The man at the bike shop said "Back left." And then he made a vague hand motion to go with it. I get the distinct impression that his favorite part of every day is giving people advice. When he asked what kinds of tent I had, he was surprised at my savvy for having a hammock. The surprise quickly faded and he found reason to guide me yet again when he learned I have a Hennessy. I don't remember what brand he has, but he's convinced it's better.
"I like to stretch it out from the trees back there in there back left corner to the fence. They've got nice sturdy fence posts," he assures me. "But they don't like you hanging there. Oh!" He leans in to me again with his elaborate hand gestures. "And when you use the bathroom, use this one, not that one." I nod. I understand from my time playing video games with Curtis that I not a spatial dunce, but the abstract quality of his mime has utterly lost me. "The showers are better there. I don't know about you, but:" I nod, attentively. I am to receive more gems. He lays it on me. "I take my shower after I've done eating, then you can take the dishes in and clean them. There's a little shelf there, and you just lean over and let them out to dry while you finish." The expressive quality of his pantomime does not increase its information-bearing capacity. I ride away from him with very little real information, and promptly do exactly nothing he has advised.
I eat at a Mexican restaurant: the wrong one, actually. I miss the one I aim for by a quarter mile, but they are on the same street on the same side, so I hope I can forgive myself. That takes care of my dishes. I do try to find the back left of the campground, but it's made terribly difficult by two main factors: there are entrances the grounds on three sides, and they're all gated and locked. I check all four sides of the state fair campground and fume. I spew. I chafe. The website said they were open year-round. This is a grand injustice. The mile loop I make of the campground gives me time to work up a real hate. There's a chain link fence the whole distance around, and every so often, a gate. Along nearly the whole perimeter, there is a strand or two of barbed wire at the top. And every gate is utterly locked. Some I could clearly squeeze through or under, but none have a wide enough gap for my bike, and besides? Who needs the indignity? I can just as easily go find a couple trees along the Katy. Probably.
I have never been to the state fairgrounds before. I have driven past plenty of times, bit never had the time or care to go in and look around. I air dry, and I peer out the windows at the tops of buildings. I can see SWINE and EQUESTRIAN and a few spikes and spires sticking up. I grab a quick look at the map posted just outside SWINE. There's an FFA building, 4H, Sheep, Rabbits and something else that I didn't think went with rabbits, a Womans' building, and—you can knock me over with a stiff breeze—"Tunnel to campground." My heart breaks a brief staccato rhythm across my consciousness before I'm on the bike and tearing across the gravel to the tunnel. I'm so close—how could I have missed it!? I breathe a whispered calculation, a bet with myself: "What's the chance it's unlocked? Probably 5% chance." I struggled to keep my optimism in check.
It. Is. Open.
I roll through it into the campgrounds, singing my head off with some fool song, telling about how secretive and clever I feel. I discovered the one and only way in, only to find every electrical post is turned off, every water spigot is dry, and every bathroom is locked. Crushed. Broken. Despondent.
I zip back to the fairgrounds proper. Maybe there was no luck at first, but I hit upon a single bright speck: someone has left the bathroom north of the Swine pavilion unlocked and open. The water works. And, for a reason only the smell of a hog might explain, the bathroom had two showers. I am in business. I am also terrified that someone will come along and lock me into the restroom from the outside, slide the bolt home, and slap through the padlock. Just before I get in the shower, I pull my bike into the doorway, blocking it. Just in case. Things haven't exactly been "Back left," if you know what I mean. But I like the way it's going.
I ride through the fairgrounds as dusk is falling. I climb up into the stands where other people watch horse races, even though I jump a fence to do it. I plug my phone into a socket on the side of the MODOT building. I sleep in Highway Gardens. I discover the year-round section of the campground on the other side of the road of the college. I feel a little stupid, but I camp for free.
Nothing goes to plan. Nothing at all is "back left." I am satisfied.
