Tuesday, February 4, 2014

I knew two things about Alabama, prior to embarking on my great car-journey four weeks ago. First, there is a song about it, indeed glorifying the state itself, which I heard live at a slightly terrifying concert featuring Lynyrd Skynyrd back in ought-nine. Second, Cheshire warned me about dying there, either by way of buckshot or lamppost, but still I persisted, opting for the southern route to Texas because, well, reasons.

They were good reasons, too, I assure you. I had planned on taking the northern passage through Tennessee and Arkansas, until ice and the cold forced me to reconsider. Navigating South Carolina and Atlanta was easy enough, and I crossed into Alabama without incident. Then evening hit. And then I hit–the curb, specifically, when I was searching for a hotel in the dark. I remember hoping beyond reason that my tire was made of sterner stuff and would roll away from the mishap unscathed. No such luck, unfortunately, because in seconds the loud, telltale groan of a flat filled the cabin.

It was shortly after 9 PM, cars whizzing by me, and temperature rapidly dropping. Certainly I knew it was warmer than Tennessee, and I would’ve been thankful for this realization, were it not for the fact that it was still pretty fuckin’ cold, in rough Fahrenheit terms. “This,” I thought to myself, “has got to be the lowest point of my trip.” I was wrong! So very, utterly wrong.