I used to think that by doing certain things, I can influence my desire to bike. Or at least my stamina, energy, and speed. I've tried sleeping in, sleeping very little, sleeping in tents, and sleeping in beds. I've eaten big breakfasts, small breakfasts, no breakfasts. I've biked in the sun, the rain, the clouds, the heat. I've biked through days that changed from sunshine to thunderstorms. I've taken long breaks, short breaks, indoor breaks, outdoor breaks. I've taken naps mid-day. Country roads, city roads, trails, highways... You get the picture.
I have preferences, that's for sure, but I have not yet found a formula for enjoying the ride. It's random. Last night I had a terrifying nightmare, and refused to go back to sleep for an hour. I then woke up later than usual to cloudy weather, low battery on my phone, and pangs of hunger. I guess the big meal the night before set some expectations. As I got out of my tent, a man, naked, of course, walked towards me just to tell me that in Houston they got 10 inches of rain. It turns out that the forecast for the next five days is thunderstorms all day every day.
I packed my dewey tent in my bag, and got on the most disgusting highway I've been on yet. Unbikeable gravel shoulders, single lane both ways, and cars zooming at 100km/h. And I was cold.
Very quickly, I got on to the Tammany Trace Bike Trail, and suddenly everything was ok. I had energy, and felt like I was going fast. And I really was! My GPS said 12km/h, but speed is measured terribly in wooded areas. Today has been one of my fastest days. I was surrounded by the smell of soft soil, flanked by tall trees shielding me from the yucky wonder of the swamp. The air was humid here, and hot, like a welcome sweater, giving some respite from the chilly morning air. The trail was paved, there was no sun, thunderstorms were coming. Yet I was just happy to be biking.
I took breaks, ate my crappy tortillas with a tomato, twice-melted cheese chunks, an apple, and some granola bars. At noon, I stopped in Hammond, a small college town, to sit in a cafe and wait for the expected thunderstorm to pass.
There have been days harder than this, and days more perfect than this. In Day 10 , when I biked in the thunderstorm, I had the most fun I've had yet. On my earlier days in Florida, biking in the sun all day was an endless chore.
I notice the same thing when it comes to doing math, or working in general. There's no formula for motivation, but once it's there, even grading can be fun. And when the motivation is not there, it's always good to know that you're gonna be ok if you do the bare minimum of 100km.
I arrived at the hotel room, and not a second after I undid the lacing on my shoe, two police cruisers and a car pull up in front of my room. With sirens blaring, a cop comes out of his car, holding what looks to be a flashlight, and yelling at the top of his voice to the driver to get out of the car and to put his hands up.
The arrest is made, and a third cruiser and an ambulance pull up. I still have no idea what this guy did, but he sure did piss off a lot of police. About half an hour later, his wife showed up with a soda, and some time later, he was released, and drove away. Guy was lucky to be a middle-aged white guy.
So after the show, I just had time to tidy up the blog, before noticing that the closest restaurant, Maria's Mexican Restaurant, was closing soon. I closed my computer, and left.
I promised not to write in length about people, but this is a good story. I sat at the restaurant, and not a minute later, a woman in a Wal-Mart uniform enters, and starts greeting people. Her name tag says Maria. This is her restaurant. She comes to me, and we start chatting. She's originally from Chile, and that's as far as I'm going to get without going deep into some rabbit holes. Boy, let me tell you, she stayed an hour after they closed, and told me the stories from her life. So let me tell you the bits and pieces of Maria's story.
She was born the eldest of eleven children to a poor family, and went to school run by nuns, who gave her free breakfast and an education. She's worked every single job you can imagine, from laundry to singing on the radio, to being a physician's assistant. Her husband, George, was a steel worker, and together they moved to the US, where they lived for a few years before opening the restaurant. The restaurant itself was a miracle - getting a loan for it was nearly impossible, and they put everything they had into it. Today it's run by her son, and she spends her time working at Wal-Mart just so she can be around people, and do something during the day.
I'm really not giving her life story any justice by retelling it like this. There's details, and intricacies, as with all life stories. There's a depth that only good writers can capture, and I don't know how to do it. You know who did it well? John Irving in "The World According to Garp."
And so, we sat in her restaurant, and I told her about biking, and she told me about Chile. Eventually, the bill came, at $5. The meal I ordered was $12. The workers got a big tip. Not that they really needed it, since while Maria was gone for a few minutes, I pulled one to the side, and asked them if they were being paid well. She told me that she's been working at the restaurant for three years now, specifically because they pay fair wages. Overall, the restaurant gets a thumbs up from me.
Maria wanted me to come to her house to meet her husband. I put on my flashlights, and biked two blocks away to their house. In a small neighbourhood off the side of the highway, was their huge house. I guess you can build big if you live so far from downtown. Her husband was sitting on the couch, and greeted me with a smile and a handshake. Fox News was playing in the background, as they both continued telling me stories about them, the restaurant, road trips they've done, and their family. George liked reading about Einstein, and seemed to be enjoying retirement. Maria told me that she was going to make me something special to drink. Something from Chile, that you can't get here. Non alcoholic, of course.
She came out of the kitchen with two glasses of cold, brown liquid. In each was a large globby sphere, and what looked like oatmeal. It smelled like cinnamon. She took a glass, and started drinking. I tried it too, and it was surprisingly sweet and fruity. They eventually told me that this drink is called Mote con huesillo, and that it's made by soaking dry peaches and husked wheat in water with cinnamon sugar. I'll admit, that while delicious, and filling, the texture of the peaches was difficult to understand, and the husked wheat was definitely strange. Still, I loved it.
Hours later, in full darkness, I finally got back on my bike and rode to my hotel room, talked to Sarah, and went to bed immediately after. When I fell asleep at this hour, I knew for sure that today was going to be a rest day.
All of these images were taken on the trail in the beginning of the ride.
Fun note: in the cafe in Hammond, I drank some caffeinated tea. The shade of red corresponds to speed. Make your own conclusions.