Riding the U.S. Perimeter: Dallas to Louisiana 3.12

Route: I-45 out of Dallas to Hwy 105W at Conroe (to bypass the monstrosity known as Houston traffic) to 6S to 159S to 36S to Blue Water Highway to 87E to 124N to 73E to 82E (Louisiana). LA: 82E to 27N to 82E to 27N to 14E to 90E to Nawlins.

“The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land.” -G.K. Chesterton

Dallas and Exit Texas, Enter New Orleans

The storm may have skipped town, but it has left behind its blustery offspring. Battling 45 mile an hour winds, the numbing cold helps to soothe flexing and aching muscles that remain painfully strained for the 4 hour ride into Dallas while the sun attacks unclouded, but is helpless against stronger foes. Frozen claws once again grip Betty’s handlebars and she shivers at my touch, a recurring event that is wearing extremely thin.

A late morning arrival comes with a hug that warms me up as only a Grandmother’s could. The outside taken care of, we head to lunch to warm my belly with the spice and flavors of Mexican. Time spent catching up is priceless as is seeing a welcome, loving, familiar face. Nothing but time on our hands and a growing and unforeseen interest in the trip from travelling strangers, Office Depot is next on the list. Rather than continuously looking for a pen and paper to write down the blog site, a brilliant idea was presented while in the desert and lifers (RV-ers or pro travelers) often do this with flair. Business cards completely decked out with pictures, web addresses, email addresses and maps telling the tales of travel, it seems as if there is an unspoken competition amongst these gypsies as to who has the prize winning card. Pushing my competitive nature to the curb, mine are gray with three lines of black type. They do the job and it’s cheap-o.

Back at home the catch-up and tales from the road continue and while Gene and I watch our conversation unfurl, our eyes forget about the steaks on the grill and the end result is far from rare. After dinner and thinking the night is over, I was completely unprepared to run the Wii gauntlet that my grandmother had lain down. A mighty warrior, whose weapon of choice is the Wii paddle, she battles ferociously for hours until exhaustion finally takes over and I yield to the bed sheets of defeat. The knowledge of being in a familiar place and with loved ones comforts me and sleep is deep and peaceful.

Breakfast is the spread of kings of which the Del Rio Sirloin Stockade buffet cannot hold a French toast stick to. There is no room at the table for the guests as it is occupied by the residents of homemade strata, blueberry bread, baklava, fruit plate, coffee and juice. I may not want to leave. Even as this is written months later, a stream still runs from the corners of my mouth when thinking about it. That night, dinner celebrates birthdays for Gene and my cousin Kirstyn. His birthday baffles the mind and the years collected along the way contradict his jubilant, positive and energetic attitude. The original silver fox, he’s still jumping over all those lazy dogs. Dinner is delicious, but I can’t eat as much as normally fills the void of my stomach. Weight loss from living a frugal life on the road has reduced my appetite significantly and is disappointing. Then and there, the decision is made (again) to make more effort to ensure that I not only eat, but sleep properly, the success of the trip will hinge upon such simple tasks. Cathy, Scott, Thomas and Kirstyn swing by for dessert but leave before round two of WWii begins. Family can be therapeutic in small doses, this we all know, and right now, I’m in session and I couldn’t be happier.

A new day greets me with yet another gluttonous breakfast before shifting residence to my aunt’s house to spend some QT with her and my cousins. The cousins are in their teens which logically means they are out the door. Cathy offers up some suggestions for dinner and drinks and of course, the biker bar, Duke’s, wins a heavily weighted coin-toss. Five dollar burgers, two-fitty you-call-its and a clientele dressed in leather makes it the perfect parking spot for the evening. Plans to leave in the morning are re-routed, Mother Nature has other ideas, and so the next day is spent relaxing with the fam.

It seems that Dallas has grown accustomed to having me around and has called in the rain clouds to act as its brute squad, keeping me there yet another day. While I relish the time spent with my family, there is an itch that has the strength of the worst poison ivy and the only one that can scratch it is the Harley. The 6am wake-up bell says “good morning” with more rain and sleep returns quickly, knowing that I’ll be here one more night. Cathy and I go to the botanical gardens and the flowers, though not in full-bloom are simply beautiful and an interesting contrast of color to my all black and leather wardrobe. Exhilaration fills the air and there is energy amongst the people, who know that spring is just around the corner and more beautiful days lay ahead after an unusually long and cold winter.

Cabin fever starts to set in and random thoughts flutter throughout my brain, noticing that I have one rogue eyebrow…hair? Is the name of eyebrow hair simply eyebrow? Anyway, I have a rogue eyebrow hair that, like me, wishes against conformity and seeks out to be its own individual identity. Living amongst those that assimilate, in a world of comfort, he knows he can branch out at anytime and I call him junior. I respect this wily eyebrow for going against the grain and rising an inch above his brothers. Literally. However, on occasion, junior decides to rise above the rest and stick straight out, welcoming olives and other cocktail garnishes to be skewered at anytime, perhaps to be saved for a midday snack. This said, I make the decision to pluck junior for appearances sake, and in doing so, feel an immediate regret and deep loss for circumcising his own personal flair. Right then, the decision is made to let him grow to his full potential and never to inhibit his explorative need to rise above his brothers, whom he loves and needs so dearly.

Rain or shine, the decision is made to leave and the morning of St. Patty’s Day (obviously not spent in New Orleans as anticipated) allows the journey to continue. From back home, news is received that a good friend of mine was in a car accident and escaped unscathed, while another’s grandmother is just about to pass. These events are a stark reminder that life is indeed still moving forward, even though I’m floating in some gypsy limbo.

There is a love/hate relationship between the pre-dawn hour and I. The love of the morning is often subjected to a back-row seat by a complete lack of desire for the physical act of waking, a paradox that is sure to haunt me and many others for the entirety of days. The deal is done and the alarm bell rings in the dark before the bustle of people awaken. The household sacrifices the sandman to say goodbye as the Muscle once again braces against the frigid, March, Texas air. Pure and clean, the morning ride is not yet polluted by commuters and Dallas is a mere speck in the side mirror as we rip through the Texas countryside. El Sol has popped up to say hello and warms the air, accelerating the fragrance of sun-baked cedar and pine to cut through my helmet like I cut through the landscape and the aroma fills my being. On the road again, the sun, the smells, the sound of clicking into 5th gear brings back my ear to ear grin. All senses are once again ignited, having been doused by the drudge of the population of a congested city and all five are now sitting on a match head, ready to strike and explode into flame at any moment. Rallying against the Houston traffic, a counter-productive route is chosen and west is the way for the day. At Conroe, back country highways and byways will lead me back to my entry point, near Angleton, so that the journey may press on. The days ride turns through Madison County and immediate thoughts of Meryl Streep and Clint Eastwood in a bathtub force the play button and I immediately vomit in my helmet.

Stopping for gas brings the fortunate luck of direction, delivered in the form of two Harley riders on an opposite daily destiny from mine. The bikers point to the Blue water Highway, a.k.a. Hwy 87 east, with the caveat that the road’s countenance known in times before as pleasant, may be a little ornery given they are still suffering from a hurricane hangover. The Blue water Highway is a shell of what the couple described as used to be, but the pre-devastation beauty peeks itself from the barren sand like a crab, still leery of predatory weather, wanting to emerge at any moment from hiding. Apparently all roads lead to spring break and the Blue water is no exception, sloshing me up on the shores of Galveston to admire the preliminary surges of scantily clad co-eds getting a jump on spring break. A stop sign forces an idle 10 minutes long while bikini’s and beer cross from the beach to the motels and vice versa. It’s a tough road and a horrible place to stop. The Galveston Bridge commands a $2 cover charge and rolls me to the ferry that is unexpectedly free. The novelty of dropping the kickstand and riding the waves has not yet worn off, and I’m giddy when the cross over the waves into Louisiana is made.

Dropping off of the Ferry, Betty and I grind up more asphalt and the roads tell an even more intimidating story of the true power of a hurricane. The landscape and trees look like a Tim Burton creation, defying the laws of nature while still holding some shadow of reality as it is known. The bent and mangled rendering of what a landscape should look like continues far past the washed out highway, which forces a detour around Port Arthur and into Louisiana. As bugs take a kamikaze plunge into my jacket and helmet, hoping to deter the invading approach, I laugh at the fact that, unwittingly, each one of my family members got a bug hug, having not the time to remove my jacket before receiving warm embraces. Oops.

The very bottom of Louisiana is a lonely world of wildlife refuge, threatening forward progress with taunts of gator and other critter crossing. Roaring down highway 27, it’s now dusk and an ominous black cloud appears on the horizon of the road that rides along the gulf water’s edge. With no route other than backwards available, first thoughts are that it is exhaust emissions from one of the many chemical plants in the area. I could be so lucky. Rapidly approaching, I reach the amorphous ball of brown gas and immediately smack into a tornadic cloud of swarming mosquitoes. The first few bugs take me by surprise and fly directly into my mouth, up my nose and the helmet’s face shield is lowered immediately. There is an eerie similarity in the sound of a crackling fire, rain drops bouncing off a helmet and a swarm of mosquitoes smacking into a face shield at 50 mph. Disgust is the word of the day…DISGUST! AHHHHHHHHHH!! Thousands of humming annoyances explode off the jacket, the chaps, the Harley, the helmet and every other exposed surface that remains and I have to pull over every 5 minutes to clear my face shield. The efforts produces a narrow window of vision that barely allows me to see and without a rag or napkin, this is the best I get tonight and the fight against these unholy creatures lasts for the next 20 miles. A road appears out of the insectous fog and left turn, north, is immediately taken to evade the most nauseating event of my life that in the end leaves me smelling like earthworms. Drop me in a lake and let the fish swim into my pockets.

Night has dropped its veil upon southern Louisiana and shrouds all that come out to play at night. Once out of the mosquitoes, it’s a perilous road north through the bayous hoping that a gator doesn’t force me into slalom on the narrow, swamp –lined byway. Painted head to toe in mosquitoes, a gas station/bait shop offers a respite and hopefully a squeegee to rid myself of the squished skeets. Luck once again smiles on me and there are no squeegees in this station, so I go inside to find some paper towels and in doing so, find more than I could have ever possibly imagined.

Sitting at a table, inside the bait shop/gas station/snack bar (that doesn’t have a squeegee) are three locals that are schnocked off their rockers. The post-retirement stooges watch the bug covered spaceball enter their holy ground and the place goes silent. Politely, directions to the rest room are asked for and received, and then the unmasking of mosquitoes begins. Gross. Gross and um…gross. Clean-up completed, a mound of bug-gut caked paper towels fill the garbage can in the corner of a bathroom that should only be entered in a bio-hazard suit. There are no feelings of remorse as I exit to face the drunken judge, jury and executioner that sit in the corner of the bait shop sucking down king cans of natty ice. The first one approaches and asks if I’m in the service. The answer being no, he repeatedly asks and sobriety taints my end of this conversation. The second of the stooges, sobriety not an option, but apparently she is one of those rare people in an inebriated state that is able to not only form coherent sentences, but derives them from coherent thoughts and tells me he means no harm. I chuckle. Good natured conversation ensues and when the story of the road filters through their ears, the last of the trifecta speaks up in true, old country Cajun and I can barely understand him.

“wayaou comfromdahboy?”

“Riding the perimeter of the country, just had to clean up and then I’m headed north to a motel.”

“yougonngobaggouddah?!”

“Yes sir, need to head north and find a hotel.”

“Howwyshiboy! Yogod bigohbaws! BIGOHBAWS ISAY!” “Goddamnifumuhsumbish, bigohbaws.”

My three new friends offer to buy me a beer and by the looks of it, I should be buying for them and want to badly. Having to decline their hospitality will be one of less than a handful of regrets on this trip, but the prospect of no place to stay, the dark of night in the Louisiana bayou and the simple fact that I will NOT ride with alcohol in me forces me back on the bike to look for a motel. It’s a shame, as the stories they could tell and the time I could have would have been a continuation of the experience of a lifetime. Guaranteed they will be in that bait shop for many moons to come, one day I will return and buy round upon round of Natty Ice in exchange for them to regale me with tales of their wisdom and experiences.

Time to churn road and get to a hotel. Not far up the road, lies a town with an unfortunate name, in an unfortunate area, but fortunately holds several motels and I pull up to the Microtel, strategically placed next to a waffle house, in Sulphur, LA. Good night Gracie, tomorrow is a big day…off to Nawlins.