“I’m on a roll; it’s time to go solo.” - Vanilla Ice
The 6.30 alarm rings out uselessly from across the room and an odd sense of guilt comes over me for stealing its sole purpose for being. Already lying awake for about 30 minutes, I listen for the shuffle of those getting ready for work, as not to disturb. Whether the anticipation of the upcoming solo voyage along the border desert, the ceiling fan or the realization that this will be my last morning arising from a bed for a substantial amount of time, the past night’s sleep was anything but restful. The alluring smell of freshly brewed coffee allows me to pry myself from the sheets and start to gear up for a 7am departure. The ride will be long and the first hour will be spent peddling back the way I prematurely rode into Phoenix, in order to stay true to the trip’s intent. It’s a mistake that will not be made again.Riding down 85S I pass my friends the metalsaurs at Gila Bend and wave as they stand there with corroded looks upon their toothy, rusted half-grins. The desert is empty except for a few randomly scattered cars and the road heading south is mine for the taking. Thanks to Grandparental advice, the next stop of the ride will be Kartchner Caverns State Park to take a tour of a living cave. Near Benson, AZ, the snaking route takes me through the Arizona desert, which is absolutely freezing and transforms my hands into mangled, immovable claws that form a death grip on the handlebars.
The town of Why presents itself and a chortle rolls through me at the thought of...Because. This is a trip of many questions with many answers that lead to more questions with potentially no answers and to have the big one thrown out in the form of an entire town, this early in the trip, brings back that sh!t eating grin. The Tohono O’Odham Nation Reservation spans the distance between Three Points and Amado and the grin that was just so pervasive takes a grimacing downturn when I notice that the only thing more prevalent than the saguaros, broken bottles and exploded truck tires on the sides of the roads are the shrines to fallen loved ones. This holds as a universal truth for the entire desert and many of the shrines erected are monumental, beautiful and beg to be photographed. Superstition is interwoven throughout this trip in many forms, including: guardians, routines and gut checks. The thought of capturing some bad juju and carrying it with me is one that will not be left to chance. No pictures.
Arivaca Road laces itself through the bottom of the desert mountain basket and looking forward, appears to dissolve into the desert in a ripple. Over the hill and round the bend pops up Amado, AZ, housing the Outlaw BBQ and the Longhorn Grill. One reads of biker, the other has a twenty foot high longhorn skull with horns, boasting an entrance through the nasal cavity.
What is a man to do? Both options scream testosterone and promise to satisfy the growliest of stomachs. Since I’ve yet to go into any type of biker bar or restaurant, Outlaw BBQ wins by a nose, but thoughts of walking into a joint through a gigantic skull will be forever tempting. I swallow no regrets, only delicious BBQ brisket, served by a cute, friendly waitress, enjoyed in a booth dedicated to Harley Davidson memorabilia. The waitress recommends some local sites and chats me up, given I’m the only customer and have come in long after the lunch rush finished.
Gas tank and stomach full, I-19 opens up to the right, showing that the Mexican border is not far away. A quick south on I-19 and north on 82 puts Nogales at the crotch of the cartographic V. An easy navigation on the map, the trip proves troublesome when poorly marked roads and my internal deficiencies in direction combine forces to thwart expedience. Tales of murder, kidnappings, drug cartels and other American misfortunes flood my head as sweat starts to roll down my brow and the GPS crawls obstinately into action. Sitting in a broke-down gas station lot while waiting for the phone GPS to start up and load my current location cause the first real thoughts of potential jeopardy to my personal safety as two guys pull up in a dented, rusted and limping pick-up from the Nixon era. They stop and squint to eye me and my bike. Two thoughts simultaneously race: they are admiring the bike or they are about to abduct me, sell the bike and throw me into the underground sex trade. Oh boy. Time to leave. Go with my gut. Just because you’re paranoid…
The GPS eventually points the direction to HWY 82,with ass-saving accuracy and once again the Harley Davidson Muscle is eating up desert highway like Kobayashi eats up hot dogs. The day is starting to expire and Kartchner Caverns State Park offers a very welcome crash pad, after a quick set up of the tent. But…not tonight, no soup for me. A victim of circumstance, late arrival, no reservation and my own “fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants” attitude, the campground is full and there are no sites available. Instead, I set my sights on nearby Benson with hopes of a hotel. The cross-roads town delivers the sanctuary of yet another glowing blue light representing my road home, the Motel 6. The 11 hour ride has produced as much exhaustion as it has mileage and my creative juices are as dry as the sandy lands of which I’m beginning to become accustomed to. No writing tonight, 9.30 equals bedtime and the bed catches me as I collapse into a slumber that will last until 8.30 the next morning.
Morning equals breakfast and there is a Mickey D’s across the highway from the hotel with those salty, greasy, flakey, tasty, sausage biscuits that have become tradition on morning rides. Licking fingers and sipping coffee, I see a kid roll up on an old BMW and he walks in for some road chow of his own. Dreadlocked and lip-ringed, his dyed hair, patch-work denim jacket and rocker style are a colorful contrast to my black-on-black Spaceball uniform. A nice kid on his way to El Paso, he’s not much for chatter and spends his breakfast memorizing the route he’ll take on yet another very chilly desert morning. I wish him safe travels and saddle up for Kartchner, fingers crossed that there are sites available. Lucky day, lucky day. Not only are there campsites open, but the cavern tours are not sold out either. A quick swipe of the credit card ensures that I’ve secured my place in both and once camp is set up, an exploration of the visitor’s center and museum is mandatory, while waiting for the tour to start.Following a breakdown of the big book of cave rules, the tour group enters through a series of airlocks and a mist de-linter (to prevent lint droppings), designed to preserve the cave’s integrity and seal in the balmy 80 degree air that will soon leave me saturated and wondering if the smell is coming from my days on the road or the cave itself.
The tour of the Throne Room and the Rotunda, two of the secondary caves, are led by Pat, a volunteer from Washington state and Dan, a lifetime caver with a PHD in…caving? Pat initially seems the yin to the Dan yang, with Dan’s attitude towards visitors smelling of pretention and arrogance. It is not. I hang back and chat with him about the “real” rules of the cave and Dan lightens up a bit. No pictures are allowed (due to flash), but he says that there are no rules against video without light, so the shoot begins. Pat, the friendly yin at the start of the tour, is less than enthusiastic at my amateur journalistic exploits and video for the remainder of the tour is shot incognito with my finger over the red, record light and a devious delight fills the muggy, cavern air. I am the James Bond of cave filming. Double-O dumbass. Video is shot of stalactites, stalagmites, soda straws, the ever tasty cave bacon and the Holy Grail of the Throne Room – the Kubla Kahn. Talking with Dan at the end of the tour is enlightening and disheartening as he recommends the best natural sights to see in the area, but also tells of the suffering economy’s impact on state parks nationwide as many shut down due to lack of funding. Dan’s face reverses step and lights up as he tells of Picacho Peak and other geologic attractions that Arizona has to offer, but they’ll have to be caught on my way back through Route 66, when they’re the opposite of my opposite path of travel.
The early afternoon tour leaves plenty of time for relaxation and some reading. Emerging from my nylon cocoon at dusk and unfolding my limbs from the cramped quarters, the albino sunset shines brilliantly along the bordering mountains, leaving the landscape drenched in a blanched pink that is an unbeknownst foretelling of the morning view that is to come. Other campers ooh and ahh when the realization of their surroundings hit and they slowly step from their RVs, rubbing their eyes when the natural light hits, trying not to stumble over rusty metal steps while descending to the gravel below. The experience is brief, yet powerful and the night sky comes more quickly than expected. It is clear and crisp, framing a landscape lightening moon that offers the first look of the desert stars which will provide a twinkling canopy for weeks to come. It’s a peaceful beginning to a night that will harbor anything but peace. Howling winds, pounding rain and arctic temperatures rouse me from my sleeping pad slumber and force a full-headed retreat into the warmth of the down sleeping bag as the drawstring is cinched leaving only my nose thermometer peaking out.
My nose wrinkles while trying to gauge the temperature outside of my goose feathered haven and my ears listen to the first sounds of daybreak and the rustling RV-ers. The tent unzips, revealing a half-moon doorway and I’m blinded by eyefuls of white, snowcapped mountains now surrounding the park. Seriously? Really? Enough already. This is the desert and I’m on vacation-ish. Time to check weatherbug. All rain and no sun make Dan a something something… The coin is flipped a few times, but ultimately the decision to stay an additional night is easily made due to the impending rain, the lack of desire to pack up wet gear and my resolve to have at least one nice night in a campground. Bring it nature. Expectations of a very long day and tent fever set in as I hunker down to spend the day reading, writing and literally chillin’ out in the tent. Finding it suits me, the day is spent inside the thin skin that separates wet from dry and coming out is not an option. It’s necessary to go to the station to pay for the extra evening as a guest of Kartchner Caverns state park, and the rangers are unusually glad to see me. This is not a treatment that I am used to, but apparently they weren’t sure if I was actually still alive inside my tent and I had been the topic of some discussion. That crazy biker with Wisconsin plates. I wonder who had the over…
A momentary break in the weather offers a bit of reprieve and an opportunity to spread my increasingly contortionistic wings, which turns me into the direction of my neighbors from Colorado. A little, old, seemingly harmless couple offer friendly salutations then spews poisonous froth that is steeped deeply in pro-American ideals and their blatant racism is like a blind-side round-house to the jaw. My Jedi mind tricks to politely steer the conversation into alleys of travel and landscape, rather than that of politics and economy are easily thwarted by these Siths in Yoda’s clothing. Old and tiny, yet strong and powerful, their resolve is undeniable and I am easily defeated. Mrs. Evil-Yoda’s socially degrading, dehumanizing and morally reprehensible tirade eventually peters out and she invites me to a nice dinner. I choose ramen, my tolerance and my dignity.
Tomorrow, I will take that tolerance, dignity, open mindedness, and human decency, load it onto my bike, and make tracks for New Mexico. Rising slowly, I meticulously pack the bike and efficiency in this area still hasn’t seemed to find its way into this part of the program. Surrounded by snowy mountains and opaque breath, I wait until just before 10am to head out, with aspirations of warmer weather as I travel further south and east.
My path today takes me on a nostalgic pass through Bisbee, where the need to stop and look at some familiar establishments and the Lavender Pit Mine forces me off the bike and onto past thoughts of unfortunate circumstances.
Sentiment aside, I brush it off, saddle back up and ride into Douglas for a quick lunch and then more QT with the baking asphalt. Pulling up to a swagger and saddle saloon, I smirk at the appropriateness of the joint, but it’s closed, so I eat at the hotel next door. It’s an old timey western place that smells of a history filled with miners, whiskey, cowboys and brothel.Lunch is ok.
New Mexico… look out.
"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."
