Cycling Across America #53
Panhandles
Part 53 of the Cycle-Across-America series. (Read from the start in Boston or see the full index)
The next section of the journal is taped and transcribed but as both tape and transcript are inaccessible in storage here is a brief outline of that day from memory, and from excerpts of the journal that was handwritten, a more detailed account of the following day.
Liberal is only a couple of miles from the state line with Oklahoma. Perryton in the north of the Texas panhandle was my destination for the day, only about 50 miles away if you go straight there south on US 83. But I wasn’t going straight.
To avoid the danger of the traffic I was going back on myself for one of the very few times on the whole trip, though I suppose technically the earlier section from eastern Oklahoma all the way up to Iowa were back on myself.
The Oklahoma panhandle, being the extreme west of the state, is very different to the parts of Oklahoma I cycled through over a month earlier. The north east had reminded me of home, with its green fields, trees and bushes. The panhandle being the extreme west, however, was the most spectacular sight of the entire trip to date.
I passed a stone monumental marker giving a brief non-Native American history of the Oklahoma Panhandle. The marker was a map to the region, and before it was appended to Oklahoma Territory the panhandle was unassigned, not part of Texas, or Mexico, or Colorado, or Kansas. It was known as “Mo Man’s Land”.
It was on the stretch going back on myself that I had the view. South and to the west of me I could see clearly for 50 miles or more. A huge expanse of barren battered grasslands. I couldn’t see any houses. It was magnificent, and as I cycled east putting more of it in my way for whenever I turned the bike the right way around, I couldn’t stop staring at its enormous beauty and thinking how scared of it I should be. It was where I was going.
There are times when cycling in empty landscapes that an encounter with a woman is the most romantic encounter one could imagine, and you do a lot of imagining when you’re cycling all day by yourself. And more when you’re being hit by pure sun and winds all day in the High Plains.
The exchange was brief but seeing her again 10 miles later on a farm road, the dust cloud following her wagon, cemented our relationship. Her house was 200 yards away from me but when she stepped onto her porch she turned and we both waved as old friends.
Eventually I rejoined Highway 83 again, the main road to Perryton, at a town just a few miles north of the state line with texas. I say town but it seemed to be a glorified crossroads with just a large garage off one corner. (Have a look yourself). Everybody was refuelling for their long-distance trips, the panhandle being a place people, apart from myself and the woman I was now in love with, just drove through at high speed.
Then I refuelled with cheap stodge and drinks, took a deep breath, and joined the fast and heavy traffic for the final 15 miles to Perryton, Texas.
[An account of the next day in Texas constitutes the rest of this entry and it’s below the fold]
-Where are you from ?
-Ireland.
-How far away is that ?
-About 7,000 miles the way I came.
-Wow! Did ya hear that? This guy travelled seven hundred miles on his bicycle.Despite the downgrading of 3,600 miles to 700 I accepted the awe granted by the staff of McDonald’s on Main Street, Perryton, Texas.
As I was nearing finishing my fries two different tables of peoples approached me to ask where I was from and where I was going etc. One woman told me all about her and her husband’s visit to Dublin, their stay in the Shelbourne, the Ardagh Chalice, and she showed me the Claddagh ring she was wearing. They had had the most wonderful time there and it seems I, through my Irishness, was in some way responsible.
A truck driver showed me a route to Borger that had a good shoulder all the way. It was the route I had chosen to follow. His mother then wished me luck and said good-bye in a way that started a laying of hands ceremony on me. I was very definitely touched - and my chips were now cold.
Rather than go back across the tracks to the turn off I guessed at a cut through route to join up with Highway 15. At a school I checked with a chap picking up litter. I was a couple of hundred yards away - I’d saved a mile. Like all other Latinos I’ve so far met, he was overtly encouraging from only minimal contact with me.
The next couple of hours I was doing sums. What time could I arrive in Borger at - best case 8pm with 1 hour cycling in darkness, worst case 11pm - simply ridiculous. Stennit was 11 miles nearer but would there be any lodging there? And anyway that could still mean cycling tin the dark.
It’s the wind. 15 to 25mph from the south. As I progressed the road turned more and more directly into the wind and I slowed right down. It was time to take the hit and call it quits. If there was lodging available at Spearman around the 30 mile mark, I would finish there and think of a new plan for tomorrow.
Had I been up and out at a reasonable hour, Stennit a further 30 miles again probably would’ve been possible. It’s hard to say, and it’s not much fun fighting into a gusty wind of around 20mph.
There was a railroad track with no train. I haven’t seen one for days - maybe since Nebraska. The land was perfectly flat. I could see as far as my eyes would allow. The fields were varied. Milo, corn taken in, winter wheat, grass, and none of it protected you from that wind. I kept telling myself to be grateful - it could be raining or worse. Instead it was 80 degrees Fahrenheit with no clouds.
There was a busyness about the Panhandle despite the lack of population. The fields were being worked, ammonia was being towed, grain bins were making noise, large trucks were turning off the highway into farmland. Most vehicles waved to me, and in an enthusiastic manner. At different points on the horizon there was smoke rising.
I was pleased to see the grain storage elevators again. The one in Perryton was right at the end of Main Street - just across the tracks. The next one was at Farnsworth, about 12 miles away, and the next one at Waca - a further 5 down the road, before the one here at Spearman.
I could always see the next one from the current village/town. They were usually in off the edge of the road by about 30 feet and whenever I passed one the winds were going the complete opposite direction having bounced off them. Very strange.
No historical markers today or towns that housed famous people. Unlike yesterday. In the Oklahoma panhandle in Texas County, it proclaimed it as the Saddle Bronco Champion of the World with Robert and Billy Eltbauer having won the title between them for the years 1990, ‘91 and ‘92.
Cycling into Perryton there’s a small sign with somebody’s name on it and it proclaims Perryton as the home of the 1974 Rookie of the Year in the American League - baseball. Like yesterday I passed a plaque explaining the origin of the county I’m in - Hansford County. Again it’s named after another pioneering man who became very involved in the constitutional status of Texas.
Population of 3,100 here in Spearman, so I knew there’d be a motel. Another give-away sign was one of those large water towers like shiny white burgers from space parked on their four legs.
The main street was a delight of western buildings including one with a historical marker built in 1920 or so. It was covered in sheet metal made to look like bricks and its side was recently renovated to look like the original painted advert (for coffee and tea).
On my way to the motel (I’d asked in town) I spotted a Caboose. It was from the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe railroad. Also outside this station masters house museum was an Indian carved from a dead elm tree by a chain saw artist. The museum is hoping to get somebody to turn the other tree outside into a cowboy. I was the first visitor in two weeks. It never gets busy. The only people from out of town are usually brought there by townspeople they’re visiting.
I spent an hour or two looking at old photographs of the town and its people, old newspaper cuttings, flags that’ve flown over Texas, military paraphernalia dug up by a local enthusiast, an Indian hearth discovered when they were building a lake, a lot of quilts, including friendship quilts, kitchen implements, bedrooms, maps paintings, and a lot of very assorted stuff related to the station master and related to anything that was the best part of a hundred years old.
There was examples of old floor designs they used to do on the wood. Next door was the one-roomed school (holds 7 students) which was moved from the Paulo Druro Creek/Lake area a few miles north. I asked if anyone in the town might have gone to the school - since it was only built in 1936 and I was told a couple of names who did. The teacher was still alive and now in Amarillo. Also a wagon barn with a wagon and Zulu Lodge - a rather dubious copy of the first residence in the panhandle built by two English brothers from Hull.
It’s 3 in the morning so I’m in trouble with lack of sleep again. It’s just so hard to sleep with all these mosquito bites. Spoke to friends on the phone and that lifted the spirit somewhat dulled by big winds and a very sore bum.
Winds forecast again tomorrow so that means Lubbock is now Tuesday. And high 80s (degrees Fahrenheit) will keep my bum sore.
Read the Next Entry (#54) in My Bicycle Trip Across America
Read more from my Cycle Across America
Eolaí gan Fhéile:
I’ve never heard those more perfectly described!
Ah, my bum query is answered!
My husband reckons that Europeans don’t have the tolerance Americans have for mozzies. His bites are small and hard and don’t itch much. My bites are like fried eggs and I tear my skin with the unbearable itch. DEET, it’s the only thing. And they say not to wear perfume or hairspray but I don’t imagine you were wearing any.
Ms Britches - Given my tendency to repeat myself I expect you’ll hear that description again. White or silver, they were always burgers from space to me.
Ms ProblemChildBride - There’ll be more on my bum. Much more, sadly to say. But as for DEET - No! The problem is that it works, so it’s for philosophical reasons I say DEET is not the way to go when you’re very attractive to the little feckers. See my mozzie experiment of the last 2 years.
Oh my. No, you don’t want bites there. I hadn’t realised their proboscises were long enough to get through trousers and undies! Having said that, i would get them all round my waist where the elastic of my shorts were, so the must have got through elastic. I suppose they are like the Exxon of biting insects when they’re drilling for blood, nothing gets in their way.