Asheville to Argentina

We’ve been riding the Texas coast for the last few days. Outside of Lafayette, Louisiana we got off of the interstate for the last time and turned southwest toward Galveston. I grew up in Florida and spent 15 years in Charleston. I thought I knew flat, but this country redefined it for me. Mostly grasslands, here the marshy spartina imperceptibly transforms into sea oats when the ground gains an inch or two of elevation. The sky dominates the landscape. There are no trees. Instead, dinosaur pumps are silhouetted black against the Gulf of Mexico, bobbing and dipping their heads as they suck oil from deep in the ground. Roads run straight until, in waves of heat, they blend with the sky. You might think this visually boring country, but I loved it. Pink and grey puffs of cloud hang against a sky fading from blue to white and I’m reminded of Cézanne. My mind wanders and I can focus on simple things like Blue or Hot. It’s a welcome relief from the gripping fear of sharing shoulder-less interstate with tractor-trailers at 70 mph.

Our destination for the night is a State Park on Galveston Island. We roll through downtown Galveston with its bars and piers stopping only at lights. South of town there is literally nothing but grass – and yet we blow right past the park. Shannon and I both saw it, but it looked so much like WWII bunkers we never even considered stopping. Realizing our mistake, we turned around and I revised my first impression – not WWII, but Planet of the Apes. Everything was built from light brown concrete and there wasn’t a right angle to be seen. This place was surreal. Interesting for a night, but I wouldn’t want to spend much time here.

The opposite is true of Port Aransas, the town we spent the next night in. I could spend a lot of time there. It’s a small unspoiled beach town with a few unassuming bars and restaurants and a beach you can drive on for miles. We got off the ferry and found a cool, dark bar. Walking into the doorway we were greeted by a yellow lab that barked at us as we took off our riding boots. He expressed his affection for Shannon by stealing his socks. Over and over. We liked him too. For the price of a beer we had A/C, internet access and a home for a little while.

After beers and emails we rode the ½ mile to the beach. As we set up camp just north of the pier, Larry pulled in.

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9/4

Yesterday we arrived in Someplace Different. We left Atlanta at about 8:30 after enjoying the big breakfast my sister Debbie made for us. To make time we stuck to interstate and found ourselves traveling along in heavy traffic with the Gustav revacuees. Heading back towards Atlanta were caravans of utility trucks with cherry pickers mounted on their backs. I guess they were going home, having been relieved of duty because the storm wasn’t as bad as expected.

Most of the ride through Alabama felt like more Georgia until, rising dark against the weakening arms of hurricane clouds were two black uprights from a suspension bridge. Arching over the upper reaches of Mobile Bay, this long bridge marked a dramatic change. On the other side of the bridge was Someplace Different. We had arrived at the edge of America, the coast. The air slowly turned salty and buildings and businesses now had that shabby worn look of a forgotten beach town. Passing on through Mobile, we pulled into Lucky Shrimp Shack in Pascagoula Mississippi for a break and some Po-Boys. It was here I decided that Pascagoula was fun to say. Even more fun than Whacker Packer. I wanted to rent a Whacker Packer in Pascagoula, but where would I put it? I was on a bike and it was getting dark.

Our destination for the night was a coastal state park west of Pascagoula. Winding through residential neighborhoods in the dark we got to the park gate to find it locked. Gustav had closed it down. We leaned against the bikes and were talking over our next move when I saw a cop drive down the road. I was hoping he’d see us and stop to ask what we were up to, leaning suspiciously and contemplating breaking The Law like that. Then we could ask him where to camp for night. Next, down the road came a fire truck, and another. Maybe there was station up the road? Maybe we could tell them a good story and they’d let us camp in corner of the yard? We took off looking for the station. In route Shannon spotted some folks leaning on a pick up so we stopped to ask them about camping, but instead of sheltering us for the night they solved our public servant mystery. It turns out that not long before we arrived the flames in their truck had been doused by the firemen we had seen going by. After questions and commiserations they directed us to a KOA that we never found. But we did find a freak show and passed a happy evening there.

As directed, right turn on Hwy 57, under I-10, and then to the right, like a vision out of Apocalypse Now, bare bulbs were strung from post to post, picnic tables were arranged all higgledy-piggledy, and in the air, the smell of wood smoke and pork fat. Like a moth to a flame I was drawn. And then I saw it. The sign read “CAMPING” – but the gate was closed and it was dark on the other side.

On two wheels and knobby tires, closed is relative, so like we had contemplated at the State Park, we drove around the gate. And were stopped by Mr. Work Release Program. Tall, thin and shirtless to show off his tats, he was attended by a pudgy little gnome with long grey hair.  She was doing some kind of dance. Or maybe having a fit. Or she could have been stomping on bugs. I couldn‘t tell. Mr. WRP told us to camp under the oak by the pool and gave us the code for the surprisingly clean bathrooms. We had a hot shower and cold beers in 16 oz. cans. We learned to spell home with a new alphabet.

 We did it. These last ten days have been a crazy push to get everything together to leave, but now, a day late, we’re on the road. There were last minute changes in phone service, anti-malarial medicine that was unavailable, and of course, in the midst of the worst drought in 100 years, we had days of rain keeping me from taking my furniture to my moms in my open bed truck. Little tasks that I thought I had put behind me cropped back up as bigger problems and as our departure date drew closer and my to-do list kept getting bigger, I saw myself getting grumpier and grumpier. Some days I start running errands at 7 a.m. and wouldn’t even stop to eat till 10 p.m. I’m sure I was insufferable but the finish line was finally within reach.

Kicking off this flurry of activity was my last day at work. I’m kind of a curmudgeon so they made it a surprise. I came back to my desk and they had a big sheet cake with a photo of me in icing (how’d they do that?). I got a card, some photos, Preparation H, a T-Shirt that read in Spanish “If found, please return to UPM Raflatac” as well as a UPS hat so if things start going poorly, I can put the cap on and say that I’m just there to make a delivery. Shannon and Michelle organized a little going away party and friends and family all gathered for some last drinks with lots of hugs and loud story telling.

The pace was one that didn’t suit me well and on Sunday when I finally had the house cleaned and emptied, ready for the renters, there were still a lot of loose ends I needed to tie up. I called Shannon in the evening and suggested that maybe we could leave on Tuesday instead. I said that by leaving Tuesday instead of Monday we would have a better idea of the strength and path of hurricane Gustav but really that was just a guise. I had been going so many directions at such a hurried pace that I really wanted a day to focus on the bike and my stuff, do a few last minute tweaks and just generally go over everything in my mind. If we left on Monday, I would have felt like I was leaving half cocked. After a few calls back and forth I quite being wishy-washy and said that it was something I really needed. Shannon was fine with that, so Tuesday it was.

We got an early start and headed to Atlanta to see my family. At 11:45 we were about 15 minutes outside of town when my bike went all squirrelly. The back tire was flat but we were ready. We pulled over and took the tire off. I had an extra tube that we dropped in, but when we were putting the tire back on Shannon noticed that the bead had worn down to the point where the wires were sticking out. Just as we were going over our options, like the Calvary, a big white pick-up pulled over and Wayne asked if we needed some help. He had wrongly assumed the KTM had broken down. This poor soul had no idea what he was in for.

Shannon had his compressor, but in packing had left the hose. (We’re stopping to pick one up tomorrow) Wayne offered to give me a ride to a gas station so I could over fill the tire with air and get it to seat. As it popped in place at the gas station the hissing started. The wires from the bead punctured the tube. Wayne called around and found me a little street tire at a shop not to far away. I usualy use a combo dirt/street but beggers and chooseres and all that. Now it looks like I have a bagel mounted back there, but if it can just get us to Texas I have the set I shipped waiting on us in Brownsville.

This part of the operation took a little over two hours and Wayne, a fellow biker, gave his time, used his gas and even offered his hospitality – and only now did I realize that I forgot to offer gas money. Wayne – if you’re out there – THANKS! Beers on me when you come to Asheville.

Now that we had the tire ready to roll. I tried to slip it in place but the brakes were keeping it from mounting properly. I’ve been here before though. Remember that time it took me the whole day to change the back tire? Well, same problem. A little fiddling (about 1/2 hours worth) and now we’re back on the road.

We got to Debbie’s, and my nephew was on his little four-wheeler so we made a little parade to the house:

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So, day 1, and while in the relative safety of our own back yard we’ve discovered a few small problems. I have to say, I’m glad these lessons are being offered now where the fix is relatively easy.