On one isolated stretch, Matt spotted a dot on the heat-wavy horizon (clearly not a car)-another bike perhaps? You can see so far ahead that a tree could be a road sign or a cyclist. My money was on road-sign. Ingrigued, we increased our pace and after a few miles realised what we were looking at a pedestrian. Could it be Alistair? Without any traffic (finally the Loneliest Road living up to its' name)-we steered into the far-lane to greet the guy by the roadside. As soon as I clocked his 'Wounded Warriers' t-shirt I knew we were looking at our new hero, Alistair. Matt chivalrously offered him water, but Alistair thanked him and said his father was riding support on this stretch. As if on que, a car pulled up a little ahead of us. We felt a little star-struck, having so admired the subject of yesterdays' front-page news. Alistair was very forthcoming and interested in our trip; an affable guy. When he mentioned that he was bound for Austin today (as we were)- and that his father was bound for a 'wine walk' in town, we were all over it. Any opportunity to spend more time chatting with this stand-out guy was one tasty carrot to keep us cycling (throw in some wine and its' 'Sugar-Daddy'; wild horses couldn't keep us away.) The newspaper had informed us that Alistairs' walk was fuelled by his best friend losing his arm in Afghanistan. This was his humble attempt to experience personal hardship for the benefit of his mate. Before we parted ways, we met Alistairs' support-crew and father, Peter. We hoped to meet again in the evening. Alistairs' resolution made our onward cycle feel like a speedy and luxurious limo-ride.
A few miles down the road, we spotted Peter parked up by the roadroad and stopped to say hello. Matt wanted to tell him about the hot-springs the teetotallers back at last nights' park had told us about. They were off our route but would be worth a drive. Robert was clearly (and duly)-proud of his son, and we were in turn impressed of his support efforts. We left him to walk walk off and join Alistair for a stretch; and hoped to meet again in Austin.
More gradual uphill; a spot of road-side lunch and some embrassing pee-stops later, we rolled down into Austin. Another town, another sheriff. Matt used his Johnny-English politeness to secure us a free camping spot at the town park. Given Matts' signature chivallry, I was shocked when he later described the good sheriff as 'the village idiot'. Once we secured camping-status, we made a few enquiries about this wine-walk. While we had missed the start of the wine-walk (an amble through town where every business-owner greets you with a glass or two of wine)- we were able to get some $10 tickets to the associated dinner.
Back at the park, we were thrilled to see that the town swimming pool was open, where we enjoyed our first swim since Kansas. Having expected a water-bottle splash-down, this was an unexpected treat. Fresh as cheap daisies we sidled back downtown, with the intention of grabbing some (beer) roadies to play-catch up with the wine-walkers. Sure enough, we met up with Alistaire and his dad, who were both enjoying a quaff out front of a bar. They were impressed by our 'civillain duds', as they were still in their walking-gear. We compared attire-kit (we have more)-then set off down the hill, to get our hay-ride up the mountain for our dinner.
This was my first hay-ride and we enjoyed the journey up to the mock-Roman tower of Stoke Castle. Once we had taken some pics, we pulled up at a long stone table with Alistaire and his old man. As the sun set brilliantly, we enjoyed our first exended conversation with these strangers-become-friends. Another highlight was our first experience of a 'Half-ie'; where the reckless bartender poured us each a tumbler of half white, half red wine. I'd love to see the reaction of a Frenchman but being the wine-buffs we are, we found it to be a taste-sensation.
Unfortunately we never got to ask all the many questions we had for Allistaire (we continued to think of them as we rode the following day.) Yet we really enjoyed a prolonged dinner with two new friends and some home-cooked dinner. After returning numerous times to the ladies serving dinner, Matt was rewarded with a personal delivery of all the left-over cookies in a ziplocked bag. The name is Bond, Hungry Bond. Wins everytime.
The evening passed enjoyably, and soon it was time to get back on the Hay-ride down to town. Alastair invited us back to their small motel room for a few beers and conversation. Far too tipsy for politeness, we eagerly accepted the offer. Having swung by the gas station for more beer, we found ourselves comfortably kicked back on the guys' twin beds; chatting and watching American football. Luckily for them, Matt remained sober enough to detect it was time to go; so we eventually bade the guys farewell and trotted back up the hill towards our tent in the park.
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