I'm writing from the delightfully warm Plains Public Library as my iPhone charges up. I texted my brother to tell him that he was right: I should have bought that solar cell phone charger I saw back when we were shopping for this trip, as it's been a challenge keeping it charged. He texted me back.

Thad: That's why they call it Texas!
Me: Huh?
Thad: They call it Texas because it's hard to keep a phone charged up. It's translated from an old Indan word for "not able to charge up."

I had a great day off in Lubbock regrouping, which started with laundry at the delightfully named Happy Wash Pot laundromat. Then I picked up groceries at the Amigos grocery store across the street, which featured bilingual signage and "Prayer Candles" as one of the primary aisle headings, and a coffee at the nearby McDonald's. Who ever thought McDonald's coffee could taste so good? But it does, after all the tasteless gas station stuff I drink. And with REAL half-and-half, no less!

I spent the afternoon planning my route through New Mexico and Arizona, updating my blog, and stopping by the bike store to pick up a new tail light and tubes. Lastly I headed for the Texas Tech campus, where my CouchSurfing host Daniel is a medical school student, for the most important errand of the day: find the rec center hot tub Daniel had mentioned. It turns out they don't really let non-students or non-members in, but the guy at the front desk took pity on me and had me fill out a tour form so I could get in. I had the hot tub all to myself, and just as I got out a yoga class was starting up so I got in on that too.

So when it came time to get back on the road the next day I felt well-stocked and well-rested, but there was one last thing I had to do before I left Lubbock: visit the Buddy Holly Center. I never fully appreciated Buddy Holly's influence on rock and roll--after all, he'd only had a few hits in his tragically short career. But there was Paul McCartney, in a documentary, saying that the first 40 or so Beatles songs he and John Lennon wrote were basically copying Buddy Holly. Even his nerdy look got copied. Elton John went so far as to wear glasses even though he had perfect vision, and by wearing glasses, ruined his perfect vision to the point where he did need glasses. But probably the most surprising thing I learned about Buddy Holly was that he proposed to his wife, Maria Elena Santiago, within HOURS of meeting her. Very crazy, and very romantic.

I took Route 82 out of Lubbock with "Peggy Sue" in my head. About 10 miles out I saw a Target so I stopped in to get sunscreen, find a new pullover to the replace the old ratty one I lost, and pick up a couple more pairs of socks so I don't have to, uh, "recycle" quite so much. The checkout lady, eyeing my sporty purchases, asked if I was a runner, so I explained what I was doing. "So. . . do you rent a car when you. . . you know, stop places?"

"No, I just bike everywhere."

"So you're going to walk out of here and get on a bike."

"Yep."

"Woooowwww." I had a new fan.

I went into the bathroom to put on the new pullover, take the stickers and tags off all my new merchandise, and then out to the parking lot to pack up. Just as I was about to set out, I thought, "Hey. . . where's my wallet?" A thorough search of my pockets and bags turned up nothing. There was nothing in the bathroom. I fished my Target bags out of the trash: still nothing.

I asked the Target Customer Service lady if anyone had turned in a wallet. "Come with me," she replied curtly, in a tone that suggested I was in deep trouble. She led me to another store employee who asked, "Do you remember the name on the ID in the wallet?" Meaning, do I remember my own name? I did indeed, so I gave it to her. She disappeared. I was confused. . . did they have the wallet or not?  She eventually came back and explained that they had it, but they give valuables to the "big boss" who locks them up. So I waited around while the appropriate person and keys could be found to retrieve my wallet. This is the third time I've lost something in the past few days, and something pretty important. I'm VERY lucky to have gotten both my phone and wallet back. I resolved to pay better attention to my belongings.

The sun was already low when I reached Brownfield, about 40 miles from Lubbock, but I decided to continue on and take advantage of the absolutely optimal biking conditions--sunny skies, minimal wind, flat roads, and, once I'd crossed the Hockley County line, smooth pavement! This is every bit as big a deal as I'm making it out to be. Hitting smooth pavement in Northern Texas is similar, I'd imagine, to eating a filet mignon after a week of subsisting on dry dog food. I never appreciated it the way I do now.

Given that I was averaging 18mph without even trying, I was not about to stop. Of course, on this perfect, perfect day, a guy pulled over in a pickup to offer me a ride. I wanted to scream, "Where were you when I needed you, outside Crosbyton, on the day of gale force winds?" but instead I politely declined and continued flying along on my merry way into the sunset.

Yes, the sun was setting but I was having such a great ride, feeling energized, and eating up miles like nobody's business. Besides, I had a new taillight, which almost blinded me when I turned it on (next time I'll remember not to stare directly at it), and a nice wide shoulder to ride on, so I felt well equipped for night riding. Maybe, just maybe, I'd even make it as far as Plains, another 30 miles past Brownfield.

But as night fell, the wind picked up, and I lost some steam, my pace slowed accordingly.
At that point I remembered why night riding is such a bad idea: it gets awfully cold at night, and it's hard to find a place to camp in the dark. I continued on until I came to a dirt road, then shone my light around to find out what was there. I was not very shocked to find cotton fields on both sides. Was that dark oblong, barely visible in the distance, a cotton bale? Great! I'd set up my tent there.

I rolled my bike off the road into such loose, soft red soil that, until I touched it and found it dry, I thought my wheels were stuck in mud. It took all my strength to push the bike through it, and a large dose of patience as the dried cotton stalks scratched my legs to pieces. (I'll keep this blog G-rated and not reprint the obscenities that streamed forth.) The cotton bale was surrounded by just as many sharp stalks, leaving nowhere to set up the tent. I could either flatten all the stalks or. . .(here the lightbulb went on) I could sleep on TOP of the cotton bale! Yes!

Cotton bales are about 10 feet high. I tossed the necessary bags I'd need up easily enough, but getting myself up there was a bit of a challenge. When I stood on the seat of my bike, I could just reach the top of it. This one didn't have a tarp over it, so there was nothing to grab onto except the cotton itself, which, as you can imagine, comes loose pretty easily. I dug my toes into the sides and pushed myself up, which got me high enough to precariously hug the top of the bale with my armpits. I knew I had to act fast before the cotton I was clutching slid off, so I swung one leg over, grabbed onto a pannier that was already on top, and rolled over. I made it!

Camping on a cotton bale has pros and cons, just like anything else in life. The con is that if you forget something you need down on the ground, such as water, you just have to live without it. I couldn't cook rice, so I had to make do with orange juice and trail mix for dinner. However, the luxurious, cottony softness more than made up for this minor issue. I dug out a nest in the cotton, climbed into my sleeping bag, and, for good measure, scooped armloads of cotton over the top. I zipped up the mummy bag so that only my eyes were not covered, and drifted to sleep looking at the stars. I don't think I've ever felt so warm and cozy in my life.

I think there is money to be made here. Get a whole bunch of cotton, clean all the stems and pods out of it, and encase it in fabric for people to sleep on. Oh right, they have that already. It's called a mattress. Darn! I promise you I will come up with a novel use for cotton before this trip is over.