Day 10 – If Crying Was a Sport

After breaking down my tent and eating breakfast, I was set to take off, but my bike wasn't. I had another flat! Another flat, I figured, either I'm a terrible bike mechanic or just a lazy mechanic. Lazy it was. When changing the tire the night before, I found the staple in the tire that then punctured the tube. There are two points to a staple. Curse you Staples and your red “Easy” button!

While changing my tire, a man approached me from across the stone driveway as I took refuge in the sun that was already burning at 7:30 AM. He had seen me looking to photograph an spry desert quail. The skittish birds don't like people in proximity, or so I thought until I heard about them from Don. A transplant from Utah first said to me, “Just waiting for the buffet,” that had me wrinkling my nose.

He told me that he feeds the quail and the doves daily after he visits his friend in the park in the morning. His pride and puffed out chest were definitively evident when he explained that he had successfully trained the doves to wait until the quail and their coveys had eaten. Only until the quails had their brood had finished could the doves partake of the feed. If any transgressors of the cooing gray birds stray into the quail feeding time, Don just needs to stand up. The quail remain and doves flutter away. I wish I had time to witness the cornucopia bestowed for the avian bunch.

Just as I was about to pull out of the park, I received a notification of an email on my cell phone. The notification set on my cell phone is “Peanut Butter Jelly Time” sung by Brian the Dog on the irreverent and politically incorrect television show, The Family Guy. Every time I hear it notify me on my cell phone, I get a stupid smile on my face and my pedaling cadence generally speeds up to keep pace with the song's tempo. Upon reading the email from an old college buddy, with whom I worked slopping our existence in the dining hall 20 years earlier and reconnected on Facebook recently made me cry with joy and provided me with a sense of peace and purpose that what I'm doing in life is truly good. My direction is right. My intentions just.

Just yesterday, I received notification that Kathy had made a contribution to Advocates for Survivors of Torture and Trauma, Inc that I had requested of her in an online chat on Facebook. I sent her a thank you and closed with, “You are a sweet soul.”

Her response was as follows: “That's a nice thing to say, really, you made my day. I'm glad to help you adventurous types – you know how to live. And then I read your blog about the guy who died living. Incredible! Why don't I remember you like this at all? You're like a gift that was put in a closet because it's valuable but not immediately necessary. Then I find it, and it's amazing and worth the revealed. Please be safe. But I know you will do this well.”

Kathy knew me in the day of “Spidey,” “Wacko,” and “Flake” - all nicknames I had as an immature troglodyte dorm-dwelling fool. My cares were simple-minded: food, beer, silliness and general mayhem within the confines of local, regional and federal laws. The same guy who became a father of two beautiful children, CEO of a 215 year old insurance company at age 38, serves as a worthwhile contributor to society, actually was a harlequin years ago.

My truest cares today are for my two children, from whom I have been separated for too long. Perhaps someday, like Kathy realized, my children will realize I am a gift and amazing. I worked and struggled to do my absolute best for them. At one point when I was not making a good income, I literally sold platelets to help make ends meet. I have always loved and cared for and always will cherish my children. It may just take time for them to mature to see me for the person I really am and not how I have been portrayed by others with a deleterious agendas.

Thank you Kathy.

I found my way out of the park and started the journey from Brenda to Hope. A tearful journey took lots of energy. Thoughts of my children from the prior 14 years flowed across the vacant, dreary landscape. Long, flat, hot, boring. But with nothing there, there was a lot to photograph.

I wonder if the barbed wire fence was there to prevent a quick getaway in the decaying dinosaur.

The only thing I can figure is that there was a yard sale long ago on this vacant property just a few feet off the road.

The fate of the Timbuktu Garage was foretold by the windmill by its side.

Smokey the Bear couldn't calm this house fire.

 In between Brenda and Hope is a crossroads eatery, the Kofa Cafe. It looks like it would have appeared in a John Wayne western movie. As I navigated my way into the stone and sand parking lot that caused me quite a challenge, I met the owner of the cafe. Kelly green bandana on his head and two small hoop earrings in his earlobe. He greeted me with a homey type of hello. He asked to where I was headed, I indicated first to grab a cold drink, then to Florida, but I wasn't in a hurry. With a whisk of his broom on the porch he said very matter of factly, “Hurrying gets you nowhere fast.” So true. To relax, enjoy the journey and throw out the agenda. There's learning to be done.

On a 95 degree day in blinding heat and sweat, a cold drink was a chunk of Nirvana awaiting me inside the Kofa Cafe. Little did I know what to expect upon crossing the splintering wood porch though the old doorway. A traditional small town cafe with a counter and stools, orange table tops and chairs that squeaked when drawn across the floor for use. The waitress informed me I could sit anywhere and I chose a table near the door to people watch. I advised the waitress I wanted something cold, cold, cold. She recommended the fresh squeezed orange juice, which I very much wanted. Those cold oranges, squeezed on a hand press by that lovely older waitress have now ruined me forever. I don't think I'll ever enjoy orange juice again from anywhere because the taste was perfect and to top it all off, a floating seed. I swallowed it purposefully.

Inside the cafe, several patrons came and went during my lethargic stay. On the wall near the restrooms was a US map with hundreds and hundreds of pins pointing to the various locales from which the passers-through designated their place of origin. Well, by the looks of the extra pieces of paper surrounding the map, those flowing through were not only US domiciled. My personal favorites were some notes written by foreign national travelers including several Danes who all signed the paper in the upper right-hand corner of the frame for the map – they were on a motorcycle trip and an adventurer from Cambodia. Flat Stanley advised he was in every location shown on the map.

fter roughly an hour of dining and mental doodling, I departed, but not before taking photographs of the exterior of the cafe to remember the days of yore.

Stanley is not camera shy.

I proceeded from the Kofa Cafe eastward toward Hope on Arizona State Road 60. Along the way, in the still air, I could hear the sound of some electrical lines humming a strange buzz. It was strange and nearly surreal, almost as if Roger Waters and David Gilmour from Pink Floyd were introducing a prelude to a 1970's song.

I ultimately ended up in Hope. Here is some evidence. 

 It was a boring ride, much like I anticipate most of Texas to be. But I ended up at another cafe and had the tallest glass of peach iced tea I have ever had. Twas delicious. I inquired with the waitress about wireless internet access availability in the restaurant which was met with a sigh and a no. I asked about the RV park across the street. She wasn't certain.

I made my way to the park after paying for my check and was met by a kind gentlemen who advised I could use the wireless access. I paid my RV park fee from last night online. Paid another obligation and updated my blog. I found from a posting on a website that I had inspired a friend to join the Peace Corps because of my journey across the US. Never have we met before in person, but an online friend, she has made a decision that will no doubt impact her life tremendously. I encouraged her, from afar, with mere words. I suppose powerful words. Well established in her profession, with private jets at her disposal, she has determined that it is time to change herself and the lives of others. My words meant something other than utter logorrehea. Hmm.

It was time to proceed to Salome, my jumping off point for day 11. But alas, another flat tire. A few minutes of repairs and I was off, but not before I asked the gentleman at the RV park about a situation I encountered. Why were there so darn many small flies in the valley? With a face of near disgust, he advised that there were two dairy farms on Vicksburg Road a few miles back that were the contributors to the fly infestation. I swatted two flies off my arm.

About to hop onto my bicycle, an aged and deteriorated pickup truck with a cap pulled up to the office of the RV park. A dog poked his head out of the cap window. Out jumped a man of a challenging age to determine. He was missing many teeth and was rough around the edges. He went inside and came back out shortly thereafter. We chatted briefly about his situation. Truck was giving him problems. I gave the guy a $5 bill to help him with his situation. Could he have been scamming me? Maybe, but I doubt it with his lack of teeth and otherwise healthy appearance.

I wished him well and rode on to Salmone.  

Just on the edge of the village I noted the sign below. Not withstanding the homonym problem, that is still a funny sign.

Fortunately it was an easy ride that was primarily downhill. I found a small cafe, grabbed a cold soda and watched the sunset  while sitting in the shade in front of the restaurant. I cried thinking again of my children as patrons entered. Later I inquired with the owner about a sign I saw for a campground. He advised it was located approximately 7 miles out of my intended path in the morning. He indicated I could camp beside his shop, the Oasis Cafe. I gratefully thanked him and decided to take him up on his offer. A few minutes later a woman who had seen me sitting in a different area outside, before sunset walked up to me and asked, “Is this your $20 bill? I found it where you were sitting earlier." I checked my wallet and pockets and indeed, it was my money. What comes around goes around. Kindness and thoughtfulness to strangers is worthwhile. It's a matter of trusting one's gut.

With my tent set, I was ready to get some much needed rest. Day 11, will likely be a 50 mile day, with a nice  descent at the end into Wickenburg, AZ.

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Great to see dancing. It's a primal and fun urge.