Riding to West Texas
W
by Debbie Wahrmund
hat happened in Marathon
started in Fort Davis.
Remembering the first time
we joined cyclists for the 75 mile scenic
loop outside Fort Davis is like dipping
into a pot of goulash; you know who the
first riders were, but after that it gets all
mixed up with memories landing in
Marathon. The memories include peo-
ple, flavors, and smells of West Texas
horsemint, too many mountains to
remember their names and impossible
sunsets and nights which have filled
books and inspired writers and artists
for generations.
The guys—The “Flying Dutchman”
and my husband—started it with the
September Cyclefest in Ft. Davis in
1998. They were always competing but
this time, they outdid themselves. They
were exhausted, pushed to the limit and
4
Cenizo
Photo: Leah Cohen
not a little hung over; intoxicated with
the triumphs of attacking Bear
Mountain, still breathing after climbing
elevations with a 2,000 foot change, and
clocking 40 miles per hour downhill.
Like flying, or defying death, destruc-
tion and maybe old age. They came
home with stories of the desert. Then
the women went.
The three real cyclists joined the ride
as I sagged with a friend from
Marathon. One rider claimed the word
“saggers” means super altruistic girls
and guys. I like that definition. The
guys had met our friend and her hus-
band the year before. The year we
“sagged” together, she created a mar-
velous “go juice” to get the riders over
the mountains. The juice was a blender
full of peanut butter, orange juice,
yogurt, tofu, honey, bananas, plus other
First Quarter 2014
secret ingredients, which she really
should patent. We would wait for the
group at the beginning of the first most
daunting mountain. There is a nice
shade tree and picnic table; I would set
up my camp chair, read a book and
offer encouragement. I did not feel
guilty in the least. They would drink
“go juice” and pedal on. As they cycled
through one impossible climb after
another, stories grew from the desert of
one-eyed Indian Giants appearing
behind the Point of Rocks (Syenite rock
piles).
The four of us traveled the 400 miles
from Austin for over ten years, and the
first journal was begun in 1999. Our
travel history has not been measured in
years but experiences. The whole trip
initially retraced steps from the camp-
site we reserved at the Davis Mountains
State Park (#83 is excellent) to the
return through Ozona. It only took a
couple of years for traditions to be bro-
ken, e.g. hamburgers instead of fried
chicken. We determined on our fourth
year that tradition would rule, no mat-
ter how silly. Tradition included break-
fast at the Indian Lodge before the ride;
outside dining at the Mexican restau-
rant in Ft. Davis with bring-your-own
beer and wine.
I would drive the group to Marathon
after we all packed and showered at the
park. That was the quietest time of the
whole trip. One by one they would fall
asleep. By Alpine there would not be a
sound. We would roll into Marathon at
our friends’ adobe and they would all
jump out like little kids saying, “We
aren’t tired, it
was a great continued on page 26