Author: amy

We’ve reached El Paso, our last stop in Texas. We’re right on the border, at the intersection between Mexico, Texas, and New Mexico. We liked El Paso so much we decided to spend three days here, shopping, cooking and relaxing after our trip through the Chihuahuan desert.

After leaving Marfa, we rode on old highways and frontage roads, sandwiched between the Southern Pacific rail lines and I-10. As traffic (and business) moved to the interstate, the towns along these routes have faded. I found the empty downtowns melancholy, but quietly pretty, with their sun-bleached vintage signs and overgrown cacti. It’s an odd contrast from the over-eager prosperity of Marfa.

On the approach to El Paso we found improbable farmland in the middle of the desert. There were pecan plantations, cotton fields, and bright green, irrigated pastures. On Thursday, we entered the suburb of Fabens, and saw our first stoplight in weeks. Instantly there were cars, people, and commercial activity. After all our time in the desert, where every gas station and store was a highly anticipated event, I think my brain forgot how to handle all the stimulation of civilization. I found the sights, sounds and traffic of El Paso overwhelming at first, and I felt oddly emotional when I saw the abundance of Albertson’s, our local giant grocery store.

It’s impossible to be here without thinking of “The Wall” and the other political inanity of the last year. El Paso itself is a city divided, with the Rio Grande splitting it into into El Paso and Ciudad Juárez. After spending almost two weeks biking along the US/Mexico border, I can’t help but note the tight link between our two countries. Far-west Texas is evidence of that, with a culture that’s neither exactly American nor Mexican, but a bilingual blend of the two. All we’ve learned about Texas history makes it clear that the border has always been complex, shifting, and porous. And seeing the mind-boggling emptiness of the desert itself drives home the absurdity of building any kind of wall there at all. I’m sure it’s a trope – young woman travels, discovers borders are arbitrary! – but how much more enlightened would we be if we were able to speak about Mexico with the same words we use for our neighbors to the north?

Tomorrow we’ll leave Texas for New Mexico. We’ve spent 5 weeks in Texas, longer than in any other state. I’m a bit sad to be leaving. I’ve grown fond of riding here – the wide shoulders and quiet roads; chili and tamarind flavored everything; avocados that are cheaper than apples. However, I’m proud of us for completing such a huge and challenging part of our trip. Our next trial will be the high passes of New Mexico!

We’ve reached Del Rio! It’s a true border town, within spitting distance of Mexico. I knew we were close when we started seeing border patrol vans everywhere, plus one helicopter.

We were anticipating that the food here would be exceptional, and I’m happy to report that it is. The usual Tex-Mex looks the same, but tastes fresher, more vegetal and less greasy. There’s also much more Mexican food that’s not part of that canon – we tried a few new things from a food truck, using the strategy of “I’ll have what she’s having,” and it was all delicious.

The terrain we rode to get here was hugely varied for only about a hundred miles. In two days we went from hills, to ridges, into a river valley and out into the desert. We’ve been crossing rivers and creeks since we left Austin, but suddenly the bridges started spanning empty beds of gravel. Wild trees of any size have all but disappeared, replaced by lichen-covered scrub that reminds me a bit of Cape Cod. Even the cows have given way to sheep and goats.

Yesterday we rode 75 miles to get here, with only one real rest stop – which is a good taste of what we can expect for the rest of the West Texan desert. We took today off to fully resupply ourselves, so we’re ready to handle several days without groceries, and to carry more water when necessary. I’m not sure what to expect for the next few days – especially in terms of headwinds and cellphone access – but at least we’re well prepared for it.

In almost every state, people tell us a variation on the joke: “if you don’t like the weather, just wait 10 minutes.” Texas has been the state that embodies that the most. We were waylaid by sub-freezing temperatures in Johnson City, Texas, for two days. We did an experiment to see if we could bike, putting on all of our clothes and walking outside. It became clear that riding was going to be miserable, so we decided to stay until conditions improved. That’s one lesson we’ve learned. You can hypothesize about the average temperature as much as you like, but it doesn’t matter much when the actual weather is setting records.

Staying in Johnson City (population: 1,656) had its perks. The highlight for me was visiting Ronnie’s Pit BBQ. It was the kind of place I fantasize about on this trip. The meat is smoked and served by Ronnie, member of a multigenerational legacy of pit masters. His grandfather, we were told, made barbecue for LBJ on his ranch. We saw Ronnie outside on Monday, in the freezing weather, feeding the smokers. On Tuesday, we were first in line for plates of brisket. Brisket had been on my must-eat list in Texas, so I was happy I got to try it from a master of the art. The smokey crust was perfect, and the interior was tender and wonderfully beef-y.

The cold front passed after two days, bringing us back to highs in the 50s. We’re far enough west that the blizzards of the east coast don’t affect us, which means we’ve been able to ride again. We’ve been biking on scenic byways and bumpy ranch roads, riding over cattle grates and spooking cows. I realized today that I’ve never ridden somewhere so depopulated. The countryside is divided into ranches, but you can go miles between the gates naming each one. If you stop, all you hear is the wind. We’ve gone half an hour without seeing a single car. Given that, I was surprised to learn that Hill Country is also a big draw for tourists. Every forty miles or so there’s a town, and in each, the restaurants and stores aren’t the all-purpose, rural sort I expected. Instead, we’ve found wineries; expensive leather goods; fine art and fancy bakeries.

Our next major destination will be Del Rio, the end of map page four! We’ve conquered two 500′ climbs on the way, with one more to go.

Texas has lived up to our grand expectations. I want to call the landscape “alien,” but that’s not exactly right – it’s only alien to me. It’s wide open and rolling; it seems wild, less shaped by human influence. Over the last week we rode out of the bayous, through the heavily-logged woodland, and out into ranch country.

It’s a good thing we gave ourselves a lot of time to reach Austin before Christmas, because we’ve encountered hills, headwinds, and rain. But halfway up some sweaty climb, I realized I was actually enjoying myself. It’s been fun to be challenged on the bike again. Three months ago I would’ve told you I’d be glad to never see a hill again, but after months of flat-and-straight roads, I suppose I was wrong. It got boring. Shifting and steering on hilly terrain takes up a lot more mental space, so it’s easier to get out of your own head. Plus, it’s a very good workout, so it does a better job saturating those endorphin receptors.

Measured by our peanut butter consumption, there’s been a corresponding uptick in our appetites. (Current record: 2/3 of one jar in a day.) Texas, fortunately, has delighted us with its food, especially the Mexican cuisine. I bought some $2 tacos from the back of a grocery store, and they were better than anything I could’ve ever gotten in Brooklyn. The stores, too, have totally different stock. Right over the Texas border we started seeing a huge variety of peppers, beans, and tortillas, along with interesting condiments (chili-lime salt!), instant micheladas, and a variety of imported Mexican sweets.

Culturally, Texas is more self-referential than other states. The shape of Texas seems to be a popular motif. I don’t think I could recognize any other state flag, but I’ve seen enough of the Lone Star to remember it. It made more sense to me once I actually read the historical background on the back of our map – Texas was (briefly) its own country! Perhaps Texans are just embracing that part of their identity. I feel like there’s a little more bite to the culture here, a little more independence. Maybe it’s all the gun jokes. Still, we’ve met a lot of big-hearted people over the last week: our Warmshowers hosts in Coldspring, the owners of Checkpoint Harley, and a fellow in Burton who bought us a coke and paid for our dinner that night.

Tomorrow we’ll be in Austin, which I hear is a very different sort of place. We’re looking forward to taking a week off there, and having a proper Christmas celebration together!

Most transitions while bike touring are subtle. Plants and animals come and go, architecture gradually changes, the profile of the land becomes more hilly or flat. This last week was an exception.

First, the weather. In New Orleans, our hottest day hit 80 degrees. When we left, we were waylaid by a freezing temperatures and a freak Lousiana snowstorm. Apparently it snows here maybe once or twice a decade. We’re not equipped for cold rain, let alone sleet and snow, so we waited it out in a hotel in Laplace. This experience was made significantly more cheery by sharing it with our new friend, Tomasz. Once the weather cleared, we rode together as a trio for several days through Baton Rogue and over the Mississippi.

We really enjoyed having a third rider. The three of us had a blast talking and sharing stories over the finest wine offered by our local Lousiana gas station. Tomasz rode faster and harder than us, which gave us someone to catch. He had never tried Warmshowers before, so we were able to introduce him to its joys with an exceptional stay with Mark in Baton Rogue.  We didn’t realize that despite being more remote, the Southern Tier has far more cyclists than the Atlantic Coast route, so making a friend here was an unexpected delight. We were sad to part ways so that he could make his flight out of Houston.

Crossing the Mississippi this week was another abrupt change. After a short climb over the Audubon bridge, we descended into an entirely new landscape. The terrain became very wide and very flat. We saw children riding horses around the neighborhood, a cow feed store, and a dead coyote: we’re definitely not on the East Coast any more.

The next few days wound through the plains of Cajun country. There’s a deep food culture here – it feels genuine, a cuisine that’s obviously treasured by those who make it. Everyone seemed to enjoy asking us what we’ve tried and telling us what we should eat next. Over the last few days we’ve had beans with rice and sausage, gumbo, and boudin, but the most magical experience was my encounter with cracklins. I was riding out of a small grocery store, when an older man struck up the usual conversation – where we’re from, where we going. All of a sudden, he said “WAIT! Girl, I got a early Christmas present for ya!” He reached into his truck and and pulled out a little brown paper lunch sack. “CRACKLINS!” he shouted. Perfect, irresistible little fried nuggets of pork. The magic cracklins put a grin on my face for the next twenty miles.

The friendliness of people we’ve met over the last few days has been overwhelming. We haven’t actually handled our own meals in a day and a half. Our host in Deridder, Mandie, fed us dinner and breakfast. A women we met left us a bag of frozen soup on her porch so we’d have something to heat up for lunch. And our host tonight, at a church in Kirbyville, bought us dinner.

Kirbyville brings me to our final abrupt transition: we crossed the border into Texas. It’s hard to overstate how large Texas has loomed in our conception of this trip. About one third of the Southern Tier route is through Texas. Border-to-border, it takes most riders about a month to cross it. We’ve heard stories about the endless western deserts inducing madness in those who ride them. Neither of us can stop humming Thunderstruck. We’ve spent months joking about “just wait until we’re in Texas,” and now we’re finally here.

We had a long, relaxed visit to my family in Massachusetts. This was a little different from my typical trip home for Thanksgiving. Usually I spend part of it working from home – this year, we had a whole week just to visit.

Jim and I put that extra time to good use. We cooked six dishes for Thanksgiving dinner; cut down a Christmas tree; took a family trip to the gun range; ate at two separate breakfast restaurants; threw Jim a 30th birthday party; went into Somerville three separate times (and ate Anna’s burritos twice); cleaned and sorted our bike gear; saw every friend we know in Cambridge; watched the new Pixar movie; and got Richardson’s Ice Cream. All in addition to the highlight of the week, the familial Thanksgiving celebration.

I’m glad we were able to take a break. There are definitely things I miss while touring – like pajamas, real kitchens, and the indoor lighting and space to do projects. I caught up on a lot of physical rest, as well as socialization. Visiting people remains one of the most meaningful parts of this trip to me, so seeing my entire family and most of my closest friends was really satisfying.

At the end of my visit, my dad asked if I missed being on the road yet. I realized I don’t miss very much about camping, but I do start to crave the novelty of touring. I’m not tired yet of being somewhere new every day.

Yesterday we flew back to Pensacola and picked up our bikes. It felt surreal to get on a flight to somewhere I had so little connection. It didn’t help that Pensacola is a tiny airport, so we had to take two slightly terrifying flights on a bus-sized 37-seat plane. But once we set up in our motel with the bikes, it felt almost like we had never left. Today, once we finish our errands, we’ll start traveling west again. We’re back to having no deadlines, so we’ll ease back into it.

 

We’re back in Massachusetts!

One of the things I found a little funny about Florida was how fall decor shared the same signifiers of fall in New England – leaves, pumpkins, what have you – despite how incongruous these things were. I painted this fellow to be a Florida cornucopia, with the citrus and oysters that are actually seasonal there.

Now, of course, we’re back where leaves actually fall. I’m excited to see everyone and have our traditional, very New England Thanksgiving celebration.

We’ve had two companions for the last week: the Gulf coast, and State Route 98.

I can’t say enough nice things about the Gulf. The Gulf itself is shallow, so it has beautiful, aqua water, which reminds me of the Caribbean. Someone informed us that the beaches are “sugar sand” – white quartz that squeaks under your bare feet. I had a brief, but perfect, mid-bike-ride nap on one of those beaches.

Our experience with 98 has been more mixed – it’s taken us through every different flavor of Florida Gulf life, from the rural to the urban.

We started with two nights on the Forgotten Coast. I’m not sure if that name is tongue-in-cheek, but it did feel like an area time forgot, with miles of perfect, abandoned roads leading to the sleepy fishing villages of Franklin County. We took our sweet time riding through this stretch, stopping in each little town.

The first and most memorable of these was Carabelle, where we spent 45 minutes shooting the shit with a group of retirees on the docks. I felt like I had lived there for decades. We also took breaks in Apalachicola and Port St. Joe. These towns gave me a glimpse into why people like the slower pace of living down south.

The cute towns disappeared shortly after turning the corner around Saint Joseph Bay. We then had to spend the better part of a day riding through Tyndall Airforce Base. The base was funny on a bicycle – between the ominous signs like “KEEP OUT” and “Ordinance Disposal Field” was the occasional “Share the Road”. The only other entertainment I had for 20 miles was to watch the jets lazily circling above. We stayed in Panama City, which consisted mostly of strip malls catering to the base. Jim, with his fresh buzz cut, accidentally got us a military discount on our dinner.

We escaped Panama City and the route changed again. We swung onto 30A and it was suddenly the unforgotten coast. These communities were wealthy and clearly gearing up for tourist season. Besides the usual beach-town milieu of rental homes with cutesy names, t-shirt shops and cruiser bikes, we passed through some particularly eerie planned communities. While we rolled our eyes at the overpriced, cheesy atmosphere, we did enjoy all the well-appointed public beach access.

Finally, 30A shunted us back onto 98, which suddenly widened and sped up as we entered the suburban sprawl around Pensacola. Another 50 miles of very forgettable riding brought us to the final three-mile bridge into the city, and the end of our detour from the Southern Tier.

This weekend has been spent prepping for our flight to Boston. Yesterday we dropped off our bikes at the shop, and I felt a pang of separation anxiety. I’ve been constantly on, or near, my bike for more than two months now, which made leaving it in the care of strangers disconcerting. Somewhere between dropping a car off at the shop and boarding a beloved pet.

Even though we’re just taking a break, this flight back to Boston seems like the end of a chapter for us. I’m not sure how it will feel to jump home, across the country, in a single day – but I feel good about how much we’ve accomplished so far.

We took a rest day at a campground by the beautiful Ichetucknee Springs state park. While Jim went on a resupply mission, I spent the day swimming and kayaking. (Thank you, Jim!)

Growing up, every summer we’d take a trip to Water Country. One of my favorite rides there was the lazy river. I was delighted that Ichetucknee Springs form a natural lazy river, winding through mangroves and teeming with wildlife. I saw herons, turtles, and leaping fish – plus a brief glimpse of an otter! I also got to take a dip in the Blue Hole and Head springs, which were as clear as bottled water.

The Florida State Park motto is “The Real Florida”, which makes me smile. I’m not much for theme parks as an adult, so I’m happy to experience the solitude and natural beauty of the real thing.