The Texas Way

They walk into the BJ Country Store as Wes and I have sat down and begun eating our sandwiches. It's clear we're from out of town and don't blend in with the standard Benjamin, Texas scenery. Our bicycles out front are a rare sight. Our desire to ride them across the country is even more confusing to these people than the bikes themselves. We're exhausted and huddling over the same phone, discussing where we should camp tonight. The animated owner smokes cigarettes in the corner of the store. 

As they walk past the only table, which we now sit at, they laugh and smile at one another. Five Latinos, stopping by the store to get some food to finish up their day at work. Assuming we don't understand Spanish, they make a few comments as they move around the store. Two gringos, bleach pale skin, lost and hopeless. They don't realize I understand some conversational Spanish and surely don't expect Wes to be fluent. 

"They're probably gay." said in Spanish, with a smile, and met with laughs from the others. 

Minutes go by, the guys continue their conversation, and arrive at the checkout stand. 

"You probably didn't know I was Mexican huh?" the girl at the register asks us. One of the strangest questions I've ever been asked. It's a question which can only be resolved by a strange answer. 

But yes, it was very apparent in her accent and appearance. Wes explains this to her in Spanish. Although the room never silences, it reaches an obvious lockout of any further casual conversation. "You speak Spanish?" asks the thinnest, yet obvious ringleader, of the group of young guys. He creates most of the laughs for the group and is intuitive to everything around him while doing so. Wes and them carry on a lofty conversation. I figured Spanish-speaking gringos would be fairly common in West Texas, but that doesn't seem to be the case. 

Tomas steps out of his big, white Ford F-350 and walks into the store, joining the beginning of the conversation. He's clearly a hard working man, but has done well doing so. Hardy work boots cover his feet, tops covered by a dirty, but nice pair of Levi's. Long sleeve button-up, white, tucked under a brass belt buckle. His face is scruffy and tough, yet friendly. It's all topped by a worn, but genuine western hat. Each of the young guys work with him, pouring concrete foundations in the surrounding area. Once he steps into the conversation, it predominantly carries on between him and Wes. He asks me if I speak Spanish and I tell him only a little. The closest thing to simply saying no, while still taking a little credit for my limited vocabulary. I lock up every time somebody attempts to speak with me, while these are the very moments I should be taking advantage of. Tomas recognizes this and lets me be, focusing his questions towards Wes. 

Twenty minutes go by as they discuss everything from South America, to pouring concrete, to our route ahead. Our trip is so inconceivable to him, yet he supports it. He suggests places for us to camp on our route ahead. Telling us what to shoot for and likewise avoid. He pays for the group's sandwiches and begins to express his farewell to us. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a wad of bills. With one hand, he flicks one off the top and throws it on our table. It's a hundred dollar bill. 

"For the road." he says simply, as he turns for the door. 

We cannot take Tomas' money. This is obvious to both of us and Wes stands to hand it back to him. Tomas tries to refuse, but is eventually convinced to take it back once we nearly beg him to do so. He says he wants to help with our food and warmth, but we assure him we'll be alright with what we have. 

He walked into the store, and therefore our lives, only twenty minutes before. Within that time, he now wants to give us, what is possibly, a full day's wage in the area, without anything in return. Simply to contribute to something he thinks is neat. Helping two strangers, whom he knows very little about. As he leaves, he does so with his money, but his desire to help stays with us. His inherent desire to do something good for a stranger offers a feeling more meaningful than the bill itself. We pedal away from the store, not having many words for the other, simply shaking our heads in disbelief. One of those "did that really just happen?" moments. 

Our ride to Lubbock is cold, gorgeous and windy. Terrain levels out, providing vast views of agriculture. Oil derricks continue to speckle the landscape, but nearly all the land is utilized for agriculture. Cotton fields pick back up, bringing along the fluffy white mounds, which spread out across the shoulders. Sunsets take a considerable amount of time to consume the sun. Ducking out of sight, it continues to light the sky for the following twenty minutes. Marbles of yellow and pink exist with the sun in view, transitioning to a dark purple after it drops behind the horizon. Nights reach sub-freezing temps and we aren't fully prepared. Shivering takes the place of sleep one night and we vow to be more prepared once we leave  Lubbock. The wind uses our faces as punching bags for two days straight as we approach the city. It's demoralizing, yet feels no remorse. Slowing pdown at night, it comes back each morning with a malevolent grin. Fueled by Texas' largest brisket sandwich and the thought of a Warmshowers host ahead, we duck our heads, curse the wind gusts and take turns drafting. 

Arriving later than planned, Pete has left the garage open and light on for us. We pull into his garage, exhausted from a day of battling wind, and look forward to some basic conversation. He shows us his bikes, hanging from the wall by the front tires. While he hasn't tried out bicycle touring, he recently got into biking in order to help reach his fitness goals. He informs us their used to be much more of him and plans to get rid of even more. With most of my reason for riding a bike being based in the excitement of it, I often overlook the health benefits of it. I enjoy seeing it from the other perspective. His parents live a few miles away and he points out there's no reason to drive his truck there if he can produce some smiles while also supporting his health goals on a bike. He's right. 

Pete and his family are all warm and loving people. Him, his wife Laurie, and their two daughters, Sophie and Sarah, create quite the lively household. Sophie is a fireball, full of energy and excitement. She'll ramble out seven full ideas without breathing or allowing input from anybody, all while constantly jumping up and down in her pink tutu. Sarah is more reserved, but has greatly overcome her shyness from years passed. She talks quietly and softly, making eye contact and then breaking it to find something which doesn't stare back. When her younger sister interrupts, Sarah simply holds her thought, regardless of how long Sophie needs, then pickups up right where she left off. Laurie seems to hold everybody together. The girls are sure to listen to whatever their father tells them, but Laurie seems to handle all the needs of the girls with ease. 

We wash up, then sit around a table, eating chips and local salsas, while Pete and Laurie produce a feast. We're nearing the end of Texas, yet Wes and I still haven't had any sort of steak. I thought it would be raining steak in these parts of the country. Plenty of Texas BBQ, with its jalapeños, onions and sometimes pickles, but no steaks. Now, we sit in the Haney home as they prepare exactly what we had been hoping for. Additionally, Pete claims to only brag or take excessive pride in one thing, which is his stuffed jalapeños. I won't share the specifics of his recipe, but it essentially comes down to milk-soaked jalapeños, stuffed with perfection, wrapped in bacon, and grilled to a slight crisp. I could eat twenty of these and still have room for steak. 

Pete fosters a philosophical mind. Sitting at the head of the table, wearing a shirt depicting Darwin's face, he doesn't bring up deep or controversial topics. He doesn't ask what the meaning of life is, nor will he bore you with a drawn out idea. He wants to talk about what truly matters and effects us. Societal pressures and responsibilities, education, human intentions and the "Texas way". He always tries to find a connection between something previously talked about and the new idea which has just been brought up. 

"So these guys are blasting by you in their big trucks and hugging the shoulder, but you're the ones putting everything on the line and in the hands of others. Who has the power there?"

He throws these at us constantly. Some of them have obvious answers, but he wants us to find the answer regardless. He values thought and a conscious presence. Studying English in college, he also spent a great deal of time involved in the theatre department. Both are evident when he not only speaks well, but also animates it to keep one interested. 

Pete now owns the family business, SPEC Refrigeration, which maintains both restaurant and large-scale refrigeration systems. His father created the business decades ago and found interest in refrigeration in an  intriguing way. He served in the Korean War, on an aircraft carrier, maintaining jet fighters. Although the Germans had jets towards the end of World War II, the Korean War was the first war in which America was utilizing jet fighters. These primitive jets required computers to run their various systems, but these weren't the advanced circuit board computers we now have. This was back when computers were operated by creating vacuums in various glass tubes and bulbs. It worked and did what it needed to do, but was highly inefficient and created a lot of heat. With space being very limited in the design of a fighter jet, the heat would build up in the first few minutes of flight, causing failures. To combat this issue, each jet was outfitted with a refrigeration system, to cool the components. The computer compartments were completely sealed, with the heat being removed through the same refrigeration concept we use now. His father never maintained these systems directly, but worked in their proximity enough to understand their workings and turned it into a career when he finished his time in the service. 

As we load our clean clothes onto our bikes the next day, Pete hands each of us a one gallon bag, loaded with snacks. Trail mix, Clif and protein bars, nuts, gum, Slim Jims, etc. On top, he hands us each a family size Twizzlers bag and blue Symphony bar. Enough snacking to last us through a week of gluttony. We try to justify it with the activity we do everyday, but intake and output never really balance. 

"My wife likes doing this stuff. Care packages and such." he says with a casual shrug. 

As we begin to ride away, Laurie pulls up to the house and we thank her for the hospitality and packages. 

"That was all Pete's idea. I went to the store and bought it, but he made the list and such." she says with a smile, towards us, then him. 

We ride away feeling full. Another Warmshowers experience has left us more satisfied than all the sights in the days leading up to it. Before we venture into the nothingness leading to Roswell, there's one thing we need to address. Wes' rack is still held on with zip ties and threatening to stall out the trip at any moment. The sun slides closer to the horizon, pushing the pre-sunset golden glow on the grass fields as we push out of the Lubbock developments. Roads present more and more potholes as we ride by rows of industrial buildings made of sheet metal. Body shops, sandblasters, welders, canvas wholesalers, and locksmiths. Similar to the industrial rows I would see when I joined my father on his work errands. Last in the line is a machine shop, which Wes has contacted on the phone. 

Chris is a tall, blonde, handsome man, wearing a plaid shirt and worn pair of leather boots. Both his arms are tatted up, with various religious references and symbols. We present the problem and he sets to work, occasionally asking for our input. He tells us about his Christian rock band and the experiences they had while touring. "God provides" is the response he gives us when we tell him about the various issues we've encountered. I want to tell him that, while he's fixing Wes' rack, he's our god at the moment. That I'm not sure about any central god, but that anybody can provide, in great amounts, in different ways and methods. Chris is providing for us right now and we're incredibly grateful. Not only does he fix the rack, but he reinforces it with a steel loop going over the front wheel. We've had this idea for months, but never thought it to be possible on this trip. Chris says "no problem" and within twenty minutes, there's a steel rod cut, bent, and fastened onto the rack. There's now nearly zero wiggle in Wes' front rack. We ride away as he tries to get it to shake like it did before. Even with effort, it won't. Some repairs require an 5mm allen wrench and a rain day, while others require 3,000 miles and a savior.

We find ourselves riding in darkness. Up until this point, we've only done so a few times and usually only to complete the last miles of a ride. Tonight, we start the ride at night. It's calm, lacking the face full of wind we've become accustomed too. The gusts lose strength in the evening and allow for a less resistant route. The sky seems to open up and, although we can't see the immediate and intricate details around us, it's easier to see the big picture at times. Dark sky, flecked with white dots, eventually gives way to the horizon line. We see in contrasts rather than colors. Headlights break the horizon and I begin to count seconds until the car reaches us. Testing how far the next mounding peak is. Fifty seconds; roughly a mile.   

We utilize the wind pushing at our backs and stay put when a strong headwind is pummeling towards us. Our method of moving at night works fairly well, but some days it's rough even at night. We sit in parks for entire days, waiting out wind and sand storms. 

Plains, Texas becomes our home for two days. We set up camp in a central gazebo at the only park within fifty miles. This is clearly the cruising strip for people in this town. The area were people go to hang out and therefore people also continually drive by to see who is there. Reminds me of the city beach in Sandpoint. Cars drive by every fifteen minutes, often times making two circles around and through the park. One vehicle, the red truck, circles through at least twenty times on the second evening. 

The dust storm has forced us to stay put, but we're in a great place to relax. I run up and down the hills, almost tripping on a root while running at full tilt. The park has my favorite playground toy, the spinning thingy. I spin until it hurts my head, then play the game of trying to walk across the spinning thingy. I narrowly miss trees after exiting and battle a headache for the following minutes. Worth every bit of it. Storm siren tests go off every day at noon, which seems a bit redundant. They sound like doomsday horns. What if a tornado hits at 11:45 am one day and everybody assumes it's the test? Peanuts are piled at the base of every tree in the park. Squirrel distractions? I have no idea. Lady at the gas station tells me it's impossible to ride a bike out of this town, then tells me to try a pink hot dog. I try the dog, am highly upset with its texture, then promise the lady I'll be riding my bike out of town this evening. She shakes her head. 

Evening rolls in and we roll out. Heading for the New Mexico border. Exiting Texas, the longest and straightest expanse of our trip. We had reservations about entering Texas the whole time. I assumed it would be filled with rough Texans, ready to give us the boot from nothing more than a wrong glance. Maybe I've seen too many gunslingin' western movies. We were shown only welcoming warmth in Texas. The most sincere and caring interactions took place within its borders. People within it kept telling us about the "Texas way" of things and they're right. Texans have a very unique way of treating others and I'm going to miss it.