Day 18. 1,147 Miles. La Loma del Chivo.

Posted on March 1, 2021 by anthonycaferro

The sun sets on west Texas; I’m out of the frigid cold and in a papercrete hostel in Marathon — population not very many. It’s the most unique accommodations I’ve ever been afforded at any price and it was actually free because I am on bicycle. It’s certainly a one of a kind experience that I would have unknowingly pedaled past otherwise. I love this place and I didn’t know about it this morning and I really don’t want to ever leave.

Get in the hot tub that I wish I had right now and bend quantum physics back to when “you may ask yourself, well… how did I get here? That’s the dilemma at 7am in Alpine Texas. Our ride length and destination today is up in air; tomorrow is a different story. I have important zoom bike nerd matters that I’ve pre-arranged to handle from the comfort of a motel room 85 miles up in Sanderson Texas in a couple days. But today, Damon and I have weighed our options and none of them are very sexy. The weather outside is frightful; the good weather has gone to absolute shit; highs in the 30’s and 16-20 mph winds with gusts twice that are not making anything attractive at all. Overnight wind chill lows in the teens mean we’re reliant on the already far-spaced civilizations a bit more; we microwave some oatmeal in this one star motel room on the east end of town get moving into frigid morning. 85 miles is Sanderson and 30 miles up is a town called Marathon. Nothing else. After Sanderson it’s another 80 miles before anything. This is as spread out as it gets in the lower 48. Montana has more railroad towns, thanks grandpa Caferro.

After agreeing on not to agree on a destination and plan with Damon, I am cold as fuck and biking into this headwind at 11 mph. It sucks. He’s way ahead already. My mask that’s a bandana is now a scarf. Or something. I’m prepared for cold but not my normal ride-to-work-in-Western-New-York-cold. About 40 minutes outside of town, a guy pulls alongside me in this sweet little 1980s coupe. He’s got an adorable pup riding shotgun but I’m focused on trying to get up this hill. I’m thinking he’s gonna ask me where I’m riding to but instead says he has some information for me. What the fuck is going on. Is this how the internet works in West Texas? Am I being recruited for some clandestine organization? Is this guy an alien and this is how abductions are really conducted? I pull over at the top of the incline and he stops alongside/in front of me. His window is down and his dog is chilling. His name is Gil and asks if we’re going to Marathon. I say we’re shooting for Sanderson but open to either. Turns out his lady Ingrid is the proprietor of some bicycle friendly lodging ahead in Marathon. He gives me her number and says we can stay tonight for free. I thank him profusely and shove forward, excited to make Marathon, place the phone call to Ingrid and break the news to Damon about our possible stroke of amazing trail magic.

A couple frosty hours later and my feet are snow-manned as I get into Marathon. Damon’s posted up outside a cafe which in a strange judging-a-book-by-it’s-cover way, looks amaze-balls compared to anything in the last five towns. I catch Damon up on the serendipitous rendezvous with Gil. I call Ingrid. When I ask how she is, she says busy. So we neglect the coffee shop and go straight over to her, hungry for caffeine and calories but hungrier for any sort of indoor shelter for the night.

The second we meet Ingrid and are shown around her spread of land, La Loma del Chivo, I know we have found what we’ve been looking for. Ironically, our shortest mileage day of the tour is into a town named Marathon. We are good to go. And it somehow just fell in our lap. If you’re reading this, you really should come and stay here and see it yourself. I will (poorly) attempt to describe this place, share photos and then call it a day and a night on this days report so Damon and I can enjoy a half. There’s something like 15 different little lodging setups across the dusty spread. Most are made of paper and cans and other recyclable material. There’s no building code so folks can let imagination run wild. It is the coolest fucking thing I may have ever laid eyes on. There’s an outdoor brick oven complete with a pizza peel. I believe it all may be now run more like an Airbnb than a hostel, but the structure we’re in for the night is definitely the most eccentric and communally set up for groups. Tons of books. An outdoor kitchen and wood burning stove. A rooftop patio. Above my bed hangs a portrait of Emiliano Zapata and Van Gogh’s Starry Night. It is all on brand for me. I’ve been involved with Hostel Buffalo Niagara for more than a decade and so hostels hold a special place in my heart. They are now more rare in the US than Europe or Asia, but remain an amazing way to connect people through shared experiences while traveling. Maybe post-pandemic they will see an uptick as people begin to rediscover the culture of connecting.

  • Shoutout 903 Brewery on a fantastic imperial milk stout 10.5%!
Disturb the comfortable. Comfort the disturbed.
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Day 17. 1,117 Miles. Canyons, Colors and Connection.

Posted on February 28, 2021 by anthonycaferro

It’s a beautiful morning in Valentine Texas, population 134. I now know two people in this town — Smokey and Manny — and it turns out they own the land that Prada Marfa thing is on. It should be Prada Valentine, but whatever. These hipster tourists don’t know the goddamn difference and probably have no idea where they are. Anyway, I wake up just ahead of sunrise, feeling great. Slept well, with the exception of a couple trains and some small commotion that sounded like someone lost their dog. Pack up and head up to our gracious hosts’ house for the aforementioned father, son and Holy Spirit of breakfasts. Praise jeebus cause I’m hungry as hell. However hungry it is that hell would be.

Smokey is cooking up eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast. Damon and I are sipping some amazing coffee. I felt in my heart walking up that the coffee was gonna be bomb. I like my coffee like I like my women… bomb. While she’s cooking, Manny asks if we heard the noise last night. I affirm and inquire what it was all about. Turns out that after their rest stop party, Border Patrol picked up five or six Hondurans overnight. That makes much more sense than a lost dog. Manny says that the illegals — I’d prefer to call them refugees — were 16 and 17 years old and had walked 50 or 60 miles through the desolate and thorn-infested mountains, after having been unknowingly abandoned overnight by their Mexican escorts, known as coyotes. Apparently, the wall has not been built in this area. Manny tells it all. If they have no arrest record here they probably will get to stay. Immigration is clearly a touchy subject along the southern border and really throughout the entire nation. It’s a complicated national issue for sure, but on a humanitarian level, what an ordeal for anyone, especially a teenager to have to go through. I wonder out loud what a horror show their lives in Honduras must be that they felt the need to leave their home and go through such a difficult journey just to escape it. No one wants to leave their homeland unless they feel they have no other choice. It strikes a compassionate chord that I feel is the proper path in today’s vitriolic red and blue and whatever incivility.

I’ve already started eating as Smokey says grace over the meal, and in it she’s prays for unity in our country. I liked that part most. I’m fairly certain Damon and I have differing politics than Manny and Smokey (shit Damon and I have differing politic views ourselves), but it’s important to engage dialog and civility over viewpoints. I’m not suggesting not speaking one’s mind; I’m not advocating against calling out falsehood and mistruths; I’m talking about choosing discourse that respects differences and allows for meaningful growth. Paying attention to process or method or manner in which I speak my mind. Let’s call all this tolerance for short. We can ask the Dutch about it later. Connecting with new people is one of the greatest aspects of these long bicycle rides; its very easy for anyone to live in their own bubble and point a finger at “those people”. Being out on the road, exposed, vulnerable and and in need is a fantastic way to get out of my comfort zone, and I relish in it. It helps me better understand the universal human experience, thereby improving myself as a human having a human experience. I now love being uncomfortable, awkward, weird, etc… If everyone got a little more uncomfortable every now and then, it might just help out with Smokey’s prayer for unity.

As we eat breakfast together and inside, (omg) inevitably the wonderfully insightful conversation moves on to pandemic discussion. They’ve had family get very sick from coronavirus and present their thoughts and experiences on remedies. Some wild as hell. I’m really glad they worked for them. I preach the vaccination gospel once more. They might find that crazy… I dunno — the microchip that’s not in my brain doesn’t afford me the luxury of getting caught up in all that. Do we agree on everything? Definitely not. But I feel great, knowing each of us is willing to leave space to allow ourselves to learn a little bit. And that’s a good start in time when you can’t even fucking hug people anymore.

The food and conversation is fantastic and afterward we roll out for the morning 30-35; I’ve got a belly full of home cooked fuel and a heart full of new friends on earth who don’t think just like I do. I’m glad we understand that civility might be paramount to headline issues at this point. I would love to get politics completely out of government, but if we can’t do that let’s at least put people over politics.

With nothing but miles on road 90, Damon and I yap as usual for the first 30 miles aka all morning. We talk about Smokey and Manny and health care and human connection and the impending effects innovation will have on society. About cancel culture and fascism and the Constitution of the United States of America. Eventually, we loosen up into less intense topics and get back into what Damon calls “Environmental Expectations”. Meaning we’re expecting a whole lot out of this mega hyped artsy town known as Marfa Texas. Population 1,981. About 10 miles ahead. It’s funny because it’s true. In my mind, there’s something. But in reality, we’re far from anything. Oh way. Some cute lawn decoration art. Damon gets a falafel. I’m happy for him. We hit a gas station and move on, underwhelmed and now convinced that the next town — Alpine Texas — is gonna be the one.

A few miles up, I get the 411 on the Marfa Lights phenomenon I had been hearing about.

We are still on the same road as yesterday. As usual. This is different from other turn free weeks I’ve had like the C&O/GAP trail or the Natchez Trace. Highlights thus far include a couple trains, some wildlife in the form of deer, a lazy dog in the middle of the road that starts to run with me when I approach. But wait, what’s this…

… a complete bend in the road!! Exciting. It’s actually Paisano Pass, so this might qualify as a switchback. Though it’s not much of a pass in comparison to last week’s 8,228 foot Emory Pass, it is a beautiful pass nonetheless. The canyon country colors illuminate vividly in the natural sunlight peaking through cloud cover and I feel ecstatic as we arrive into Alpine — a sort of gateway into Big Bend country.

Despite a population of 5,905, theres not much going on here either though. They do have a mural to their volunteer firefighters, yet it looks like a hotel just burned to the ground. Ha. We’re tired. We find a place to sleep across the street from that, and so just that.

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Day 16. 1,054 Miles. Time Travel To Prada.

Posted on February 27, 2021 by anthonycaferro

For the naysayers and the haters who say time travel isn’t real, including myself, I say this: explain away how Damon and I both utilized the nutrition of oatmeal and peanut butter to pedal one hour into the future this morning. I septuple dog dare you.

I wake up in this funky little ghost town motel. The gas station coffee smells like yeast infected vagina and tastes like burnt water. The internet connection intermittently comes and goes, which means I’ve had to write this twice. The cell service is thin, and despite being 20 miles from the county-based time zone changeover, my watch has already decided to display central time. Damon’s phone too. Strange. I wonder what the 438 locals living here do to mitigate that sort of confusion. Maybe they don’t even use cell phones. All things considered, at this point, I’m enjoying it all. The stank coffee, the confusion over time zones, all of it. What I don’t enjoy is the way my body feels. I am at level eight soreness. Like head to toe. We are really pushing it. My legs hurt in the mornings and evenings. My shoulders and arms and neck during the day. My hands go numb daily. Saddle sore sucks the same. I imagine I’m still another week away from breaking into fully loaded long day ride status; Damon says he is ready to do a century today.

Cruising out of town, we use the first 20 miles to psyche ourselves up about whatever the next sign of civilation might have to offer. It becomes a regular occurrence on a cross country bike ride. I wanna be nice to the next town, so let’s say that it’s now considered “far from anything” instead of “nothing”. We pretend that some intersection of some small town happens to have a store or something and it’s gonna feel like the Burj Khalifa when we get there. I’m saying to Damon, “Van Horn is gonna be jumping on a Saturday, you watch!”

We rock a short 10 mile stint back on I-10 before gratefully ridding ourself of that demon and take the exit for Van Horn Texas, population 2,063. They exist because some time ago a drinking water well was discovered, presumably by NBA player Keith Van Horn. Hydration is apparently an important thing out here. Thanks for the tip, cowboys.

For me, the most monumental features of the town are: 1) drinking water, 2) proper coffee, 3) this right turn. Onto road 90. I don’t know if it’s federal or state, but it’s our last turn in some 350 miles or so. Yeah, fun.

There is not much happening on road 90 right now. Or probably ever. If I’m counting, I’ll exaggerate and say I can see ten straight miles up the road most of the time. I can definitely see a miniature version of Damon two or three miles ahead of me. It gets lonely and boring very quickly, and this is only say one on it. The 15 mph head wind, 30 mph gusts and blowing dust are the major attractions at the theme park that is my life right now. Other things keeping me company include bends in the road, inclines and declines. Electric poles. The occasional automobile or automobile part. An empty railroad track on my left. And my thoughts. Lots of em. Too much coffee and not enough water? I think dehydration might be fucking with my brain. Fuck. Other than the wind, it is so fucking quiet… until I start blasting Blackalicious, Blondie and The Black Keys.

Some lunar landing level wind on my flag.

A few miles up, like whoa. A rest stop. No water or bathroom. But shelter and picnic tables. I needed a picnic table nap. Hadn’t had one yet this tour. Thanks so much. Five minutes of solid rest and an impromptu border patrol party breaks out. Turning up what I think might be a Friday or Saturday in Texas! Someone, support the troops and make this a real thing.

Reunited at the rest stop, Damon and I share another three or four hours on 90, when the broadcast of our volleying discussion on the various operational models currently employed by hip hop artists is interrupted to bring us a train coming towards us. Impetus! Impulse! Stimulation! It makes my shoulders hurt less because natural chemicals are happening in my brain! The conductor senses our excitement, toots the horn and I’m as giddy as a third grader at recess! Too much fun.

A couple more hours down the long line and the roof of this whole excitement shit blows off the top when a Prada appears almost out of thin air. Bags and shoes? Seriously what the fuck is going on. Was there peyote in that dust cloud I rolled through? Nope. This shit is real. It’s basically a monolith. There’s no water but there is an amateur photo shoot happening. I guess I had been asking for some sort of strange brain stimuli all day and I get my what I wished for. I noir the shit out of it for maximum effect.

I rode my bicycle 1,054 miles to get here. Anyone need something?

Just past the Prada, we get the real bourgeois treatment from RV Park proprietors Smokey and Manny. $10 gets us water and electric and a place to camp. While Manny shows me the water hookups that are open, Smokey informs Damon that breakfast of coffee, bacon and eggs is available tomorrow for $8. My vegan friend respectfully declines, but I indicate the affirmative by conveying that that coffee, bacon and eggs is actually the real holy trinity. Yes, please.

I pop up the penthouse as the wind dies down. Later a cute dog comes by. Yes! No! The dog pees on my tent. I fear this could be a trending topic in the dog twitterverse, so I clean it off with water and some good old New York Clean sanitizer. Commie Empire State bastards. Manny brings us a couple chairs and a light and we’re set up to hang out right on the same street we’ll be riding on for the entire week. I can see automobiles five minutes before I hear them, I hear them one full minute before they actually pass by. We are living large over peanut butter and banana burritos. It’s a wild night up here in Valentine, Texas.

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