XC Run Day 6

Clear and hot. That's how it started and that's how it stayed for much of the day.

Ridin' solo is an introspective pursuit. I keep telling myself I'm gonna put the headphones on, crank up some tunes on the 'Droid, and roll like I see the young folks do.

Never seems to happen.

I'm just there, alone with my thoughts and the hum of the tires, the wind and that big old V-Twin.

I'll take it any day.

They say that a human being with normal 20/20 vision, if the air is clear, can see a match lit on a mountain top 50 miles away. In fact, aside from the big brain and opposable thumbs, it's the big factor for our place on the food chain. No wonder we've gotten so addicted to the visual modes like TV and the internet. So it's no wonder that the first thing I noticed was a change in the trees. A little bigger and fuller with each mile runnin' U.S. 190 through those little Texas towns, baking in the August sun. But the things we can never get, from any sort of picture box, that make it real are from the ancillary senses: the change in smells from cow to fish, the tang of salt water just hinting in the air, the wind's changing sound as it filters now through the trees, the feel of moisture as it builds on the skin. I began to sense the Gulf, our great unmentioned and unthought of third coast,  looming as I rode on.

Then a couple of big towns, Bryant and Huntsville, twisted me back into the Texas of 500 miles ago, open and hot. Huntsville, with it's Starbucks and Home Depots and shopping malls that I had almost forgotten existed. Huntsville, with Becky Sue, in her big Suburban or Expidition, cuttin' ya off in traffic on the four lane to gain another foot or two like she owned the road. And I let her. Without drama or gestures or excitement, because I knew she would and because she does own the road around here. She was born here and she's in the Junior League and a Member of the First Baptist Church and at the Beauty Parlor on Thursdays and Bubba's doin' real well 'cause he's been workin' for Daddy down t' th' Chevrolet Dealership or in the "Awl Biddness" since he graduated from A&M, don'tcha know.

And we all fell in behind her, and nobody seemed to get too excited when, just out of town, when the speed limit went to 70, she dropped about 15 miles an hour below that, and wouldn't let anyone pass, 'cause she got a phone call from Glenda and did you hear about what happened to Missy?

Becky Sue dropped off well before Big Thicket, and while I don't miss her too much, I surely do hope Missy and Junior can work it out.

On through Big Thicket, Ralph Yarborough's enduring gift to Texas, and with every mile the landscape changes a bit more and the convenience store accents  get broader in the vowels. There are lots of bridges now, lots of open water, from lakes to trickles. The wet air, so muggy and close when one is standing still, is a joy to my skin as I roll along. Deliciously cool and sweet. The hairs on my arms sigh with pleasure.

Now it's Sabine country, and Jasper and Newton and, finally,  Bon Wier. Then it's the river itself and Louisiana. Lots of cast off, thrown away, old places on this route, too. For, like it's more famous sister in the West, this was once a big road, now lazy and lost amongst the bayous and the oaks.

Those big late afternoon thunderheads were looming and I was going to stop in Deridder, but I rolled on. Going to stop in Monroe, but I rolled on. It felt so good and cool and peaceful on the road. Finally hit Kidder (we say Kid-aire) and stopped for something to drink. Asked about a good place to stay, and was asked in turn where I was headed. "Oh, Opelousas, Lafayette, Breaux Bridge." "Heck, man, Opelousas is only 40 minutes down the road."

I had forgotten how close it was. Not thinking in miles or time or destinations, I had let the miles slip by, but fortunately, not the country or the people.

So I pushed on in the late afternoon, with the threat of storm all around me, to Eunice, where I got my EMT certification at LSU-E. Into Opelousas and ran over to Kerr St. to the dead end where Hardy and Mary used to live to see the old place -- now sold and gussied up a bit, but still the same marvelously Cajun, weathered boarded, tin roofed, place that started life as a store in the 1800's -- where Hardy and I darn near burned down  half of Louisiana one 4th of July, but, Oh, it was a splendiferous fireworks display and the kids squealed with glee. Down past Grand Coteau where my old house is and my ancestors are buried and my little girl went to school at L'Academie de Sacre Coeur . Down the route I drove everyday to work for 5 years.

So I sit in Lafayette. And though I ache to see my little girl and her little girl and the wonderful young man that loves them maybe even more than I do, I think I'll wait. I'm a day early and Nick's just getting back off a reserve duty rotation with those C-130s he loves so much. Not throw 'em any surprises.

And, anyway, ridin' solo is an introspective pursuit.