This saga began in Knoxville, Tennessee, where Bob Ryder and I had been covering the F-100 Supernationals. Bob had flown home to SoCal, and I was sitting in a hotel lobby flipping open my iBook when I got the call from Mickey Harris, the artist who painted the mural on the Heroes truck. He and his family were expecting me. Once I hammered out a story for Issue No. 10 and hit the send button on my e-mail, I hopped into my rented Pontiac Vibe and sped to Cocke County
Monday: Moonshine MargaritasNurtured in the isolated nooks and crannies of the Smoky Mountains, moonshining in Cocke County long ago receded as the illicit commodity of choice for black-marketers. But, the crafting of it remains a family tradition and a point of pride for some in the self-described Moonshine Capital of the World, and an accepted cocktail for locals who don't harbor their own still in an abandoned barn or secluded grotto.
I got to Mickey's farm in Cosby, about an hour after leaving Knoxville, and was immediately embraced by the hospitality of his wife, Laura, the appreciation of his daughter Rebecca and her boyfriend, Matt, and the skittish enthusiasm of a pack of Chihuahuas that ricocheted around like a handful of marbles tossed across a hardwood floor. I chatted with Mickey and his son Matt (an artist in his own right) about the Heroes truck's upcoming tour to Washington, D.C., listened to stories of derring-do from Mickey's father (an ex Air Force pilot), and sampled a "local" version of a tangy, blended drink. We wrapped up the evening at midnight, and I curled up with the rest of the baby bears at the nearby Cub Motel.
Tuesday: Turn Left At The HollerThe next morning, I overslept, skipped breakfast, and drove off for Washington, D.C. Blinking through sleepy seeds, I saw that the freeway signs read North Carolina (the wrong freakin' way). So I flipped a U on I-40, pausing at The Bean Trees Caf at exit 447. It's a cool place to get directions, a hot cup of joe, and a meal to tame a growly tummy. Five women emanating a Left Coast vibe run the place. Mustering my inner-hipster, I ordered a mocha and bobbled through a conversation. But, it was too soon after rising for me to serve up even a demitasse of charm, so I snapped some pics and drove away.
I was in a hurry but didn't need to be. My rendezvous with the Heroes truck wasn't until Thursday. Blame the espresso, blame the excitement that comes with traveling in unfamiliar places, blame the Dixie Dirt and Ray Charles tracks that fueled my mind, but I drove hard and fast with only one detour planned.
Two great tunnels pierce the mountains of Virginia, easing I-77's stretch through the southwestern part of the Commonwealth. Named Big Walker and East River, these are huge burrows built with blocky, post-modern utility but emanate permanence. I passed through both of them on the way to see a friend and car enthusiast, only to discover that the failure of his single remaining kidney had sent him to the hospital. Unable to do anything but worry, I continued on my way, arriving in D.C. that night feeling a mixture of anticipation and regret.