Six Days South Part 3

The morning started with a hotel breakfast that felt surprisingly perfect after the long ride the night before: a cheese bagel with strawberry cream cheese and a cup of coffee while a mist hung lightly in the air outside.

The temperature hovered in the mid-sixties as we rode the short distance to Elvis Presley’s birthplace. We snapped a few photos in front of the small house before heading into downtown Tupelo.

The town itself was exactly what you’d hope for—southern heritage carefully blended with new construction and small businesses. Not overly polished, but clearly proud of its identity.

Our first real stop of the morning was a coffee shop called Lost & Found.

The beans were roasted onsite and the cappuccino I ordered was one of the best I’d had in a long time. While we waited for our drinks, a local struck up a conversation after noticing the riding gear and helmets sitting on the counter.

He introduced himself as the owner of Fuel Motorcycles in Tupelo.

Moments like that happen often when you travel by motorcycle. Something about the bike acts like a magnet for conversation. Within minutes we were talking about bikes, the trip, and family back home in the northeast.

After finishing our coffee he invited us to stop by the shop.

Fuel Motorcycles turned out to be far larger than I expected. Alongside Kevin’s personal collection and a showroom full of bikes, the shop also moves a huge volume of Harley Davidsons. He mentioned they were the second-largest used Harley dealer in the country and had sold something like fifty-nine bikes in the previous month (February) alone.

Walking through the shop, it was clear the people working there were genuine motorcycle people.

We talked about bikes, riding culture, and writing for a while before eventually heading back out toward the road. The original plan had included tracking down a BMW enthusiast in Starkville, but the contact didn’t pan out.

That didn’t really matter.

Those spontaneous interactions often become the most memorable parts of a trip. If you’re a rider you already know, but it’s the two wheeled community that invites so many in and creates a family of sorts connected by the two wheels. As we age it’s easy to lose ourselves and the dreams of who we’d become when we were young. Riders are the lucky ones, even though many of us are loaners and drifters, the moto community welcomes us each time we make contact. This realization over the years is what has motivated me to get involved with more of the local groups in my area.

Eventually we found our way onto the Natchez Trace Parkway.

It was still early spring. Most of the trees were bare, but the further south we rode the greener things became. Buds were starting to form and the grass had already begun its slow return.

By midday the temperature had climbed into the mid-eighties.

My Morning Jacket became the soundtrack for the ride as the miles unfolded beneath us.

“Sec Walking” Off the album Evil Urges came on at exactly the right moment.

“Left leg, right leg
One leg at a time
I keep on walkin’”

Later the song “Outta My System” followed.

There was something about those songs that mirrored what the trip itself seemed to be doing—working things out slowly, mile by mile. The ride through the south had me working through the never ending search for meaning in my work that is the 9-5. I had spent years learning and building a career that brought both fulfillment and a tremendous amount of stress. The journey ended strategically in a fashion that some might have viewed as quickly or carelessly to pursue a world surrounded by bikes. No regrets, but the stirring in my soul started again wondering what’s next? The evolution of me will never be complete, and the need to make an impact in an organization and community has grown more important as I age.

We stopped for lunch at a place called the Crossroads Store in Reganton, Mississippi.

It sat at a four-way corner surrounded by abandoned buildings, the kind of place that feels like it holds decades of stories inside its walls. As we walked in, a local stepped outside to smoke a cigarette and sip his beer. He seemed excited to see two northern riders passing through.

Inside, the walls were covered with folk art and old music instruments. It felt like the type of place that probably came alive on weekend nights.

Lunch was simple and cheap, but the hospitality was better than expected.

When we stepped back outside I caught myself thinking about how welcoming Mississippi had been.

I’m not sure why I would have expected anything different. This is one reason I find traveling so important, it puts things into perspective. Life is not what we see in the news or the carefully curated opinions that show up in the algorithms on social media. We are more real, and for the most part welcome interactions with those that are different. It’s easy to forget who we are as a nation when stuck in our local bubble.

Later that afternoon we continued south toward Natchez, MS, hoping to catch the sunset over the Mississippi River.

When we rolled into town I had to remind myself we hadn’t crossed into Louisiana yet. The architecture had a distinctly French influence and the quiet streets felt like they belonged to another era.

On a Tuesday night the town was calm and almost sleepy, perfect for two tired travelers looking for a place to eat and rest before the next day’s ride.

This is part 3 of the Six Days South series. Part 4, Fog, Refineries, and the Gulf is coming in a few weeks.

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