“Where y’all comin’ from?” inquired one of the men with a deep Texan drawl. He smiled at us with a big grin from under his wide-brimmed cowboy hat. He sat at a table with a group of men – must have been their Sunday meetin’ day.
“Boise,” John replied.
“Y’all come all the way from Boise? Did ya’ hear that?” he turned to the other men at his table. “He said he come from Boise!”
The men shook their heads in wonder.
“Ya’ come from Boise! Whar ya’ headin’?”
“We’re heading on over to Dallas,” John continued.
“And then we’ll keep heading east,” I added.
“Y’all headin’ to Louisiana? Whar to after that?” his friend asked.
“Manhattan,” I answered.
“Manhattan!” he echoed in surprise. “How long ya figgerin’ it’ll take ta git thar?”
“How much halp are the kids?”
“Ain’t that thang hard ta pedal up a hill?”
“How far do y’all go in a day?”
“What if you run into a ragin’ thunderstorm?”
John and I answered questions until we saw the faintest flicker of sunlight flash through the window.
Cycling across Texas brought nothing but miles and miles of nothing but more miles of Texas.
We saddled up and headed into a strong crosswind. The only thing predictable about the winds in western Texas was that they blew all day long. We never knew which direction they would come from, but we knew they would be blowing.
“Just wait’ll we get to Texas!” John had been telling us for months. “Once we reach Texas we’ll be doing hundred-mile days easy! When I rode across Texas years ago I was doing a hundred twenty miles a day and not even pedaling. Just wait guys – you’ll see! The wind’ll be at our backs and we’ll fly!”
We had been waiting for those easy, hundred-mile days for a long time, but hadn’t seen them yet. All we had seen was wind. Lots of it. But it was never at our backs as John had promised. It came from the south and blew us over. Or it came from the north and blew us over the other way. Or it blew directly in our faces. But never, ever, did it come from behind.
Day after day we pedaled through the wide open spaces of Texas with nothing to stop the wind. No hills, no trees, no nothing for miles except miles and more miles of Texas. Thirty or forty mile per hour winds are enough to make cycling incredibly easy or phenomenally difficult, depending on their direction. Unfortunately, it seemed to always be in the “phenomenally difficult” camp.
The four of us hunkered down to fight the wind. Mile after painful mile we pedaled for all we were worth watching the mile signs slowly pass by. A few hours and not-so-many miles after we started out, I glanced over at the triple and my heart almost popped out of my chest. I looked at my boys, fighting the wind like the best of them, and my heart swelled with pride like never before.
In so many ways Davy and Daryl were typical nine-year-old boys. They sat on the bike licking their lollipops and telling toilet-humor jokes just like third graders everywhere. And yet in other ways they were extraordinary; so much more than other third graders. They had developed the strength and endurance to pedal hard for hours on end if needed, and the wisdom to know when it was. They had risen to the challenge of bicycling around North America. They never complained about cold or hunger or exhaustion, and they were a sheer joy to be around.
I realized that we had developed into a well-oiled machine; a team who knew and compensated for each other’s weaknesses. We weren’t parents and sons, adults and children, or teachers and students; we were all simply members of a team working together to fight the Texan winds.
We pulled into a rest area and John and I sat around complaining about the headwinds.
“I feel so cheated,” John complained as he slumped into the bench. “We are supposed to have a tailwind in Texas. The wind always comes from the west around here. This just isn’t fair. Every cyclist I’ve ever talked with talks about the incredible tailwinds they get in Texas. And yet here we are with these damn crosswinds all the time! It’s just not fair.”
Daryl came bounding up with a huge grin spread across his face. “You know, Daddy? The headwind is just part of the chicken soup!” He scampered away to play with his brother.
He was right. It was all part of the soup. Take it or leave it. Continue on or give up. There wasn’t a gosh-darn thing we could change.
Ireal deep. I burrowed down to the deepest depths of my soul to pull out every ounce of energy and every remnant of resolve I could find. Strong crosswinds, steep hills, and extreme exhaustion caused by far too many tough days in the saddle just about did me in.
We were racing a massive rain storm – and had been for the past three days.
“Y’all know thar’s rain comin’, don’t ‘cha?” the clerk in the convenience store asked.
We had heard it for days. Every time we stopped people kindly pointed out that rain was coming. Lots of rain. Three days of rain, in fact. The storm was behind us and closing in. We were determined to get to my high school friend’s house south of Ft. Worth before it hit and were pushing mightily to make it.
Day after day we pushed on through the wind. There was no earthly way to consume enough calories to fuel our bodies for what we were demanding of them. We woke up early and stopped late in the afternoon.
As I cranked out mile after agonizing mile I chanted “Lillian…. Lillian… Lillian…” in the back of my mind. I couldn’t wait to get to the small town of Lillian and my friend’s house – even if I hadn’t seen her for twenty-six years.
I had just about had it when we passed a sign informing us we still had twelve miles to Lillian. Twelve miles! Holy spotted bovine! Twelve more miles? I slumped over my handlebars.
John looked at me. “Do ya’ see that sign, Nance?” He had a big smile on his face. “Only twelve more miles!”
I looked at him like he was nuts – like he had finally fallen off his rocker. He had finally plunged to the depths of idiocy. “Only twelve miles? Are you a stark raving lunatic? Only twelve miles? Twelve miles of these hills with this headwind is forever! Twelve miles of this is eternity! Twelve miles of these conditions is cruel and unusual punishment! Heck – twelve more miles of this is flat out torture! Only twelve more miles? Are you a masochist?” I fell off my bike and collapsed into the grass on the side of the road.
A few minutes later I somehow managed to drag myself out of the grass and onto my bike to propel myself those last twelve miles to Eileen's house.
We had done it. We had finished our mad dash to escape the rain. We had outrun the storm. At that point I couldn’t have cared less when the heavens opened up. I didn’t care if the cloudmen turned on their faucets and poured buckets and buckets of rain. I didn’t care if it rained cats and dogs and horses and pigs. I was safely curled up in the cozy dry house of my high school buddy. Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain!
* * *
Dear Grandma,
We are at the house of Mommy’s friend. We struggled a lot to get here, and when we got here we were exhausted. The family has three dogs, one four-year-old boy named Dyllan, and a whole lot more. Dyllan has lots of toys. He has a motorcycle game. He also has Thomas and Friends train set. He is a very big fan of Cars, the movie, and even has a Cars tent. We are having lots of fun here. We got to ride a go-cart. It was fun! But then it started to rain. It’s been raining a lot. The entire yard is flooded because it rained so much. We are staying here longer than planned because of all the rain.
Love, Davy
* * *
Our week in Lillian had been wonderful, but it was time to move on. Days and days of pouring rain had flooded the region, but the roads were clear. The day started off great – cool temps, nice roads, and mile after mile of gorgeous bluebonnet fields. A tailwind (blessed tailwind) pushed us along at a good clip, and the miles flew by.
By afternoon we started seeing flooded fields. Earlier in the day we had seen
plenty of big puddles, but things had pretty much drained after the latest dowsing. By afternoon the situation changed. Huge fields were completely submerged and rivers and creeks were flowing furiously. It was actually quite beautiful with trees reflecting in the still water sitting atop flooded fields, but I felt badly for the many farmers who lost their crops.
“Mom!” Daryl called back to me as we pedaled along. “Did you see that?”
“Did I see what, honey?” I replied.
“The frog! The smashed frog in the road!” he called out.
We were accustomed to seeing dead animals on the road – cats, dogs, raccoons, skunks, coyotes, and armadillos. But that day the roadkill was of a different sort. The flooding had brought out frogs and turtles and snakes. The frogs were huge, and there were a couple of times when the front end of the frog had been obliterated, but the hind quarters were just fine. We could have picked them up and had fried frog legs for dinner if we had been the sort to enjoy that kind of thing.
By the time we needed a place to camp we were in the thick of the flooding. The road was raised, and therefore dry, but water extended as far as the eye could see on either side of the road. We pedaled eastward keeping our eyes out for a small patch of ground dry enough to set up the tent.
Very heavy rains had flooded eastern Texas. Fortunately, the road was raised, but camping in the muck was an interesting experience.
After what seemed like hours, we managed to find a field that was merely soaking wet – not submerged – and headed back to set up our tent in the muck.
Glooomp went my shoe as I pulled it out of a deep hole in the mud. Gloock went the other. As we walked around getting ready for the night, we left deep holes in the mud and ended up with soaking wet, muddy shoes. I pulled some crackers and cheese out of my panniers and balanced them on the rear rack of my bike while the four of us stood around eating dinner. Each time we moved, we heard the distinctive glooomp of the muck as we yanked our feet out of holes six inches deep.
Eventually we took off our shoes and dove into the tent, praying we wouldn’t sink too deep in the night.
In the morning we packed up in the muck and yuck of the muddy field. The tent was drenched from heavy dew and everything that touched the ground immediately soaked up water. We couldn’t wait to get out of Texas. We were tired of fighting the winds and tired of dealing with rain. We didn’t hold out hope that Arkansas would be much better, but couldn’t help but dream it would be.
We were exhausted. We still had many thousands of miles to go before we got back home to Boise via Connecticut, but not a lot of time. By our reckoning, we needed to pedal 1300 miles per month for the next four months in order to make it home before school started. Our average mileage so far in the trip was somewhere around eight hundred miles per month, but we vowed we would do it. The pressure was on, and it was taking its toll.
Mad Dash to Nowhere
We had crossed Texas. The route we had chosen had taken us directly across the longest part of the state. For nearly nine hundred miles we had fought the winds – mostly a crosswind coming from the south. Over and over we had questioned our decision.
Why don’t we just turn north and take advantage of the wind? we thought.
But day after day we stuck to our plan and headed due east with the winds bowling us over.
So when someone suggested we turn north and head up to Missouri and the Katy Trail, the longest rails-trails in the nation, we jumped at it. After all, there really wasn’t any reason we needed to stay south at that point. It was April and spring was upon us. We figured we would take advantage of the wind to blow us up to the Missouri River. After almost a thousand miles of fighting the Texan winds, we were finally going to get our just reward. We’d paid the piper and now was the time to cash in. We were heading north to let the winds push us for a while.
But the winds changed. We pedaled north against a headwind and I had to remind myself I was making chicken soup. But darn it! It was supposed to push us north! It just wasn’t fair.
The valley we were riding through was filled with the sweet smell of burning pine. It seemed like most houses in that rural part of Arkansas had a fire going, and for good reason. It was unseasonably cold and the strong wind created a brutal wind chill. The four of us bundled up with just about every scrap of clothing we owned and looked like the Michelin men riding down the highway. After a few days of balmy eighty-degree weather where we sweated all day, the cold was a bitter shock to our systems. Not only was it a shock to us, it was a shock to the people of Arkansas – it tied an all-time record set back in 1938 for being so cold. And we were headed north directly into frigid headwinds.
The courthouse in Texarkana is built on the state line. We stood with one foot in Texas and the other in Arkansas.
We were hunkered down, pedaling along the Arkansan highway when a car pulled up ahead of us and a woman jumped out. “I found you!” she exclaimed. “I came out looking for you guys – I’m so glad I found you.”
She welcomed us to Arkadelphia, the “Peanut Brittle Capital of the World” and pulled out a bag of the sweet peanut-y concoction. “My cousin took your picture over in Texarkana yesterday and told me you might be coming my way. I thought I’d come out and see if I could help you in any way.”
We were confused. “You came out looking for us,” I asked, incredulous. “Huh?”
“Do you remember that man you met in Texarkana at the court house? He took your picture.”
“Yeah, I vaguely remember him.”
“He’s my cousin,” she told us. “He sent me your picture and said you might be coming my way – he really had no idea where you were headed. But he told me to go out and see if I could find you. It’s going to freeze tonight, and he didn’t want the kids out in the freezing cold. Would you come stay at my house tonight?”
Fifteen miles later we pulled up to Kathryn’s house and peeled off our layers of clothes. She had a big pot of spaghetti and a smile as big as a freight train waiting for us, and we felt at home immediately.
After we had eaten enough to fill that freight train, the kids scurried off to watch TV while John and I sat around the table talking with Kathryn.
“So where are you headed from here?” she asked.
“We’ll head north to Hot Springs tomorrow,” John replied.
“Hot Springs? My daughter lives there!” Kathryn exclaimed. “I’ll be heading up there tomorrow as well. My daughter and her husband are having a big Easter dinner – come join us!”
The following afternoon we arrived at Sonja’s house in the early afternoon.
“Welcome! Mom said you would be coming. Come on in and eat – there’s lots of food!”
The table was filled with ham and roast beef and sweet potatoes and hot fresh buns and more food than we had seen in ages. The four of us dove in and ate as though we hadn’t eaten in days. Even though we had never met the people there, we couldn’t help but feel we were home. Home on Easter – it was a good feeling, and one we wouldn’t feel for a long time.
We had been fortunate for months – every time it rained we had managed to find shelter. Our lucky streak ended one night when we set up camp in a field and were awakened by the pitter-patter of raindrops on the tent. It rained on and off throughout the night, and we woke up to one of those dreary, gray days. We had no idea what it would do – it could clear up; it could start pouring.
We sat in our tent debating what to do. Should we pack up and go, knowing we could very possibly get wet? Or should we hang tight, knowing that we had barely enough food and water to get us through that day, and certainly not enough to get us thirty miles into town the next day? John and I agonized over our decision. If we cycled, all four of us would need to pedal in shorts, keeping our one pair of long pants dry for when we stopped. But it was cold out – cold and wet. The kids would be miserable.
It was a crapshoot and there was no good answer. In the end, we decided we would be miserable no matter what we decided. We cou
ld hang out for the day, eating all our food and drinking all our water and be miserable the next day trying to get to town hungry and thirsty, or we could take off and ride in the rain and get wet and cold today. It didn’t seem to matter which one we chose – either way was a bummer.
“Okay guys, here’s the deal,” John told the boys once we made our decision. “Tomorrow we’ll be back to making chicken soup, but today it’ll be poop soup. It’ll be yucky and awful and miserable. But we’re gonna do it. We’re gonna take off and try to get to a motel. So, take off your long pants, put on your rain coats, and brace yourself for a terrible day.”
The first five miles weren’t too bad. No rain actually fell, but spray from the logging trucks was awful. We pulled into a little store and warmed up for a few minutes before setting out again.
A few miles later the skies opened up and freezing cold rain poured down. We made a mad dash for a carport of a nearby house. A woman came out and invited us in – she and two friends were having a quilting bee, so we hung out with them for an hour or so.
It was still drizzling when we set off, but we figured we needed to just go – it most likely wouldn’t stop raining at all, and we hoped to make it to a motel. I felt like I was passing through an automatic carwash – rain from above, spray from my tires below, and spray from passing cars from the side. And it was cold – yucky cold. The kids were shaking and shivering, but never complaining. They knew that complaining would do absolutely no good whatsoever.
We arrived at a restaurant and pulled over. Four drowned rats piled in to eat. We ate, and then we sat. And sat. And sat, hoping the skies would clear. They didn’t. With only a few miles left, we donned our raincoats once again and headed out into the pouring rain.
Twenty Miles per Cookie: 9000 Miles of Kid-Powered Adventures Page 14