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Knoxville, Tennessee. I arrived the afternoon of the 22nd to the west of 

Knoxville near the junction of boring I-75 and equally boring I-140 and 

checked into a motel for the night. Before I broke out the computer to makes 

some notes about the day's drive, I called Hugh Cannon. Hugh's not only a 

Mini owner in the area, but I was to find out that he owns two of my favorite 

Minis: Mokes (just don't tell EG!). Little did I know that Knoxville was to 

be Mokeville. Hugh's were not the only Mokes I was to see that night. Hugh 

came by after a while for the tour of EG and the obligatory photo.

Hugh Cannon holds off EG from rubbing against his leg and
purring.



    Tennessee is that State that looks a bit like a squished box with the 

eastern and western boundary running NE to SW. Scratch a major city in 

Tennessee and you'll find Civil War history. Knoxville. Nashville. 

Chattanooga. Jackson. Memphis. And even if you slept through high school 

history class like most of us you will have heard of Shiloh.



    For two days in April 1862, 109,000 soldiers took part in the first major 

battle of the "western" front. By the time it was over, 24,000 were dead, 

wounded or missing. CSA General Johnston was killed and the CSA General with 

the great name of P.G.T.  Beauregard finally had to retreat into Mississippi. 



    Today most people think of music and Elvis' Graceland when they think of 

Tennessee, but if you have a chance to spend some time, don't overlook the 

historic side. And try to find time to drive the Natchez (rhymes with 

"matches") Trace Parkway from Nashville to Natchez, Mississippi. 

Unfortunately, it wasn't on my route. Maybe next time.



    Then there is the "sort of" history of Tennessee. You'll be giving away 

your age if you remember the hero of this song and can sing more than a few 

lines of the following: "Born on a mountain top in Tennessee.  Killed him a 

bar when he was only three."



    Tennessee, once known as Franklin in honor of Benjamin Franklin, was 

first claimed for France by Robert Cavlier de la Salle (another dead car's 

name) in 1673 - ignoring the fact that people had been living around there 

for a few years. Rocky Mount was the capital in 1791 then James White's Fort 

(renamed in honor of Secretary of War Knox-get it, Knoxville) took over as 

the capital of The Territory of the United States South of the Ohio River. 

That was too big a mouthful so Tennessee became a State in 1796. Knoxville 

continued as the capital of TTOTUSSOTOR until Statehood and continued on as 

the capital until 1811. Nashville took over until 1817 when Knoxville got it 

back. It then went to Murfreesboro (huh?) before Nashville finally became the 

permanent capital. And you thought Virginia couldn't make up its mind.



    Tennessee has grown up into a State of 5.4 million people and covers a 

little more than 42,000 square miles (34th ranked in the US). Of the six 

States EG and I had traveled into so far, that puts Tennessee just a little 

more than 3% larger than Virginia (sans West Virginia!) and a bit more than 

1/3rd bigger than South Carolina (the smallest we'd travel into). Population 

is currently about 1.5 million more than S.C. and smaller than all the others 

so far. Population density is the same as Georgia, close to South Carolina 

and a bit behind North Carolina. Our "champ" is still Florida; 250 people per 

square mile to Tennessee's 127. Oh, and Tennessee is the first State that 

doesn't have a lowest point at sea level - 182 feet on the Mississippi River.

The State's nickname, The Volunteer
State, as stated on the license plate, 

comes from Tennessee's volunteers to
the War of 1812 and the Mexican War. 

I liked the older plate better. 
The one shaped like the State.



    Hugh took me off for a nickel tour of Mini owners in the area. Our first 

stop wasn't far away, and much to my surprise, there were two Mokes! Mark 

Caldwell, a name I heard before on the North American Mini Moke Registry, was 

the owner. He wasn't home, but we managed a quick look in the garage. Up on 

sawhorses was an early Moke shell in the proper green and looking better than 

it ever had before. When this one is together it is going to be something to 

see. And hidden behind it was one of the Portuguese, Cagiva Mokes. I don't 

understand the details, but this Moke, I believe, is joint owned between Mark 

and Mike Priest.

The makings of one great
Moke.

A very nice, late
Moke.



    In spite of stalling around a bit, Mark didn't show up so off we went to 

another part of the Knoxville area to drop in on David Kimble. David has been 

a long time Mini owner and has worked on cars for others in the area for 

years. He has an early shell in the garage being fixed up and a rolled Mk 

III+ sitting outside the garage in need of a new shell. (Anyone with a later 

shell they'd part with?) While at David's we made contact with Mark and made 

arrangements to stop back by later.



    From David's we headed out to Hugh's. On the way he told me a fascinating 

story of buying two Minis (a saloon and a Moke shell) over the Internet, 

driving to California to pick them up, figuring out how to stack two of them 

on a trailer (and I mean on top of each other) and then, when catching a few 

winks in a gas station parking lot, being woken up at 2:00 AM by someone who 

wanted to buy the saloon! It's all much too complicated to explain. Catch up 

with Hugh at a Mini meet and have him tell the story.



    Also, on the drive to Hugh's I found out that he got the Moke shell home 

safely (unlike another trip he took to bring home a Moke hardtop) and that it 

now sits next to his former driver. I say former, because Hugh's son wrecked 

it. You don't want to know the details. We arrived at Hugh's where the sight 

of two sad Mokes greeted us. I have no doubt that at least one of them will 

be on the road again, soon.

The recently purchased shell in the
foreground with the recently 

wrecked white Moke in the
background.



    Hugh took me inside and proudly showed me his collection of Mini models 

and memorabilia. He has a good collection; including, a few I've not 

acquired. Of course, any pales by comparison to Mike and Joyce Priest's 

collection.



    Next, back to Mark's to get the Cagiva out for a run. Great. I hadn't 

been in a Moke for a couple of months and was suffering from withdrawal. And 

I hadn't been in a Cagiva since a great trip in 1986 (I think) when I did 

some touring with the Moke Club in England - including a trip to the "shrine" 

at Portmeirion. But wait. I wasn't going to get to ride. Mark handed me the 

keys! Off we went, three up in a standard 998cc Moke. With Hugh and I at a 

bit (!) over 200 pounds and Mark making up a third I was surprised at how 

well the Moke ran. Mark guided me around a few nice local "Mini Test" roads 

and once I started getting familiar with the different controls and a clutch 

that engaged fairly high it was a fun drive. On the way back to my motel, we 

stopped by to pick up Hugh's son and even 4-up the Moke performed well.



    Unfortunately, back at the motel it was too dark to get photographs, but 

we did the EG tour again and fended off a slightly tipsy South African who 

noticed the car and wanted to talk. A HUGE can of beer in one hand (not the 

first of the night) and a noxious cigar in the other, he wanted to talk and 

was slightly disappointed to find that the car didn't belong to a fellow 

countryman. Between wafts of cigar smoke and fumes of alcohol Mark and I made 

arrangements to meet in the morning (he'd work from home for the day) so we 

could take some photographs and discuss a more interesting way to get from 

Knoxville to my next stop in Clarksville (find Nashville and go NW about 45 

miles). It was late and I had some shopping to do, had to find something to 

eat, and there were the notes from the day to work on, so we called it a 

night.



    The next morning while I was packing EG up to head to Mark's, guess who 

dropped by to talk. Looking like he'd had a hard night and with the 

ever-present stogie, my SA friend showed up to talk some more. He wandered 

off shortly and Hugh showed up with photographs from his trip to California 

to get the Moke and saloon. He gave me one that is a great shot of Hugh 

admiring his handiwork standing next to the trailer with the saloon safely 

stacked on top of the Moke shell. Amazing stuff!



    Eventually I wandered off to Mark's for photos and trip advice. He was on 

a conference call that ended up taking quite a bit of time so I dragged the 

computer out and plotted out some alternative routes to Clarksville. Please, 

anything but I-40! By the way. There is a military base near Clarksville. 

Take away the base and Clarksville ceases to exist.



    Once off the phone, Mark suggested following Highway 70 all the way 

through Lebanon then a series of back roads finally hitting I-24N at exit 11 

for the short run into Clarksville. He also suggested a short stop at a 

little known waterfall overlook.



    Before departing, Mark showed me the work he had in progress for 

finishing the English Moke. He had most of the major assemblies done and 

everything looked great. This is going to be one nice Moke when he's done. My 

fear of it turning into another trailer queen (like too many Minis are 

starting to be) was put aside. Sure it will be perfect, but Mark has no 

qualms about driving the car. Good-on-'em.

EG,
Cagiva, Mark and furry friend. Hopefully his other Moke will be 

done by the next Mini Meet. Be sure to check
it out.



    Photos taken, EG and I were off on another leg of our journey. We started 

off Wednesday the 23rd with 4,168 on the clock having traveled 2,286 miles 

since leaving Miami.



    The drive on 70 was very nice if, like most of the rest of the drive so 

far, a bit hot and humid. Rolling hills, nice curves, good scenery. So much 

nicer than plodding along on I-40. I did make the stop at the waterfall and 

it certainly had potential. Unfortunately, the water flow was low (I've seen 

more flow from a leaking hose) so the impact was lost.



    Along the route I stumbled on another photo op. A quick "tourist move" 

and I took the following.

All donations from PACs gratefully
accepted.



    And that wasn't the last photo op. of the day. These are just too good to 

spoil with my own captions. Write your own.











    Somewhere along the line after I'd crossed I-40 and passed through 

Lebanon, I got off course. I think it was in Springfield. I knew I was headed 

sort of in the correct direction toward I-24, I just didn't know exactly 

where. To complicate the situation, (1) I started to run out of fuel about 

the time all the wide spots in the road with gas stations disappeared, and 

(2) I came upon a major accident that had the two-lane road closed. "At least 

a couple of hours before the road will open." I turned around, took a quick 

look at the map, did a little dead reckoning and headed off in search of 

fuel. I passed exits to Cooperville a couple of times and eventually, running 

on fumes, blundered into a gas station near I-24 exit 19 (only 8 miles from 

target). I was close to dragging the GPS out, but didn't want to waste the 

gas starting the car up again! Sort of one of those, just keep moving and 

it'll all work out moods.



    I've done some similar blundering around in England after taking a wrong 

turn or two, but usually there you're never very far from someplace big 

enough to have a petrol station.



    I remember last year "oop north" in the middle of the country getting 

into a bit of a dice with an Escort-driving punk with the backwards baseball 

cap. What is it with all the idiots that haven't figured out which end goes 

in front? And why do people in other countries pick up on these horrid trends 

we start? Who's dumber, the people starting the trends or those following 

them? The backwards cap was started for practical reasons by those with just 

enough brains to figure out that they had to turn their caps around when 

riding their motorcycles or they would blow off. Of course, it never occurred 

to them to put on a helmet instead (see previous discussion about "organ 

donors").



    Where was I? Of course in England you always run the chance of finding 

the petrol station closed for a "bank holiday" (I think they have at least 

three or four of these a month), or running into one of the quaint half-day 

closings. "Of course it's closed. It's 'alf-day closin'. Everyone knows 

that." Sure, as long as you live within two miles. Or the other one is 

finding it closed because it's after 6PM. No one needs petrol in the evening.



    Anyway, this Escort driver just needed to be taught that 1275 powered 

Mokes are more than a match for a D. Dustbin. Unfortunately, after about the 

third roundabout that had been negotiated a bit quickly, shall we say, and 

after the Fraud disappeared from sight, I didn't notice that I'd missed a 

sign, or two, or three. It was 45 minutes later when it dawned on me. "Say, 

shouldn't the sun be on the other side if I'm heading north?" Yep. Drove 45 

minutes the wrong direction. It was a good drive, though.



    Hmmm. Somehow, I got off track.



    I filled up with gas, added the next to last shot of RedLine Lead 

Substitute, and headed up the short stretch of I-24 to Clarksville and a 

motel. By the way, I'd been searching for RedLine all during my trip through 

the South. Nothing. Nada. I must have stopped in 10 different towns and many 

different auto parts stores. No one had even heard of it. More to the RedLine 

story down the road.



    Once ensconced in the latest mansion for the night I called Clarksville 

Mini owner, Bill Powell. Bill is a lonely Mini owner. Anyone else in the area 

with a Mini? He's seen none. Bill drove on over where we checked out each 

other's cars and wandered off to dinner to talk about Life, The Universe, and 

Everything. Well, at least about Minis.

Bill Powell with his nice pickup. He's 

sorted most of the mechanicals and it runs nicely, but it's going to need 

some body work. It's an English import. "Only a little rust." I'll translate 

that for you who aren't from England. It means that the holes aren't quite 

big enough for you to get you hand through, yet.



    The night of the 23rd ended with EG sitting outside in a thunderstorm and 

me inside plotting a route to the Land of the MADMEN of St. Louis. We'd 

covered 2,548 miles and had something over 300 to do the next day. I fell 

asleep still humming that stupid song, "It's the last train to Clarksville." 

Fortunately, it was gone by the morning. Unfortunately, the rain wasn't.