A deserted and dry Christmas

I can’t seem to get going?, I had said I wanted to be in Mexico for the end of the world, the end was drawing neigh and I was still in Denver and my ammunition of excuses not to leave was far from exhausted; replenished even, by the predicted blizzard snow storm on Wednesday.

I couldn’t leave before it came as my tires had not arrived; I fitted them whilst snowed into the garage. Wednesday evening alone in the house I could feel myself mentally preparing for the transition to road life. It’s hard to put my finger on any specific part of the transformation but I slept on the couch that night by the embers of the log burner and at first light I knew I would be leaving today. Well rather than lose face I knew I was going to try and leave today, outside the garage door snow had blown 8’’ deep and drifted across steep and winding drive way.

Feet down, I slithered to the dirt road; I know already I was committed. I could freeze here waiting for the thaw or carry on because there was no way I was going to make it back up again. It was my first trip with the bike loaded. Double soft saddle bags the smaller ones as tank bags the bigger ones as insufficient panniers. They were freely available and the saving was necessary. Baptism by ice for my virgin dual sport tires, which one of the 2 was this? The main road was packed snow, the first 7 miles I was not anticipating the journey to come, just extreme concentration, no wondering thoughts of destinations other then the fuel station. The first fill up, my boots already encrusted with snow. I could see the questions in the eyes of the man behind the till but he thought better than to ask and I had nothing but intentions to tell. On to town for some last minute supplies, I didn’t even bother to remove my tank bag of valuables, passport, money and big fat sealable camera. It was too cold to be weary to cold to thieve. Now to the highway and south, lots of soutnness is needed. The snowy white planes turned to their pre precipitation brown and soon only the Rocky Mountains on my right showed any signs of winter. ‘Well that was easy’ I thought. But I thought too soon. Temperature dropped again an in the town of Trinidad a name that suggested I should be able to feel my toes if not touch them, I needed a warm up. I asked the filling attended to recommend a restaurant, she did and I reluctantly took the recommendation back down the cobbled stone main street authentic and enhanced with extra slippery packed snow. The restaurant opens daily from 7 till 9, 7 days a week but closed today. I ended up in designer cafe where yummy mummies cooed over babies and don’t bat an eye at the price of the pretentious food. Pastry with something organic and inadequate wrapped inside and given a multi syllable name and multi figure price. I settled on a $4 hot chocolate it was as disappointing as a mother half my age and was cold before I got to the bottom of my wide diameter but shallow cup of regretful purchase. Feet still cold back on the bike. Let’s try more of that soutnness again. Into New Mexico I was hoping for a drop in altitude but I would have had to bare left for that to happen. I didn’t want diversions I wanted fast distance and a more direct route; I stayed on the highway, then the stupid southerly highway turned. I was riding into the sunset and then the red sky was on my left, what the fuck? I looked at the map in the tank bag but with my shades still on it was futile. I gained altitude, lost temperature, my heated waistcoat and grips had been doing there thing all day, resulting in me being able to ride all day. Now with the loss of light and a sense of heading back to the frozen north I was feeling the coldness like I was fully exposed. I was immersed in it, all encompassed, and willed the highway to turn through the next gap in the ridge that hid the last of the evening light from me. When it eventually did it was too late, I was frozen to the point of pain. Santa Fe was an hour beyond my extended discomfort zone. Off the highway and the first red light, I unclamped my fist from my left grip, removed my glove lifted my visor of misted short shivering breaths, and took off my shades, it’s still dark. The last 2 miles to a motel were not a pleasant delayed gratification but an agony of endurance, it would have been so much easier if I had a ground floor room and the card key had actually unlocked the door. The 2nd trip to reception did nothing to warm me up, ‘that's frustrating’ observed a bystander who innocence was questionable. The loaded sprint up and down the stairs didn’t get the blood flowing. It’s not a damp cold, not an in¬¬-your-bones crippling cold, just a blast, freeze-dried kind of cold and it didn’t last long once I closed the door on the night and let the heater rumble its way to thaw. My feet still cramped from the curling of my toes in a physically impossible attempt to retract them into my feet whilst the freezing air had turned the wind-chill in my Alpinestars to below bearable. They weren’t stars of this alpine environment. The next morning they still hurt but it was from strain rather than frost bite. More southness yesterday has to have been the worst day. I always said 2 cold days and I’ll be OK.

Down towards Roswell although I haven’t the slightest interest in aliens or UFO's. The windswept planes blew the snow across the road and the blue sky let the sun sparkle a million glistening crystals to pierce the scratched polarization of my Oakley’s, that were forced uncaringly into a pocket last night at a red light. I took the truck route to avoid downtown and any more red lights and the feeble displays of little green men. I was warming up, a blood red sunset as I entered Texas and I could switch off my waistcoat and stop for photos.

But I’m not going to camp, not tonight, one more night of luxury, well for the price I paid I would have expected it but all I got was sleaze I walked to a truck stop, a once familiar part of my life. Impatient big diesels ticking over in line for the fuel pumps. I scurry between them like a rat round wheelie bins and into the fluorescent shop, for heat lamp dehydrated pizza and chicken wings of battery decent. This hotel never sleeps, doors bang all night, cars honk their affirmation they are remotely locked and loud voices move to slowly outside my door. It never seemingly ceases, and my dreams are distressing and unstable, ex’s and attractions I thought I’d forgotten about but it seems the file still exists, accessible in a subconscious sleep deprived night, alluring and dangerous. The world didn’t end last night, so much for my Mayan party; I was awake all night in a Motel 6 that felt like a Texas whore house. A new day a new beginning the next solstice is 182 days away. What did I miss out on last night apart from sleep? Other than birthdays I’ll party when I choose to, not when the calendar tells me to. I'm obstinate like that, but it avoids the crowds. I eeek out the morning waiting for the temperature to rise. As I take another load to my bike a ‘fellow biker’ asks of my destination, he has a Russian ‘girl pal’ with him, wants to ride Siberia, ‘have you ever?’ Well actually... he can’t believe me but the mention of Ullan Ude to his pillion and a map in my book removes all doubt. I can’t help it; I haven’t mentioned it for nearly 2 days. Well I’ll never see them again.

Mexican cleaners stand by their trolleys outside my door. Turns out I passed through a time zone and I'm an hour later then I thought. Onto a lonely road that leads to the international boarder.

800 miles and I can revert to fingerless gloves. I stop on a silent road to readjust my multiple layers of clothing, I've entered southness. The bike encrusted in salt, the luggage thrown on with numb fingers, all this can be rectified now, well soon. A nasty little town with over priced fuel and a shitty attitude to match, because there is no other choice. It has echoes of home, the place is called Marathon, I expect it will be changing to snickers sometime in the future. And then down to a national park, Big Bend, imaginatively named by the shape of its border with Mexico. I have to slow down now, now its warmer, I have to get back into road mode, remember it’s the journey, the moment the immersion. Slow it down and take it all in. $10 and I'm a tourist again. So I better go to the visitors centre I suppose, get the lay of the land. As I pull into the car park so does another bike, its Bob, Bob has been riding this park every winter for 19 years, he marks my map with the best off road trails and camp grounds and with that the transformation has occurred, I am synchronised again back in the rhythm of the road. Took 3 days and 1000 miles but now I'm right again. As I apply for my back country camping permit I'm told there is only 1 hour and 40 minutes of day light left, where did the day go? I wanted to eat in the lodge. Instead I get a frozen burrito from the fuel station. I don't have my glasses, how long do I put it in the microwave for? Long enough to buy a tin of ravioli, some water, and kettle chips, another healthy dinner awaits.

And I ride, off the road, on to the dirt, between the rocks, round the hills, to my individual desert camping spot, its perfect. Solitary, silent and I have a sunset to myself. Did the ranger who booked my back country permit read me? Who I was? My desired location? or did he just want me out of the way? Like a hostess seating me in a roadside restaurant, I don't care this is just what I was looking for.

You couldn’t create desert like this in your theme garden with cactus and succulents, tumble weed and the odd trace of a past civilization. Your B&Q sand would lap up to conifers or an interwoven fence, not infinite distance and daunting mountains of red rock, nothing is as authentic as nature. When the distant desert dusk fades behind the biggest mountains, a half moon casts me a shadow and now I'm ready, ready to stop and enjoy, enjoy not being on the road anymore. Utter silence, too few people witness this, the sound of the blood rushing in your ears. The sound of nothing else, no breeze, no crickets, no planes over head no distant traffic, just stillness. It can be scary, 360 degrees of land that has not been changed by modernization. The human mark is minimal, a single light 30 miles away is visible, actually it’s really annoying, bloody inconsiderate neighbours, and I may have to go have a word tomorrow. This place won an award for the darkest sky anywhere in the mainland US; strangely the trophy is quite bright. My camping stove had not been used in 11 months, it still has fuel in it, impressively it still has pressure too, I have forgotten the knack and the hairs on the back of my hand singe with a sickening smell. I boil water for tea, I don't fancy that ravioli now. I'm in my sleeping bag at 6.45 on a Saturday night, I don't care, there is no credibility here to lose, time and days are irrelevant out here. I just wonder what I’ll do for the 12 hours of darkness... sleep is what I did, undisturbed sleep. First light spans the horizon like a shallow rainbow outside my open tent, just where I anticipated it to appear, it’s hard to get perspective on it, could be a head light, or the top of an illuminated dome. But it’s just dawn, just the first evidence of it and its very exciting, to new to miss, to vast to view from my tent so I run up a hill to take it all in.

When the sun and hot chai has taken the chill away, blood, ink and thoughts flow more freely. As I write my diary I hear the rush or wind and look up to see it comes from the wings of an inquisitive crow as it glides over my head. It’s really quite loud before being replaced by the sound of silence.

That’s the sound before we messed it all up, this is a still land, and it can still be found. I don't think I want to leave it for a while. If I had demons they would surely come out to play in a place like this, but I don't, nothing to bad seems to be surfacing. The occasional embarrassing memory, recollection, released from suppression and the song in my head gets spontaneously sung out loud to repress the recounting and cringing. I ride, deciding an unattended tent in this deserted area is safe but not secure I take the trails and my valuables take a pounding, lap tops and SLR’s were not designed for this battering but better broken in my possession than taken in full working order in my absents.

Miles of uninhabited deserted desert roads, then the paved road leads to the tourist sites; I suppose I better have a look and stock up at the all you can eat salad bar. The calling to my silent wilderness is deafening and I happily leave humanity behind. The indecision of the road is back; at my camp tonight my quandary is am I hungry? No. Do I want to carry the ravioli on the bike? No. Do I have an answer to this ridicules dilemma? I could stay another night. I suppose I better see what I'm missing is there somewhere better I could be? How can this satisfaction stay if I don't prove to myself I've found the best of the desert? When I relocate to the a river camping spot, the bike is now hanging like a Christmas tree with gifts of cold weather clothes, it’s not an pretty site, I need to work on this.

This evening the bond with my bike began. We ride up to nearly 6000 feet, its cold but the west side of the park I discover is the most popular for a reason, it’s by far the most scenic. I light is going and it’s a long way back, well 40 miles, every ride out is a minimum of 70 miles the place is so vast and the scenery so stimulation the distances disappear in a constant stream of thoughts and sights. However these 40 miles back I will feel every one of them now the temperature has dropped. However its one of those rare occasions when you warm up as you ride. I drop 4000 feet and the sky ahead is pink, the formations silhouetted against the sky, I have no luggage and the road is smooth and empty, the wind is warm so is the road and the tyres. I lean it more than I've had the opportunity to before it’s quite possibly the best Christmas Eve ride ever. I sing a Bruce Dickenson song out loud even my voice sounds good this evening.

I meet the neighbours, this popular river location means I have to share with 2 others. They live in there camper full time, in the evening they invite me for Xmas eve ordurvs. It’s good to have a little company, keeps the weirdness away, well I try my hardest. They have, they tell me 4 levels of protection, air horn, car alarm, mace and level 4 is a machete. I consider mine, a Swiss army knife with multiple torturing devices from toothpick to corkscrew never underestimate the pain of tweaking tweezers, yeah be afraid, ya better run on home to ya mama if ya know what’s good for ya. And the ravioli lives to see another day. Christmas day perhaps. There is a reason people like me stay in a desert this time of year. I bloody hate Christmas. Hate summer heat and no one minds, dislike autumn leaves and it’s just fine, moan about November rain and people empathise but say you can’t stand Christmas and all you get is ‘bah humbug’ well there ain’t no humbugging out here, ha. So it would seem there is nothing significant that appeals to my being on this date. But deny it as I try, I still have some obligations and have to go to a place of reception. The park of the recreational vehicles. And the chatter of their inhabitants. It’s not my favourite environment. I have to sit in the laundry room to charge batteries and get Wi-Fi. Spinning machines with warn bearings screech they dilapidated displeasure and still the inhabitants talk above the noise. Children scream as they are taken to the showers, and my tranquil existence has been infiltrated and eradicated. Replaced with resentment and repulsion. I leave with loathing for everything, people, location and date. I go ride some trails but the water falls off my bike. I go back to my tent but take the wrong road, where did my satisfaction go. I doze in the sun, calm, I need calm. But some inherent instinct is telling me to do something significant with this day. I ride, unaware that my destination was the lodge, for the all you can eat dinner. It was awful, based solely on indulging Americans in their shallow need for quantity over quality and the unignorable conversations that penetrate my foul mood match the offerings, bland and unnecessarily excessive. I hear a lot but no one is saying anything. The two redeeming features of the meal are the stolen creamers for me morning chai and the use of a porcelain toilet. So this is Christmas. The night is cold, my water freezes, my dawn climb rewards me with a beautiful sunrise but the chill in my hands is saying more southness is needed it’s time to go to Mexico.

One more day of discovering canyons the sides of which divide countries, it would be all the more impressive in the right light, in warmer times and with better ambiance. But the domestic row of a family on the vista trail echoes off the walls, all this yelling just for a photo, and what memories will that photo bring. I take a different path, I always have.

I come across an old forgotten dwelling which once housed a family who would no doubt say all I've experienced here is nothing compared to the lives they lived here. Before there was an all you can eat salad bar, entry charges and convenient paving to vista points. But the silence remains the same (most of the time). Back at camp I run over hills to photograph another stunning sunset.

I'm getting in touch with the beauty of the desert, the plants and occasional wildlife. I could spend more time here but it’s too cold for comfort again tonight. It’s time for the ravioli and no desert.

I think I feel the need for a taco and cerveza its been a very dry week.

The damage done

Well I woke up, that’s a good sign. I can move and everything, this is all very encouraging. Anxious to discover my limitations I try and sort my bike out; hanging parts are relocated, re fastened and reinforced, a shattered lens is tapped into a mirror stalk, reflecting more images than I have memories; lids are perched on bent panniers. And today bungees have greater reasonability’s.

I have perfected the overland high kick. It’s an essential manoeuvre to mount the bike. Tank bags and top box leave a small space for a skinny arse to fit in and no room to wriggle.
Agility, momentum and balance are required to propel myself into the pilot’s seat. I don’t seem to have any of those right now, just determination and necessity. They turn out to be an adequate alternative.

Gingerly, that’s the style of riding now. I have shell shock reactions. The speed is slow, the confidence gone and the fear is rife. I find myself throttle down every time a car comes the other way, it’s a knee jerk, knee trembling reaction of self preservation. But my knee won’t jerk, it won’t even bend, it sticks out, resting on the highway peg like a joisting pole.
Of course now I am wearing all my safety clothing, horse bolted, door locked.

It doesn’t help my dexterity but it covers my vulnerability a bit. I don’t really have a target today, other than stay up right, the accident replays in my head, over and over like an unexpected dumping, heart not broken but battle scared all the same. What could I have done to prevent it? What can I do to prevent it happing again? A crow scarer explodes down a side street, explosions and fireworks are common place here. But now I break instinctively, was that my tyre exploding?
I think I'm glad I'm riding alone, no one to push or pull me beyond my seriously reduced limitations.

I stop at an auto parts shop to replace broken bulbs, blown on impact.
‘Where you going?’ some interested locals in a pick-up ask
‘Veracruz’
‘Be careful man there are drug dealers there; or maybe that’s what you’re looking for’
God, now even the Mexicans are giving me warnings, just because 35 naked bodies of a drug cartel were dumped in the road on a major intersection a few months ago, in a display of power and intimidation, suddenly it’s considered unsafe to go there. The only body on the road that scares me is my own.

Two days of timid riding get me to a familiar city to see some familiar faces. I'm going to be a needy guest. But I'm in the right company. A plan is hatched over breakfast, calls are made and before the bike is striped of luggage the first of many fixers has arrived to view the damage. Plastic is procured to fix the screen, and then off we go in a pick-up. The first 4 wheeled vehicle I've been in for 3 months, I get new tyres, mirrors, and my panniers are dropped off at a car body place.

At the end of a weekend of good food good alcohol and good company, the bike is looking and running better than it did before the accident. And the panniers, they are perfect. It was done so efficiently and precisely. If only my body had repaired with such speed.
Monday morning I pack the bike as the rain pours, the humidity escalates and the mozzies hover. There’s no urgency other than I'm now on a mission to get to Denver. No more site seeing, no more diversions, just a destination.

By the time I'm ready to leave only puddles are left and within half an hour the road and day and hot. This paranoia is ridicules I've only been riding half an hour it feels like my tyre is flat again, I stop to check, it is. My new rear Pirelli is on the rim. So now in hot sun, no shade, I strip off my cloths and the panniers again to repair it.

The nearby puddle is deep enough to submerse the tube but I can’t find the hole so I just replace the tube with a spare I have, it is also punctured but I know where the hole is and repair it before I fit it.

I have a 5 day window of good weather to get to Denver. My direct road north is taking me through some areas I've been warned about, there is a very strong military presence, patrols of pick-up trucks with guns mounted above the cabs and heavily armoured solders, vigilantly wilding there automatic weapons, I don’t feel unsafe. The thing with war zones and places of conflict whether it be an oppressive regime, infighting drug cartels or invasion is that life carries on, people still need to eat, so trucks deliver, shops are frequented and fruit sellers still sell their wares at the side of the road. I'm sure it’s a very different scene at night. But for now it’s just normality with an ominous presents of the army. No one is expecting me or waiting for me. I don’t dither but I have to stop for food and fuel. And I see no evidence of any trouble at all. I suppose you have to know what to look for and where to look.

In Veracruz I was shown a house that was literally sprayed with bullets. It was in a good neighbourhood, now the windows are bordered up but that doesn’t hide the gunshot damage which is as dense as a heavy hail storm. It was planed and specific; no one is going to waste their bullets on a limping overlander.

After two days I'm on Friendship Bridge, the sat nav springs into detailed action and I sit in a 4 lane queue with air temperature of 110 degrees and slowly push my bike forward to be processed. But it’s not Mexican immigration, when I get to the front I'm at US customs and I've missed my chance to get my temporary vehicle importation fee refunded and it’s quite a significant amount. After a half hearted look in my panniers a little chat about the English music scene and the obligatory scaremongering I’m free to enter Texas.
‘Any trouble’
No none at all, the stories aren’t true you know, everyone was kind, friendly and hospitable’
‘Yeah tell that to the guy who was here yesterday, he was kidnapped’
‘Kidnapped? Well not with too many restraints if he was allowed to cross back home’
Is the scaremongering a compulsory part of the immigration process? I mean I'm coming from the country now, I'm experienced, and informed, you are on the ignorant side of the fence. Stop telling me how dangerous Mexico is. It’s bloody not.
I'm wet with sweat, thanks to all my stupid black safety clothing on. I have one thing I want to do, get a room. Actually two get a room and shower, no three things I want to eat too.
I want to look at a menu, recognise every word and order just what I want. So as pink clouds illuminate scruffy palms I sit in an open air restaurant and eat a ridiculously large meal surrounded by ridiculously large people, with ridiculously loud conversation, none of which have any substance at all.

My room is cheap but still the price of 2 days Mexican budget but it’s sumptuous, clean and the bed is so soft that my bruised and swollen body feels like its floating.
Over a polystyrene cup of coffee and under a cool cloudy morning sky I decide I want my money back, it’s a tough decision. One of my least favourite aspects of overland travel is boarders and my most hated is US immigration, but I did both yesterday and as I ride south again I realized I am going to do both again today, I pay my toll to go over the amigo bridge and I'm back in Mexico, I hadn’t had my passport stamped on leaving so I that is my fist little hurdle, they didn’t seem to have missed me.
‘Where did you spend the night last night?’ I wasn’t asked
‘Oh I went and slept in American, very comfy bed you know’
I should have got myself some breakfast whilst in Mexico but I rode onto the vehicle import place and quickly and efficiently got processed. Right back to America then, the beggars on the bridge recognise me and we exchange a few words. The queue is as long as yesterday but I know which lane moves quickest now because it splits into 2 at the end, it’s cool and comfortable today.

The comfort ends at the immigration booth.
‘When were you last in the US?’
‘About an hour ago’
‘Why wasn’t your passport stamped?’
‘Don’t know’ ask your inept colleague
‘Where is your form you present along with your pre approved electronic visa waiver programme authorization?’
There is no form that’s why it’s called ESTA, it’s electronic.
‘You need a form sir’
No I don’t, you’re as incompetent as the other shift, can’t we talk about Supertramp and Roger Waters like I did yesterday?
No apparently not, I have to be accompanied to the processing building,
‘Walk on my left sir’
Really it’s that strict? Do you really think I'm going to pull your gun from you holster and shot you with it? If you’re so afraid of guns perhaps you shouldn’t carry one, that’s why I don’t carry one, they can so easily end up in the wrong hands.
3 hours to get processed, it’s wrong; I didn’t tell them obviously, I'm in on the wrong visa, idiots. But more than that, I was here yesterday under the radar. I could have stayed indefinably in the US no one knew I was here, and I could just go back to Mexico which I was never stamped out of and come into the US again like I’d not been here, ho hum, I really wanted my $400 back though. When I go back to my bike I have a little crowd of customs men gathered round we exchange a few words a prelude to the compulsory warning, ‘have any trouble?’
‘No none what’s so ever, Mexico is harmless’
‘You must have the luck of the Irish’
And that little sentence says so much. Paranoid, scaremongering, irresponsible, ignorant and afraid, and on top of that they still don’t know my bloody nationality.

Ok 1200 miles to go on smooth roads with sign posts and no speed bumps. I have to keep reminding myself to obey the signs, laws are enforced here. There is a sign I'm sure it’s a contradiction or maybe I'm just being pedantic. ‘Warning signs must be obeyed - Texas state law’ it says, well it’s not a warning then is it? It’s an order.
with my right leg leading, stuck out on the peg and my scabs peeling, I do the highest mileage days of the journey.

In San Antonio I see a sign for ‘The Alamo’ so I divert off, ride a few blocks , stop, take a look, and mentally check that site off my list of world sites I've seen. Then I’m spat back out onto a highway of 5 lanes in rush hour. Its really requires quite a lot of concentration. I'm out of practice with large quantities of fast moving traffic in multiple lanes.

When the metropolis dies down back into farm land, all the land both sides of the highway is fenced, regardless of what inhospitable terrain is beyond it. Fly camping is significantly harder and more dangerous here. Fenced in the name of fear and protection of territory terrified of trespassing. I dare not fly camp, they all have guns, it’s an isolating quality, its self generating, it’s hard to decide if they are fencing in their fear and ignorance or keeping knowledge and enlighten out.
However with no potholes or other unseen obstruction its safe to ride out the last of the light and with a very good comprehension of the language I get a camping spot in an RV /caravan park, it’s the price of a good room in Mexico but I do have wifi in my tent, and I'm even offered a tent heater for the night, free of charge, but she looked like she might snore so I just politely said goodnight.

Bloody hell it was cold in the morning, down by the river the cold air lingers, steam comes off the water, beautiful it may be but it’s not exactly a the cosy entry into a long day on the road.

It’s a gradual night time decline of body warmth, combined with hunger and self imposed dehydration to avoid getting out of the tent into the freezing night.
I all depends on your basis of comparison but I'm beginning to think this is a bit hard core. 8 days ago I came off my bike, since then I have ridden through tropics, through rain, through humidity, fixed punctures at the road side, ridden through drug cartel territory, through the US boarder twice, along crowded impatient city freeway rush hours, camped in frigid conditions and now I'm up and off to continue my 2300 mile return trip.

Texas is massive, I'm really not sure why they made it so big but it can’t be ignored. It’s just about stimulating enough to keep me interested. Distances are big, but there are slow variations, a landscape of contradiction when the oil wells mix with wind farms.

Now distance markers have changed from kilometres to miles everything takes a little longer to get to, but the secret to progress is momentum not speed. And as long as stops are planned, for the most efficient use of time I can ride through my little window in the weather without extremes. I know its January, I know what season it is, I just keep forgetting, when I see the random white rocks on the north side of buildings in the evening light, it dawns on me that I have now ridden to where snow lies on the ground in an air temperature too cool to melt it away.
I should stop in this town but for the last hour I have watched the sky to my left promises a spectral sunset and now I'm going to ride west into it.

It delivers in full and even when the rest of the sky had eventually given in to night the burning western embers of the spectacular display refuse to be extinguished.

I suppose I’ll get a room tonight, in fact I get 2 cus my noisy neighbours won’t shut up or show the slightest bit of consideration. So using my native linguistic skills I request and relocate to a different room. Where I continue not to sleep. May be its excitement of the last leg, or the pain in the first one, maybe its overtiredness, but I wait impatiently for dawn; it’s so late coming in this time zone boarder town. 7.40am and I still can’t read my tyre pressure gauge, 8am and hyper from caffeine I find myself judging the timing of the traffic lights to co ordinate it with the donning of the helmet and my departure, it’s safe to say I chomping a bit.

Not to be out done by yesterday’s end of daylight display, the dawn is equally spectacularly in a difference and incomparable way. A low sun undermines a dark heavy sky that makes the blackness shine and then something happens that I'm not sure I should share, not just because the site might be beyond the limits of my written word, not to mention my camera but also because it was a moment in time that seemed to be just for me and left me in awe.
There was a flock of perhaps 70 white birds flying in an agitated display, a frustrated formation, against the ominous sky. Pinpointed by a searchlight sun, they moved as if they had no more substance than feathers delicately tied together and being blown by a strong wind. A systematic motion but with an uncoordinated grace, they came towards me at 45 degrees slowed enough to distract but too fast to even attempt to photograph. It would be futile anyway. One of Mother Nature’s entrancing moments in time. Witnessed by one and then gone.
That was followed shortly after by the disappearance of the sun and with it the promise of any warmth to the day disappeared too.

I stopped for breakfast. Ignored instinct, into a large 1800’s dining room of a ‘historic hotel’ it’s not heated, other diners are complaining and the solitary waitress has the grace and competence of a hung over teenager, which I'm pretty sure she is, the food is slow, cold, greasy and raw. Annoyed at myself for eating it, accepting it without complaint and paying for it, I stood outside emptying my panniers to find the lead to plug in my heated vest, the vest has been redundant the whole trip and it occurs to me I have never seen the lead. So it becomes a waistcoat, nothing more.

It’s too early to lose my momentum but I do along with my stomach contents at every available rest stop as the raw potatoes slices marinated in cold oil and served with the chill of an inefficient establishment demand a premature exit. Public toilets, cold concrete, multiple layers, chilled, painful, awkward and un cooperating limbs, combined with a cramping tummy. All this with the knowledge that everything I own of value is out of site beyond this unlockable and graffiti covered door. The greasy food no doubt the cause although it had the graced to assist with the evacuation.

And finally the 200 mile homerun interstate to the high snow covered plains of central Colorado.

The winds are strong and gusting, I ride at a 60degree angle. At last, after 2000 miles reducing the width of my highway wide chicken strips, at least on the right side.
The highway warning signs say ‘wind advisory for high profile vehicles’ well I have a blog and a book, do they mean me? I'm not sure the book sails will blow me away, but it’s the book that’s sending me home.
The bike is strong and responsive, it seems to like this cold air and altitude, and I think it will be staying in Colorado, that’s what it’s telling me.
We got on ok, we had a nice little 10,000 mile ride but I think we will be going our separate ways, no hard feelings we just know each other well enough now that we know what’s best for each other. There may be a mutual appriciation but we never really bonded.
My eyes and desires are drawn towards KTM’s, after all isn’t it all about new experiences?

Oh, it's a hard road (especially when you hit it)

So I've got 3 days to do a 2 day ride, I assume I have 3 days, this was never really the overland adventure biking sequel, more accurately, just a tour, now a return, a total cop out, fun and familiar. Yes, I can hype the stats, 3 months on the road 8000 miles, but all I've been doing is riding round one country.

Today is super easy, I leave beautiful Campeche its tasteful discretion was most appealing, clean, quiet, understated and modestly adhering to its world heritage site status.

As I pack the bike a passing older gentleman gives me a look of gusto, strength, envy, yes I know, is anybody with their clothes on doing anything more enviable than I am right now?
My journey takes me along the turquoise ocean and white crystal sands of fishing villages, and then drifts inland into some hills and delicate twisties, I haven’t lean for a while this is fun.

I left the town with something I needed, a destination, dates and directions, I now have a date to be in Denver a date to be home a date for the book release. There is little to concern me, and as I ride this joyous road I consider the hospitality that waits for me in Veracruz, the friends, with my alcohol of choice (free and available) plus my favourite DVDs that my host who, with his limitless hospitality has arranged for me. I smile at the prospect and think about stopping to send him text. But when I do stop it’s to take a few photos under palms by calm inviting seas inhabited by lazy pelicans.

But I use the wrong light setting so that will have to be resigned to memory; it’s an easy ride, no traffic, right temperature, stimulating scenery and I speak into my voice recorder as I ride to relate the feeling, in hope of capturing it in my diary later.

But the afternoon brings a new and less favourable mood. The wind gets up the sea turns choppy and brown, the towns more industrial, an uncharacteristically unfriendly police check and extravagant tolls. I can’t seem to find a place for lunch, I pass Subways and other western food places but I'm on the coast, I want fish.

It’s hard to make myself stop, but its 3pm now, I'm hungry and agitated, the feel good feeling gone, along with the scenery and the quiet and variable road.
I stop where trucks are parked, I get the stare as I walk in, but that’s fine, I'm used to that. I order fish soup, everyone else is eating it, making a meal of it, slurping at the shrimp, crab and fish filled bowl, mopping up the liquid with warm tortillas. I have high hopes and help myself to a drink from the fridge; I keep my eyes on my map and look at a possible destination for tonight in my guide book. It’s disappointing, all swampy marsh land and mozzie infested. I’ll just camp at dusk I suppose. My food comes, chicken with chilli sauce, how the hell did that happen? I'm frustrated at my lack of understandable Spanish, I know what I wanted and what I ordered, why am I looking at chicken and chilli. If I look up, eyes are on me, other tables are getting large grilled fish on a plate with fresh vegetables. Bollocks. It’s an altogether miserable experience. But my tummy is full and I'm good to go again, one driver speaks to me, he too has a bike, that’s pretty much the extent of it.

I go back to my bike and head off, the sun has begun to change its light, I’m not ready to look for a camping place yet but the afternoon light is evident. I come to the inevitable speed bumps that the trucks and taxies take so slowly. I use the opportunity to overtake and wave a hand at the diner I spoke to as I pass his multiple axles bumping over the concrete humps in the road.
80kms, 50mph that’s all I'm doing, in an attempt to decrease my horrific fuel consumption and because I have time on my side.
It’s a fast flat road with an active hard shoulder for the slower travellers amongst us to use, rickshaws, bicycles, mopeds and failed adventurers veer over to its safety when bigger and faster appear in our mirrors. I know the score I've been here long enough now.
I have a little weave, my tyre in a groove no doubt; I don’t think I even break, not at first. But it’s not a weave its complete loss of control.

When I hear traffic reports on the radio, ‘the driver lost control of his vehicle’ I think ‘what shit’. You have a steering wheel or bars less than an arm’s length away, what’s to lose? In 30 years of riding experience I think I have quite good control, the bike is a part of me. But it was suddenly possessed; it veers into the lane of oncoming traffic. It won’t lean, it won’t steer. The car I was heading towards swerved violently into my lane to avoid me, but my bike grabs and goes back into my lane. I'm probably braking now.

I don’t know where it’s going, I don’t have control. This is it then, if he’s going as slow as me it will still be 100mph impact. I can’t control my bike, it’s all over the place, and then it’s down, hard, and so am I, the first thing that hits the road is my head, I roll and roll.
I'm on the wrong side of the road, I'm lying on my back, I just lay there. It’s one of those rare occasions when the bike is not my main concern. I'm burning I'm bleeding, am I broken? I lift my head, I don’t want to see what I'm seeing and put it back down. I'm not sure what I notice first.

My bike had flipped the panniers exploded, the contents across the road. My front tyre is off the rim. Is it safe to take off my helmet? What’s left of me? I take off my helmet its badly scratched, gauged from impact with the road. The traffic has stopped, people are all around. Lights are flashing, people are waving at traffic. I try to get up. I'm shaking, the biggest adrenalin rush I've ever had. What works, what’s broken what’s missing? Ouch, my shoulder, my knee, my inner thigh, my arm, my elbow but it all moves, it’s all connected; the pain most defiantly is still coming from those parts.

The driver in the car that was behind is an English translator. The trucker I spoke to is there too. They gather my positions off the road. The marmite and protein bars. All the things that are no longer neatly and methodically packed. I'm vulnerable, they are picking up my bike, I'm sitting up now, I point at the side stand, no it’s the wrong angel, I get up use my stall to wedge under the bike. I think I want to lie back down. I think I want to take control. The tyre is twisted off the rim and the tube or something is jammed under the break calliper, the aluminium rim has a worn flat spot. I was riding on the front rim with the brake locked on, I turn the ignition off.

Before much else happens I call my friend in Veracruz, in case whatever is keeping me going stops. I need someone I know to know where I am what happened. Now I am describing what happened and the ‘what if’s’ begin to dawn on me, what if the oncoming car wasn’t paying attention, what if it was a truck? I hand the phone to the other driver; I look at myself, I standing in the road, stopped traffic and bike debris all around. I pull down my combats right there, I reveal blood and gauged skin, grazed and abrade from the road, my padded and protective jacket is not scuffed but my elbows and shoulders are, how come? Nothing is broken just burnt and bleeding and the adrenalin pumps again. I'm shaking, I thought that was it, I thought I was dead for sure. Why didn’t I hit that car?

I think of less lucky friends I've had, no longer here, and with that thought what ever was holding me up lets go, I drop in a crouch to the ground and hold myself up with my hands on the road. I thought I was dead, I thought it was over right there on the road, from a stunning mornings ride to my demise, only my comments in my voice recorder as to a clue to my final thoughts.

Now I'm freaking out. The driver of the car behind who saw it all is named Arjumand he sits me down; he says he is going to perform riki on me. He tells me to place my hands on my legs out in front of me.
‘Breath in, hold it, breath out, 10 years has passed since this day’. His phone rings he’s distracted, actually I’m sitting on something prickly, I'm distracted. I get up; I’m hyper, tow truck, Red Cross, ambulance, where will I stay? My stuff is in piles at the side of the road. Is monklet ok? He is protected by the bark bashers, scratched and bent.

The screen is broken and hanging, the panniers totally bent out of shape. Both of them the bike must have flipped. Let’s get it on the centre stand. I look at the tyre and tube, twisted around the rim, I realize how lucky I am and the adrenalin pumps again. I’m now in a state of hyper manic.

All the places I've been, all the things I've done, I'm all alone, and I'm desperate, I'm vulnerable, but I'm surrounded by Samaritans I'm trying to gain control. Logic, lateral thinking, combined with fear, relief and distress all fight for prominence.
I get out my folder of most important things, passport, insurance, vehicle documents, credit card, my Mexican insurance has expired, I know that, I've been here to long, it doesn’t matter, its only me, I have medical insurance. But I lose interest in my documentation. I decide I need to dress my wombs, my first aid kit is laying on the road, I pull out dressings, swabs, gauze, and bandages, I open packages, no I can’t do this either. The tyre, let’s do the tyre. We take off the front wheel, yes I'm bleeding and I'm burning but I can do mechanics.
People are leaving now the traffic has resumed and passing too close, too fast. I'm pulled by the arm from the road, as a bus over takes a truck at my side. I didn’t even notice, I'm death proof now.

The valve has separated from the tube, is that the cause of the accident of a product of it?
But its ok I have a spare tube, I go get it out my other pannier, but come back with my waterproof over boots, that’s not a good sign, what’s my head doing? I go back and concentrate harder and find the tube. They are struggling with the tyre. And my single leaver.
‘Got any ideas?’ yes, I'm shaking and bleeding, I look at it, it’s fighting its self, rapped round the wheel, and surely it’s no good any more. Let’s release the pressure here. We get the tyre off the rim.

I still have my fingerless gloves on, they are not scuffed, my hands never touched the road. I was flung head first off my bike, all these years I have always said , gloves before helmet, we instinctively put out our hands to save us, and I never got a chance, head first into the road.
I'm thinking straighter now, getting my pump, putting air in the virgin tube before we put it on the wheel, seating the tyre in the sunken rim for more flexible leverage, getting my washing up liquid from a pile by my food to ease the tyre back on the rim. And it pops back on. Then an ambulance arrives,
‘Did you call one?’
‘No’
They were just passing, decided to stop, 3 paramedics get out, one checks me for concussion, and he looks at my pupils.
‘What day is it?’
‘Martes’
Blank look, I'm pretty sure Martes means Tuesday, I confirm in English ‘Tuesday’
He thinks about it ‘Oh yes it is’
I laugh; I punch his shoulder, ‘don’t fuck with me’
‘What country are you in?’
‘Mexico’ why don’t you understand Spanish?
‘Are you ok?’
‘I think so’
I go into the sweaty humid ambulance; my wombs are dressed whilst one of them wants my name for his clip board. Here I’ll write it, but my hands are shaking,
‘It’s over there on the ground in the blue folder’
Through tinted windows I watch 3 people go through my most precious passions. With trust, with honour, with compassion.

‘Thanks for stopping’, I'm filled with gratitude, I shake everyone’s hand, ‘thanks for your time, thanks for stopping, should you be somewhere?’ Apparently not.
My karma credits are being used, but the bank is paying on demand. An ambulance was just passing?
A translator was behind me? The trucker has a compressor on board?
Ok, now I'm bandaged, I think for free, the tyre now has air in, police have stopped, I supervise putting the wheel back on, the Speedo drive located, the disk between the pads.
I'm the only one with the strength to tighten the nut tight enough to a line the holes in the axel to take the split pin, adrenalin enhanced, I feel no pain, and I’m not sure how I will ever get this undone again. I hold a screwdriver to the rim and spin the wheel, it’s true, the police look on, I even pump the front break, and I’m so in control of this phase of the event.
I stick my bike together with duct tape and cable ties, lose parts are bungeed to distorted panniers. My number is taken, emails swapped. I thought that was it, my end, the bikes end the journeys end, but I live to ride another day, in fact I live to ride today.

It’s explained to me that the trucker is going to follow me to the next town to check I'm ok.
I would rather just take the time, to look over my bike, to assess the damage, to locate things properly, I'm not sure I'm ready to get back on the horse just yet, but it’s getting dark, I get on, I start it.
I ride and for 20kms, I have a bloody great Kenworth up my arse, pushing me faster than I care to go. My leg hurts, I get into town and stop to wave him good bye as he takes the bypass, and I stop at the first mozzie infested motel. Check in and get a call immediately it’s my friend in Veracruz, I tell him the story.
‘You got back on and rode it?’
‘Yeah, I'm a hard core mother fucker, mother fucker!’
I think there may still be some adrenalin left in me
‘We’ll put everything right when you get here, you'll need new tyres’
Yeah I suppose I will, I was hoping to squeeze 10,000 miles out of them, limp back to Denver, well I've got the limp, I want to squeeze more than 46 years out of my life, I guess I’ll replace the rubber.

I get a text from Arjumand, still concerned, still compassionate. He has a brother in the States, who knows no one there, he hopes he finds help like I got if he needs it.
Several things are dawning on me. My awareness at where I am and what I'm doing, how I'm not immortal, what good people the Mexicans are , I knew that already, it’s been the theme of the journey, how if I had to hit a road I would chose the same one again.
I get in the shower, find more damage,

I lie on the bed and take my special pink pills that I save for best, falling 20foot off a ladder, vasectomies, and bike accidents, this is best. I turn on the TV, Mission Impossible 2 the stunt bike chase scene, Tom Cruise, helmetless and in a wheelie, stoppie, donut, burnout gun fight, yeah whatever.

I close my eyes and get to live another day.
I don’t know the cause, I didn’t get to check the inside of the tyre, did the valve just separate? How can you possibly take precautions for such an event? Ride at 20mph? Not ride at all? I’ve leaned it so hard I've scraped pegs, on tight blind corners on mountain sheer drop roads, its fun, it’s the best fun, I can’t think about separating valves or bursting tyres when I do that, but I will be, at least for a while.
What do I believe in? Who do I prey to? Who do I thank? I simply believe when it’s your time, it’s your time. Nothing you can do about that. Just appreciate your time. I'm staying in better hotels now and eating steak; life’s too short to save.
I once saw a bumper sticker it said ‘who dies with the most toys wins’
I disagree, who dies with the most appreciation wins. It’s not about what you own and keep, it’s about recognizing what you don’t own and won’t have forever.