Austin to Pensacola Pictures

More Pictures

The Whisky Tango Bridge

So much to say, and so little time with which to say it. Unfortunately, we have been unable to update the site recently, as the past two weeks have been marked by incredible distances travelled and an astonishing lack of libraries (it seems that eastern Louisiana and Mississippi do not believe in them). So I will fill you in on some of the choicest morsels of our recent experiences (moms, if you wish to not worry too much, I would advise skipping this post, Jon is also adding some nice pictures which you can look at!).

The situation was this: we needed to eat Thanksgiving dinner, as I can think of no greater travesty than two cyclists, whose favorite activity is the mass consumption of calories, missing the greatest eating holiday of them all. The problem was that the one location where we could possibly join in this holy day of turkey and football was located in Baton Rouge, LA, 500 miles east of our location in Austin, TX. In Baton Rouge lay the promised land. A good friend Matt had kindly invited us to his family's giant Thanksgiving reunion, where there would be not one, but TWO fried turkeys and one baked turkey, there was no way we were going to miss this.

The day was Saturday, giving us 5 and one half days we could use to get there. With this knowledge, we immediately set forth to squander one day by sitting on our butts watching the Ohio State - Michigan football game and going to a movie (Borat, funny as hell and quite possibly the most offensive movie of all time). Thinking "No Problem!! We can easily peddle 500 miles in 4 and 1/2 days! (proving that the one thing Colby really taught me was how to be an excellent procrastinator).

The following morning, at the crack of dawn, we rode eastward. The wind, having turned against us in Alpine, remained its conspiratorial self and continued to blow in our faces the entire time, whispering its morale depleting whine into our ears (thank god for the Ipod, that wondrous invention which helps mask that sound). The following four days were draining, and at times I had my doubts, but by Thanksgiving Eve, we had made it to Opelousas, LA some 50 miles west of Baton Rouge. After setting up camp, I left jon to his Ramen noodle dinner and set out to find some Crawfish Etouffee (he had had his fill of cajun food that day, we had stopped in a wondrous little town called Mamou in the heart of Acadiana country and eaten a feast of Alligator Po-Boys, Crawfish Pies, and gumbo at a local restaurant called Frenchie's, plus we had spent most of the morning consuming Boudin sausage at every gas station we encountered). Luckily, I came across a small place called the Palace Diner, a small joint straight out of the fifties located on a side street under a lone street lamp. As I ordered my food, I got to talking with the owner of the establishment, a stalky cajun in a plaid shirt, about our journey and the road ahead. We were planning on taking highway 190 (essentially the old east-west road across the state before highway 10 was built) straight from Old Opelousas across the Atchafalya and Mississippi Rivers into Baton Rouge. When I told him of this plan, he shook his head and offered me a free slice of Pecan Pie. "That's crazy" he said, "there's a good shoulder most of the way, but there are two bridges you'd have to cross that don't have nuthin' and the speed limits' 65, I wouldn't ride my bike across 'em."

"Huh," I mumbled, "well is there another way into the city?" I asked. "Not if yo wanna get there for dinner." he replied, "But you can probably hitch a ride with a pickup across the bridges no problem, as there be fillin' stations before 'em both." Armed with this knowledge, I thanked the gentleman, drained the rest of my lemonade, and rushed off to inform Jon of this new obstacle in our path.

The following morning, we again shoved of early, with visions of fried turkey skin dancing in our heads. Before reaching the Atchafalaya, we easily hitched a ride with a 50 year old mustached contractor who grumbled constantly about his wife's inability to remember how many cans of chicken broth she needed for thanksgiving dinner. We laughed heartily at his stories, and soon enough were dropped off on the other side of the bridge. He wished us well, and sped off to collect more cans of broth.

After another 30 miles of relatively easy peddling, we saw the great red steel expanse of the Mississippi river bridge before us, and again pulled into a filling station to look miserable and beg a ride from a pickup truck. At first, we were doubtful if we would be successful in our efforts, and sat sadly on on the curb eating a Little Debbie's oatmeal creme pie (delicious cycling power food). Just as we were about to give up hope and were going to take our chances riding over the bridge, into the station screamed a multi colored pickup truck, three guys, one of them strangely resembling Cool Hand Luke, the famous rambler played by Paul Newman in the movie, jumped out and ambled towards the store entrance.

I approached and asked if we could bum a ride over the bridge, and before I could even finish my sentence, the guy flashed a sly smile, and in the thickest Cajun accent I have ever heard, said "Load 'er up!!!"

to be continued..........

Las Cruces to Austin Pictures

More Pictures

Press Coverage

We have recently received some press coverage. Bill Sontag from Southwest Texas Live has written a nice article:

Bicyclists reaching, encouraging children to read

Our visit to a Flagstaff, AZ Reach Out and Read clinic was also in the local paper. There was also a story in the Jackson Hole News and Guide just before we started the trip. Unfortunately neither of these can be found online.

Junkyard Cowboys

As a New England native, my perception of West Texas has always been of a wild and free land, filled with various ruffians and colorful individuals living on the open range of an America long forgotten. I had no idea that my preconceptions were so accurate and inaccurate at the same time.

Our tale of Texan intrigue and excitement actually began outside of Las Cruces, New Mexico, where Jon and I were riding through Pecan country, desperately searching for a sweet delicious pecan pie to satiate our growling tummies. While wandering the back roads of an orchard, following signs towards a promising lead on said pies, we ran into an interesting cat named Ray. He chatted us up about our trip, and informed us of his two "hippy" friends in Alpine, TX, who would gladly put us up when we went through. Always eager to meet like minded individuals, we gladly accepted the phone number, and continued on our way towards El Paso. (also, we never did find a tasty pecan pie, as the sign lied to us about the orchard's business hours, causing much sadness, but it only means that we will have to consume two pecan pies when we get to Louisiana).

A few days later, we contacted Jon and Beverly, and confirmed that they 1) indeed had a place for us stay and 2) were not insane. Passing these two important tests (I later found out that I would need a new method of ascertaining the latter), we got directions and told them we would be there soon.

Rolling through Alpine, in search of our host's abode, we quickly left behind the town and entered the trailer park section of the area. Shortly thereafter, the trailer parks began to fade away and we were confronted with what appeared to be a junkyard. Decades old trucks, which resembled rusted relics of Kerouac's rides in On The Road, littered the desert; old and dusty RV's were strewn about, giving the place the feel of a crazy, modern pioneers camp, encircled to protect against society's onslaught of judgment. At first, we thought we had been led astray, but with a sense of trepidation we looked at the number on the side of the creaky and malformed mailbox, and realized that what seemed like the place old scrap heaps came to die was in fact our accommodations for the evening.

We rolled in through the gate, squeaking a worried hello? when from behind a jumble of scrap emerged a woman in a home made dress, her face betrayed years of hard work beneath a scorching desert sun, and her tired eyes, while friendly and warm, also belonged to a soul whose mistrust of modern living ran deep in her veins. She introduced herself of Beverly, and nodded towards a long broken mobile home, indicating our sleeping quarters for the evening.

We chatted for a bit, and stopped for a second to soak in our surroundings. Behind us a shirtless man, his body deeply browned and wired, loaded scrap metal onto a trailer, which would be taken to Odessa the following day and sold. Another man, a caricature of the old and grizzled Texas cowboy, ambled about, his belt buckle and white ten gallon hat glimmering in the setting sun, tinkering with various pieces of machinery. As we looked about, we noticed that interspersed with what we thought was junk were beautiful sculptures and cars which had been painted with gorgeous Texas ranch scenes. I realized that everything was not as it first appeared, and a tinge of guilt swept over me as I realized that I was guilty of prejudging the very people who had opened up their home to us.


Having absorbed our surroundings, Jon and I shuffled into the RV in order to get ourselves settled for the evening. After a brief quarrel over whose turn it was to enjoy the evening in the larger bed (actually the only bed), I realized that my attempts to smooth talk Natkin out of his rightful turn at comfort were not going anywhere, and I slinked away defeated. My sleeping quarters, which resembled more of a small bench than a bed, gave me leg cramps just looking at it. Grumbling, I plopped down, and was immediately enveloped in a plume of dust, "Well," I thought, "at least Natkin's dust allergies will keep him from enjoying that big bed too much" (I can be extremely petty when I lose arguments, but I'll just chalk that up as a character defect and move on). I realized just as quickly that the increase in allergy activity would greatly increase the volume of his snoring, ending any selfish enjoyment I might of had.

After making some phone calls to check on the election, I stepped outside to join everyone by the fire. The scene was striking, three men sat on various hunks of metal and machinery, the light of the fire's flames licking their faces in the dying hours of the evening as they slowly sipped tequila out of shot glasses. Here, I finally had the pleasure of meeting the two men I had spied earlier. Jon, Beverly's husband, had a quiet nature to him, and when he did speak, he did so with a deep Texas drawl which drew you in with its guttural tone and elegant simplicity. The other gentleman, Luke, peered at the world through his one eye, as his life cowboying from Arizona to the Texas panhandle had claimed his other and most of his teeth. The scars of his past were hidden behind a long and white conquistador goatee with a week's worth of stubble, and when he looked at you, you could see that he had seen his fair share of unpleasantness, and carried with him more knowledge about the West than Jon and I would ever be able , or hope, to acquire.

As darkness crept across the landscape we chatted for a while about Jon and Bev's life in Copper Canyon, Mexico. There they lived by farming on the nearly vertical walls of the abyss (which is over twice the size of the grand canyon) and had some interesting stories regarding "altered experiences" while partying with the local indigenous population. To say the least, we were impressed the rich experiences of these people who had so little in the way of material wealth.

The next morning, we said our farewells and headed into town in order to secure an automobile for a brief sidetrip down to Big Bend National Park. With temperatures forecasted to reach well into the 90's, Jon and I decided that we weren't interested in adding 350 miles of barren and mountainous terrain to our agenda, and were pleased with our decision. Unfortunately, upon our arrival at Mountain Motors, we were informed that every car in the entire city was out for the rest of the week (every car amounting to exactly 2 autos, one pickup and a sedan), and that if we wanted to see Big Bend, we would be forced to rent a U-Haul truck. Now, I have a sordid history with u-haul, and the last time I dealt with an agent of the company in Cambridge, the conversation quickly devolved into threats of lawsuits from both ends, so I was not to pleased that we would be giving this awful company so much money so the we could enjoy south western Texas. But, things being as they were, we were forced to rent a monstrosity of a truck (enough to move a one or two bedroom house mind you), and roll our way southward.

After picking up some food at the local Market, we shoved off towards our eighth National Park of the trip. Jostling southward under the electric blue desert sky, we were saddened as one by one, all radio stations abandoned us, leaving nothing but the vast emptiness of the west Texan desert hissing at us through the speakers. Turning off the static, we looked off towards the horizon, and our next adventures in the Chisos Mountains.

-Erik

Tasty Tasty

So a few days ago, after leaving Silver City, NM, we climbed Emory Pass, our highest point since Yellowstone. The views into the Rio Grande River Valley from the summit were spectacular. We descended the other side down to Kingston to spend the night. At the small roadside campground we met a fellow named Tom. He already had a nice fire going to help keep warm on a chilly night. We brought our cook gear to the fire and chatted while we shared dinners. Luke offered us venison with onions and potatoes. We offered our staple of Annie's Mac and Cheese. Both were tasty and complimented each other well. It is always enjoyable to get fresh meat. The tubular kind gets old after a while. Tasty goodness.

Did I mention that we were eating roadkill.

New Photos

New Photos - Santa Barbara to Las Cruces

Elusive Clarity

It is no secret that my story has been impacted by alcohol. I have long felt like a vessel trying to navigate the murky seas of existence, attempting to reach landfall on the shores of reason and sanity. Besieged by self imposed ideals of what I should aspire to in life, I sat paralyzed, adrift and rudderless, and afraid to move forward.

At first, booze was my great savior. Its warmth coursed through my veins and by bathing in its glow, I was insolated from the fierce realities which we all must face. Eventually, the warmth of drink diminished, and it only served to feed the tempest which was brewing inside of me. As a result, I forfeited my dreams in favor self serving lies which carried me to the depths of despair.

Two years ago today, after many attempts to give up the drink, I finally put it aside for what I hope is the last time. Unfortunately, putting aside the bottle proved to be the easy part, as the same uncertainty and fears which had paralyzed me before remained embedded deep inside of me. Slowly, however, old tools began to surface which have helped me gain a loose grip on reality. A sense of adventure, long dormant, was sparked by my friend Jon, and pryed me out of a safe place in order to pursue experiences of the like that I would have only dreamed of a few years ago. I am astounded that as I sit in the saddle of my bike, with the countryside slowly ambling by, my mind occasionally puts aside its doubts and fears and becomes emtpy, filled with only a clarity for the present moment. These moments are fleeting, but striving towards grasping them is a goal that I am happy to have.

Through it all, though, I am reminded constantly how amazing the people are who surround me. My loving girlfriend supported me when I felt that I was broken and there was no hope for the future, my friends stood behind me and counseled me, and my family gave me their love when I needed it most. Without these people in my life, I have no doubt that I would have failed, and to them, I am eternally grateful.

-Erik

Arizona the Beautiful

Our stay in Arizona was quite enjoyable. The scenery and climate were constantly changing. We went from the low desert to the high desert, into the mountains, to the Grand Canyon, then by snow capped Mount Humphrey. After a day off in Flagstaff, we stayed up around 7,000 feet before descending from the Mongollan Rim back into the desert. We have now climbed over the mountains and into New Mexico, crossing the Continental Divide for the 7th and final time.
Along the way the met many fascinating and generous folks. From Jim and Val Perry in Prescott to Gabe and Casey our hosts in Flagstaff. Kathy Collins, our Reach Out and Read Contact in Flagstaff was extremely helpful. She chauffered us around town and made an excellent dinner. Absolute Bikes in Flagstaff also hooked us up with a generous discount as we needed some new bike supplies. And, of course, we are still dining on wonderful Annie's Mac 'n Cheese courtesy of our sponsor Annie's Homegrown.