After spending a small fortune on nick knacks I could fit in my saddle bags I left Graceland and headed out of Memphis with New Orleans and King Creole on my mind.

Compared with the previous two days of riding, day three was rather uneventful except for a bad stretch of road around Jackson, Mississippi and some brief showers in southern Mississippi. About 3 p.m. I stopped at an unmarked exit at a former Stuckey's for gas and what else, some chicken. The place struck me as somewhat strange as it was run by a Hindu woman and staffed by black guys. The toothless local white guy tried to chat me up about motorcycles but his heavy southern accent and lack of teeth made him almost indecipherable. Perhaps he felt a kindred spirit to me in light of my recent oral surgery. Nevertheless, the place had no other business and was giving me the willies so I got the hell out of there before I got mickey finned.

The most memorable and white knuckled part of the ride on day 3 was the last 25 miles before New Orleans.  My fuel light had started to blink the one-gallon warning for the last 5 minutes, shortly before I started on what turned out to be the 22.8-mile-long Manchac Swamp twin trestle bridge.  Being above water there were hardly any exits and certainly none with gas stations. Luckily, I made it to the first exit at the other end of the bridge in Kenner and coasted into the gas station literally riding on fumes.

After replenishing liquids for both rider and bike I was exhausted and really looking forward to checking into my hotel which was just minutes away. I soon got distracted thinking about  a nice long shower and  relaxing a bit before the big decision:  where would I eat dinner that night.  In a city with so many great restaurants and the fact that my best friend at the time was a head chef back in Minneapolis, the matter had been the subject of considerable discussion and thought.  

So as I was going over in my mind the list of gastronomic possibilities rather than paying attention to which of the 6 lanes of traffic I should be in, I blew right by my exit to the French Quarter.  I quickly learned that driving in New Orleans demanded one’s full attention as the road system is unforgiving and mistakes are costly in time and frustration to correct. 

By missing my exit to the French Quarter, I wound up trapped in out-going  freeway lanes,   leaving New Orleans, going over the Mississippi River bridge before I was able to exit and turn around.  Eventually with much effort and three quarters of an hour of my precious time wasted,  I was able to double back and find my hotel, the French Market Inn in the heart of the French Quarter.