"Poplarville, Mississippi," as Onomatopoeic, Hospitable

Things were smooth. Off a one-day respite in New Orleans, a tune-up and two new tire tubes, I swore my air and energy levels would remain high. But after 2,000-plus miles on the road, both have begun to prove vulnerable.

Highway 10 out of Bogalusa, Louisiana: Pop. Sssss. Replace tube. Ride tentatively for 25 miles, keeping an eye on the back tire to make sure it retains air.

Poplarville, Mississippi: Pass a pickup truck. Pop. Ssss. Replace tube. Check tire. Find gaping hole in both the tire and the tube, the rubbery fibers of the tire fraying outward. Put back on bicycle anyway. Hope.

Begin to ride, trying to make another 20 miles before sundown. Ten feet later: Pop. Ssss. No more new tubes. Patch tire rim. Patch tube. Switch front and back tires. Put wheels back on bike. Mount. Hope.

Half a mile later: Quick leak. Air gone from back tire. Dismount. Sigh heavily. Resolve to stay.

When you and your options are exhausted, this is the routine, if you can call it that: Enter the closest populated establishment and ask those inside for help. Bad days end well when you find it. They get worse when you don't. This day ended well and then some.

The nearest place was a petite fast-food shop that peddles sweet tea to Pearl River Community College students. They go before they dine in the campus cafeteria, where they sit again, and consume again. "That's what we do," one named Orry said. "And not much else."

Indeed. However, tonight was special; the eve of Halloween, the student union was having a carnival. Perhaps I could camp behind the building, they suggested, and so we talked to the head man Stan and he agreed. I dined in the cafeteria. I showered in a dorm room. And I was treated like genuine celebrity. Never have I been so swarmed by people, never have I felt so undeservedly admired.

After all, I'm one of a host of people who ride bicycles from coast to coast. And Poplarville is a stop on a series of maps that many of them use -- I've seen several on this trip alone. I suppose none of them had been (un)lucky enough to find desperation and resulting welcome in "The Hospitality State."

And my, how the interest and the questions came. How old are you? You rode from where? You ain't lying? Show me your bike. What'd your parents say? So lemme get this straight, you just decided one day to ride your bike across the country? How you eat? How old are you again?You're crazy man. Like Forrest Gump on a bike.

You get the point.

Later, Brett from the newspaper is going to interview me; there will thenceforth be evidence that I came to Poplarville, Mississippi, and provided unusual entertainment for the bored "13th-graders" of PRCC. When I'm gone -- after they kindly drive me to New Orleans' French Quarter to experience a presumably wacky Halloween -- I will leave them to their dry county, their 11:30 p.m. curfew, their draconian dormitory policies and their town strip where only a Kangaroo gas station is open during evening hours.

Assuming my tires retain air.

I know not where they will next find entertainment, but I will say this: of whomever is offered their hospitality next, I am already jealous. This is the life.