As we continued our quest to experience every seedy RV campground that the state of Texas had to offer, it became more and more apparent that mysterious forces were hampering our abilities to impress bystanders with our long-distance cycling feat. We had entered some sort of wormhole in the space-time continuum! Well, either that, or the existence of a city in nearby Duval County with the audacity to call itself “San Diego” meant that every other Texan we encountered simply assumed that we were out on a day ride.
“Ridin’ up from San Diego, you say? Yaaaaaap, sure are pullin’ a lot of stuff on that there bike.”

Hmph. It’s not that I really NEED everyone to KNOW that I’m a cross-country cycle tourist, per se, but I would hate for the entire state of Texas to think that I pack up 75 pounds worth of assorted belongings just to get to a neighboring county’s Walmart. Although by the time we reached the far eastern edge of Texas, I could scarcely believe that the journey started in California either–enough time had passed that the rocky beginning of the trip started to feel like a particularly strange dream. A strange dream of a life revolving around anything other than endless rolling hills under big Texan skies.

Collective morale sank lower than ever as we trudged across the eastern portion of the state, clearly needing some sort of state border-crossing milestone to lend a sense of progress. Rolling out of Austin, we faced our first day of thunder, heavy rains, and wet, stormy riding. The rolling terrain of western Texas eventually smoothed and flattened, as logging-truck traffic on our route picked up and highway shoulders narrowed. I warned my group to leave earlier in the morning–that roads would become busier as late afternoon rush hour set in–and the gentle suggestion was received as a stern deadline. No amount of back-pedaling with the continued reassurance that bikes would NOT automatically self-destruct at 3pm sharp could keep the riders from hustling grimly through the day as if on a death march instead of a bike tour. We needed that Louisiana state line more than ever.

Initially skeptical about Southern Louisiana due to a lifelong hatred of the X-Men character Gambit, I immediately began to change my tune once we crossed into Beauregard Parish and spent our first overnight at the Merryville Historical Society. Merryville hospitality was unrivaled–the folks at the Historical Society greeted our arrival with snacks and stories, all before laying out a traditional local spread of biscuits, Jumbalaya, and cobbler. Although I found the distinctive Cajun accent difficult to understand, I quickly became a fan of trying to transcribe it, recording such inspirational snippets of Southern wisdom as “Dey wun give yeh nuttin’ f’nuttin’. Aw, HEY, dey wunneven give yeh SUMtin’ f’nuttin’!” and texting all my friends in my newly-adopted “Ragin’ Cait-jun” vernacular. Actually, my recent, unexpected enthusiasm for the culture has been so resolute, I become almost inconsolable when confronted with anyone who DOESN’T come complete with a vowel-laden French surname and an outlandish Cajun accent. Apparently I’m not going to be satisfied until I meet Leatherhead from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, drifting down the bayou in search of a good gumbo recipe. Who knew I was such a fan of cultural stereotyping?

Leaving Merryville was difficult, and not just because of all the warm hospitality. Cataclysmic thunderstorms, heavy rains, flooding, and a tornado watch had moved into the area, but our lack of access to news media prevented us from fully realizing the severity of the situation. We might have never set out for Oberlin if we had known that Stormageddon: ‘09 was about to transpire, but upon leaving the safety of the Historical Society, the skies went black and we immediately entered the Thunderdome. Dark clouds unleashed an unholy vengeance as we crept tentatively down the highway through the miserable, pouring rain, occasionally fleeing the road for the shelter of a nearby barn to wait out the light show. Lightning struck less than a mile away, and the relentlessness of the storm suggested that we might get stranded in the middle of nowhere. I wondered how best to spin the day’s ride into a positive experience–”severe thunderstorms with a deadly tornado warning?” Or “the tailwind of your life with a minor electricity hangover?” Nearly defeated, I had to keep reminding myself that getting struck by lightning in Louisiana would make for a great journal entry (and possible book deal!), or at the very least a good tale to tell at the bar when I get home. What’s an epic adventure without a few death-defying war stories?

When we reached Oberlin intact, the guys at Volunteer Fire Department were kind enough to drive us all to the laundromat and pick up a huge stack of pizzas for everyone. Phillip, one of the volunteers, let me ride in the fire engine with the sirens blaring, giving me a three-block tour of the entire town and a tutorial of the ins and outs of firefighting. It was like a fifth grade field trip, and after a long, stressful day, I was absolutely in heaven. We were told we could sleep anywhere in the firehouse, and in exchange I promised that if the fire alarm went off in the middle of the night, I was willing to lend a hand with my new hose-wielding skills. This proposition met with a considerable lack of enthusiasm, but I enjoyed the image of our cycling group as the “Bad News Bears” of volunteer firefighters, spending the entire night envisioning all the hilarious pratfalls that lay in store. Collecting eccentric overnight locations is one of my all-time favorite bike touring hobbies!

The next challenge to beleaguer my meticulous planning came in the form of the St. Francisville ferry. We had been traveling for a week and a half without a rest day, when it was brought to my attention that the ferry was no longer in operation and we would have to take a 60-mile alternate route down to Baton Rouge to get across the Mississippi River. Adding miles to an already exhausting schedule was out of the question, so I used a Louisiana State Bike Map to find a route for us to cut over into Baton Rouge earlier, saving us the extra day. The route was certainly not ideal, but had a decent shoulder (for the most part) right up until the steep, narrow bridge across the Mighty Miss. Luckily, the West Baton Rouge sheriff department was kind enough to send out police vehicle escorts to usher us across the bridge in our own lane of traffic, giving us the time and space to lift our bikes across the hazardous expansion joints. I puffed up with self-importance as passing motorists honked out their respects–THIS must be how celebrities cross bridges, when they’re not slumming it for one of those “Stars–They’re Just Like US!!! features. Actually everyone in Louisiana honks ALL THE TIME and it’s as baffling as it is irritating. You can be riding or walking eight feet off the road in the shoulder and every single car will lay on the horn as they roll past, as if totally inconvenienced by your mere unmotorized existence. And yet, the minute those same aggravated roadsters step out of their vehicles, they transform into the kindest, most hospitable folks you’ve ever encountered in your life. I’m still trying to work out the Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde dynamic of it all, but I’m not the only person who’s noticed the disconnect.

Our long-awaited rest day in St. Francisville brought one of the most unexpected surprises of all–Portlanders! I was at Birdman Coffeehouse in the tiny, historic downtown (pop. 1,712), feverishly stabbing at my miniature keypad in order to input THIS VERY JOURNAL ENTRY, when the sudden sense that I had stumbled into an interdimensional portal straight to Stumptown Coffee came over me. A crew of familiar faces in bike hats and mustaches marched past and we all did a double take. Team Rapha!

Once again, the Portland bike-culture diaspora has provided me with a sympathetic ear (I may have OVER-vented my frustrations–sorry dudes, if you’re reading this)! They’re in the area working on a guidebook of all the best rides in the United States–you can check out their epic adventure at rapha.cc/continental. It was all I could do not to choke out “please. take. me. with. you!”, but I had to return to my group for an excellent evening of story-telling and nigh-endless Coors Light. Tomorrow we’re back on the road, and although we have some beautiful rides left in store, I’m really looking forward to the two-week countdown to St. Augustine!