Pass Manchac Eventually

       The Long Straight Road.

More long straight road

Hammond or Baton Rouge...

The only friend I found on Hwy 51

trains are never in a hurry.

And their long..

Potassium to stop those cramps

Overlooking the Pass Manchac from top of 51 bridge.

hwy 51 Bridge over the Pass.

What a long lonely road.

Look deep enough you'll see the BigFoot hiding in the brush..

The old original Hwy 51 around the lake to Hammond....

Chubracabra Trap,   they spread out bags of Doritos and if you stop to get one, they suck your blood till your a wilted bag of bones and meat collapsed on the ground.

75 years..... they serve Chubracabra.  Fried of course...

Hwy 51 Bridge overlooking Manchac Village.

The Pass from Pontchartrain to Maurepas

More Pass

New bridge I-55 and old bridge side by side.

That's me crossing the bridge, hoping I don't get blown off.

I swim like a brick with holes in it. 

Proud of my self

I 55. .

The Old Hwy 51 Bridge.

Cute french Quarter Couple look in the window.

This train went on forever...

Fishermen and Fisher woman fishing the Pass.

Fatboys Seafood Kitchen..

Junction of Old Hwy 51 and Nowhere..

The old pier

Yea ! that's me.....

This was a memorial sign , the left wing was hit by a car...

Going down the Bridge.

Miles of Swamp

Club on Esplanade and Decatur

The eternal Torch at Shell.....

The wall in the Spillway

Long Dam  Road.

Fishing the Pier...

90 miles to Manchac and back,.long time to be alone, long time to think.  Not everyone is fortunate as I to leave sanity at home, become a vagabond, see the world through crooked eyes, hear the world through
mistaken ears, smell the world through an uncaring nose, yet taste adventure, taste danger, taste risk,
taste the melding of body, mind and spirit, becoming the one , the one God meant me to be,  the one, living each minute to survive, to compete, to overcome ,  the oneness that separates me from all others...Visiting Manchac by way of the long boring road enabled me to reach a level of consciousness allowing me to look so deep inward into my gray matter I sometimes sense feelings not meant for consciousness recognition, places in my mind I shouldn't visit,  but for sleep when I can't remember the scares, insecurities, anxieties, fears. So I ride on , fearless, tireless, ruthless,and sometimes helpless. No hunger, no pain, no heat, no suffering, only thirst for Gatorade and thought. Music playing loud as possible , switching thoughts like a flashing LED's , each song takes me to another place, time and feeling , emotions bouncing in my head like ricocheting bullets, bang, bang, bang, there goes another memory, another year, another tragedy, another love, another joy, another heartache, another , and another and another and another... It all happens in seconds, but last for hours. To be a cyclist you have to have life to relive, your first girlfriend, not just a visit to her house, it's the thick white paint on the mantle,the orange ashtray on the sofa arm, the squeaking wooden floor, the 3rd venetian blind out of sync, the chipped 3 legged table holding the big black heavy telephone. the smell of the vinyl floor in the kitchen,  yellow glue  stains at the junctions of the wallpaper, the dishcloth spread over the strainer on the sink with the little hole in the bottom corner, the worn end of the banister leading upstairs. It's all there , all you need is the ability to look inward without conscience, care, compassion, desire, or remorse... just see it . feel it , smell it, relive it , move on to the next one ..Tony's Spaghetti House n Bourbon, round tables, glass windows and doors all around,white table cloths, crispy french bread slices, on a oval plate of Spaghetti , red sauce, 2 perfect meatballs,sprinkle your own grated cheese, and a root beer, $1.35 plus tip for the blond waitress with black roots, the black dress, white apron, a yellow pencil stuck in her hair, red hands from working with hot food, soft white shoes worn on the outsides...All around are pictures of the famous people that ate there, Joe Louis, Dean Martin, Louie Prima, Clark Gable, Valdaslov, and Truman Gandhi... many others. . the Bourbon street visitor parade continues to pass by on the multi-angled cracked sidewalk. . What does this have to do with biking, absolutely nothing, it's whats happening in my head while I'm riding.and it's better than a egg sandwich at the American Drugstore counter  on Canal St. Something on the shoulder of this desolate swamp slows me down to get a closer look , something red, it's little bags of Doritos, I 've heard of this trick , Chubracabras set these  as a trap for humans, you stop to get a bag, they pounce out the woods , pierce their fangs in your neck, suck out all your blood and leave a skin bag of bones and flesh for a buzzard feast .... I didn't stop , took a picture and kept going, Scanning the road ahead , heat emits upward like a glaze or a mirror, must be hot..I keep my speed below 20 mph so there's no issue with melting tires..No alligators, no snakes, no turtles, only Bigfoot and chubacabras, not even a fire breathing dragon, or a cyclops, back to my own show, I'm 12, visiting a schoolmate in the Iberville Projects, lives with his mom and aunt, he brings me in but before we can go to his room I must meet mom and aunt,  all the doors are open , furniture is sparse, no wallpaper, industrial tile on floor, the sofa is half for sitting and half for holding clothes, mom is hot boxing a Winston,sipping iced whisky, aunt is in the tub cooling off,  "come here boy let me look at you" I hesitantly fill the door opening, "he looks like a gentleman, probably gets out the tub to pee" , she lets out a bellowing laugh, we go play in his room, not much to do but sit spell bound by this woman in the tub, she probably had a tattoo, I didn't see it though. the counters and tables were filled with lady stuff, earrings, bracelets, chains, makeup, condoms, cigarettes,
zippo lighters, a few pints of cheap whiskey, I told my friend he should run away from home... he agreed, but never did..More miles, no end in sight..The road is stretched, smooth, uninviting, lonely, I keep scanning forward to see anything, finally I see the Bridge that crosses the Pass at Manchac, it's a few miles off but I know there is an end...My hope is interrupted by something crawling out the swamp on the right about a half mile ahead of me.. I focused with my new eyes, but unable to make it out yet, closer, and closer and closer, it begins to appear, a grayish, greenish figure of indeterminable   shape, it's moving right to left, no legs, like a blob, but that Movie was in the 50's,  fearless as I am, I approach .   It was void of eyes, ears, mouth, nose,
but inside it's 6 by 10 foot clump I see figures of bodies it must have absorbed, I saw reminants of  Jimmy Hoffa, Morgas, Truman Ghandi, Guru S Malady, Slim Pickens, Vic Schiro, Curt Cobain, and of course Jimmy the Cricket.  By this time I had concluded it was the dreaded killer Chalmation Amoeba , got loose and grew as a Ferrel, feeding to an enormous size..I had to stop, I couldn't challenge such a creature, I covered my nose, got into a submissive position and begged for mercy. To my luck Amoeba's are a favorite food of Chubracabras,  5 hungry, fanged, horned, winged, blood sucking chubracabras emerged out the swamp and attacked the giant amoeba, I don't know who ate who , I got on my bike and rode like the wind till I was out of sight.... Whew! that was close.... But whats an adventure without a close call, a danger, a risk, a dragon to slay,even if he's in your own mind...90 miles there and back... Great ride... and the Bike was fun too....
Gary Gauthier