Bikemum

My dog, Georgie, is leaping in corkscrews, thundering his paws against my hips again and again as I swing the gate open and enter my front yard. I try to pull my bike in behind me as quick as I can so that he doesn’t escape. ”No, Georgie.” I scold, “Don’t jump up.” but I am a bad puppy trainer and I give him kisses on his forehead as I chastise him. He is too cute, with his big floppy paws and overgrown teenage exuberance, for me to ever really be angry with him.

I start up the front steps, thinking about what to make for dinner, while trying not to trip over his puppy love when I see a telltale box on the front mat. I know instantly by both its physical heft and its attending emotional weight that it is my new book, Changing Gears. I wasn’t expecting it quite yet, but there it is, surprising me in its solidity.

I pick it up, brush Georgie to the side with my new myopic focus and carry it in to the kitchen counter. There, I quickly grab a long bread knife and slice through the packing tape along the sides, breathless and a little …afraid?

Sure enough, when I unfold the box there are ten copies. My heart beats crookedly as I stare at the cover. Here is the fruition of so much; the bicycling adventure, the writing and the parenting of my rascally teenage son, Oakley-who comes running.

“What did you get?” he elbows in, always eager to get front row seats on all incoming packages. He is not all together unlike Georgie, both in his teenage exuberance and his lack of spatial awareness. ”It is the book! Let me see one.” He rips one from the box and flips through the pages. He reads the cover. “A desperate mother and a distant teen? That is you-desperate!” and he laughs.

Immediately, his phone is out and he is taking pictures and instagramming about it. He posts to the world about how proud he is, and he grins from ear to ear. I grin too, but what I am feeling is a lot more complicated than pure excitement.

I realize, really for the first time, that while I wrote this book about Oakley and I, I was writing a letter, or telling a story to my best friend. It was an intimate tale about the love and challenge of parenting my child, and now, here it was, for the whole world to see; the two of us-splayed wide open. I realize that I had not only invited the world into my heart, but also gave it front row seats to my and Oakley’s struggles. I feel queasy. Would Oakley ever forgive me? Was it okay to share so much? He had known the book was coming and we had discussed what it was about, but it feels so difFerent to hold it.

Oakley takes a copy, plunks himself down on the couch and begins to read. As I watch him, my breath catches in my chest. All I can do is hope that he can understand what my intentions were.

I do believe that sharing is how we support each other. How we learn from each other. How we connect through our mutual humanness. Isolation is a killer and connection can save lives, right? Oakley’s eyes are riveted to the page and mine are riveted on him. Concern wrinkles his brow and I am sure my brow mirrors his. “Mom, why did you say that I have severe ADHD? Why did you say that I have academic challenges?”

“Because you do, and that is okay. It is nothing to be embarrassed about. You are the hero of the book. It says right on the cover that I am the desperate one. I was trying to share our truth and I couldn’t lie.”

“It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Me too, this feels really exposing.”

“Yeah. it’s weird.” he says. My queasy feeling becomes more like a roiling in my guts.

I continue watching him read. Have I made a mistake? But a moment later he smiles, then he lets out a chuckle. “This is funny, you remember that crazy bike stop owner?” He doesn’t wait for a response, just keeps reading and I watch his eyes begin to light up and to dance from word to word.

“Oaks, are you okay with it being about some hard stuff?”

‘Yeah, it is fine. I really like it. I sounds just like me.”

He reads it that afternoon and takes it to bed with him that night and finishes it the next day. He voices no more concerns, only points out a discrepancies, “It was not ten miles…it was eight!” and in the end he announces that it was a great book and that he loves it.

And so, dear reader, with all due respect, I don’t care what you think, because the most important critic has given me his praises. I do hope you like it, I do hope you enjoy our journey and I do hope you laugh, cringe and hope along with us-but his review will always matter the most to me.

It will be available for purchase on May 10th. Thank you.

My mid-western roots are firing shaming pistons into my heart as I write this, but it is true; I just went biking in Cozumel, Mexico. There is no denying it—it was over the top, perfect.

As many of you know, I live on a small island off the coast of Maine. There is a four-mile loop road here that follows the shore and is beautiful for biking—most of the time.

In the summer wafts of beach rose and sea salt fill the air, and translucent waves crash against the jagged coastline. Beautiful. In the fall, the sky is a rich blue, and the golden beach grasses and tangles of yellow and crimson bittersweet rustle in freshening wind. Invigorating. In the winter, the trees, rocks and waves stand up starkly—refusing to bend to the weather and remind me that I shouldn’t either. I love it all.

But then comes the spring or should I say, the non-season in Maine. The playful ice and snow are gone, yet it is far too cold for anything to grow. It is a long, long pregnant pause that lasts from March to late May. That is not to say it doesn’t have its beauty and fun; maple sugaring for example and…and…you got me.

So, recently when we were told by the airlines that our pandemic-era travel vouchers were about the expire, making a trip to another island possible–a tropical one—I didn’t mind a bit.

Upon arriving, we played in the water, snorkeled and burnt our ghost-like northern skin, but when I heard that I could rent a bike to ride around the island, I couldn’t resist; this was my kind of early spring biking.

Early the next morning, I snuck out of the house while the heat of the sun had not yet gathered its full force to radiate not just down from the sky but up from the pavement creating its daily heat sandwich and climbed on to my lovely,  rental, 7-speed, Specialized beach cruiser. A beauty that I had for the day at $15.

I quietly pedaled through the cool, sleepy streets of the town, seeing few people other than a couple of bleary-eyed school children  locking the wrought iron gates to their yards behind them as they sallied forth into the day. I called out a few tentative “Holas!” and “Buenos Dias!” and received sleepy grins and waves. Before long I found myself leaving the residential area behind and heading out on a bike trail that circles the island.

Cozumel’s ahead of its time. Not only have they chosen to protect 70% of their island, making a choice to only develop 30 %, they have also turned an old road around the island into a 40-mile, car-free bicycle loop. As I cycled along the eastern side of the island, I was surrounded by thick jungle on both sides that opened occasionally to give access to the white beaches and turquoise waters of the Caribbean. Not a house, not a billboard, not a bit of industry. The water here was the clearest that I have ever seen. It did not have the commanding waves like the Gulf of Maine, rather just a gentle, lulling pull that begged me to swim again and again. On I pedaled dipping in and out of the shade of palmettos, monster leaf plants and other solidarity giants, flirting with the shadows as long as possible.

Eventually, I left them behind and popped out on the western side of the island. Here the sun reigned. Instead of the gray rocks of Maine, there were miles upon miles of uninterrupted sand interspersed between points of pitted limestone. There were no tall trees here, but rather hardy shrubs like sea grape, with their vivid green, wax-covered leaves that have evolved to hoard all the water they can. It seemed like light and saturated color radiated from every direction. I played a game with myself, trying to name all the colors, but I lost. Giant iguanas and their smaller cousins crossed the road fromtime to time, but they were my only company, the only traffic.

20 miles further on I turned from the beach and headed back towards town. Here I passed a bee sanctuary for the endemic Cozumel honey bees that have no stingers and create the famed Mayan Melipona honey. I passed Mayan ruins and then a few ranches and small farms that gave way to small tiendas and tequila tasting tours. The bicycle trail ended, but the bicycle route continued on the road. A whole lane was given just to bikes and as the the road became busier I was struck by how much respect cyclists where given. Maybe it’s because grandmothers cycle here, and families with kids riding double and triple, and workmen hauling the tools and wares on cargo bikes. It is not a leisure activity—it is a necessity—and so it is treated as such. Cars give cyclists ample room. They do not crowd you or even pass you, but rather drive at a reasonable bike-friendly speed. They are also prevented from traveling too fast because of frequent speed bumps.  They do not honk at you, but always seem to cede the way, acknowledging that we are all in this transportation thing together, and why rush?

When I finally reached the western side of the island, I wiggled a little while further down to the north because I can’t seem to stop looking around corners, rounding out my ride to 50 miles. 

This island is not as different from my island up north as I might have thought. A different color palette maybe, a little bigger and warmer perhaps, but the elements are the same. The sea, the sun and the life, all doing what they can to make their way and find harmony in their interweaving.

On this week-long bicycling adventure, I encountered all sorts of obstacles-real and imagined-and I just need to say it doesn’t need to be that way. I am prone to being a little disorganized, pushing things a little too far and throwing caution to the wind. You can do this trip and have a very relaxing and enjoyable time without all my angst. Here are some tips:

1. If you need to do a ride in a bite sized chunk like I did-give yourself an extra day or two for bad weather, bicycle repair or just for fun rest days. Or just decide to do the whole damn Southern Tier if you can.
2. 50 to 60 miles a day will give you time to enjoy the local area, speak to the locals or do a watercolor. If you don’t need to push it beyond that, why do it? There is a lot to see off your bicycle.
3. Plan ahead for long stretches without accommodations by using Warm Showers (a group that offers cyclists free accomadations), or calling up local towns for suggestions.
4. Going solo is great. People seem to be especially open to conversation and help. Also, you spend more time interacting with locals rather than your cycling companion. However, if you chose to bring a buddy along, nothing ever seems as threatening.
5. Take the time to learn to do straight forward repairs on your bike and to disassemble and reassemble it. It will give you a great sense of self-sufficiency and is not hard at all. I am all thumbs and I can manage it.
6. Look at prevailing weather patterns and plan accordingly. Not all weather is predictable, but you can definitely play the odds better than I did.

I am sure there is a lot more, but I just want to make sure that my blog doesn’t disuade anyone from going out there and seeing the world by bicycle. It really is life changing.

I have spent the last 24 hours in Phoenix. I biked into the hills, lapped up the flowers, climbed Echo Canyon and sat with my feet in a pool sipping a margarita, and I can’t stop thinking about Danielle, the Apache women who helped me get to Globe.

Today is her 90-year-old grandmother’s funeral. They are bringing her home for a traditional ceremony before bringing her to a church. She showed me pictures of her grandmother wearing traditional dress and said she was one of the last in her community that spent her life wearing it. This world is changing so fast. Get out there.

My ears are ringing, pulsating actually, to the beat of high-decibel music and the cacophony of a sports bar, full of people trying to speak over it. My eyes are burning from the lights of twelve, big screen televisions playing nonstop videos, sporting events and celebrity interviews simultaneously. Too much-it has made me feel like a deer in the headlights and I have retreated to my hotel room.

Despite all the struggles with wind and cold and fatigue that I have experienced over the past week, and as much as I am looking forward to seeing my family, I am sad it is over. Am I crazy?

I had to finish my trip today, because there was no safe way for me to get to Phoenix, by bike in time for my flight home. The short cut from Globe to Phoenix is too dangerous-even by my estimation.

This morning, as I sat in the sun at the Besh Ba Gowah ruins, eating a bag of Bugles and drinking yesterdays Gatorade, I tried to really pay attention to what it is I love about bike touring, before I went home and got distracted.

The truth is-all this makes me feel alert, alert and fully alive. The working hard physically, the chasing of beauty, the close to the earth living-it all makes sense to me. I like being dirty. I like being exhausted, I like wondering what is next, and next and next. People have told me that I am naive and fool hardy to take such chances, but to me, that is living. I am not a thrill seeker-really, It is more that I am just curious.

I believe in the goodness of people. Meeting them when you have nothing, but a bike and your open mind breaks down many preconceptions and barriers. Yes, there are some unsavory types out there, but they are so few compared to the good. In all my touring, I have never had anyone try to cause me harm.
It is through interacting one on one with people, away from my normal life, that I blow up every stereo type that I didn’t even know I had.

The dangerous reservation? I passed a school there where everyone was on their way to lunch laughing. and pushing and shoving each other. It was there that I was scared that I wouldn’t make it out of the reservation by nightfall, yet their giggles and laughter sounded like birds.
In the poor reservation town of Bylas, where I ate my lunch standing up, astride my bike because of the same fear, every home along the main road had paper cups stuck in their chain link fences in the shape of their child’s name as a sign of support.

El Paso? Border town full of baddies? The first person I met on the corner spent 10 minutes telling me about what kind of bike he had and how he wanted to go on a tour. The second gave me a sports drink.

I also think people really enjoy helping. I am not using their goodwill, or taking advantage of it. I am letting it show-at least it seems that way. Just one person helping another-it does both parties good. Bike touring can really restore your faith in humanity.

And that wonderful feeling of knowing that you have everything you need is incredible. It all fits in a few panniers- food, a tent, a sleeping bag, pad, clothing and tools. If I had gotten stuck anywhere, I would have been fine. There is incredible freedom in that, It is just hard to remember sometimes, but then you get to remember again and again-I have everything I need, I can do this.

And the things you see. Every mountain range is different, every turn in the road, every sky, every ecosystem. As I pedal along I devour it all, like I have been starving and my eyes gulp it all in.

So this morning I held a rock in my hands that had been placed in a wall probably 800 years ago, and I took the time to pay attention and look across the wide open desert. Now my ears ring and I am in a high rise hotel in Phoenix and it his hard to make sense of it all. I just know I love my life of adventure and this won’t be the end.

If you enjoyed reading this blog-there is more. I have a book coming out on May 23rd, 2022, called Changing Gears, published by Familius Press. It is a story about biking across the United States from Astoria, Oregon to Yorktown, Virginia, with my teenage son and how it changed our lives-mostly for the better.

Today is hard to write about because it was a bit intense. I like to sugar-coat things and I have been called a toxic optimist, but today, I cried. It didn’t help much, so it didn’t last long, but there were tears.

I woke up cranky because my tent fly was STILL flapping in the wind. I knew a head wind today would be rough because I had to go 74 miles across the San Carlos Apache Reservation with limited services AND it was hilly. It deserved an early start to say the least.

I broke camp in the predawn and quietly wheeled my bike past the still sleeping RVers that had hung F**k Biden and F**k everyone that voted for him flags. I felt a bit like I was escaping some stronghold.

Once I hit the road I tried to bike quickly, knowing it was to be a long day. The landscape was lovely, but the wind was not. To make matters worse, 15 miles into the ride my seat post bolt suddenly sheared. I was sitting on it one second and on my panniers the next. It could have been much worse, I could have been badly hurt, but as it was I had to use quick-ties to temporarily hold it back on and wobble my way back the way I had come. The seat shimmied and leaned and I had to perch with one cheek and one cheek off for six miles back to a garage.

Luckily, there was a lovely man who had a bolt that would work, so before long I was ready to try again. As I got on my bike to go he looked concerned. “You aren’t still going to try to get to Globe today are you? Last thing you want to do is to get stuck out there on the res at night. People disappear out there.”
I pride myself on not stereo typing people, so I told him that they couldn’t be all bad and sallied off.

It was a slog, I was only able to make about eight miles an hour and it wasn’t long before I did the math and realized that there was no way I would make it, I had lost too much time. So big liberal me, was terrified.
I went to grab my map and triple check how far I had to go and realized it was gone. Lost. I turned off my phone to conserve batteries in case I needed it later for the map and feeling very alone, decided to go even faster.

The day was grueling. I felt like I couldn’t stop for lunch or take more than a two minute rest. I told myself that at five o’clock, an hour before dark, I would get a ride if I needed one.

After many exhausting and tense hours, I turned on my phone to check the time. I saw that it was time to make a plan AND, I realized I had no cell reception. Hitch hiking without a phone was too much. That is when the tears came.

Ten painful miles later I got to San Carlos. A town! I limped my way to the tribal police head quarters and stopped an man outside. With my voice wavering I told him that I was biking, there was no way I could go twenty-eight more miles to get to Globe, and did he have any idea of how I could get there. “No,” he said, ”There is no way.”

So, shaky and exhausted, I moved on. I saw an Apache a woman getting gas and thought in times like these, it is always better to go to a woman. I rode my bike right up in front of her Bronco. “Are you going to Globe?” I asked.

“No,” she said, ”but I will take you there.” And she did. She helped hoist my bike and panniers in the back, telling me that of course she wanted to help, that we all need help sometimes.

On the way she told me about her seven kids, Hoop dances and funeral rites. We talked about racism and climate change and the constant wildfires in the area. And she brought me here. The ugliest and most wonderful RV park that there ever was. Safe.

I love bike touring, and the truth is, sometimes there are just days like this. The thing that bums me out the most is that the ride was so beautiful and I was stuck in my snarly head of fear the whole time.

Last night I slept in the town park of Duncan, Arizona. It was more than sufficient, but the restrooms were quite tragic. Seems like most park restrooms in this country are. Not to worry. Right across the road was the Road House Restaurant, and so this morning, bright and early, I scurried over to partake of their facilities, as well as breakfast.

There was nobody else there except for one table of cowboy-hatted, elderly gentlemen. The waitress brought them coffee. “Don’t you want to know what we want for breakfast?” asked one.

“No.” she said. “You will have the quesadilla, Steve will have the Four on Four, Barry will have the oatmeal and Mike will have two with toast.”

“Awe shoot.” sighed one. ”Anyways, what are you guys doing today?”

“Irrigating.”

“Why? It’s going to rain.”

“It’s just gonna blow and spit enough to get the windows dirty”

“I saw a nice Gila monster yesterday. A two-footer. Once I saw a three-footer. When I was a boy I had one for a pet.”

“Did you cuddle it?”

“Nah, you ever seen one of those things whip their head around?”

“Haven’t seen many lately, they used to be everywhere. Seems like they come and go.”

“What you do see are rattlers.”

“No kidding, too many.”

“I used to work at some archeology restoration site. Girl there heard I killed a rattler and she comes to me, and she says, ‘We need to relocate those, not kill them.’ Rest of the time I was there, I relocated them alright. Right off a 200 foot cliff. Maybe they lived. She could have gone and checked on them if she wanted.”

“Oh look, something new, looks like we have blueberry jam now.”

“I don’t care for that. I like strawberry. My mother, she made jelly from pyracanthas, prickly pear, blood oranges, just about anything. She didn’t let anything go to waste. Couldn’t around here.”

Needless to say, I was riveted. This guys mother must have lived here one hundred years ago. What a world it must have been. All along this ride there are memorials to settlers that died during conflicts with the Native Americans in the late 1800’s (no monuments to the Native Americans though). These men’s parents lived here not long after. My ears strained to pick up every little nuance of their conversation. What I really wanted was to sidle up to their table and start asking questions, but I thought I was already freaking them out-the dirty, eaves-dropping girl, sleeping in the park and all.

So, I finished my breakfast, practically gave myself a tub bath in the restroom and was off. The rest of the day involved so much wind that I don’t even want to talk about it, lest I have PTSD, but I made it. 38 miles was literally all I could do and that was a stretch. Now I am killing time in the library-my go to windy-day spot.

There is a saying about the sea-the sea is a fickle lover. Well, I think the southern deserts of New Mexico make the ocean sound like Romeo.

Maybe it is because there used to be an inland sea here. If you squint carefully you can still see it-the sandy floor, coral like cacti, the wide expanses, but for sure you can see it in its temperamental nature.

Today, I woke again freezing, despite sleeping in all the clothes I have packed. Within hours, however, I was a sweaty mess, the sun searing my skin and forcing me to wear clothes that made me even hotter. Desert trick number one.

Then there is the wind. As I peaked over the continental divide, I saw the desert stretching out before me-a bicyclers dream. After so many days of hills and mountain passes, here was flat as far as the eye could see, and it was beautiful. My heart sang. Down and down I coasted, euphoric, spellbound by its beauty- the pink sands, platinum grasses and sentry like yucca. I was waiting to be welcomed into this desert I love, that I have missed…but no.

Instead the wind greeted me. not just a breeze hear and there, but a full on assault. The pink sand that had lain so quietly, came up off the desert floor creating clouds that reduced visibility so much that the cars used their headlights. Tumble weeds blasted by, some as big as my bike! Often I found myself barely doing four miles an hour despite a slow, gentle decline. It was ruthless.

There are no services in this area, so I was forced to continue on. Wind scares me. It makes me jittery and tense. And the desert had beckoned me so from above! Trick number two.

So tonight, I feel kissed by the beauty, but slapped by its power. I am sun burned, wind burned and dirty. Very, very dirty.

*A little disclaimer-I am only on the Southern Tier for a week! Wish it could be longer-that is why I dropped in in El Paso. I will finish in Phoenix.

*Thank you to those who have offered me support-I will respond to you when I get home. It means a lot to me

Tonight I am too tired. Too tired to tell you about my day. How I woke before dawn and and left my cozy Scamper camper behind to pedal into the desert and watch the morning come. How I was greeted by big black bulls in the road that still had sleep in their eyes.

I am too tired to tell you how the mountains rose up above me. A lesson in geology onto themselves. Towering peaks worn down thought the ages, some of them have come to resemble old mens crumbling teeth rather than their former majestic selves. If you stop to rest beside one, you can hear their erosion happening, the pebbles falling down the rubbly sides, knocked by a lizard or a mouse. It has been happening for eons-just like that.

I am too tired to tell you how the road from Hillsboro to Emery Peak winds and climbs, taking you first through scrub and yellow grasses, then up among groves of Alligator Juniper with their reptilian, scaly bark and then how the towering pines fill in, thrusting upward just like the peaks. Snow fills in too. But, don’t worry, I didn’t get cold. My inner furnace burned, and so did my hands, knees, neck and back.

For nineteen miles, I climbed, the sky getting bluer with each one. And then finally I was there. The elevation made me light headed-or maybe it was the euphoria. The air seemed thin and shimmery.

Then down. Sluicing through the forests on the cold, northern side, snow and rock and tall pines all in the shadow of the mountain. My hands sore from gripping the breaks, the wind chilling me, and then out, into the desert again. A different desert though. Tall mountains always seem to create separate worlds.

I am definitely too tired to tell you that after all that, I still had 40 miles to go-up and down again and again over the foot hills, nearly bringing myself to tears before I realized that it was way past lunch time. Then sitting on the side of the road and delightedly eating last nights left over Alfredo sauce on bread thins, and apricots-they are like candy-and my first ever energy drink. It worked.

Now finally, I sit in my tent in the courtyard of a closed hostel ready to sleep. This was an exhausting, grueling, most beautiful, fantastic day. Good night.

.

Two pairs of socks, two pairs of pants, two shirts, a fleece, a wool cap and me, all cocooned inside my sleep bag like some sort of frozen larva. That’s how my day started. The desert gets so cold! Never-the -less, by the time the sun reached the horizon I had already made some bad coffee and was on my way.

It feels like Mexico here. Most of the people I meet speak Spanish as their primary language and as I passed several border patrol stations, early in the morning, I was left feeling that the United States is more of an intruder in this area than vice versa.

The Pecan trees that lined the roads yesterday have been replaced with red chilies. Miles upon miles of them, each farm bearing a huge sign proclaiming that their chilies are “World Renown!” That is a lot of famous chilies.

As I began climbing into the Black Hills, the less farming there was and by early afternoon, I found myself deep in the desert with narry a farm in sight. In fact, there wasn’t even building of any sort, nor a person, nor more than one car every 15 minutes. I was alone. Absolutely alone, and very small.

The desert stretched from horizon to horizon with not one sign of civilization except for the road. I love how small the desert makes me feel under its huge sky and towering mesas, but that same feeling of smallness can also be very unsettling. It makes me feel like a wayward ant. I saw fields full of cranes, and when they flew overhead it was so quiet that I could hear their wings beating.

On and on I went, until I reached Hillsboro, my destination for the night. I was exhausted from an entirely uphill day-65 miles of knees screaming and butt burning. The map had promised ample amenities here and I had tried not to fantasize, but instead of cute western cafes and bustling creekside campgrounds, it was a ghost town. There was not a soul on the roads and all the businesses were closed. That part of me that felt like a wayward ant loomed large. My possibilities seemed few.

Suddenly, an elfin woman with huge blue eyes and a thick tangle of grey hair came out of her home and found me literally standing in the street. ”Are you a biker?” she asked. I nodded and asked her where I might stay. “You can stay in one of my vintage trailers. I collect them. There is one in my back yard.” and with that we were off. She gave me a wifi passward, turned on the lights, plugged in an electric heater and told me to make myself at home.

I was overwhelmed by her kindness and told her so. “That’s what we do,” she said “we take care of each other. It is our job, It is everybody’s job.” I felt like I had been tucked into bed after a very long day and that wayward ant feeling gone.

On the flight to El Paso, I remembered, dispite the turbulence and hot, sweaty, mask I was wearing, why I love adventure. “I raise French Bulldogs.” my seat mate said. ”I sell them for 4,500 a puppy.”

“Wow, those must be some puppies, may I see a picture of one?”

“Sure!” she responded, and quickly started tapping through her phone, her fingers flying from one photo to the next. “I have to charge so much because they are very complicated, not only can they not give birth naturally-they need C-sections, but they also can’t mate. I have to give them artificial insemination.”

I couldn’t stop myself, I had to ask. “How do you do that?”

And as she continued tapping on the photos with her long, pointy, elegant nails she replied, “With my hands. One boy needs to bite me while I do it.” I was mesmerized.

When I debarked the plane, I stood in line at the baggage claim waiting for my bike alongside of a group of beautiful young women dressed in athletic gear from Texas Christian University. ”What do you guys play?” I asked.

“We rifle.” They said with a toss of their ponytails. I had no idea. As I hauled my bike box off the conveyor belt, they stepped up and grabbed gun case after gun case.

And then I met Claudia, my Uber driver. She spoke some English, and I speak a tiny, little Spanish, so we pieced together a conversation as she drove me to my hostel. “I have a great life,” she said “I drive grandmothers to the supermarket and doctors appointments somedays, and on other days I make videos for youtube and use them to teach Spanish speaking women carpentry. It helps them be more self sufficient.”

People are amazing, and I get to meet so many on these trips.

As far as the biking goes-I am feeling pretty chuffed. I rebuilt my bike, loaded it up and pedaled all day. The land here is dust dry, in fact the Rio Grande is all sand and I even saw families playing soccer in it. There are pecan trees as far as the eye can see-I think they are holding the Rio Grande in their branches. And judging from the way my bum felt at mile 70, I think some shells have found their way into my skivies.

Forgive my typos-I am writing with my thumbs in the cold. It is going down to 27 degrees tonight-Yikes!