Westward Ho!

The last two days run together in my mind until they are virtually indistinguishable from each other- a steady accumulation of miles punctuated by breaks for sleep, food, and accentuated by periods of sheer unadulterated terror.

First, I suppose, I should explain the terror. 61 took me around Baton Rouge and swung west to cross the Mississippi River. Airline Highway does not have bike lanes, but it at least has plenty of space for bikers to ride a relatively safe distance from the numerous 18-wheelers which frequent the road. Well, until the Huey P. Long Bridge, that is. This was my only way across the Mississippi, but I paused and stared, incredulous, before I attempted it. Note the absolute lack of anything resembling a bike lane. Traffic was moving at 45-55 mph, and it continued to do so as I climbed the bridge. People apparently could not be bothered to change lanes, so traffic whizzed by within two feet of my left hand. Halfway up the bridge, a black SUV pulled up beside me, and an undercover cop flashed his badge and yelled at me that it was illegal to cross the bridge without an escort. There were no signs stating as such on the approach so I told him that, all the while wondering what he was trying to get across by telling me this. I suppose I looked like I was having so much fun that I was liable to turn right around on the other side and make another pass at the whole thing. Regardless, as soon as he finished conveying this completely worthless tidbit of information the cop sped off and left me to my fate. He probably didn't want the liability of being anywhere around me on that deathtrap bridge.

I'd like to say that I got a nice view of the Mississippi as I made my first non-air crossing ever, but I was quite preoccupied by my state of sheer terror. The drone of every approaching vehicle sounded like oncoming doom as I spun furiously, first to climb the bridge, then to get off of it as fast as humanly possible. An eternity later when I finally sprinted off the bridge and pulled into the first parking lot I literally reeked of fear and the adrenalin coursing through my veins made it impossible to stand still. There is no terror quite like the utter powerlessness of being a bicycle on a bridge with nowhere to go and semis all around you, and the only time I will ever ride that bridge again is in my nightmares.

This bridge will haunt my dreams

The other side of the river went from urban industrial to almost immediate rural agricultural, and I rode on unimpeded except for one pinch flat from the trash on the shoulder of the road. I find it ironic that Louisiana has more "don't litter" signs than anywhere else I have ever seen and has fines of up to $3000 dollars for littering, yet they still have the trashiest roads I have yet ridden.

Approximately 55 miles into my day I rode up to the Morganza spillway, a sense of deja vu and dread creeping up on me as I noted its narrowness and apparent length. I parked my bike on the side of the road and walked up to peer along its length and take this picture. I then marched down to the base of the causeway and started calling people in an attempt to figure out just how screwed I was. Thankfully my friend Matt Keen happened to be sitting in front of a computer and was able to ascertain using google maps that the causeway was, in fact, very long and I was, in fact, very screwed.

nope nope nope

So, I set up my hammock in the grass at the base of the causeway, set my alarm for 3 AM, and resolved to attempt my crossing at the time of minimum traffic. Around dark the inevitable horde of mosquitoes descended and I lasted until 11 PM before, cursing and swatting, I packed up my gear and hightailed it onto the bridge. A mere four miles later I was done, but I was awake so why not ride a little further? Three hours, four towns one terrible meal at Rally's and 35 miles later I was completely spent and pulled off onto a brush-covered section of riverbank to make camp.

The next morning, my dad was scheduled to ride his motorcycle over and meet me, so we met up for lunch in a small town called Basile before he headed on to the next town to find us a hotel for the night. Did I mention that my dad is a pretty cool dude? :)

The best place to get lunch in Basile

I saw some things as I rode on towards our hotel in Kinder.

I know its not a cuddly crab Cat, but isn't he cute anyway?

I have no idea what this is, but it looks like the Emerald City from Oz

Aaaanad that's about it. 41.5 miles ridden, delicious dinner at a local Cajun place with my dad followed by margaritas at a mexican place and a good night's sleep at the local budget motel. I'm currently eating leftover red beans and rice and gumbo for breakfast and looking forward to possibly (but only possibly) hitting Texas today.