Bob Dylan may just be the best songwriter to ever live, maybe, but he sure as shit never road a bicycle down route 61 or he may have included- amongst his vast repertoire- a song about it's lack of maintenance lighting or signage.
And if he did, ride a bike along the shoulder, he might have included a lyric (now I'm no song writer here) or two about bringing protections against flats, cuz if you ever attempt the same, you will get one.
If not on the incredibly rocky shoulder littered with debris ( I think I saw an alligator carcass, definitely exploded a possum like a pizza pocket) then by accident when you inevitably, roll onto the caution strip of grooves dug two inches deep into the asphalt to protect Louisiana's frequently drunk motorists from veering into the bordering swamp.
Did I mention there are no lights?
So in the pitch black changing a flat was relatively effortless and a nice man driving with his daughter stopped to let us borrow the light from his high beams.
A former cyclist, Dave offered to take us to Baton Rouge (about thirty miles out) in his pickup or to come and have some food at his abode, less than 8 miles up the road.
Too focused on completing the days goal on our own two legs, We politely declined.
He gave us his card and informed us that the address we were going to in Baton Rouge was about 15 miles west of where the town began, totaling our travel at around 45 miles.
It got damn cold damn quick, and being stopped we could feel it.
Biking, singing songs, good to have company.
A monstrous skyline in the distance so bright and wide it looked like El Derodo, made fools of us both as we attempted to explain its meaning.
Sam said it looked odd, and I agreed, Partial, somehow the buildings looked destroyed or decaying.
They weren't buildings at all, but part of a gigantic industrial mess of towers and smoke stacks, not quite El Derodo. Damn it was depressing.
I should point out that the real bogs and swamps of Louisiana are beautiful and despite the undesirable condition of the roads and other slight un-pleasantries, the ride itself was enjoyable and I worked off that hangover good.
Sam went from "Hero to Zero" near the last twenty miles and we inched a mile or so into Baton Rouge when we decided to call our sponsor.
Jovial Alex, a friend of a very good friend we met n New Orleans, lived n Baton Rouge and was more than happy to give us a ride to his house from the edge of town where we waited patiently in the Parking lot of a 'Jack in the box' Gnarsing on peanut butter and bread.
A good guitar player and lover of soul music, Alex graciously shared his warm apartment with us and with his roommate suddenly removed from the equation there was even an extra room.
We talked about motorcycles (he plans to buy an 53 Indian and travel the country with it)and his future tattoos; a full sleeve Marvel vs. DC comic in the works coming soon.
Thanks Alex!
It accidentally became 2 in the AM and I was left remembering Ben and the triumphant goodbye we shared this afternoon. Possibly the worst morning person I have ever shared close quarters with, "Bumpiss Benjamn Bunny Hills", arose at 8AM after a hefty night filled with Admiral Horatio Nelson's finest rum or rum flavored alcoholic beverage, and accompanied us two hours along the levy path to our bridging street on to highway 61 before returning, most likely to a warm Kamp Katrina bed.
The occasion was all together warm and it was agreeable to watch him go, back to New Orleans to do what he please.
I know Ill see that mother-fucker, one way or the other. A perfect goodbye has no tears, only smiles... and shameless brotherly singing.
Travel well friend, let the gnars find you and the big blessin's pop.
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