autobus

Aug. 22, 2009

Matt, our couchsurfing host, pulled out packing boxes from the attic. He grabbed a couple military-issued rolls of Duct tape, his pocket knife, and we went to work in the garage. Bree and I had rode over 800 miles from New Orleans to Abilene, Texas; the appealing tales of West Texas' lack of towns, abundance of cacti and oil refineries inspired us to catch a Greyhound from Abilene to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Luckily, Matt was willing to help us tackle the task of boxing our bikes. He even packed us PBJ and fruit to-go before dropping us off at the station.

There was no direct route to Santa Fe. We rode through the night and woke up at 4 am in El Paso. We had 4 hours to explore before catching our connecting bus. Out on the street, you could have told me we were in Mexico. Square, single-story architecture, signs offering tacos and gorditas, Spanish on everyone's tongues. We ended up at the only place open: McDonald's, people watching and playing cards until it was time to return to the station. Somehow, I lost my boarding pass and had to pay for the second leg again. Bree enjoyed that a little too much.

The foothills of the Rockies greeted us to the east the whole journey up to Santa Fe. We'd been told our bikes had been sent ahead of us and would be waiting at the station. When we pulled up to a gas station and were told to debark, I started to sweat. But, the driver got off and pulled out our boxed bikes from under the bus with our panniers. We assembled everything in the parking lot and cycled off to the youth hostel.

enjoying some texas beer and country tunes in austin

our breakfast chef

austin

Aug. 13, 2009


We were about 20 miles outside of Austin and still not sure where we’d stay. My two contacts had yet to get back to me.

We pulled into a pecan artisan shop next to the highway. Jarred honey, dark chocolate pecans, fresh peaches. A woman approached us as we were perusing. We told her about our trip. “Well, do you have a place to stay in Austin?” She didn’t know what she was in for.

A few hours later—after 2 more flats—we pulled up to her house in central Austin. Her two young daughters, Willow and Scout, greeted us through the window and her husband, Richard, met us in the carport. They had orange, carrot, strawberry smoothies waiting in the backyard and enchiladas in the oven. The family next door joined us all in the dining room for dinner. Emmet, the 8-year-old neighbor, informed us he’d be cooking his special recipe for breakfast. The next morning, after a shower and waking up in a soft bed, we found ourselves next door eating pancakes with strawberries and maple syrup.

My brother drove down from Dallas, and our hosts suggested “The Broken Spoke” for evening entertainment. A thin well-endowed blond called out two-step instructions and we shamelessly stepped it out in our Chaco sandals and jean shorts.

The next morning, we gathered our hosts, their kids, the dogs, my brother and Bree’s dad for a family-reunion style photo opp. in the backyard.

flats

Aug. 13, 2009

Rain beat down, but we rode. My sunglasses needed windshield wipers; our clothes were soaked through; but, it was our very first “natural” relief from the heat, so we rode on. Bree's dad has joined us for 2 weeks. He said if we made it to Anderson, TX to the “Oldest Hotel” in the state, he'd pay for our room. More inspiration. We got there as night fell to discover 30 years ago it became a museum. We camped around back.

Riding under an overpass the next morning, we heard a blast. Bree's tire exploded. A several-hour search found no bike shop carrying her size. She took a 30-mile tow from the AAA equivalent for bicyclists; her dad and I met her in Brehnam, which left us another 30 miles from our destination.

“Ted?” I called our contact –a friend of a friend of my third cousin-in-law in Baton Rouge. After explaining our predicament, he found her a spare and picked us up in Brehnam. One of the first things he said to us was, “Wow, y'all look like a bunch of homeless people.” Bree and I jumped into the back of the truck with our bikes. Ted threw us some cushions and a couple of beers. The wind tied my hair in knots. Bree and I breathed in our surroundings, reminiscing about some of the best times riding in the backs of trucks.

Pulling up to the country cottage, Ted's wife, Grace, waved from the porch. A woman who deserves her name. She made us chicken and potatoes with homemade salsa and chips. They are city people retreated to the country to escape the rat race and enjoy more. When they learned we'd be heading through New Mexico, Grace turned on a boot-stomping flamenco player from Santa Fe. They showed us scenic photos from a recent trip that made us giddy for the next leg of our journey.

In the morning, we fixed Bree's blown out tire (her third). And right as we were leaving, Grace came from her bedroom with a New Mexican rosary for Bree and a charming black stone bracelet of the Saints for me.

black-eyed bandits

Aug. 8, 2009

We took the 10-step wooded trail from our campsite to the lake. The dock jutted over the water; the sun set purple behind cotton candy clouds; a single acorn hung from the branch overhead. Bree did yoga beside me. I tried to write.

We had already set up our tent and our wet clothes hung on the line. As darkness fell, we crawled onto our sleeping bags. Not minutes after closing my eyes, I heard rustling at our feet. I grabbed my headlamp and shined it into the eyes of a racoon pulling my backpack out from under the rain fly. For whatever reason, my first instinct was bark. It worked for a moment, until we heard our friend up the hill clawing into our saddle bags. Bree’s bike fell over. “That’s it, give me the mace!” she said. I had her back with the light. We barked and ascended the hill. The several warnings of aggressive racoons repeated in my head, and my heart beat in my ears. Using tag-team methodology, we got our food hanging from a hooked medal poll and tried to fall asleep.

That was Kitsachee National Forest, LA. Two nights later at Martin Dies Jr. State Park, TX, swarms of mosquitos chased us into the tent. Our food hung from the pole–a wooden pole. We closed our eyes to the buzz of blood suckers, but moments later heard the familiar rustling through bags. Bree shined the light in time to see a racoon shimmy up the wooden pole, open my backpack and pull out our brand new pack of tortillas. Rage emboldened me. My sleeping bag unzips a the feet, so I crawled in for protection from the mosquitoes, strapped on my headlamp, exited the tent, started barking, and waddled over to our bags. It took several trips to move them from our wooden pole to the metal pole at the next campsite. By the time I dove back into the tent, I was drenched in sweat. The racoons continually visited us throughout the night, but couldn’t get any more freebies.

marksville

Aug. 7, 2009

Sugarcane stretched towards the sky on both sides of the country lane. After a left on Old Hwy 1, the crop turned to cotton. We pulled into Marksville’s Casino and RV Resort with the sun lowering in front of us. I approached the counter. “No tent camping allowed.” Maybe “Resort” in the name should’ve given it away. Begging didn’t get us anywhere, so we rolled out of the parking lot and down the nearest road.

I saw a man working on a tractor at the end of a long driveway. “Bree, I’ll ask him if we can camp out.” When I asked, his face read a mix of skepticism and amusement, but he said, “Choose yourself a spot, and we’ll even let you get yourself a shower.” His wife. Penny, offered us towels and their 2-year-old granddaughter joined us outside to “help” cook our split pea soup. When it was her turn to try a bite, she got her mouth close to the spoon then declared, “I don’t like it.”

In the morning, we had said we’d leave by 7 am, but at 8:30 we were barely stirring. Penny had returned our load of laundry she had run for us. O’Neil came by on the tractor. “You’re still here?” he asked with a wink. “Well, y’all better come in for some coffee,” Penny invited from across the yard. She told us relatives owned all the houses on both sides of hers. The land had been her grandfather's. When I asked if the French last name meant they were Cajun: “No. We’re Coonasses out here,” she replied. They had recently constructed a pond out back to stock bass and crawfish; she said they leave out corn in order to fatten the squirrels.

O’Neil came in and we all enjoyed biscuits with homemade strawberry jam. Bree and I packed up our bikes and took a couple of timed photos with our hosts before we started biking once again.

st. francisville

Aug. 6, 2009

We rolled up to the library in St. Francisville, LA. The town glowed pink and warm. Local art galleries and independent coffee shops lined the two-lane “downtown.” Picket fences separated Creole cottages, and rocking chairs beckoned from front porches.

From the library, I called Eddie—a friend of my third cousin-in-law in Baton Rouge. “We’re at the library. How do we get to your place from here?” “Did you see the librarian who just walked in? That’s my wife. She’ll tell you.”

We biked down a shaded lane interspersed with green pastures. Eddie and Pam’s white house sat on 4 acres. Their son greeted us at the door, showed us our room, the bathroom; and after showers, Eddie offered us eggplant lasagna before leaving with his wife for a poetry reading.

In town the next morning, Bree and I parked our bikes at Bird Man Café. We ordered sweet potato and “heart healthy” pancakes, vanilla yogurt with peaches and banana, scrambled eggs, sausage, buttered grits, and a biscuit. With only half a plate left to clear, we broke out the Tupperware. A man in a suit approached us. “Where y’all from?”
After hearing our story, he turned to the barrista: “Did you know they’re biking to Oregon?” “Oh yeah, I know,” she said. “They stayed with Eddie and Pam last night.” We hadn’t told her that. When Bree went up to pay, Suit Man added our bill to his tab. The preacher at the next table over asked for our names and said his church would be praying for us.

We left Bird Man jaws dropped by the generosity, biked down to the ferry, crossed the Mississippi with wind in our faces, hit solid ground and continued pedaling west.

cajun comforts

Bree looked over her shoulder—terror widening her eyes and pursing her lips. She swerved across the two-lane highway. I shifted out of the bike lane just in time to avoid a 5-ft alligator—his right arm extended to the white line, and his tail stretched back to the gravel. I immediately noticed his entrails next to him and complete lack of movement, which emboldened me to jump off my bike with my camera; Bree, on the other hand, screamed from 200 yards away, “Are you sure he’s dead?!”

I couldn’t hold any delusions against her. The night before our campsite might well have been inches from a very active railroad track. We had hoped to make it to Oak Alley Plantation, but the bridge over the Mississippi loomed like Everest, and after 60 miles from New Orleans in the 95 degree mug, I had nothing left…

After the gator scare, the next morning, a 40-mile push brought us to Baton Rouge and the rustic mansion of my paternal third cousin and his Cajun wife. Having never met them and knowing nothing of their home the king-sized bed, adjacent bathroom, home-cooked shrimp crepes, yoga class, top-notch sushi, Whole Foods groceries, and glittering pool with a lake-front view were a welcomed sight to sore eyes and rears.