Bicycle Touring/ Migration

I recently bought a Surly Big Dummy longtail cargo bike, as I was uninterested in the monetary trappings of the automobile as a mode of transportation. For the past four years, I have traversed my native Dallas terrain on a red Bianchi fixed gear. My brother passed it down to me after being pummeled by a sedan during a festival while living in Austin. Thankfully he wasn't injured, and escaped with one mangled wheel. He also let me use his pannier bags to attach to my rack, a big help over the summer when I would spend several days out of my parents' house. When he moved out of our house into an apartment with his fiance, taking the bags with him, I was left with my purple backpack, a sweaty and uncomfortable alternative for long distance riding. I wanted to ride to my friend, David's house in Houston, and use bikes as my main ride when settling down at our Hempstead community. My big brother, Alec, told me about the Big Dummy during one of our recent rides around White Rock Lake. I was intrigued, as this model would be perfect for my migration to Houston, indeed 200 lbs of smooth handling for 200 miles all the way, although climbing hills wrecked my groins one day, and I chose to veg out at a motel in Mexia.
The other three days and two nights I camped in out of sight places, ate at local cafes, took sponge baths, conversed with locals flabbergasted, yet interested in my tour, hitched a ride with an ex military police officer, befriended a Waxahachie coffee shop proprietor, shared stories with a sweet Latino taco truck lady who sympathetically made me eat free tacos, and realized I had never been exposed to so much human compassion in such a condensed period. I was told I would be flattened by redneck truck drivers, yet soon discovered "they" were incredibly helpful, outgoing, humorous, hospitable and greatly concerned, just like my beloved friends and family who warned me of said former dangers. Not once was I run off the road, not even close. Every vehicle on the road to Houston passed in the left lane, or made their best effort to consider my vulnerable position.
30 miles North of my destination, I found myself semi lost on some non-navigable rocky roads, in the pouring rain. My front tire went flat. I was posted up in front of a ranch, the cows huddled near the fence line, wide eyed and following my every move. I unpacked my pump and the valve head was missing, at which point I became frustrated and hopeless, as I was now immobile. I broke down crying, cursing my situation, caught in an afternoon downpour. I hurled my spent tube into a forest in anger.
"I was so close," I told myself, looking for some thing to blame. Several cars passed within a ten minute period, a few offering help. With the fourth passerby, I asked the scraggly bearded man for an air pump. He told me he'd be right back with a compressor, but upon return, his connection was incompatible with my Presta valve. We worked together as I forced the remains of the pump head onto the valve while he pumped with furor. I was grateful for his genuine concern, and his uplifting, sprightly demeanor. We got the tire to about 40-50 psi, 60 being maximum, and I was on my way. About half a mile down, the tire went flat again. I stopped in front of a farm where a lady was working around the property. I was hesitant to ask for help, so I called David and asked for a ride to his house in Cypress. Just as I was about to get off the phone, a white haired, clean cut farmer pulled into the driveway of the farm behind me, where the lady was working. He offered his help, and I explained my situation,
"Let's see what we can do. Come up to the house." Once again was I ever grateful. He had an air compressor with a set of different valves, and he worked with diligence to find a solution. His wife brought ice water,
"He's a real handyman. He'll make anything work." After many tries with different parts, we finally found a tight fitting valve. He gave it to me. "Now you can air up your tires wherever there's a compressor." After many thanks, we hoisted the bike into his truck bed, and he took me to the nearest paved road, as he was well aware of the shitty farm roads. "These roads are a hassle for truck tires!" We parted ways and I was on the road again, until another few miles--yet again, flat. I called David one last time, and he agreed to pick me up. The whole family was in the rickety pickup as I jumped up with relief. I know the sound of that truck's shocks from a mile away. Here I am, the night before Kamia's 9th birthday party, ready to get back to our property in Hempstead and start cleaning, building, and living again. I depart on Wednesday. We are gearing up for our trip to Pine Ridge reservation, trying to confirm our needed funding for the trip. If you want to join us by donating your time or money, you can read more about our pallet house project at Pine Ridge here. More later!