Texas Biking-The Real Story

Tonight we sleep in a city park alongside the Llano River in central Texas. We have been biking a 425-mile loop, out from Austin, and around the Hill Country of Texas. 

It seems the river itself is under construction, huge excavators, dump trucks and bulldozers parade along the gravelly banks that flank the river, pushing and spreading great quantities of sandy soil a quarter mile in both directions. God knows what they are doing, but it is loud. They push sand one way, than another, piling it up in  mounds then flattening it again, crashing their metal shovels and truck beds together in a never ceasing cacophony of scrapes and clangs.

The park we are tenting in is home of an annual Crawfish festival, drawing to a close just last week. Some 50,000 revelers—all drinking, frolicking and apparently making good use of the rows upon rows of port-a-potties they left behind. The area seems tortured, parched and wounded.

There are mounds of teeming fire ants, stirred up by the chaos, and as I stand warily, eyeing some geese that seem bent on attacking me with heads lowered, hackles up and beaks all a-hiss, the ants find their way into my Crocs, and on a secret cue, all bite down simultaneously. I shriek and run for the water. 

“You like this?” asks my husband, Twain. “I can’t believe that you and Oakley put up with this on your adventures.”

“There will probably be a nice sunset,” I reply, trying to salvage something of the evening.

We set about making dinner atop a large cracked cement picnic table. Tonight is generic-brand macaroni and cheese and “salad in a bag.” We can’t bring butter with us as we bike through the desert so we use bottled Parkay from a squeeze bottle and forgo the milk. The result is gluey mess that is barely swallowable. It is so bad I have to laugh—it would be better used as spackle than food. Again, Twain looks at me, shakes his head, and laughs. “This is fucking horrible,” he says.

“See what I mean? Food is fuel out here. Nothing more,” I say with pride. At least we have procured a few beers and a soda for Oaks to wash it down.

We set out tents up on a slight hill, aware that it means a night of slow downward sliding, and spread out our air mats. Well, my air mat. Twain uses a piece of blue foam that would be more suited to insulating pipes than sleeping on. 

Finally, the moon comes up and the construction noise ceases. We wander down to the river’s edge to sit on a wide flat rock where the ants can’t get us. Blissfully, there is nothing to do. The river washes by. I bring out a book and read aloud for two hours. “One more chapter?” begs Oakley, again and again. We moan to each other about how much our knees ache from cycling and how sunburned we are. We talk about how many miles we need to tackle tomorrow and what the weather might bring. We retell both the challenges and the beautiful things we saw today. We finish the last of the beer.

I don’t know why I love this, but I do. I also love my husband and son for putting up with my idea of a good time. There are definitely easier ways to spend a vacation, but none that I have found that scratches this itch.

I suppose it is the thrill of the unknown, the challenges, as well as the victories, and the bond that adventure creates that I am searching for. I am not seeking comfort, but rather the open horizon and discovery; fire ants, squeeze Parkay, sunsets and all.