Poor Rolando, long ride, Beau

I've created a new picture, a profile of the land I travel from home to my destination. Cool, huh? I love maps. Maybe some of you think I'm anal, and perhaps I am, but at least I do not argue about whether "anal retentive" is hyphenated or not. And you know who you are. (And it's not, by the way.)

Today I had a meeting with TVA early, and my lovely assistant student volunteer trainee, Rolando, came with me. Rolando is black. Rolando is a city boy from North Nashville. Rolando knows Fresh Da Death. Rolando is about 6'3", 310 pounds, solid defensive tackle muscle for Carson Newman College, graduate in biology, wants a masters degree in meteorology. So I got him set up with the boss, who got him approved to do a volunteer stint with us this summer. Rolando had to complete 132 hours of volunteer work, anyway, for his degree, so it worked out for everyone. I tell people we meet that I am George's (the boss) bodyguard, and Rolando is my bodyguard.

After leaving TVA, Rolando and I drove to some river gages to survey them for flood stages. They were in Knox County, but off in the unincorporated parts close to where the logging roads start up into Anderson County. Redneck Land. Two gages so far so good. We did the surveying and talked to some nice ladies at a pet hospital about flooding.

Then we went to Solway. Gage is on a bridge near Sam Lee Road, in the middle of farm land. Two lane narrow road over the bridge, no place to stand as you look down into the river. Rolando is looking over his shoulders constantly. I'm thinking he's looking out for cars. Suddenly this truck stops in the road. "What are you doing?" the driver says. I walk over to him and chat him up. We're from the National Weather Service, trying to survey this river to see where flood stage is, yada yada yada. Rolando is not coming up to the window. The driver has redneck written all over him and his truck. His belly is the biggest I've seen in years. He can barely drive the pickup. He has a mangy dog in the front seat. His back seat is full of trash. The guy says, "Well it floods up my place and my neighbors place". (When he talks, he actually leaves out correct punctuation. I'm not kidding.) He tells us to follow him down his remote driveway. It's a good opportunity to make a friend for the office and get valuable information from a river denizen. Rolando is watching his life flash before his eyes. I am a bit nervous, but I've got a good feel for rednecks now. Plus, I'm white. No, really.

So we drive into the guys yard, nice yard, well kept. He tells us to hop in the truck. He tells Rolando to just shove aside the trash in the back and climb in. There is no room for my behemoth assistant back there. I say to him, "Would you rather sit in front?" "NO."

Then the Cajun (turns out he's a cajun from Louisiana) says to me, just shove that "dawg" aside. You have to pronounce it "dawg". He grabs the dawg and pulls it over, so I can sit down, then he replaces the dawg back on my lap. "As long as you pet him hell be fine. He loves being petted." So I pet away. Still no punctuation.

We go into 4wd and start driving through his hay field, with grass four feet tall. Can't see where we are going. Hope he knows. We drive along the tree line while he explains about how high the water has been in the last two weeks during the heavy rains. We are on soft ground now. Rolando is strangely silent, while me and Mr. Cajun chat and I rapidly stroke the dawg's back and ears. I can tell he loves having his ears fiddled with. I'm game. In a willing way, not as in I want to be considered "game" by this dawg.

Suddenly, there appears a rifle range on the man's property with targets set up. Now, I'm even a bit nervous. This is where the banjos kicked in and I could just make out Ned Beatty making pig noises. So I talk about guns. Guy has tons of guns, long guns, shot guns, hand guns. I told him of my new acquisition, so as not to appear weak. He was impressed. Rolando is sucking his thumb in the back, laying in the trash.

When we get done with the tour, I give the guy my phone number and email address and he promises to let me know if he gets any flooding and we shake hands and part friends. When we get back in the U.S Government vehicle we are driving, Rolando says, "BB, I have never been so scared in my life. I was expecting to get shot any moment. Then I saw the target range. I knew I was dead. He was gonna look at you and say, 'You can go' and look at me and say 'Come here you'. Can we just go now?" I laughed and laughed. I promised him I would come and visit him in "da hood" and wear my best dew rag and act all white and suburban and everything. He said he'd bring me along and we'd have a good time watching me try to rap for his friends. I made up a bluegrass song on the spot about Rolando being attacked by Cajuns. He laughed because by then we were on the interstate in Knoxville.

I love that guy. He's a hoot. Not the Cajun, the black guy.

So I get home and eat some fake eggs and cabbage and then I ride 31 miles on my bike in 99 minutes. I was going to try and make 46 because that would bring me to the next milestone, but I was too Boppa Poopied to pop so I quit. The only way I could even keep going was by watching UFC fights and listening to fast music. So I am in Columbus, Indiana. Seems like a nice town. Everything is very flat now. Cornfields. Lots of rednecks. But in Indianapolis it will be different. I'll have to have Rolando ride with me. Fresh Da Death.

C'mon, Beau! Quit sleepin' and get crackin'! We love you and miss you.