Day 35 - Rest Day Quincy, Florida Zero miles

4 days of riding left to go!

With no transportation at a hotel removed from everything except for a Chevron gas station/quick mart, we hung around the room, waiting to get started again. When I did the ride in 1999, I arrived into Gainsville, Florida for my last rest day. After only a few hours I decided to skip the rest day and finish one day early. Physically, you're in great shape and feel you can continue riding day after day, but mentally you are over it. The compulsion to finish steels your resolve, specifically if new and interesting obstacles pop up.

over and out

Day 34 - DeFuniak Springs, FL to Quincy, FL 111.22 miles/15.4 mph average 6 hrs 38 min

Give it up Florida

We knew every mile ridden today was one closer to a day off the bikes. Chris's knee was holding up well, while the only real elevation gain/loss came in Chattahoochee, Florida. Just a few miles from the Florida/Georgia border, we smelled the fires for the first time when we stopped for lunch in town. The road shoulders played nice and stayed fat the entire day.

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2007/05/15/national/main2803447.shtml

Note the average speed of over 15 mph. We know it sounds tame, but the record for the RAAM (Race Across America) is 15.40 mph set in 1986 by Pete Penseyres. Every year a new crop of riders try to break it. It still stands. He did it on virtually no sleep, and who knows what he ate back in 1986. Were Powerbars around then? Check him out - he's quite the dude:

http://www.ultracycling.com/about/hof_ppenseyres.html

We passed through so many little towns with great names:

Argyle

Ponce De Leon

Bonifay

Chipley

Cottondale

Marianna

Sneads

Gretna

The last 28-mile stretch between Gretna and Quincy went fast and furious. I think I may have dropped down onto my aero bars once or twice. We again turned south out of downtown Quincy toward Interstate 10 to find the Holiday Inn Express. We arrived mid afternoon. Chris went to check in and it turns out we made a reservation at the hotel next door, that use to be the Holiday Inn, but in the time between us making the reservation and arriving today, the Holiday Inn built a new property, sold the older one where we were suppose to be, next door. It did not make perfect sense to us either. The important issue is that they honored our rate, which for some crazy reason went up in the interim.

The older hotel, now new to us, still worked out great. It was a fine home for two nights and one full day of rest. It was isolated from restaurants however. The Domino's Pizza delivery menu got dog-eared and very familiar, with this the only day in my life when I've eaten Domino's Pizza twice within 8 hours. We did the usual catch up; laundry, supplies, bike fiddling, TV watching. We even took a decent walk down a side country road for a few miles.

The motel also offered a continental breakfast. We dropped in on our rest day around 8:30 am for food. A young family with five kids fueled up for the trip down to Disney World or some similar attraction in southern Florida. It reminded me of the times we went to Disneyland as kids. Some formula they have there, printing money.

over and out

Day 33 - Pensacola, FL to DeFuniak Springs, FL 91.47 miles/15.0 mph average 5 hrs 38 min

Today we pick our way out of Pensacola along Cervantes Street which turns into Scenic Highway/90 high above Pensacola Bay. We could live in Pensacola. It seemed bike friendly, clean, nice place to retire. Just a thought. the route winds through several small towns; Riverview, Milton (we stayed on Highway 90 and skipped the Blackwater Trail out of Milton - saved 9 miles), Holt, Milligan, Crestview and finally Mossy Head, 14 miles from DeFuniak Springs.

Highway 90 parallels Interstate 10 most of the route, as we ride just north of Eglin Air Force Base. while leaving Crestview, we rolled along a section of 90 with plenty of residential homes. coming up a slight rise in the road, an older car piloted by an even older man slowly pulled out from a driveway, taking up the entire shoulder. We braked, allowing the driver to casually pull out and eventually get up to speed, merging off the shoulder into the lane of travel. We are certain he did not see us, as he did not bolt out into the lane to beat our arrival. He only cut us off due to the speed we were traveling. I noted the sticker on the right corner of the bumper, knowing it belonged on no other bumper than this gentleman driver's:

Prepare to meet thy Lord

How true. I'm thankful he gave us the option of picking our own Lord, and not sticking us with the standard issue Lord. I then imagined him hitting a pedestrian or cyclist, blissfully oblivious, driving on. The victim now lying prone in the road, this bumper sticker the last thing they see as their eyes close. It's not often such an experience comes complete with instructions.

On the outskirts of DeFuniak Springs, I called the motel wondering where they were. Nobody in town knew of it. I then looked at the name; Rodeway in Mossyhead. Oops, motel 14 miles back in the wrong direction from where we stood. One rule we'd adhere to at all costs: No backtracking - if we're not heading east, we're going nowhere.

I immediately canceled the reservation. Continuing on to Downtown DeFuniak we found all the chain (read predictable) motels lying on the Interstate 10 corridor. Another 5 miles and we pulled into a Days Inn, under new management. Book the room honey! By the time we showered for dinner, the rain poured. The short walk to the local buffet restaurant paid off. We ate well, good American food, desserts, ice cream, just perfect.

On the way back to the room we stopped in at a Chevron for cereal and juice for the next morning. It was only later that I looked at the receipt. One box of Raisin Bran - $7.00. Worth every penny.

Over and out

Day 32 - Bayou La Batre, AL to Pensacola, FL 79.83 miles/13.4 mph average 5 hrs 30 min

Hill repeats anyone?

Shorter day, more sleep. We got on the road at roughly 6:30 am. Road 188 T's at Road 193. Take a left on 193 and the road ends on Dauphin Island, Alabama. The bridge to the island is huge. A few miles before the bridge a sign read First ferry - 8 am. I looked at my watch and it was 7:20 am. We had 5 miles to go, no problem except for the severe headwind that we've tried to shake since we started out in California. Although we were heading due south the wind was crazy strong, kicking back at each pedal stroke. Sweat poured off us while the headwind offered little evaporative effect. We were grinding to make the first ferry, since the next one arrived 90 minutes later. The apex of the bridge offers a view of the area unlike any other since there are no high points. The bridge height allows watercraft passage underneath, bomb proof enough to survive Katrina without sustaining any damage. The bridge replaced the causeway swept away in 1979 by Hurricane Frederick in 145 mile wind gusts. (below).

A full time ferry service as a long term solution proved too expensive for the state of Alabama. The Figg Bridge Engineering Group (figgbridge.com) designed and built the bridge in just 34 months. The highest point consists of three spans, the main 400 feet in length. This is the first 400 foot span on a precast concrete segmental bridge. The dual, I-shaped piers feature an integrated driving surface. (details courtesy of Figg Bridge website). Words fail in describing how big this bridge is. As I write I realize I have a crush on the bridge. It has what I need. Twice in my life it quietly channeled me away from difficulty, delivering me to where the colors run brighter, the land lay flatter, closer to the end of the ride.

The significance of this bridge can't be overstated in the context of the entire ride. By the time you step onto the Fort Morgan ferry from Dauphin Island, all the effort, stress and challenge of the past 7 states unhinges from your primal brain. The ride experience suddenly vibrates with renewed energy. You're still in Alabama at the ferry dock on the Gulf Shores side but the new land is near and that new land is called Florida. That square-wheeled trailer you dragged across Texas finally falls away and your mood changes. The going is flat, faster than before and more rewarding. Hurricanes, floods, sticky heat and love bugs are all the price paid for the warm life on the gulf. Be sure to visit Dauphin Island sometime. We suggest using a car, but it's not too bad on a bike.

Fort Morgan Parkway whisks (yes, literally whisks) you east toward Gulf Shores. By the time we reached the far side of Gulf Shores we stop into The Waffle House for gut bomb extraordinaire breakfast number two. We ate, sat for another twenty minutes, acclimated outside on the curb for a few more, then fork lifted our full guts onto the bikes. Dessert was the cleanest, most amazing (superlatives fail once again) bike path we've EVER ridden. Behold the shining bike path of your dreams:

Chris refused to pose for this one-Perdido Beach Blvd

Note the rumble strip barrier - an early warning system

designed to prevent squished cyclists

Perdido Beach Blvd morphs into Gulf Beach Highway. They should call it Condo Row. Nearly every free section of beach front on this stretch either has a huge finished condo, a building in progress or, where there is a view, a notice of land use sign standing proudly, a parking spot reserved for an even bigger building. This stretch of road is not very scenic from a car, unless you're shopping for a condo.

We skirt the southeast rim of Pensacola, heading northeast on Barrancas Avenue. Traffic seems tuned into cyclists, probably a result of all the triathletes and roadies training out on this perimeter road. Pensacola is home for many triathletes given the number we saw in just a few miles. The temperature is low 90's and all we have is warm Hammer mix in our bottles. I can barely stand it on ice, let alone at armpit temperature. As we looked out for the next corner store, I hear a strange aircraft noise, unlike anything I've heard before. here are a few details, courtesy of fas.org:

The V-22 Osprey is a tiltrotor vertical/short takeoff and landing (VSTOL), multi-mission air-craft developed to fill multi-Service combat operational requirements. The tiltrotor design combines the vertical flight capabilities of a helicopter with the speed and range of a turboprop airplane and permits aerial refueling and world-wide self deployment.

I'd never seen one in flight before, and it was a strange sight. The oddest aspect is the 38 foot diameter "proprotors." From the ground it looked like it was gliding, although it may have been on approach for landing. There have been three crashes between 1989 when the first prototype took flight and 2000. At over $80 million each, it is an impressive aircraft.

We took a bathroom/juice break at a corner market, remounted the bikes and started jamming. We passed by the front gate of the Naval Air Station and also saw three Blue Angels cruising around. Everything seemed great; we were out of the headwind, about 12 miles from the motel, hitting speeds of over 20 mph (finally), just soaking in the day. suddenly I hear a yelp from Chris about 15 yards behind me. She yells in pain again. Oh shit.

We roll up to a church driveway, pulling off at a safe distance. Chris's left knee gave a shock of pain and she could not fully straighten her leg. It was not that the pain prevented her moving it past 30 degrees, the joint simply bottomed out at that point, range of motion finished. If she tried to flex or extend at the knee joint the nerves would fire and I'd watch the blood run out of her face. Pain is an extraordinary thing, and this was the most pain I've seen her responding to. We got her off the bike and sat down, all while several tractor ditch mowers made passes along the road, kicking up dust, chopped grass, exhaust.

The knee finally gave in after the rough section yesterday. Chris described it as lateral cartilage shifting. We sat there in the dust and flying grass, formulating our new plan: OK, we call AAA, they deliver a car, we load your bike in the back, I keep riding and finish the day, then we hole up in the motel and ponder our options. Florida held such promise, now this. It was one of those moments when you stare off into the distance and ask yourself if this was really happening. Sounds greedy, doesn't it? All the things that DID NOT go wrong, all the times we did not get hit by cars, all the weather we dodged, bad food, dogs, ditches, logging trucks, heat, cold, snow and fatigue. After all of that, we sit on the side of the road mourning her left knee.

As a physical therapist, Chris has the wisdom to just sit still for a bit and see what effect if any, time produces. After 20 minutes or so, she stood up, gave a little knee movement, a bit more. The pain seemed to drain off a bit and she said it felt like the cartilage "unfolded" and smoothed out, releasing pressure on the noisy nerves. We then lowered her saddle, to a point where she looked like a BMX'er in the saddle after a long day spent terrorizing an empty lot or school yard.

Back on the bike, the cranks turned slowly at first, then up to a moderate speed. I kept looking back to make sure her pedals were still turning. Looking back stressed me out, I can't imagine what she felt and thought as the owner of the knee. I'd look back half expecting her kneecap to simply pop off.

We had one last rest day after two more days riding after today. Rest day sorely needed, we need it right now. The Seville Inn sits in downtown Pensacola. Again, the place was nearly empty, and the room big and clean. We showered, gulped hammer recovery drink, then got Chris's knee on ice as she called AAA about our situation. They said that each AAA field office makes their own decisions but that it was likely they'd deliver a car to her as a long-standing AAA member. We held out hope for our first option; convincing her knee to get with the program, but contingencies are always useful.

The front desk clerk pointed us to a corner pub just down the street and what better time than now to get our buzz on? We ate, drank beer, shook our heads, wondering about the next few days. As we sat there, several cyclists rolled by along with a steady stream of runners. Why don't we just buy a little place here in downtown Pensacola, call it a day? We found out later there is a running club that gets together for a "Pub Run." They log miles between bars, get free beer upon arrival, socialize, plan the next outing. After dinner we needed a few supplies. We walked around downtown for about one hour and still did not find anything open. With Chris's knee no longer locked up, full stomachs and beer buzz, maybe we had everything we needed at that moment.

over and out

Day 31 - Wiggins, MS to Bayou La Batre, AL 94.53 miles/13.7 mph average 6 hrs 23 min

White line - White knuckle

With Wiggins off route, we decided to stay on state road # 26 to state road # 63. Only 36 miles, and it was more direct and ostensibly easier. The route was shorter in miles but longer in misery. We saved 31.5 miles. The conditions were as follows:

no shoulder

constant logging trucks in both directions

very few side roads/driveways for pulling off

(is this story getting old? It is for us . . . )

We pulled off the road for all trucks, any size, no matter what they were hauling (except Wal-Mart rigs - We'd go head to head with them every time) We'd quick head-check back for truck traffic, pulling off as they rumbled by. Monday's are busy down here and constantly yielding slowed us way down. I think I said "we're not suppose to be out on this road" about eight times to Chris.

Passing through Brenndale, Mississippi we crossed over the Pascagoula River a few miles later, then into Lucedale, where we took a hard right south on state road # 63. Conditions improved but the shoulder came and went like the tide. We'd roll along and watch the gap narrow, staying as close to the fog line as safely possible.

Heading south toward Escatawpa, Mississippi We came upon two large groups of prisoners out of a Dr. Seussian fantasy. They wore bright green and white horizontal striped prison garb while picking up roadside trash. We'd roll past, they'd all looked at us. A shotgun-equipped guard sat in an idling truck a short distance behind. I could not help wondering what put them behind bars. Convicts are people just like the rest of us but their crimes define them. We draw immediate conclusions about a murderer, far different than those drawn about a car thief.

We finally arrived in Escatawpa where Interstate 10 crosses over state road # 63. We ate a quick lunch at a freezing cold Subway. As we buckled down to leave, an SUV pulled up. The man in the passenger side asked if we were riding for a cause and raising funds. I quickly outlined what we were up to, he whips out a $20, hands it to me, wishes us good luck as the rig pulls away. Dinner paid for, and thanks so much for the gesture.

A few miles south on 63 we hang a hard left heading east on US Federal Highway 90. The road surface was brutal; old concrete with expansion seams. Sitting in the frigid Subway for lunch combined with 15 miles on jarring surface pushed Chris's right knee to the limit. It started nagging her at the top of the pedal stroke in flexion.

The land flattens out with no hint of elevation gain or loss. We're running along the gulf coast now closing in on the Alabama state line. Finally off of 90 onto state road 188, we cruised through dense forest with perfectly smooth roads, flat, comfortable, warm. A few turns left before arriving into Bayou La Batre, I looked back and Chris was slowing down. I looked back a second time and she says "can I get some help here?" meaning, drop back and let me draft a bit. Keep in mind she is a stoic rider, never asks for assistance or issues a "wait up" but just keeps churning. Her knee pain had ramped up again, power output down significantly. I dropped back and pulled her along, helping where I could.

Just outside of the town of Grand Bay, a dog trotting inside a fenced yard had a two-foot piece of aluminum siding in its mouth. He started barking as soon as he saw us. The bark vibrations shot through the siding, raising the pitch of his protests, like he was barking through a harmonica. I yelled "grab your camera" to Chris. As soon as she pulled it free of her bag the dang dog dropped the siding but kept on barking. The full effect would've been lost without sound.

Bayou La Batre (pronounced Bah-you luh BAT-ree) or by locals as (by luh BAT-ree) is "the seafood capital of Alabama" and is more famous than most of us will ever be:

Bayou La Batre is mentioned in the film Forrest Gump as the home of Forrest's army buddy Benjamin Buford "Bubba" Blue, whom he met during the Vietnam War. After Bubba is killed in combat, despite Forrest's attempt to save him, Forrest eventually fulfills a promise to Bubba by moving to Bayou La Batre, buying a shrimp boat, and trying to catch shrimp. Forrest and another character in the book, Lt. Dan, are out shrimping in the Gulf when Hurricane Carmen strikes the region; Forrest, Lt. Dan, and the boat survive, but the rest of the Bayou La Batre shrimp boat fleet is destroyed. Forrest and Lt. Dan then make a fortune catching shrimp and found the fictitious Bubba Gump Shrimp Company, based in Bayou La Batre.

In Winston Groom's book of the same name (upon which the movie was based), Forrest doesn't buy a boat to catch shrimp, but starts a small but ultimately successful shrimp hatchery in Bayou La Batre with the help of Bubba's father.

In April 2005, Disney Studios launched a secretly built pirate ship, the Black Pearl, out of Bayou La Batre for filming sequels to Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bayou_La_Batre,_Alabama

Oyster husks piled up everywhere, the crushed shells the staple for use as gravel. The town felt like it was sitting directly on a beach island, the substrate bleached white shells. Here's a random pic pulled from the web, with random guy providing commentary

"Outside were huge piles of empty oyster shells, and a fine white dust

over the cars. We realized that the strangely white road

was actually paved with crushed oyster shells" said random guy.

We arrive at the hotel, clean up and remember the front desk clerk mentioning a great seafood restaurant "about 1/2 mile down after the second light." It was either that or Sonic Burger. We thought seafood more appropriate when staying in the seafood capital of Alabama, right? We stop at a corner store and tank up on juice, since the sweat poured off us in the humidity. We start walking, and walking and walking. The country road (no sidewalks, cars speeding by) winds this way and that, but no sign of the Lighthouse Restaurant. We stop at a car garage and ask how far the place was. We're told "just down a ways around that curve in the road." We walk and walk, crossing a bridge with ZERO pedestrian accommodation. Imagine timing a dive into a small inlet along the coastline while the tide rushes in, rushes back out. That's what it felt like, scurrying across this bridge before another wave of speeding cars came upon us in an instant.

We complete the country 1/2 mile in roughly 45 minutes, marveling at how different it seemed from an ACTUAL 1/2 mile that we'd grown accustomed to over the course of our lives. The Lighthouse had the most amazing hush puppies, while Chris said the fried oysters ruled the land far and wide. I am not a big seafood fan so I had a cheeseburger, one of the stable fuels used since California.

We considered calling a cab for the return trip to the motel but the thought lasted about one second. Once we started walking things got better. Walking after a meal cannot be underestimated. It works.

We slept well this night. The room was large, clean and comfortable.

over and out

Day 30 - Franklinton, LA to Wiggins, MS 67.66 miles/14.6 mph average 5 hrs 12 min

Happy mother's Day

Mother's Day as celebrated in the United States today traces back to Anna Jarvis, who, following the death of her mother on May 9, 1905, devoted the rest of her life to establishing Mother's Day as a national, and later an international holiday.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mother%27s_Day_%28United_States%29

Pete, Chris and Phylis Panagos in New Hampshire

Phylis with Max - she would always push her glasses up

with an upturned index finger

Nina's grave marker - it says

I am in full sunshine now on the bottom

Nina on right with her sister Anne,

possibly in Vancouver, BC 1958

The route today featured 20 mile sections between towns. Franklinton to Bogalusa, Louisiana to Poplarville, Mississippi to Wiggins, Mississippi. When we planned the ride months ago, matching appropriate mileage to a town with a motel was challenging. Wiggins was off route, but fit better as a stopping point on the day. We jammed the first 40 miles to Poplarville, lunching on the curb of a gas station/store.

Good bye Best Southern Inn - hello panniers

While packing our things to head back out on the road, a truck driver with Texas plates asked for directions to interstate 59. We looked at our map and told him to head east on State Road 26, our route. Once we left town, it appeared we'd provided bad directions, and the thought of him coming back toward town as we headed out was not appealing. It turned out that we were correct. The interstate overpass sat four miles out.

We took a few turns in the road then state road 26 straightened out to Wiggins, Mississippi. As we drew nearer the town, I checked our accommodation for the night and it said the Southern Inn. Holy Crap, could this be a kissing cousin of the Best Southern Inn? The rate of $43.59 indicated a possible snake in the grass; we'd think it a great deal until we checked in and reality proved far more random and absurd than our imagination. After last night we needed an even scorecard. We needed a list of amenities to shore up our spirits after the deprivation meted out by the Best Southern.

We stopped for a snack at a cemetery in Bogalusa, Louisiana.

There were several folks paying visits this day.

We snapped this gnome - Nina had a few in her yard.

Wiggins sits at the crossroad between state road # 26 and Interstate 49. 26 slopes down toward the interstate and offers a good view of civilization available to us; McDonald's, Pizza Hut and . . and . . . the Best Western! We looked at each other knowing exactly what the new plan was. We rolled into the Best Western parking lot, Chris checked availability at the desk, I immediately called the Southern Inn and canceled our reservation, stating dishonestly that we'd run into mechanical trouble and were still in Poplarville unable to make it to Wiggins by nightfall. I would have eaten bugs to avoid another night like the last.

There were no bugs on the menu at McDonald's or Pizza Hut. We just had to decide what we'd have for lunch and dinner. The motel was stellar, better than we deserved, almost empty, clean, guest laundry, pool, the works. After check in we immediately did laundry, then used the pool for only the second time since beginning the ride. The first was in Globe, Arizona. Swimming takes a lot of energy after so many hours on the bike.

We combined lunch with resupplying provisions at the gas station/store/McDonald's. After only a few hours we trudged back to Pizza Hut for more food. As I sat there eating, one server stopped in his tracks and said "is that Spawn?" while gaping at my right calf tattoo. We then chatted about Spawn with Eli for the next several minutes, until guests started backing up at the door. Here's this kid working at Pizza Hut, still living with his parents as they disapprove of him spending any money on things a kid wants to spend money on. We could sense his frustration while offering a few helpful words of advice - move out.

I envy those premature adults who, at 15 years old start plunking money into a retirement account. I remember when I wanted a skateboard and realized the best way to get it was earn the money for myself. This skateboard (Logan Earth Ski with Sims wheels, Bennett Trucks) was the singular reason why I started delivering papers instead of stealing (more accurately, why I stopped stealing). No matter where you go, teenagers want the same things; freedom to do as they please. From our perspective finding someone with a common interest in Wiggins, Mississippi made this Mother's Day a good one all around, not to mention the motel.

Thanks Nina and Phylis for looking down on us today and nudging everything into place. We needed a good day and you gave us yet another to go with all the others we remember so fondly.

over and out

Day 29 - St. Francisville, LA to Franklinton, LA 94.19 miles/15.7 mph average 5 hrs 17 min.

The Best Southern Motel - the story for this day. The ride itself went as planned but the motel experience was notable. We jumped on State Route 10 right out of St. Francisville, a straight shot to Franklinton. Dad offered to carry Chris's panniers to the motel and drop them off on their way north. We'd bump into them along the way at some point, Greensburg, Louisiana as it turns out.

We arrived into Greensburg before noon, time for breakfast number two. We fueled up, restroom break, then stepped outside and dad rang. They were just pulling into town. We told him there was a larger gas station 100 yards down where he could park for a bit. I took a pic of a crazy spider then rolled down the hill to where they were.

We climbed into the rig with our turkey sandwiches and juice, happy to get out of the sun for a few minutes. After lunch we hugged and said our good byes, wishing them a safe journey to their next destination. 35 miles and we'd be done for the day, so we kicked off past a huge group of assorted motorcycles parked in the station lot. The two-wheel traffic volume gets ridiculous on the weekends down in this part of the country.

State Route 10 bisects Franklinton with the motel a few miles south on State Route 16. We rolled into town early afternoon, found a Subway and did our eating routine. Subway never fails in that department, but it gets bland after too many visits. One upside is the ice machine and huge cups.

Finally, the Best Southern. Let us first say - this night's lodging cost $36.36 plus applicable state tax. Sounds reasonable. The problem is, sometimes you pay in other ways. We rolled up to the "office" which was actually a front room of what looked like a corner apartment. We noticed the no vacancy sign. Edna the motel owner told us she'd been booked solid since Katrina, and that had we not called several months in advance, we would not have a room - lucky us.

Chris checked in with Edna as I noticed several men standing outside the open door of a room with cars parked in front of it. What can only be described as Mexican Polka blared from a stereo in the room. I stood outside the office answering the same question over and over from a girl not much older than 4 years. She stared at my bike, pointing at each appendage attached to the frame or handlebars; "what's dis?" I'd offer a simple description, she'd respond with "oh." "What's dis?" "Well, that's the light so I can see in the dark." "Oh." The "what's dis/oh" conversation kept up for about 10 minutes. Finally, Chris came out with the key, I asked her what room we had. "Room 115." I looked at the room number right next to the office, following the numbers around the building until I reached 115, right next door to the Mexican Polka Party.

Do you like to party?

We cleaned up, grabbed the local phone book for take out or delivery. Two reasons: Town was about 4 miles from us, meaning we'd have to PEDAL there. Plus, each time we entered or left the room, the party next door would cease speaking and take a look. It was strange, not scary strange, just strange. Here was the perfect opportunity to speak Spanish. At one point I did explain in English why we were on bikes and why we were doing such a thing. I am not sure what part translated, if any.

Oh won't you please be . . . my neighbor? The dog is heading

to the kitchen to toast the one slice of white bread in his mouth

We didn't find delivery, but the Pizza Inn picked up the phone and that's where we were headed. Hunger and Mexican Polka competed for our attention and hunger won out. The music would be over by the time we returned from dinner, right? We ran the testosterone gauntlet outside the door (Chris, are you really gonna where that tank top? How about the black turtleneck?) and zipped over to the Pizza Inn.

First we thought, Salad Bar, then we realized where we were; The Pizza Inn. We did the Pizza Bar! The idea was simple; eat as much pizza as you can stand while not forgetting the dessert pizza bar. By the time we reached the cinnamon streusel pizza (minus the nutmeats; not to be confused with strudal pizza which does not exist, although the definition below sounds like fruit pizza) we still had room for more. We tag teamed six pieces of dessert pizza (they were small). Homer Simpson would have been proud:

streu·sel/Ger. Spelled Pronunciation[Ger. shtroi-zuhl; Eng. stroo-zuhl, stroi-] Pronunciation –noun a topping for coffeecake, consisting of crumbs of blended sugar, cinnamon, flour, butter, and chopped nutmeats.
[Origin: 1925–30; <>strew]

stru·del (strōōd'l, shtrōōd'l) n. A pastry made with fruit or cheese rolled up in layers of thin sheets of dough and then baked. [German, from Middle High German, whirlpool.]

We flopped our bellies to the right side of the bike top tubes to keep them out of traffic, pushed off the curb and burped our way back to our garden paradise, the Best Southern. The party was going full force, and the music played on a repeat loop - we kept saying "didn't we just here this one" to each other. We found Edna doing laundry and casually asked if the music usually tapered off before dark, and please don't mention that we'd asked. Flashback to the film Barton Fink (1991). Barton (John Tuturro) calls Chet (Steve Buscemi) at the front desk of the seedy Hollywood motel, complaining about Charlie Meadows (John Goodman) sobbing in the room next door. Here is the dialogue from a scene near the end of the film, courtesy of

http://www.script-o-rama.com/movie_scripts/b/barton-fink-script-screenplay.html

CHARLIE . . ."C'mon Barton, you think you know about pain? You think I made your life hell? Take a look around this dump. You're just a tourist with a typewriter, Barton. I live here. Don't you understand that". . .His voice is becoming choked. . . . "And you come into MY home . . . And you complain that I'M making too . . . much . . . noise. "

He looks up at Barton.There is a long silence. Finally:


BARTON . . . "I'm sorry." Wearily


CHARLIE . . . "Don't be."

Watch the film for this scene. It does not disappoint. John Goodman delivers this line so convincingly that you feel true embarrassment for poor, clueless, self-centered Barton. These men at the Best Southern Motel may have been day-laborers. The work boots and shoes lined up outside the rooms gave testament to their situation. I sit and write this and they are still there drinking Corona with a Polka chaser.

The room air conditioner

We rolled up to the room, said hello. One man said something I could not understand. He repeated it two more times, I still shrugged with an uninformed grin on my face. Chris said no thank you, we needed to rest up. He asked if we liked to party. Back in the room, we surfed cable while the music thumped our common wall. At 10 pm, like curfew, the music stopped. Exactly eight hours later at 6 am the next morning it kicked back on, same volume. Didn't we just hear this one?

over and out

Day 28 - Rest Day St. Francisville, Louisiana

This rest day cycle is the last with Dad and Phyllis. They are heading North for NASCAR fun in Charlotte. We've grown use to having their support and company, but with a bit of logistics we'll be ready to rock the rest of the ride unsupported. Our chore list for rest day is considerable;

• sleep in


• wash clothes


• clean the love bugs off the RV windshield


• Apply Rain-X to windshield


• go through all our gear and send home everything we can't carry on our bike/backs


• pack all superfluous gear


• find enough boxes to pack gear


• find UPS store in town to ship stuff back to Portland


• ship all gear back to Portland


• blog as much as possible


• shop for supplies


• organize power food to last the remaining ride


• send box with supplies to Quincy, Florida - last rest day


• sight see (canceled due to limited time).


• eat steak (not canceled - always time for food)


• drink margaritas


• relax?

The motel sits on interstate # 61, five miles outside of town. It is a Best Western property, by far the nicest chain of hotels in our price range. They have huge rooms, two beds (one for gear download, other for sleeping/TV vegetative state), super clean, guest laundry, swimming pool and Internet sometimes. The motel manager offered the parking lot to dad and Phyllis. Again there were no RV parks close by. We thought we'd stroll through downtown St. Francisville, sightseeing and window shopping, a warm southern breeze our tour guide. There was no time. We managed to go out for breakfast, a cute place tucked behind a few buildings. We'd have never found it without asking for directions, twice.

A rare northwest red-nosed blog hog

tired blog hog

A newly created rest day tradition is bar-b-que and margaritas. We knew drinking our way across the country was not a great strategy. We imbibed on the nights before rest day, got our buzz on then slept in the next day. Dad mixes a stiff drink, so one or two works fine, plus the steak and carbo bomb baked potato is the best tasting sedative available over the counter.

the big rig has a 48" flat screen that remote controls out of the ceiling. You would think a 43 foot RV of this caliber would also feature a big-as-a-piano slide out gas burner grill maxed out with every available feature. No, the cooking unit is small and humble, but it does the trick. It is a fold out number no bigger than you'd find on the bare patio of a military base enlisted housing apartment. It attaches to the mother ship via a natural gas line like an astronaut tethered to the NASA space station.

Dad understands grilling, and his finished products are of the finest quality. Somewhere the grilling gene scrambled and I'm not drawn to the long arm of the grilling tong. I think the pressure of cooking a steak other than my own is more than I care to deal with. Chris is a grilling fiend, always willing to take the heat. The grill we have at home is her property, her domain. She knows the deal. I am allowed to turn on the tank and preheat.

So we ate, drank, sat and did little else.

More food talk

The next day Phyllis had a lunch craving; RICE. She called around to every grocery in town. When asking about a deli or salad bar with rice, none really knew what she was talking about. Oh what we'd give for a Whole Foods Market.

Plan B:

Add an egg to cold cooked rice, then fry it up like a pancake. We've never had these rice cakes (not like those dry ones that are puffed disks of tasteless wonderment). These cakes knew their place in the deep south. They were greasy and so damn good. Always willing to maintain my hypertensive state, I'd apply a healthy amount of salt and pepper, turning a good thing great with a few shakes.

over and out

Day 27 - Simmesport, LA to St. Francisville, LA 51.68 miles/14.7 mph average 3 hrs 15 min.

Rest day, rest day rest day, say it with me, REST DAY!

Less than 50 miles to go today with a day off the bike tomorrow. The only thing better is slugging down a Coke, thirsty as desert sand, then announcing your pleasure with a combat boot-wearing burp. Both make you cry.

A shorter day means more time in bed sleeping. We got up around 7 am, paid a visit to the RV for breakfast, all while sweating like Cajun pigs. The humidity raged although not at its peak. The water ran off my elbows while standing still thinking of cool, temperate Portland, Oregon. I remember sweating like this in Key West, Florida years ago. I stood at a bank walk-up window, filling out a withdrawal slip while sweat ran from my elbow to wrist, dripping onto the slip and turning my writing into a nice watercolor painting.

By now, we are missing Portland in so many ways, missing all the things that become so clear the further you move away from them. What does this mean? Possibly humans simply romanticize place when removed from it. Maybe survival requires nomadic behavior (avoiding the neighbor tribes before they invade, rape and pillage), behavior that has its roots in dissatisfaction with the present situation. All I can say is of all the places I see, I know that Portland fits the best; loose around the chest and neck, never chafing, pinching or bunching up. (say "bunch" over and over - what a strange word).

We left Simmesport around 8:30. The first few miles included the bridge over the Atchafalaya River. We rolled up to the light at the base of the bridge before heading over. The driver of a flatbed truck got on his PA system and asked if we wanted a lift over the bridge on the flatbed. The words hid under his accent, and it took a few seconds for us to register what he said. We smiled and waved him on.

bridge over the Atchafalaya River - Simmesport, Louisiana

We take an immediate turn after the bridge onto state routes 419/419/420, following the Atchfalaya and Mississippi Rivers - very few cars with a shoulder smoother than the road itself. One short section puts us on state route 1 where we hit a cloud of lovebugs (read more at http://www.bcgov.net/bftlib/lovebugs.htm).

They were so thick they'd fly into your jersey or open mouth. They are called lovebugs since a male and female attach and then go flying/mating for 12.5 hours. The swarm got worse as we climbed up a bridge/overpass. Apparently lovebugs have their own jet stream.

We reach the St. Francisville ferry before noon. The ride lasts less than 30 minutes, but the Mississippi is a huge river where the ferry crosses at a left hand bend. It is dark and murky. We decided against swimming. One last hill up to the town of St. Francisville. We rest, we eat, we blog.

over and out

The Meaning of Dogs in Louisiana

Dixie - Blue Healer on a leash, should have a long life

We met many dogs, most in Louisiana. They guard their turf. Many run and roam where they please, the end result often lying in the ditch, dead and bloated . It became obvious that our passing through would endanger dogs. We worked out a dog protocol, based on what the dogs did relative to what we did. If a dog started chasing us from a yard on the left, we slowed and sometimes stopped, verbally coaxing it back to the yard. If we sprinted away, this would pull the dog out into oncoming traffic. Two dogs almost licked the bucket before we developed a better strategy.

If the dog was on our side of the road and bolted for us, we'd out run them, but then discovered the bigger ones can easily stride at over 22 miles per hour. If the yard had no ditch, the dog would usually be on us immediately. We needed a new plan.

Chris knew some commands have universal effect on dogs. "GO HOME" is something most dogs either understand or puzzle over. We started yelling "GO HOME!" in a stern loud voice, looking straight at the dog while jabbing and pointing emphatically at the house or double wide the dog started from. Dogs know what pointing means, right? I know Porter does. It worked 99% of the time. A few dogs ignored the command, usually small yipping punk dogs. Most stopped and looked at us, confused and disappointed.

We stopped at one convenience store on our way to Simmesport. A mangy pack of five dogs ran amok in the parking lot. They were not overtly friendly but not aggressive either. A chubby female alpha kept them in check. Once we left the store the dogs migrated back to their yard, two houses down in the direction we were headed. Passing in front of the house, all five charged us, a cacophony of barking and yipping. The smallest one kept coming and got the closest, showing the most courage.

Bite aversion was our first concern, preventing dog/car impact second. With no tethered dog runs, fencing or other barriers, dogs living along well-traveled roads have shorter dog life expectency. On one occasion a dog ran at us, crossed into the middle of the road while we flagged the oncoming traffic. All the while, a girl in the yard casually said, "Percy, you're gonna get hit." I guess dead dogs are just one cost of doing business in Louisiana.

over and out

Day 26 - Oberlin, LA to Simmesport, LA 101.15 miles/15.2 mph average 6 hrs 9 min.

Simmesport, Louisiana sits on the Atchafalaya River, a spur off the Mississippi. The day started on flat farm roads, good surfaces. #26 to #104, straight into Mamou, Louisiana, the heart of Cajun country. There are so many small side roads in this area it looks like numbered vericose veins on the map. We hung a left on #13 steering clear of Opelousas. The new route was more direct - requiring less map checks. Passing through Lebeau, Palmetto and Bayou Current, we dropped onto road # 105, spinning north along the Atchafalaya River, straight into Simmesport. The road surfaces were better, but logging trucks were everywhere.

The shoulders ran out on us at times. By the time we finally arrived into Simmesport the humidity stacked up, quietly sapping our energy while the crickets buzzed. A small store sits at the junction of main street and road #105 and we sat outside drinking juice and water.

There were no RV parks anywhere near our motel so Dad and Phyllis parked directly in front of the room. I guess this is called "dry camping," meaning you're limited to what water you have on board, plus you have to tank your grey water and sewage and wait to dump it. We cleaned up, drove down to a local cafe and once again, ate too much.

Over and out

Day 25 - Kirbyville, TX to Oberlin, LA 83.10 miles/15.4 mph average 4 hrs 59 min.

The day we've waited for: Leaving Texas after 14 days of churn and burn, we are ready to get this huge state behind us in search of smoother roads. Roughly (no pun there) 19 miles east of Kirbyville lies the Texas/Louisiana border. We pass through Bleakwood, Texas (no lie - it is just a gas station/store, with broken down cars everywhere, and logging trucks screaming along road #363), then Bon Wier, Texas. and then:

We licked you Texas! OK, so you licked us that day from Sanderson to Del Rio, you and your righteous weather, sissy lightening strikes, sideways rain and your wimpy tornado watch! But we got out with our lives, so we declare us the winner, not you, Texas. Don't be crying to momma now, Texas.

Note the "what was I thinking" hand gesture.

Just after the state line marker, we passed over the Sabine River which shadows the boarder between the two states. With Texas out from under our tires, we continued into beautiful Louisiana, noting on the map that we'd pass through DeRidder, Louisiana in another 24 miles or so. That would be around our lunch time, or second breakfast time, 10 to 11 am. Knowing McDonald's was ahead of us, I started thinking about a BIG MAC and fries, the vision singing to me for miles and miles. We passed through a short rain squall, a good soaker but with 80 or so degrees temp, rain was no big deal.

Louisiana has parish roads, not county roads. Louisiana is different in so many ways, all of them interesting and peculiar. DeRidder, Louisiana is a nice little town, with an interesting story about how it got its name: (http://www.cityofderidder.org/):

The History of DeRidder

The story of DeRidder goes something like this. In 1893, railroads were being built in the United States, and one of their builders was Mr. Stilwell. There was an international financial crisis that year, and Mr. Stilwell could not raise the $3 million needed to finish constructing a railroad from Kansas City down to the Gulf, about 800 miles. Since he could not raise the money in the United States, he decided to go to Europe for aid. He first tried England, but failed. He then went to Holland for assistance. He was at a loss while in Amsterdam, and then remembered a young coffee merchant he had met while on a previous trip to Europe with his wife.

Mr. Stilwell went to the Coffee Exchange for their list of members, and found the name of the young merchant, Jan Dehouyen. Mr. Stilwell found Jan Dehouyen and told him about his plans for building the railroad in the United States. These plans intrigued Jan Dehouyen, so he raised the $3 million needed for this Kansas City Southern Railroad. Then Mr. Dehouyen decided to change careers from coffee to railroads, and traveled to the United States with Mr. Stilwell.

Jan Dehouyen kept an office in Amsterdam, Holland, and there was a map in his office showing Kansas City in the north and the Gulf in the south. Occasionally, Mr. Dehouyen would be asked to name a place, which might be of interest in the future, which was located along the railroad. Mr. Dehouyen had a sister-in-law named Ella DeRidder Dehouyen. She was a beautiful girl from Belgium, and was a favorite relative of Jan Dehouyen. He named our city “DeRidder”, in honor of his sister-in-law.

Any town named after a beautiful Belgian girl is OK by me, no problem. Plus they have a McDonald's. McDonald's is not everywhere you'd think, and when we saw the golden arches on a billboard or in person, we knew we'd again reached civililization. We were about 15 minutes early for the breakfast menu to flip over to the lunch/dinner menu. We cleaned up, dried off a bit, and froze in the MAX AC that seems to blast in every building you go into in the south. It tricks you into thinking that the heat/humidity is not so bad (at least for about 5 minutes) then, when you exit buildings after a prolonged stay indoors, the heat is a welcome change and feels good as the goosebumps flatten out, giving way to the sweat pores.

We ate every last fry, licked the cheese off the wrappers and wet-fingered stray salt and sesame seeds into our mouths, knowing that once the trip was over, McDonald's would not see our shadow for a while. Shivering, we stepped outside and sat on the curb to digest a bit. A nice local gentleman walked up and asked how the ride was going. We both agreed it was going great now that we were out of Texas. He then asked where we started from that morning.

Uuuhhhh . . . .

both our brains locked up. We could not push the name of the town we'd started from just 4 hours ago to the fronts of our brains. Simultaneous dementia set in. The fatiguing, day-in, day-out riding made us road weary and brain dead, like a rock star yelling "thank you Phoenix!" while standing on a stage in Tucson. Life on the road is not always a party, if only it were a heavily edited version of MTV Road Rules. The man then shot us a look that said "druggies" as he passed by us into McDonald's.

37 miles to Oberlin, Louisiana. Dad and Phyllis headed back up from Houston, and we'd meet them later on arrival. Phyllis found an RV park with a CASINO. Casino means buffet to us, slots to others. We arrived at the motel early afternoon. Called dad and he picked us up for dinner. The 5 mile drive between the motel and the casino revealed some interesting land clearing. Bulldozers gathered shrubs, brush, sectioned trees and tree roots into huge piles. These piles were then set on fire with a strange blowtorch-like vehicle backing up to the mountain, expel heat and flame, starting the tree pyre. The smoke coming off the dozens of piles looked like the last day on earth. The remaining day light filtered and dimmed through all the smoke and we regret not having taken a pic.

Buffet was of the sort where you could actually damage yourself if you lost control of the Four Horsemen of the Appetite. There were separate, huge buffet lines for each:

Italian food

Chinese food

American food

enough deserts to feed an army

Cajun and seafood (the word Cajun is derived from the word Acadian, note a brief history below)

Le Grand Dérangement
The huge exodus of Acadians that took place from 1755 to 1762 by order of Governor Lawrence was known as the Grand Dérangement (the Great Upheaval or Great Disturbance)
The Acadians were forced to leave Acadia (Acadia was colonized by the French in the eastern region of Canada in 1604. It was the first European colony in North America).

They were forced to leave for three reasons:

1. Most Acadians refused to pledge allegiance to the King of England. (right on!)
2. The English were worried about the very high birth rate among Acadians.
3. Getting rid of the French-speaking Acadians made room for more English speakers.

The majority of Acadians settled in Louisiana (Acadie Du Sud). The Grand Dérangement is considered the most important event in Cajun and Acadian history.

Harsh.

over and out

Day 24 - Coldspring, TX to Kirbyille, TX 110.23 miles/15.1 mph average 6 hrs 45 min.

97 degrees - hottest day so far

The closer we get to Louisiana, the thicker the air gets. That languid feeling kicks in first thing, the mornings are sopping with sluicy humidity. By midday the air gets hotter, mopping up the moisture. Today we rode small state routes through several small towns. The surfaces and shoulders (or "skirts" as they say in Florida) varied, sometimes good, sometimes bad.

The maps were confusing and unclear when we reached Shepard, Texas. We spent about 25 minutes seeking the correct route. Finally reaching Kountze, Texas, about 74 miles on the day, we stopped for food and drink. It was mid 90 degrees by now, and I filled a huge cup with ice, bought juices and we sat on the smoke-break bench outside the store. The bench sat on the afternoon shaded side of the building and we let off some steam before heading out again.

Ten miles later we passed through Silsbee, Texas, then got on highway 96. Oh the joy. Straight, smooth, huge shoulder, clean. It lacked charm, but who cared at this point? We jammed down the road for about 30 miles to Kirbyville, stopping only once in Buna, Texas for fluids, and a Burger King cheeseburger for Chris. I was not in the mood for it, just too hot.

Kirbyville sits on highway 96 and we reached it around 3 pm. The Gateway Motel was super funky, but clean and safe. We asked the owner if they had guest laundry. Everything we owned smelled rank since we were without our support crew. She said there was a laundro-mat down the highway a bit. She then asked how many clothes we had, and she offered to wash them for us! How cool was that? She got them back to us after about an hour, and we could not have been happier.

We chowed at Subway, restocked supplies at the local grocer, then went back to the room and enjoyed the air conditioning and TV.

over and out

Turtle Soup

East Texas Box Turtle Rescue Mission: Hello, my name is Chris. this here is my friend Travis. I found him baking in the sun, peering up at the curb - a final obstable blocking his path to a cool pond. My work with turtles stems from my profession as a CAREGIVER. I heal people, dogs and any sentient life form with above average karma. Oh heck, I help those unfortunates with dented karma too, what can I say.

I look around and realize Team Destroyer has far too many active members in the world right now, so The East Texas Box Turtle Rescue Mission falls under the aegis of Team Caregiver. We rebuild, save, conserve, replenish, reconstitute and generally assist the living world around us. Team Caregiver knows there is no other choice than to help out when we can . It's part of my nature and therefore it is our mission.

thanks Chris, do appreciate the lift.

Love,

Travis

We are not sure, but our records indicate this wayward turtle may be a relative of Travis's.

over and out