Are We In Heaven? No, We're in St. Francisville

February 8, 2016

We're up and gone before the sun can crawl from behind the trees that surround the church. Big winds are forecast for this afternoon and we want to get in as many miles as we can before they show up and our traveling party devolves into a sideshow of foul language and woe. There's also a hotel room waiting for us in St. Francisville about forty-five miles down the road and we aim to make the most of it.

An owl finishing up the night's work scuffles around the forest off to our left, while the cows in the fields beyond chew on grass where the thin layer of frost that surrounds each blade hasn't yet melted. We pedal over the fast-moving Amite River with thick clouds of white blowing back over our right shoulders after each exhale. And then, for no reason I can explain, we start to talk like we're from Minnesota. It goes on like this for the next half hour, talking to one another as if we were raised in Fergus Falls or Bemidji. We wonder if we should just talk that way to everyone we meet now, because it might give them a reason to keep a conversation going. Traveling on bikes with weird-looking bags attached to them hasn't seemed to do it lately.

Even without the coffee we still manage to pound out the sixteen miles of rolling hills to Clinton in less than two hours. For a couple of slow-ass break-takers it feels like a huge victory. Standing outside the gas station in the sun and angled away from the cold, growing breeze we look over the route ahead of us. To spend as little time as possible fighting the wind we decide to take the most direct route on a busier highway and hack five or six miles off the day.

Semi-trucks fly by, but the noise created by the wind shooting over our ears means we can't hear the them until the moment they draw even and start to roar past. Then a few seconds later the strong, sweet smell of the wood chips they're carrying blows over our heads in one jolting blast. The force of the wind continues to grow, and soon it sends clouds of dust, then armloads of leaves, and finally an inflatable child's pool flying across the highway in front of us. And with so much surface area created by our panniers and tent and sleeping bag, every time the wind gusts it feels like we've been entered into some strange roadside tractor pull event.

But the shoulder is smooth and clear and wider than the traffic lane, and in time the rolling hills start to level out. Before I know it I've dropped into the highway mindset, the one where there's enough space between the traffic and me that my mind wanders away from riding bikes and toward whatever random stuff is clanking around up there, like I wonder if I'll be able to get a really great steak in rural Texas and why are Australian Shepherds all insane and whatever happened to all of those riders I crossed paths with when I rode from Florida to Washington state five years ago. I look down at my cycling computer and realize that two miles have passed and I'm not sure where they went.

Outside of a few wind-blown treeless sections that try to break our souls and knee ligaments, our plan is a great success. We're rewarded when we reach the quiet back road to St. Francisville. It angles away from the wind and the tall trees that grow close on both sides help block the wind further and cast complex, dancing lines of shadow on the rough weathered pavement below. A handful of the trees haven't yet surrendered their leaves to the winter winds and the ends of their branches shine dull yellow and orange in the high mid-day sun.

The last push to the hotel sends winds at twenty-five miles per hour and gusting to thirty-five straight into our faces and up our noses. It's hard to keep things upright and moving forward. Our reward is the most posh room we'll stay in anywhere on this trip and a hotel that's located next door to the best grocery store we'll find anywhere on this trip. While Kristen showers I walk over to check it out. First I grab a loaf of artisan bread and fresh grapes. Then I find a container of all-natural pesto and let out an audible gasp. After that I spend ten minutes looking through the first collection of craft beers we've seen since we left Los Angeles before grabbing an outrageously expensive farmhouse IPA micro-brewed in Louisiana and a just as outrageously expensive Trappist ale imported from Belgium. It takes everything I have to hold back the happiness that's trying to burst out of me. I want to run through the aisles with my arms spread, alternating between grabbing delicious food off the shelves and spinning around out of pure joy.

Kristen and I tear into our bounty of goodness the moment I get back to the room.

"Are we in heaven?" she asks.

"No, we're in St. Francisville."

Then I let out a long, deep, guttural burp of satisfaction and overwhelmed digestion. "Let's Stay Together" by Al Green plays from the laptop at the edge of the bed that we've turned into our table.

Real life has called and so we spend the afternoon and evening answering. We respond to emails and write code and catch up on the hundred little tasks required of being an adult in America. But late in the day, in the middle of all this, that Budos Band song that has become the theme music to this trip starts to play from the laptop's speakers. All of a sudden we're jumping as high as we can on the mattress, sneaking out from around the corner like we're spies, and then to cap it off I run across the room toward the bed, leap in the air, and then elbow drop a pile of pillows like a professional wrestler.

We are thirty-three years old.

Today's ride: 40 miles (64 km)
Total: 912 miles (1,468 km)

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