1999 December

Christmas breakfast at Denny’s may not sound like a jubilant event, but we make it one. They serve us some surprisingly good food. It seems like a long, leisurely, luxurious meal. We talk and talk.

It’s cold and rainy out. Determined to stick to our plan, I set out on the bike and Dad agrees to follow me in a couple of hours. I throw my heavy bags in his car, but with the wind blowing in my face I don’t feel much difference. I manage 36 cold miles before he passes me in a light snow. I’m soaking wet, and I’ve decided I’m a fool to spend time like this when my dad is here. I propose that we try to get my bike in the car. He doesn’t think it can be done, but he doesn’t have my vision (or 70 freezing wet miles on a bike in front of him). He gets my seat and wheels in the back, and I tie the frame in the trunk. Shivering and happy, I climb in the passenger seat and we go. The speed of an automobile looks and feels unearthly. The miles go by so fast, in a blur. Soon the shoulder is encased in snow and ice, and I’m happy with my decision. I’m cold enough as it is in the car in my wet gear, but I happily talk away, like a dream.

We make Sante Fe in time to indulge in a movie, then set out for Dixon in search of my old friend Bill. I haven’t ever been to the house he lives in now, but I remember he said it was near the place Camella used to live in Apodaca, so I go there. I’m surprised I remember the way. The lady there now is surprised to get a visit from two tall white guys on Christmas night, but she’s friendly. She points to an empty house beyond a fence, and tells us Bill has moved. She describes his new whereabouts and I set off, but fail to find it. I knock on a few doors without luck. As a last resort I drive back to Embudo, past the old El Quinto Sol where Bill and I used to sling pasta, to Javier’s house. I haven’t seen Javier in 4 years, and I don’t know his parents except that his dad has a reputation for being hostile to anglos, and I don’t remember their last name. I’m thankful when Javier answers the door. He hasn’t changed a bit - he’ll never leave home. We’ve always treated each other well, though, and he describes Bill’s new pad in more detail. One more exhaustive search and I find it. It’s dark. Dad and I approach and knock, glued to the window. Soon a very tired, hoarse, disheveled Bill appears. He’s alone and has been sick, but perks up fast. Before we know it we are eating delicious fresh food and drinking good beer. The reunion is on.

The drums work into a frenzy again and again during the night. Not loud, just present whenever I surface from sleep. They’re still going calmly when I leave in the morning.

I get another cactus flat and fix it in the breeze. Amazingly, the sky is still the same as it has been for days. Again I fight the wind to make my way north.

Carlsbad is visible for a long distance, lights at the bottom of a strange, grey rock hill. A gun toting rancher named Gary pulls over to invite me to his place for Christmas if I have nowhere to go.

After breakfast in Carlsbad the wind dies down and the riding becomes pleasant at last. It feels good to look out over the New Mexico plains. The miles fly by, and by evening I’m rolling into Roswell. One place my dad and I had considered meeting tomorrow was “the museum”. I see now there are at least six museums here, including a UFO/space alien museum.

Shopping for a room, I call Mom to make sure Dad hasn’t somehow made it to Roswell also. No reports from him, but Mom is smart and gets my motel’s name and phone number. After I have rounded up some snacks and gotten comfortable, my phone rings. Dad is here! Mom connected us. He comes over and we have a tired but emotional reunion before retiring to our rooms.

I am truly thankful when the tire holds air. I pick up a couple of burritos on my way out of town. It’s cold and windy again, but that patch of clear sky is still up north. I go for it. The terrain is much flatter today, with very little variation. Dirt, rock, cactus, brush.

Pecos is moribund. The sign says the population is 12,300, but it looks like there are about 1,000 people left. Lots of rundown buildings. When I ask for directions to the library at the Chamber of Commerce, they send me to a boarded-up, graffiti-covered brick building. I decide to grab a bite and get out. I eat a burrito in a convenience store, standing around looking at magazine covers to stay warm.

The terrain doesn’t change. The only new sights are history markers which tell about nearby trails, dams, or town sites. At one a grey-haired woman pulls up in her car to find out what I’m up to. She owns a ranch nearby and has been running it for 60 years. It’s 140 sections - ranches have to be big around here, she says. The only other business is oil. She’s worries that none of her sons will want to run the place. She’s tough, but how much longer can she manage a job that big, I wonder? Then she turns motherly, wanting to make sure I’m prepared for a cold night. She’s not quite satisfied with my answers, but leaves me to my fate and heads back to her spread.

When I reach the New Mexico border, the grass comes back and takes over. Now it spreads away in great soft fields. I find a spacious, sheltered aqueduct beneath the road and set up for the night there. The sky is still the same, clear to the north, cloudy to the south. I hear a distant drum, like a ceremony is happening somewhere out there.

It’s cold again this morning, but only a few miles into Sanderson for breakfast. After that I try to return to a state of no expectations for another day’s ride. I need some kind of help to get there. It’s foggy, windy, and bitterly cold. It’s also uphill, and progress into the wind is painfully slow. I fall into despair and frustration a few times, but manage to keep going. After a few hours I see a patch of blue sky to the north, which gives me hope.

Ft. Stockton is a big, spread out place. A few Mexican natives hanging out by their auto shop ask me friendly questions, one translating for the others. They are especially interested in how much pussy I’ve gotten, having travelled so far. I’m afraid they find my lack of juicy tales a colossal failure. I stop for lunch at a tiny Mexican joint. The waitress is friendly and really pretty, and I consider trying to improve my record. I find no opportunity to flirt with her though, it’s just not in me.

Looking for an indoor phone, I find one coveniently located in a Dairy Queen, so I have a banana split between calls. When I come out my rear tire is flat. I find three punctures, patch them, and pull two cactus thorns out of the tire. I put it all back together and inflate it at a service station. I can still hear a leak, so go through the whole thing again, finding one more tiny thorn. Frustrated at the waste of time, I head out of town at a good clip. By the time I hit the city limits the tire is flat again. I put some more air in, turn around, and go to a Motel 6 for a room.

I make some calls looking for a new tire, but no luck. So I painstakingly clean and patch the tire and tube in my room. I also get some good news from Dad - he got some time off for Christmas! We make plans to meet on Christmas day between Vaughn and Roswell, NM.

I’m up early, grab a couple of breakfast burritos to eat in my warm room, then ride north out of Del Rio in a chilly mist. I have no expectations, no landmarks or towns to anticipate, nothing to do but ride until I’m tired. This helps me reach a very open, present state of mind which in turn helps me cope with the icy wind and desolate landscape. I don’t think about anything coming up ahead because I don’t expect it to be any different from where I am. I sink into a timeless rhythm.

The spell is broken here and there. I stop at a little store for a break. The Pecos canyon startles me with its grandeur. An entire little town is devoted to relics of a legendary eccentric old west law man, Judge Roy Bean, “the only law west of the Pecos”.

I ride until I’m weary, watch the sun sink behind the mesas, and fall asleep on the rocky ground under a giant moon.

Captain Nemo, Nobody, flees an evil world to inhabit the symbol of its nemesis.

I expect a tough, hilly morning and I get it, but I also have fun. The road twists, climbs, and dives over the wrinkled land. I’m only a bit exhausted as I swoop down into Leakey. Suddenly the temperature drops, a bitter wind rises, and I scramble in hopes of a warm place to eat.

I bundle up and set off for another 20 miles of hills. They turn out to be a little gentler, and again I enjoy the ride more that I expect.

At Camp Wood I happily turn south for 18 miles of nice downriver and downwind road. It’s a restful, sunny hour. Then I turn west again on a tiny road. I ride on it for a long time, feeling like I’m a million miles from anywhere. The yellow grass disappears, leaving only rocks, cactus, weeds, and chemise.

When I reach US90 I don’t like the feel of the little town there. I’m hungry, but there’s no inviting place to eat. The thought of camping here is even less inviting. Del Rio is 32 miles away, and it’s 3:30 pm. Earlier in the trip I never would have attempted it, but after the mileages I’ve been doing I decide I can do it. My legs feel tired, but by 5 I’ve made it as far as the Air Force base. There I get a flat. I find that a little noise I have been ignoring was my brake pad destroying my tire. I get it to hold air with a heavy patch and move on, watching the airplanes training. By nightfall I have new tires, food, and a motel room in Del Rio. I manage to put the new tires on despite my exhaustion.

Another cold, cloudy, windy morning. It’s right back into the hill country out of Blanco. I throw myself into the task. These hills are tough. They’re getting more barren now - more rock, more prickly pear, and fewer junipers and other scrubby trees.

Finally I start a series of dives into the Guadalupe River valley. When I reach the river I’m in farmland, and the banks are lined with a tall deciduous tree I don’t recognize. The trunks and roots stretching down into the river have a neat visual effect.

Hungrily I pedal over some stark, low hills toward I-10 and Comfort. I’ve been rolling that name around in my head for miles. It’s getting late, 10:30, and I’m hoping I can still find breakfast. I get lucky. The Double-D’s breakfast buffet is up until 11. I manage to put down 5 or 6 plates of food in my allotted time. Then I linger, enjoying the shelter from the cold and wind.

When I leave I realize I’m almost too stuffed to ride. Luckily I’m in for a nice break from the hills. I continue up the Guadalupe, rising ever so gently. In an hour I reach an ugly strip of town (Eckert?) along the river. Brazenly, I stop at a DQ and add a banana split to the mass of food in my belly. In this state of digestion hill climbing would be impossible, but my route kindly continues gently up the river. In fact it goes on and on this way, the river becoming a sort of tender companion. It’s extremely clear, sometimes wide and shallow, in spots narrow, deep, and mysterious. It nourishes small haciendas, resorts, and private ranches. The town of Hunt is just a store near an old mill. Here I make a wise purchase: a box of everlasting gobstoppers. I know the hills must resume at some point, and I don’t want to deal with them. The candy is intended for rewards to coax myself up any serious obstacles.

As the river continues the resorts get smaller along with it, and at last dry up. I’m back in an uninhabited land of hills. Grass, sage, rock, and cactus abound. The road continues to climb gently for a while. It isn’t until I turn south onto a smaller road that I hit tough climbs again. I find that the gobstoppers not only motivate me, but the flavors give the illusion of a big splash of juice in the mouth, and help stave off thirst. My stomach has settled down, and I begin to revel in my work.

I hear a noise by the road and am surprised to see a huge bull elk, winter coat hanging shaggy around his neck. His rack has too many points to count, at least eight apiece. He’s got some wire caught in his antlers and is moving slowly, dragging it along. I feel sad that I can’t help him. I go past, spotting his harem just down the road.

The country gets more and more twisted and wrinkled, until finally I plunge into a cold valley where the last maples live. I pull into the state park campground there, joining one other family. It’s getting dark and very cold. I pull the shower-before-bed trick again. On my way back to my site the family invites me over for fajitas. I put my gear away and return to meet Fernando, his wife Becky, and their two sons Chris and Emilio. I enjoy their company. We find constellations, discuss the hundred-year bright full moon, and tell campfire stories. When I go off to bed I take more warmth from them than I got from the shower.

The morning starts cold and gets colder. The wind comes up. It’s cloudy. By the time I reach Martindale I’m pretty miserable. It comes out in my phone calls to Mom and Dad. I’m outside on a payphone in the wind, and can’t pay attention. Then between Martindale and San Marcos the sun comes out and the wind dies down a bit. I stop at the library, get warm, and feel much better. I have a snack, and when I leave town it’s a bright, sunny, warmish day. I climb into some really pretty country. The climax is Wimberly, a really cute little town nestled in the red, rocky hill country. It’s clearly growing quickly. I can see it becoming a trendy Texan Sante Fe someday. I’m glad to have stolen a look at it before the strip malls and car lots find it.

This is the heart of the hill country. There are some tough climbs, but they’re rewarding. I enjoy the riding, keeping at it all the way into Blanco where I head for the state park. The gate is unmanned, so I just ride into the campground and set up. Some kids nearby offer me their company. A cute little girl who has never eaten an almond shares some from my bag. They come and go while I cook and eat dinner.

It’s getting really cold again tonight. I’ve caught a chill, so I take my clothes to the bathroom, take a delicious hot shower, then bundle up. It works wonderfully. The picnic tables are sheltered, so I just pick one, roll out, and go to sleep. I’m cozy all night.

William Penn and Independence are tiny, almost unnoticable farm and ranch towns. I see many grandiose ranch houses on hilltops, adorned with pillars and balconies. I go all the way to Burton before I find food. The Burton Cafe has been here forever and never changes. While I eat, a local lady gossips nonstop, whether anyone is listening or not. A mexican cowboy with a terribly scarred face cracks open a Budweiser which he drinks in silence, in lieu of a morning meal. A few other cowboys wander in, sometimes asking a polite question or two.

It’s still cold, so I book it through Round Top and Warrenton to La Grange. I’m debating whether to take the long, scenic bike route, or just cruise on highway 71 to Bastrop. The La Grange DQ has $2 banana splits, and this puts me in a good mood, so I opt for the scenic route.

I plunge north and downward out of La Grange in rolling country with sparse, srubby pinons and junipers. The road through Winchester is even sparser, but small and very light on traffic. Then I enter Beuscher State Park, and the woods fill out. The park road seems custom made for cycling, with short punchy hills, twisty turns, and no cars. I have a blast. The sun comes out and really gives the forest an inviting, fairy tale look. When I reach Bastrop State Park I consider camping, especially after I accidentally ride an extra-grueling loop. The thirst for miles wins out, though, and I move on.

In Bastrop I have a quick bite at Wendy’s, trading money for time again. I notice my rear tire is low, so I fill it at the service station and continue. A few miles later I find a strange little oak forest to camp in. Here I take the time to fix the rear tire, then pitch the tent and call it a day.