After more than 2.5 years on the bike, after 30 countries in which we have pedaled, frozen, sweated, cursed and marveled, the inevitable is approaching: the end of our journey.
It still feels unreal, but March is not far away. From Florida we will take the ship to Europe. We’ll be back in Berlin in June. Our home. Our old life.
But we’re not there yet. We are still in Texas.
Of encounters and new old stories.
Our break was urgently needed – sleep, wash, eat, check the bikes. And then? On we go. Next stop: Houston. Hopefully without any problems. Texas is unlike anything we’ve ever experienced before. Wild camping? Forbidden. And they mean it. Glenn, our host for one night, told us stories that would fit better in a bad western. But Glenn is also one of those encounters that shape a trip forever.
He accepts bicycle travelers – usually those going to Mexico, not those coming from Mexico. We are a first. And what a first. Glenn knew Ansel Adams personally. Adams, the master of light, my favorite photographer. Glenn shows us his own black and white photographs, developed in his own lab, with his own hands. They are breathtaking. The kind of pictures that give you goosebumps.
He cooks for us. He takes us a little way by car the next morning because roads are closed and we would otherwise have to drive endless kilometers of detour. People like him are the reason why this trip is so special.
A night among the stars and wild animals
Texas is not always easy. Headwinds, flat tires, a stubborn brake – we’ve had it all. But then there are moments when you just stand there, speechless. Like this evening, when we were allowed to spend the night on a ranch. The house that we thought was the main house? Just the garden shed.
We sleep among cows, deer, raccoons. And an alligator. All curious, all at a distance. A night under the open sky, somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Texas.
The next morning we get a marvelous breakfast and a glass of American Beautyberry for the way.
New Year’s Eve in the middle of nowhere
While others are getting dressed up, setting off firecrackers and clinking champagne glasses, we are sitting in a nature reserve, wrapped up in our sleeping bags, with canned food and headlamps. The forest is our firework display.
We have been driving from the Mexican border towards Houston for eleven days now. The rhythm has long since returned. And we like it. It’s slow, honest travel. The people here wave to us, stop and ask if we need help. Some give us a few dollars – just because they admire our journey.
But Texas also shows another side. The roadside is lined with roadkill. It’s a gruesome sight that makes us cringe every time. We experience a world in which truck drivers kindly stop to give us water, and at the same time one in which poverty and wealth exist side by side without touching.
And then Houston.
A sign and a statement in Texas
We spend the night at Greg’s house. There is a sign in front of his house. On it are words that sound simple, but are not self-evident here:
– Black Lives Matter
– Love is Love
– Feminism is for everyone
– No Human being is illegal
– Science is Real
“I can’t believe this even needs to be said here,” says Greg. But it needs to be said. Louder than ever before.
We leave Houston behind us and take the Amtrak train to New Orleans. There we get back on our bikes. A few more weeks. A few more cold nights. A few more unforgettable encounters.
But then? Then it’s over.
The thought catches me off guard. We’ve learned to keep going, to never really look back. But now that the end is within reach, it pulls the rug from under my feet. How does it feel to come home when being on the road has been our home for so long? I don’t know.
But we will find out.
We had some beautiful and amazing cycling days in Texas and it was surprisingly wonderful with how much respect the drivers responded to us. Thank you for this.
