I forgot to tell you about my podcast concept. The show would be called “Beth’s Bar and Grill.” For each episode, someone would come over to my apartment and I’d make dinner for them, or we’d just have some drinks, and they’d talk about their lives and their problems. I’d ask my guests probing, sometimes daringly personal questions. The cast would rotate, so listeners could check in on developments in each person’s life periodically and be able to start seeing patterns in the types of turmoil people are experiencing in our modern era. It would essentially be like listening to therapy sessions, but with some joking around and slight inebriation. If you live in or around the New York City area and would like to appear on “Beth’s Bar and Grill,” please send an email to barandgrillpodcast@gmail.com.

Day 3, Saturday, started off gloomily. I woke up at 4:30. Breakfast was a soggy hard-boiled egg and a wheat English muffin. I will make different choices at our next Holiday Inn Express because I deserve better.

Ginger and the boys

The guys began their arduous journey at 8. I left the room at 11:30 and stopped at Walmart for fruit and sundries. The bluetooth FM transmitter I’d been using to listen to music in the car stopped bluetoothing, so I had to find a replacement, because radio options around here are dire. Walmart couldn’t hook me up, but there was a RadioShack in the same shopping center that could.

The Uvalde RadioShack was undergoing some major product rearranging, an odd undertaking for a busy Saturday; the floor was a Slip ‘N Slide made of little boxes of electronics. I slipped but fortunately did not slide. And I found a new transmitter. It kind of sucks but it gets the job done, mostly.

It was a lovely drive, the first really green drive of the tour, with winding hills and unusual wildlife — antelopes! — and cloudy, gothic weather. And as usual on these trips, when the road is empty and the scenery is beautiful and I become aware of my solitude, I feel an overwhelming love of life.

Trees of life

I met up with the guys around 1, a little more than halfway through their day. They were having a tough ride but spirits were high.

Two mean brothers teasing poor Tim at the pit stop

About half an hour later, Ginger and I made a wrong turn and headed into the town of Bandera rather than toward our B&B. It felt like a real old-fashioned frontier town, with a short strip of shops, restaurants, a church, and a courthouse. My impression was certainly helped by this, which stopped traffic as it made its way down Main Street:

Vote Charlotte Browning for City Council

I arrived at the Diamond H B&B a little after 2 o’clock. The place looked welcoming but deserted; Ginger was the only car in the lot. I found the door to the office open and walked in. It looked like someone had been there moments before; the desk had a few sets of keys on it, and there was an open pack of cookies on the coffee table. The office led to what was clearly a living space, a sofa and dining table visible through the doorway. Something told me not to call out — probably my dim memory of reading that check-in was a firm 3 p.m. I decided to undo my cavalier entrance, head back outside, and alert them to my presence by doorbell.

I doorbelled. Then I knocked. No one answered. I went inside again. Still no one there. I went outside and walked around to the front entrance — aha, I just need to ring the front doorbell! But there was no doorbell at the front. So I knocked. I peered in the windows. Nothing.

One summer day when I was five years old, I asked my mom if I could visit my friend John, who lived a couple blocks away at the bottom of our street. I didn’t usually go places by myself at that age, but my mom let me walk to kindergarten and to visit friends in the neighborhood, which in hindsight was really cool of her. When I got to John’s house I knocked on the screen door, but no one answered. Having committed to the idea of visiting John and not knowing the protocol for pretty much anything at that age, I let myself in and walked through the rooms downstairs. But John wasn’t there; no one was. I started getting the sense that I shouldn’t be in the house, that something was wrong there. But instead of leaving, I started climbing the stairs to the second floor to investigate, growing more trepidatious with each step. About midway up I heard a radio on in one of the rooms, and that was it. I freaked out — I have a snapshot in my memory of the moment when fear overtook me, the way the sun was hitting the stair railing, the bedroom door to my right slightly ajar — and ran as fast as I could out of John’s house and back up to mine. I never told him about it.

I went in the back entrance of the office one more time, hoping mildly that there had been a gruesome murder and I was about to discover it and it would be like Columbo. I realized that if there had been a murder I was probably in danger — the murderer would still be at large, as they say — and noted it was odd that I didn’t feel like I was in danger. And then of course I self-corrected and thought that I didn’t really want anyone to have been murdered, I just wanted intrigue. You know, for the blog.

When I peered through the office doorway I heard TV sounds and saw an older man on the sofa watching it. He did not see me.

I decided to leave and come back in an hour. Peeing would have to wait.

I filled up Ginger’s tank and took my time picking up a couple six-packs. When I got back to the Diamond H, it was after 3, which to me meant it was safe to call out. After a couple “hellos” a nice lady — Sharon — came out in stocking feet and got me settled in. The bikers arrived not long after.

Our trusty reader Tim returns, with his inimitable pronunciation of places and names

Jim, the guy I’d spied watching TV, was friendly and amusing, a natural storyteller. I asked him for a restaurant recommendation and he said we should go to O.S.T., “a steak and potatoes place,” but warned me that it wasn’t like a New York City restaurant. It sure wasn’t, but that’s what we’re here for.

Hotel Art of the Day

Abstract shapes
16″ x 16″
Holiday Inn Express, Uvalde, Texas

Hotel Art Score

9/10. This was in the bathroom and I always liked seeing it when I entered. You can’t tell from this photo, but the brushstrokes are visible, which adds energy to it. It’s playful; the colors are harmonious and it’s got a nice overall vibe. It’s like art lite — a cheery, mass-produced doodle. In fact I might just like it because it looks a lot like the doodles I make during conference calls, except colored in.

Art Art Score

6/10. (It’s on the line between a 5 and a 6 but why not just give it a 6?) I think the artist might have actually cared about this in a nonchalant way, and that counts for a lot.

Do you listen to podcasts? If not, I have come here from 2005 to tell you that podcasts are a great way to entertain yourself while cooking, cleaning, attempting to nap, and riding in airplanes. The internet kept telling me to check out Serial, a non-fiction investigative podcast that unfolds in real time. From the Serial site: “We’ll follow the plot and characters wherever they take us and we won’t know what happens at the end of the story until we get there, not long before you get there with us.” It’s from the creators of This American Life, and while their peculiar, wistfully matter-of-fact public radio announcer style of presentation irritates me, it’s also very effective. My first flight flew by, and I was sad to run out of episodes.

On the second flight I listened to some guys talk with Jeff Bridges about how to have a successful marriage. Jeff is charming, if a little wackadoodle. He may be one of the few remaining people who uses the word “groovy.” (Has he been saying “groovy” this whole time, or is this a post-Lebowski affectation?) The key to a successful marriage, Jeff says, is to recognize that each person has his or her own story, and that each story is true for that person.

This is my story, and it is true for me:

I arrived in San Antonio, my head full of wisdom, late Thursday afternoon and met up with the dudes. All of us were ravenous except first-class traveler Mark, who graciously detailed everything he had eaten on his flights.

For some reason we let Tim, fresh from summer eye surgery, drive Ginger (thanks for the name, Matt!) to Brackettville. He only nearly veered off the road two or three times. Dad spent the ride pointing out cactus plants and saying the name of every restaurant we passed: “There’s Jim Brill’s Barbeque.” “Mm, The Texas Ranch House.” “Look, Hermann Sons Steak House.” He was like this guy:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vlTeiusbRzw#t=35

After about an hour and a half of that we ended up at an Applebee’s in Uvalde for dinner. No complaints from me; I’m as susceptible as the next guy to being comforted by American crap franchises with consistent branding when in an unknown place. The waiter asked us if we wanted our beers “dressed.” This means, at least in Uvalde, Texas, that they come with a lime and salted glass, margarita-style. I generally prefer a nude beer, but when in Applebee’s…. All that salt made the reheated frozen meals a little easier to ignore. But I have to say the red potatoes were just terrible.

My room at Fort Clark Springs was fine, better than I’d expected it would be — wainscoting and dark wood laminate floors cozied it up — but my comforter smelled like when you put a bathroom rug in the dryer and the rubber bottom breaks down into a kind of shredded submatter. It was a very unusual and unpleasant smell, probably the result of a combination of unclean things and acts, and it kept waking me up. At 4 a.m. I decided I wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep again, and so began Day 2.

Good morning from Fort Clark Springs Lodge

There was no breakfast plan. We met at the car at 7:30 and I gobbled down a granola bar and an apple while waiting for everybody (Brian) to be ready.

Tim points out what looks like a headwind. Turns out it was just a measly crosswind.

In front of the lodge, ready to roll.

The guys took off just after 8 and I worked in the room, monitoring their progress with my GPS app. Around 10:30 I realized that if I didn’t leave soon they were going to beat me to Uvalde, so I checked out, hopped in Ginger, and started the short drive.

Theater on the way out of Fort Clark Springs

I passed them maybe six or seven miles out of town and honked, but apparently only Mark saw me. Then I felt bad for not stopping and spent the rest of the drive wondering if I should turn around and go back. Ultimately I didn’t, and they showed up about ten minutes after I’d gotten settled in the Holiday Inn Express.

The guys headed to the pool to cool off — while it wasn’t very hot, it was incredibly humid — and I walked over to the liquor store next door to pick up some six-packs. Then I rolled up my jeans and sat by the pool with them long enough to get some really dumb-looking sunburn.

Brian is in the process of getting sunburned, too

After that, we hit up Whataburger for a tasty high-calorie lunch, then visited the John Nance Garner Museum. The museum is a model of good exhibit design, with carefully chosen artifacts and photographs telling the story of Garner and his wife Ettie, who served as his secretary while they were in Washington. It’s just the right size, and the signs use nice typography, and the space flows well. I’m sure it helped that Garner was an especially charismatic man, but I think a good museum could be made about almost anyone. (Fifth grade history book essay question: What would a museum about your life be like? Write 3-5 paragraphs on what might be included. Think about important events from your life and keepsakes that reveal your character.)

Presidential dinner at the Washington Hotel, January 29, 1934

Our next stop was Walmart to restock supplies.

Chris and Antje, I picked up a pair of these for Matilda — that’s cool, right?

Our final stop of the day was Jack’s Steak House, on the recommendation of a border patrol agent. I ordered a salad and they gave me pasta, but it was pretty darn decent.

Hotel Art of the Day

There was no art in the rooms at Fort Clark Springs, but there was a truly wonderful mural in the lodge office that made up for it.

Fort Clark Springs, 1852-1946
~18′ x 6′
Fort Clark Springs Lodge, Brackettville, Texas

Full view, with spookiness:

Boo

Hotel Art Score

10/10. This has it all: hugeness, history, strife, competent collage execution, nature, perseverance, sex appeal, adult center health spa. And it is all unified by that nice bright blue hue that recalls textbook illustrations and globes of the 1960s and ’70s.

Art Art Score

6/10. It’s quite a piece.

We made it to Fort Clark Springs in Brackettville, Texas. It’s a former army barracks and is nicer than the internet’s whiners make it sound. But there is no wireless connection and I can only get a weak mobile signal from my Dad’s room, so this is just a short missive to let everyone know we’re okay.

The minivan is a dark red color. Help me think of names.

We all had breakfast at Johnny B’s, a cute retro greasy spoon next to the hotel. The TV in the corner had the Today show on, with its dumb stories about how you’re allowed to eat food past the expiration date and how Miley Cyrus had teased Matt Lauer about his sex life. It seemed incongruous to me that this part of Texas would be exposed to the same cultural junk as the rest of America, because it kind of does feel like a different country here. TV in west Texas should only have stations with shows about ranchers and trucks and Mexicans, at least while I’m visiting. And all the good John Wayne movies plus Touch of Evil should be running on a loop. 

You can tell Brian is in a good mood from his jaunty pose

I feel obligated to post these pre-ride photos even though they all look pretty much the same. You guys need to start mixing it up a little with different expressions or poses.

I really (really) didn’t want to leave the Gage Hotel, especially knowing that the Outback Oasis in Sanderson, self-proclaimed Cactus Capital of Texas, was our next stop.

I contemplated getting an expensive massage, but that would have been rubbing it in too much. So I picked out an overstuffed chair in the lobby next to the fireplace and caught up with work for a few hours.

I’ll miss you, Gage Hotel and taxidermy friends

The French Grocer, Marathon, Texas, featuring very expensive Gatorade

The dudes wanted to add 30 miles to their total today so that they wouldn’t have a crazy-long ride on Wednesday. I picked them up at a picnic area on highway 90 and reluctantly trucked them back to the Outback Oasis.

It’s a charming motel on the outside, and the owners seem like very nice people. The reviews online all say things along the lines of, “It’s nothing special, but it’s clean.” But it actually wasn’t clean. There was a piece of tortilla chip on my comforter, confirming my fear that comforters rarely get washed (which I usually just try not to think about because ugh). The grimy bathroom floor was one big ant party, with a conga line (credit Mark for the phrase) starting in the shower. The crappy mattress creaked with every small move and the stained barcalounger had no springs left. In the span of a few hours we’d gone from first to worst in Brothers’ Bike Ride accommodations.

Silver had no complaints

The internet worked outside, at least

For dinner we alighted on the Eagle’s Nest, which seemed to be the only open establishment. The woman who waited on and cooked for us and who probably owned the place told us about how Sanderson (population 837) was hurt when the train switching stations moved from there to Alpine. It’d be interesting to see what Sanderson is like in 50 years, if it still exists. I had chicken tenders (my go-to meal when I don’t know whether to a trust a place), and the guys had burgers, all with tater tots on the side. The food was fine. The brothers reminisced about family trips they took when they were kids and I ate it all up.

It’s hard not to like a place that embraces fuscia

Texas tableau

Old license plates are never a bad decor idea for a restaurant (seriously)

Back at the motel, I really tried to sleep, but I was skeeved out for various reasons. There were no curtains, just blinds, and I realized that I could easily be seen through the window if I slept too far over on the right side of the bed. I kept thinking I heard subtle movements just outside my door, but when I got up to look, nothing was there. The ants continued to party, and I pictured them conga-ing right up onto my arms and legs.

I finished one book and read five chapters of another. Some time after 1 a.m. I finally conked out.

Hotel Art of the Day

An antelope
~11″x7″
Outback Oasis Motel, Sanderson, Texas

Hotel Art Score

6/10. There were three related pencil drawings in my room and I enjoyed all of them. They appear to be originals and were done by someone with some amount of talent. I chose this one because the antelope seems to be photobombing the mountainscape and it amused me. The color feels like an afterthought, though; it almost seems like a kid went in and colored someone’s illustration. It would be more successful if it were black and white.

Art Art Score

It’s essentially folk art. I don’t know. 3/10?

I was expecting the truck to name itself, but it told me it’s just “the truck.” It’s a silver Chevy Silverado. So maybe its name should be Silver. But that seems a little wussy for something that looks like this:

Actually he kind of looks like he’s smiling from this angle

The top speed I’ve registered is 100 mph on a pass, and I didn’t even notice until I was back in my lane and slowing down. It is a smooth, smooth ride. And it’s really the perfect vehicle for this leg, because I fit right in with these Texas rangers. I would never want to own one of these, but it’s great to pretend I do for a week.

Mark decided on Monday that he didn’t want to ride from Marfa to Marathon because he’d seen it yesterday on the drive and it didn’t look fun. I thought he was joking at first because it can be hard to tell when Mark is being serious. He said he was half-serious, but actually he was all-serious. And Tim and Dad were fine with it. So I drove the guys to Fort Davis and we breakfasted with some other pickup drivers at Lupita’s Place, the only open restaurant.

Silver’s buddies at Lupita’s Place, Fort Davis, TX

El Grande primary color breakfast

And they’re off

I stopped at a gas station and cleaned all of the kamikaze bugs off Silver’s windshield with glee, then headed back to the lovely Captain Shepherd House and spent a stupidly long time trying to get online. Internet and mobile service feel like basic American necessities, but in west Texas they’re hard to come by. The thing about the Captain Shepherd House, though, is that it makes you want to split yourself into three people so that you can enjoy a bunch of its rooms all at once. So I opted to forego connectivity and luxuriate in our lodging.

I parked myself in one of the comfy sitting rooms and read and wrote. A couple of hours in to my reverie, the front door of the house opened. I heard footsteps walk past my sitting room. Then I heard a loud fart, the fart of a person who thought she was alone.

She walked into the dining room, about fifteen feet away, directly in my line of vision, and yet she remarkably did not notice me. She turned on the candle chandelier over the table and looked at it admiringly, and I decided that not saying something would be weirder than saying something.

“I heard you fart,” I said. No, I actually said:

“Hi there. I just didn’t want to freak you out.”

She had no perceptible reaction, holding her gaze steady on the chandelier. I thought she might not have heard me. She was fiftyish and blond and put together in a tasteful Texan way, wearing a white shirt with ruffles down the front. After a few seconds she looked at me and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone was here.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

“I’m with the hotel,” she said.

“I assumed.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

“It’s really fine,” I said.

Then she left.

Hallway where farting incident occurred

Sitting room

Candle chandelier

And some more shots of the place:

The Captain Shepherd House has the highest concentration of animal heads I’ve ever encountered

Boudoir

Porch we unfortunately didn’t use

Planning the next day’s route at the roundtable

Hotel Art of the Day

Blue Madonna
~18″x30″
Gage Hotel, Marathon, TX

Hotel Art Score

9/10. It’s kind of ballsy to put this in someone’s bedroom. The piece is both pretty and haunting.

Art Art Score

God, I don’t know. 6/10? The more I look at it the more meaning I find (or create for myself). It’s a photograph of a statue of the Blessed Mother, tinted blue. If you want to be moved by it spiritually, that’s there for you — it’s a striking, powerful image — but if you want to see it as a statement about the hollowness of religion, or of religious symbols, I think that’s there, too. And surely more. Go loco.

After breakfasting at what felt like 4 a.m., the guys waited for the sun to rise so that they could depart. I hung out in the room till 11, then made the hour-long drive to Marfa.

MARFA OR BUST

Hotel El Capitan at sunrise

In the past two trips, the driving has been among the most exciting parts for me, but I haven’t been as thrilled about it so far this leg. The roads have been flat and straight and the vegetation hasn’t held any surprises. Where are my scenic overlooks? Where is my prairie song?

But if nothing else, I have been feeling some much-needed love for America during my drives. (For my own future reference, this is the leg with the government shutdown. L2 was the leg with the undying sinkhole story. I don’t remember what L1’s major news item was.)

This is going to be a brief but simplistic and emotional argument, and I say the word “government,” so skip if you’re averse to stuff like this. But I think that at its best, government can make people feel worthwhile and cared for in a subconscious but important way. A corporation has little motivation to put picnic areas and historical markers on its hypothetical privately-owned highway in the middle of nowhere unless they can yield a measurable financial return. It’s almost impossible to measure the feelings of relief, comfort and pleasure little oases like these bring. I can think of ways of achieving a financial profit, but it would be at a sacrifice to other benefits. I idealistically but adamantly believe that successful infrastructure and public works projects can help heal and reunify the collective American psyche. Even if I’m being naïve, we’d at least get nicer roads and useful train lines out of it.

Marfa is not the Brooklyn of West Texas (I report with relief), even if its lone pizza place rivals Grimaldi’s. I didn’t see one guy dressed like it’s 1865 (I always imagine these guys saying, “Handlebar mustaches just feel really right to me, you know?”). I didn’t see any women who looked like they sell useless crafts on Etsy. I didn’t even see any plaid shirts (except the one I was wearing, oops). Marfa is just not nearly as self-conscious, except for maybe the couple in this profile who dress alike.

It’s a very tiny town, more hardscrabble than what I was expecting from the fancy art projects on the way in and from all the press it’s been getting lately.

Prada Marfa sans Beyonce

This work was commissioned by Playboy to “revive the brand for a younger generation.” Marfa residents have mixed reactions.

I drove around for a few minutes looking for stuff that was open; it was Sunday, so not much was. Actually I get the sense that not much is open most of the time. Saturday is probably the best day of the week to be in this town.

The bookstore was the one place with open doors, and I am a fan of bookstores and open doors, so I went in. I suspect that if there’s one Brooklyn-y person in this part of Texas, it’s the guy who owns the bookstore (he appears in the 60 Minutes profile). Upon entering I detected the needle scratching off the record (potentially like-minded female stranger alert!) and instantly felt an irrational fear of being spoken to. I dealt with this by making eye contact only with books.

I thumbed through some of the design books, many of which were up my alley or just around the corner from it, then visited the art gallery in the back. I didn’t like the work but enjoyed getting to see it. Even if a lot of art doesn’t move me, I wholeheartedly endorse devoting a room to it.

Next stop: Pizza Foundation, an old garage that also has an art gallery in the back. The gallery was closed for the installation of new work, but you could peek through a little slit in the wall and see some of it.

I arrived around 1:15 and was told there was an hour-long wait. Pizza Foundation is popular! And apparently two employees were hung over from a party Saturday night and failed to show up. If I’d known how long I would be there I would have offered to help out. Instead I settled in and read and watched people coming and going.

Not eating all of this pizza was at least as hard as biking from Van Horn to Marfa

The pizza was done after about 50 minutes and I gobbled down my share of knockout slices, obsessively tracking the guys’ progress on GPS. It was a whole extra hour before they finally arrived. When they got to Pizza Station, they all yelled angrily, “Pizza?! What were you thinking??”

No, they ate it up and then we headed to our truly awesome hotel in Marathon.

Hotel Art of the Day

[Cowboy shootout], W. Herbert Dunton
~48″ x 36″
Captain Shepherd House, Marathon, TX

Hotel Art Score

10/10. I think this is my first 10, guys. It’s perfect for the space and is really fun to keep digging back into.

Art Art Score

6.5/10. Once we’re in “real art” territory I start getting nervous about this scoring business.  There’s so much to like about this. It’s telling a story and feels alive. I would be happy to own it.

Things I like:

• You can’t see the faces of the riders, and that makes them both more mysterious and sympathetic. Do they even have shotguns? I’m sure the assailants have their reasons, but do the horsemen deserve to be shot? Is the one whose face is completely obscured trying to say something to the gunmen or trying to shoot them?
• The guys in the background barely have features; their faces were made with quick blocky brushstrokes.
• It reminds me of my painting style except better.

Things I don’t love:

• It reminds me of my painting style, in that it’s kind of underdone and inconsistent in spots.
• The stance of the main shooter feels awkward to me. I tried to make myself like it but it didn’t work.

Day 1:

I woke up at 3:19 a.m. and figured I might as well stay awake, as I wanted to leave a little after 5. Blah blah flights were fine. On the second one, from Houston to El Paso, I talked a little with a guy who works as a management consultant for Werner Ladders, a company I’d never heard of that is responsible for most of the ladders people use. He was rich in a low-key way. It’s usually easy to tell when people are rich because they seem more relaxed than other people. And because they tell you about the property they own in Switzerland. Also he was originally from California. Sometimes I confuse rich people with Californians, but this guy happened to be both. He was very nice, in case I’m implying that rich people aren’t. Anyway, you might want to invest in stock from Werner Ladders, because I hear it’s climbing.

My main objective upon arriving in El Paso was to sleep. I took a sort-of nap until Dad called and told me I should leave to pick everybody up in Fort Hancock. Then I drove them back to the hotel and took another half nap while the guys were in the hot tub. Then we went to an okay Mexican restaurant where I looked (and felt) tired while drinking a large but weak margarita. Then we went to a depressing Barnes and Noble and I bought a couple of notebooks. Then I slept.

Hotel Art of the Day

Pebble triptych
~24″ x 16″
Courtyard Marriott, El Paso

Hotel Art Score

4/10. “Let’s frame some stock photos!” I don’t enjoy looking at this at all. And the lines in the matte make it more offensive.

Art Art Score

1.5/10. It ain’t art.

Day 2:

I woke up at 3:50 a.m. But it was actually 5:50 Eastern time, so not as bad I guess? I dropped the guys off in Fort Hancock. It was chilly but sunny and everyone was in pretty good spirits.

Ready for the long ride to Van Horn

Then I headed back to El Paso to while away some hours. First stop: the Cielo Vista Mall. I don’t get to go to malls very often and sometimes crave their reliably bland ambiance. Indeed, the most striking feature of El Paso to me is its blandness — it feels like the result of averaging all American cities together. Cielo Vista met all of my expectations.

As I wandered around looking for an ATM, a guy at a kiosk gave me a small piece of soap and said, “This is for you, it’s organic soap,” and then took it back and said, “Let me give you a paper towel to put it in,” and then took my right hand and said, “Will this make anyone jealous?” and I said no, and before I could process any of this he started buffing one of my thumbnails. He asked my name and asked about four times if I work with chemicals (I don’t take great care of my hands but his disbelief started to get insulting), and he used some magical block on my nail and finally had me compare my treated thumbnail to my untreated thumbnail and said, “Betty, do you like it or do you love it?” I said I liked it because I was pissed about his sales methods. But the treated thumbnail was much smoother than before and was remarkably shiny. He said, “We have a special offer for you today,” and that’s when I squirmed out of his grasp, organic soapless, telling him I’d think about it.

And I did think about it and I decided that I needed one of those magical nail buffers, because I couldn’t stop running my fingers over my new nail. But I didn’t want to buy anything from someone who had ambushed me. But if he hadn’t ambushed me I wouldn’t have known that my nails could feel so wonderful. But Amazon sells the thing the guy was using for about $3 and the first comment is from someone who says not to get these from the mall people, so I feel a little better.

The mall visit was just to kill some time; my real mission was to acquire a pair of cowboy boots. El Paso is, according to itself, the boot capital of the world. I did some research and learned about a factory outlet for Lucchese, a luxury boot brand. Johnny Cash wore Luccheses, and I try to emulate Johnny Cash whenever possible.

In the store, I tried on the first pair of boots that caught my eye in my size and soon realized I was going to have some trouble getting out of them. I tugged awkwardly with no success, and eventually a salesman came over and yanked them off of me, almost pulling me off of the bench, as other customers looked on and laughed. Then I went up half a size and easily found my new boots. They’re a little more ornate then what I usually go for, but I think they’re going to fade really nicely. And maybe sometimes I feel ornate! The boots are a birthday present from the guys (at least until they find out how much they cost). Thanks, guys, you’re the best!

Making Mr. Cash proud

Next objective: lunch. I’d been seeing signs for Whataburger on the highway and was pretty sure I’d never had the eponymous burger before, so I Google mapped one and had Kiri (Android’s version of Siri) guide me there. I ended up missing the turn, though, and had to circle around to get there. I saw the big “W” sign and pulled into the lot, deciding to bypass the drive-thru for a more comprehensive Whataburger experience. When I walked in I was surprised at how crappy- and old-looking it felt, with its rundown pastel pink and blue decor. This was a fast food place not excited to be itself. I ordered a chili cheeseburger for $2.15 and had some insightful observations while waiting for it to be made:

• For a place called Whataburger, they sure have a lot of hot dogs on the menu.
• It’s kind of strange that none of the signs in here say the name of this place.
• I wonder why they’re using that Oktoberfest-style font on everything. Some kind of promotion?
• Oh look, there’s another Whataburger right across the street. I guess it’s really popular.

I confirmed what you already know when I got back to my car: I was not at Whataburger. I was actually at Wienerschnitzel. I had been schnitzeled.

Okay, this W looks nothing like the Whataburger W. But I was hungry!

I took a few bites of the chili burger and said out loud, “You don’t have to eat this.” So I wrapped it up and drove over to my intended destination. The Whataburger was way better than the Mistake-a-burger. But I saved the half-eaten one and gave it to Dad later. He thought it was great.

I was happy to be in a pickup truck (more on the truck later) for the two-hour drive to Van Horn, because its threatening grille and hulking size make people move out of my way. I saw the guys on a frontage road about 15 miles away from town and knew they wouldn’t be long.

The check-in guy at the charming Hotel El Capitan was sassy and urbane. I kind of regret not getting his back story but I wasn’t feeling chatty and I don’t think he was, either.

Snacking it up in Tim’s room after the ride

We ate a nice dinner at the hotel, then Dad and I went to the dollar store for some supplies, then I helped some people relearn how to blog, then bed. Tomorrow (or today, since I’m writing this so late): Marfa, the Brooklyn of West Texas. Everywhere is the Brooklyn of somewhere these days.

Hotel Art of the Day

Hotel Paisano
16″ x 16″
Hotel El Capitan, Van Horn, Texas

Sorry for the bad photo.

Hotel Art Score

6/10. The Hotel Paisano is the owner’s sister property in Marfa. This seems to be an old photograph with some Photoshop filters applied. It’s appropriate and pleasant enough to gaze upon, though I wish the shot were framed with more space above the sign. The actual gilt frame is especially nice.

Art Art Score

3/10. Maybe I’m being harsh, but this just doesn’t feel like art to me.

By Day 8 everyone was ready for Leg 2 to end. Burnout had set in, all the scenery was looking the same, and we were all starting to miss our homes. Fortunately the last day’s ride was supposed to be pretty easy, at least compared to Day 7’s slog. And finally, for the first night of the trip, Dad had gotten a good night’s sleep.

The guys got a late start so as to avoid traffic out of Las Cruces, which meant we all got to hang out with Mary, Nalla, and Soukuma some more.

Nalla tries out Tim’s bike

Mary and Soukuma

Texas bound

It was a pretty easy day for me, too. I saw Mary and the kids off, worked a bit in the room, then started for El Paso. The drive was striking for the many pecan farms along Route 28. Pecan trees are planted in grids, and it makes for a neat effect when you’re driving past them. I think one of the guys posted a photo, but here’s one from Flickr for reference. The desert was beautiful but we all welcomed the change of scenery.

I found the cyclists on a trafficky road in El Paso just a few miles from the finish line. They were all a little grouchy and were disagreeing about the best way to get to the hotel. Dad almost called it a day — after all, they’d made it to their destination city. But he decided to stick with the team and ended up leading them the rest of the way.

I checked in to the hotel, chatted with Chris a little bit, then realized I needed to go out and get some celebratory beer. I drove to a Walgreens and grabbed a cold six pack of Dos Equis. When I pulled into the hotel parking lot the bikes were lined up outside the front entrance. The ride was over.

DONE – but of course Tim is already mapping out L3

Hotel Art of the Day

Etched tree on yellow background
~6×6″
Courtyard Marriott, El Paso, TX

Sorry you can’t see this too well; it was really tough to get a good shot. It has an even cooler companion piece against a green background, but there wasn’t enough contrast for it to render well in a photo. And it wasn’t fully visible.

Hotel Art Score

6/10. I’m not thrilled with this choice of matting; I see what they were going for with the squares, but I think they should either have done a thinner white matte or none at all and used a slightly thinner frame. I’m thinking too much about mattes and not enough about trees. Also, this and its companion were hung in a weird spot, partially covered by the TV. But the smallness is great — it makes you look, and it’s pleasant to look at.

Art Art Score

6.5/10. This is actual art and I like it.

The trip is over, but I want to write about the rest of my L2 experience; I regret not having recorded the final days of my L1 adventure. This blog is for family and friends, but it’s also very much for me and for us. I will treasure being able to go back and relive these experiences.

Day 7: Kingston, NM to Las Cruces. I woke up in the early a.m. hours after my body sobered up, my throat parched from all of last night’s wine. My bed at Black Range Lodge was extremely comfortable, but I couldn’t relax back into sleep. I lay in bed thinking about work and life, finally going downstairs to turn on the coffee maker at 7.

Within a few minutes, Tom, staff cook and woodworker, freelance silversmith and gold digger, came in from outside and began making breakfast, chatting affably about life in Kingston. Mark and Tim filtered in, and we quickly downed a pot of very good locally farmed coffee. Black Range Lodge easily takes the prize for best coffee of the trip.

In continuation of my inadvertent weight gain plan, I enjoyed a hearty breakfast of French toast, eggs, turkey bacon, and fresh homemade bread. Then around 7:45 a glassy-eyed Brian zombied into the kitchen. Yet again he had not slept well. Today’s ride, while not mountainous, would be the longest, at almost 90 miles. I was seriously worried about his ability to make it, and so were his brothers. I kept making jokes that weren’t really jokes about how I could just drive him to Las Cruces. He insisted he was fine. He looked miserable.

A very tired Brian heads out of Black Range Lodge

The whole crew!

The guys, already bemoaning their late start, wanted to take off, but Catherine from Black Range Lodge needed to get the perfect “Leaving Kingston” shot. She tried to take a movie but my camera battery ran out.

After the bikers left, I did some work in my room and stressed out about Dad’s condition. If something happened to him, would it be my fault for not insisting he take the day off? I concluded that he’s a grown-up and it was his decision. His brothers would look after him and someone would call me if I needed to rescue him. Then I resumed stressing out.

I planned to meet them in Hatch, New Mexico, chile capital of the world, for lunch. I drove there on I-10 (speed limit 75, gulp) and didn’t pass them. I parked in a lot behind a gas station to worry more, making many fruitless attempts to track Dad’s location. I texted the team asking them where they were, but no one replied. After 20 minutes I started feeling antsy and self conscious, so I drove to a nearby Dollar General (there are many Dollar Generals in this part of the country) and parked Midnight Rider. For once feeling hungry (a rarity on this trip), or maybe just to take my mind off of not knowing when or whether I would ever see the guys again, I ate the small bag of Cool Ranch Doritos I’d been given by the cold check-in lady at the Holiday Inn Express in Silver City.

I’m not kidding when I say this: the happy childhood memories contained in the experience of eating Doritos were a magic balm; I instantly calmed down and finally started thinking clearly. Obviously the guys had taken a different route; they wouldn’t have gone on the interstate. I decided to head out to find them, and within minutes I passed Tim and Mark, who looked confused that I was going the opposite direction. About half a mile behind them I found Dad soldiering along.

I turned around, pulled up ahead of them, and told Mark and Tim to pick out a place for chile burgers. They asked if I’d seen my dad, which told me he’d been well behind them most of the day. I planned to try to convince him to give up again.

We ended up at Pepper Pot. Chili burgers were just what everyone needed (except Tim who was a wimp and got a regular burger) to power through the rest of the ride. I discovered that Dad’s phone had been on airplane mode, which explained why I couldn’t track him. I made my pitch for quitting, but he seemed much better after eating, so I gave it up and figured he’d be okay.

On the drive from Hatch to Las Cruces I even stopped to get out of the car and take some photos.

All of the photos look like this — indeed much of L2 looked like this

My cousin Mary arrived in Las Cruces about an hour after I checked in. I don’t get to see her often and it was really nice to catch up and spend time with her adorable kids. With the help of the tracking app I timed the guys’ arrival perfectly, and we all met them as they pulled up to the hotel. I gave Dad a hug. I was so happy his day of riding was over.

After relaxing for a bit we headed out to a nice dinner at La Posta, a huge restaurant in Mesilla that keeps a bunch of parrots in its lobby. This dinner is most notable for Tim discovering a beer he likes enough to drink regularly: Dos Equis.  He owes it all to Mark, who had been craving one (or more accurately, two) after the long day’s ride.

Nalla was good at dinner so she got to blow out the candles on the table

Hotel Art of the Day

I forgot to take a photo of the art but found one on the Springhill Suites website. You will now appreciate the efforts I have made to cut out the glare of the glass in my shots.

Blue, green, and gray tiles
~48″x24″
Springhill Suites, Las Cruces, NM

Hotel Art Score

5/10. It’s very easy to ignore this piece, which looks like a a close-up of a nice kitchen backsplash. Yeah, it goes with the sofa. It’s got some texture. It’s completely inoffensive. Its blandness works against it, though. The colors are too cold and unvaried to make the room feel homey. But its failure is partly the fault of the overall interior design of these suites, which I would label “confused modern” or “what it looks like when a contestant on a design show doesn’t have enough time to finish.”

Art Art 

3/10. I like the idea of examining everyday objects like tiles closely — genuine beauty and wonder can be found in things like this. But I detect no heart, and not much thought, behind this piece. It had the potential to be something real but it just doesn’t care enough.

Day 6: Silver City to Kingston, NM. Dad and Tim were pretty anxious about climbing Emory Pass on Black Range (aka Sierra Diablo, Devil’s Mountains). It was the coldest day so far, and Day 5 had been extremely windy. They didn’t know what to expect. Neither did I.

Mark projects confidence about the mountain climb while Brian and Tim are secretly shaking in their booties

The bikers quickly relaxed once enveloped by the mountain’s beauty. But I, a few hours later, cursed constantly in surprise and fear at how dangerous the road was. This was the twistiest path I have ever driven, and there were no guardrails. Driving off the road into my death was an unrelenting option. I greatly disliked having that option, just as I dislike having the option to jump onto the subway tracks or jump off a hotel balcony when it has a low railing. Plus, at every turn (so about 117 times) I thought, “Maybe they fell off there.” I worried for us all. And I had no cell signal, so I couldn’t track Dad’s location with the GPS app we have on our phones.

But it was gorgeous. In my sporadic calmer moments I felt like I was in Disney’s Davy Crockett, crawling through unspoiled, Technicolor splendor. (Is it sad that I often first think of Disney when I experience real-world beauty? Is it because beautiful wilderness is so foreign to me? I will explore this on my own time.)

At last, only about 15 minutes after I expected to find them, I found them. They were in good spirits and ready for more supplies.

I love the typography in the Gila National Forest sign

I breathed only a little easier for the 12-mile drive from the rest stop to our B&B. At one point (because at 15 mph, it seemed to be taking forever) I yelled, “Get me off of this mountain!” And then amended it to, “But safely, not by me driving over the edge.”

Thanks, me, for not driving over the edge.

The Black Range Lodge was pretty much as I expected: cozy, quirky, and hospitable. Roosters crowed. Dogs wandered into rooms wanting some petting. Catherine, the proprietor, gave me a tour and shared the history of the place. As a former assistant director in Hollywood who has written screenplays, she originally envisioned Black Range Lodge as a writers’ retreat. The lodge, and Kingston (pop. 24) in general, certainly make for a remote escape — maybe a little too remote for me — but it would be a good place to write if you want to cut yourself off from civilization.

Cozy bedroom at Black Range Lodge

The guys arrived about an hour after me, we had our snacks by a gas fireplace outside our rooms, then Tim and Mark went off to soak in the hot tub and Dad and I made dinner. We invited Catherine and her handyman Gary to join us, and thankfully I’d bought just enough chicken breasts for everyone. Dinner conversation topics included Vietnam, LBJ, and I don’t remember what else because I drank a lot of wine. I needed it after that harrowing drive.

We then retired to the game room and played pool while listening to Chuck Berry on the room’s CD player. I was in no shape for a game of anything, to everyone’s amusement. Tim dominated and humble bragged about not having played in years. Then Mark put on Sting’s Ten Summoner’s Tales while Tim read to us about the next day’s trek. All in all an unforgettable day.

“I’m really not this bad” – Me

Hotel Art of the Day

Light Iris (Georgia O’Keeffe. 1924)
22″x28″
Black Range Lodge, Kingston, NM

Hotel Art Score

9/10. If you’re a remote B&B in New Mexico you can’t go wrong with a Georgia O’Keeffe print. But let’s say I didn’t know there was such an artist as Georgia O’Keeffe, and this was just on the wall without any marker. It’s immediately obvious that this is in another class. It invites you into its spaces; it wants you to look, and look closely. It reminds you to go outside and look closely at the world. Plus the yellow in the flower ties in nicely with the wall.

Art Art Score

8/10. It’s kind of a different ballgame when the artist is critically lauded, but I’m trying not to let it affect my judgement. I should say that in general I’ve never been much of a fan of O’Keeffe’s work. My usual response (one I should maybe reconsider) is, “Oh, another flower that looks like lady parts. Mmhmm.”  But: I really like this piece. It’s intimate but not the most overtly “feminine.” Looking at it makes me feel peaceful. It’s just lovely.