Beautiful Adventure

So real or in my head ,I decided to take a bike trek . I left Manchac ,Louisiana on my adopted, not stolen Raleigh bicycle . I rode into Ponchatoula about 30 minutes later. After traveling down low road,  telling all the people’s voices,  exactly what I thought of them , thinking I would never return.

   I got myself a couple half pints and ran it with the local riff Raff . Shortly after the first of many half pints , I decided to move the party to Mandeville lakefront.  I had maybe $20 cash , so realizing the only thing I needed cash for was tobacco ,I got myself a two pack of swishers, and tried to get some sleep. The first of many nights on the concrete.

    I already knew that Dollar general threw away a lot of good food ,so, sense  there were

Dollar generals on every corner,  I wouldn’t starve, and thanks to most grocery stores in Louisiana, displaying their liquor on the aisles,  I could five finger discount my growing alcohol needs. 

    Morning comes and the DG staff arrived before I woke up. The kind man working at the store ran down the do's and don'ts of DG living ethics, then brought me fresh milk and food.

   My first morning of volunteer homelessness was a success .Being full and slightly foggyminded, I was off to the races. I rode to the lake to tell my late daughter I love her and think on things.

    I soon needed to clear the fog, so I smoked a bowl of weed I copped in Ponchatoula, then set out to the grocery store .I obtained a fifth of bumbu rum and some sushi and went to a canal ,where a tree had fallen across the water and many lines were popped and left from the shore fishers. The tree was a little over 20 ft from shore and guarded by the local Big boy , so I waited till I spotted him, so I knew where he was then slid into the water in my briefs, careful not to splash as to not draw BB’s attention . I swam in my traditional frog swim style while repeating, Don’t splash. Respect is essential while swimming with dinosaurs!

    I didn’t think to bring fishing gear while making my very Grand exit from my late place of residence. After spending way too much time untangling abandoned hooks, sinkers, floats etc. I managed to exit the water without another alligator attack.

      I met the first of  many homeless people , I’ll call him A . He had a bike with a trailer ,  loaded with fishing poles , gear and random junk . After sharing some local homeless tips we were off to check out his somewhat private camp. The area was a hidden Paradise , nestled at the edge of lake Pontchartrain and a sand beach lined with live oaks , which grew in the surf . The branches reached over the water’s edge and The Roots formed  beautiful prehistoric looking legs , which extended far into the water . Resting platforms were nestled into the branches of the trees and brakes in the tree line allowed the sun to make the local talents bikini lines form.

    The landscape made me think . This was going to be a beautiful adventure  . Damn how things change.

     After a few days of non-stop drinking  , smoking , shedding a few pounds on the bike and rolling  an occasional bowl  . I attempted a curb  Hopp  , endowed my bike and face planted  . Upon chewing some concrete I knocked out my three tooth bridge that I sported for better than 25 years  . I now at this point fit the description of the quintessential homeless meth head.

     Upon realizing the little bit of handsome I was hanging on to after a life of eating and absorbing windshields, pipes, sticks, fist and a cinder block , Was gone. I pretty much lost it , I cursed and threw my bike around the parking lot until the cops and fire department showed up to help me . They were a great bunch of guys .  They tried everything to calm me down , a few of them already knew me from my jaded past . Needless to say I wouldn’t calm down. So off I go ,to Saint Tammany jail for public drunk . This would The first public drunk charge on my  Beautiful Adventure .                                                    

I was given a bed in population .  I guess there are some perks to being a repeat offender .  I’m normally a nice polite , calm person . So the correctional officers like me at the local lockup . A few days later I was released .  I walked straight to the grocery store , scored 1/5 of vodka and called a friend . She came to my rescue and brought me to the Mandeville Police Department , so I could get Bike out of jail . Now the cops are paying me, much attention. Mandeville is a big little town on the North Shore of lake pontchartrain,  opposite of New Orleans, sort of the new ,  New Orleans suburbs. Folks with Plenty money and a low tolerance for Brett bradys . Even the homeless are dressed nice . Normally I’m hardly dressed And covered in bad , jail house tattoos .  I stick out like a sore thumb.

     Time to ride out . I get the final of many , short visits from the one person who at least acted like she cared for me  , my girl of six years ,  my ride or die . I love her with all my dysfunctional heart .  I was mentally crushed , because I’m so funked up in the head , I can’t tell truth from lies. I constantly hear voices and think everyone hates me ,  including my ride or die . My whole family is scared to have me around. I am the quintessential black sheep. I have to say , I was given love and support for longer than I deserved. I truly love them.

I leave Mandeville on the Tammany Trace bike path. I’m an accomplished cyclist . And at 50 years old,  I was in excellent shape,  my condition is a different story altogether. I ride approximately 60 miles that night. I reached the end of the  Tammany Trace, In Slidell LA, and get on Hwy. 90, which has been closed down since 2005 , after Hurricane Katrina changed all of our lives in Louisiana , forever.  It was now 2023. Then across a couple of condemned bridges through the night. The closed part of Hwy. 90 is approximately 20 miles long I stop about halfway.  I only have a big gulp of water that I spent my last dollar on , I now have $0.32 . I have no spare tubes if I get a flat.  I had a pump so I checked the air in my tires . Then take my first break. I had a few packs of tuna fish, compliments of DG.  I tore into two packs.

       While I recover from my full speed Sprint of roughly 30 miles I have no flashlight. I dropped it on the trail and it shattered.

      Now, you should know the 20 miles of closed down Hwy. 90, runs through deep swamp, no lights,  no cars , nobody. So, It’s me and the largest creature I have ever heard in my lifetime of swamp adventures. It was no alligator,  no wind,  and nobody. Needless to say I left there faster than Lance Armstrong could have.

      The next 20 miles may as well have been closed down. It’s still dark out. I’m still unable to decipher real from not so real I was sure I was being stalked , for what I don’t know . All I had was my new Borrowed Bike,  Decked out to travel. I didn’t think my Old Raleigh Bike would make the trip. So, I found a hardly used, used, easily obtained hybrid 21 speed , with a powder blue paint job and pretty chrome fenders.  I brought it to the chop shop, the woods behind Dollar General . I lost the fenders and installed a bottle holder and back rack,  put on a fresh, freshly stolen,  black paint job,  New gear changers we’re great, being that I have two bad wrists and tendon damage in both thumbs, which makes holding on two handlebars and twisting gears hard.  I considered these things before leaving , I’ve never been good at decision making.            

    The new bike played a big part in my hasty departure from my hometown of Mandeville.  With my paranoia,  I felt like I was instantly being watched,  because of the stolen bike.

     I spent much of the next two hours following the closed down part of Hwy. 90 , hiding in the woods from my stalkers. Human stalkers,  not like the black bear stalker on the closed Hwy. 90. It’s hard to find someone on an all black bike , with all black clothes ,and no lights or reflectors,  who dips off in the woods at every sign or sighting of headlights.

        So I finally reached civilization , Bay St. Louis,  Mississippi, My old stomping grounds! I stopped at the first gas station on 90 E.  I took a much needed hiatus at the gas station. While resting,  and contemplating life , and my next move. My dementia was receding after the long ride.  I felt good.  I had ridden 60 miles so far , give or take 10 miles . I have no money for smokes,  so I find some barely used,  cigarettes where the clerks take their breaks. So after breathing easier,  feeling like my stalkers gave up,  or disappeared back into my mind , a school bus turns into the gas station.  Loudly bumping the latest techno music. Oh Shit!! The dementia must be back. After parking by the pumps, the bus starts to unload it’s passengers. A menagerie of half dressed college boys and girls from obvious wealth.  Realizing this surely can't be an illusion , my 3 component rule went into effect , to prove real or in my head,  I must Observe 3 solid observations to    put it in the real category.

     The first thing I thought was someone is about to be assaulted. You would think after all my fighting,  starting as a kid who began his collection of school expulsions in the second grade , and ended 2 weeks into the 8th grade for fighting.  That I could fight. But my fighting style is hoping that my opponent would get winded from kicking my ass and give me a chance to muster a comeback. This being said, the young passengers greeted me with respect, concern, and kindness. They asked me what was I doing with a bike loaded with all my gear,  a couple pairs of clothes,  and some tools for bike repairs .No tent,  no blanket. I ran it down to them how I was on a track,  heading to mobile AL.  They asked me,  what did I need and what could they do to help. They wanted to give me money, but I didn’t have cash app. And they didn’t have cash.     

     They wished me luck and we parted ways. My opinion of the youth of today,  and especially wealthy youth , was upgraded        

    I left the gas station feeling that one way or the other,  I’ll be OK,  I’ll continue down Hwy. 90 across the Bay Bridge,  to the Gulf Coast . I stopped in Long Beach , Mississippi to take a shower,  and try to sleep. Sleep never came. The shower did. It felt like heaven until I washed my ass.  From ballsack to but hole , was raw,  and infected. Over the course of four days of shedding weight , and running from my imaginary cops and haters , to get in shape for the ride . I logged approximately 200 miles in the saddle.  I climbed on the sink so I could expect the damage. I almost shat The mirror when I realized my taint,  was now , an odd shade of purple.  I seriously Contemplated going to the hospital,  but I had reservations with a bunch of doctors checking my damage taint. So I used some copped ointment I had it in my bag , thanks DG.

                  I gently saddled up and slowly rode down the beach toward Biloxi Ms., Scraping the coast was in full swing. Custom autos were everywhere. While checking out a few works of automotive art on the land side of Hwy. 90, which runs the length of the beach to Ocean Springs, I decided to cross the road and median,  to ride the beach side. I crossed the center median,  which consisted of deep sand , confined by two curbs. The car guys obviously observed several attempts by my bicycle brethren , to cross the sand,  with humorous results. So upon setting out across the black top,  I received much vocal info as to how I was about to,  eat some sand, Fortunately I entered the sand trap in the correct gear,  and was the 1st to make it.” I do this.” I said, Exiting the sand trap. Then I had to cross the opposite curb, Pow ! goes to the rear tire,  I made it, the tire didn't. The car guys loved it.

     I walked the bike across the eastbound side to the beach walkway , to assess the damage. I received my first lesson in tire pressure. Riding on a tire,  with low air , will ruin your day every time. I should have put more air in the tire when I had the,  bear scare on 90. I walked  “Bike”  Till I found a gas station next to Walmart. I dismantle my bags,  rims ,  and tire. The tube was pinched. I obtained some patches from the nearby retail giant, Risky move. The patches would not hold. I still  had  $0.32 , not enough for a tube.  I should have jacked a tube instead of a patch kit. I was reluctant to take anything from the retail giant. While stranded at the gas station,  I call my ride or die . To hopefully save my ass again. She never tells me no,  no matter if she's with one of her two “supporters “Or not. I really wanted to see her again before I traveled too far. She told me she didn’t have gas money, she was being honest, she did that now and then. She would do what she had to do to get me back?

On the road the next day. I thank her,  and Jack a couple club cocktails from the station. 

    Growing up I was taught not to steal , and for the most part , I didn’t, at least not petty shit like,  alcohol . Guns and motorbikes were a different story. I started working from a young age so I never experienced total poverty like I am at this point. I thought about giving up my trek. I still haven’t rested at this point ,  I’ve been up about four days,  I guess. I have almost no numbers in my phone. Because,  I have no friends anymore. I feel like people are repulsed by the sight of me , with my bad prison tats , and gapped out smile.  I rarely smile or talk to a soul.

          Just when I’m losing hope,  a car guy slides me a $10.00 bill , enough for a tube ,  and two more club cocktails.  I don’t steal when I have money. I go to the Walmart , and buy a tube,  the wrong tube.  I didn’t no the difference in valve stems on my hot bike , which has a 700C rim. So, I’m tired,  broke,  and half drunk. Lo and behold, a gang of bikers pull up with something on their minds. Five dudes and a rough looking biatch, did I say bikers? No! Cyclers a gang of fucking bicycle punks,  eyeing up my stolen bike. Which they thought was a Cannondale,  not the Walmart ,ozone that it was. I noticed them take a picture of It , to see what it’s worth . They act like they want to help me,  then they try to get me to pay them , because they seen another car guy give me a 20. I told them , I would buy them a drink for their help, they agreed,  but wanted me to go in and purchase it,  because they were banned from the store. I told them,  no way was I leaving my bike,  and all my belongings to go in the store. I tell them,  “Y’all are crazy if  y’all think you’re going to steal “Bike”.     B says, “We are crazy “And pulled his folding knife. I reached behind my back,  and pulled my 5 inch,  fixed blade,  boot knife. Which I have horizontally fastened , in my belt loops. And I say “I’ll show you crazy”. They all look at each other, knife man B,  and man chick C,  look me in the eye,  the one I have left. C says” I don’t like the way he's looking at me”, I say, ”yeah,  how am I looking at you”? I should have said,  I would rather fuck a fishing pier troll but , I haven’t met F yet. While they, one at a time, ride their pieced together pieces of shit away . I wish them better luck next time. C(unt) Informs, me I’m lucky, guess I was.

       I finished my hot club cocktail: A prepared mixed drink 10% in a handy 16 oz. can. I ride out,  head held high. I need a fix. The alcohol has taken effect. I vacate the area before the alphabet grows( I assigned letters to the homeless as I meet them.)  I stopped at a small store,  where I can hide my bike while inside. I purchased 2 voodoo Rangers , 9% alcohol I’m yet to grow the balls to steal a security lock to secure my bike. Oxymoron? I look for a place to piss without leaving my bike; I didn’t want to have to find that gang and Jack one of their piece of shit bikes. After all,  he was pretty helpful with explaining that 700C rims , have a metal valve,  with a smaller diameter and required a different pump, normally used ,  on high end bikes. I guess my bike is  more valuable than I thought. Believe it or not , I had a choice in Mandeville , as to which bike to steal. I chose the cheaper one , as I planned on replacing it upon my return , or send the money from my new home.  I actually called Mandeville Police Department and let the captain know,  I stole it. They thought I was crazy. It wasn’t reported stolen. I told him I’m not a thief,  I just needed a fresh bike to get out of town , because everyone on the trace was giving me bad looks, I knew I wasn’t wanted there. I said I will pay her for the bike,  because I modified it, it’s not powder blue anymore , and no more fenders,  ohh yeah , I left mine in case she wanted to ride. Now he knew I was crazy , and he knew who I was.

      Now,  I’m legally and   theoretically drunk. I decide to take my newfound wealth and good luck to the casino. I ride balz out  down the beach walkway. I see flashing lights in front and behind me. I’m riding with all my shit strapped to my bike , and no hands on the grips, one hand on the voodoo, and another voodoo in the bottle holder. I’m violating my three laws theory. I try not to break more than two laws at a time: Tried and  Htrue tradition. After all the stress, drama and alcohol . My dementia was in check. I think , so I finish the one in my hand , and dump the empty , in case the lights are for me. They were not. They were overreacting to two females that refuse to be cuffed .One officer was returning to his car with an automatic rifle, looked like an M16. I asked him if he had enough firepower for two drunk females , he laughed and encouraged me to move on. I arrived at the casino, parked Bike In the parking garage, and went in after putting on a fresh shirt. I ordered 2 drinks and put a quarter in the slot. I doubled my money ! I got, I think, 50 or 60 bucks while changing my tire. Car folks are kind and generous; Not once have I asked for anything.  I went Into the casino with $20 . I now have 40 dollars. I raised my bet. I ordered  2 drinks. I’m told that I can only have one at a time. I tip a $10.00 bill , she brings me two top shelf,  rum and cokes. I thank her while hiding my  meth  smile. I’m now embarrassed about my looks,  I was having a good time,  forgetting not to smile. I’m now self-conscious,  going back to my  hole.  I have around 25 to $30. I down one well mixed drink , and walk around with the other.  I sit at a 777 slot, old school, one play line. I put in my cash I think it was $10.00.  The rest on a receipt.  I quickly lost that $10. I found my  waitress . I order two more drinks.  Then Went to the cashier and cashed out, after downing one of the two drinks. I’m reaching that,  not giving a fuck state of drunk.

20

I ran into a guy in the bathroom. He’s a hustler, Local guy by himself. He tries to hustle me. I let him try. We play a few slots together. He walks off and I  watch for his crew. He was working alone,  except for the waitress. Making sure I got drunk. I was,  but not that drunk .

She thought,  because I Tipped her a 10. That I had money. I spend the ticket money Except for. $5 to get a drink in the morning. He asked me if I smoked hard. I said hell yeah. He said. He can get the good, but he's broke. I said. I would Buy some but I wanted to try first. He said. I may be able to borrow $10. I seen him get my 10$  from the waitress. He didn’t know he was being watched. He came back to find me. He said. I’m going to score. Meet him at the entrance. I watched for a set of. He was still alone. I waited. he finally came High and slightly paranoid. He saw my life. When I got up from the bench. I was sitting on. He gave me his pipe with a push left in it. I got a big old hit. After. I walked. To the parking lot. I brought back his pipe aHe gave me his pipe with a push left in it. I got a big old hit. After. I walked. To the parking lot. I brought back his pipe and said I had to go cash out to. Get. Some money for him. And for him to wait. There. He did. I went in the front door and out the side to my bike. He got hustled. That was the best hit of crack I ever had. I’m now not so drunk. But energized. I ride out. And the beach is beautiful. I crossed the Biloxi Bay Bridge. Other cyclists are walking their bikes to the top. I passed them. I’m on a bike track, not a walk track. I  tell myself. I’m still feeling great. The alcohol and crack word administered correctly. I see a patch of woods. From the bridge. It’s the middle of the night. I find this spot by a lagoon. I finally get some rest. Much needed. Poor atmosphere has changed Ocean Springs. Mississippi. Is another big small town. Surrounded by water. The beach South, the Bay West. The Pascagoula River north. This is where Hwy. 90 leaves the coast. The car guys. Are everywhere. Downtown Ocean Springs is sandwiched. Between Hwy. 90 and the coast. And feels like this is what I was looking for. Small water towns, freedom and Jesus. Surely if he exists, he and Paige are. In Ocean Springs. The one person. Who talked to me before I set out on this journey, Besides. My ride or die. Was an old friend. He deserves a name in this story, but I don’t have his permission. SoSo we will call him. We went to school together. Back in the 6th grade. Saint Peters School in Covington, LA. A truly blessed individual. This man is so many good things. One of the only people to accept me at Saint Peters. The school was full of privileged kids. Him included. On top of that. He was clearly the one every girl was after. He grew up and found his soul mate late in life. A wonderful lady. I’m so happy for him. He’s also a pediatric surgeon. And author. And so much more. We hadn’t seen each other for a very long time. I was trying to get back in business when a friend Recommended me. To him to do some landscaping work at his house. We realized who each other were and hid it all. I was on the delirium drug and in bad shape. He helped me more than any one. Cared too. He answered my phone calls. I messaged him to let him know I was setting out on my Trek  the next day  he wanted to talk to me about finding Jesus . At that point I had not found him. I let him know , as I piged out on the burger he brought me.  I was leaving to find him . I had to run from my vices to clear my mind and find Jesus,  I did.I woke up after the sun warmed the ground. Organized my pack and went to explore. And soon.. Found the local DG, then the road to the beach. I stopped at the Circle K and got a drink with my $5. I met D.  And we ran it for a while. He explained. The lay of the land. I looked for cigarette butts. There were none to be found. I then knew the homeless population was large in  Ocean Springs. I set out to see sights. The roads were full of classic rides,  just  Starting their day.  A day Of shows, and showing off. I heard more tires spin than a drag strip. The cops stayed in check. Those car guys pay I’m sure. A large part of, the police budget,  in one week of scraping the coast. Soon after,  I find E. He was pretty chill. We hung out. He showed me around town. One of my goals when setting off on this journey was to help the homeless. I want. To help them get government phones,  so they could contact family , doctors and Jobs.  Also to  help them to apply for food stamps. And other assistance. Which they,  Don’t know how to access.  I’ve come to realize. That most  homeless people. Don’t give a  fuck. They have given up. They consider themselves lower than. The rest of the citizens in  the town. Feeling like that. They’ll all be. Like Indian Joe. In 16 years. I Notice.. Only a few people have. Sleeping bags or blankets. I go talk to the sisters at the mission. And get what I can for them. Some blankets. And some new bags To carry them or their other shit In. I want to help people even though ,when it comes to it , I can’t help me.So I let E. Use my phone. To call his mom. Who sends him some money. I fix D end E’s Brakes. And make friends with the people at the local food pantry. Were they feed lunch to the poor.  We visit most every day. I’m getting the itch. I’ve been getting drinks from Circle K by flirting with a homely looking,  single mom cashier. I don’t want to push it Circle K is our hang out. So I visit DG., And get a 12 pack Of Twisted  tea. The next day his mom sends money. My food stamps hit my card finally. I trade food for $10 to buy vodka. No one likes me when I’m on VODKA. That night I buy food for everyone at Circle K. Everyone is happy.  In  the crew is a vet with one leg. I have a special spot in my soul for my country and its protectors. He is also a Amputee.. He lost the leg to an IED. While protecting our freedom. Even the freedom to be homeless. My lovely, wonderful mother is also an amputee. The Marine and I connected. He gets a name instead of a  letter. I owe him respect. Another thing I was doing before  I left. Was to start a go fund me. E  got his money  From his mother. And disappeared. Not a problem . Before he left. I decided to promote my go Fund me. Even though I didn’t have a credit card to link it. I figured I’d figure it out. I went  back to Dollar General  to get a box to fit over my pack. I go inside and grab some white duct tape. And red and blue markers. E , is now going to score some poison. I’m now drunk , loud  and  a  danger to myself. The box was then wrapped in the white tape and I wrote. Read my story. Go fund me. And the link. On the box. I ride around. And people are taking pictures and sending money or trying to. I passed a young man and his girl In a BMW. He hits the brakes. And ask me what my box says. So I explain my objective in short. His girl pulls up the link and reads my story. Why I left and how I aimed to help the Helpless. They’re smoking the kind, so I asked for a hit. He askd if I got some money? I laugh and say I got this here box you see, but no money. But I understand. He says. I tell you what. Ride ahead to the Yacht Club and chill and I’ll be there soon. So I ride down the beach and  chill at the Yacht Club Thinking he was fucking with me. I started to leave and lo and behold, he shows up. No girl. He hands me at least an ounce of some of the finest weed I ever had. I said, man, I don’t have any money, I can’t take this, he said. I’m giving it to you. It’s the bottom of the shipment. I can’t sell it anyway. I’m like fucking A bro, I’m going to use this to come up on and help people. He said no, that’s for you, my girl is sending you money. I didn’t think to tell him the account wasn’t finished being set up I met backup with E. He scored. It was starting to get weird. I started feeling like my ride or die  was around. I hadn’t. Consumed any meth in about a week. Just alcohol, weed and one hit of crack. He disappears again. He’s acting weird. I’m acting drunk. The second night I was in Ocean Springs while exploring while trying to find the fishing pier entrance. I find a bike path that starts by the Yacht Club. And leads to a spot under the Bay Bridge. At the mouth of the Bay where it meets the Gulf of Mexico. Plenty of opportunity to use my fishing gear. I got from the log. And the alligator. In Louisiana. Under the bridge is an Oasis of sorts. I found my new temp home. There was shelter from the rain and sun, the wind, builds and blows, the salty air through the cut and waves break around the bridge pillars. And surf breaks on the sand. I set up a camp under the bridge. Some of the alphabet sleep out over the water on the base that holds the bridge pillars. One female F and one male G.  I kinda know F from the lunch spot. She was handling her dementia pretty well. She thought everything was funny, even if nothing was funny. I later gave her some attention. She laughed. Everything is funny. She kept asking me where I was going. When I would answer her, she would ask if I would take her. I told her sure, you can come, but you need a bike if you’re gonna travel with me. She laughed. I told her you would have to start getting used to riding long distances, he said. I don’t ride bikes. He, he, he. I said. You wanna smoke some weed? She didn’t laugh. I did. I asked her. Did she have a bowl to roll? She laughed and gave me the bowl to roll. I gave her the bowl to smoke. G was a loner. He was a pretty cool guy, but I believe he was banging and that was kind of taboo around there. So he would score from the Marine and go to his pillar under the bridge, where one would have to walk about 20 yards into the surf to get to his dry spot. One day I showed up under the bridge and there was an Indian laid out on the concrete path. At first sight I thought he was hurt. I checked to make sure he was breathing. He was. Further down the path was the pack of cigarettes laying on the ground. I picked them up and smoked one. Indian soon woke up and asked if I’ve seen a pack of smokes anywhere. I said yes I smoked one. I wasn’t sure if you dropped them. I gave them to him. He tried to give me half. I accepted a couple. We talked a while and hit it off. He had been on the street in OS for 16 years. Every  one knows him. He’s a good ingune. He had a new job at a funeral parlor and told me he was waiting on his check so he could spend it all on crack and alcohol for the week. I left before he got paid consequently. The largest Indian Head wood sculpture was right around the corner. 32 foot tall. So I send a fucked up. Message to R.O.D basically demanding a sleeping bag and some other random things. I still have a phone at this point. I’m drunker than I’ve been in a while, I think. In my head after talking to an old friend. That my go fund me account is up and working and my R.O.D. has teamed up with my. FF. And blocked me out of the account. So this is the reason for the fucked up message  After going back and forth with a few messages. ROD wanting me to take down the post  on Facebook. I leave Indian Joe to go Jack some twisted tea from the DG. I come back and I. J. has several bags from the retail giant. You won’t believe what was in the bags. I.J. says. Man, someone came by and brought me all this stuff. I’m like, no shit, that was nice of them. Who was it? He said. Don’t know, never saw them before. My delirium doesn’t happen when I drink without the poison. I’ve heard and been told by several people that they were sending money. I also hear 1 certain hot rod make a point of reving the engine whenever it passes on the bridge. Above us. Not just that bridge. While exploring my surroundings, I would practice my downhill and uphill riding on the bridge embankments that cross rivers, canals and such. Damn near every time I was under the bridge I would hear that same motor being gassed. I also hear R.O.D. now and then. At some point I blew up on R.O.D.,  called her names, and regretfully posted some rather explicit pictures of her from my private collection. So I’m thinking she is getting me back. She’s not one to take lightly. Also, for a few years there is one particular voice that torments me. It goes very deep. The happenings push the limits of my three component rule. It drives me fucking crazy. I’m hearing the voice. Also in Ocean Springs. I called him Wop, he sounds Italian. The bags that I.J. acquired were full with every item I demanded in that message to ROD. I’m now drunk and pissed to say the least. They weren’t left for me. They were delivered by a guy with a New York accent. I’m thinking whop? I was in OS. Around 2 weeks. I spent my days riding around the outskirts, checking things out. It’s a spread out town, the Pascagoula River splits Bolixi and Ocean Springs, so I spend a lot of time finding marinas and neighborhoods that have access to the water that divides and meanders through the area. I have GPS but rarely am I able to use it. While I ride due to not. Yet knowing the ease of solar chargers and that I can use a landscape light solar panel to charge my phone. So I need some poison to sober up. I meet up with the Circle K gang. Marine has. Weighed up poison for the alphabet. I traded some smoke. For a line or so. I don’t want the delirium. Just the energy. I do a  bump and ride out. I stopped in Pascagoula. I’m now running from voices. I’m running from myself. I can’t get away. I got to the Pascagoula Bridge. On Hwy. 90. Plenty of car guys were cruising. Cheering me on, taking pictures. Sending money? At this point. I wrapped the OZ of weed in the white duct tape and have hidden it all over my bike and pack. I usually keep it in my hand or very close so I can throw it if I feel the heat is on. I constantly feel that I’m going to jail for something even if I’m not doing anything. Wrong. Probably because of the four years in Parishs jail for something I didn’t do. After Marine breaks me off, E shows up. I fix his brakes. He comes off of some, he throws me a piece of grocery bag with sand in it. He says I found this at my camp. I spilled. A bag of clear on the sand, so you got to pick through it. I felt like he was being a smart ass, like he thought I was a hard up  junkie. I had a new bag that I had got from the sisters at the Mission thrift store for him. I left the bag in the bag and left for Pascagoula.So now I’m in Pascagoula tripping. I went to cross the bridge but ,I  Feel like the cops are waiting for me on the other side. To bust me with my weed. I’ve spent all night hiding the duct tape package in the woods. I’m scared to smoke any. I feel I’m being watched. I ride around on both sides and under the bridge looking for a secure spot to smoke a bowl. I really need it to calm me down. One line keeps me paranoid till morning. I get as close to under the bridge as I can as to at least cover me from one side. I’m scared to get under the bridge due to the possibility of ambush. I smoke a bowl and try to relax. I can’t. Bike is my best friend and. Only friend. I call it bike. I talk to it and encourage it to hang in there or bitch, You better not. Sometimes I boost its confidence. By saying , Cannondale ain’t got shit on you. I spend the night hiding my weed then trying to find it. I ride or walk  by things I use as a landmark, like a tree or a piece of trash. And slickly toss or drop it by it. I spend more time looking for it and acting like I’m not. Than smoking. Someone is watching. Dementia is leaving. Dumb ass. I call myself. I’m hard on myself. I know I’m tripping, but what if I’m not? Real or in my head? I keep my bike maintained. I’ve got the cleanest bike in the alphabet. Im OCD when it comes to Bike, it’s the only thing that I can count on. Besides Jesus, but I haven’t found him yet. There is a small area that looks like a shipyard of sorts. On the northwest side of the Pascagoula Bridge.The one that I’m scared to cross. There’s a small park that edges the water. I feel like if I’m swinging the stalker cops would think I belong there. So now I’m somewhat stationary for a time. Of all things, I hear the one thing I didn’t want to hear. Whop. Fucking piece of shit. Whap. In my mind is a floating mouth in which I want to punch. I have gotten out of bed and dressed like a million times to confront whop. I have also ran outside naked so he couldn’t get away. I’ve never caught  him. Morning comes and rescues me from my night time prison. I asked Bike,  Bike ,you ready cuz. Bike doesn’t answer. Thank you Jesus. We ride out in a flash. It’s freedom for me. I’ll feel as long as I’m moving. I’m OK. I can watch the cars making mental notes or colors, plates. Etcetera to see. Who’s following me? The car guys are different, they’re cruising back and forth showing off. Guess I can admit I show off a bit also. I’m racing them from store to store. Stop by, stop. I’m feeling strong. They give me props. By Reving Engines , blowing horns, hoots and hollers. It feels good to be someone. I once was a someone.   I feel like a fool with the box on my bike, but I’m making sacrifices to be someone,  someone who helps the helpless,  like Jesus did. Like my old friend from school. After all, I have to have a purpose again. I’m not a Daddy anymore. Page is going to be with Jesus. My boys don’t want me around. My girl has too many guys. Relationships aren’t supposed to be competitions. Ours was. I used to think being used for sex was an accomplishment. But I realize now it’s actually a failure to be anything else. Cruising, I make the ride back to OS in record time. I hear people comment. Comments about, how far, How fast,  how foolish I look. I still don’t know  What is real.  I’m trying to use my three component rule. I need 3 provable things. Like seeing a person, seeing lips move,  hearing words, distinct sounds, certain movements, past observations or Reoccurrences. To prove real or in my head.For over three years, a certain person would say, everything I think I see or hear was in my head. Some were real, therefore I don’t know truth from lies, from this person. The only person in my life at the time. It rules my life. It still, to this day has an effect on me and my recovery.  How do I run from this? Do I stop running from it? What exactly am I running from? Myself? Sounds painful. What the fuck is it? Ride or die? Ill ride! There is, oddly enough, plenty clean water running through Mississippi streams. Not exactly drinkable in all cases. Although being kind of cold, most were good for a bath. I found a good looking stream with a trail leading down to it. From the road. This trail has a high degree of difficulty. So I walk it, check for hidden danger. The trail was meant for bipedal people. Not my bi pedal bike. Bike and I can handle it. We’re a good team. So I make my first attempt at the downhill. I made it. Bike did well. With it’s finely tuned self. So I unpack and got clean. My feet get washed every day. That’s to prevent athletes foot. My body gets it when I can. Mama always said soap is cheap. At 50 I am still a trick star at heart. So I attempt the uphill with less than satisfactory results. I try again. Almost make it.Changed my line a bit. And made it. While I was cleaning up under the bridge. I heard the Rev of that damn muscle car. I look up at the bottom of the bridge, wishing I could see through cement. If I could, I would track that motor down. And punch that fucking floating mouth. And knock its teeth out. If he has any. While making several attempts at the jagged uphill. I get confirmation from some of the local,  Less than privileged youth. As usual, they came in the form of voices with no faces. I still get amped from the praise. Even if it’s in my head. At least my head is speaking positively. I also, on my Trek, want to encourage the youth  of today, to drop the remotes. And grab the bars. If they’re riding, they’re not just sitting or standing on the corners with the G’s. I want to help people. Not be me. I hate me. I don’t hate anyone else. The youthful voices encourage me to conquer another hill. I picked the gnarliest part of a seriously deep ditch. Bike is bitching. It’s not catching gears like I demand. My wrist ache in protest of the extra work. I won’t leave until I win. I won. Bike and I,  Best Friends. Bike takes me to an outdoor basketball court on the wrong side of the tracks. I draw a small crowd of G's. The gangsters look at me like I’m nuts. I am. At least I can see who’s laughing at me. I’m doing freestyle on my hybrid mountain bike. I don’t leave. I adjusted the air in my tires, eat a pack of tuna, and drink some water. They’re losing interest. So I ride full speed through the gym and use the poles as slalom markers, riding with my pack and box mounted. I now have saddle bags loaded with food and tools. My pack is a mix of bags, well appointed and balanced. I completed a couple of runs with no hands. I’m now a, “crazy white boy.” I love it, they lov