Day Forty Six: I’m Goin' to Raceland
Distance: 55 mi.
Song of the Day: Paul Simon — Graceland (“Raceland”)
Andrea and John reside in a 400sqft in the Bywater section of New Orleans. John hails from Baton Rouge and transitioned out of a teaching career to work in green energy and construction; Andrea grew up all over Spain, is quick to insist Barcelona’s neighboring towns are not suburbs but have their own strong and proud identities; she’s a multi-linguist who’s taught and nannied, and is now considering launching her own French and Spanish immersion program for New Orleans youth. Thanks to Daniela and Julia for putting us in touch with such wonderful people!
7:30AM: Not accustomed to sleeping in a van on New Orleans city streets, I rise all grim and chum, having enjoyed it immensely. Another roof of restriction blows off the big room that is my life: ‘now I can sleep anywhere!’
Knock on Andrea’s door, everyone’s more or less asleep, putt putt around putting things in order while Andrea makes coffee. I drink a quart of kefir milk and eat a large bowl of granola before setting off.
Emma, a new well-come hero enters the story. Having flown into New Orleans late night and slept near the airport, she’s now beating it downtown to meet us at a bike store, where she plans to outfit a bike and join us for a quick two-day tour of her own. Think about it — how did we become so lucky to attain friends like this? She flew in and bought a bike to ride with us! Emma’s running a bit late so we duck into Fair Grinds coffee on St Claude to kill some time, a stone’s throw from the bike shop we’ll meet at. We meet Rich and Katie, two fellow New Yorkers in the city for a short weekend; Rich is a watch dealer and Katie is an artist for an agency I know well.
11AM: Kick in the door to Gerken’s Bike Shop — familiar narrow walkway insulated with bikes, The Clash on the radio; no room for our bikes so I awkwardly bike my 95 lb bulker down the stairs and heave it to the side. Pass a few minutes with chatter about the gleaming mint Surly second in line by the window — that’s Emma’s bike all right! Brim with anticipation, when is Emma going to come bouncing in?!
She does and it’s marvelous. It takes a special person to board a plane with a toiletry bag, a bike helmet, and a computer (she’s a union lawyer managing a strike and picket actions.) Emma takes the 56cm Surly Straggler for a spin — it’s a hit! We outfit her with a rack suited for disc brakes, SPD hybrid pedals, a set of straps, black Ortlieb panniers, and a mint green water cage to match her new paint.
A surreptitious glance at Google Maps and we’re off, down St Claude to Canal, then we’ll juke our way down to the Algiers Ferry.
1PM: Depart the ferry at the mouth of Algiers Point, take a mixed recreation path hugging levees on the Mississippi’s quieter side, sportive Emma and I repartee while her shiny mint machine contests my lead. The levee banks slosh with 6 — 8 feet of water, Emma remarks on unusualness; route meanwhile winds through recycling plants, natural gas and oil refineries, a few dilapidated but plausibly functional shipyards; all a perfect compliment to Emma, labor activist and union attorney, now a pinstriped and pigtailed fellow traveler.
Ten miles in we ‘shortcut’ onto Route 90, subtracting unknown, unwarranted river meanderings; shoulder is littered and bumpy but wide. We take a brief respite from the heat in a CVS, Lizzie and I share a gatorade and everyone listens to Liz’s ever-gruesome beat poetry on the current level of sweat dribbling down her face. Sweat is soon replaced by a light rain, the sky tells us we’d better get used to it. The Old Spanish Trail emerges in Boutte, we spin onto it, followed by no traffic, beathe deep and shake out hands. Joke “Why did the old Spanish prefer this trail? What did they know the young ones didn’t?!”; ride side-by-side, Emma volleying between me in front and Lizzie behind, keeping all things equal.
I become absorbed in beguiling and mysterious bayou lands, ancient trees here sprouted from unknowable nations; churches lift abrupt isolated peaks to undisclosed sects; shack-trucks covered in porphyry-rust serve the ghosts of unseen people. A latino man works with tools and dies in shop covered by lithe tin; the same tools I always wished I could use, needed to use; always lacking the people, places, things or ideas to put me in front of them.
6PM: Mere miles from Raceland the sky tips sideways, pours into our helmets, gloves, goggles; we duck out from the worst of it in a gas station, AC blast casting an immediate chill effect. We eat four bananas and *almost* order reheated gas station mac n’ cheese (Lizzie!), but demur and choose a beer at the Daquiri bar next door to embolden our night run to Motel 90, where we’ll order Pizza Hut and convalesce. I shell and eat an entire bowl of peanuts, leaving a heap of shell debris in an ashtray; a man plays Waka Flocka songs at an insane pitch; then we venture off.
Motel 90 was a lovely choice; we shower and hunker into the room. Motel attendant is one-of-a-kind kind, offers to run our laundry for free! Lizzie and I sniff various stuffs and make a large pile in her hamper.
I could not have formulated this thought on the evening it embryonically took shape, but it comes to me now: Emma’s presence was comforting and energizing, as she sloucheed across the room, supporting her labor lockout into the night after Lizzie and I fell to slumber. To observe the grounding feeling of simply being in the presence of a person you care dearly about need not carry any specific spiritual significance or psychological paradigm; but something more powerful than introspection may be required to explain how a spirited human across the room may engender such a potent antidote to loneliness.
