Day 38. 2,396 Miles. Butts Butts & More Butts.

Posted on March 21, 2021 by anthonycaferro

I’m sleeping under a house on stilts on an island in Alabama. Well not right now. Right now I’m about to be sleeping under a house on stilts on an island in Alabama. I didn’t even know there were any islands in Alabama before now.

Let’s do whatever they do to Bruce Willis in 12 Monkeys and go back to when Kelley is hooking up biscuits, fried chicken and gravy for breakfast. The coffee is on point too. The chats with 14 year old Mason are on point, three. He’s definitely more in touch with his reality than most kids his age, and probably more than a good amount of adults. I appreciate when parents parent and it shows in their children. It’s something that is much needed. It also reminds me why I’m not a parent. It’s apparent. Anyway. Both Kelley and Mason are awesome people and I wish them the best. I’m so happy to have met them and hope they come visit me in the Western New York area sometime. I thank them for their extraordinary generosity and hospitality; Kelley takes a selfie; we head back up US Route 90 for the second straight day. Also, for the second straight day, The Meters and A Tribe Called Quest dominate the Sunday morning airwaves.

Beaches and boardwalks along the coastal towns of Mississippi populate the forward progress we make into a steady headwind. Pass Christian. Gulfport. Biloxi. We have a gorgeous view right on the Gulf of Mexico. Mardi Gras Mambo leads into Award Tour as funky grooves blare loudly while I cruise along. Through about 80 total miles in Mississippi over two days, we encounter six Walmarts and thirteen — yes thirteen — Waffle Houses. No waffles, thanks, but we’ve got a hefty serving of mileage on the plate for today; it’s smooth sailing for the first 45 or 50, near the beach… boy!

Butt.

I catch a goddamned flat. I don’t feel like patching it on the side of the road so I replace the tube with my last new tube and keep it moving, to the K.I.M.. With only another mile left in Mississippi, we make yet another pilgrimage to the aforementioned sixth Walmart and I grab the last 700c tube on the shelf. It’s not as robust as some other Walmarts but it’s just as entertaining out front of this one. Let’s call it season two. Or maybe three? I dunno. Some dude is walking along the storefront, running his mouth to a couple Walmart employees who walk 6 feet closer to the storefront and run their mouth back — and for some reason they aren’t allowed to cross a line just outside the front door. Walmart straight got their employees on Pavlovian lockdown. It’s kinda like if one of the many dogs that barks at me were to come running and get zapped by an electric fence or something.

Butt.

1/2 mile up and I get another flat. What the fuck. Mississippi ain’t trying to let me leave, yo. The entire seam is blown out. Cheap tube that cost me $10 at some bike shop in Gonzales. I pop in the $5 Walmart tube I just copped ten minute ago and hope for the best.

We finally make it to our seventh state, Alabama. I am out of spare tubes so I’m hoping it’s a sweet home for me. At least for one night.

It’s getting late in the day. A 95 mile day. The sun’s getting low big guy. I’m getting tired little ones. Riding and writing. I’ve acquired permission to set up camp under a house on stilts on a small island called Dauphin Island Alabama. There’s not much beside bayou before that. With ten miles left and the sun setting in 30 minutes we decide to go for it.

This bridge and the sun set provide inspiration and motivation to finish strong. The bugs do not. But we make it. And I’m exhausted so y’all get no more words today. The photos will do the speaking, I’m going to do the sleeping.

Posted in bicycle touring | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Day 37. 2,301 Miles. Fire On the Bayou b/w Buggin’ Out.

Posted on March 20, 2021 by anthonycaferro
Shoutout to the firefighters at New Orleans Fire Department, and the colorful mural and Art Deco font.

Who dat. It’s Saturday morning at the holy land that is this Whole Foods in New Orleans Louisiana. I feel the urge to fill my thermos with coffee but I don’t know if they’ll have that here. My own personal Jesus. Upon investigation, I’m unsure if I’ll even be allowed admittance, as I’m not wearing the clearly required yoga pants. They let me in, anyway. It’s probably the tattoos. Now I’m distracted by all the yoga pants. The pants say yoga, but the ass says McDonald’s! Huh? What? Wait. Why am I here? Trail mix. Bananas. Peanut butter. Tortilla. Stocking up on the staples needed for the next few days. It’s really the bulk antioxidant trail mix that lures me to this particular chain of supermarket. Let’s call it the Allen Toussaint of trail mix. With just one turn out of the parking lot we’re cutting through and then out of the Crescent City — on US Route 90. That 90. Again. For the entire day. Again.

I’m naturally lit rolling out the first 20 miles. The Meters are rocking the playlist. I am Fire On the Bayou. Same feels as the day coming into NOLA. Plus, after a couple days of contra-riding of my 2019 ride out of the same city, I’m hyped to move on to uncharted territory. And this end of the nationwide road is not quite Van Horn to Del Rio Texas’s US 90 either. Whereas nayer a drop of agua out in Texas, in this part of Louisiana there’s H2-everywhere. On the same one road the neighborhoods of NOLA fade into rural bayou, minus the suburbs. Instead of cul de sacs I get sparsely sprinkled strips of house on stilts with corresponding piers and boats and wildlife. And it’s fun and funky and funny. All kinds of crazy structures and signage populate my perimeter for miles.

We cross what is probably the 15th bridge of the day and are now in the sixth state of the tour — and second that I’ve previously bicycled… Mississippi. Em ay double ess, aye double pee… I know it because the bug game levels up considerably. In an effort to get one more NOLA reference in rhyme: it’s Art Neville Level Up. Reminds me of the phenomena I experienced my first Fay riding the Natchez Trace. Gnats galore. Also I know we’re in Mississippi because there’s a sign. It’s a sign!

Still along US 90, we make yet another Haj to this Waveland Walmart I’m now standing out front of. Damon needs another tube, so I don’t even go in. Soaking up sun and coffee, almost instantly the wild shit begins. Three maskless women walk out just hacking up lung butter a foot from me. Someone walks out pushing a shopping cart with another adult sitting in the cart! Some grifter type dude runs out, knocking something over and making a commotion. He books it across the parking lot. A Walmart cop is on the radio, another one comes. Maybe a supervisor too. I have no idea what’s going on but this feels like 14 year old me watching shit go down at the McKinley Mall. Janet Jackson “Control” blares over the speakers outside. Loudly too. It’s entertaining as fuck. This is my binge-worthy show right now. I can’t resist and walk in. Whoa. There’s a McDonald’s inside this Walmart. People with carts full of groceries and consumer goods are now in line for a Big Mac and a strawberry shake. Maybe a Filet O Fish and a 6 pack of McNuggets. There’s even a nail salon in this motherfucker? Whoa. It’s packed. There’s a line. Shit is crazy.

Migrating out of consumer Mecca, I detour us down to Beach Blvd, and behold: the Gulf of Mexico! First beach since I was sitting on Coronado with Candy and my cousin. It’s a breath of fresh air, figuratively and literally.

After hanging at the beach and fighting the bugs off for a bit, Damon and I head into Bay St Louis, Mississippi to meet our warm showers hosts and set up camp in their backyard, so we can hide from the bugs. The gorgeous gulf beach aside, I like the whole proper-noun-preceded-by-common-noun approach employed by whoever named Bay St Louis, it reminds me of Hostel Buffalo. So much better. Like the way the adjective comes second in Español. Our host Kelley and her teenage wonderchild Mason chat over an amazing dinner she’s prepared us. Mason is 14 and strikes me as curious and smart straight away. Our first icebreaker conversation is about the wildness at Walmart that left me feeling his age. By the ens of dinner, he moved through politics, religion, music, misappropriated flag usage and so much more. It’s absolutely uncanny how one topic after another and he is word for word saying things Damon or I (but mostly Damon) have been saying all your long. Topics we’ve discussed. Issues we’ve debated. Mason is on point. It’s gets really great when Damon and Mason come to the point of having the exact same music tastes, especially with respect to current mainstream hip hop music. Being more a fan of the A Tribe Called Quest era, one could say that I’m buggin’ out. Buggin’ out. Buggin’ out. I’m buggin’ out. Mason is like a mini Damon. 20 years younger. They’re names rhyme. They have the same glasses. It is astounding. Remarkable. Exceptional. Fantastic. Even Damon can’t deny it. I thank Kelley and Mason and dive headfirst out of the bugs and into the pop up penthouse for one night in Mississippi, eager to push on tomorrow to my seventh state, Alabama.

Posted in bicycle touring | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Days 35 & 36. 2,239 Miles. Big Easy Day Off.

Posted on March 18, 2021 by anthonycaferro

Mother Nature gives us all she can overnight. In the morning, it’s blue-sky sunny and much cooler and we have a vigorous tailwind. And I have a hotel room front flat.

Patch and repair. Nothing in the tire. I check the back tire and find a piece of stone or bone wedges into a crevice in the tire. I pull it out and proceed to break the valve stem in half when I go to top the tire off. What the fuck. I then find an inch and a half long piece of wire through the tire. What the actual fuck. I fashion a couple tire boots with an older health insurance card. Because the health of American citizens should not be a for profit model. Lastly, I patch Damon’s flat from yesterday as my only spare. Much more field mechanics than I expected so we roll out a bit later than normal.

A right turn back on 61 after 5 miles and it’s clear that this gusty tailwind is likely to take us the entire 70 miles to my most preferred of travel destinations, New Orleans for a much needed day off. Add to that the fact that we’ve got the levee bike paths for half of those miles and I am feeling it. It feels like forever, but only a year and a half ago I was riding this route in the opposite direction — and beginning my 1,500 mile ride home.

Last time I was here the spillway was open, so I had to detour off of the bike trail back to the road. This time the spillway is closed; according to a sign and a barrier, so is the “road”. Roads? Where we’re going, we don’t need roads. We get our adventure on and decide to forge ahead. Grass. Mud. Rocks. Flowing water. Sections of the pavement have been washed away but water flowing from the nearby dam, damn. I’m spending too much time carrying my 100 pounds of bike than I care to.

It’s a strange stretch of path along the Mississippi River, mixing nature with massive oil company infrastructure. Pipelines and giant factories everywhere. One after another. I eventually tune them out, which is easy because I’m not sharing the road with vehicular traffic.

After a few relaxing miles, I settle into all the feels only a ride of this magnitude can inspire. The sense of connection with my environment — and my purpose and place within it. The lack of distractions cha cha dancing with the prolonged periods of self reflection spilling into intense clarity. The generosity and hospitality so many have collectively provided me during my riding over the last 15 years of doing this kinda crazy shit. My physical, spiritual and emotional states align as I come into NOLA just in time for rush hour traffic.

Somewhere behind me has caught another flat. I cruise through town to the hotel; he ends up taking an Uber XL. We reunite for the ritualistic calorie binge. We walk through the quarter and eventually get to my spot. My sincerest condolences if you’ve been here but haven’t had Verti Mart’s “All That Jazz” sammich. Or anything on the menu at the back of this cash only bodega corner store. We grab a couple beers in brown paper bags and grab a bench on the river. I absolutely scarf my meal down while Damon is FaceTiming his wife and business partner. I don’t even realize the total wolf job I do. Afterward, I fight off enough of the food coma to drink a curbside Moscow Mule with NOLA native Margeaux, her two pups and her 66 Barracuda. I hit the hotel bed by 9pm and last five minutes. My lights go out with the room lights on.

We take a day off in NOLA. We get wild AF on our day off. I lay in the hotel bed for hours. Damon and I drink coffee, roughly plan out the final leg of the ride to St Augustine, chat about all sorts of stuff. We’re getting crazy in the Big Easy. News talk. Pandemic talk. Racially motivated shootings in Atlanta. I loop back around to the planning portion, scouting for camp sites and warm showers hosts along the route. This one profile from some folks that let you camp under their beach house on the gulf ties a bow on our hit button discussions:

Damon is going on about how amazed he still is that there’s nothing Trump could do to stop his people from groveling to him. How now he’s being labeled a liberally elite New Yorker for encouraging vaccination. I haven’t watched the news in a long time but I can affirm that the Empire State does not want him back. Ultimately, I feel that the right and the left have the same “shouting you down” issues. There’s no civil discourse. A lot of folk’s perspective is limited and their attention span is shit. Damon is adamant that public rhetoric has to be toned down. In the end, I wash my underwear in the hotel sink and that task is perfectly analogous to US government and politics. Sandpaper and Bobbie pop up last second from Jackson Mississippi. We enjoy lunch and drinks in a semi-reopened New Orleans. With this turning up of the relaxation, we feel ready to hit the road outta here tomorrow, focused on completing the final leg to the Atlantic Ocean.

Posted in bicycle touring | Leave a comment