Desperate for fresh air we left the Coldspring Inn as soon as it was light. For the first five miles we mostly free-wheeled downhill on a broad shoulder convinced we were rapidly losing all the height we’d gained over the past three weeks. Then things went even further downhill. We arrived in Evergreen to find no signs of life, Punkin had a cafe but it was closed. We had no choice but to ride for another 20 miles before breakfast and the road conditions were diminishing rapidly.
First, roadworks intruded on the road, then the shoulder disappeared altogether. Sharing the road with fast moving 30 tonne lorries, pick ups and cars was terrifying enough – but then the dogs joined in. It was a terrifying combination and not one any cyclist should find themselves in. I saw three vehicles get so close to Terry I had to close my eyes. At one point we got the attention of five dogs, the largest of which headed into the road and looked intent on catching us.
If we got to Austin alive his ride was over. “I’m outta here”.
Hungry from having missed breakfast and angry at the appalling riding conditions my standard cries of “Get Back” “Back Down” were rapidly replaced with “Fuck off” “Fuck the Fuck off” and, from Terry: “Die!” I half expected to see a sign saying the life expectancy of cyclists along this route was on average the same as a Battle of Britain pilot.
Terry’s mood, like mine had taken a nosedive: “It’s the 90 West in Florida all over again,” he remarked, half hoping one of us would fall off and break a leg just so we could go home. “Sod it I’ll break my own bloody leg,” he said in despair. “I feel like we could easily become the ‘late’ bit of that breakfast,” he added, with the parting line that if we got to Austin alive his ride was over. “I’m outta here”.
I didn’t blame him and seriously began to think we would never make breakfast. Just outside New Waverley, we pulled over to look at a small chapel which had a large statue of Jesus facing the road. The inscription read ‘Christ of East Texas’ with a plaque underneath that read: ‘May all who pass this statue be reminded of our Lord’. Michelangelo’s David it was not. It’s doubtful even that Michelangelo’s dogs could have made such a ham fisted effigy. But perhaps it was the hunger talking. If this road was going to take us I didn’t want that thing looking over our souls in perpetuity.
For the first time ever in America I didn’t bother to stop to look at a local historical marker, I just didn’t care anymore, but Terry pulled over to photograph a giant chicken. Why did the chicken cross the road? Because it was being chased by a dog. What happened? A semi swerved to miss it and took out two terrified British cyclists.
We pulled into New Waverley exhausted, both physically and mentally and scanned the Main Street to see where the trucks were parked, but nothing here seemed it conform to the norm. Then Terry spotted Honey’s Coffee, a bright, contemporary cafe that wouldn’t have looked out of place in London or New York. It was full of yummy mummies and their babies sipping lattes (not the babies obviously) and chatting. This was not the usual clientele of old blokes talking turkey and tractors over oil black community coffee.
Inside they were doing a roaring trade and spotting the word ‘breakfast’ on the board we were already imagining tucking into a bowl of hash browns until we noticed there was a word underneath – smoothie. WTF! Smoothies in rural Texas – how can a cowboy round up his herd on a smoothie! Nevertheless they did serve the best lattes we’d had in America and the orange-infused biscuit I had was divine, although a lack of veggie options (the biscuits were made with lard) meant Terry went hungry. The cardboard sleeve around his coffee read ‘Best Day Ever’ which he altered to ‘Worst Day So Far’. Ok, so our third attempt at breakfast would now be in another 20 miles.
New Waverley’s rather offbeat approach continued when we left the town across the interstate and found no strip of retail, but instead two roundabouts, the first we’d seen since the east coast. Why? Just weird.
What are you looking for?” I asked. “The red cockeyed Penguin,” said Terry, in all seriousness.
We crossed a bridge over Lake Conroe and entered the Sam Houston National Forest. Suddenly, everything seemed better, the traffic had mostly gone and we were cycling through rolling countryside not unlike East Anglia writ large. The sun even broke through periodically. We were surrounded by towering pines and there were no dogs. But the fatigue from the morning’s efforts was still taking its toll. I caught up with Terry looking at a notice board and peering into a section of forest where the pines grew tall and the brush underneath had been cleared.
“What are you looking for?” I asked. “The red cockeyed Penguin,” said Terry, in all seriousness. I read the notice which mentioned how the habitat had been managed to encourage a rare type of woodpecker.
“Don’t you mean the red cockaded woodpecker?” I asked. Terry continued scanning the ground, while I stuck to the trees. Neither of us saw anything so we are unable to confirm or deny the existence of woodpeckers or penguins in Sam Houston. However Terry did spot fleeting glances of white tail deer, although mainly their bottoms.
Regardless, the ride was definitely improving, peace quiet, nature and a gentle undulating road were nearly enough to almost wipe out the memories of the morning. Almost. Coming up to a junction in the forest we met Joel, a young American cycling from El Paso to Maine to see his sister.
He’d not seen another rider except for four cyclists going east to west who’d made no effort to stop. (Why do that? Have you no soul?) He seemed genuinely interested in talking to us and we left him with a list of phone numbers and contacts which could prove useful as he headed east. We decided not to tell him about the 90 East. There really was no alternative so ignorance was bliss.
We said our goodbyes and then a few hundred yards around the corner met with Jordan and Mackenzie sitting on a porch having lunch. They had started riding just south of San Francisco, had loved cycling alongside the Pacific and were now headed to Florida. They were doing around forty miles a day and hadn’t met any other cyclists and had no idea Joel was in front of them, let alone only a few hundred yards away. When we told them they were astonished – but this is just the type of scenario that can happen on a long ride.
Today was proving to be a day of lows and highs. We pootled on towards Richards for a very late ‘breakfast’ (it was now after 2pm) in the warmth of the weak sun, surrounded by lush fields populated by signature Texas Longhorn cattle, indeterminate soft fruit bushes, a couple of small vineyards and the occasional dog. All quite nice.
Richards seemed to be another deserted town doing its best to fade back into the undergrowth. But the local gas station had a cafe and although it was closed for hot food the woman behind the counter made us a couple of sarnies bulked up with crisps. Finally, after forty miles we’d found our delayed breakfast.
Terry expanded on how quickly we forget absolute levels of sensations, be it pain, joy, heat or anger or whatever. Two hours ago we were so jarred off with the route and roads he was all for hijacking one of the crop-sparying planes, strapping the bikes under the wings and hightailing it home. Now, a few nice bits later, it all seemed a distant memory and everything is lovely.
Our mood restored by miles of pleasant undulations and wide open views we hit Anderson, home to the enormous brick, European style, Grimes Court House. It also boasted an old fashioned Main Street with the usual thrift shops, antique stores and an impressive Confederate Memorial Piazza complete with Confederate flag flying in the breeze.
It turned out Grimes County had been a Confederate stronghold with 907 to 9 voting to seceed from the Union. It went on to sent five calvary and four infantry companies to the Confederate Army. Those who stayed home did their bit with arms and ordnance works at Anderson producing canons, canon balls, guns, pistols, swords, sabres, bayonets and gunpowder. Grimes was also a key area for producing cotton ‘the gold of the South’ with the crop hauled to Mexico by local men and traded for goods vital to the Confederate fight.
Ten miles on we finally reached our destination for the night – Navatosa. With no waterproof and rain threatening for tomorrow, I found Terry a fetching mid blue ladies jacket in Walmart. It even had a hood. He looked lovely.
We got chatting with a man and woman sitting outside a bookstore (and who apologised for Trump), checked out a diner for tomorrow morning’s breakfast (we’re never being caught out by a smoothie again!) and then headed for our bed for the night … Navasota Fire Department where the on-call crew had agreed to allow us to sleep with them in the crew room.
Being a might peckish by then (it was gone 7pm) we said our hellos, dumped our kit and headed straight out to the firefighters’ recommended restaurant … a Mexican place that served up daunting amounts of really tasty food. Twenty minutes later, it, and a couple of beers had disappeared.
The day had completely turned around. More ‘trail magic’. We’re back in the groove!
Today’s miles: 66.79
Total miles since Anastasia State Park: 1,195.13
