Day 9

New Orleans, LA to Pensacola, FL – 215 miles

With only six hundred fifty miles to go, we felt we could sleep in late. The hangovers from the night before in no way influenced that decision. Of course, my idea of late, hangover or not is about eight, so I was up before anyone else. I wandered to the Jazz Preservation National Historic Park for another passport stamp, and chatted with the ranger for a few minutes.

On his recommendation, I stopped at the world famous Café du Mond for a coffee and beignets, little squares of fried dough absolutely covered with powdered sugar. After finishing this snack, I looked like the world’s worst cokehead; I was absolutely covered with white powder. The skies, blue when I left the hotel, were darkening; a long black line of clouds was moving in, it was obvious rain was coming.

Abi sat patiently waiting, Fireball’s engine purring as Fiona and I finished loading my motorcycle. Without warning, the storm hit, and hit hard. We were soaked in an instant. The on ramp to the highway was flooded, but I decided to go through anyway. What motorcycle adventure is complete without a water crossing? A massive torrent of oil, mud, water and who knows what else covered us, splashing up my legs and all the way into my helmet, covering me, Fiona and the bike with an oily film. Noticing this, Abi plowed through in my wake, sparing himself the worst of it.

As soon as we were on the highway, we rode ahead of the fast-approaching storm.

We could see the dark line of clouds marching towards us, but we wanted to see firsthand the lingering devastation from Hurricane Katrina. On Datadaddy’s recommendation, we took Route 90 out of New Orleans, and got to see some of the destruction up close. Two years have passed since the hurricane and floods, but many places are still damaged, seemingly abandoned and never to be repaired.

The sign at the Mississippi border read, ‘Welcome to Mississippi – It’s Like Coming Home.’ I guess it would be, if I lived in Mississippi. But since I don’t, I had to wonder about the marketing geniuses that came up with that brilliant slogan. The entire length of Route 90 in my new semi-home state was hosting the world’s largest Classic Car Block Party. Thousands of antique cars zoomed and cruised up and down the highway for miles, while spectators lined both sides of the road, cheering and clapping as these classic beauties roared by. Unfortunately, the bridge from Biloxi to Ocean Springs, damaged by Katrina, was still out. We detoured back to the slab, stopping once again to fill our tanks.

Fiona, sitting at a picnic table taking a break made a new ‘friend.’ A grubby looking guy parked his bicycle and sat next to her. “You wanna hear ’bout sumpthin’ unfair? I got a ticket yesterday, a speedin’ ticket on this here bicycle, for goin’ fifty-three miles an hour! I’m not lyin’ either. Fifty-three! I ain’t got seventy-five bucks to pay the ticket though.”

Ignoring his obvious attempt to bum some money, Fiona asked, “How did you get that bike going that fast?”

“Easy. It’s a twenty-one speed.” Sensing that he wasn’t going to get any money for his creative story, he climbed back on his racing bike and zoomed off into the distance.

Drawing ever closer to Orlando, I felt a little depressed that our journey was almost over. We had one small sentimental stop left to make. Fiona and I met in, of all places, Mobile, Alabama, and since it was more or less on the way, we decided to stop at the place ‘where it all began.’ Too bad we couldn’t relive that whole first night… but we weren’t THAT close to Orlando.

Mobile Marriott – Where It All Began

Moving on, we crossed our final state border for this trip. The Sunshine State welcomed us with dark grey skies. At dinner, I ordered a tall cool Sierra Nevada beer, only to be told by the waitress, “I’m not even sure why that beer is on the menu, since it’s illegal here in Florida.” I’ve never heard of such a thing. I think she was just hoarding all the ‘illegal’ beer for herself.

On to THE END!!

Author: frenchy