A Long Day

I was jarred by my reflection in the motel mirror.  It was just barely me.  I was used to resembling what I was, a woman fading, making up for it with extreme acts of foolishness.  This person looked tired and rough, but, if I may say it, capable.

I knew it would be a long, hard day, and to increase my chance of making those ninety miles from Franklinton to St. Francisville, Louisiana, I started an hour before daybreak.  The forecast for this morning was thirty-six degrees with little or no wind.  I have been pleasantly surprised with the accuracy of Deep South weather forecasting, and figured today would be no different.

The wind, or lack of it, came true to prediction and the temperature was right on at thirty-six degrees.  I started hopeful for a hard, but successful day.  But before the sun rose, the air dropped unexpectedly to twenty-nine degrees.  I have done enough bicycling to know what to wear at different temperatures, and below thirty takes a different set of clothes, which I did not bring on this trip.  Soon I could not feel my toes, my face was numb, as wind from riding swept past it, and if not pedaling hard, I shivered.  I needed to get inside.  But I was surrounded by miles of open farms, forest, with an occasional house.  I considered knocking on a door. 

Buzzards watching me die

Flowers watching me live

Instead, I did what was best for my toes.  I got off the bike and jogged beside it, pounding and warming them.  Finally, after alternating a mile of jogging, a mile of riding, the sun rose in a cloudless east.  No sun ever felt better.

Soon after sunrise, a sign read, “Road Closed.”  It’s the second time on this trip that a bridge was being replaced with no advanced warning sign.  The last time, I waded through two feet of water and carried on.  This time I looked at the water and knew that even six inches was out of the question at thirty-five degrees.  Checking my maps, I found a detour that added only two miles to an already long day.

As the day warmed, I met an eastbound couple.  I told them how to get around the closure, and they gave me more in return.  They had taken a shorter route than my plan, a route I had rejected based on traffic.  But they said it was not bad.  So, on their word, I took it and reduced  the day’s travel by eight miles. 

Finally the town of Clinton—Warm, Food, Rest.

Then I met Willem and Elly again, the westbound Dutch couple whom I’ve seen three times now, and who gave to me the sympathy of fellow misfortune.  But they do not ride as far in a day as I do, and will take a taxi if needed to avoid a long ride.  They do not carry camping gear, so their options are limited.  Today, they had just gotten out of a pickup truck, and would ride with me the last twenty miles into St. Francisville.

I am not riding today, but relaxing in the quaint historic town of St. Francisville.  Before the Civil War, it was one of the wealthiest towns in Louisiana, and eighty percent of the people were slaves.  Today it tries to build up tourism—that great redeemer of failed indigenous economies.  But it still makes too much money on logging to become picturesque.