I am lost. It’s official, and something I am never proud to admit. But after thirteen years of driving across the country and visiting the tiny town of Rockford, Tennessee, I was sure I had its intricate map of five streets implanted in my brain. The store, the post office, the mill, the small neighborhood with all the dogs and no fences, the bridge over the Little River (yes, actually the name), the playground, the row of churches, even the small ranch house with a sign out front entitled, “City Hall.”
“Just like Gorham (the tiny town of my formative youth),” I’ve told my family a thousand times. “Nothing to it.”
I already called Bruce once, stopping around mile forty-two out of fifty, and he gave me a general guideline. Quite sure he told me I’d gone too far upon reaching Martin Mill Pike, I give in and turn there, sure it will lead me in the right direction.
It could have been I heard him wrong, but I have another motive that surpasses my initial motive of riding the bike from his sister’s house to his parents’ house. Out of the blue, emerging onto this beautiful, curving back road, I am suddenly surrounded by bicyclists with bibs pinned to their backs: “Rocky Top 100K.” I am trying to determine just how many miles 100K is (oh, us Americans!!), and thrilled at the same time. They are in a race, I tell myself, and I have already ridden fifty miles, the first hour in the dark, and they just started (I can tell—they’re barely sweaty) and I’m keeping right up with them!
So yes, when I see Martin Mill Pike, I can’t help but be guided by their diligent pursuit of a nicely sloped hill. Halfway up, a passel of them are stopped on the side of the road, all men of course, the only women here are tied to their spouses’ sides, helping one guy fix a flat. I take my opportunity.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Rockford…?”
He speaks without a southern accent, and I can’t say I’m surprised by this, decked out head to toe in brightly colored nylon with click-in shoes and pockets in the back of his shirt, I just don’t think he’d quite fit in down at the cigarette store. “You’re in Rockford. Which part are you looking for?”
Wow. Which part? There are parts of Rockford? “Um… by Four Corners?” The name of the aforementioned one store.
“This road will take you right there. Just keep following it and it ends right at Four Corners.”
OK. So I do. Hop back on, pedal my way up, getting a little anxious (we are meeting someone later, and I promised Bruce this ride wouldn’t take longer than four hours. I’ve already surpassed that mark). I am surrounded by a dense forest, a curving road, beautiful tin-roofed houses tucked into the woods, going up, up, up… and proudly passing one racer after another. When we reach the top, groups of them cluster in gravel driveways to rest, drink. I grin right past and pedal my way down what I realize is more like a mountain (we are in the Smokies, after all) than a hill.
It has been about three or four miles (I’m kicking myself for not paying more attention), and all the bikers are turning. Now I’m truly confused. The guy said this road would take me right there, but I’m still surrounded by forests and fields, nothing but a giant church in sight (you don’t need a town to have a church here). This can’t be right. That Yankee doesn’t know Rockford.
So I follow the bicyclists, mixing in as if I’m in it to win it, but I give up after a while. Another guy stops too, not sure he’s on the right route.
“I think I’ve followed the 100K group. I’m only riding thirty miles today.”
“Do you happen to know where Rockford is?”
“No, but I have a GPS.” Of course, and no southern accent as well, I’ll point out. He pulls it out, types in what I think is their street address (have I mentioned how small Rockford is? When we mail things to our in-laws, we have to send it to a P.O. box. That’s how small it is!!), and sends me in the direction I’ve already been riding in.
Well… a couple of huge hills and miles later, I feel as if I’m going the wrong way. So I finally admit it. I’m lost, I’m going to have to call Bruce, and we’re definitely going to be late. He has to stop from his drive down, pull out his handy dandy iPad, and find me a route.
Turns out, I am about five miles from Rockford, but it is still Rockford. The first guy was right. I pass by Martin Mills Pike on my way to Four Corners, and later, when Bruce, the girls and I drive up the road, I realize how many more miles I would have had to ride to get into the center of town.
So… what have I learned from this day? One, I can ride sixty-five miles (albeit by default, I was trying for fifty), after a quick Google search (what did we ever do without the Internet?), I learn that 100K is equivalent to 62.3…. (yeah!), and Rockford, tiny, Podunk Rockford, is quite a bit larger than I ever thought. Just goes to show that you give a girl a bike, you learn something new every day.
