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Despite a mutually satisfying X-rated phone call, the Hillbilly Miss whose company I missed whilst settling my affairs in Austin ghosted me.
I don’t think the call caused the kerfuffle.
More likely her baby Daddy discovered that his baby Mamma’s wandering eye had wandered onto a Wandering Jew.
If so, it’s just as well neither party knows my exact location, Google Earth be damned.
Here I am, sitting on a porch outside an Airbnb, enjoying room temperature fresh air. Armed. Contemplating my circumstances.
Can a man sitting still still be a wanderer? Strictly speaking, no.
After raising four daughters, my days of speaking strictly are behind me. But there’s no denying I've put the Ridiculously Random Motorcycle Tour on hold.
I’ve done so to establish a Knoxville HQ.
A task requiring numerous infuriating interactions with government officials. Which must be completed within the next 30 days, legally speaking.
My goal: negotiate the bureaucratic maze and hit the road before the moving van schleps my shit from Lone Star State storage to Gay Street abandon.
Saddle-up Fritz and follow Horace Greeley’s advice to “head west young man!” Yes, well…
Not so young now, eh Mr. Bond?
Or spritely. My advanced age makes this Marble City move more challenging than the last eight relocations.
This is it folks. My final 10-20 before I old folks boogie into a facility providing three hots and a cot, daily maid service and a shuffleboard court occupied by semi-coherent octogenarians blaming bursitis for ruining their game.
To the Austonians I left behind, a word of warning. As a general rule, when Jews leave a place, it’s time to go.
In case you were wondering if members of the twelve tribes of Israel are welcome in the Volunteer State, I submit the historical marker above.
For those of you reading on a tiny screen, Master Sgt. Roddie Edmonds was a Nazi prisoner of war.
Towards the end of the conflict, the camp Commandant instructed the evangelical Christian to separate the Jewish prisoners for deportation (a.k.a., extermination).
As the highest ranking noncommissioned officer, he ordered all 1,275 American captives to fall out with him and fearlessly pronounced "We are all Jews here.”
The Commandant put a pistol to Sgt. Edmunds’ head and repeated his demand. The Tennessee native didn’t back down, saving hundreds of Jews from slaughter.
How can I not love a place whose inhabitants commemorated this selfless act of bravery in the city square?
Good Question!
I’m on day four in situ, praying I don’t experience buyer’s remorse.
So far so good – said the man falling from the 50th floor. Seriously, I like this city.
It's not just the wide selection of excellent eateries and bars, the massive farmer's market, the quaint Old Town cigar lounge or Knoxville's proximity to some of the world's best mountain motorcycling.
It's the small town vibe.
Knoxville reminds me of Austin back when it was a convivial confluence of stoned hippies and beer-swilling cowboys. Groups brought together by penury and a shared love of live music.
The Austin that captured my heart’s been infiltrated and colonized by tech bros and their Lulu Lemon-loving counterparts.
The Texas capitol’s home to Tesla, Dell, Apple, Google, Oracle, META and WordPress, with more start-ups than a motorcycle gang leaving a roadhouse.
In contrast, Knoxville is defined by old money and the University of Tennessee.
No Ferraris. One 911. Two gyms, one assuring members you can be what you are (although wearing an Indian headdress during a workout is considered cultural appropriation).
The Knoxville airport offers two - count ‘em two - direct flights to Las Vegas weekly. With Dolly Parton’s Red Neck Riviera nearby and a Cherokee casino within hailing distance what me worry?
The signs are good (as mentioned). Meanwhile..
I’m Itching To Renew My Tour
I felt the resurgent urge to motorcycle meander most keenly driving the 1000 miles between Austin and Knoxville in my reclaimed Audi S4.
Regular readers will recall my antipathy to highways.
Passing freight trains of 18 wheelers at 100+ miles an hour in cosseted comfort, listening to the same music that accompanied my two-wheeled peregrinations, resisting Cracker Barrel come-ons, I was bored out of my head.
I longed for corner carving bliss mit Fritz. And freedom, of course. Freedom from what bikers call the cage. And, more pressingly, from the forms and bills I can only ignore for so long.
I hate to admit it, but administrative procrastination's got me thinking about buying another motorcycle.
A lightweight monster for day tripping mountain roads at [hopefully not literally] breakneck speeds.
I can't afford a bug-eyed Ducati Diavel V4, on numerous levels. But as my accountant never said, the heart wants what the heart wants.
“The things that you own end up owning you.”
Fight Club author Chuck Palahniuk lifted the line from Zen philosophy. Regardless of attribution, the ancient truism sprang to mind when I surveyed my lock-up down in Texas.
Why do I have so much shit? Do I need all this stuff?
I didn’t miss it on the road, when all my worldly goods fit into two panniers and a top bag. Aside from my Nespresso coffee maker, I still don’t.
When my things are deployed, when I'm condo ensconced, will comfort once again be the enemy of ambition?
I’ll save that tale later, after another go-round on The Tail of the Dragon. Pausing the pernicious paperwork to increase my motivation to finish it.
As the Brits say, that’s my story and I’m sticking with it.
A Friend Indeed?
My Tennessee real estate broker cum Welcome Wagoneer keeps asking if I’ve made any friends. A not unexpected expectation coming from a social butterfly and champion charity worker.
Meh. The Wandering Jew has stopped trying to assimilate.
Instead, I'm working on mastering the art of STFU. Not face-time ghosting. Listening. Withholding humorous interjections. Being the ball, as it were.
I'm hoping this new approach will lead people to find me, rather than vice versa. I reckon that’s easier done in a small, low-pressure city like Knoxville.
We shall see.
For the time being, I’m looking forward to expanding my literary scope – adding other writers to this blog, starting a podcast, publishing my second novel and applying my talents to a local outlet.
F. Scott Fitzgerald said “there are no second acts in American life.”
The streaming series that is my life begs to differ. The location has changed, again, but the reinvention continues.
Only different? Time will tell. But as far as I can tell, I’m home. Whatever that means.
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A fresh start in Knoxville with Farago playin' rank outsider. As they say on the campaign trail, "unburdened by what has been".
Congratulations, RF.
Like your idea of having people find you instead of vice versa. One way to make that possible: open a coffee house. Or a cigar bar. My son goes to the local cigar bar and meets all kinds of interesting people.
Hey Robert, you've been offline for a week. Hope all is well.
Today I'm hoping to take advantage of a dry day for riding before the rainy season arrives in force and I have to switch to 4-wheeled transport.
You mention "passing freight trains of 18 wheelers at 100+ miles an hour in cosseted comfort" on your drive from Austin to Knoxville in your Audi 4.
I remember in the Great Plains of Montana, passing an actual freight train, which was doing an estimated 30 mph, me doing an estimated 31 mph in tenth (high) gear, on the red Peugeot, my legs pumping for all they were worth--which was a lot back in 1975. I'd already climbed the Cascades and the Rockies, the latter a steady several hour climb up 3431 feet to Logan Pass at the Continental Divide, on Going to the Sun Road in Glacier. Those were the days.
Kudos to Master Sgt. Roddie Edmunds for saving so many of our fellow Members of the Tribes, and to Knoxville for celebrating him.
And maybe I'll see you one of these days. I'm thinking of visiting my brother-in-law's brother-in-law Jack Spratt, who lives not far from Knoxville. A trip that would cover many miles on the Blue Ridge Parkway--by car, as I'm strictly a car guy--and enable a stop in Charlottesville, where my sister and my brother-in-law have moved after around 25 years in beautiful Clifton, VA.
This two thousand mile or so round trip would be partly to see if, at age 71, I feel I'm up to driving from the east coast to the west coast and back,…