Ever since my original little difference between Ireland and America of tennis balls, and its many follow-up posts direct from the streets of Kansas City, people have asked me for the latest update from Ireland.

This is it.

It’s 10 months since I returned to Ireland, and bearing in mind that in the same time period in Kansas City I would have found comfortably well over 200 tennis balls, how many do you think I’ve found on the streets of Ireland in that time?

Yep, a big nada.

Despite the visits from Celtic Tigers 1 and 2, people in Ireland would appear to be just not as throwaway with their luminous fuzzy spherical wealth as people in America.

I did actually find two, but they were both ripped almost in half, thereby failing the ball test. And I saw one on the road in Kilbeggan as I was a passenger in a car whizzing by at 97km per hour, but that failed the pickupability test to see if it wasn’t ripped in two.

Brother the Younger found one whilst out cycling one day, and gifted it to Dog-dog who was beside herself with the emotion of been given something she used to be given all the time. But obviously that doesn’t count either, because he is not me and the Kansas City collection was put together by myself with the aid of just the dog.

Dog-dog herself has found a ball here in Dublin, and a perfectly intact one, but it too doesn’t count as it’s not a tennis ball. Dog-dog is assmiliating; she brought home a sliotar.

Unknown to the dog I took one from the Kansas City collection for a swim in the Irish Sea recently - I have big pockets in my big swimming shorts (because I’m a big swimming shorts sort of guy) - and the plan was to walk out of the sea, just like Daniel Craig, or Ursula Andress, whoever, and hand my waiting dog a tennis ball I would have pretended to have found in the sea. And the dog then would have been overcome with nostalgia and happiness.

But a big wave came and pushed that ball right out of my pocket and on its way to Wales.

Technically speaking my Irish collection of tennis balls is therefore a negative number.

So, as far as I can tell, tennis balls still stand as a little, but definite, difference between our great nations.

Other Little Differences Between Ireland and America:
   • Turkeyed Out
   • End Times
   • Pharmaceuticals
   • Hosting Tourists

Read: Balls in Ireland »

New Mexico: Changing Landscapes

Part 61 of the Cycle-Across-America series. (Read from the start in Boston or see the full index)

It’s morning time and before setting off I’m documenting the previous day, my first full day in New Mexico.

Excerpted from my handwritten journal:

October 24th, 7:30am

Today is the anniversary in the Hebraic calendar of Yitshak Rabin’s assassination. The O.J. Simpson Civil Trial has got going and the coverage already is massive.

Far more interesting in Television Land was the Yankees comeback last night in Atlanta in game 4 of the World Series. From 6 - 0 down they won in extra innings 8 - 6 tying the series 2 - 2.

Yesterday’s 67 miles was easier than the 37 of the day before. The wind. Take it away and the day does indeed become idyllic.

West for 12 miles and south-west for 14. It was flat. Very. To the north is the Llano Estacado and then I went across the Caprock. There were some cattle but mostly it was oil fields. There was a hard strong yellow soil from which clumps of pale yellow grass and cacti grew.

The cacti had limbs that grew almost at right angles giving each cactus bush a maze like appearance. They were only a few feet high with a blooming yellow flower. Thousands of them. In my two foot shoulder I stopped a few times to photograph them but it wouldn’t work so I didn’t. So far New Mexico, like Kansas and Texas, is too big for a camera - even in Panorama.

I’m currently watching live the trial of a talk show guest accused of killing another talk show (The Jenny Jones Show) guest 3 days after taping the show. In the show in question the victim revealed himself as the secret gay admirer of the accused. Meanwhile over on “Sally” a woman talks over the caption “I killed my husband and hid his body”.

Approaching Maljamar I dropped down dramatically. This was the Mescalero Ridge. From the top I was looking down on a grassy desert with nothing visible for 30 miles. Even Maljamar was just a short stretch of road with a few buildings and space to park trucks.

There was a cafe where I had a burger and fries. These chips were home-made - hand cut just like Mam’s chips. There was nothing to see so after an hour surrounded by truckers in baseball caps who all knew each other, it was time to move on.

On this flat level the vegetation was different. A sandier soil than above the Ridge, with no Cacti whatsoever. I was now regretting not taking the photo for documentation purposes. There was bushes and grass, and from ground eye level it looked less barren than from the top. Looking back I could still see the Mescalero Ridge for miles from North to South.

[The rest of this day is continued below the fold]

Read: Cycling Across America #61 »

Into New Mexico

Part 60 of the Cycle-Across-America series. (Read from the start in Boston or see the full index)

The storm that had stopped me by ice-raining into my face had dropped baseball-sized hail 100 miles in one direction, and in the other direction, dumped a load of snow. When it reached Kansas City it dropped so much snow on trees that had yet to lose their leaves that they came down under the weight.

Excerpted from my handwritten journal:

October 22nd

Shortly before noon I left the town of Denver City and the largest Carbon Dioxide plant in the world. Maybe that was the horrible smell.

At the Post Office I had armed myself with stamps and explained my presence. This detour brought me finally over the 4,000 mile mark. I forgot to cheer. I think it was because I was looking at the flags in the wind.

Burger and fries for breakfast at yet another Dairy Queen. For the first time when it wasn’t on the menu I asked for a hot tea. It was so cold outside.

There was no snow on the ground. The advisory was still in operation for the county until 2:00am when I went to sleep, but no signs of it having fallen now under a cloudless blue sky.

5 minutes later the friendly waitress apologised. There was no hot tea, would I like a hot chocolate? What a great idea. Had she suggested coffee as an alternative I wouldn’t've spoken to her ever again.

As ever in Texas everyone wore cowboy hats. They were all in their 60s and male, and they all talked and joked across tables. Everybody knew everybody else.

With the strong west wind I knew there was no time to look at the museum so with 2 bottles of ice tea I left the town of Denver City and its population of 5,145 people behind.

[The rest of this day is continued below the fold]

Read: Cycling Across America #60 »

Storm

Part 59 of the Cycle-Across-America series. (Read from the start in Boston or see the full index)

Having cycled south right through the Panhandle of Texas, I’m now turning west and heading into New Mexico, my 22nd State on the trip. At least, that’s the plan.

Monday 21st October

Snow Advisory, Yoakum County. Never mind the 5-day forecast, I don’t trust those weather people much when it comes to the 24-hour affair.

It had never happened before. My arms, from shoulders right down to my fingertips, numb.

It occurred to me my arms were like Action Man’s with a rubber grip degenerating into a plastic one - the earlier model of Action Man. It hampered my waving. Not too many people were, in heavy rain, but I see them staring at me a lot. All I could manage was to raise my gripping hand slightly by bending my elbow a bit.

When I tried to move my arms around a bit to bring them back to life I simply got pins and needles and got giggly. With an icy rain beating into my face helped by an 18mph wind from the north, I was worried about falling off the bicycle so was relieved to see the space burger water tower of Denver City.

[The rest of this day is continued below the fold]

Read: Cycling Across America #59 »

Pain in West Texas

Part 58 of the Cycle-Across-America series. (Read from the start in Boston or see the full index)

This was one of those rare days where I journaled it both on audio tape and in handwritten notes. Regular readers will know the tape transcripts are inaccessible at the moment, so once again I’ll go with brief notes from memory and below the fold revert to the handwritten journal which was more reflective.

After several days resting in Lubbock I felt like I’d had a good look at the place, so on the bike I decided to skirt around it.

I was dropped back at that Texaco garage on the Idalou Highway that comes in to Lubbock from the northeast, so I decided to bypass town to the east and aimed for a turn west of a small town called Posey, about 12 miles away and far enough south that I could then head west without going through the built up areas.

Brownfield was my ultimate destination for the day, about a further 50 miles on and chosen because it was close enough to New Mexico that it would be my last stop in Texas.

I was liking the town names in West Texas. Very no nonsense stuff like Plainview and Brownfield, and now I was about to go through Ropesville and Meadow, with Shallow Water and Levelland to the north, New Home a few miles to the east, and Sundown to the west, naturally.

It was a day of pain. The muscles in my left leg went and I could no longer cycle. I took my left foot out of the toe straps and just let it hang, trying awkwardly to propel the bicycle with just my right leg, pushing down on the pedal and then pulling up on the strap. I’d been here before, where I was like a one-legged frog on a bicycle.

It was discouraging given that this was my first day back cycling after a few days’ rest.

Over the previous few days of television I had been bombarded with pharmaceutical ads, and I recalled seeing one ad with 2 smiling women taking something for pains they got while cycling. So after a few miles of limping jerkily along by way one dead hanging leg and one sore pedalling one, I turned east to Posey - the wrong way - so I could get to a shop and go looking for drugs.

Barely able to walk I was shocked that after a time, about an hour, whether through rest or through the drugs, I was able to cycle again. It was sore, but I could go on. 50 miles to Brownfield.

[More details from this day constitute the rest of this entry and they’re below the fold]

Read: Cycling Across America #58 »