Well, the night was difficult in Texas. I stopped by the police station to find out the local laws on camping, but I couldn't find an officer. I accidentally walked into a Texas jail. What a strange place. It reminded me of a post office. It seemed like such a regular place, a place where it is common to go. People - normal people, not freaks - were waiting to pick up friends or relatives. I got the distinct impression that one did not have to do a whole lot to end up there. My paranoia about Texas prison was enhanced by the fact that every second street corner seemed to hold some prison or prison related facility. When I finally found an officer to talk to, I found out the laws on camping are unforgiving in Texas; Sleeping in the wrong place can put you in prison for six years. I asked him if there was any place I could sleep without paying a fortune, and after much brow-furrowing, he decided that a little picnic area 8 miles out of town would probably fit the bill.
Picnic area my ass. It was a patch of grass, completely exposed, five feet off of the highway. It was really just a widening of the burm. I pitched my tent surrounded by garbage, and nervously climbed inside of it. I was woken up when an empty beer bottle bounced off the top of my tent, a few inches from my face. I unzipped my tent to peak and was greeted by the sight of rowdy texans, drinking and laughing obnoxiously. I zipped back up and hoped not to be seen. Eventually, they left and morning came - not by any means a pretty morning. I could tell immediately that rain was a strong possibility. I had no idea at the time that the part of the country I had woken up in is known as "Tornado Alley". Good choice Marc :) I started out gingerly as the rain started falling: lightly at first, but then I felt the tension in the air. "Here it comes!" I said to myself and the thunder storm that would last the whole day (and maybe more) began. Miserably, I continued down the road. I didn't make it far though: Something punctured my tire. In the pouring rain I went about the task of changing my tire, as each passing car or truck thought nothing of raising a tidal-wave that crashed over me, miserably loosening bolts and prying the rubber off the wheel. Someone came out of the house I was in front of and inquired if I was "alright". I think it was more of a "what are you doing here?". When he determined that I was legitimately fixing a tire, he returned to his house. He did not offer any sort of assistance. After changing my tire and cutting my hand in the process I got back on the road. If there was ever a day that made me feel like stopping, turning around and going home, it was this one. I stopped by a restaurant, had a bowl of hot soup, and asked them if there was a public library for the town of Mineral Wells, Texas, which I found myself in. There was, and I found it. I holed up in the library and read my book - "The World According to Garp", an excellent novel with a wit I appreciate. I looked at my map to determine how much Texas was left: Too much. "Screw this" I said to myself aloud, with no library patrons in the immediate vicinity to SHHH me (Though you KNOW they would have). I got a phone book from the librarian and looked up Greyhound. I called and found out that yes, there was a stop in mineral wells, and yes, they would take me to Flagstaff, Arizona. The texas library, of course, would not let me use one of their many unoccupied computers to use the internet and find out if there was anyone to meet in Flagstaff without apllying for a library card, paying fifteen dollars and waiting a week to recieve the card in the mail; I would have to take my chances in Flagstaff. The librarians had no sympathy for my predicament. After some cajoling, the librarian sugested I use the local three-dollar transportation service to bring me to the greyhound stop. After arguing with the service for awhile about whether they would let me bring the bike in their van, I gave up and left the library with uncertain directions, 45 minutes until the bus and no money, in a town I was unfamiliar with. Fortunately, I found a bank, got some money and made it to the greyhound stop with little time to spare. Of course, Greyhound does not and WILL not transport bicycles, the clerk informed me. "Let me out of TEXAS!" I howled at the poor Greyhound clerk. I had tried to be nice, I really had; It was time for EVIL. I make it a point not to be dishonest for personal gain; I had not, of course, previously been to Texas. Using my fairly well honed talents for manipulation and half-truths, I arrived at Flagstaff, bike and all, the next day. I tracked down a youth hostel in the town. I am now clean and dry and well fed. I do not, however, miss Texas.
Picnic area my ass. It was a patch of grass, completely exposed, five feet off of the highway. It was really just a widening of the burm. I pitched my tent surrounded by garbage, and nervously climbed inside of it. I was woken up when an empty beer bottle bounced off the top of my tent, a few inches from my face. I unzipped my tent to peak and was greeted by the sight of rowdy texans, drinking and laughing obnoxiously. I zipped back up and hoped not to be seen. Eventually, they left and morning came - not by any means a pretty morning. I could tell immediately that rain was a strong possibility. I had no idea at the time that the part of the country I had woken up in is known as "Tornado Alley". Good choice Marc :) I started out gingerly as the rain started falling: lightly at first, but then I felt the tension in the air. "Here it comes!" I said to myself and the thunder storm that would last the whole day (and maybe more) began. Miserably, I continued down the road. I didn't make it far though: Something punctured my tire. In the pouring rain I went about the task of changing my tire, as each passing car or truck thought nothing of raising a tidal-wave that crashed over me, miserably loosening bolts and prying the rubber off the wheel. Someone came out of the house I was in front of and inquired if I was "alright". I think it was more of a "what are you doing here?". When he determined that I was legitimately fixing a tire, he returned to his house. He did not offer any sort of assistance. After changing my tire and cutting my hand in the process I got back on the road. If there was ever a day that made me feel like stopping, turning around and going home, it was this one. I stopped by a restaurant, had a bowl of hot soup, and asked them if there was a public library for the town of Mineral Wells, Texas, which I found myself in. There was, and I found it. I holed up in the library and read my book - "The World According to Garp", an excellent novel with a wit I appreciate. I looked at my map to determine how much Texas was left: Too much. "Screw this" I said to myself aloud, with no library patrons in the immediate vicinity to SHHH me (Though you KNOW they would have). I got a phone book from the librarian and looked up Greyhound. I called and found out that yes, there was a stop in mineral wells, and yes, they would take me to Flagstaff, Arizona. The texas library, of course, would not let me use one of their many unoccupied computers to use the internet and find out if there was anyone to meet in Flagstaff without apllying for a library card, paying fifteen dollars and waiting a week to recieve the card in the mail; I would have to take my chances in Flagstaff. The librarians had no sympathy for my predicament. After some cajoling, the librarian sugested I use the local three-dollar transportation service to bring me to the greyhound stop. After arguing with the service for awhile about whether they would let me bring the bike in their van, I gave up and left the library with uncertain directions, 45 minutes until the bus and no money, in a town I was unfamiliar with. Fortunately, I found a bank, got some money and made it to the greyhound stop with little time to spare. Of course, Greyhound does not and WILL not transport bicycles, the clerk informed me. "Let me out of TEXAS!" I howled at the poor Greyhound clerk. I had tried to be nice, I really had; It was time for EVIL. I make it a point not to be dishonest for personal gain; I had not, of course, previously been to Texas. Using my fairly well honed talents for manipulation and half-truths, I arrived at Flagstaff, bike and all, the next day. I tracked down a youth hostel in the town. I am now clean and dry and well fed. I do not, however, miss Texas.
