October 10, 2008
adios el paso, cecil and his chihuahuas
Day Nineteen
"Never judge a heart by its scars."
- John Mark Green -
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Having packed and eaten breakfast by 8:30, Klaus and I hit the busy streets shortly thereafter.
I don't know about you, but I really like riding in large metropolitan areas. Well, except for all of the bleating cars and trucks. And, of course, the semis and RVs crowding past you like a fat man in the aisle of an airplane. And the accompanying brain-melting cacophony the traffic produces. Oh, and the pollution that you can actually taste. And the hurried, angry drivers. And the lack of shoulders. And the ugly scenery. And the neverending stoplights. But really, other than that, I really like riding in large cities.
We stopped at Circle K and answered some FAQs, then stopped again at WalMart for some Clif bars, cereal, and a few other staples.
I didn't take many pictures today because there wasn't much here that was worthy of a picture. My impression of this side of El Paso is that it has more linear feet of barbed wire per capita than any other city in the country.
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Klaus broke another spoke just before Fabens. For some reason, it's always the same spot. He didn't break a single spoke all across Russia, Mongolia, and China. Now they're breaking like glass teeth. On the positive side, he's getting so fast at replacing them that it won't be long before he'll be able to change it out without getting off his bike, or even slowing down.
Lunch was at Pop's Better Burger. Having eaten a lot of hamburgers over the past couple of weeks, I’m not sure if “Better” is an actual fact or simply aspirational. It was better than a few, worse than most.
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3 months ago
We had a headwind, but made good time. In Tornillo (pop 1568) we stopped to stock up. I bought a gallon of water since we're going to be dry camping tonight.
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A huge farm vehicle pulled out in front of us and we drafted behind it for about two to three miles. It was going a little slower than we would've liked, but it was a nice break... it was really easy to pedal behind it.
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Just past Esperanza we started looking for a place to pitch our tents. The sun was starting to get low.
The mosquitoes were terrible, and each time we stopped they instantly surrounded us with their buzzing symphony of bloodthirst.
A pride of lions, a convocation of eagles, a parliament of owls.... different groups of animals have different names. You might find it unsurprising that a collection of mosquitoes is called a scourge of mosquitoes.
There were a few places along the side of the road where we could surreptitiously pitch our tents, but we decided to stop and ask someone if we could use their yard instead of trying to stealth camp.
This part of the country is isolated so there weren't many houses, but we eventually saw one on an unpaved side street. We stopped at the first driveway we saw, the only driveway we saw, and were immediately met at the locked gate by three barking chihuahuas. While we waited I glanced around the yard.... there was a short, yellow school bus with rust along the edges. It looked like it hadn't seen a child in twenty years, and hadn't moved in more than that. The yard had more dirt than weeds, and no grass whatsoever. There was a tin shed outbuilding that looked like some kind of workshop, and the faded yellow house beside it was squat and low, as if the sun and heat had pounded it down over the years.
After shouting our hellos above the barking chihuahuas, a man came out. He had long graying hair and a beard to match. Miles etched his face. His shirt was unbuttoned and he was smoking a slender, brown cigar.
Klaus told him our story and asked if it would be okay to pitch a tent in his yard.
"Why don't you just sleep inside? That way the mosquitoes won't get you."
We were pretty happy about that. He introduced himself as Cecil, and suggested we roll the bikes into the garage, which was currently being used for storage. It was supposed to rain tonight, he told us, and the bikes would stay dry inside the garage.
“But watch out for rattlesnakes, though.”
We chatted outside for a minute as we took the gear off our bikes. I rolled my bike in first, carefully scanning the ground for snakes as my eyes adjusted to the dark.
When we walked into the house, I saw that the kitchen counters were covered with unwashed dishes, beer cans, cans of insecticide, and a sundry of other items piled everywhere. Not an inch of space was uncovered. There were about fifty flies hovering over the sink, and some other adventurous explorers in other areas of the house. Beer cans were everywhere. The living room had tools on the floor, a generator in the corner, and more beer cans. The couch was covered with a variety of papers, magazines, clothing, and other utilitarian items. There were some grease stains here and there.... on the carpet, on the couch, on the door, and I thought if my wife let me work on my bike in the living room ours would look the same.
He was a good host, and immediately offered us a can of cold Milwaukee's Best beer. He apologized, saying that was all he had. He clarified the statement by adding that not only were there no other drinks in the house, there wasn't any food, either. We didn't care; we were just happy to be where the mosquitoes couldn't get us.
We both noticed his hat sitting on the couch. It had a rattlesnake's head on the front, mouth open and fangs bared. When we remarked what a cool hat it was, he told us he had just killed the rattlesnake last week. It had been in the shed where our bikes are being stored. He had left the door open in the hope that it would leave on its own, but after a few days he decided he should probably kill it so it doesn't bite him or someone else.
"This is what I used," he explained, then walked over to the couch where he unsheathed a machete, then held it up as the three of us stared at it.
We talked a long time that evening. I learned that he was raised near Sacramento, and received a partial scholarship to MIT right out of high school. Even on a partial scholarship he couldn't afford to go, so he signed up for the Air Force. He knew he'd be getting drafted soon, and enlisting afforded him the opportunity to choose which branch he went into instead letting the government decide. He already had a Private Pilot's license, and maybe that would help him some.
Four weeks into Basic Training he got called in to the Commanding Officer's quarters. There were two very serious-looking FBI agents there who wanted him to explain some things... like why he burned his draft card. They showed him a movie that had been taken several weeks before in Berkeley in which he was filmed burning it. Cecil explained to them that "I didn't need it. I was already signed up." His commanding officer told the FBI guys that Cecil was an exemplary soldier and it didn't really matter NOW, did it?
Once out of Basic, he went to flight school and learned to pilot the F-4. He flew several tours, and was shot down three times.
I got the impression that Cecil doesn't talk about his wartime experiences much, but he did share with us about one of the missions when he was flying over North Vietnam and his plane was shot down. He disabled the auto parachute because he didn't want to be slowly floating down while people were shooting at him. Instead, he waited until the very last second and pulled the manual parachute release. It slowed his descent, but only marginally. Falling through the trees, he broke both ankles, his right tibia and fibula, and several ribs. He survived three weeks by eating insects, berries, and roots. He crawled when he had to, but mostly stayed in the water, eventually making it to South Vietnam.
Cecil said he was eventually "kicked out" of the military because he "began enjoying it too much."
He looked down at the machete in his lap and said there were no guns in the house because he doesn't trust himself with one. "I think I could kill someone and feel absolutely no remorse." He said it matter-of-factly, with no hint of machismo, or even emotion. Like he had just opened the refrigerator and said, "Huh. I'm out of mustard."
With those words, "I think I could kill someone..." a stillness fell over the room. I stole a glance at Klaus' expressionless face.
Then, still looking at the machete, he added, "if they were breaking into my house."
Once out of the service and back in the States, Cecil went back to school and got a bachelor's degree in engineering, "which I haven't used since." He does do his own home repairs, though, and had been up on the roof earlier in the day.
He lived in Council Bluffs, Iowa, until about four years ago, then moved to Pecos, Texas. Two years ago he traded houses with a guy who wanted to live in Pecos.
Cecil has three dogs: Bugs, Buster, and Misty, the chihuahuas we met when we first came to his gate. He obviously loves them a lot, and talked to them frequently while we were there.
Klaus and I took turns showering, then cooked some of Klaus' minestrone soup. After that we watched Bandidas (Selma Hayek, Penelope Cruz), a truly terrible movie.
We went to bed when Cecil did, around 10:30. When all of the lights were out, I lay on top of my sleeping bag in the warm house and worked on my blog. However, when the flies began swarming around me and landing on my PDA because of its light, I decided to call it a night.
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Some people might have a tendency to judge Cecil. I hope not. This is a man who opened up his home to two complete strangers. On his very limited income he offered us what he had, beer. He let us use his shower and was as gracious a host as you could want, trying to make sure we were comfortable, offering us a movie for entertainment. He opened up his house, and he opened up his life.
He realizes he has emotional difficulties and deals with them the best he can, with the skills he has.
He served our country when asked.
He gives all of the beer cans, an amount which could significantly reduce the national debt, to his neighbor with four sons to help pay for their education.
Cecil is one of the good guys.
In spite of his words ("I think I could kill someone and feel absolutely no remorse"), neither Klaus nor I had the sense of him being dangerous.
...still, I checked to make sure the machete was still on the couch when he went to bed. Klaus checked too, independently, and we laughed about it later.
By the way, the town we're in, Esperanza, is Spanish for soap.
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addendum: Esperanza actually means “hope,” not soap. Say this sentence out loud: “Esperanza means hope” and you’ll see why I misheard, especially in that context.
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distance: 72.5 miles
average speed: 12.9 mph
maximum speed: 22.7 mph
time on bike: 5:35:41
cumulative: 923 miles
Today's ride: 73 miles (117 km)
Total: 923 miles (1,485 km)
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The best!
3 months ago
Bob's platoon was being overrun, and they were down to 6-7 men with ammunition running low. They all knew they were going to die that night, so he looked at each one of them, individually. To a man, wordlessly, they just nodded back to him, and he got on the radio to call down artillery on his position. Then they climbed into their foxholes and waited. The bombing went on for a couple of hours, until dawn, and when it was over he climbed out of his hole, blood coming out of his ears. Miraculously, none of them were killed and they were able to sneak out past the dozens of bodies killed in the bombing.
I can't even imagine, and Cecil's experiences remind me of some of the tales I hear at work.
3 months ago
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