Clearly we were on opposite sides of the insurmountable divide. Rich held firmly to his stance, and I to mine. There was no meeting of the minds.

It was all a matter of numbers. 1,000 was the critical figure. We were in easy agreement many miles back, that we wanted to reach 1,000 miles before ending this cycling tour. Now that we were zeroing in on the finish line, we had reached an impasse.

It all depended on how you counted. Rich included our shakedown ride the day prior to departing on our tour, as well as a few miles biking to and from the Presidential Museum. Being a purist, I included only those miles we traveled moving forward “on tour.” Those peripheral distances were not legitimate. The difference came down to 20 miles.

Based on Rich’s planned route to our end point, he would easily reach 1,000 but I would come up short. “Just so you know, I’m not stopping until I reach 1,000,” I informed him. “Can’t you just do some extra miles on your own?” he griped. He was getting tired and could smell the end. “No deal.” I made a few suggestions for altering our route to lengthen it slightly, but they fell on deaf ears. The ugly clash hung over us.

With three days to go, lodging proved difficult in arranging our next destination. With great trepidation, I offered an alternative. To my great surprise, Rich was receptive. It involved quieter roads, offered a artsy community, and solved our math issues. Sold. Crisis averted. Maybe.

It happened on the long downhill into town. Switching gears to get more power, nothing happened. Trying again, attempting other gears, still nothing. I was suddenly grateful for the descent, as I coasted well over a mile to catch up to Rich. Standing to climb the final hill and limping into town, I feared the worst. We had nothing but small towns between us and our finish, with nary a bike shop in the offing. “I’ll see if I can fix it,” Rich offered. Then uttered the words I did not want to hear. “If I can’t, we’ll just have to ask your brother to come pick us up.”

We had found winning accommodations in Clinton. The tidy downtown provided a boutique hotel called the Screen Door Inn (and yes, our room had a screen door). The restored building was spare and spacious, with a hint of its original bones revealed in the walls. Rich set up shop in the back of the lobby and set to work. It became obvious that the gear cable had broken, and although he had never done it before, he was able to stretch the remainder to reconnect it. A quick test proved the gears were working again – the tour was still on! Rather than giving it a street test, I preferred to rely on faith. I just did not want to know if the triumph was to be short lived.

While strolling through town in the afternoon, we followed a BBQ flag to find a music venue with food trucks and event set-up going on. Learning that there was a concert that evening, we knew we’d found our evening meal and entertainment.

Returning at the appointed time, we purchased lawn seat tickets. The ladies from the Chamber of Commerce were nice enough to lend us chairs and we set up right at the front of the grass. A man behind us in line at the BBQ truck told us he was a friend of the lead singer of the band, and that he was a real entertainer. He was so right.

This was no small town troupe. Michael Hix and his band are from the Fort Worth area and play to audiences throughout Texas. They were excellent musicians, and Michael knew how to work the crowd. He was constantly walking into the audience, throwing out funny one-liners and engaging everyone in the act. They did a history of Rock ‘n Roll in the first half, music that we knew well. Much of the choice of music was spontaneous, taking cues from the crowd appeal. So it wasn’t surprising that after the break they moved into country music, which brought the crowd to their feet – dancing. Michael’s outrageous impersonations of Tina Turner and Mick Jagger had us roaring with laughter. He didn’t hold anything back.

We thought our experience couldn’t get any better until breakfast the next morning. Instead of offering breakfast at the hotel, they gave us vouchers to the Corner Drug Cafe next door. It seemed a wise business model. The cafe was a real throwback to the soda fountain of old, and for a change offered a menu with more than fried eggs and hash. I voted my avocado toast, apple cinnamon protein muffin and latte my best breakfast of the trip! Even though Rich had to deviate from his usual ham and cheese omelette, he was downright pleased with his scrambled eggs and biscuit. And that muffin.

Setting off in the sunshine down a quiet road that avoided the highway and trucks, all felt right with the world. We had mended our fences and had another unique experience in the process. My bicycle was as good as new. That 1,000 miles was still within reach.

I would never have found it without Google Maps. But once I read its history, I knew where we’d be having breakfast that morning. Having gotten an early start, we relished the low morning sun that was already warming the day. It was easy to appreciate our constant companions, the wildflowers, and take in the rural farms. Arriving in Dew, an unincorporated community that is home to 70 people, we found little more than a welcome sign. But I knew that Dad’s Place was just a touch further along the local road.

“Dad” is Monte Atchley, a lifelong resident of Dew. Moving his grandparents’ home place to this spot and renovating in keeping with its original rustic feel, he opened Dad’s Place just last year. It’s a family affair, involving his wife and children. His goal was to provide a country store and cafe that catered to the locals. Sure enough, when we came through the door four regulars were hanging out on the cafe stools while Monte tended the grill. They recognized us as outsiders instantly (that wasn’t hard!) and conversation flowed swiftly and easily. Friendly hardly begins to describe it.

I devoured the tender and filling pancakes I ordered – the best yet. “He makes his own batter,” the waitress divulged. I was stoked and ready to cycle again, yet reluctant to leave, savoring the experience. The community of Dew is lucky to have Dad’s Place – and so were we.

Our destination for the day was Fisherman’s Point, a large chunk of land on Richland-Chambers Reservoir. The combination of cabins, RV sites and camping were clearly secondary to the activity happening at the dock and boat launch. Fishing was the focus here. We lingered in the shade of the office after checking in, cooling off with cold drinks and getting the lay of the land from Colleen who ran the place. “See those picnic tables over there, across the inlet? Take your pick, and pitch your tent anywhere you like.” It was that kind of place. An institution.

The sun was hot, but in the shade of the huge trees there was just enough breeze to be very comfortable. In fact, this was the first day in almost three weeks that we did not have a strong wind! The calm lake was perfect evidence. I followed Rich’s example and folded my sleep mat into a chair leaning against a tree. It made a delightful spot for reading. I’ll take the outdoors any day over a dreary motel room.

Birds cackled, screamed and sang all night long. Fish in the inlet thrashed and splashed. Some adventurous fishermen fired up their launch in the wee hours of the morning. I had the odd feeling that when I emerged from the tent I’d find myself in the tropics. But no, dawn delivered me right back out into that bastion of Texas outdoorsmanship.  We may not have fished, but they accepted us all the same.

Smooth fast roads and continued light winds delivered us to Corsicana by late morning. Passing down the main street in the historic downtown we noticed a boisterous gathering in a pocket park. Slowing down next to the street-side picnic tables, we were immediately invited to join the throng. Free hot dogs, chips and soft drinks were on offer. Live music emanated from the park, and and a clown sat at the table next to ours. It was all part of the lead up to Derrick Days, the community festival happening over the weekend.

Corsicana has a colorful history tied to oil. It became Texas’ first oil boom town after oil was accidentally discovered in 1894 when water prospectors were drilling an artesian well to expand the city’s water supply. Soon oil wells sprang up all over the city, and Corsicana became the site if the first commercial oil field in Texas. Wealth flooded the city, and left behind a collection of big mansions in what is now known as the Carriage District.

The annual festival still pays tribute to those oil days. Our new found friends informed us there would be more food and music that evening. We promised we’d be back. We can never get enough of that down home hospitality.