The pecan pie was cursed!

Today was a day off from moving cross-country.  I gathered my laundry for washing, then my work gear.  There were two cemeteries in the town and I was going to set up the chair and write code from one of them.  Cemeteries are always relaxing. You’d be hard-pressed to find a more relaxed crowd, metabolically speaking.

“My heart rate wouldn’t go down for so long last night I was starting to get worried.”
“Finishing off that mocha at 6:00pm last night may have been a factor.”
“Was it really that late?! Crap, I forgot about that…”

The laundromat didn’t have an ATM so I rode up the street to a Wells Fargo and accepted a three dollar fee to get some of my own dang money.  From there I zig-zagged a while and took some photos, then returned to the laundromat.

I put my laundry in two machines, for a hot and cold wash.  One machine tried to eat my quarters but the attendant came over and bludgeoned it, and it started up.

I sat at a picnic table outside and read news on my phone.  A ramblin’ man was leaned back on the long seat of his Harley nearby, napping in the sun.  In a few minutes he woke up and spotted my weird bike, unfolded himself, and rambled over to talk to me about the joys of two-wheeled travel.  He was borderline incoherent but I did manage to hear, “I rode a bicycle once, all the way down to the Grand Canyon.  Thought about doing it again but I gotta admit to myself now that I’m too old, heh heh.”

After that he rambled inside and extracted his laundry from a machine – a heavy sleeping bag – which he rolled carefully up on the floor of the laundromat and then stowed in his bike, which he then fired up.  On his first try to leave he turned a little too sharp and capsized his bike in the dust.  I helped him pull it upright since he wasn’t quite strong enough to do so.  “Dang,” I thought.  “I wonder what this guy’s story is.  How did he end up out here, with nothing but boots and a bedroll, and a bike that might crush him any day?”

I gathered my own laundry, and rode over to one of the two graveyards.  It was quaint.  The central-American influence was prominent.

A nice quiet sunny place to do some work.
Site of another auto death.
Saw a cross just like this on an island in Iceland.
Another of those bleak and touching townships of the dead.
He died with his boots on, then was buried under them.
What are these for?

I sat and worked for a couple of hours, then processed some photos and examined maps of the route ahead.  It got cold quickly again, so I rode back to the hotel.

In this rown, you need to know where this is.

Nick was hungry so we searched for food.  We tried to hit the same restaurant as before but they were already closed.  Their hours didn’t match what they had in Google.  How dare they, in this digital age!

Instead we got takeout at a “Chuck Wagon” place near the highway, including dessert, which for me was a slice of pecan pie in a box.  We watched the “South Park Pandemic Special” back at the hotel, and I crammed the pie into my face just before bed.

Late at night I woke up, feeling quite ill in the stomach.  I tossed for a while but couldn’t sleep.  40 minutes later I got up and barely made it over to the toilet before heaving one giant barf inside.  It was mostly liquid and some pecan pie bits, and as soon as it was out I felt immediately better, and fell back asleep easily.

That pecan pie was cursed!

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