Denton to Oklahoma and back on a rickety bicycle

How could I forget the blistering heat of the summer of 1980? I was living in Denton, Texas, and in an effort to save money I never used the air conditioner in my apartment near the North Texas State University campus. A window fan circulated hot air—that was it. We had 44 consecutive days of 100° weather, and it peaked at a torrid 113°.

Back then, I fancied myself somehow indestructible. So I did not hesitate to go out on 5-mile runs in the middle of the day. On one of those days, however, I was forced to admit I needed to scale back. Halfway through my workout under a punishing sun, my legs were getting wobbly. I found a shady place to rest for a few minutes before resuming.

The conclusion of that 44-day 100°  streak is etched on my brain even now. Several times, the weatherman had predicted rain that never came. When we finally got rain, there was an abundance. I walked out into the parking lot of my humble apartment building and just stood there as the rain poured down. After suffering through so much relentless heat, it seemed cathartic for the dry earth, for the buildings, for me and for every living creature in Denton. We were dessicated and in urgent need of rehydration. Wearing nothing but sandals and a pair of shorts, I got the soaking of a lifetime.

A couple of weeks before the clouds opened up and released voluminous H₂0, I took a little journey. It was a Sunday morning, and I decided to ride my bicycle to the Texas-Oklahoma border, 47 miles to the north. How foolish! The bike was a second- or third-hand thing I had picked up at a local garage sale. I certainly was not in shape for a long-distance bicycle ride, even under ideal conditions. This was quite a few years before the advent of cell phones, so if I had been hurt or got stuck somewhere I knew I would have to improvise.

Highway 35 ran north-south, so it would not be a complicated trip. In fact, it would consist of a single 180-degree turn—assuming I made it to the border. The first part went fine since the sun had not yet risen too high in the sky. Furthermore, the wind was at my back. I passed through Gainesville, and after perhaps three hours of non-stop pedaling I arrived at the halfway mark. I actually rode over the bridge into Oklahoma just to say I had been there. Fairly exhausted and dreading the return trip, I enjoyed a nice swim in the Red River.

I headed south, and it was soon apparent that this would be a struggle. I was tired, the wind was in my face, and it was hot as h-e-double toothpicks. Fortunately, I had no mechanical problems; no flat tires, no broken chain. But the longer it went, the greater my stress—which should come as no surprise. On I rode. At some point, I began stopping at every opportunity on Highway 35 to buy a soft drink and cool down in the shade. I do not exaggerate when I say I drank at least a dozen Coca-Colas, Dr Peppers and Pepsis on my return trip to Denton.

I wheeled back to my apartment and staggered up the stairs. What I had done in the dog days of the summer of ’80 was not wise, but it turned out well enough.