The Awkward Pose

January 31, 2016 – Sunny, 86 degrees

Miles Today: 88

Miles to Date: 11,170

States to Date: 28

86/88/90: eighty-six degrees for eighty-eight miles on U.S. 90: what a sweet day. The wind was my friend, pushing me east and keeping me cool as I climbed in and out of gorgeous canyons all day.

Texas loves Historical Markers. They line U.S. 90 as often as Border Patrol vehicles. They herald Yankee financiers who built the railroads, bandits who robbed the trains, former Confederates who founded towns turned ghost, and the natural wonders of the Pecos. They’re a physical encyclopedia. I stop at most of them.

I detoured to Langtry to visit the site where Judge Roy Bean was the Law West of the Pecos. The site is run by the Texas Department of Transportation and boasts a snazzy visitor center, though there were only five us this afternoon – one being the jocular employee, another being a neighbor woman from across the road. No matter, they had lots of good stories to tell of murder and escaped convicts holed up in Langtry, from the Judge’s time to the present. Upstanding citizens don’t get much airtime here.

No matter how good you are at something, you can always improve. Today, I reached new plateaus in bike riding. Six months ago my anxiety and balance peaked when coasting downhill at 26 to 28 miles per hour. I would sit up tall to block the wind and ease into the brakes. With todays perfect conditions and so little traffic I could often claim the road, I commanded those speeds in a crouched position and surpassed 30 without hesitation. Top speed: 39 miles per hour descending toward the Pecos River. My fastest cycling ever.

No place for breakfast in Sanderson, no place for dinner in Comstock. I managed to snag a BBQ sandwich and Gatorade in Langtry, but dinner was peanuts and a chocolate bar. I’ve become enchanted with Chocolove bars – dark chocolate with raspberries is my favorite. I recommend them to anyone, but only after you’ve ridden your bike 88 miles. How am I ever going to get back to modest eating when this ends?

January 30, 2016 – Sunny, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 55

Miles to Date: 11,082

States to Date: 28

I slept fitfully; preoccupied by the night noises of my heavy-set cabin-mate Tom and the half-hearted allusions he made yesterday to pedal out with me today. I knew the guy wasn’t going anywhere. Still, I got up early, left La Loma del Chivo hostel before anyone else woke, and was back at Oasis Cafe when it opened at 7:30 a.m.

I’m on a new riding schedule here. The mornings are dark and cold this far west in the Central Time Zone. The sun warms things up after nine in the morning, and its light ‘til past six. So, I spent two hours in the cafe. By the time I rolled out, the weather was fine.

Actually, the weather was more than fine. It was perfect; a light breeze on my back, not a cloud in the sky, and seventy degrees by noon. Despite terrific conditions I was sluggish. Enchiladas with two sunny-side eggs and beans had been tasty but not a bike-size portion. I stopped for a snack five miles out, and again twelve miles out, trying to get my mojo. Just past twenty miles I reached a crest, which coincides almost exactly with the mid-point between El Paso and San Antonio. I began the longest downhill of my trip – a full thirty miles into Sanderson It was great fun going fourteen, eighteen, twenty miles per hour mile after mile.

If yesterday was about assorted people, today was about assorted rocks, and I was content to contemplate less complex things. The geology of Big Bend encompasses three distinct periods. There are vertical up thrusts, the Ouachita fold, that date back more than 250 million years, before the Permian Sea submerged this area. Limestone reefs laid over the folds 125 million years ago and lava layers from volcanic activity a mere 25 million years ago infill some areas and erode others. The result is a variety of jagged, sharp, and worn landforms juxtaposed against each other.

I arrived at Sanderson, the cactus capital of Texas, well before three and enjoyed the outdoor museum where various cacti were planted in and around rocks with faux primitive paintings that illustrate various stages of local history; so much more engaging than an indoor museum on such a nice day.

U.S. 90 is part of Adventure Cycling Association’s ‘Southern Tier’; there is quite a bit of bicycle touring activity. I had been told that Danny, manager of the Budget Inn, was particularly nice to cyclists. That is an understatement. He welcomed me to the office, gave me energy bars, asked about my trip, and showed me photos of other cyclists who’ve stayed there, including Georgia and Mark whom I met yesterday.

There is nothing open in Sanderson on a Saturday night. In the evening Danny brought me a silver tray with a pungent potato soup, curried rice with vegetables, and a delicious papadam, then satyed for nice conversation. All for $45 a night!

January 29, 2016 – Sunny, 65 degrees

Miles Today: 31

Miles to Date: 11,027

States to Date: 28

West Texas was sunny and bright today, the desert jagged and brown, the people as varied as any I’ve met during my trip.

I started at Sul Ross State University in Alpine, where I had a conversation with Andy Cloud about the archeological work of the Center for Big Bend Studies. By the time I rolled downhill from campus the day was already warm, almost summery. Ten miles out I met Georgia, Mark, their two dogs and over 200 pounds of gear, including a dog trailer, on a 10,000-mile trip with a route as circuitous as mine.

U.S. 90 parallels a major railroad line, Half-mile long freight trains pass several times a day, an Amtrack Silverliner slithers by daily, and I hear train whistles all night long. Giant snakes of containers stacked on the flat beds; often bright blue, red, or green; move across the monotone landscape like cubes of modern art. Of course, due to the Marfa effect, there are also conscientious pieces of landscape art here, the most recent being the Target outside Marathon.

I pedaled into Marathon a few minutes before three. A woman sitting beneath the covered walk that connects the storefronts flagged me down. “Oasis Cafe closes at three. Get in there for the best burger in West Texas.” Of course, I complied. Phoebe, my waitress, is one of the most patient people on earth. “I’ve got plenty to do here. Enjoy your lunch. Use our Internet. Take your time.” By the time I was finished Phoebe was mopping up. “You can move outside, our Internet works there as well.”

I checked in at San Rosendro Crossing, a collectibles shop next door. JJ, the proprietress, said, “Sit here as long as you like.” In a few minutes Carol came by with a pair of longnecks between her fingers. “Its beer-thirty, want one?”

Suddenly, I was in a group of eight people, including Carol, JJ, Phoebe, and Phoebe’s cowboy friend Howdy drinking beer and smoking Marlboro’s along Main Street. The conversation probably doesn’t vary much from day to day: the merits of the candidates running for Sheriff, a murder in the next town, a local brush fire, Border Patrol hassles, how to draw a red circle around Marfa and delete it from the state of Texas. Carol’s husband Charlie stopped by. “Lord, I cannot hide from that man.” I reminded here she was sitting smack dab on Main Street. She got up and gave the guy a kiss.

When the sun slung low I pedaled to the locally famous hostel, La Loma del Chivo, a remnant of hippie days that welcomes itinerant cyclists. Hostels are odd places; purposefully disorganized. La Loma has a wonderful, warm host, Ingrid, aka Goat Queen. The gestalt of the place probably changes every day. This night, a profoundly quiet German couple kept to the edges while Tom, an obese former lawyer fresh from a Wal-Mart grocery run who claimed to be a long-distance cyclist filled the silence. He was engaging until I distilled he’d been drifting within a hundred miles of here for nearly a year. We were a disparate group of guests. Nevertheless, I enjoyed strolling around the bizarre place, taking in the perfect sunset, followed by amazing stars. Since the longer-term guests had claimed the bunks, I slept on a comfy sofa beneath heavy quilts.

January 28, 2016 – Sunny, 65 degrees

Miles Today: 28

Miles to Date: 10,996

States to Date: 28

 I enjoyed a beautiful, easy day of bicycle touring. US 90 from Marfa to Alpine is a gorgeous stretch with vast vistas. About ten miles outside of town is a striking pavilion built to watch ‘Marfa Mystery Lights’, fantastic light displays of undetermined science that occur a few times a year. There was nothing but bright sky this morning. Fortunately, a musician was there who had seen them. What he described was magic even in daylight.

Paisano Pass was a nice climb that introduced varied terrain all the way to Alpine. I got to town and indulged in Chinese Buffet: vegetables, sushi, and sweet cakes. I stayed about three hours, catching up on writing and planning my foray into San Antonio before exploring Alpine and checking into a sweet Patel-motel.

I took an evening stroll through the downtown strip. Alpine has a movie theater that projects two shows every weekend, a bookstore, and a former gas station turned coffee shop / laundromat. Perhaps not the most exotic commercial, but mighty pleasant under the amazing stars of Big Bend.

January 27, 2016 – Sunny, 50 degrees

Miles Today: 77

Miles to Date: 10,968

States to Date: 28

Is Marfa, Texas ironic or prophetic?

I will ride along U.S. 90 more than any single route of my journey. I was pleased that my inaugural morning, heading east from 90’s Van Horn terminus, was clear and calm. Thirty-eight miles on I pedaled through Valentine. The sign said 217 souls call it home, but aside from the world’s most adorable public library, there was no sign of life in the deteriorating buildings that lined the road. This town is dying.

Less than ten miles further on, in the middle of a vast plain, I came upon Prada Marfa; a pristine, non-functional box with an assortment of Prada fashion goods. This art is thriving.

Later, a pinkish balloon appeared on the horizon. More art, I thought. Until I got closer. Turns out its Border Patrol’s Tethered Aerostat Radar System. Miles before I reached the world-renowned rural Art Capital, I was already confused about contemporary art, abandoned commerce, and ubiquitous surveillance.

Once I reached town, the contrast continued. Slab a coat of turquoise paint, plant a bunch of cacti, and the same motel I paid $39 a night for in Van Horn charges $119 here. One gas station is full of broken down cars, another has been refurbished into an art moderne statement. A dilapidated cottage that would be abandoned in most West Texas towns is ‘under contract’ and many have been transformed into sharp angled adobe galleries and second homes for affluent artists. The grocery store was full of heavy-set Mexicans in polyester shifts just like any other town around here. But Highland St, the main thoroughfare leading to the stately courthouse, is lined with boutiques full of merchandise those locals don’t need and can’t afford.

Marfa has a knack for reinvention. The 1883 ranch town boomed in the early twentieth century on the cusp of an oil boom that went bust. The area was used for internment camps during World War II. When that base was purchased by artist Donald Judd in the 1980’s, the town’s latest incarnation as a hip art center was born.

So the question remains. Is Marfa – a town where wealthy oil tycoons fly in to shake their heads at art they find bizarre – an ironic bit of whimsy? Or, is Marfa a prophetic view of life once machines liberate us from the tedious tasks of daily living and we celebrate our creativity in whatever direction the West Texas winds blow. Either way, it’s great fun and wicked cool.

January 26, 2016 – Overcast, 40 degrees

Miles Today: 68

Miles to Date: 10,891

States to Date: 28

No way was West Texas going to let me off the hook with a week of cool nights, sunny days, and gentle winds. I will be pedaling from tiny map spot to tiny map spot for the 600 miles between El Paso and San Antonio. That’s a long stretch with few people; desolate as the Dakotas. Just as those were strategic and often difficult riding days, so too was today.

The day started cool and overcast and only got cooler and cloudier until it was downright cold. The route was one-third near I-10, one-third on I-10 frontage and one third on I-10 shoulder. At one point the frontage road (parallel to west bound traffic), ended abruptly and sent me facing the direction of westbound traffic. Thankfully, within a mile I found a culvert that crossed under the interstate and got me on the right side of the road.

Climbing a grade with trucks whizzing by at 80 mph (the Texas speed limit) with the wind in my face, my fingers numb, and the temperature dipping into the thirties, I had plenty of time today to be thankful for all the things that didn’t go wrong. No rain, no snow, no flats, no accidents. Not much fun either. I left one ugly Texas town, ate a mediocre lunch in another, and seven hours later I landed in a third. West Texas is a place to be respected and persevered.

January 25, 2016 – Overcast, 50 degrees

Miles Today: 52

Miles to Date: 10,823

States to Date: 28

 My couchsurfing host Miguel cooked me a remarkable Columbian breakfast and pedaled with me downhill to his lab at Texas Tech Medical Center, which is right next to my turn east on Alameda.

Alameda, also Texas Route 20, is twenty miles of dated motels turned rent by the week apartments, tortilla factories, nail salons, check-cashing outfits, pawn shops, empty storefronts, used car lots, muffler shops, transmission shops, body shops, and auto parts stores interrupted every mile by Dollar General or Dollar Tree or Family Dollar. The strip cleans up by the Wal-Mart near the Loop Road, where $1.51 per gallon gas was the cheapest I’ve seen to date on my trip. But it turns shabby again after the interchange with miles of scrap yards.

I was surprised to pass beautiful high schools in Ysleta, Socorro, and Clink among the assembly of stuff reaching the limits of human consideration. I also stopped to visit the stunning Mission at Ysleta, which is older than its California cousins.

Finally, the detritus of urban life gave out and I cycled through miles of pecan groves.

Still, I came upon more fascinating storefronts in Fabens. They reminded me how wonderfully idiosyncratic Texas can be. I hope to find more as I travel east over the next month.

Unfortunately, there was nothing notable in Fort Hancock, where even the Historical Marker describing the town’s namesake has been worn beyond legibility. I was the first, and perhaps only, guest at the I-10 roadside motel that doesn’t even have a name in front Fortunately, the chicken fired steak at Angie’s across the road lived up to its reputation as the best in West Texas.

January 24, 2016 – Sun, 60 degrees

Miles Today: 18

Miles to Date: 10,771

States to Date: 28

For me, El Paso is ripe in memory. I’ve been here four or five times, all during 1977-1978 when I was a VISTA Volunteer 300 miles northeast of here in Levelland, TX. Since I finished my service year I’ve never returned to any of places that marked that unique period of my life. On this trip I plan to visit them all. El Paso is the first place I’ve reached along my route.

Levelland, Texas is conveniently located five hours from anywhere: Dallas, Albuquerque or El Paso. Since a five-hour drive in Texas is nothing and weekends in Levelland were quiet, the core of our VISTA group struck out somewhere most every month. Leanne was a curvaceous blonde from South Dakota who fell for the dark-eyed local, Jerry. He was already married which made things messy, but eventually Leanne and Jerry got married, until that too got messy. My Texas pal was Adela, a rail thin brunette from Maryland. We never let marrying enter the picture, and are solid friends to this day. For a year, the four of us were constant companions. El Paso was out favorite weekend getaway.

We stayed in cheap motels or with other VISTA’s. By day crossed the footbridge to Juarez, at night we ate Mexican food and discoed. I usually drove Betsy, my1969 Ford Fairlane. Once Jerry convinced me to take Betsy into Mexico so we could eat at a place he knew beyond downtown Juarez. The food was incredibly good. The tear-up job the customs agents and their dogs did on a car driven by a mutton-chop sideburned Yankee with cheeky Mexican shotgun and two leggy girls in tie-dyed skirts in the back trying to reenter the United States was incredibly thorough. They were astonished not to find drugs. I was astonished they just walked away after their inspection and made us put the car back together.

Perhaps my biggest rite of passage in El Paso occurred on a training trip I made there by myself. I stayed with another VISTA, a local Mexican-American who smelled like licorice. He took me to a local performance of Hello Dolly that had maybe three women in the audience. Afterward, we returned to his apartment in one of the moldy brick buildings near downtown. He told me his boyfriend was coming over. I set the sheets on the sofa and was conveniently in the bathroom when boyfriend arrived and they disappeared into my host’s room. I tired to sleep. They were vigorous and noisy. The more I tried to block them out, the more anxious I became. I had never heard two men have sex. I had spent so much energy denying such a possibility. I started to sweat. Eventually, I got up and dressed.

I escaped to El Paso’s night streets. The square grid of blacktop laid over the city’s hills calmed my torment. I’ve always enforced Cartesian order upon irregularity. I walked the streets for hours; until my pulse stopped racing; until the dawn light. I slipped back in the apartment hoping they were finished, wishing they were not, and pretended to sleep.

It took another fifteen years, a marriage and two children to bring some peace to the conflicts that flared in me that night. Now, thirty-eight years later, I’m back in El Paso, riding that same grid of streets, unable to reconstruct the particulars of that time. So much has changed. The downtown core is cleaner, the surrounding streets shabbier, the highways more insistent, the strip development more generic. I stop by the Anson, briefly the tallest concrete building in the world. I visit the digital wall at the El Paso Museum of History. Fortunately, none of the touch options pops with images of the night Paul Fallon freaked out over a pair of gay guys. But that’s what it seems like; a piece of history. That someone could be so uncomfortable in his gay skin.

I slept well in El Paso, as I do every night during this physically taxing journey. But my El Paso dawn dreams were the same as everywhere else. I do not conjure the men, purposefully too many to recount, who’ve crossed my path these past twenty years. Instead, I wake every morning to a dream of my former wife, the girl who put a claim on my heart before I ever set foot in this border town. I dream of what I willed myself to be, however inappropriate, rather than what I am. The shame branded on our youthful souls is permanent.

January 23, 2016 – Sun, 60 degrees

Miles Today: 72

Miles to Date: 10,753

States to Date: 28

Everything was easier today. The distance was shorter, the pavement smoother, the wind lighter, the grades shallower, the shoulder wider. I left early and logged forty-five miles before my noon lunch stop, sitting on the sand with my bike propped against a mile marker. I met two approaching cyclists: one traveling from Austin to Phoenix with a 150 pounds of stuff in a trailer, the other an El Paso local on a weekend joy ride. Everyone pedals his own ride. Beyond that, I saw no one. There are no towns or services, or even houses for over fifty miles. Yet, several people told me the Border Road is a great road to cycle because most of the scant traffic is Border Patrol officers, who are helpful with breakdowns.

New Mexico Route 9 runs parallel to the border. A dirt road that runs parallel to Route 9. Beyond, a continuous barbed wire fence runs about fifty feet from the pavement. I wondered why the dirt road existed. Yesterday, I saw a Border Patrol truck driving very slow along the road, pulling two gigantic tires on their sides. The tires smoothed the surface. This morning I witnessed several other Border Patrol vehicles, driving off to the side and just as slow, scanning for footprints. Our pursuit of illegals is a complex, time-consuming and expensive operation.

Along the road there are many cairns. I wonder what they signify?

The first sign of El Paso was sixty miles out, the streams of jets doing maneuvers in the sky over Fort Bliss. I could smell El Paso and Juarez before I saw them. The air, which has been so sweet for the last few days, turned stale. Twenty miles away, the sky over the valley was brown. Somehow, our clean air laws haven’t taught the pollution to stay south of the border. Pale flecks on the distant mountains, which indicated sand in the Chihuahuan Desert earlier in the day, were now buildings climbing the west side of El Paso’s mountains.

I pedaled over the bone dry Rio Grande and under I-10. The transition from wilderness to the Mesa Road commercial strip was abrupt. It took only a few moments to realize that El Paso is not Tucson or Seattle. Bicyclists beware. Trucks cut me off, cars pulled out of driveways ahead of me. I took my time to arrive at my host’s safely.

January 22, 2016 – Sun, 60 degrees

Miles Today: 98

Miles to Date: 10,681

States to Date: 27

The spirits of New Mexico must be unhappy that I plan to spend only one night in their beautiful state on this leg of my journey. They blew down on me the whole way from Portal to Columbus. Fortunately I planned for delays on this marathon cycling day, and needed every bit of daylight to arrive at my destination.

Despite my desire to leave my host ET’s at 7:00 a.m.; his coffee was too hot, his oatmeal too delicious, and our conversation too rich to sprint out of there. Still, I was on the gravel road pedaling away from his place by 7:30 and reached pavement by 8:00. After ten miles of traveling west, south, east and then north, I could still see ET’s house with his triple flags flying only a mile away as the crow flies before I finally turned east onto NM Route 9.

The next 88 miles was terrific bike riding, although not speedy. The grades were gentle, the landscape elegant, the traffic non-existent. Twenty-five miles in I stopped in Animas for the only services on the route. I devoured a burrito and refilled my water. My sixth trek over the Continental Divide was the easiest yet – it is just a rise in the middle of a valley.

My day was just riding, riding riding. I propped my bike against the gate and ate lunch from my pannier in front of McDonald’s ranch outside of Hachita. No free Wi-Fi here.

My desire to reach Columbus before nightfall was thwarted by the wind pushing against me and long, steady climbs. But adverse New Mexico winds are not nearly so damning as their ruthless cousins in the Dakotas. Even as it slowed my progress, this wind was playful, dancing from different directions, creating cool undercurrents, slacking off occasionally so I could savor the Land of Enchantment. I was always behind my target speed, but never enough to give up and sag a ride.

Past Hermanosa, pumping like crazy, the landscape took a fantastic, almost delirious turn. The distant mountains display very different forms. There are ancient, weathered volcanic cones, the rounded shapes of old mountain clusters, and jagged, new ranges. Geologic eons surrounded me. The dry desert I was passing through is but a phase in a landscape that was once a tropical rain forest, once the domain of dinosaurs, once a simmering volcanic cauldron.

Fortunately, there’s a steady eight-mile descent into Columbus. I kept a steady stroke and arrived at my motel in dusk, though still easily visible to local traffic. When the delightful motel owner handed me my receipt she said, “My goodness, you’re cold.” Only then did I realize my skin was frigid. Racing against the sun descending behind me, I never suited back up in my fleece and gloves.