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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Day 15. 983 Miles. Bigger.

Posted on February 26, 2021 by anthonycaferro

I’m in a suburban strip mall plaza on the outskirts of El Paso. If everything is bigger in Texas, why isn’t there a whopper this actual size yet? I mean, people would eat that shit up. Literally. Spend all week on their couch gnawing on it like a vulture on a carcass. Maybe even cuddle up with it; becoming one with that processed chemical beef patty. What could be more American than that? Seems about right for the times. But on the other hand, the Family Dollar has their finger on the pulse of the nation and is totes lit. They’re advertising “now serving game blunts” and “now serving beer”. I didn’t get a picture, but I did park in a fire lane.

Anyway. The distances between towns is definitely bigger in Texas. Though I expect the blogs to get smaller in Texas. At least for a bit. There’s less services and less stops. Which means more time riding and less time writing. But we’ll see.

Once I clear the ring of suburbs, the scenery goes back to farmlands, deserts and stupid border walls. Has anyone in favor of the wall ever been to Mexico City? It’s amazing. A wonderful place with wonderful people. I could retire there. I imagine very few people there — if any — want to come to America and deal with all our crap. Shit, my friend from college Loki, relocated from Brooklyn to CDMX; that speaks loudly to how short-sighted and ill conceived an expensive and futile wall is. Eventually the farms and wall give way to nothing…

Yes real nothing. Rolling through western Texas is rolling through a lot of nothing. For miles and miles and miles. Miles and miles. Miles. Damon and I get our chats on. But there’s not much going on around us. So we just ride. Ride and ride. Ride some more. Come into a dusty truck stop that is literally the only thing for 50 miles in all directions. Store. Restaurant. And we can camp here. I eat a burrito before anything.

It’s a getting later in the day, but despite the luxuriously dust flat section of dirt we’ve graciously been granted by Don Julio — I’m serious, the cashier addresses him as such when procuring permission — we make a snap, post-burrito decision to keep going. 22 more miles until the next town. It’s turns out to be uphill and a little upwind. And the first chunk of it puts us back on Interstate 10. My old nemesis. Like a toxic relationship, I just can’t give up the 10 even though I can’t stand it. It sucks once again, two states later. I’m pedaling and breathing as hard as I can; I’m only moving 7 mph as trucks whip by. As the sun begins to sets, we jump off and cruise down a frontage road. The sun, which has been behind clouds all day, dips out below the clouds yet above the mountainous horizon. It yields a spectacularly impressive light show, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. No filter needed.

The terrain declines so I finally pick a little speed and a little steam. We get into what is mostly a ghost town. Abandoned old buildings are falling apart; tumbleweed appears to be the majority of the citizenry. I’m why we pushed on to get to this just as absolute darkness comes in. Fortunately we find a cheap motel with a quirky Mexican-American owner/manager. I really wanted to hang and chat with him more. Butt. Too much tired. Must sleep.

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