Days 47 — 50: Hot Trails to Austin
After parting ways with Emma we’ve pressed consistently harder to make Austin by the end of the week — it now appears we’ll miss by only a day; not bad for a 542 mile stretch. This collapsed post is what I mustered after several 100 mile days in 100 mile heat. — Kyle
Day 47: Morgan City => New Iberia
Distance: 50 mi.
Song of the Day: Bunk Johnson — Tiger Rag 2
Old Spanish Trail jaunt plugged on with an occasional irate trucker or pavement split or gap keeping us alert, sweeping clouded skies overhead. We’ve lost a sizable portion of our electronics gear due to unforgiving southern thunderstorms and rainstorms, including our beloved ‘shower’ speaker; yet most miles Lizzie and I are silent, observant. We’ll pick up another speaker in Austin and we’ll use the incentive to get us there.
Met Kathy in New Iberia, who roaringly told stories about her property, her 100 year-old house and the cottage we’ll be squatting in, complete with a toilet hooked up to a hot water line (accidentally?) such that it steams when flushed. Kathy showed us her scarring from nine tracheal surgeries in a single year — tough year — and we jetted around the corner to sample Bon Creole’s cajun cuisine.
Between goopy drips of my chicken and sausage gumbo Kathy recounter the history of the ‘Acadiens’, her people, originally French descendents inhabiting Nova Scotia — but the French didn’t want ‘em so they packed them onto boats and sailed them up and down the coast. Spain eventually said “they’re Catholic aren’t they, we’ll take ‘em” and pur them in Louisiana. I prefer Kathy’s rendition to Wikipedia’s but here it is:
The history of the Acadians was significantly influenced by the six colonial wars that took place in Acadia during the 17th and 18th century (see the four French and Indian Wars, Father Rale’s War and Father Le Loutre’s War). Eventually, the last of the colonial wars — the French and Indian War — resulted in the British Expulsion of the Acadians from the region. After the war, many Acadians came out of hiding or returned to Acadia from the British Colonies. Others remained in France and some migrated from there to Louisiana, where they became known as Cajuns, a corruption of the word Acadiens or Acadians. Wiki
After my first bowl of gumbo (there were multiple) Arthur, another warm showers guest, bolted in. 19 years old and from San Francisco with tree trunk legs and horn rimmed glasses, Arthur ate about 5,000 calories of shrimp served in various ways, and compared his suntan lines with Lizzie’s. Arthur rides a trek (it may have been carbon?) with two rear Ortliebs and a large rolled sack tucked underneath his handlebars. He showed me a Spotify playlist he created with about 250 songs most of which feature the lyric ‘bicycle.’ (Lizzie — add the link!)
Kathy’s house also contained Will’s collection of antique and eccentric fans — over 170 in the house in total — you wouldn’t want to get your hand caught in any of them. My favorite (pictured middle above) rotated by flipping a plate, the kickback from which exerted a drag effect, turning the fan to one side until it hit an internal wall at which point the metal panel would flip again to rotate the fan in the opposite direction.
In the morning, I made coffee for Arthur and Lizzie; we shared fourteen pieces of french toast, ate some omelets, and set off, Arthur heading East towards New Orleans.
Day 48: New Iberia => Sulphur
Distance: 114 mi.
A small error in route calculation turned a 90 mile day into a massive 100+ (we had set our target inappropriately on Lake Charles, not Sulphur farther to the West.) Fortuitously, we found a crystal smooth bike path paved from stretching from nowhere near Youngsville, LA. But unless the US goes the way of rural China, what has been ‘nothing’ will soon become much more: thousands of brand new homes have been constructed here, houses or condominiums, nested in artificial subdivisions and matrixed by small towns, upscale strip malls, and soccer complexes. Perplexed by I asked my friend Marysunny, from Baton Rouge, about this area of Louisiana: without prompting she replied, “it’s a good place for a soccer tournament.”
1PM: Subdivisions fizzled out into farm pastures; beat it down a stretch of block-like farm roads with no cars for twenty miles, tracing occasional rectangles when a westroad road dead-ended, no roads particularly better or worse than the last, all named ‘3430' or ‘2544.' Plenty of entertaining crows, though, spurring countless animal noise imitations, as surrogate for running out of things to say.
Day 49: Sulphur => Beaumont
Distance: 60 mi.
Last night Rachel, a widowed Warm Showers host, took us to Coconuts for dinner. We watched a live country/folk music performance; we also watched Rachel dance with a few of her friends. Though the genre has grown on me, thanks to Son Volt and Cracker, I’d still dance to just about any kind of music except country…
After some fun with Rachel’s border collie and some sympathy for the blind and deaf pitbull, as well as a couple handfuls of hard-as-in-bursting ripe blackberries, we set off.
Flat tires and other meddlesome impediments reduced the changes of a very strong biking day; I noticed my rear wheel had become surprisingly out of true. Upon investigating, a couple of spokes were massively divergent in their tension, to the point where I thought they were actually broken at the head. Without an available means to reduce weight from the rear of the bike, we made the determination to cut short and head off our higher crossing into Texas down into Beaumont today, where we had “Joe” a Warm Showers host available.
First stop in town was the local bike shop. Lizzie wowed a few locals with her road warrior tales while I got my spokes checked it. Don, the mechanic, had some bad news for me: in addition to some hairline splits, one spoke has begun pulling itself away from the rim, cracking and bending the aluminum. Don’s advice? Replace it ASAP. Do they have the right parts in their store? Nope. I went to BikeForums for a second opinion and my research dug up the following:
Without seeing the crack in person, and its relation to the wheel design, it’s hard to tell how serious it might be (or even whether it’s structural vs cosmetic). A good bike shop mechanic should be able to look at it, though, and tell you if it’s a valid concern.
The most likely danger is that the spoke will pull through and give you the equivalent of a busted spoke. (Can we say “busted” here, or will the literary police get on our tail?) Anyway, that’s an inconvenience but unlikely to result in a crash. The odds of the crack migrating through to the side of the rim such that a section of the sidewall might separate (or the brake pad grab violently) is pretty small, but real. You should check the crack after every ride, at least (and maybe after every 20 miles or so while riding), to make sure it’s not spreading. If the crack spreads over onto the sidewall at all you should stop using the rim ASAP.
The question will be: do we side track into Houston to fix the problem — thus side tracking a second time from our original route farther north — or will the wheel hold until Austin?
5PM: Joe who lives only 1.7 miles from the bike shop; we crash in his spare room and enjoy the company of his energetic yellow-eyed black cat, Jim. Joe insists on making us dinner, a vegetable curry with homemade naan bread, none of which is spared. Joe is currently an engineer by trade and runs triathalons, iron mans and ultramarathons. He offers me a ‘second second’ opinion on my wheel: staring at it quietly for twenty seconds, he calculates, then pronounces his judgment: “Doesn’t look like the rim is structurally compromised.”
Day 50: Beaumont => Tomball
Distance: 101 mi.
Lizzie gets an early morning front flat; while sussing out the repairs we lean the bikes on a road sign forming the only object in view perpendicular to the road, where Texas traffic now hisses and whizzes by at 70 MPH. Suddenly I feel pinching and burning — I look down and I’m standing on a nest of fire ants. Having some familiarity with these cretans by now, I yell FIRE ANTS while running away and conducting an impromptu boot dance; there are hundreds of red ants swarming up my cleats, socks and calves. Lizzie throws down her bike and hunches down to help me bat, smack and fling every last ant away.
Two miles down the road I reflect on how lucky I am to have a life partner who will fling down her bike and pluck fire ants off my legs with me.
Five miles down the road I’m still swatting at my legs — a few stragglers had been encased in clay on the bottom of my shoes, apparently freeing themselves to further cannibalize my skin.
2PM: Pass Dayton and turn onto Farm to Market Road 1960 towards Atascocita, cutting across Lake Houston. Atoscocita is a busy hive of strip malls, which can only mean one thing: Smoothie King! We seek one out and use one of the gift cards Andrea gave us, a holdover from her years as a language instructor. There’s money on it and we pay nothing for a 40 oz, 1100 calorie “Super Nutty Grain” smoothie.
Lizzie spots the Jessie H Jones Park and Nature Center on the map; storm clouds rage to the north, but we decide to enter the park regardless — besides, our current road was mall-like, pedestrian. We’re in the middle of the woods, miles from civilization or aid when the sky opens up and dumps its spiky-hard rain on us. Our bodies become the same temperature as the rain-forest surrounding us — skin, gloves, tires, road, sky, air, it’s all suddenly porous. Laughing, signing in awe, occasionally panting, or shaking out our numb hands. For ten miles, wants, needs and desires vanish outright.
Could it happen for longer?
Sagging along 100+ miles into the ride, we reach the campsite — it’s entirely free as Lizzie had attested and I had doubted. Pitch the tent under gloom burst skies; everything works in syncopation now, ground mat down first, pinch it together with the tent, click clack one pole, two poles, hitch them up, rain fly on, dry today’s shammies and socks, rain proof everything. We’re becoming professional at a skill that won’t make us any money and isn’t for sale.
Aaron, a friendly islander takes note of our bustle, walks over, he’s from Guam and camping with extended family. Aaron walks away after some banter, then returns with two paper plates constructed into a clam, the belly stuffed with delicious morsels: grilled asparagus, squash and zucchini, a flat piece of spiced steak, a marinated, smoky chicken leg; finally a bowl of tangy rice with carrots and beans. Aaron says, “In Guam we share everything all the time. It’s so small and everybody knows everyone else. That’s why I’m sharing with you.”
