Day Thirty-Nine: Clayton - Amarillo, TX

For the first time in quite a while, we got up and out earlier than usual; and if you haven’t already noticed the trend, it seems to follow that every time we are actually on time, some sort of roadblock appears to bite us in the butt. We were having a relaxing morning at a local coffee shop, eating parfaits and drinking Americanos, when we started visiting with a few customers. There were middle-aged women, enthralled by the fact that we had cruised through their small town; a couple riding through on a motorcycle, tossing jokes our way (the all-too-popular, “You got motors on ‘dem thangs?”); and even a guy who had recently completed Ride the Rockies. He ordered his coffee quickly and got as much info out of us as he could before scurrying out the door, then popped his head back in to ask, “Who’s got the green bike?” That would be Slater. “You’ve got a flat on the back.”

Yaaaaaaay! We love flat tires. We walked hesitantly outside to find not only a flat tire, but a completely and utterly destroyed tire. How had we not seen that yet…? It was just about ready to tear in two: there was a circular hole the size of a silver dollar and it was splitting out further with every pedal. We knew instantly that we were screwed. We were in Clayton, NM, for God’s sake, an itty-bitty dot on the map that hardly had a grocery store, let alone a bicycle shop, so our first move was to check for the nearest shop outside of town. Our results? One hundred and twenty miles. So much for an early start—we had some problem solving to do.

When I say that we exhausted every possible option, I mean it. We’re talkin’ checking Greyhound schedules, walking door to door, asking people if they knew anyone who rides road bicycles, checking out a neighbor’s junkyard, consulting Craigslist rideshare, trying to find nearby U-Haul locations, calling AAA bicycle service (doesn’t work), looking for rental car services… you name it. All the while, the owners of the coffee shop were helping us out, posting Facebook ISOs and contacting anyone they could think of who might be able to help, but no luck, and so finally, we found that our last option would be to hitchhike.

The barber that worked across the street from the coffee shop offered to drive us to the Love’s truck stop down the road so that we wouldn’t have to walk our bikes over a mile. He hauled us to the station and we piled out, leaned our bicycles against the wall near the front entrance, and sat looking completely pathetic. We attempted to make small talk with a few passersby, but we quickly concluded that most of the drivers were not headed in the direction that we needed to go, and definitely not quite as far. So that we could skip the foo-foo and get to the point, we resorted to making a sign (again), which, by the way, causes people to suddenly treat you like dirt; like the scruffy guy on the corner who you can hardly stand to look at because you feel so bad that you’re not going to give him a dollar, or a sandwich, because a dollar seems too little, and an opened sandwich seems kind of rude, when in all reality, his sign reads, “Anything helps.” Judging by the immediate decrease in eye contact we received after putting a sign over our heads, we instantly understood this feeling.

One man did look our way, however, and he stared for quite some time. “I can take y’all to Dalhart.” he remarked. Dalhart was on the way to where we needed to go, but that meant we’d have to hop out of his car and hitch another ride even further. We clenched our teeth and furrowed our brows, wearing a concerned expression, as if to say, close, but no cigar. “How ‘bout I take y’all to Amarillo, then?” Our faces lit up.

As soon as we knew it, we were in a spacious pickup with Doug and his friend (JUST friend, they insisted), Nancy. Doug was animated as can be, fashioned with a turquoise belt buckle, a baseball cap, and a heavy Southern drawl—oh, and two guns in his boots—just because he’s from Texas. Nancy was sweet as can be, laughing at our jokes even though they weren’t funny, and interjecting during Doug’s stories to tell her favorite part or to add a witty comment. The two bounced off of each other with tales of a long motorcycle trip to Canada that Doug took with his best friend, Gary, and with hilarious comments about the marvelous view passing through Texas (because there were no trees so you could see everything… or nothing…). Doug showed us his farm on the way toward Amarillo, a large piece of land where he gets paid “not to raise hogs.” We stopped at a gas station for a receipt of proof that Doug visited the farm where he “does not raise hogs” so that he could be reimbursed, and then carried on another hour or so until we reached our destination.

Doug had a meeting to get to, but he was clearly concerned about finding us a suitable place to camp, so we made our way to an RV park on the west side of Amarillo (the bike shop would have to wait for the morning, and Doug offered to pick us up around 8 or 9 to drive us over to get everything fixed up).It was a warm and friendly, but fairly upscale place; the sites were only for RVs, and there were no available tenting areas. The office was closed by the time we arrived, and we were afraid of stealing a spot that might be reserved, so we opted for camping just behind the RV park in a large patch of grass that was possibly owned by the nearby outdoors store, though we’re not really sure, as no one seemed to know whose property it was. We pitched the tent on the edge of the fence so that we could go in and out of the park as we pleased, stealing amenities like hot showers and clean bathrooms without the residents’ knowledge. At dinnertime, we realized that we couldn’t venture away from our campsite, as Slater still had a flat, so we called Jimmy John’s, and to our dismay, they took over 45 minutes to deliver. Shame on you, Jimmy. Fast, schmast. It was delicious nonetheless, and we enjoyed every bite just before sundown, then cruised back to the tent, where we slept in a field full of ridiculously large grasshoppers.