my brancale
After getting directions to the Highway I started pedaling and immediately felt several sore muscles. I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, yesterday was the first time in a week and a half since I’d done any riding. I did some stretching at each of my stops, but it didn’t prevent my right knee from hurting.
I continued through Coker and Gordo, stopping in Carrollton (pop 1,104) where I bought a Pepsi and sat on the steps of the courthouse to drink it while I ate a couple of sandwiches.
As I ate, a couple of Black guys in their thirties came over. They wore unbuttoned shirts which were tied at the waist in front, and cigarettes dangled from their lips. They were equally amazed as they learned about what I was doing. I really don’t think these roads have ever seen a cross-country cyclist.
On the way to Aliceville a man stopped in front of me and popped out of his car. He introduced himself as W. C. Carroll and said he’d seen me earlier while he was delivering newspapers. W.C. was just curious and didn’t think I’d mind if he asked a few questions. After I answered a few of the Usual Questions he gave me a free newspaper, along with his address, and said he’d like a story later. I gave him my home address, but I never heard from him.
The heat was oppressive. If you’ve ever been in the South prior to a thunderstorm you’ll know that it feels like you’re in a pressure cooker. After it rains, the pressure releases and you can exhale.
I envied those fancy, expensive Bell helmets that created a cooling breeze as it passed through those massive air vents. My Brancale helmet, the best that I could afford, was basically a thin piece of hard plastic, and on hot days it was like a convection oven cooking my brain. It could do the job of protecting my skull, but today I took it off for a while because the day had become so hot that wearing it was simply intolerable.
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In Aliceville (pop 3,207) I stopped at the gas station and the attendant, Pee Wee Spain, chatted me up. I learned that he’s the brother of Professor Spain at Baylor (my alma mater as of two months ago), and that Professor Spain happened to be visiting his hometown of Reform at that time, a mere twenty miles away from where we were standing.
Out of curiosity, I googled “Professor Spain Baylor.” I learned that he was a history professor and that, as of this writing, he's still alive at 98.
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