To the River's End: Chapter 36 Disaster Strikes, Approaching New Orleans, The trip changes

My wife Sue arrived in Baton Rouge late in the afternoon after a marathon two day drive down from Minneapolis. It has been several weeks since she left us behind in Missouri so our reunion is long awaited. We meet in the parking lot of a library and she is relieved to find both of us in one piece, though a bit ragged and worn on the edges. My riding attire has faded considerably and my black saddlebags are now a have a faded purplish hue. I am as tan as a beach bum and a bit skinnier. Murphy is a matted dirty mess just how he likes it. We put the bike on a roof rack and head for a motel room across town. By now it's dark and the drive becomes an exercise in frustration as the GPS unit we have is fighting with the smart phone over who is right. These devices are truly wonderful but not infallible. After getting sent in the wrong direction at a key turn we end up in a hopeless maze of freeway interchanges and even helplessly cross a huge bridge over the river miles out of our way. When we finally arrive at the motel our nerves are frazzled. We pull up under the entrance canopy, the car is suddenly jolted with a shudder. A sickening screeching sound is followed by a bang and then silence. What the...? The bike on the roof just got pulled off by the roots. The canopy was too low. I get out and spot it laying on the asphalt at the edge of the pool of light from the canopy. My noble yellow steed of the last 2,000 miles and 38 years is mortally wounded. The frame is bent at an unnatural angle, the top tube is snapped.

She's hurt bad.

It is beyond repair. Since Sue was at the wheel at the time she is horrified at what just happened. She apologizes but I share the blame. We both had forgotten it was on the roof. I am puzzled at the damage wrought by this fabric canopy until I realize that on the inside, behind the fabric is a steel I-beam that would have sheared the top off a Sherman tank.
I am still in shock. What now? Maybe it's best we just call it the end of the bike trip and drive down the rest of the way. Sue wants to drive home immediately, she is distraught with this turn of events. I picked up the remains and gently placed them in the back of the truck. The mood in the motel room is cheerless and somber. Even Murphy seems to know something is wrong. The evening moves along slowly until sleep mercifully closes in. Meanwhile, an idea starts to form in the back of my mind.
I had been thinking about getting a mountain bike since last spring. My steelhead fishing trips to Canada have for years involved long hikes down logging roads perfect for a mountian bike. I hadn't even brought the subject up with Sue to date as I already had one too many bikes in her view.

Now might be a good time to bring up the subject.

I am thinking...I could finish the trip with a new mountain bike. I could dust off my remaining road bike back home and customize it to my new long distance travel bike.
I propose my plan and ridden with guilt she is more than happy to go mountain bike shopping the next morning. Timing is everything.

Capital Cycles in Baton Rouge is able to track down a bike that fits me. I get it equipped with a luggage rack, water bottle rack, rear view mirror and special road tires. When they roll out the kitted out and fitted final product it dwarfs the technician. He calls it "the Clydesdale" and so is thus christened. For me a leap in technology, both light and rugged. It is a beauty. Sue does not even ask the final cost.

From this point forward Murphy is being chauffered by Sue in his ruby red limo. I am riding my new bike flying along without any gear. It is ridiculously easy going. The miles melt away. The trail is now following the Mississippi river levee along the "River road" which is now a endless series of huge loops like ribbon candy. For each mile of straight line point A to B driving for Sue I go seven miles. The scenery is a jarring mixture of industrial facilities and leftover estates from the plantation days.

Historic Hospital to treat leprosy actually called
"Hansen's Disease" to avoid the stigma connected with it.

One former plantation I pass is quite historic in that it was the site of the only leprosy colony in the United States for many years. A small museum informs me that the building and later village was home to several hundred sufferers of the disease. Research conducted here led to the first truly effective drug that is able to control and actually reverse it's ravages. At the time, lepers were feared and ostracized even by family members. It is now understood to be caused by a bacteria that is actually quite difficult to transmit. Not a single instance occurred at the place in its history.
That afternoon we started to look for a place to stay that night. This is not a tourist area by any measure, yet everything was booked. We called a dozen places up to 50 miles away. We were later to learn that the floods last summer around Baton Rouge had resulted in a massive clean up and repair effort that attracted workers from across the country. These workers had been based out of the motels for weeks. We finally found one with a room available due to a cancellation. As I approach New Orleans, the landscape becomes very industrialized.

Threading the needle through refineries.

I pass giant refineries, processing facilities, and coal yards all tied by overhead piping and conveyor belts to terminal facilities along the river. Ocean-going ships are able to navigate up the river as far as Baton Rouge.

Ocean ship beyond the levee.

I see the super structures of these big ships poking up from behind the grassy levee looking like they are half buried in the grass from my perspective. The last twenty miles into New Orleans the MRT is a paved path right on top of the levee. It's a great view being 40 feet above it all, the river on one side and an ever changing landscape as these industrial facilities give way to the outlying neighborhoods of the city.

For me the nature of the trip has changed. I no long need worry about finding a place to eat or sleep
each night. They are within easy reach with Sue a phone call away. She ranges ahead and paves the way for my arrival. Without Murphy in his trailer and my loaded saddle bags, I no longer am a novelty. The people I meet are not curious, no more questions; where am I going, how far each day? Now I am just a guy on a bike, probably lives 5 miles down the road. Even when I tell them what I am doing I get this "oh that's nice" response. They don't really believe me. I don't look miserable enough.