Baton Rouge, LA

Fixed the flat this morning. The perpetrator was a sharp rock that had entered through a previous puncture. The kevlar tires are otherwise resistant to non-metals (except for the satanic thorns on West Texas highways). The tube was looking like a ragdoll with six patches. It occurred to me that I hadn’t even rotated the tires yet; the front was looking way too pretty and the rear was worn thin. But I just didn’t want to mess with it this morning. The tube valve stem was still holding out, so I just crossed my fingers and put it back on, not wanting to use the spare until an emergency.

Shortly after making Baton Rouge, I hit a nail and still I refused to use the spare, but after the patch didn’t take I finally gave in. Found the bike shop and they, too, were out of the right size tube. Twice now. This is getting frustrating. It’s one of the more common road bike sizes. A bike store running out of tubes is like a gas station running out of motor oil.

I’d lost a lot of time dealing with the tire, doing laundry, and playing 20 questions with the RV crowd, so I didn’t hold out much hope of making any great distance after crossing the river. Pricelined a commuter hotel on “corporate drive” although I’d hoped for something a little more spirited on New Year’s Eve. I asked if it was safe to ride downtown and they said, sure, during the daytime.

I’m at a Starbucks down the street right now while I wait for check-in time. I asked where I could find a brewpub and I got blank stares. Then I asked where I could find a liquor store and they said the gas station at the corner. The gas station. They sell liquor at the gas station. Well, at least Louisiana doesn’t join the ranks of states with stupid booze restrictions. And they seemed to have stopped calling it “package stores”, which is good.

Coffee’s gone. Time to roll into my happening Extended Stay America.
Need to find some black eyed peas.

(later)

Found a few places to visit as the evening draws near, but in the meantime I’m here in the motel room thinking about the road behind me. I’m not the kind to do New Year’s resolutions, but I think a debrief of the past year’s events are in order (as far as the trip goes, anwyay).

I started out with the weight of my decision hanging around me like an albatross. I was ready for some breaking in but sensed the likelihood of some kind of strain from a lack of conditioning with a fully loaded rig. It had happened before, and I knew it could happen again. I was equally nervous about being caught in some bad weather starting out.

It started out uneventfully, but the hills in Virginia showed the weak links in my conditioning. This was the greatest and most lasting challenge of the entire trip. And the only way to fix it was to rest, the last thing that I wanted to do. so I tried resting a little, and riding a little. It wasn’t the fastest way to heal but it did work, and I kept myself from going stir-crazy. A strange thing to say, that doing nothing was the only way to make it all happen.

The weather was generally agreeable given the season. When it was cold, it was often sunny, and when it was rainy, it was relatively warm.

Getting hit by a car remains the most traumatic event but also remarkable for just how uneventful it turned out, with nothing but a bruise on my ass and some chick’s phone number to show for it.

There were a lot of nice and easy-going rides in there. They don’t get much verbage here in these blog entries, but they were good and lasting.

The roads were far shittier than I’d ever expected, except for most of Georgia and Florida. Bad roads made for a lot of stress and unpleasantness, and bafflement. I will not ride in the south again unless I can confirm the presence of decent roads. I never experienced it before in other parts of the nation for so great an expanse (excepting highway 30 in Ohio and Pennsylvania).

Another big surprise has been the cost of motels. On earlier trips I could score a cheap room for twenty bucks. Now even with Priceline, I’ve been paying fifty dollars on average for the same room (okay, fine, slightly better rooms).

I have also seemed to have grown attached to creature comforts. Like beds, and chairs, and good food, and a nice craft beer at the end of the day. Or two. The younger Dan was aescetic to an extreme. The younger Dan slept on bare concrete and forced himself to grin.

I did not encounter Southern culture as I thought I would. Accents, to be sure, but otherwise just the same strip malls, sprawls, and dingy gas stations. The towns I visited were decentralized and few had lively or historic parts, although there were no end of historical markers.

I got chased by a damned lot of dogs on country roads.

People have been friendly and civil but less surprised at me, owing to the popularity of coastal routes among bicyclists. This amounts to zero invitations to stay with local families, whereas on other trips I was often asked to stay over. I did not encounter any of the hostility or exceptionally poor manners that I sometimes met in the Midwest on other trips.

There has been very little in the way of novelty. It hasn’t been an exciting adventure, but rather a chance to just grind out some wanderlust in a mechanical and calculated way. Part of this is because it’s my third big trip, but mostly it’s because there isn’t a whole lot of action going on and I seem to be picking the safest path, rather than the most interesting one. I am getting older.

Still, this is much more satisfying than sitting in front of a computer for days on end.

Aside from the ankle strain, it has not been a physical challenge at all. I am full of energy, and except for a few exhausting (and satisfying) days, there just hasn’t been enough daylight to wear myself out. It’s also flat. This was partly by design to prevent knee strain in the first half.

Predictably, I miss family and friends, but I do not find the isolation to be a huge drawback. There are a lot of serene moments out here, on the road and in places off the beaten path, that are warming. Not as many entertaining or threatening people as before, but again, I seem to be picking the safer company by choice.

I am glad that I brought the guitar, although I hardly ever play it for lack of privacy. It does keep me from leaning back in the saddle or balancing without hands on the handlebars, but I like having it. It also saved my ass.

The food hasn’t met my expectations except in Lousiana, but there have only been chain fast food places the whole way. Very sad. I have seen a lot of home cooking places out of business with weeds growing in their lots and littered with broken glass. Not even a greasy spoon in most towns, just cookie cutter patterns of corporate franchise. The most interesting places have been waffle houses with their collection of local color, although the food always sucks.

I wanted to call this the biscuits and gravy tour but plates of it have been few and far between.

I reaffirmed my love and respect for chocolate chip peanut crunch Clif bars.

And Nutella.

Together.

I’m serious. Dip some of that Clif in that Nutella. That’s some good stuff.

I’ve ridden through some bad parts of town, but this is nothing new. I’m tired of kids throwing crap at me, of being shouted at by groups. They never do it when they’re alone, only in groups of three or more. Corner them alone and they’re totally cool, curious, friendly. I’m especially tired of the drive-by shout attack, which must have been passed on by some television show or web video. Not just any shout; an animal scream. It is unnerving and annoying, not to mention dangerous. It happens everywhere.

A lot of people lock their doors when I pull up alongside them at traffic lights. Ha.

I am reminded by my encounter with another touring cyclist that I don’t have the aggression build-up that I did in my first tour. I’m pretty calm when other people are being dicks. I’ve hardly flipped the bird at all, I’m so jaded.

Unlike other trips, I’m worried about cops. Legitmately, because I never changed my ID when I moved to Maryland. No great crime, but a starting point if a cop has it in for me. So I’m cautious.

I have come to enjoy the company of experienced travelers of all ages. They are so well-balanced and non-judgmental. And they are always welcoming.

I still can say that I saw more dixie flags in Maryland in one day than I have anywhere in the South.

I’m tired of washing my socks and underwear in the sink. You try it.

Showers are priceless.

Lousiana is not the a-hole of the south. There’s some decent folks here.

That’s all I have to say for now. Time to ring it in at Corporate Bar. Louisianans don’t hate Texans, by the way, so I’m safe. I think.

Happy New Years, y’all!

Denham Springs, LA

Rain, thunder and lightning in the night, and rain throughout the morning. It’s good to watch the weather channel to see how these are nationwide storms sweeping across; I don’t feel quite so persecuted.

But I’m getting really tired of drying out my socks on the back of my bike.

Found out that the bike shop in Covington was closed today. Rolled out and struck west again on 190. The paved shoulder deteriorated into unridable rubble sloping off to the side. Swampy forest and thickets with wicked cool frogs making a racket in the morning. Had the road more or less to myself for the 30 miles into Hammond. Thought I might grab some eggs there. Love those Hammond eggs.

Ha. Ha. (bang!)

You see what I get to do when there’s no semi tractor trailers to dodge… Keep myself entertained.

Discovered a slow leak outside of Hammond and it was getting worse quickly. Made 15 miles after the first pump, then 7, then 3, and if I weren’t racing for the KOA before dark, I would’ve fixed the thing on the side of the road. It was the rear tire, of course.

Some younger folks gave me some directions to the KOA at a gas station and offered to throw my bike in the trunk and give me a lift. It was tempting, but I declined. The driver gave me her number and said to call if I needed any help. Pretty nice folks out here.

Limped into the KOA and chatted with the hosts. They didn’t have a tent site so I had to rent a “Kabin”, which was the same cost as a motel room, but I just didn’t have any more pump action left in me. Gotta use the spare tube (the oversized one) and hope I can score two more in Baton Rouge.

New Year’s Eve tomorrow. Gotta be off the road by early afternoon! And I hope I can dodge whatever firewoorks get fired off at me when I’m riding into the bike shop, provided I can find an open one.

Route is still TBD.

Covington, LA

Fixed a third flat on the rear tire, and discovered still a third hidden staple shard in the tire in a different location. I didn’t even have a slow leak until the past three flats, during which time my bike has remained stationary. It seems improbable that I could have picked them up all of a sudden, and the bridge crossing was almost spotless due to its sparkling new construction.

My hands are bruised and sore from the hand pump and my left arm is pretty well shot. I couldn’t lean on it while riding today.

Left Bay Saint Louis, and was glad to say good-bye to that god-forsaken KOA reject. Man, you should have seen the bathrooms at that place. Remember the scene in Desperado? Yeah. Except here in the states, and no secret door. Katrina or no Katrina, that’s just inexcusable. The owner seemed nice enough, but the place was a shambles.

Chunky shoulder and a straight road gettin’ out of Mississip’. Saw some pathetic casinos in the backcountry near the state line. Seems that recently they opened up the state to full-fledged gambling rather than the usual river boat and reservation fare. Doesn’t seem like it’s helping much.

Made the line and experienced the first of many bayou crossings in Louisiana. Bridge after bridge at first, with lots of trucks on the side of the road (with fishing boat trailers) and little else besides swump grass.

As I closed in on Slidell, the road took me through higher ground and a tour of Katrina’s lasting devastation. No doubt that there has been a long-standing rivalry out here for the highest number of broken down and rusty vehicles that can be stacked in the front lawn, dating from well before the hurricane, but the trees themselves were hewed off at the ten foot mark for miles around. It looked like a giant cane break.

The new construction was mostly on stilts, but there were also a lot of sparkling RVs and new mobile homes. Mobile homes, that’s right. Wow. After all that just happened, living in a mobile home… Don’t you people know that’s a lightning rod for disaster? I don’t care how poor you are. That’s just plain stupid. (says the guy living on a bicycle)

Kept the spray in hand till I made town. Lots of false starts for Fido, but enough bikers come through here to keep them trained, it seems.

Slidell. Didn’t see any signs of devastation besides patched roofs and the occassional plot swept clean. Ate at a Cici’s buffet. Gotta stop doing that. Bad habit. Just a lot of bread and fat without the meat or veggies to make it worthwhile. On the pizza, I mean.

Rolled out past noon in search of the Rails To trails trailhead, and some carpetbagger smoothie-sellers didn’t know where it was and pointed me in the wrong direction. Lost an hour that way.

The first eight miles on the trail were quiet and lonely, but much better than riding the shoulderless high traffic highway. At one point a park ranger in a golf cart overtook me and warned me of an outted bridge. He also asked me for my zip code, then my name. Hmm.

Detoured the bridge and made another five or so before almost running in to another cyclist. He accompanied me the rest of the way into Abita Springs and it was a nice ride. The company was quite welcome.

I joked at one point about Louisiana being West Nile country only to discover that his dad had come down with it and had survived. I’d always categorized West Nile up there with bird flu as an extremely unlikely outbreak, but here in bayou country it’s a very real threat. Something like 200 cases here in Louisiana if I’m not mistaken.

We parted ways at Abita Springs, where I intended to come back to enjoy the brewpub of an old favorite brewery, but by the time I found a hotel it was growing dark.

So I walked across the street to a Copeland’s and enjoyed the finest meal to date on this trip: blackened chicken, mashed potatoes, vegetables, biscuit. All buttery and done just right. I almost cried with joy, it was that good. But the restaurant atmosphere was contrasted: All the servers wearing stylish black, very dim lighting, hip music playing (with a superior sound system), but all of the customers were massively overweight grandparents and screaming brats. It just didn’t work. But no complaints. That was some damn good food. I love me some Cajun.

The hotel was costly. There’s a monopoly here.

Now the big question is which crossing do I take? I thought I had it all figured out, but it’s still a dilemma of timing. I want to be across the river on New Year’s Eve but there doesn’t seem to be a decent town within riding distance after I cross. There’s another bike shop across from my hotel; I’ll check in the morning.

Pounded

Rain been comin’ down since I got out of my tent and it’s supposed to last all day. Lucky for me I found this here rockin’ chair. Ain’t goin’ nowhere in this weather without a shoulder.

Got my wheel fixed. Found two separate staple fragments in different parts of the tire and patched two holes in the tube. Used my liquid camp soap to do the bead trick and it worked, but I had to put about 85 pounds of pressure in it. That’s some work with a hand pump. At least that’s out of the way, but this is a thirty minute job every time, and fixing a flat should only take five.

I’m at a Mic now. They have vinyl comfort chairs. They also have a big screen and two speakers that aren’t quite synced somehow, so it sounds like its broadcasting in a giant auditorium with an echo effect. I had a McFlurry.

Then I went to a Wendy’s and had their version of the Blizzard, too. And a double cheeseburger.

The sun is out and it’s a sauna. Maybe I should just go ahead and leave. But I can’t. I’m bloated from all the ice cream and sodas. Oh god… I’m going to retire to my tent for a mid-day nap.

…

It was so hot in my tent that I immediately began sweating. Then I felt a series of sharp pains on my left ankle.
Fire ants! Welcome back to the deep south, Dan. The only thing worse than mosquitos but better than getting run over by a semi.

Aw, hell. What am I gonna do in this dump for the rest of the day?

…

While I was sitting and staring at the endless rows of RVs, one of the snowbirders gone permanent stopped by and visited. Turns out the bridge that I crossed was actually where the eye of Katrina made landfall, and literally destroyed it and the downtown portion of Bay Saint Louis and the city on the other side that I came from, Pass Christian. He showed me a postcard of what the town once looked like. He also said that few of the property owners here ever received any insurance claims because their insurers found ways to weasle out. Worse still, the USGS had some hand in a classification of the area that requires new construction to be built on stilts.

None of this explains the vast amount of traffic on US90, unless it’s all construction. And there’s quite a bit of that going on.

Went and took a nap that I certainly didn’t need. Now I’m going to go off and explore again. 18 hours till ride time.

Bay St. Louis, Mississippi

Water and mud saturated my tent and gear from last night’s deluge. It took a good hour this morning to towel everything down, but it’s still a mess.
Gautier was hit pretty hard by Katrina, and from this morning’s ride down US90, that seems to be the case with the whole coast. One long strand of battered, empty buildings at first. Transitioned to standard strip mall fare, then suddenly there were casino towers and hotels on the beach. All of them sparking new, and construction pylons all over the place.

The road was undergoing extensive construction, too. I spent all day jumping back and forth between pylons with only one lane to share with all of the traffic. Much more wealth in Biloxi. A giant Hard Rock Casino.

Got to see the Gulf again for the first time since Florida, but I was mostly focused on dealing with road hazards.
Passed a couple of touring bicyclists and waved. They were dressed identically on identical bikes with identical saddlebags. They waved in unison.

Stopped for some five dollar coffee at Gulfport. One server talked me up while the other made a huge, huge show out of putting the tip jar right under my nose. She put one of her own dollars in it. I guess she’d rather encourage tips by the bandwagon technique than the sympathy trick. I didn’t tip.

The downtown had been ravaged but renovations were happening all over the place. I wish I’d thought to take a picture of a crumbling tower with a big old engraved sign that read “Abstract Building”. Fitting.

Later on down the trail I hit a snag. A new bridge connected to Bay Saint Louis, replacing one damaged by Katrina, I guess, but it had a sign with a no people and no bicycles sign on it. There was a sidewalk with a bike lane marked on it, but it was closed because of the ongoing construction. Grrr. I rode up to a nearby gas station and asked about it; they said bikers went across it anyway.

It was a good two miles across and I was hesitant, but I had no other choice unless I wanted to ride two hours back to gulfport and stay at a casino. So I rode it, saying to myself “please no flats please no flats” the whole way. A cop was on the other side but he didn’t seem interested, although he circled around me a mile on down.

Down the street I saw an RV campground and pulled in. As I rolled up to my spot, I noticed a flat on the rear tire. Again. That’ll give me something to do in the morning.

Had some excellent Mexican at Tres Amigos. And the best fresh salsa I’ve had in a long time. Perfectly balanced. Perfect. I would’ve cried with joy but I’m a macho homre.

I’ve done a commendable job of not comlaining about the weather so far. And the temperatures have been on the warmer side, and there have been a lot of sunny days. But in the month and a half that I’ve been riding, I’ve accummulated quite a bit of rainfall, most of it while in my tent, some of it while riding. The south oughtta be thanking me. I bring drought relief. Where’s my reward? What’s more, it’s supposed to rain every day for the next several days. Thunderstorms.

Getting soaked now and then is okay, but please, not in freakin’ Lousiana. It’s already called the “Asshole of the South” for good reason. Now it’s going to be a cesspool, too.

I did discover that there’s a Rails To Trails connecting Slidell to Abita Springs. I don’t know if I’ll even be able to make it there yet.

Planning Notes

Still in Gautier. I gave out and snuck a peak at Adventure Cycling’s map for routes over the Mississippi River. It’s cheating in my book. They use the ferry crossing at New Roads/St. Francis, one of the two ferries within reach of Baton Rouge. Fair enough. They also show a northern route through Louisiana, presumably with low truck traffic.

I think I’ll keep to the coast in Mississippi and then cut up to Bogulusa MS-side, but mirror their LA portion till I make the ferry. I want to survey Katrina’s lingering damage along the gulf. I’d heard that Mississippi was really hit harder than Louisiana. Time to find out the scenic way.

It may be a long time before I see the inside of a bike shop again.

Shepard State Park, Mississippi

Started out the day with a meagre motel breakfast (La Quinta has a continental plus without the warm bar). They always watch me with hawk-like eyes while I devour their waffles and chocolate chip muffins. I wonder at what point they’ll draw the line.

Started out with a trip to the local bike shop, but they were out of bike tubes (!). They didn’t sell Halt, although by this time I have two little canisters of pepper spray.

Hit the trail and got out on a busy road. Tailwind, great speed, but saw heavy clouds forming. The road opened up outside of the city and I flew over the rolling countryside. Made the Mississippi border and the shoulder became low quality but it was tolerable with the wind.

Passed a couple a port towns, still scarred from Katrina, and made the state park with time to pitch and make dinner. Mosquitos in large numbers. That’s what I get for camping right next to a bayou.

For sixteen bucks it’s a fair way to stay out of the rain. Started comin’ down just now.

Five hours later. The storm came down hard and I felt overwhelmed with tiredness. Thunder, lightning, and driving rain are not a problem for the tent but I was amazed at just how little control I had over the sleep reflex this time. Those who know me well may be less surprised.

Now I’m wide awake in my tent with nothing to do and it’s only 10pm. Gonna be a long night.

The camp host told me that the other state park on the coast is closed from Katrina, so I’m looking at my options. I will make Louisiana in one or two days and will have to decide where I’m going to cross the river.

Mobile, Alabama (continued)

Christmas Day. I decided to extend my stay after yesterday’s ride and because of the heavy rain. And hey, it is a holiday, after all.

Justifying a day in stasis is difficult for me, to be honest. The monkey is off my back only when I’m going too fast for him to catch up.

Mobile. If you look at a map of the city, there are only three ways to cross the river: one is an interstate, inaccessible to bicyclists. The other, highway 90, is blocked by a tunnel with a “NO BICYCLES” sign (and no way I’d ride it in any case-it’s a death trap). Funny, I thought I was on the BIKE ROUTE TO MOBILE. But the way is shut.

And then there is the third route over a bridge, for hazardous cargo. It went into a different part of town, and judging by the abundance of port lifters, tankers and other industrial gunk, it’s probably going to be the wrong side of town.

It had taken longer than I expected to make it even at my rapid clip. It was almost dark, but I would have had enough time to make the stretch to the hotel with the route suggested by the bike shop… If I’d been able to get through the tunnel.

I knew immediately that the smartest and fastest thing to do would have been to hitchhike a short ride thru the tunnel. The bridge route entered into an insulated part of town with no major roads leading in the direction of my hotel. So I had no good reason to take the bridge route.

Which, of course, I did. My last spark of reason, possibly my only spark, told me “last chance”.

At first, a few boarded up homes, then the gig was on.

I was not welcome there. Some of the residents made that very clear. Specifics not to be shared here but it ranged from joking catcalls to half-hearted threats. A safe spot at a well-lit McDonald’s to check my map. St. Martin street reeked of pot all the way. I dodged people walking across the middle of the road. I gave groups of people a wide birth, especially kids.

Pride got me in but fear delivered me. Finally made it to Government Street and was greeted by the only cop I’d seen since crossing the bridge 40 minutes before. He or she shined the spotlight in my face as I rode by and kept it trained on me. I was blinded but kept riding, hoping that I wouldn’t take a header. Son of a… That’s twice in the same trip that a cop laid the beam on me.

Suddenly I was in the fancypants part of town, and I stopped at a Starbucks for agua. Pour what contempt you will upon five dollar coffee, but it was a wonderful thing to hear someone say, “Are you going cross-country? That’s so cool!” instead of threats. And they offered me coffee on the house… but who needs caffeine when your heart is already pumping concentrated adrenaline?

I rode the three or four miles to the hotel in comfort and easy darkness of a Christmas Eve. Two of my toes were solid white and took a long time to defrost. 74 miles that day, the second longest ride this tour.

…

Today is Christmas, and I’m doing nothing. It’s been raining non-stop.

Watched five hours of “Survivorman” on the Discovery channel. Good ol’ man versus nature. So simple. He nearly starves to death in each episode before calling in the cavalry. Starvation is not one of my problems.

Everything is closed in town. I mean everything. Except for Denny’s.

Tomorrow morning I’ll be waiting at the bike shop to have them look at the tire and do what they will, then off to the closest state park in Mississippi. It’s supposed to rain all this week in the Gulf states, but I’m so ready.

Mobile, Alabama

La Quintas have a checkout time of 12pm, a three star value for a two star hotel. So I left at 12 today after grabbing two breakfasts, strolling around and buying more pepper spray, and calling bike shops in Mobile to find a safe way to arrive.

The ride out was grubby in almost fair weather. So my cross-section of Pensacola leads me to this summary: This town is a dump.

Once I crossed the ‘bama line, I saw a sign reading “Bike Route to Mobile”. Take note. This will be important in a following paragraph.

The bama road was rolling and country with a shoulder. For some reason I always thought of Alabama as Dukes of Hazard country, but it looks a lot more like the stretch of TX66 between Rockwall and Greenville. Pretty and honest. Little horse and cattle ranches with bright green grass and wooden fences, little homes, trailer parks.

Rolling became Rocking as I closed in on the river. Steep river-gouged hills fitted with sparse little subdivisions. More traffic. All predictable.

The next stretch was the 45 minutes to town over the Battleship Parkway. The only other route nearby is a parallel interstate.

Then I saw a sign that read “No Bicycles”.

What happened next I’ll save for tomorrow.

Pensacola, FL

Just as I was getting some shut eye in the morning, after a heavy rain came through, the wailing woman started hacking. And she continued to hack about ten feet away from my tent for about three hours, on and off, well into the late morning while I did laundry and dried the tent fly. Food poisoning, it seems. Her friend stopped watching at one point and went into the RV.

Had my second rear tire blowout about five miles out. Same beading problem as before. This time just couldn’t reseat it at all. One driver pulled onto the shoulder and offered to help. Together we inflated the tire up to 85 psi to see if we could force the beads to pop out. No small task with a mini hand pump. Wished I could have found the right size frame pump before I left. Got it in a working order but still had a noticeable lump.

Rode it that way at full tilt through strong and gusty crosswinds all day through older subdivisions and dusty little gas stations. Blue collar neighborhoods and dollar stores, but easy-going.

Waved to the third touring bicyclist I’ve met along the way. I could see that like the other two, he had a sizeable rear bag sitting on a rear rack and nothing else on a mountain bike.

Pensacola was a hate zone. Honked at, yelled at by kids waving sticks at me. It was getting dark and I kicked it up a notch. Rolled into the LaQuinta and had dinner at Denny’s. The old one-two combo. Fell promptly asleep.

Fought the wind at its full 20-30 mph strength going north over the 3 mile causeway into Pensacola.