Chapter 3 Digging Deep

Day 3—April 8, 2006
76 miles from Panhandle to Silverton

A new day. It was cold, calm and clear. Eager to be on our way, we said goodbye to our hostess, Betty, at the Texan Motel. As we pulled out, Billie Poteet from the museum, honked us down. She had brought us sweaters to keep us warm. The Friendly State, indeed.
We biked south on 207. My diary entry reflected my sleepless night, “I’m tired, cold and a little grumpy.” It was calm enough for me to check in via cell phone with family and friends. We stopped to admire the VW Bug Ranch in Conway as we passed over Highway 40. 5 Volkswagen bugs were buried nose down in the ground similar to the Cadillac Ranch in Amarillo. We added our graffiti.
We celebrated mile 100 with a perfunctory kiss as we approached Claude and crossed over Highway 287. Thinking we better grab a warm meal, we stopped at The Crazy Little Café in Claude. The owner presented us with a copy of this saying: “Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, wine in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming…WOW, what a ride!” She said she thought we had earned the right to that saying. An older gentleman with intelligent eyes and a straight face entered the café. The owner asked, “How are you?” His curt reply made us smile. “If I was doing any better they’d be charging me happy tax.”
Biking south out of Claude we rapidly approached the Palo Duro Canyon, the second deepest canyon in the United States. We were awed by the glorious panoramic view. God’s palette included cool sage, fiery orange, vermillion red against a topaz blue sky. What a canvas! We coasted 3 miles down into the canyon stopping for frequent pictures. It was 4 easy miles across the canyon floor and 3 challenging miles up a 10% grade out of the canyon. When we realized the intensity of the climb, Rick announced that he would be walking. My pride never considered walking. I was biking across Texas, not walking! I had made it this far with our adversary the wind. I would handle this climb.
Well, I don’t guess I had ever biked a 10% grade for 3 miles before. I wondered how Lance Armstrong had conquered the French Alps. You wouldn’t catch him walking. I tried all kinds of strategies to keep going. I would bike 100 strokes and then stop and rest. That worked for awhile. Then I tried zigzagging up the slope to cut the grade. Next I tried biking from reflector to reflector before resting. Rick kept pace with me as he walked and didn’t look nearly as stressed. Rick knew his limits and didn’t struggle with the pride issue. Time after time we thought we had reached the top only to turn a corner to find another steep stretch ahead of us. I made it within ½ mile of the top before I finally swallowed my stubborn pride. Yes, I walked.
When we finally crawled out of the canyon, the treeless prairies resumed. We biked resolutely onward with only one noticeable change: the wind was now against us and picking up a pretty bad attitude.
By the time we finally made it to the tiny town of Silverton, we had a new definition for tired. We had dug deeper than ever before and pushed ourselves to new heights. As Rick dismounted his bike on the Courthouse square, he lost his balance because of his fatigue and the weight of his backpack and fell. He didn’t simply fall. It was a huge, slow production of a fall as he struggled to regain his balance. He finally landed on his backpack looking up at me. He reminded me of a turtle stranded on his back. There was no vestige of energy for sympathy and I just shook my head at him. To add insult to injury, our bunkhouse plans had fallen through so we were without lodging. We were too tired to think straight but knew that the Lord would protect and provide.
The next town with lodging was Quitaque 18 long and dangerous miles away. (Quitaque was pronounced “kitty quay” as in “get away to Quitaque.”) The sun was setting and it was growing colder as we headed out against our will and better judgment.
As we pulled away from Silverton, a big pup of a black Labrador retriever appeared out of nowhere going ninety to nothing. He had on a tight 2 inch wide collar. A 10 foot long one fourth inch metal cable was attached to the collar. He had busted loose and was celebrating his freedom. He took flight chasing 2 pheasant. When he returned to earth, he was off, nose to the ground on a jackrabbit trail. Then back he raced to us, his new traveling companions. As he chased an 18 wheeler and bolted out onto the road, I feared for his safety as well as ours.
As we stopped to put on our lights, here he came, tongue and tail wagging, tangling his cable up in our bikes. As much as we tried to discourage him, the dog was not going to leave us.
As we remounted our bikes to continue on to Quitaque, I thought again that this dog might get killed or cause an accident. Then it suddenly occurred to my overtired brain: maybe this dog was going to lead us to some place to spend the night.
With that thought, a well kept, brick home came into view just 50 feet off the farm to market road. The dog ran up to the front porch and finally came to a stop. As I threw down my bike and approached the house, I knew exactly what was going to happen next. This was our home away from home for the night.
Gary McMullen answered the door with a Texas wide smile on his face. He helped me catch the renegade dog that was my excuse for ringing the door bell in the first place. “Hercules” had been on the loose all day. He had escorted us 4 miles from his home in Silverton to the McMullen’s. As we talked, Gary strongly discouraged us from continuing on to Quitaque. “It’s getting dark and cold. Quitaque is 14 miles away. You can’t do that! It wouldn’t be a good idea.” Well, we knew that and were quick to agree. By now, Gary’s wife, Sharon, had joined us out front and was hugging her arms to herself, dancing in her bare feet in the chilly night air. Then came the happy invite and our grateful acceptance.
Within 5 minutes we were in the house and friends for eternity. “I was a stranger and you took me in….” We shared their meal, got the tour of their home, and were introduced to all the children and grandchildren by way of the pictures on the wall. Sharon told me of her darling Mother, Jonnie Weaver, back in Silverton. Sharon got our her best towels, white and fluffy. A shower never felt so good! As I slipped between the soft, cool, clean lavender sheets that night, I thought how very much God loved us. Exhausted after biking 76 miles through two canyons, I went to sleep with another big smile on my face and slept the sleep of peace, perfect peace.