I did it again, I know I knew better but I let the scare mongering get the better of my first hand experience and judgement. Purely for opening times and facilities I researched the border crossing into Mexico and that's when the bombardment of horror stories started, most of them surely posted by people who hadn’t actually done it, people who watched Fox News and then relayed their ill-informed factless fear onto threads of innocent enquires.
There is no point in walking blindly into a troubled area but trying to find facts on crossings from the US into Mexico is like trying to find facts in religious beliefs. So bravely with firsthand experience of a stress free crossing a year ago I rode to the border town of Presidio. From Big Bend National Park, I was told the road following the river which separates countries was a spectacular ride, but one mans spectacular ride is another’s commute. It was though, despite my scepticism it lived up to the hype. There were canyons, hoodoos, and extreme undulations, down into tight bends. It was not unlike the Laguna Seca circuit at times over a blind hump and speeding down into a cork screw bend. If only I had not opted for cheap Kenda tyres, if only I had a fork brace, if only I didn’t have the bike loaded with luggage, if only it was a Ducati. Still it was an enjoyable journey to a shitty destination, Presidio was perhaps designed to encourage you to keep going and cross into Mexico not that I needed any encouragement.
A stunningly easy transition. Into an inspection bay for a brief check of my documents,
‘You will need I vehicle permit’
‘I know, where do I get one?’
‘Just there señor, your bike will be safe here’
First through a basic immigration formality then to a photo copy booth for a helpful, friendly and perfectly reasonable price I got my copies and was processed with ease efficiency and professionalism. I was free to go. It’s a rare border crossing that is a comfortable temperature, no traffic, no queues, no touts, no confusion, no shouting, no rip offs, no delays. And contra to the forums of fear I was not gunned down by infighting drug cartel.
So out of the customs compound and onto the street of food stalls, souvenirs vendors and all things other than a bank. I have no local currency but that is the only concern I have.
The road to Chihuahua is barren and brown, sparsely populated by both the permanent or transitory. It’s a little daunting. More from what I’ve read than from what I see or experience. But my tank is full; my bike is running well and its less than 3 hours to the big city. There is a check point, unlike the boarder patrols on the north side of the boarder; this one has smiles, no alarm or supplication, no paranoia or fear inducing authority, just a little inquisitiveness, a little welcome and a blasé bon voyage.
And that's all the contact I have until I'm waved through the next check point and the only negative experience I have is my annoyance that once again I had my judgement swayed by the been-no-where ignorant; their loss.
Into the Centro of Chihuahua, and a bank which spews pesos’ into my fingerless gloved hand before an unattended bike can become a victim of the opportunist. In fact its appears to go unnoticed by the early evening city shoppers. I can’t find the recommended hotel I'm looking for and the low sun is in my eyes. The hotel I do come across has a homeless bum of clear mental instability sitting on the step. There’s budget accommodation and then there is plane undesirable. After 3 laps of the one-way system I give up on my guide book map, made all the more complicated this year by the donning of glasses to read the bloody thing. I put the book back in the tank bag, hit the side streets and look through my open visor for a sign, and within a few blocks I've found a hotel, in a few more blocks I find a better one. The bike is not off the road but 24 hour reception will keep an eye on it for me. And the day is done. That's how you change countries, with a little common sense, a little awareness, and lot of smiles and a relaxed and gracious attitude.
Now for the little things on the list, I need a shower and shave I've been 6 days in the desert. Then it’s time to hit the town, as I pass the receptionist, I get a nod of approval at the transformation that just occurred in the bathroom. I need some thin socks for the imminent upcoming heat. The sock shop epitomises the Mexican hospitality and helpfulness, they split a pack for me and even give me a calendar.
At the convenient store on the way home for a hot chocolate I’m asked a question I don't understand by the young checkout girl, her boyfriend leans on the counter and is keeping her company through her shift. He could be seen as an intimidating youth, he shows me a plastic bag, oh right, I see, no I think I’ll just take it in the cup thanks.
My bike is still covered from the ice and snow dispelling nasties that are put on the roads up north. But a short push from the hotel in the morning is a car wash so my cold engine doesn’t crackle and steam when I squirt the high pressure water over it. No soapy bubbles because I can’t read the choices on the dial.
Wow now I remember why I brought it, it looks gorgeous when it’s all clean. Whilst it drip dries I address the challenge of going to find, and order breakfast. it’s not so tricky, I know the sign ‘desayuno’, and I know what I want; Huevos rancheros, the restaurant owner, a tall thin man with a permanent smile has travelled all over the country and speaks English to me, he is an electrician, I’m not quite how that lead him to own a one table breakfast diner in a northern city back street, he didn’t say. He wants to talk about women he's known, and what beaches he found them on, I'm not about to interrupt.
Contra to the cactus and sombrero symbols of Mexico there is a lot of it that is high altitude snow and ice. Especially in December. For some stupid reason I ride up to Creel at 7000ft. Why? Because I sort of promised to revisit the place I stayed in last time. It was a big mistake, the guy I made the promise too isn’t even around. He had helped with the production of my website last year. The room is expensive, cold, no hot water, no free coffee in the morning, and the restaurant isn’t even open. You should never go back, so on an empty stomach I go forward into the cold but deserted roads of Copper Canyon, I stay on the paved bit, but 200 miles of scenic twisty roads is worth the uninviting self imposed invitation.
I'm wearing the 4 layers top and bottom I left Denver in, it’s a high altitude, low temperature ride 100 miles of which are before breakfast, the same breakfast as yesterday. In a restaurant with the biggest log burner I’ve ever seen.
I've ridden this road before, I'm sure I have but not a single thing I see is familiar. Yes it is, the military check point at the T junction I remember that. But I'm waved through, they are preoccupied with a bus they have just pulled over. It’s going to be one of those ride till dusk days. A mileage eater a destination achiever. The sun decides to revel itself today just as its going down which is just when my road had turned to face it, but that's fine the best scenery of the day had coincided with its decent and misty hills are the last view from my visor today before my helmet is placed on the concrete floor of a perfectly reasonably priced cell for the night.
I walk the street, find a stall selling something that smells good and is freshly cooked, yes I think I’ll point at that and nod enthusiastically. It’s a good choice and once I've scurried back to my cell the smell of grilled meat and melted cheese distract me from the four walls of chosen accommodation. The amber tint window shows a shadow of my mirror on it from my bike parked outside so I know it’s there. Well the mirror is at least, possibly stuck into a bit of Plasticine on a table top. But its comfort enough to induce good sleep.
The last of that dinner doesn’t look so appealing this morning and unrefrigerated I think it will not be left overs best just left alone.
So back on go the layers, minus one as I'm sure I will be dropping in altitude today, I pay a quid to miss Durango and use the toll road. (Despite what my spell check thinks I did not give a local beauty queen a pound) A pound well spent all the same, the toll road crosses ravines and cuts through mountains. But best of all its smooth and new not a single red light, nor unfortunately a fuel station. Today I've done 120 miles before breakfast. Perhaps that's why I'm feeling a little down. I pull over for a protein bar; it’s over a year old and is all crumbs and crunch. But I need to put something in my noraing stomach. I'm stopped for 5 minutes, no longer and surprisingly I even have reception on my phone, I discover this because it rings, a very short call from a lovely ex. It was all I needed though, I feel ok again now. Food for thought or mental distraction but I move off the toll road and indulge in ‘La Espinosa del Diablo highway’, one of those prestigious mountain twisty roads that will provide adrenalin all the way to the coast.
I really need to eat something though if I'm going to enjoy this. I stop at ‘Fanny restaurant’,
there are so many joke possibilities I’ll let you insert you own here.
Annoyingly it was one of those places that questions your presents in their establishment and all I could get was coffee, the stomach kept churning. But they all came out to wave me off. The tires continued to handle with as little confidence as a hungry gringo in a restaurant who can’t speak the language. However the traffic was light and when I dropped through the tropic of Cancer it was time for a change of clothing.
How it all changes when you leave behind the death of winter, the transition to jungle green, chirping and swarming, flying and crawling, I got bitten just taking off me thermals. Do I care? Better than frost bite. Warmth at last, cloths strapped on all over the place, a little gap between the tank bag and dri-bags to fit my skinny arse in. And I wallow the last of the highway in the last of the light, to a place where I can call home tonight.
There was a strange noise in the morning, not heard that sound since England what is it again? Rain, bloody rain, I battle snow, and extreme cold; I conquer bland brown lifeless planes. Blind hairpins on reluctant tyres and what do I get? Bloody rain and a forecast for the same for the rest of the week. It’s one of those easy decisions that isn’t easy till you voice it out loud. The bike is under cover, I have Wi-Fi, I have satellite TV, I have a supermarket across the road and how hard will it be getting a room on New Year’s Eve? I’ll stay una noche mas. Just like the end of the world and Christmas this other significant time on the calendar passes by without any real acknowledgement just chatting with like minded biker on an internet chat thingy.
The first ride of the year, especially after a day off is all the more enjoyable. And I've got warmth at last, cloud cover but warmth, that turns to rain and stays that way all the way to the the recommended ‘well kept secret’ of a resort. Which turns out to be an utter shit hole, my room overlooks a sewage works that noisily and smellily pumps all night.
Americans to rich or lazy to walk, ride the streets in golf carts and I can’t wait to put my feet into wet boots in the morning and get out.
With an open jacket, what festered in the night is beginning to dry in the morning breeze but then I ride into torrential rain. Was that a speed camera just got me? No it’s lightening; when I stop for fuel I hear the thunder.
The road is flooded, the fields are flooded, the rivers are flooded. There are rock falls on the road; I let a car pass me just before I aquaplane across an unseen dip in the road. Oncoming cars project spry at me with such force I feel the darts of water pierce my jacket. I can’t get wetter, I'm breathing in water from my scarf across my face. Monklets weight tripled and he hung like a ‘bad un’ from the bark basher by his cable tie tether, but kept smiling. Another rock to avoid, it has legs and a shell it’s a turtle crossing, it’s too wet for photos, but a turtle says it all, it’s wet and that's all there is to it.
In these situations you have to have optimism, you have to assume you will ride the storm out despite no end in sight. It can’t really rain this hard for the whole day. It’s too extreme and after 3 hours its subsides, well I’m riding dry roads at least it’s still raining, so I can be pretty sure its following me. But I'm leaving it behind along with the hills, the road leads back to the coast.
It’s turned into a nice evening, so pleasant and enjoyable in fact I've gone onto reserve and left all towns behind, I was so wet that when I finished my water and didn’t bother to replace it. So now even a wild camp is out of the question. How can I constantly manage to do this to myself? It’s the most annoying aspect of my own company, I have a firm talk to myself but I'm not really listening, I can justify anything. In a one horse town there is no need for a fuel station but I find a man with a hose and a cleaver little siphoning technique who sells me 5 litres of mileage and I get some water too. Phew, 2 miles later is a camping sign, I ride onto the beach under a cabaña. For £2.50 I have a legitimate place to pitch my tent and somewhere to hang my cloths in a sea breeze, funny how in the space of 10 minutes a dire situation can become a scenario that couldn’t turn out better if it was planed. Sleep by the ocean, wake by the sun rise; soft panniers are drier maps less damp, mozzie coils less soggy, only the boots remain wet.
Today for breakfast I stop at an OXXO, it’s a national convenience store, I get yoghurt and press the button on the coffee machine, it fills my cup...and keeps going, I grab another cup...it too fills and the flow continues...on grabbing the 3rd I call for help, I should have filled my cup from the dispenser the machine is designed to fill up not the machine itself. luckily I know the word for sorry, but not the words for ‘that I've spilled coffee all over the counter, the floor and made a load of unwanted extra coffee no one will drink and now have 2 other cups of the stuff getting cold’ but they can see it wasn’t deliberate. I was looking forward to sitting on a stall in the air conditioned shop to drink it but now I'm too embarrassed and sit outside on the curb by my bike.
I'm riding with my cuffs open, it’s a net basically I've made a net out of my jacket, I've cast it and eventually I catch something, a bee, it gets to my elbow and upon discovering there is nowhere left to go it stings me. I'm lucky I don't react to such things, well only in so far as perfuse swearing to stop from screaming like a little girl. I stop at a pharmacy,
‘Do you speak English?’
‘More or less’
‘Oh, in that case I’ve been stung’ but was willing perform the mime I have rehearsed in my helmet to back up my simple sentence
I'm given the cream that isn’t in my extensive first aid kit.
And I’ll hang onto the mime until I have, in the next game of charades to silently illustrate an actor, yoga enthusiast and lead singer of a major 80’s pop group. (No not B.B. King)
Today the road had lots of wildlife, vultures preying on bloated road kill dogs; the sickly stench of death is recognisable before the signs of opportunist prey. Lots of lizards sun themselves on the hot tar; even a tarantula crosses my path.
I'm not going to Acapulco, I have not the slightest need to go to such a touristy place, OK I have a little need, I would like to witness the cliff divers, but I'm not going to ride into town in this heat with such a loaded bike, find a room, unload everything, get a taxi to the cliff, pay tourist prices, get hearded and hustled, it just seems like too much effort. I take the bypass, in the hope of finding a place like last night, I don't. I find a rip off little hovel, with a sweet little old lady who would be all the sweeter if she hadn’t just charged me so much for my room without so much as a toilet seat, which makes it a squat really.
And the final push, 6 hours 400 kms to Puerto Escondido, I get stung again, not by the money grabbing little old lady, another bee, it flies through my visor and when I stick my hand in to find where it went it leaves its calling card on my cheek. Out with the cream, I'm getting used to it now.
I continue to the place where I will stop, where the plan begins, today seems to be about the destination not the journey, I ride erratically, everyone is driving badly, there just seems to be a madness in the air today. Inevitable it ends in crumpled metal and bloodshed, not mine but sobering to see all the same, not that I've had a drink this trip 16 days on the road and no alcohol. Mainly because, well I just want to see what it’s like. I want that delayed gratification feeling of the first beer on the beach.
A bridge takes me over a wide, clear, fast running river, it’s too attractive to ignore. I take the track down to it, onto the sandy bed that I'm not sure I can turn round on. That, for me puts the adventure into biking, doing something you wouldn’t do on ya commute to work, stopping by a river and having a wash, spinning out on the sand and standing on the pegs up the track back to the road. That's what you do when you go away on your bike.
OK it’s not actually ‘adventurous’ but it is I think the definition of the freedom of the trip, self contained, independent and taking the opportunities that come your way. Not preconceive, not researched, just an on the moment impulse that needs no explanation.
It occurs to me about a month too late if I had looked at the picture from last year, I could have seen the name of the place I stayed, called them and reserved the room I wanted, the one with the ocean view, great to think that now I've just got within 20 miles of the place. I know I'm getting close I start to see white people on mopeds, any other part of the journey this site would have at least have provoked a wave. Now I have become one of many, no acknowledgement needed.
So two weeks to ride 3800 miles, from snow, through baron frozen lands, storms, humidity and heat; now I've made it to my beach of choice. I'm recognised, remembered.
‘One room left’
‘I’ll take it’
‘The lock doesn’t work amigo’
‘I’ll fix it.’
A bargain price for a month’s stay, I unload the bike, shower and take a ride to the super market, I know the isles, where everything is. I get my washing powder and supplies and come home to do my laundry and as calculated I go to my local off licence for a 6-pack of Modelo while it soaks.
I'm back; in the evening I wander without knowing I’m heading there, to the Split Coconut where the ribs are barbequed. The toilet block has changed since my last visit. I pop my head inside the new thatched hut and am handed a joint.
I sit at my table, sip my beer listen to the music, Led Zeppelin is followed by Boston, I push my toes into the sand, I lean back on my chair so my hair falls away from my neck, I look up at the canopy of palms above me and I feel that feeling, more than a feeling, it says this is where I wanted to be. I remember now. Sometimes it’s OK to go back.
If I hadn’t have stopped and seen this I would have been leaning into a new and steep learning curve; with all the confidence that the tires allowed I would have gone head on into an upward coming vehicle.
So, another day, another new experience, on my way to meet up with a friend, a Canadian expat with a 20 year knowledge of this Golf Coast state of Veracruz.
We ride roads I would never have found, from sea level to over 9000ft, where geo thermal tundra steams and spurts its reluctance to be harnessed turned into energy.
We are up into a land which is simply winter. Bare trees and brown dead grass.
I instinctively pull over in the shade then realize its cold and push my bike forward into the sun. With the attitude comes remoteness and with that comes tradition.
Horse and carts for haulage, a donkey is transport, like they were at the beach but not for a 10 minute joy ride, more for a commute to the town or to gather a herd of goats.
From architecture to clothing this is a Mexico that is a long way in time if not distance from glass hotels, the KFC’s and Burger Kings where our day trips begin and end.
Later a descent into spring, blossom and new life, fresh green, arable farming, the sense of smell is stimulated again and at the end of a 10 hour ride we are back to the humidity of an ever-present summer city.
I hear Guatemala is even better than Mexico but once again I haven’t made it past the southern border. Entertained, thrilled and awed, tanned and well fed, the loop of my journey is at the bottom of its horse shoe. I don't anticipate any new experiences coming my way just a repeat of some of my favourite ones. And that complacency, combined with a feeling of homeward bound is what causes an old but unwelcome experience to reoccur.
2000 pesos, £100 that ought to see me out of the country, I think I've got 3 more nights, a few toll roads and maybe I’ll treat myself to a pair of kickarse cowboy boots.
There’s nothing like a period of dormancy to drive you hard. I pass many inviting campgrounds at the edge of a blue sea under shady palms. Perhaps if I was with company, but it’s too early in the day, to familiar to my other camping locations. I ride on, knowing that although this afternoon’s heat is uncomfortable and tiring I will miss it when I reach the frozen north
I'm heading towards. The next time I'm this hot on a motorcycle will be the next trip.
A sign posted lagoon never materializes, at least not to me. And as the light goes I pull into a town that boasts a Riviera. That will do nicely, however from the height of the toll bridge I look between oil refineries and gas flames spurting from high chimneys wondering exactly where this idealistic location is. Then, not due to meditational discipline, the moment I'm in gets my full attention, with the honking of horns and blowing of whistles I'm pulled by the police. It’s evident immediately that this is not going to end in a smile and a warning. I went through a red light I'm told. I’m pretty sure I didn’t and even if I did there are none round here. The fine will be £400 it will be paid tomorrow and until I pay it my vehicle import papers are confiscated. I won’t describe the act; there was nothing original or cleaver about it, as played by corrupt cops worldwide. After the disgrace of my law breaking had been brought to acceptable levels of bureaucracy I'm given the option to pay the fine now. On a busy street, in, if not broad at least adequate daylight I'm robbed the entire contents of my wallet.
Two things I find it very hard to do is, one, part with money and two, keep my mouth shut when somebody desperately needs yelling at. However the only way to win this game is to shut up and obey. The other way to win and I've know because I've played it before is to only have a token amount of money in your wallet, it’s been that way the entire trip, every trip, but today knowing I was on the home straight I didn’t practice what I preach. It was all there inviting and accessible and the fuckers took the lot. They will always be corrupt cops, they will never amount to anything; the money will bring them no good. If the bullying little short arse bastard buys crocodile cowboy boots with my money he will know deep down when he stands in front of the mirror that they would have looked way cooler on me. Ironically none of the junctions after this incident have traffic lights that work; all out, perhaps they need my money to pay a repair or electricity bill.
My reaction to this infuriating injustice is to leave this country as soon as I can, but I have no money. With the passage of time and more human contact, the never ending smiles, the English pleasantries if they speak it and the genuine indications if they don't; it takes me about 24 hours to remember you can’t judge a town, a country or even officialdom by 2 degenerate motherfuckers. (Yes, I’m as angry at myself as I am at them)
I camp wild for 2 nights and live off sardines until I find a town with an ATM.
I look in a few boot shops but with my skinny jeans and boots inside not over them, the painstaking design in Jagermeister colour scheme (or KTM depending on your preference), maybe in full view but somehow inappropriate, it looks too gangster, or too dad or too Brokeback Mountain or something and doesn’t match my eyes. So with second hand or at least second foot Alpinestars, the exact clothing I wore here last year, I leave Mexico.
Another trip does not require another outfit, I spend my money, (corruption not withstanding) on travel not clothing, and I think I'm all the richer for it. My eyes are tired and wild; maybe my previously owned bike and gear compliment them. One last boot shop at the border town but I have a desert to revisit and a border to negotiate. Where I indulge in the luxury of understanding the language again, and the frustration that ensues when asked by immigration where I am coming from.
I try to remember the name of the town that still has my boots on the self, that’s not the answer they wanted anyway.
Mexico? You’re coming from Mexico?
‘Yes’ I'm on the Mexican border on motorcycle where do you think I'm coming from? Has your brainwashed education for this placement really left you unable to realise that you were not placed to the prestigious post of an international airport? That question is irrelevant, and my destination before you ask, appears to be the land of ignorant authority. but it’s familiar and I’ll keep my mouth shut again while you charge me a processing fee that my pre approved visa blatantly states I’m exempt from. But I'm dealing with someone whose respect was not earned with humanity, understanding, sensitivity and wisdom but demanded with the donning of a uniform.
I have one more destination, back to the desert that inspired me so much on the journey down, to slow my pace, warm my bones, hear my breath and exercise my mind.
Over the last 3 months when ever dogs barked through the night and bass pounded through my wall I laid awake dreaming of the silence of this desert.
Here in this timeless expanse the only seasons are the rise and fall in temperature, here, my little life shows its insignificance. It demands a belief, not necessarily a religion or faith but you can’t ignore it, cant bury your head in your busy day and forget how everything came to be, this place may not give answers but it makes you aware there are questions you have to ask.
I sit on my little sunrise and sunset hillock of choice
I pick up stones of interest leaving their indentation in the hard gritty ground, they look really cool, I'm quite sure that is the recognised geological term used to describe such a phenomenon. upon inspection it realise the stone wouldn’t look any better anywhere else than right here, where it belongs, and if put it back right where it came from its very satisfying even if the operation boarders sanity,
I feel a little like Bob Geldof playing Pink in The Wall. Making patterns with the remnants of his recently wrecked hotel room just as he's about to become comfortable numb. The silence is interrupted not by a knock on the door but by the sound of rushing wind but I can’t feel it.
I see the spiky desert brush bend and bow in the near distance, and the sound of its dry rustle is brought to my ears on the breeze that proceeds this brief and passing gust, slowly, this containment of wind that is about 20 foot long comes closer, over my tent and blows my socks which are airing over the mirrors, and then it passes on, just a noisy bundle of air in a hurry. It’s the closest I've ever been to seeing wind, it was visually and audibly evident and it briefly immersed me in the moment I was standing in. And when I leave that moment unaware of my heightened senses, I feel the change in temperature as I walk down my little hill to the flat of my camping area that has been is shade 30 minutes longer that my view point and has cooled noticeable. I can also smell the oil I put on my dry and dusty chain.
3 in 1, earth, wind and fire, simple elements individually creating this harmonious landscape. You have to slow right down here to avoid the feeling of monotony; to rush through this land is to miss the subtle fascination in every step. From an open visor it will be a blur of repetition, viewed from a motionless stance it shows its varied uniqueness.
I'm aware at this point that the desert has captivated me, my pace has slowed accordingly and I got what I came for. In company, impatient, impervious this would never occur. It’s so perfect that the experience I've tried to describe in this post, viewed from the wrong environment could be seen as pretentious but it’s as genuine as this planet can provide, pretentious is a conservatory. On show to the elements but unfeeling, a bubble in the outside world. As natural as a resalable plastic bag.
I ride every day, rivers to wash in, mountains and canyons reflect the ever changing light and the desert is as silent as the shadows that cross it,
it borrows its best colours from the sun when it rises and sets. The in-park gas station attendant remarks on my filling of my tank again,
‘The problem is I can’t seem to stop riding’, I say
‘That's not a problem’ he says
My visit is a blip in an unfathomable stretch of time that created this space. I'm riding through, a time unfortunately, when the need for control and regulations reach out to this wild environment; I have a list of laws I mustn’t break and rules to abide by.
But my bike takes me to where the rangers don't check, beyond the limited stretch of the long arm of the law. Where the isolation wows me and wows me again and I don't have bow down to the laws pointing out and enforcing what is basic survival and common sense. If I take enough water; I'm free to go wild in the country, at least for a little while.
A week is enough this time, I’d say longer but in another way next time. Carry more supplies to ensure longer isolation.
As ever with a prolonged stop it feels so good to ride again.
I know there is a border patrol check point up here somewhere, I'm dreading the interaction. I slow into the shady canopy, lift my flip up chin guard, and pull down my bandito bandana.
‘US citizen?’
‘No UK’
‘Can I see your passport?’
I pass it to him; picture page open, used foreign visas tend to generate unwanted conversation. He looks at the photo and as he looks up I pull my Oakley’s down my nose and smile.
‘Cool dude’ he says and I'm free to go. Well I wasn’t expecting that.
It may be a characterless soulless road but it’s smooth and empty and the miles pass by not stimulating the mind in the slightest. Half remembering songs and singing the same bit over and over again until I become aware of it and deliberately change it to another half remembered song ‘I’ll do better, yeah I’ll do better’ it’s a little more catchy and wont revert back to the last one. In this part of Texas here are lots of micro oil wells, several pumps and storage cylinders, business looks good judging by the tankers that pass me by in a slamming burst of wind and turbulent slip stream. I pass a Google car on the side of the road, it had a camera on a tripod on the roof, I stop for to drink from my water bottle and it passes me, and to be sure I overtake it once more. I think I may be on Google earth when this latest data is uploaded.
Into Roswell where the temperature is still campable but only to me, so I get the place to myself.
Bottomless lake it’s called, it’s bloody not though, I threw in a rock to check. ‘A little deeper lake than expected camp ground’ wouldn't have the same ring though. Not a place to spent much time unless you happen to know that 100 miles up the road is a snow storm that continues a further 300 miles to your destination. So I will just sit here in the sun and wait 36 hours listening to some UFO on my iPod.
Mentally prepared and after a long sleep I do what I've been doing all trip, the wrong side of hard core, i wake when the people of faster lives would be going to bed.
I'm cold already, I’m not even in a good mood, I'm not sure why. My water bottle has ice in it and my
The plastic milk bottle dribbles enough to lighten my chai and the rest is congealed and inaccessible. My fingers are numb, all
The wrong things are stiff, the plastic fasteners on my
Boots, the zipper on my jacket, the clutch leaver and the
packing and rolling of the tent, sleeping bag and
Thermarest does nothing to stimulate the circulation and
everything to numb the extremities.
I'm swearing and grumpy and try to change my mood.
When the sun raises enough to start shining on the plains beyond my shelter, I'm ready to exit this prolonged harbour of endurable weather. All packed up, multiple layers on and I'm ready, I press the starter and it won’t fuckin start and my
mood is worsening, the battery is exhausting its self and there isn’t a the faintest hint of a spark, only the smell of petrol in a flooded cylinder. It’s an altogether shitty start to a very long day, I start to
consider my options in 2 hours a ranger will arrive I can
get a jump start, in 2 hours I won’t have enough time to get to my intended destination. I wander round. I think about it, I try again, it starts. I plug in my heated vest and settle down in the seat, let’s go then.
As I leave the rocky hills of shelter the sun shines on me with no heat at all.
‘Are you going to be my friend today?’ I ask it.The answer was obscured by clouds.
It disappears in a haze that turns into freezing fog. After only 50 miles I need a wee, the bottle of water now resembles a flavourless slush puppy. Bugger
It starts to snow, double bugger, it doesn’t come to much or settle on the road.
After 100 miles I stop for breakfast, I take off me boots and massage my feet, the waitress frowns but wisely decides to make no comment. I'm stopped for no more than half an hour and I need full choke to start the bike again. Another 130 miles. At this increased speed I'm using up so much more fuel. I stomp around the forecourt. If I was to approach someone in my predicament what would I say? Best not approach me I think.
‘Be careful out there’ the attendant warns, ‘there is snow down in Santa Fe’
‘Yeah but I'm going north’
‘North?’ Then there is no hope for you, his expression seemed to say
.
It’s less than a 500 mile trip why are these distances going so slowly? This always happens when you go from a land that uses kilometres to a place of miles but still my mental calculations are not corresponding with the glance I took on Google maps yesterday (not to see if I could see myself)
I'm on the interstate now but New Mexico just won’t seem to end. Little milestones like the Colorado boarder are what keep me going in such situations. I can’t hold on any longer. I need more sustenance. I pull into a Denny’s, massage my feet again, drink coffee order the day’s second breakfast and surprisingly eat the lot. I text my friend for a weather report.
‘Are you over the pass yet?’
‘What pass?’
Its 28 degrees and snowing up there, its 13 miles away. Outside is a Motel 6 with a very inviting sign of $29 a night, I could just call it a day. No I want to get over the pass.
It snows, the lanes have snow between them, a slow RV towing a car is crawling up, I want to get past, I don't want to cross this slushy slippy divide. I don't want any more spray over my visor either. I cross the divide, pass the RV, reach the summit and the decent brings a dry road and another little feeling of achievement. More miles, more fuel. This fill up should get me there. The snow is constant now, never quite settling but freezing up my visor and I can see its covering the parts of me that reflect in the mirrors, it edges my clocks are like a shop window Christmas display.
I need to stop again but if I do I will catch Friday night rush hour, my feet are so cold now. I think of humans who have done harder, arctic explorers, barefoot indigenous Siberians. But fuck it, my feet are so numb the wind chill is tortuous and there are not many options left inside my helmet other than to start crying from the pain. The traffic starts to back up and soon as filtering is illegal here I obediently stay in lane, the snow gets harder, the traffic slower, but on a positive side the wind chill has stopped and with this crawling traffic my limbs are moving more and circulation is thawing the frozen pinkys. The light is almost gone now, this has taken so much longer than I expected. One more elevation increase, and again the snow is settling on the highway I try to follow the tyre tracks and with the final decent comes my turn off and just another 16 miles, into dusky swirling orange clouds above the silhouetted mountains. And I'm back, at an empty house I left from. That took 10 hours and was nearly 600 miles making a total of 8000 miles since I left 10 weeks ago. Surprisingly I stand around outside. Congratulating the bike and Monklet who both performed their duties much better than I did, couldn’t have done it without them.
And that's it, from holiday ride to international adventure, somewhere in between lays the label of this jaunt. Bit of work, bit of play, bit of endurance, bit of new experience, yep, that’ll do nicely. Right where the washing machine?
The niggle I could no longer ignore, I re checked Google maps (I'm still not on it) I don't have GPS, didn’t even have a map, it was heading north, what could possibly go wrong. Turns out there was a point in New Mexico I should have gone east, then north east then north. It would have cut off 100 miles and a high elevation mountain range. Bollocks.
