Missi-Zippy (USA Day 155)

I didn’t realise Franklinton police kept law-cockerels. Maybe it’s an interrogation tactic. Well, it works. We woke at 4:30 to its obnoxious crowing and I instantly confessed all my crimes to a bleary-eyed Amy. She granted me forgiveness and went back to sleep, but I stayed up, anticipating the cock’s next crow until it inevitably came, then tutting in irritation.

After two days of riding through sunset and out the other side, we were determined to beat the darkness today. The plan was to cross over the state line into Missisississippi and head for McHenry, where there was…actually, we didn’t know what was there, but it looked about the right distance.

Our first significant stop was Bogalusa, home of the Lumberjacks (apparently), whose stark concrete stadium backed onto a large power station that belched out great throatfuls of phlegmy smog into the Louisiana sky. What a place to play football. We picked up a t-shirt that we’d left behind in L.A. (Thanks, Leslie!) and dried our tent in the sun (SUN! ACTUAL REAL SUN!).

Bogalusa was our last experience of Louisiana, and while it didn’t leave a good taste on the palate, the state as a whole wasn’t bad at all. We met some brilliant people, had a feast for the senses in New Orleans and learnt a whole new meaning of the word ‘wet’ thanks to Olga. So to speak. It’s just that the majority of the roads and the views from those roads since we left the Mississippi have been dull as bayou water.

Crossing over a bridge with a shoulder thick with glass, we plunged into Mississippi. The state, not the river. Immediately, there was no shoulder, just a rumble strip and a white line. Clearly Mississipites like their cycling to have an element of risk. We rode steadily, calmly, with massive log trucks blasting past us every minute or so, until we had a chance to leave that infernal road and try something a little more rural.

At around 45 miles, Amy’s ankle began to hurt again. Luckily, we’d made up plenty of time by starting early, so we settled by the entrance to a farm and ate popcorn, re-applying some flexi-tape and trying to work out why. We don’t have an answer as it stands, but we resolved to apply some anti-inflammatory gel and ride on for a couple of miles until it hurt again, at which point we’d stop and find somewhere to camp.

It didn’t hurt again. Not until McHenry, anyway, 25 rolling miles later. Perhaps the gel did its work. Perhaps the quiet backroads and re-appearance of cute little hills made a difference to the head and the foot. Whatever the case, we settled on a patch of grass (with the homeowner’s permission) and made some turkey sandwiches, treading gingerly around the potential injury and its implications. The sun set behind clouds and we considered putting up the tent, when torchlight flashed on a nearby tree. Had someone come to kick us out? Were we going to be arrested?

“Quick,” I said. And then realised we had nothing to hide.

“You the bi-cyclists?” asked a man, his southern drawl making meaty work out of the words.

“Hi! Is it OK if–”

“Come on in,” he said, shaking our hands warmly. “My wife said you were out back. Came to check y’all were alright. You want coffee?”

Within minutes, he’d offered us a shelter in his outhouse, next to the motorbike, with a sink and a stack of plugs for our devices. Then we were drinking coffee on his sofa, with his chubby, waggy dogs, Missy and Lady, sipping at hot coffee and saying, “Thank you,” a lot.

We’re fine with camping. Amy actually sleeps better than me in the tent now. But I’m always happier indoors what with the weasles and woozles and so on. And it’s just started raining. Ahh.

No real pictures today, so here’s the debut of our new blockbuster game: A-Z of grocery shopping! A…