If I hadn’t have stopped to take in the view, the hairpin lesson would have been harsh but if there was no view, there would be no need for this unique road rule. I stop to photograph the road winding into the valley because it seems quite a popular theme to post on FB. The cars and trucks are switching lanes on the hairpins. For a brief moment they are driving on the correct side of the road, the left, what kind of a safety measure is this? On some but not all the bends you are required by the multiple arrows marked on the road to switch lanes, look closely at the photo.
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.
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.
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