The B'spoke(n) Word

Click on the music then look at the pictures.

The dogs here in Alabama are like doodlebugs. The ones that bark are the V1s that tormented London earlier in the Second World War.  You can hear them coming a long way off and take evasive action (not so much head for the Andersen shelter more pedal like crazy to outrun them). The ones that don’t bark are like the silent V2s that rained down on the capital towards the end of the conflict  – altogether more scary. Canine stealth bombers if you will. Pouncing from the undergrowth with barely a snarl until the saliva specked teeth are so close to your calf muscles that you can feel the wet heat. So far none has found its target but at the current rate – 7 or so dogs an hour – it can only be a matter of time before a “direct hit.” The Kiwis have suggested I send Rose up ahead. Not such a bad idea….

Here’s everything I’ve eaten today and I’m still hungry, my ribs are sticking out and my face looks chiselled (or perhaps I should stop kidding myself – gaunt).

Weird how you can feel totally different physically and mentally on two successive days. Yesterday was like wading through treacle (the Mississippi is a similar colour by the way). Today I felt strong and was flying along thanks to a shared load at the front of the pack with Symon, Nick, Shane and Jerry. Seems extraordinary that draughting (or slipstreaming) can save 15 – 20% effort which over a 100+ mile day is significant.  Be interesting to see if tomorrow is a good day or a bad day.

Perhaps it has something to do with what you eat. We’re eating a lot. And I mean a lot. Which isn’t difficult in the land of plenty where a medium fizzy drink  would qualify for a bucket back home. I’ll write more extensively about our diet over the next few days but it’s difficult to get enough down our necks to replace the 1000 or so calories we’re burning every hour or two.

The flower shop sign I mentioned yesterday doesn’t seem nearly as hilarious 24 hours on. But just in case you were waiting here it is: “Blinging Up Daisies.”

If I open a bike shop-cum-cafe what should I call it? The cross bar? Wheel Meet Again? Answers on a postcard. Or better still in the comments box below. Best idea wins a free meal on opening night.

Dog tired for the first time today. And tired of dogs for that matter although thankfully they left us alone after yesterday’s canine capers – all except a chewawa (or however you spell it) which although nippy in all senses of the word we felt we could deal with like Jonny Wilkinson drop kicking England to glory in a game of rugby.

Tired to the point where however hard I pedalled I didn’t seem to go any faster. Tired to the point of not upping the cadence rate when a fellow rider appeared on the horizon (not that they did today such was my slothful pace). Tired to the point where taking pictures seemed like a bad idea given that even though it meant stopping for less than a minute catching the pack could take 30 minutes.

One of the pictures I did take was of the sign at the city (I use that word advisedly) limits of Brinkley, our overnight stop. Americans – or at least American signwriters – seem to be obsessed with population numbers: Nowhere, Oklahoma pop. 6; Hope, Arizona pop 19. Some places in small town America are so small I’m surprised their signs don’t start with a minus sign. And what do they do when someone dies? Or when a baby is born? Or when someone gets so sick of living in a place where Macdonalds is number one on TripAdvisor and the only alternative – Mom’s Diner – closed shortly after General Custer passed through that they hire a U-Haul trailer and simply up and leave with all their worldly possessions hitched to the tow ball of their unfeasibly large pickup truck?

Wouldn’t digital signs be better?  The sheriff or town clerk or JP or whoever keeps a tally of these things could update the population daily using the mytownisdying app.

Two other signs caught the attention of the Kiwi riders, Symon and Nick, but sadly escaped the attention of my camera. The first was a conventional analogue sign asking: does your church need a digital sign? The other was for a florist and was laugh out loud cheesy but for the life of me I’m too tired to remember it. And it’s only 9pm. Gotta sleep. I’ll let you know the punchline tomorrow. Something about daisies I think. Or roses. Or triffids. Heck only another 800 or so miles to go.

Night night.

Today was mostly about dogs. Bloody great slavering hounds. Alsatians. Pitbulls. Mongrels…All of them with sharp teeth and bad attitude. The ones that were chained up were almost amusing. They’d come bounding towards us at full tilt and then get yanked to a halt so quickly they’d do a triple salco with toe loop and land in an undignified heap of yelps and saliva. The ones that weren’t chained up were not at all amusing. One hid in the long grass of the verge and pounced as we passed. Another – a grey pitbull with shoulders as wide as the Arkansas River – we saw from a long way off but had an amazing turn of speed for 120 pounds of muscle on four short legs. Rose wasn’t going to hang around to make it’s acquaintance. In just three revolutions of her pedals she’d overtaken Jim the mechanic with a turn of speed that would have left Victoria Pendleton in her wake. Only down side was she swerved instinctively as the cur homed in on her haunches and out from the shoulder into the carriageway. Fortunately there was nothing coming. Apparently there’s worse to come in the next state where every other property has an unleashed yard dog drooling for a slice of bike pant. Not so Sweet Home Alabama.

Talking of swerving Randy and Monique were almost sideswiped by a car that ran a stop sign and careered from a side road on their right slap bang into their path. I was two lengths back and saw it all. Boy it was close. Randy’s bike handling skills kept him safe with a swerve that Beckham would have been proud of. Best not dwell on what could have been…

On the whole the drivers we share the road with have been polite and given us a wide berth. One or two have hurled abuse (I’ve no idea why) and a few others have passed by uncomfortably close.  We should, of course, be more worried about 40 tons of semi trailer hurtling by just three feet away but somehow the sight and sound of a dog closing in on you is more frightening. It’s a primeval fear that makes the hackles stand up on your neck. Just like the dogs.

Woof woof.

Ray is still very much in our minds. Especially when we’re riding alone and there’s plenty of time for quiet contemplation. Maybe it’s because we’re sensitised to it but this last few days there seems to be a cemetery every mile or so. I mentioned this to one of the other riders, Randy from Nebraska, and he told me that when the pioneers made their journey west from Mississippi to California one person was buried on average every 100 yards of the way. Carrying a literal dead weight wasn’t practical or, when the person had succumbed to disease, advisable so an impromptu service would be held there and then before the inexorable push westwards continued. Mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, grandparents…all left behind. For those early settlers the collective goal was more important than any individual. I guess to that extent nothing much has changed. We’ve cycled 1700 or so miles from Costa Mesa on the Pacific coast so our collective goal  – the Atlantic coast at Tybee Island in Georgia – is now only 1100 miles away.

Rest day tomorrow. Maybe a bit of work on the tan lines – brown from mid- thigh down and from upper arms down but white everywhere else. More blue skies forecast plus temperatures in the mid to high nineties Fahrenheit (35c).

One of our riders, Ray Rickard from Carson City, Nevada, died last night in his sleep. From a heart attack we suspect. Peacefully we hope. And after a day of happy cycling we know (because he told us).

What can I say about a man I met for the first time at the start line in California just a fortnight ago? My knowledge of him is necessarily scratchy, built up of breathy conversations on the open road and chats over dinner. A couple of things stand out. Firstly that he loved his wife. I know this because each day he would pause to take pictures of the wildflowers he saw along the way and every evening send them to her. He showed me one such image he was particularly proud of – blue sky, orange mesa and purple flower heads. We’d taken virtually the same picture.

Secondly that he was a retired psychologist with the prison service. We talked about this as we cleaned our bikes – me with a perfunctory wipe over with the proverbial oily rag, Ray with much more care and concern. He was a meticulous man who wanted his wheels to turn smoothly. I like to think the work he did with people who fell into the US criminal justice system will have had a similar effect –  smoothed their journey through life.

Life is like a bicycle. Carrying us not from Pacific to Atlantic coasts but on a fantastical journey from cradle to grave. We know that like all good rides it’s going to come to an end. Just not exactly when. Last night the big wheel stopped turning for Ray. We’ll miss him terribly. Already do. His bright orange/yellow cycling gear and upright but efficient stance made him stand out on the road ahead (and he often was ahead). We’re going keep riding to the end in his memory. Today we passed the half way point with heavy hearts.  Tomorrow we have our longest slog – 143 miles from Chickasha to Mcalester. He’ll be with us every inch of the way.