Hot Boiled Peanuts

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The mountains begin on Quebec's Gaspe Peninsula, then run 1,500 miles through the eastern United States to their southernmost reaches in Alabama. There is no drama to their demise, no sheered-off cliffs, no waterfalls, no pile of rubble. Here, in the words of a toothless old codger rocking on the front porch of a gas station store, "they fairly peter out all the way to Birmingham."

Macon County 9 curves along rivers, farms, and pastures where cows startle and buck at the unfamiliar noise of my motorcycle. Kudzu vines climb tree trunks in an intimate embrace that slowly strangles each tree. The topmost strands drip in heavy green clumps from the victim's branches, which will eventually break and fall with a soft thud in the carpet of vines below. Around some bends is the surprise of a cleared field of cotton. Each ripe puff bursts from crisp pods like giant half-popped popcorn spilling over onto the road's abrupt, unmowed shoulders.

I was alone on Macon County 9 when my left foot suddenly slipped off the peg. I looked down. An oil leak. A big one.

I pulled over and looked for the source. Oil covered the crankcase. It seemed to be coming from the top of the engine. As I wiped it off, my finger hit something that moved, and I realized that the big screw above the camshaft gear had wiggled loose. The gasket was gone, but then I wasn't really sure there ever had been a gasket. I tightened the screw and checked the oil level. It needed about half a quart.

If only all my problems from now on could be so simple.

MACON COUNTY 9 turned into Macon County 4 and Macon County something else until I was on a main road that funneled me over a bridge and to a gas station. I'd started to get worried about finding a gas station among the choking greenery of Macon County, but there were several here, because of the lake that lay shimmering in the green folds of the valley.

The Beast's engine pinged, though I'd been riding steadily at 45 mph to keep her from overheating. This slow speed wasn't a problem in rural Alabama where there didn't seem to be much traffic in this heat. In fact, the roads were darn near abandoned. I think everyone must have been holed up inside with the air conditioning on.

The station sat in the middle of a dirt parking lot, the tin roof extending liberally over the slatted-wood floor so as to throw down more shade. I walked past an old man sitting in the shade of the porch, cracked open the glass door, and the cold air hit me like a breath of ice. The girl at the cash register unglued her eyes from a black-and-white portable behind the counter to see who'd come in.

About 16 years old, she was painfully beautiful, an Alabama blue-eyed blond with a face as pale and innocent as a tree-top angel, and good-natured enough to turn away from her soap opera to make small talk while I bought a Cherry Coke and a bag of the local road food -- hot boiled peanuts.

"Ya'll ain't from here, are ya'll?" she said, as her fingers flew lightly over the cash register buttons. The money drawer opened with a high-pitched ding.

"No," I said. "I'm from California."

"You ain't by yourself!" she said, her eyebrows arching in disbelief. She stood up and peered out the window at the Ural.

"Well! I'd be scared to go all that way."

She sat back down and glanced at her soap opera while I fiddled with the peanuts, reluctant to go back outside in the heat.

"You can put 'em in your co-cola if you want," she told me. "But these ain't salted... they're better if they're salted."

IN THIS PART OF THE SOUTH they boil peanuts at almost every gas station, in a big black pot hung over a fire, reminiscent of the witch's pot in Hansel and Gretel. Hot boiled peanuts had been advertised starting in southern North Carolina, on my short ride through the northwest corner of Georgia, and here in Alabama, where they also boil them green.

As I pulled the shells apart, the pressure of my fingers flattened their raised webs like emptied veins. Inside, the nuts were soft and chewy, and satisfied a craving I didn't know I had.

I went outside and sat next to the old man in the shade of the front porch.

"It sure is hot," I said to him.

It really was hot. Sweat ran down my neck and back. It was miserable hot.

"It ain't hot today," he said, chuckling and shaking his head.

His voice was hoarse and his speech impaired by a complete absence of teeth. He leaned from his front porch rocking chair ever so slightly. Weather was a topic that obviously interested him.

"It ain't hot today like it was hot last week."

Then he settled back into the chair and directed his attention to a car that drove slowly by.

That, apparently, was going to be the extent of the conversation.

I settled back into my own chair, and ate my peanuts. Beads of moisture wet my fingers as I reached into the plastic bag for more. Another car went by.

The wooden planks beneath my feet were smooth and cool. I unstuck my tank top from my chest and took a sip of Cherry Coke. The carbonation lifted bits of soft peanut from my teeth. Another car went by.

I began to feel lazy, and would have liked nothing more than to sit there all afternoon. There aren't many times I feel that way, preferring instead to spend my time reading or conversing, watching a movie... something.

But nothing seemed worth the effort in this heat, on this lonely road.

THE ROAD I WAS FOLLOWING had been designated a AAA scenic route, as indicated by a string of dots on the map. I wondered later if anyone from AAA had actually driven the entire route, because parts of it were a lot less scenic than others.

Like Dogtown, for instance.

Dogtown Road is lined with metal trailers streaked with rust and striped in popular fifties colors like aquamarine blue and aquamarine green. Television antennas twist from their roofs, and weeds sprout thickly from under the trailers, abandoned cars, and unused farm equipment. Everywhere I've been in the world, desperate poverty seems to encourage unrestrained verdure.

I saw no one outside in the ragged yards along Dogtown Road. I imagined them inside their trailers, pale, fat women on heavy brown furniture watching TV and holding babies, the smell of mildew and bacon grease cluttering their small spaces.

On the road, dogs skulked sideways along ditches strewn with litter and beer cans. Like African curs in a garbage pile, they jumped back when they heard my engine, as if they had been caught in the act of committing a crime. Like wolves and panthers, these were wild animals, and they moved like hunters with straight backs and quiet, smooth padding.

I stopped at a crossroads to wait for a scrawny black dog to move out of the way. It stood disoriented in the intersection, looking around nervously until from out of nowhere came a Mac truck, the first I'd seen all day. It bore down on the dog with a long blow of its air horn, and the dog scrambled to the gutter as the wind from the truck blew by.

I TURNED LEFT ON HIGHWAY 77 toward the Talledega National Forest, where a little tent icon on the map indicated a campground near the intersection of county road 7. Lucky numbers. I rode happily between potholes, past one unmarked gravel road after another, wondering where 7 was, when a gas station appeared. Gratefully I went in to ask for directions.

Inside it was cool and dark despite the light from a bare bulb that hung from a wire in the middle of the ceiling. I asked directions from a shadowy figure behind a high wooden counter.

"I don't know of no campground here," the woman said. When my eyes adjusted, I saw that her mascara was so thick that her eyelashes clumped into bunches that tapered to points at the end. When I looked closer I saw that she must have done it on purpose.

"Well, it should be here," I insisted. "Aren't we in the National Forest?"

"National Forest?" she asked, and turned around. "Lloyd!" she yelled, "Where's the National Forest?"

I hadn't seen Lloyd. He was a dark shape by a dark window blocked with cartons of cigarettes.

Lloyd moseyed out from the shadows and shrugged his narrow shoulders, looking at me without interest or curiosity.

"The Talledega National Forest," I said in exasperation, hoping to see a spark of recognition in someone's eyes.

Another man's voice piped up from the long end of the high, L-shaped counter. Now I could see that more dusty merchandise was piled up against all the windows. Cartons of cigarettes, cases of toilet paper, tin cans, and a dozen broomstick handles blocked the light. The place smelled musty, too, as if it hadn't been aired out in years.

The man at the end of the counter walked around to me. He was short, with white hair, maybe in his seventies, and when he gave me directions, he poked me painfully in the shoulderblade with his index finger.

"What ya do, is, is ya go up 77 north 'bout two hour ... "

"Wait a minute. I'm going south," I interrupted." And isn't there a campground here? Am I crazy or aren't I in the National Forest now?"

They stared at me.

"Look." I showed them the map.

"See this green shaded area here?" I pointed. They all gathered around to look. "This is the Talledega National Forest."

All three were staring blankly at the map, Lloyd looking over the woman's shoulders. Her eyelashes cast long, spikey shadows on her face.

"Right here at 77 and 7."

They just stared more.

"And the little campground icon is here," I continued, weakly.

They still just stared.

I flashed on the first time I'd visited Jamaica and the day I realized most of the locals couldn't read maps. I had pulled over to ask directions and a man showed me, with great pride, where to turn left and right, tracing with his finger the border lines between provinces as if they were roads. The others in his group had looked at him so admiringly that I thanked him profusely and left, hoping I was headed in the right direction.

So I treated these people the same way. I'm not sure if they were actually unaware that they worked inside the boundaries of a National Forest. I wondered if they were just messing with me.

Outside I looked at the map and found a different little green tent icon. I headed south to a campground an hour away off a road that was a whole lot easier to find.

When I got there the sun had already set, and by the time I pitched my tent it was pitch black. I made a pot of pasta by candlelight in the still night air. The campground wasn't even half full. I would have thought it was deserted except for the lights in the windows of motor homes, and the occasional canned laughter from a television set.

What must it be like to travel like that? Or had they transplanted themselves here for the season, enjoying the lake I couldn't see but knew must be nearby.

In the morning I packed up and left at first light, the noise of the Queen Beast's cold engine serving as a wake-up call for the campground. I was grateful that she hadn't given me any more trouble, and as we rode out from the shade of the trees I was glad to have her company.

Index | Dispatch 20-