Day Forty: Amarillo - Groom

We got up just before go time—time to go to the bike shop, that is—and Doug arrived promptly at 8:30 to give us the ride that he promised. He was bright and chipper, clearly a morning person, though he claimed not to be: “I’m retired. No need to wake up early.” He insisted that while he had us captive he would show us around Amarillo; after all, without a proper tour, we would only be seeing the city from the shoulder of the freeway. We drove down a desolate highway, the early morning sun beaming in through the rear window of the pickup, and looked from side to side at barren landscapes, wondering where on earth we were headed. Doug pulled over decidedly next to a chunky metal gate and the three of us hopped out of the truck onto the red dirt. We had arrived at Cadillac Ranch, a monument, one could say, where ten grafittied Caddies stand side-by-side in a barren field, half-buried beneath the ground and tilted at about a 25-degree angle. We admired the roadside spectacle with other onlookers, left our mark with a quick spray of black spray paint on the hood of one of the rigs, and went on our way toward the bike shop.

The shop didn’t open until 10 a.m., so Doug dropped us off at a local coffee shop called Roasters to kill some time before the repairs. He helped us unload our gear out of the truck and reminded us to give him a call if we were in need of anything: a ride, a tour, a place to stay, anything. We thanked him (and thank him once again if he’s reading this) for his willingness to help out two young idiots with a busted tire, and said goodbye as we rested our bikes on the outside wall of Roasters and grabbed a table inside. While getting our daily dose of caffeine, we noticed a news anchor setting up a camera just feet away from us, and we couldn’t help but whisper and wonder what was going on. We quickly learned that he was putting together a montage of interviews and comments regarding the Supreme Court ruling on same-sex marriage after hearing multiple frank opinions voiced about the issue. Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Washington anymore.

It was Texas, and that was clear. Now, I’m not here to start a debate, but some of the comments were downright absurd and rather offensive, so we graciously accepted the opportunity to voice our opinions in the room of conservative Texans. Maybe the “young and stupid” got the best of us (with the number of guns in the room, you might say we got lucky), but we’d like to think that in ten, twenty, maybe thirty years, the rest of those folks will just be considered old and stupid. Alright, enough with the rant. We tiptoed out of the shop where we were no longer welcome (except for by the news anchor, who seemed to enjoy our company nonetheless), and finally walked to the bike shop. Slater stocked up: a new tire, tube, handlebar tape, pedal screws, slime, and those yummy gummy energy things, Bloks, which we ate before the cashier had the chance to ring up. It took a while, as bike shops tend to do, and by the time we were out of there, the sky was overcast and threatening.

We took a roundabout way out of Amarillo, since getting out of the city limits was a bit hectic, and we neglected to put on sunscreen due to the looming clouds that impaired our judgment. But of course the sun came out just minutes later to blaze against our backs as we rode through a whole lot of nothingness, leaving me with a cherry-red sunburn by the time we reached our midpoint for the day. We took a break for Subway in Claude and continued on shortly thereafter, making sure to load on the sunscreen and cover up. We rode 19 miles further through crosswinds and chip-sealed roads that tore up our tires before arriving in Groom, TX, a tiny farming town with a sizeable mill. There were friendly faces driving tractors down the street, and we asked them about recommendations for where to camp, and few could think of suggestions. The town park was our best bet, but it was right next to the mill, and according to one of our helpers, it was harvest season, which meant we’d be in for a hell of a lot of noise. At the other end of the town, however, was a small motel, and to our surprise, it cost just barely more than a campsite at a KOA. We jumped at the opportunity to sleep in a bed and raced straight to our room to turn on the Women’s World Cup quarter-final (which we won 1-0, yeeeeeaaaahhhh!) and eat the numerous snacks that had accumulated in Slater’s bags over the past week, plus chicken strip baskets from Dairy Queen. And… yep, that’s pretty much it.