Possibly for the first time, we’ve been stumped, thwarted in our plans for a city exploration and a city escape.

In the past, we’ve successfully navigated our way through an agglomeration of the Americas’ cities; many were characterised as high-adrenaline jousting tournaments, tourneys with and against the local variants of public transport. Some were an intricacy of map-reading navigation, whilst others were a pleasure of simplicity. Into this last category falls our first entry into southern Houston, some years ago. By dint of that city’s bayous, quality mapping and the bicycle’s ability to kerb hop and legitimately trespass, we arrived at our destination easily. A scenario that leads to complacency, and we had assumed that a similar story could easily be replicated around its northern suburbs.

It’s early October and the summer paid-work season is over, it’s time for the winter touring season to begin. We’ve flown back to retrieve our “other” touring cycles, the ones that reside in the Western Hemisphere, with the intention of returning to where we left off in March, by way of the Amtrak to El Paso. Only that little ‘gremlin’, the one that feels it necessary to curtail a tour’s departure by either losing baggage for eight days, or by mysteriously rendering down wheels, has, on this occasion decided to cancel the train. The reason is not forthcoming, but the remnant shadow of hurricane Harvey can still be glimpsed in many ways. So we’ve decided to start pedalling, to head west and catch the same service further along the tracks in San Antonio.

First we need to escape the city and as we’re residing in the northern ‘burbs, that dictates the best direction to head. Only each of the numerous enclaves of habitation that bracelet the city are connected by just one highway…. an Interstate highway! So, no meandering though leafy lanes to ogle the myriad architectural tastes, no back streets to thread a route, no accommodating ferries, no accessible metros; however there is a frontage-road. Such infrastructures being generally favoured by donkey-carts, golf-buggies and panniered-cyclists. We’ve used them on several occasions, and they can be a saving grace, solving many routing problems in the past. Only, on this occasion the three lane frontage has become the over-spill for the motorway and is driven in a similar manner: nought to sixty in momentary seconds, undertake, overtake, lane jump, indicators optional; just remember – take no prisoners.

We give it a trial run, without the full traveling kit, just to see, just for a few blocks. The road noise is all-enveloping, the speed intimidating, the relentless surge to somewhere else, mesmeric. We play the game for a handful of blocks, decide that the adage about discretion and valour is valid and stick our metaphorical tails between legs and trudge back along the grass verge.

Stumped and spooked, thwarted and humbled. It’s time to eat ‘umble pie and accept Rob’s generous offer of a lift out to the sanity of small country-town Texas.

Was it prophetic, portent or plain warning? One of our city explorations had been to the National Museum of Funeral History. All gleaming hearses, over-wrought coffins and a ‘Bat-mobile’. The latter’s inclusion juxtaposed beside its creator’s coffin is classic “only in USA”, and leaves me pondering: maybe we could usefully use a ‘Bat-bike’ out there, on Interstate 45? I suspect that it would raise less interest than two retreating cyclists.