The Awkward Pose

February 19, 2016 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 38

Miles to Date: 12,006

States to Date: 28

Although I have yet to cross the Louisiana state line, today was my first day in the South. Everything moved a bit slower, everybody was a bit more friendly, I got called ‘Sir’ more times than I prefer, and I shook lots of hands. The landscape is lush, the grand homes are symmetrical, the new homes squat on the ground. Downtowns are deserted, the far side of the tracks is very poor, and franchise chicken is ubiquitous. I saw as many signs for soul food and Cajun food as Mexican food and barbeque. People in this remote corner of Texas speak with a drawl.

I spent last night with an energetic young ExxonMobil engineer, this morning with the Republican candidate for the 136^th District Court Judge position, and the afternoon with the freethinking Education Coordinator for the Museum of the Gulf Coast, where I also got to wallow in Janis Joplin memorabilia. ‘Me and Bobby McGee’ is one of my favorite songs to sing on the shoulder.

In between I pedaled strong headwinds and climbed the levee that protects the City of Port Arthur, despite the fact that everybody left downtown years ago.

February 18, 2016 – Sun, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 86

Miles to Date: 11,968

States to Date: 28 

Closing in on 12,000 miles and spanning the breadth of Texas makes me an expert of sorts on one ornery aspect of distance cycling: heckling. Heckling is rare. Based on the counting and extrapolation my mind wanders to on long travel days, I figure over a quarter of a million cars have passed me so far. More have hassled me in Texas than all other states combined, but they still only number a few dozen. Yet hecklers loom large in my memory. Here are the seven forms of heckling I’ve endured so far, in order from what I consider most disgusting to almost delightful.

1. The Ashtray. Getting flicked with ashes from a passing pick-up passenger is the worst heckle I’ve suffered so far. It stings.

2. The Exhaust Cloud. I first got this in Yosemite National Park. A truck passes me, slows down, shifts into the shoulder, and then guns their engine, rocketing a plume of smoke in my face.

3. The scold. This heckle is the unique province of female drivers who are more interested in shaping behavior than displaying dominance. They slow their mini-vans down and yell at me, “get on the sidewalk.” Legally, cyclists are supposed to be on the road. In Houston a Hispanic woman chastised me to a sidewalk, even though there was none.

4. The honk. This is the most common heckle. It can be two beeps or a long, drawn out honk. Though some drivers may mean it as encouragement, it is still annoying. When I am riding lawfully I never acknowledge a horn, even when accompanied by a friendly wave. I don’t want to encourage it.

5. The swerve and skid. A hot shot slides into the shoulder in front of me and peels away. This is the most benign testosterone surge. Without an exhaust plume it’s neither dangerous nor uncomfortable. It’s easy to laugh away.

6. The spritz. I’ve only been squirted with water once. It was a warm afternoon and felt pretty good.

7. The joke. This heckle is actually fun. Two guys came upon me in Grant’s Pass OR. They shouted “nice ass”. Unfortunately for them, the light before us turned red, which allowed me to catch up. “Glad you like my butt.” I grinned at their odd taste in men. “We like to shout to cyclists but always say something nice. I explained that, “Telling a sixty-year-old man he’s got a nice butt is much more than nice.”

February 17, 2016 – Sun, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 31

Miles to Date: 11,882

States to Date: 28

What is art? What are our responsibilities to this planet and to each other? Are those two questions connected? This is what percolated through my mind as I navigated this robust, rich, impoverished, generous, selfish, confusing, amiable city.

I lingered with Lisa and Preston over pastries topped with fresh fruit and pecan cappuccino on their back porch because the morning was fine and their company sweet. I savor my opportunities to be with nurturing couples. Night work, living without a car in a city of freeways, and a porch overlooking concrete can’t diminish their affection. Preston reiterated a phrase I’ve heard from others who’ve found the right partner: “I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

Google map is way ahead of Houston. The city is in the process of connecting the bikeways along the bayous, but Google kept directing me on routes that don’t quite exist. As a result I ran a bit late all day.

Picah Mivan was waiting for me when I arrived back at Rice and The Pavilion. I was delighted to meet this graduate student who contacted me after reading my 1981 thesis, Architecture that Affords Play. I am astonished how our digital world promotes dissemination beyond all expectation. Micah and I sat on the grass rather than inside the glass box. “I like the form of The Pavilion, but I don’t like how it reinforces status. It’s a place to be seen eating overpriced food. It’s where the administration takes donors to ask for money.”

After a delicious lunch at the Montrose HEB, I visited the Menil Collection. Renzo Piano’s building is superb, the main collection is jaw dropping, the juxtaposition of contemporary and African art is insightful. Beyond Menil’s signature building is a campus of new and reused buildings, all painted the same muted taupe. Dan Flavin’s installation in a former grocery store begs the question, is this big space with an array of colored lights, artificially heated and cooled, employing a jovial guard who counts the people who stop by, an appropriate use of a building that once contributed to the community in a more fundamental way? It is less than it was, yet more than it would be if the Menil had not repurposed it.

I looked forward to visiting the Rothko Chapel; Rothko is my favorite artist. I wasn’t disappointed so much as being there at the wrong time in the wrong frame of mind. Mid-afternoon, the chapel is over bright, full of school groups and other tourists. There’s nothing contemplative about it beyond meditating on the reality that we humans have become incapable of quiet for even five minutes.

The chapel is one of Rothko’s last works, very somber, very dark. He killed himself not long after its completion. I realized that my connection with Rothko’s early work is stronger. Perhaps our younger selves possessed complementary perspectives. Rothko grew more depressed with age, while I have done the opposite. His late work does not resonate with me.

I pedaled away from the Menil with a hollow in my gut. There was something incongruous about the cerebral art scattered among bungalows. My senses were fully satisfied at Project Rowhouse, on the other side of the tracks. Rick Low purchased a block of shotgun houses in Houston’s Third Ward and turned each into a small gallery. He orchestrates two themed shows a year. Round 43 is now on display: Small Business/Big Change, Economic Perspectives from Artists and Artrepreneurs. The show includes five installations about the Black economic experiences and two pop-up stores, one with locally made soaps and herbs, the other baked treats by Ella Russell. The art at Project Rowhouse is not as refined; some is not that good. But what is good is very fresh. It was difficult for me to understand why Cy Twombly’s scribbles merit an entire building at the Menil while a comparable blackboard about Black experience will simply be erased when ‘Small Business/Big Change’ ends later this month.

The contradictions of my day continued. A fascinating conversation with Megan Parks on her decision to leave BP after fifteen years due to the chasm between personal and corporate beliefs preceded an evening with Mike Finley, an independent oil and gas entrepreneur in his duplex loft overlooking the city who advocates fewer constraints on energy exploration and extraction.

For a guy on a bike, some days I really get around.

February 16, 2016 – Sun, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 16

Miles to Date: 11,852

States to Date: 28

I rose with the sun and pedaled to the campus of Rice University, which ranks as one of the most attractive campuses of my trip. Boston architect Ralph Adams Cram came to Houston to design the campus over a hundred years ago. He developed an axial plan and eclectic Mediterranean style for the buildings such in polychrome and fantasy. He also lined the walks with live oaks which, although apparently not native to this area, have become signature landscape features.

The campus continued to develop along strict lines except for one sad addition, a 1940’s library that bisects the quad. Fortunately, Rice built two superb structures in the early 2000’s to mitigate the mess. Near the backside of the unfortunate library they built The Pavilion, a crisp white and glass space for hanging out. The simple form creates an airy indoor area, covered outdoor spaces, and extensive gardens. Though small in footprint, it manages to mask the library. At the far end of the long space Rice terminated the quad with a respectable School of Music Building, in the traditional Rice style, and then set James Terrill’s Skyspace in front of it, an echo the Pavilion’s taut whiteness. The two modernist elements are the exclamation points that make the entire ensemble coherent.

I enjoyed a trio of fascinating conversations. Ron Sass, Fellow for Climate Change at the Baker Institute and Rice Professor Emeritus met me at The Pavilion to talk about energy from the global to the molecular. I pedaled over to City Hall to meet Lisa Lin, Houston’s Sustainability Manager. Finally I walked across the plaza to the imposing One Shell Place to talk with Lyman Paden, attorney and partner at Baker Bott as well as an old high school friend who’s savvy to the comings and goings of his adopted hometown.

Then I cycled to the other side of town and stayed with a bartender and his girlfriend who prefer their unpretentious Mexican neighborhood to Houston’s hipster precincts.

February 15, 2016 – Sun, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 44

Miles to Date: 11,836

States to Date: 28

Riding through the exurbs of any American city is the least enjoyable part of my journey. Pedaling forty-four miles into Houston, the fifth largest metropolitan area, fastest growing among the top twenty, and notoriously ill willed toward cyclists, was simply a chore.

In order to gauge my progress across this featureless landscape littered with attention grabbing signage, I decided to stop at every five-mile interval and photograph whatever I saw at that point; a game we played in graduate school photography class. Can you find patterns in this urban cacophony?

Five miles

Ten miles

Fifteen miles

Twenty miles

Twenty-five miles

Thirty miles

Thirty-five miles

Forty miles

February 14, 2016 – Cloudy, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 75

Miles to Date: 11,792

States to Date: 28

My cycling Sunday began with a carb fest at my motel: oatmeal, raisin bran, sweet buns, and a machine that poops out pancakes. I definitely prefer the flip waffle maker, but I gave the pancakes a try. That breakfast fueled me over fifty miles through low-lying swamp,; cattle, goat and Brahmin ranches, rolling hills, and East Texas forests beneath dramatic clouds.

About fifty miles north of Houston I came up against exurban development. The prices of custom built home advertisements illustrated that this is pretty high rent part of the metropolis. But I still found plenty of down home Texas. I took a break among a group of guys with loud, revved muscle cars, mostly Mustangs. They drag raced down a Farm-to-Market road. I was surprised they were spinning cars along public pavement on a Sunday afternoon, though I appreciated that they picked a length of super smooth blacktop. I imagine their fun ended soon after I passed, as the Sheriff I saw heading their way after I left was zooming their way mighty fast.

I approached The Woodlands in time for a writing break, where I encountered my first open carry cowboy in Texas. His piece was rather modest, but a McDonald’s doesn’t require the same firepower as a saloon.

The Woodlands is a 1970’s era planned community that emphasizes the natural environment to the point of confusion. It’s also huge. For almost ten miles, loblolly pines dominate every winding road and serpentine bike path. Commercial signs are tiny, houses and apartments are hidden. I got where I needed to be by luck more than compass. Everything in this parcel of former swamp looks pretty much the same

February 13, 2016 – Cloudy, 65 degrees

Miles Today: 16

Miles to Date: 11,717

States to Date: 28

To understand the pivotal relationship that College Station TX has played in my life requires suspension of rational thought and action. Are you game?

Before I was born, before my parents were married, before my father fought in World War II, Mickey Fallon was a fresh recruit, a wannabe gunner. The army sent him to College Station for a few weeks training. He was enthralled by Aggieland.

My father went on 52 bombing missions over Germany, returned to his construction roots rather than get a GI Bill education, married a beautiful though incompatible woman, and banged out a bunch of kids. I am number four.

Through my youth, my seat at our kitchen table in Toms River, New Jersey, was crammed against the wall beneath a gigantic map of the United States. A thumbtack marked College Station, Texas. The taller I grew, the closer I got to Texas A&M.

My father, despite his own disinterest in college, wanted all of his sons to be Aggies. My oldest brother was accepted and joined the Corps of Cadets. Number Two didn’t have the grades, but my dad arranged for him to go to a Texas junior college that might serve as a feeder. By the time my sister went to a state school in nearby Nacogdoches, there were more Fallon kids in Texas then not. Dad put the pressure on mom to make the move to the Lone Star State. He almost succeeded. Mom agreed to leave New Jersey but refused to suffer the Texas heat. So, my parents negotiated a latitudinal meeting point along the 100^th meridian, which is how they wound up moving my little brother and me to Norman, Oklahoma in 1973. If you find logic in this process, welcome to my family.

My oldest brother dropped out of the Corps, and then out of A&M completely. My next brother never completed junior college. My sister escaped Texas by marrying her high school sweetheart. Still married 45 years later, she made a good choice.

My father never found his stride in Oklahoma. His business faltered. My mother went to work. She gained confidence. His dream dwindled. I never even applied to Texas A&M. Instead I returned back East, among the elites my father disdained.

Eventfully my parents divorced. Dad returned to New Jersey and married a young woman who made him very happy. Meanwhile all the other people he displaced stayed in Oklahoma or migrated further West.

Today was Aggieland Day at Texas A&M. I spent the morning in Memorial Union surrounded by eager high school students exploring this spirited place. It was easy to see what my father wanted for us. Texas A&M is a place of individual excellence and collective strength; bursting with pride of purpose.

One could discount my father’s dream as a failure; none of his sons are Aggies. But that sprawling map on the wall of my childhood kitchen was my first introduction to the breadth of this amazing country. It triggered the idea that the United States could, and should, be explored. So here I am, seventy-five years after my father came to College Station, enthralled by the Aggies.

February 12, 2016 – Sunny, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 57

Miles to Date: 11,701

States to Date: 28

 I am deep in the heart of Texas. The land pulses with Lone Star pride, rolling with richness and strength. I pedaled twenty-five miles to Caldwell along picturesque FM 908, stopped for a delicious lunch at a Czech bakery, and continued on to College Station.

I arrived at Texas A&M in time to visit the George Bush Presidential Library, number four along my presidential library route. I had been warned that the Bush library was a snoozer, and it is. There was little drama in George Bush’s life and there is none in his library. Why it is located at Texas A&M is a mystery – the man had no formal ties to this place. But he was hell bent on denying his East Coast roots. The opening line of the orientation film is, “There is a misconception that we were from the East Coast.” It’s an odd denial for a man born in Massachusetts, educated at Andover and Yale, whose father was a Senator from Connecticut. But if Presidential Libraries are about anything, they are about shaping a message for posterity. In the United States, we are unhindered by being ‘from’ the place we are born. We choose where we are from. Fixing his legacy in marble at Texas A&M is a logical extension of George Bush’s choice to be from Texas.

Texas A&M is a sprawling campus renowned for its Corps of Cadets, the original 12^th man. Although the Corps is a minority of the student body, its presence permeates the place. On a Friday afternoon, I witnessed cadets running rucksack, marching in front of Kyle Stadium, and drilling on the Quad. The Memorial Union proclaims, ‘Loyalty’, ‘Integrity’, ‘Respect’ over each entrance. The Corps owns this place.

February 11, 2016 – Sunny, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 73

Miles to Date: 11,644

States to Date: 28

I pedaled out of Austin early to meet Gail Vittori and Pliny Fiske of the Center for Maximum Potential Building Systems, an environmental think tank and hands on laboratory that’s been creating innovative approaches to how we build for over forty years. Their work was an integral part of my architectural education, and they are still fomenting forward thinking ideas.

It was almost noon by the time I reached Austin city limits. I spotted a woman standing beside a van on the side of the road and screeched to a halt. It was Patrice Peach, a local acupuncturist I’d met the previous day. I don’t know how she came to be waiting for me, but I accepted the fingerful of malli energy powder she offered and gave her a hug: my farewell to Texas’ counter cultural center.

The day was fair, the countryside gentle and the wind benign. After too many miles on the shoulder of U.S. 290 I turned north on Country Line Road. I was supposed to connect to Texas 93, but when I reached that highway I simply couldn’t pass up the opportunity to meander more local roads. So I continued an unchartered route, using wind and shadow to guide my north and easterly direction. I passed rolling ranches, watering holes, longhorn cattle, sheep, and donkeys: twenty miles of the most pleasant cycling of my trip.

Eventually I reached U.S. 79 and twenty more miles of easy highway riding. I was surprised how tired I felt given such good conditions; until I realized that every day in Austin I’d stayed up late visiting friends and got up early to meet new people. When eight hours of sleep ratchets back to six for several nights in a row, the body suffers.

Just outside of Rockdale I spotted a woman standing beside a car on the side of the road. Turned out to be Victoria Everett, that evening’s couchsurfing host who spotted me on the road. Just as Patrice fared-me-well out of Austin, Victoria welcomed me to Rockdale. Texas is huge. But such hospitable folk make it feel small and friendly.

February 10, 2016 – Sunny, 80 degrees

Miles Today: 15

Miles to Date: 11,571

States to Date: 28

Austin is a city where Prius drivers cut off bicyclists.

Austin is a city where the Hispanics are getting shoved off Cesar Chavez Blvd to make room for bungalows turned into boutique hotels and auto shops turned into Austin School of Film.

Austin is a city where too many people quote the original purchase price and current value of their home to a guy a in yellow shirt who’s just passing through.

Austin is a city where the parking lot at the Whole Foods mastership has an electronic space counter to minimize aggressive space mongering among the hurried healthy.

Austin is a city in which people with walk-in closets reminisce about swimming naked at the Barton Springs pool.

Austin is a city where funky juice bars are franchised and ‘The Originator’ is an energy concoction rather than a video game hero.

Austin is a city where vehicles wanting to make a right turn on a red light breathe down my fenders.

Austin is a city where natives’ anxiety about 120 to 150 people moving in every day is eclipsed by the resulting economic boost.

Austin is a city famous for its laid-back vibe and music scene: an oasis of liberalism in a Blood Red State. It’s got a high cool factor. After four days of cycling every corner of town, Austin is just another urban leviathan smearing tranquil hillsides with freeways, shopping centers and boxy dwellings. The inner core is riddled with angular additions that agitate the easy rhythm of the old neighborhoods.

The dichotomy between lore and reality doesn’t make Austin a bad place; just more like San Antonio or Houston than it wants to admit. Whenever America cities grow, the dazzle of profit drives us to move fast and grow hard. We dilute what makes us distinctive.