As a lifelong Northerner, I’d like to think the race commemorated a daring raid led by Nathaniel Bedford Forrest against the Union supply depot of Old Johnsonville in 1864. Despite his subsequent career with that odious group, Forrest remains a Tennessee folk hero.
Sometimes, we must revise history to find our views and hobbies. More importantly, I kept my
But the rustic route of the Forrest’s Johnsonville Charge quickly wiped its affiliations from my mind.
Besides, I was too cold to care.
I arrived to a cadre of men mostly outfitted for hunting in a blizzard. Others huddled around a fire until the sun emerged. When the cloud banks snared it again, we were quickly reminded that the mercury shrunk to 15 degrees just a few hours earlier.
All in all, the locals put on a good, number-free race (the organizer told me he doesn’t like race numbers flopping around while he runs).
Moreover, the locals put on the best cold-race spread at the finish line, with a choice of beef show or chili. Without a banana or energy bar in sight, the stew more than satisfied an empty stomach.
With gas prices in a freefall, the 90-minute drive to New Johnsonsville (the Old version lies somewhere beneath Kentucky Lake) was not a deal-breaker.
Finally, I get to absorb some Tennessee countryside, mountains and meandering highways. Small-town Tennessee barely seemed to be holding on here; empty storefronts dominated once-picturesque town centers.
This is a place where Obama/Biden signs get used exclusively for target practice. Two churches hosted turkey shoots along the route, and in places, animal bloodstains grew as prevalent as road stripes.
Skipping the interstate on the way home, I plowed ahead through towns where the leaves still hung tenaciously to the trees, where the Harpeth River fit snugly against the mountain wall chiseled back to fit U.S. 70. I'm glad gas prices gave the casual drive back to America.
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