In Amarillo

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The best converstation I’ve heard in long time – we’re checking in to the lovely travel-lodge in Amarillo, and in walks Winston Churchill’s long-lost younger brother who’s apparently been wandering around the Texas panhandle for the past forty years. He rolls up to the the kind of sad, emo-Amarillo-hotel-clerk:

WCYB: You’ve got be bloody kidding me…

Clerk: Uh, sir?

WCYB: You’ve got a huge bloody sign out there saying you have rooms for $39.99 and you’re charging me sixty dollars.

Clerk: Sir those rooms are for the upstairs singles, and as I told you, the Jehovah’s Witness convention is in town and has all the rooms booked.

WCYB: Then why do you still have your big bloody sign up (no shit he said ‘bloody’ that many times)?

Clerk: Uh, it’s a big damn sign.

WCYB (turning to us as Liz is signing the bill): And you, you got the $39.99 rate?

We kind of had to leave before we started laughing uncontrollably.

Road Trip

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Tomorrow we hit the road, bound for New Mexico in the annual sojourn to get the hell out of the absurdly overheated Texas summertime. If all goes well, tomorrow night we’ll be in scenic Amarillo, and Friday morning we’ll roll in to Red River just about the time the Fourth of July parade starts.

I’ve traveled to New Mexico by car more times than I can count – from the early morning rollout in the family mini-van to last year’s solo subaru excursion. The packing, the driving out from town, making coffee by the side of the road, new-and-scenic Texas panhandle gas stations, books-on-tape, that really inserting musty small your car gets after being driven for 10 hours, and best of all, the first faint outlines of the Sangre de Cristos on the horizon as you barrel west on sub-standard New Mexican asphalt – all part of the fun.

In Jamaica

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A week ago, we packed our swimsuits, our sunscreen and our extra livers and headed off to the Caribbean to watch B and Amber get hitched. Some observations from the adventure…

In Jamaica, you should not expect any kind of ground transportation to leave in a timely fashion. This small problem is offset by the fact that you can not only drink on the bus, but its actually encouraged as you make a stop at a bar on the way to the hotel.

Also, Jamaica is just stinking beautiful.

In Jamaica there is apparently a national shortage of shirts. This is confined not only to the locals, but also, sadly to the tourists.

Jamaican driving is interesting – whether its a suzuki death-box or a 50 foot bus, the locals have no problem driving into oncoming traffic. They do it in such a friendly fashion too…If i were driving in the states and found myself wedged between a bus a dump truck and and oncoming semi, I might become upset, perhaps even have an episode of mild road-rage. These guys just look imminent traffic-death in the face and shrug it off. There’s probably a life lesson there.

In Jamaica, German tourists always forget to bring real shorts can often times be found videotaping your friends wedding. Creepy.

Rum is a whole different creature in Jamaica. Go rob a bank and buy some Appleton Rum, you’ll see what i mean.  I like manly drinks – whiskey on the rocks, vodka tonic, etc. This trip found me kicking back Pina coladas as if they were water (hence the packing of the extra liver).

Did I mention that it’s beautiful there? This whole Island in the Caribbean thing is not such a bad deal.

Speaking of Rum, the all-inclusive resort thing is an interesting beast mostly because of the magic wristband. Present your wristband, with wirst-and-the-rest-of-you attached at any of the restaurants and you get fed. Present it at any of the 125,000 bars at the resort and you get booze. It’s an interesting concept that sadly doesn’t work once you leave – the day after we got back i was stuck in budget meetings for five hours. I kept pointing to my wristband, but no one would bring me a drink – very sad.

Reggae is not only the music of Jamaica, but it is actually the only kind of music they have there. I like me some Bob Marley, but holy shit, you can only listen to Exodus so many times before the seizures start.

Speaking of music, in Jamaica, no matter how hungry you are, never ever ever eat at Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville. Shockingly Mr. Buffet is and even poorer restauranteur than musician.

It’s a pretty cool thing to watch your friends get married in such a spectacular place. Glad we got to be there.

My photos | Germ’s Photos

Nueva York

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Somehow my bosses decided that sending me to a conference in Boston was an excellent plan for my professional development. Ok, sure. Can I go to New York afterwards and visit/drink with my sister for a few days after said professional development is complete? Ok, Sure.

Pictures

Mas y Menos

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chisos.jpg

When we told Tim about the specifics involved in a marathon race his highly appropriate response was something along the lines of, “that sounds like something you should get paid to do, not the other way around.” I’m also pretty sure he prefaced the entire thing with an emphatic and heartfelt “you stupid hippy, why the hell would you do that?”

I can safely say that at mile 10 of the Mas y Menos this weekend in Terlingua, I couldn’t agree more. At mile 12 I was praying for any kind of mechanical failure that would necessitate as short break, and at mile 15 I actually considered selling my bike to a random Mexican dude who was watching the race and walking away forever. Nothing compared though, to mile 20 as we neared the tres cuevas climb. On the approach it went something like this –

me: Dude this is going pretty good.

germ: Yeah, not to shabby.

me: Is that the big climb (motioning to sheer, 13,000,000 ft cliff to our right)?

germ: Nah, I’m sure we’ll go back around that….

me: Oh ok, cool.

germ: Well actually…yeah, I see tiny people up there…

…and by tiny people, it was like the way 18-wheelers look like ants when your on an airplane.

This thing just went on and on. Not having the benefit of a pre-ride I tried to assault it assuming the end was a reasonable distance away. The sunofabitch just kept going up and up. One switchback after the other until, right before I started knocking my head on the International Space Stations’ solar array, there was a bunch of hippies sitting in rocking chairs and wearing oxygen tanks, welcoming us to the top, like some kind of weird patchouli-scented version of Into Thin Air with bikes. Clearly, I exaggerate a bit, but this was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever ridden a bike up.

Big bend is, well, big. It’s aptly named. Medium Bend would not do it justice. And the race fits, nothing about it is tiny, from the course, to the climb to the kickass food and free beer. There was a pancake breakfast at 5a.m. the morning of the race – you know those people had been up since 3 a.m. cooking in the freezing cold desert. The people who put this thing together are incredible – the only thing that’s been close rivaling it was the livestrong ride and that has the freakish, Lance Armstrong cult of personality to back it. This is just a bunch of people, in a tiny hippy town in west Texas putting on a big race. That’s a pretty neat thing to be a part of.

My Pics | Germ’s Pics

Skymall

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To all of you who were going to buy my Christmas presents – look no further than the wonder that is Skymall – I’d like one remote-controlled robotic shark, one, one solar powered talking bible and one ‘luv-handleer’ personal exercise machine. And if possible, I’d like all these things purchased at a cruising altitude of 10,000 or higher. Thank you.

Return

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As of Sunday, after 11.5 hours of standing on the accelerator as hard as i could (the panhandle is pretty damn boring), I’ve returned to the reality of going to work each morning, sleeping in a bed (as opposed to a car), warrantless-wiretapping legislation, traffic, 100 degree heat indices, and 600 un-read work emails.

In hindsight, maybe ending the roadtrip was a bad plan. I did manage to post the last few stragglers of my pictures up to the flickr account.

Oh and a side note – Thank you Texas DPS Patrolman Johnson for just slapping me with a warning on I-27. I drove 80, in the right lane the rest of the way I drove like a bat-out of hell as soon I saw you exit (your stretch of interstate is mind-blowingly boring), but you were a nice guy just the same.

More Adventures

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Some observations from the road so far, again in bullet form, in no particular order…

– When confronted by the previously mentioned duo of Havelinas in the Davis Mountains State Park, I did the very manly thing by shouting, “whoa, bigpig bigpig bigpig bigdamnpig,” thereby waking up the entire campground with my manliness. Yeah, I’m cool like that.

– When I was leaving town I pulled into Wendy’s to get some much needed sustenance. At the pay window the cashier as me if I’d like to make a donation to a children’s diabetes fund ( keep in mind I’m paying for a fried-chicken sandwich here) and receive a coupon for four free frosty’s. It’s so ironic you almost have to admire the marketing genius behind it.

– Trelingua is what happens when the hippies take over. It’s not a bad thing, but you can’t help but chuckle at the existence of Trelingua and then Trelingua Ghost town 2 miles down the road, with various organic grocers, and funky diners in between. Urban planners everywhere are inexplicably twitching.

– I rode the rim trail in Cloudcroft today, one of the countries top ten singletracks ( I read that somewhere, don’t ask me where). Awesome trail, beautiful views, wicked fast down hills, gut busting climbs – I would like thank the US forest service for this trail. What I will not be extending them gratitude for is the maps of said trail which suck suck suck suck suck. Wow. I had no idea where the hell I was for about the last 1/3 of the ride. Thanks Ranger Bob.

– Thank you Texas DPS Patrolman DelaCruz for just slapping me with a warning. I drove 80, in the right lane the rest of the way (until I got to New Mexico at least).

– Riding a bike at 9000 feet is interesting because apparently there’s no damn air up here. Makes simple things like shifting, braking and not dying a tad bit more challenging.

– The Hotel Subaru has many fine accommodations, but electricity is not one of them. I seem to be doing fine without, but I’m at this idyllic campground outside Cloudcroft, and yet it sounds like I’m in the pit at NASCAR, with all these people running their generators. What are they doing in those trailers that this could possibly be necessary? I’ll be dishing out some payback tomorrow morning when I fire up my campstove, which has the same decibel lever (and heat output) of a solid-fuel rocket off the space shuttle.

– When I hiked the south rim in Big Bend nine years, we had a great view for about 10 minutes, and then a massive cold front blew in, effectively making it like hiking in cloud. This time the front was already there when I showed up, yet again making it kind of like hiking in a cloud. At least god’s sense of humor is consistent.

– It may be a sign that it’s been just you and the bike for too long on this trip, when you strap the hydration pack to the back of the drivers seat, and forgo meals in favor of a shot of gu. That’s some hard core driving.

More photos are up at the flickr 2007 roadtrip set.

Road Trip – Texas

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I’m catapulting through parabolic curves of limestone, down a strip of asphalt that some madmen, still a bit full of themselves after defeating the Axis powers, had the audacity punch out through west Texas. Most interstates are a full-frontal, sensory assault, gobbling up the landscape, demanding your attention. Not this one. Four lanes of traffic are no match for the giant blue dome of sky overhead, views to the horizons in all directions and hundreds of miles without significant human settlement always wins. And as I rocket down the road (literally making Millennium Falcon noises when I pass people, wishing one of my friends was there so I could shout ‘punch it chewie’ and get the appropriate wookie response), watching the landscape kick the highways ass – life is alright.

Basin
Now I’m sitting on rock, still warm form the heat of the day, in the middle of the Chisos Basin, looking down the window trail out into Mexico, writing. In a few, I’ll shut this down go crawl into my sleeping bag and tear into the new Harry Potter.

Davis Mountains
The Davis Mountains are cool, and the state park by the same name is quite beautiful. I’m sitting here, the big dipper rising on my left, watching my little fire merrily vents British-thermal-units into space, as the desert does regularly scheduled evening temperature nosedive. I’d actually be glad for the fire even if it was blazing hot, because this evening as I’ve been cooking dinner and writing, I’ve run into two skunks, and a pissed off looking duo of havleinas. Fortunately for some reason, I decided to bring my bike light, which spits out enough photons to make Enterprise’s ordnance of choice look like a sparkler, and is also useful in scarring off angry pigs (I swear to god one of them almost charged me. Scary). For those kinds of trips if you’ve never tried bike seat amazon, here https://www.amazon.com/Bikeroo-Oversized-Comfort-Comfortable-Replacement/dp/B07B646ZZY/ are four advantages of leather bike saddles.

Today I did kind of a random driving tour of the Big Bend – Trelignua ( with a short, but pretty ride), Alpine, Marfa and finally Ft. Davis. This part of the state is a time warp to what the America of the late 40’s- early 50’d must’ve been. Stretches of two-lane highway, plunge across great swathes of open country, interspersed by highway rest-stops and funky diners and hotels. Then came McDonald’s and the interstates. How sad is that.

Send off

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In typical fashion the night before I leave for a two-week road trip I haven’t packed a goddamn thing. And on cue, there is some hive-mind decision that we need to go out. Normally I would defer, but we had large chunk of folks participating and similar to the Beatles being awesome, but bombing on solo careers, when this group reaches critical mass, good times tend to ensue (we still had some crucial folks missing). A few tidbits, in bullet form –

– Heather got girls to come talk to us simply by asking them – ‘ hey do you want to get in our zombie plan ?’ (more on that later)

– Rob Points out loudly that one dude, in a group we are quasi-associated with has on ‘Sal mahn – colored pants.’ One of his friends, who could snap all-off us in half with his pinky, while using his other arm to do curls with my station wagon, calmly turns to us and says – ‘ I believe it’s pronounced sa-mon.’ As rob observed- this ones got rains and brawn

– The laws of physics dictate, that one somebody manages to pull off looking good in plaid pants, shorts, or any other type of lower sub equatorial garment they are probably a certifiable badass. To prove this theory we spent half the evening, trying to get our waitress ( who was pretty close to basass status, regarding the whole plaid thing) to punch rob in the back of the head. Why ? I’m not sure, but I think it would have proven her badass status undeniably. And it was funny.

– There was a post-last-call run to taco cabana. Taco cabana at 3 a.m. is a different thing from taco cabana the rest of the day. Essentially you get whatever they have handy at the moment, no matter what you ordered, and by-god you’re going to be happy about it because you’re getting cheap Mexican food at an ungodly hour of the morning. So who cares if you ordered tacos, and got 17 sides of guacaomle, after waiting in line for twenty minutes – as 90% of the clientele is drunk at this point, they can get away with it.

– Transformers – As we slowly roll into action the morning after, Uncle Rob suggests that we go see transformers. Heather who is an un-disclosable number of years younger than us, says, ‘ok, but I really don’t understand what a transformer is’

Rob who, actually named one of his computers Unicron, looks like he’s suffered a stroke, massive internal bleeding and a wisdom teeth removal simultaneously.

Suddenly, we are Old.