Finding a Place’s Soul

Any time you search a place you’re about to visit, travel guides love to pile checklists on you: see the monuments, eat the food, talk to the locals. As an introvert, I’ve always struggled with the last one. But I believe there’s another way. You can find a place's true character by observing its quiet oddities… The crooked house on a corner, a forgotten statue in a square, or a legend that’s more landmark than history. In my hometown, the oddity wasn’t a building. It was a man on a bicycle.

I’m from a small southern town in the middle of nowhere, a place where entertainment runs so thin that the old joke about watching paint dry isn't really a joke. Growing up, that man on his bicycle filled the gap. In city terms, he wasn’t anyone special. But with a county population barely scratching thirty thousand, he became more than a man. He was a fixture. And his name was Randall.

Randall couldn’t drive, so he pedaled. Every day. You’d find him heading to the mom-and-pop store, jaw-jacking, spinning yarns. When that place closed its doors, he switched to the shiny new gas station across the street. It didn’t matter where you went in town. If there was a road, sooner or later, there was Randall.

You’d see him rain or shine, sleet or blazing heat. And he always looked the same: a yellow reflective vest over a white shirt, an orange flag waving on the back of his bike... Must be Randall.

I’d spot him grinding up hills, rounding blind corners, and he was always too close for comfort. More than once, I found myself squeezed between a car on the left and Randall on the right, muttering to whatever god was listening: not today.

Why couldn’t he drive? I’ve heard the story a hundred times and forgotten it a hundred more. Truth is, I don’t know anymore. And maybe that’s part of the myth.

What I do know is that Randall outlasted the complaints. People swore he shouldn’t be on the road. Because it was too dangerous, they said. They swore he’d get himself killed. At one point, there was even talk of banning him. It didn’t matter. Randall rode on.

I haven’t seen him in years. By now, he’d be in his sixties. Or seventies. Maybe he’s still around. Maybe not. That’s the thing about legends. You never get closure.

But I carry him with me.

Yellow school bus sign with an orange flag on top? Randall.
That blind corner with the sun in my eyes? Randall.
Every road I take? I always think of Randall.

And here’s what he taught me…

When you travel, forget the checklists. Skip the monuments. Instead, collect oddities. Take strange pictures. Read plaques no one notices. Look for the local eccentricities. That’s where the soul of a place hides.

Ignore the gift shops. Find the Randalls.