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..........