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DAY
FIFTEEN COMMENTARY
Up and out of the hotel in Upper Saddle River in uncharacteristically
rapid fashion, I was suffering no hangover
effects whatsoever, thanks mainly to the 17.3 pounds of food consumed
the previous evening. There was not even any bickering even as Sammy
attempted to set the TV channel-changing record, “Hotel/Motel”
division.
Our usual mistrust of the GPS was unfounded this morning, as it
directed us back to Newark Airport without a hitch. Light traffic eased
our travel. The nearly empty security checkpoint was even quicker than
the one in Dallas, boarding and departure were on-time, and an apparent
tailwind got my 1,300 mile flight into DFW almost thirty minutes ahead
of schedule, a moment or two before 12:30. Hmmm -- if The Chief (tm)
could get in touch with the hotel, and have them contact the driver of
the shuttle already on its way to the airport, he could be heading back
to the hotel (to retrieve the rig) one (or two) “shuttle cycles” ahead
of time, and possibly get out of town up to one hour earlier than
expected! I managed to get the front desk on the phone as we taxied to
the gate, said I was coming in early, and would be where they told me
to be.
What do you think happened? Bagelled,
that’s what.
Unbeknownst to me, our plane had arrived at a different gate. True, it
was only three gate numbers
away from the originally scheduled one, but worlds away
courtesy-shuttle wise. Why? Because we came in at A26 instead of A23;
and beginning just at gate A25,
the higher ones are in a different building, on an entirely different
roadway loop completely. No way for me to know this, of course. When
nothing that would have been the 12:30 shuttle showed up, I knew there
was trouble, so I had to call back and wait for the next one, which
showed up at about 1:30.
Nobody’s fault, really, but so much for the earlier start. (Is that becoming a
theme, or what?)
It took over an hour for me to re-pack everything back at the bike, all
right out there in the hot Texas sun. I had thought about jumping in
the pool before leaving, but that would have required more re-packing,
which I figured would somehow add another
hour to the departure time. I did enjoy the opportunity to crack open a
brand-new set of contact lenses, but this was small consolation: after
all the packing, changing, and fueling up, I did not depart Irving
until 3:40 PM, after having touched down over three hours earlier.
Although the route took me past Irving Stadium (from a different angle)
for one last time, I cannot say I enjoyed passing through medium-ish inbound Dallas
rush-hour traffic, and then heavy outbound
rush-hour traffic. To whatever extent I did not care for it, I’m sure
the bike disliked it even more. Somehow, though, a subsequent check
revealed that it was indeed the most direct route, so I suppose there
was no better choice -- and I’m sure it could have been far worse. The
path would permit me to lay claim to a true Triumphant Return, however,
as the ride in on the Stemmons Freeway took me past the Hilton Anatole --
formerly the Loews Anatole -- which is the beautiful hotel where we
had stayed during the Convention & Visitors’ Bureau visit all
those years ago. It had certainly become more much built-up around
there in the nearly twenty years, but that’s progress, right? I was
also able to snap some
shots of the
downtown
skyline from the road
shoulder, which made for some exciting merging back into the heavy
traffic.
In said traffic, I somehow lost the red dry-erase pen, adding to the
black one bouncing around on a highway somewhere out there, and of
course to the blue Bic pen now riding around in my man Angel’s van back
in New Orleans. Ah, it doesn’t matter, the markers aren’t working that
well anyway -- the instruction to “store horizontally when not in use”,
being followed to the letter, notwithstanding.
Temperatures on the billboards whizzing by read between 104 and 107
degrees, although the air felt more heavy than hot -- am I getting used
to it? Certainly the hydration pack was getting a workout, and coming
through with flying colors. Things only really got annoying as the sun
dropped low enough to sneak under my helmet’s visor and over the top of
my sunglasses. I saw signs for “Italy”, Texas, and “West”, Texas.
Somehow there is a Czech influence everywhere (“Czech Stop”, “Czech
Inn”, “Old Czech Antiques”).
Just sixty miles after my departure from Irving, however, my body is
not tired, but I simply cannot keep my eyes open -- I am losing focus,
seeing double-vision, etc. Is this, in fact, "white-line fever"? I try
different things to fight it: I open the helmet's visor, although the
hot air rushing in soon makes me feel worse. So I close the helmet's
visor, and try to sing out loud, and that helps -- for approximately
ten seconds. Suddenly, I truly fear that I will not
make it to the next exit, just three miles away, to rest, adjust,
and/or
consider a way to continue on. It's that bad.
Good news is, I make it. At the rest break at a gas station immediately
off of the exit, I shut
it down completely: turn the bike off, sit back against a wall in the
shade, open a bag of trail mix. During this nearly ninety-minute break,
I patch a call through to a Savvy
Veteran who knows a thing or two
about driving long distances, occasionally in the Wee Hours (tm).
Simple, he says: have a Red Bull.
Well, folks, I’ve never
had one of those before, so here goes: the
first sip was actually OK, but the rest of it grows questionable.
Mercifully, I’ve only bought the smaller, 8.3 oz. size.
(Here and elsewhere I’ve noticed cans of Bud Light “Clamato”, and other
similar bizarre stuff, here and in Oklahoma. What is it? What’s going
on? Why does Anheuser-Busch think that this is the place to test stuff
like that?
I’ve also noticed that folks down here in Arkansas, Oklahoma and Texas
sometimes say “I sure don’t” --
both
in person and over the phone -- when they
mean to politely say “no”, perhaps in response to an inquiry
regarding availability of a certain item at their establishment.
Thing is, it comes across almost as being rude, although they
are clearly being rather polite.
Odd, isn't it?)
Oh, hey, the 8.3 oz. size works, as it gets me back on my way and
feeling much better about getting to where I’m going, or at the very
least not crashing along the way. The GPS now claims 10 PM arrival in
Fredericksburg, which is a little on the late side. That’s not looking
too good, but we will hit the road, see how far we get, and decide
about landing plans then.
“We” got through Waco, TX, and Georgetown, TX, before the light
seriously -- but scenically -- started to fade. Decision point: pull
over somewhere, probably screwing up the entire trip, or keep going?
Still a lot of territory to cover, and it will
shortly be night. Stop
now with at least two more hours to go? Negative.
First night driving of the trip, and for good reason. Wearing contact
lenses, I need to have something in front of them to deflect the wind,
as I prefer to ride with the visor on my full-face helmet in the open
position. But the best I have for glasses are a pair of Nikes with
interchangeable orange lenses, excellent for improving visibility
through the
road-spray during a shower, and OK -- but not great -- for night-time
riding. And we have quite a bit of that ahead of us…
I pass through Bertram, a tiny waypost which does feature several nice
old stone buildings in its town center, and shortly afterwards see a
road sign for “Oatmeal, TX”. One later I refuel in Burnet with
sixty-five miles to go -- again, do I stay here, call it quits, and
make
up the travel time in the AM, or go for it now?
I go for it now. Disappointingly, I miss every single red light in the
town of Johnson City, which seems to subject the bike to nothing but
uphill starts, but incredible night sky views greet me south of there,
and I occasionally pull over and kill the lights to let the eyes adjust
to the darkness. It feels “cool” in the evening at an indicated 86
degrees -- or is it me? Am I getting used to this southern/Texas thing?
I pull into Fredericksburg on schedule, or at least the “schedule” I’ve
carved out now that I’m four hours later than expected. The town is
super-cute -- artists’ shops and galleries, bars with live acts playing
outdoors on the front patios -- but it also seems like it is mostly
closing up. Without any confirmed lodging, I go to work, though with a
budget in mind. I fail to swing a deal with the manager at the first
place, who wants $75 for a room with no air conditioning, here at
nearly 11 PM. I offer $50, and the offer is declined. I offer $50 and
to pay tax on the full amount, should that help with bookkeeping, but
no luck there either. ITEM: The Chief (tm) is out of there. Next place,
they want $95 at 11:15 PM, and while it sounds like I may be dealing
from weakness, here’s what I’ve got going for me:
(1) I could always try to park the rig out of sight of the gendarmes
behind a defunct place of business; or
(2) Park it behind a church, where the chance of having a shotgun stuck
in my face in the AM is lower, although -- this being Texas -- not
zero;
or
(3) Bang on RV doors down at the Wal-Mart -- where they allow
“boondocking”, or overnight camper parking -- and ax the unfortunates
responding to agree to tell visiting policemen that the ST1100 is their
bike, all while I sleep on the concrete under the RV, or out in the
woods; or
(4) I’m so sick of being out on the road that I’ll willingly pick up a
quick vagrancy charge, because what can that cost me? Fifty bucks? For
which I’ll earn some street cred and also get at least one meal, as bad
as it might be.
So I say that I cannot pay $95 for an otherwise empty room here at
11:15 PM. Like, I was born early in the morning, but not yesterday
morning -- like, shouldn’t they be begging for someone to pay anything
for it? I don’t care -- I am on my way out, and the otherwise helpful
and friendly woman behind the desk is not the owner, so she cannot make
such adjustments for late-night occupancy.
Long story short, though, she offers to allow me to set up camp in her
yard in town nearby. Upon arriving there -- after a harrowing two-wheel
journey over a mostly washed-out road, featuring sand and rocks on the
traction surfaces, here in the dark -- I consider where to set up the
tent. Nice place out near a farm (or ranch), but soon I learn that
scorpions are occasionally a problem, yet another issue which one
rarely confronts back east. After voicing reasonable concern, I am
invited to use the guest bedroom for lodging for what remains of the
evening, and I accept the offer.
FWIW, in the time since I awoke in northern New Jersey about 17.5 hours
ago, I’ve eaten a plain bagel, some trail mix, and three pieces of beef
jerky, all day long, as fuel across a four-hour flight and six-hour
ride.
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