Daily Miles: 55
Total Miles: 2333
Avg: 9.9
Max: 23.5
Time on the bike: 5:27:52
I’m not sure what to say about today other than that it was camplete bullshit.
I slept really well and woke up refreshed. After getting my things together I walked outside to get my bike in the shed and to my dissapointment I discovered that my front tire was flat. Not a good way to start the morning. I fixed it up and was on my way after thanking Erin and Kristy for letting me stay at their place for the night.
The wind was strong as I ventured out, but I was in the city and the houses and fast food restaurants did a good job of breaking up the wind. I went through downtown and then turned northward onto Mesa drive, which was full of cars and devoid of any bike lane or shoulder. There were three lanes of traffic which helped a little but it was still a fairly nerve racking experience getting out of the city. 15 miles out I crossed the rio grande and and pedaled on a nice bike path for 6 or 7 miles. I was making good time and the wind, although whipping above me, was blocked because I was near the river bed and there was an embankment to my left. I soon was spit out onto the road and that’s when everything really went to shit.
There was no hiding from the wind now. It was menacing and mean, about the same as that day into Marfa, but maybe worse. I switched to the lowest front gear and just pedaled into it at 7 mph at best. There is nothing more aggravating than a 25-30 mph headwind with occasional 40 mph gusts. It’s nearly impossible to bike in. I had to take frequent breaks just because it was so aggravating and difficult and slow.
When I arrived in Las Cruces I knew I couldn’t go any further with this wind. It had defeated me. My goal was to make it to a State Park 16 more miles in but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to ride like a stupid moron into the headwind anymore.
I stopped at an RV Park listed on my maps and asked how much camping was. The gentlemen working told me 20 dollars. I was in a crappy mood and I just looked at him and laughed.
“I’ll give you 10,” I countered.
He grinned. “Sorry, Pal. Strict orders from the boss.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll pass, but if I change my mind I’ll be back.” I wasn’t comming back.
I pedaled more into the city and called the other RV place listed on my maps. They wanted 10 dollars to camp so I agreed and headed over there. They let cyclists stay in a little grassy area behind the office and bathrooms. It’s kind of cozy. There’s a wooden fence that blocks the view of the highway and the wind.
“Don’t mind the flowers and champagne bottle back there on the big mound of dirt,” the owner said, after giving me the passcode to the bathroom. “It’s just my cat. I buried her there a few years ago.”
I smiled and said okay. What else was I going to do?
I went to the camping area and sure enough the grave was there, plain as day. I said a little prayer and set my tent up right beside it. For some reason it didn’t seem that wired. Stranger things have happened on this trip.
As I write this in my tent the wind has, of course, died down. That’s because I’m not riding my bike. As soon as I clip in tommorrow the wind will be back.
The highway buzzes nearby. The sun has set and night has arrived. I feel lonely tonight and I’m questioning my sanity. Why am I doing this again? I keep asking this question and the only answer I have is ‘To cross the US by bycicle’. At one point in my life this would have been enough but it’s not anymore. To cross a bunch of space by bike or foot or rollerblades is arbitrary if the journey becomes somehow meaningless; if the reward is nonexistent or even worse, stupid.
The reward for cycle touring is a crappy cup of coffee at a run down convenience store; It’s another road with cars that don’t give a shit; it’s an endless droning of wind that slaps your face and doesn’t care; it’s another highway with glass and a crappy shoulder, with broken up and uneven pavement, with garbage all over the place.
The reward for cycle touring in the US is the pleasure to watch everybody watching you watching them. It is the satisfaction of knowing you are not those people. They drive the same road over and over again, and as a cycle tourist, you don’t. You see this crap once and never have to look at it again.
