohio River near Cairo, Illinois and on to Hickman, Kentucky…

Hickman, Kentucky to Dyersburg, Tennessee…

Dyersburg to Covington, Tennessee…

…and finally

Covington into Memphis, Tennessee where the early Sunday morning streets, including the iconic Beale Street of Blues music fame, were barely waking to the day.

Along the way we enjoyed brief moments of notoriety as a local radio station in Cape Girardeau began interrupting its broadcasts to report on our mile-by-mile progress through its listening area. One dedicated listener left her home and waited in a convenience store parking lot hoping to see us. She waved us down and was thrilled to join with us for a photo-op and autographs.

Breakfast diners in Hickman Kentucky similarly found fascination in our exploits.

Matt gave a television interview upon our arrival at Christian Brother’s University in Memphis…

…and even Memphis’ Mayor, the Honorable A.C. Wharton, Jr., headlined a “meet and greet” event in our honor.

The “rest day” in Memphis provided us with the opportunity to do a bit of individual sightseeing. For my part that included the National Civil Rights Museum, a complex of buildings that include the Lorraine Motel, site of the April 4, 1968 assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., and the Young and Morrow Building where James Earl Ray had lain in wait to gun down the civil rights icon.

As sobering as it was to view the balcony where Dr. King was slain, it was all the more so to eye it from the room and window where Ray aimed and fired the fateful shot.

Outside of the Lorrain Motel I was drawn to the curious sight of a middle aged Black woman standing at a table. It was apparent that it was some kind of one woman protest.

Jacqueline Smith was the last resident of the Lorraine Motel. She had lived there since 1973 while working there as a housekeeper. When the motel closed in 1988 she and all of her belongings were evicted. From that day forward she mounted a single voice protest against the gentrification that had “stolen” her beloved neighborhood from those who Dr. King most loved. As of my visit in 2010 she had been a continuous presence at that corner for 22 years. Her protest continues to this day, more than 32 years after it began. Below is my 2010 reflection of meeting Ms. Smith.

Next: To New Orleans, “The Big Easy.”
Peace Everyone. Pete
August, 2, 2010.   Sometimes It Is Not So Simple

Today is the scheduled departure of Ben from our group. Ben joined us as a segment rider in Atchison, Kansas, and has ridden nearly 800 miles with us across Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, and into Memphis, Tennessee. Ben is the youngest (23 years old) rider, and the thinness of his profile suggests that a strong wind would take him and his bicycle skyward. His steady temperament and strong legs quickly made him “one of us”.

Last night Ben asked if I would be willing to ride this morning across the Mississippi River to Arkansas. Even though this is a non-riding day, with a series of Cycling for Change events scheduled in the afternoon, it seemed a fitting way to enjoy one last ride with Ben. He and I were off at 6:30 am. The temperature was already in the mid 80’s, as was the humidity. We navigated a decidedly bicycle “unfriendly” route through industrial Memphis, crossing the Mississippi River on the abandoned (apparently) sidewalk of the I-55 bridge, which seemed paved with broken beer bottles. We ignored a few “keep out” signs on the west river levees, and after hazarding a gravel farm road arrived at a truckstop in West Memphis, Arkansas.

We enjoyed breakfast and the good humor of two waitresses, who knew how to make a couple of spandex clad cyclists blush: “You boys are REAL bikers… we know where your motors are!!”. With breakfast concluded we reversed course, returning to Tennessee. Ben asked if we could detour to see the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis. A quick check of the map confirmed that it would only take us a few miles off our route.

The National Civil Rights Museum is the restored Lorraine Motel, sight of the slaying of the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., by James Earl Ray, on April 4, 1968. I have memories of the black and white television and newspaper images of black men standing over Dr. King on the motel balcony, pointing in the direction of the shot that had struck him down. As Ben and I turned onto Mulberry Street we saw the Lorraine. There was the balcony with a large white wreath marking the place of tragedy. What surprised me were the bright colors of the motel and marquis; aquamarine, red, yellow… cheerfully “retro” like a 1960’s hamburger stand. However, the Lorraine was merely being true to the day that Dr. King was assassinated.

We rode forward intending to take a few pictures, but on the opposite side of the street was an old table, a folded and faded beach umbrella, and amateur painted signs which proclaimed in large letters, “Boycott the $10 million dollar James Earl Ray Memorial”, and “22 years, 199 days”.

We adjusted our course to get closer to the site of the apparent protest. Jacqueline Smith, a slight built but attractive middle aged black woman was at the table unpacking some pictures and papers. Frankly, I had expected some kind of white supremacist to be the engine of protest, not this woman of color. She greeted us, cheerfully asking where we had bicycled from. We enjoyed a brief social exchange about riding and the weather while she organized pictures of Martin Luther King and an assortment of memorabilia. I pointed to her signs and asked the simple question, “Why”?…

Ms. Smith, in a manner that betrayed years of practiced delivery, explained that she was the last resident of the Lorraine Motel. Pointing across the street she said that it had been her home. She gestured around us and added that this had been her neighborhood. This was where her family and friends once lived. When the Lorraine was converted into a Memorial, she lost her home. When the surrounding streets became “gentrified” as the focal point of the Memorial she lost her friends and she lost her neighborhood. Jacqueline Smith lamented that the neighborhood was now populated by centers of entertainment, dining, and million dollar residences. It was no longer a place for her people or the people that Dr. King loved and worked to benefit. “Dr. King preached that he tried to be right, he tried to feed the hungry, he tried to cloth the naked, he tried to love and serve humanity”. “There is nothing in what they have done to the Lorraine and my neighborhood that is a tribute to what Dr. King stood for.” Jacqueline Smith has stood on that corner every day to deliver her message. She is the lone counterpoint of the National Civil Rights Museum and has been so for 22 years and 199 days.

Ms. Smith and I talked for about 20 minutes. I admitted that I planned on returning to tour the Museum later that day. I thanked her for giving me another perspective. I also promised her that I would share the experience of meeting her.

It seems so simple that the site of the slaying of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. should be dedicated to his memory and his work… until the simplicity is complicated by the reflection that the work of Dr. King was not the erection of monuments and memorials… his work was feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, housing the homeless, serving humanity. Sometimes it is just not as simple as it seems.

 If you would like to visit Ms. Smith’s website, it is www.fulfillthedream.net

Peter Schloss