Leg 1.5 to 2: Shepherdsville to Memphis

Elvis, eat your heart out, because we somehow made it.

I napped as we left Kentucky and ventured in to Tennessee. For those who have never been to Tennessee, well, what you see is pretty much what you get. Endless stretches of beautiful forest border both sides of the highway. Other than that, Tennessee is a fairly lonely drive. Our only stop gave us the opportunity to wash the old chariot – likely adding 100,000 more miles to the car’s life.



Perhaps the coolest part of the trip was a Doc Brown-esque trip into Central Time. I looked down at my phone, and then quickly to the speedometer to see if we clocked in at 88mph. Without even realizing it, we gained an hour of time – a welcome surprise, given that we could now take our time instead of trying to beat check-in.

As we passed through Nashville, we eagerly anticipated our arrival to Memphis. Nashville, from the road atleast, is a nice looking city. Maybe the next road trip will lead us through the home of the Predators.



Probably one of the few exciting moments of the drive happened along a quiet stretch somewhere in Tennessee. I took a peek up from my duties as navigator to check the road, and noticed the cars in front of us suddenly parting ways from the center lane. Fearing the worst, I told Marc to get over as quickly as possible. My worst fears were confirmed: someone in a pickup truck had dropped a box of individual serving cereal containers all over the road. Crushed Cocoa Puffs interlaced with Trix across the highway; it was a damn breakfast club massacre. Luckily, no one was hurt, although Toucan Sam was reportedly, "a little upset about the whole thing."



Eventually, after several hundred miles of bleak trees and intimidating state troopers (we must have seen 20 between Shepherdsville and Memphis), we finally made it. I currently sit in a McDonald’s parking lot (thanks for the WiFi McDude), typing this out while residents sit in their cars and idly stare.

A few words about the Ritz Carlton where we are staying – remember in Vacation when they check in to the campground and realize it is, to say the least, not what they expected? It’s kind of like that. The Rest Inn is complete with two shady clerks, a few shady neighbors, and almost enough towels to take a shower. OK, it may be a little bit what we expected, given that we only paid $30 a person, but hey, would it kill to throw a few mini bars of soap in there

(Editor's note: we did find a mini bar of soap. Shortly thereafter, we turned on the TV to discover three...ahem...adult-themed channels among the 20 channels. There's nothing worse before bed than seeing heavily-graphic amateur footage of two overweight "performers." These channels confirmed my fears that this was actually an "hourly rate" motel, if you catch my drift.)



There were two things for us to look forward to in Memphis: barbeque and Eric Clapton. We satisfied one of these cravings in a nifty little joint called Payne’s Barbeque. Dear Lord - I know you’re up there - please send more places like Payne’s. Payne’s is everything we hoped it could be: a dilapidated, family-run shack complete with some of the best meat I’ve ever tasted. Six dollars was all it took to receive a platter full of chopped pork, spicy barbeque sauce, mouth-watering beans, and yellow coleslaw (mustard I guess? Who cares it was delicious). The meat tasted like it had been surgically cooked for the past 8 hours, while the sauce’s actual ingredients are likely under lock and key at Fort Knox. If you have the means, I highly recommend picking some up (thanks Ferris).



As much as I would love to continue, I have a date with the night. Clapton would hate if I stood him up, so until I find a faster WiFi connection than “GebrileOwnsAll,” it’s adios for now. Next update will have pictures of downtown/the concert.

Walking in Memphis,

CPS

Leg 1 to 1.5: Dayton to Shepherdsville

There needs to be something said for Southern hospitality, because it is not just an expression. Our first official pit stop after passing through Cincinnati was at a small town off a long stretch of I-65 South. Weary from travel and running on nothing but a 24 oz. coffee, we hopped off an exit in search of a hot meal.



The first stop, at the recommendation of co-pilot Marc, was a liquor store, aptly called Turnpike Liquors. Kentucky is apparently known for its low prices, so we decided it would be a good time to stock up for the night ahead.



This is where Southern hospitality comes in to play. Normally, when you walk into a liquor store at 10:00am, you get judgmental stares from the workers and are subsequently handed a brochure for the nearest AA meeting. In Shepherdsville, walking into a liquor store in the morning seemed about as common as wearing full camo to a Waffle House (more on this later).

Before the door could close, a bubbly brunette behind the counter greeted us with a jovial, “You all look like you could use some help!” Obviously, with Marc in his Fossil shades and I in my Shark Week t-shirt, stood out from the usual crowd. We perused through aisles of booze, eventually settling on a $10 bottle of 100-proof corn whiskey. Speaking of whiskey, never before have I seen such a vast selection. Single barrel, corn, malt, bonded – it was everywhere. We grabbed a bottle, picked up a case of beer, and walked to the counter.



As Marc conversed with Southern Belle #1, I kindly introduced myself to Southern Gentleman #1. Upon placing my case on the counter, he smiled and said, in a heavy Southern draw, “That oughta get ya through lunch, what’re you gonna do after that?” I loved the guy.

Having satisfied our thirst, we sought to find the dingiest, most backwoods breakfast Kentucky had to offer. Unfortunately, Shepherdsville was not exactly known for its culinary prowess, and we were a little pressed for time, so we instead settled on a Waffle House just up the road.

If I was in Pittsburgh, and I walked into a Waffle House, and an elderly gentleman turned from his breakfast and said, “How are you?” I might think he was schizophrenic. In the South, it was just a fine example of Southern hospitality.

We sat and ate arguably the best Waffle House breakfast of our lives, while I listened to two waitresses gab about the Weight Watchers point system (surprisingly, hot dogs are only 2 points).

I ordered a personal favorite, country ham, coupled with a pair of dippy eggs, hash browns (smothered, covered, peppered) and a gravy-smothered biscuit. Marc packed down an all-star combo of eggs, bacon, cream biscuits, and hash browns (smothered, covered, chunked). A word on country ham: sensational. Country ham is salt-cured, making each bite a flaky, salty, chewy piece of amazing. Pair this with a butter-soaked biscuit, and you have a breakfast calorie-laden enough to carry you through any day. I don’t care if it’s a chain, I will say it here: the farther south you go, the better Waffle House gets.

The South is a different place from the North, and in many ways, it’s a good thing. Sure, you might see someone wearing full camo to breakfast, but seeing two strangers strike up a conversation about, well, nothing, is a sight to behold, atleast for two Northerners. Say what you want about the South, but I appreciate it when a 65 yr. old can take a genuine interest in the travels of two idiots from Pittsburgh.

And how about Southern expressions? How many times have you asked someone how they are doing, and they reply with a smile and say, “vertical and breathing?” That’s cooler than, well…forget it. I’ll just stop at the next gas station and hear a comparison a thousand times better than anything I could dream up.

My hope is that one day, someone from Shepherdsville will read this. It may never happen, but if it does, let me say this: I tip my hat to you Shepherdsvillian.

Vertical and breathing,

CPS

Pictures from Day 1

A tank we saw on the back of a truck.



State border #2.



State border #1.



The Road.