Hoping for a Tail Wind

Damon and I are deliriously walking through a Walmart on the edge of Del Rio, Tejas. Zombies returning to the land of the living with a thirst level on 12. After 6 days on the same road and 3 days with direct sustained headwinds peaking at 20mph, I’m motherfucking anyone who would motherfuck Walmart for being the oasis it currently is. Loudly. While walking through the aisles and aisles and rows and row of made in China essential. Damon calls it the most “robust” Walmart he’s ever seen. I feel like I’m dead and looking down at my self as I ask him if he wants to pick anything up while we’re. Let’s get some power tools. Maybe a ten pound bag of potting soil. How about a this massive 75” TV — we can strap it on my back rack and it’ll give us our own three foot passing law. After the last 200 or so miles of wind blistering, resource-scarce Texas canyon desert, we have both lost our god-dammed minds under the 30 foot high ceiling of a David Fincher-styled fluorescent lighting setup in the bike section. There’s one 700c tube left and the box is open, contents busting out. I take it anyway. Damon scores a nice camping sleep pad. Moments later and we’re in an all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant named “Oriental Cuisine”. One of like a dozen all-you-can-eat-restaurants in Del Rio, this place strangely transports me back to the time I had Chinese food in Cuba with Kara and Seamus after Slow Roll’s first season. Except even the myocardial infarctions are bigger in this here republic, boy. Damon and I each rock four full plates of Asian cuisine, burping amidst others Spanish language background chatter juxtaposed again our personal MSG overload.

Rewind selectah to quite a windy morning two miles north of Mexico in Seminole Canyon State Park. I wake up mega dehydrated after that 80 mile battle with little H20, it feels exactly like the kinda headache I’d get from too many beers after a union meeting. During the night we were joined in our unsanctioned campsite by some folks from Texas Parks and Wildlife. A woman comes over and tells me that they have not one but two bears. Mexican black bears. They’re taking them to safer a location and releasing them, hopefully away from the white supremacists — whom I am certain dislike Mexicans, blacks and bears. L These docile cuties are such gorgeous creatures; I don’t have my phone on me for photos, because no coffee yet, so take my word for it. I forget the woman’s name but we chat a bit and elbow bump about our mutual vaccination, she gives us a gallon of spring water and informs us that the restrooms by the visitor center are not only open but have WiFi. He shoots, he scores. Twitter on the shitter is in effect mode like my man Al B. Sure! I’m glad there are people out there doing what they can to help ease the pain and suffering of Mexican black bears, though I can’t help but wonder why we can’t do more for Mexicans, blacks and bears. And all humans for that matter. At least the ones on the American continent, to start.

I toss $10 into the pay envelope box and we head out. Fuck this wind. It’s still as fierce and still right in my face. Getting smacked like Moe, or Shemp, constantly. Fuck this shoulder surface. It’s like they made cement using 90% 3/4” gravel. I guess it’s some version of chip seal. Even without the wind I couldn’t exceed 9 mph on this shit. The combination of the two make for an absolutely miserable first 25 miles. Try to imagine pedaling as hard as you can, downhill, and only being able to go 6 or 7 mph… for four or five straight hours. Relentless. Brutal. Relentlessly brutal. Brutally relentless. All of the above.

Somewhere around Amistad Reservoir — which apparently is mostly dirt and dust with just a little water — both road and shoulder become fresh asphalt. Hallelujah! The wind has picked up and is now at that magical 20 mph sustained level, but the lack of surface resistance really brightens my outlook, since now my hardest effort yields a lightning speed of 10-12 mph.

Finally, after 175 miles of nearly nothing, we approach an actual real life traffic signal light thing and we are now in the “bustling metropolis” of Del Rio. Despite being basically stolen from Mexico 200 years ago, it’s pretty much laid out like most American suburbs. So good steal I guess? Like Ricky Henderson getting over to third base in an ALCS. I can’t believe my eyes. All the things right here for me?’ We had originally planned to pass through but neither of us can go on any further today. We are on empty. We are physically and mentally drained. Things are happening in my brain that don’t make sense. Does not compute. It could be dehydration, malnutrition, exhaustion, or fatigue, or maybe all of the above.

I still need at least one bike tube and Damon informs me that he once again has no access to first gear. Turns out that the local bike shop is closed permanently and Del Rio appears to be a greatest hits of corporate shit, so Walmart is our Mecca. We cop the aforementioned bike tube and for some reason the self check out only charges us 50 cents, so we gon’ party like it’s our birthday and book a fifty dolla holla at the Motel 6. Not much party ensues, just showers and laundry and successful in-room mechanical repairs. Which brings us all back up to where my belly is inflated with beef and broccoli, Lo mein, salmon, salt and pepper shrimp and like 40 other lovey things.

We make a second Haj in one day and the lighting in the supermarket section is even more intense. I procure nutritional staples to last the next few days and also a couple pints of ice cream. There’s even a Ben & Jerry vegan option for Damon. Mine has all the dairy crack and may even be made by a condom company. Hmmm.

The last week has really been difficult. This is no country for old or young men or women or non-conforming or possibly Mexican black bears. It’s literally skeletons. While we probably have another couple days of similar route ahead of us, the longest stretches are behind us. Damon tries out his new sleeping pad. All is good, better in fact. And it only took a few thousand calories, a hot shower and a cheap motel bed.

It’s bitterly cold outside of my paper lodging in Marathon as the sun just begins to brighten the horizon. Eventually I drag myself out and start packing; there’s a layer of ice on the gear I left outside. In fact, this whole town was covered in snow just two weeks ago. It’s supposed to warm up today with highs in the fifties. There’s something like 175 miles of US 90 between us and Del Rio with almost nothing on it, save one town called Sanderson, about 55 miles up and another called Comstock, about 145 miles up. We’re planning to hit the coffeeshop on the way out; they have great coffee and smoked salmon on the menu.

Walking back from my first shit, I realize my back tire has gone soft. It was inevitable, I knew I couldn’t go coast to coast without one flat. It must have happened yesterday and has been slowly leaking all night. Pull it off, find the hole in the tube and a tiny piece of wire in my tire. Patch it and reinsert and I pinch the tube and give myself another flat. What the fuck, stupid unforced error; this must be what it’s like being the other Williams sister. The pinch is on a seam, I attempt to patch anyway. During all of this I discover another piece of metal wire in the tire and perform a a second surgery before dropping my second deuce. The dual patches appear to be good so we bid adieu our wonderful accommodations at La Loma del Chivo and hit the cafe like Mike Tyson hit Robin Givens in the 80s.

Im really enjoying the coffee at this place. For some strange reason this place is open 7am-2pm, serves breakfast all day, but not lunch all day. The vegan power wrap Damon was itching for — and to which I was going to add smoked salmon to mine — is on the lunch menu. We settle for whatever breakfasty thing that wasn’t that and I leave a third dump before heading out, my tire a little soft but still holding air.

It’s the fourth straight day on this same road and to be honest, US Route 90 really isn’t offering much to inspire my thoughts or writing. It’s a bit warmer and the wind, while in my face, isn’t as strong as yesterday either. We ride through a thing called Lemons Gap and through Sanderson Canyon. Across a couple different counties. There’s a few disinterested cows, deer and rams. A railroad track with no train. Oooohhh a historical marker!! Fun wow. I’m glad I like riding a bicycle and I just pedal pedal pedal through the open canyon landscape.

About mile 45 and I hit a rest stop while Damon pushes on. These rest stops don’t have any services, it’s basically a covered picnic table and a garbage can. No water, no restrooms, nada. One sip from my thermos and I’m confronted by the fact that last night’s refried bean burritos have much to learn about patience, grasshopper. I jump back in the saddle to knock out the last ten miles into Sanderson, but instead get to commemorate a four poop day with my first ever Texas roadside movement behind a weird cactus bush-like plant. With movements that rival most any city’s philharmonic orchestra, I most certainly know I’m alive and well.

Feeling about ten pounds lighter, I get through the 55 miles of zero services into Sanderson, population 837. Twice the people as Marathon but one quarter the things; this is the only location with water and toilets and phone service for about 145 miles. They have two motels and a gas station store — so it will have to do. No groceries. Their one restaurant is only open two days and today is not one of those days. We are about as far from the typical gas-station-every-few-miles world that is typical across the US and A.

We’ve stocked up as best we can. Peanut butter. Bananas. Ramen. Various boiled water meals. Protein bars. We hole up in one of the two hotel rooms and handle back-on-the-real-world business in this little oasis of existence, the Desert Air Motel. Our next few days will find overnight temperatures rise back into camp-able limits and at some point we will finally turn off of US 90, but for now we’ve still got 121 miles to Del Rio, our next chance at civilization.

The bed is comfy and satisfies my four pillow standard. I awaken to a soft rear tire. It’s not even that soft, but it’s not full anymore. This is definitely the slowest leak I’ve ever experienced. I decide to simply pump it back up and ride on; hopeful to make the bike shop in Del Rio. We fill up every container we have, including our backup gallon container. I’d estimate we’re rolling out with almost 3 gallons of water on us, net additional weight, 24 pounds. For those of you no longer kneeling before the kings feet, that’s about 11 liters and 11 kilograms. Why does metric gotta be so lined up like that?

I stop in the gas station and amidst maskless customers and vaccination ridicule score two of the best breakfast tacos of my life. Tortilla and all made on the spot and it’s authentic, except the guy has blond hair and blue eyes. Maybe he’s one of those white Mexicans, like Miclo from Blood In, Blood Out – at least this guy is wearing a mask as he makes fresh tortilla, egg, potato and chorizo. All for $1.29 each. Thats damn near Mexico prices and we are damn near Mexico.

Fueled up on tacos, we hit our fifth straight day on US Route 90. This one is full of rolling declines and inclines as we drop down into and climb up our of canyon after canyon. We’ve also got a full on direct headwind of about 15 mph sustained, as we come into this ghost town called Dryden. Fuck this headwind.

• 

• 

We ride upwind downhill. We ride upwind uphill. The headwind does not subside, and our course all day is due southeast and directly into this wind. It is a game changer. We’re only going 8 mph downhill. This shit is difficult as fuck and so we take lots of stops. We talk about hydration while we down bottles of water one at a time. Plenty of people throughout history have died for simply not carrying enough water. Six million ways to die, choose one. We’re feeling confident in our supply, but I’m still concerned about where our next water is coming from.

As we run low on water and lower on energy, we score some water from an unknown source in a town called Langtry. Thanks Jerry and your Wagon Wheel. We’re already feeling completely exhausted but decide to push on. This headwind is relentless. A couple miles up and my front tire goes flat. Daylight is running thin and so I do my best pit stop tube change out. We are really going to need that bike shop in Del Rio a couple days down.

As the sun is setting, we come up in Seminole Canyon State Park. Their campgrounds are closed and their bathrooms and water are after are cut off, but we cruise in the dark and set our tents up in the day use area anyway. The wind is howling even more than during the daylight. Peanut butter bananas get crushed under a sky that must feature at least a thousand stars. We are lowing water but this is really an amazing view.