James and I (there is still so much novelty in this 'we' thing) have taken to telling folks that 'we' have been riding since seattle (or spokane, or whatever) and that 'we' are really excited to be so close to new orleans, where 'we' are going to stay for a while. Which means I get to blame him for all the less proud moments of 'our' trip. And I sort of get to rewrite history, making me feel somehow better about what it was like for 'us' in west texas. Anyway.
We rode a little further today, and got up a little earlier. But for me, it feels like party time so I'm back to 40 mile days, and the going gets tough, find a cinnamon roll latitude.
When we made it to burton, we knittled our bikes up to the victorian inn, but it was booked. We talked to a lady on the phone who said we could ride 8 miles in the wrong direction to stay in her bunkhouse, but I hated that idea. So we went to the white horse tavern for beers and to find out what next. What next was tommy, who brought us back to his burton family christmas, told us bow hunting stories, fed us, showed us silver jewelry he'd made, insisted we stay tomorrow to dress a hog and light the bbq... that kinda thing. We're staying in a room with a stuffed brown bear, saharan ekg wallpaper, green couch. We graduated from tent campers to cousins in an evening.
Tommy has at least 15 old schwinn 3 speeds and runs an informal bike club out of his house. He says he'll let me help dress a deer tomorrow, or wild hog. He builds his own bows, he's built his house from the ground up, while living in it, he doctors a doctor by teaching him to make jewelry in exchage for classical piano lessons.
With such a supreme host, do we dare move on?
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