Whims of the Wind

Town of Marathon taken the day before

I started early from the strange little enclave outside of Marathon.  It was an hour before the first glimmer of dawn, and I wanted to beat the wind.  Riding through Marathon, there was sleep in the little town, and I soon left its lights and passed once again into solitude.  Within a few miles, its last flicker disappeared into the overcast sky that hid both stars and town.  I was happy because there was no wind.  I had done something right.  

Alpine in the distance

Alpine

The evening before, I had met Bob at the commune (not his real name) who has a smart phone.  He has no car and no money, but has ridden his bicycle 100,000 miles, he says.  “I’m at La Loma for a while to catch up.”  I mentioned to Bob that with no internet or television, I could not check the weather.  “May I give you tomorrow’s forecast?” he said.  And with a few touches on his pad he had the wind forecast from the west at 20mph, starting around seven or eight in the morning.  A more fearsome forecast I could not imagine, unless it was 40mph, which is possible out here.

Denny's Diner in Alpine

With only thirty miles from Marathon to Alpine, I figured I had beat the monster once again as I pedaled in the silent night.  Then, just as the cloudy sky turned bright enough so I could turn off my lights, it started—a gentle puff.  Within an hour, it rose to a steady, strong gale.  I rested beside the road and considered my position—fifteen miles to go.  I could ride at 5mph on the level, but on the upgrades, I slowed to four.  I can walk the bike at 3mph and with less effort than riding.  So that’s what I did, walked when it was uphill.  I got a break when the wind decided to slow for an hour, then the final five-mile push into its controlling whim. 

Today, Monday, is a day of rest in Alpine.  I just returned from Denny’s Diner, for coffee, breakfast and conversation with locals, where few insights struck me about small towns.  That’s Stephanie you see walking fast, doing the chores of two waitresses.  The other two are Babbs, the cook on the left, and Marjorie, the manager on the right (not their real names or titles). They have learned that indispensible small-town skill—accommodate, don’t shun.  In a big town, Babbs might tell the union boss that Stephanie is a quota-buster and has shorter longevity.  And Stephanie might say she deserves more money for her greater productivity.  Marjorie might give Babbs a warning to shape up or be fired.  But these citified actions are not possible where everybody knows everybody and you don’t have the option of replacing employees or quitting for a better job.  You don’t have the option of not knowing your neighbor, or even not knowing the eccentric who lives a mile away. 

Back in Sanderson, Danny knew that the motel in Comstock is rundown and overpriced.  He knows the blind man there who says he is the richest man in Texas.  And in Alpine, a certain resident who quit her job to work at the Gage Hotel in Marathon,  now regrets it because of the commute.  And it’s not like you can go to another café for your morning coffee because of some dislike.