Route: I-10 out of El Paso to 375 loop (Caesar E. Chavez border highway – riding fence) to Hwy 20E to I-10E to 90S/E (at Van Horn). 90S/E to Hwy 17N (Marfa). Hwy 17N to Balmorhea State Park. 17S to 67S (Marfa again) to Hwy 170E (Presidio). 170E through Big Bend Ranch (best ride yet) to Chisos Basin in Big Bend National Park. Took side road to Rio Grande (unmarked, just west of Chisos Basin at Santa Elena Canyon). Out of Chisos Basin to 385N to 90E to Del Rio (overnight). 277S/E out of Del Rio to farm road 1021 (Eagle Pass) to farm road 2644 (El Indio) to 83S (Carrizo Springs). 83S to 281S (Pharr) to 4E to Boca Chica to end of the earth. 4W back to 48E to South Padre Island (2 days of rest, laundry, people and a bar)
"Success is not found in the destination, but within the journey itself"
The prejudice surrounding the Texas-Mexico border is definitely grounded in fact. The mere speak of it brings images of drug cartels, thievery, murder, rape, abduction and chaos. Aside from the ever-present human threats, Javolinas, Mountain Lions and Rattlesnakes are also contenders that could step in my ring. Perilous thoughts swarm in my head as I prepare to battle the biggest threat that has yet reared its ugly head. Nerves on edge, muscles permanently tensed and aches in my gut, this is the part of the trip that has plagued my thoughts, emotions and general state of well-being since deciding to make this journey, well over two years ago. This is not part of the trip I have looked forward to, but glad to get it over with, and awareness for my personal safety is on high alert. Contemplations of bringing firearms, stun-guns and other forms of self protection have battled ferociously internally, leaving nothing but a feeling of trepidation after the decision to avoid weapons that could be used in poor favor is made. El Paso, Laredo Nuevo and other border towns spill stories of drug cartels kidnapping Americans and creating a chaotic state of lawlessness. Mexican law enforcement has been gunned down and their blood spilled, in some of these American streets. This is not a leg of the trip that is to be taken lightly and it sits like a scale full of lead in my gut. My goal: get through this as fast as humanly possible.
This is it. This is what I’ve come for. The HD Muscle twitches, as do I, while the wheels roll through El Paso and onto the 375 loop, almost knowing what she’s about to ride into. The fence separating "US from them" guides the road; rusty, a menacing metallic tower that is covered in concrete and razor wire. No one in, no one out. This is our government at its finest, constructing a fence line hundreds of miles long that run along rivers, cut through mountains and tear through farmer’s fields. The wall is formidable and demanding, a clear sign to those that would like to cross it to think twice about their upcoming endeavor. The U.S. had better be worth it. Apathy? Sympathy? Fear? Security? A ride along the fence evokes all these feelings, none of which bring a positive state of mind. I guess it’s doing its job. Debate around this protective line is frenzied and elementary. The 9-11 attacks brought about a greater rationalization on the part of homeland security, and that I can agree with, but it strikes me as odd, that, littered with shrines that have been spoken of before, the border between life and death are not even as closely fortified as the border between our so-called neighbors.
Highway 20 takes me as close to this fence line as possible, without resorting to rudimentary farm roads that would bring on an inevitable break-down. 20 passes through small border towns, mainly agricultural and it’s conflicting to notice that as the wall channels its way through the fields, gates gaping, allow the farmers to drive in and out at will, the gates do not close, my curiosity is peaked. Apparently there is litigation in progress, to halt some construction of the wall that has ravaged some of these local farmer’s livelihoods. These are American farmers. The road is dusty, but very reminiscent of Midwestern farms, lacking the lush green surrounding forests and the black and white cows that dot a Wisconsin landscape. A slight ease comes in for a landing and rests on my shoulders. They say that familiarity breeds contempt, in this case, it breeds antacid.
The dusty back road ends as it meets up with I-10, so the decision to gas up and eat at Fort Hancock is an easy one. Angie’s restaurant offers up a crazy menu, deliciousness flows through its pages which are in direct contrast to its hole-in-the-wall ambience. I roll in just before noon and the place is packed with locals, local law enforcement and the crowd greets each other with hugs, smiles and handshakes. Here in the middle of the prejudicially outcast part of the country, I may have just found the friendliest place on earth. The locals help themselves to drink, help to bus tables to alleviate the strain of the lunch rush and chat amongst themselves. Like a drifter, I was born to walk alone and the clientele know this.
They pay no mind to the scruffy outsider as he eats some delicious white corn tacos, while eyeing the Constable sitting next to him. Only stories and fables of the old west have brought me the knowledge of the “Peace Officer” and here I sit next to one, although rather rotund and jubilant. I’m sure his money is no good here. The crossroads of I-10 and Hwy 90 intersect me with the lives of three dingy, worn and sun-beaten travelers. About 20 years old, he asks me to buy him some chicken. I say no and offer him a cliff bar. After talking with this modern-day hobo, it comes to pass that he is a wanderer, a true nomad of our century. Taking after histories of yore, hitching and box-car riding are not a dead art. They are alive and well and he, his sister and best friend are exploiting free transportation to its fullest. Having served time in town and county jails to think about what they’ve done, the railroads have never prosecuted to the full-extent and these trios of travelling spirits press on. A mission to travel the country, listen to music and receive handouts, two thoughts spring to mind. They are poor, despondent or running from a very bad place. OR, they are rich kids out to break the rules, fleeing from their mundane lives of country clubs, tennis lessons and everything they could possibly want. Immediately another lead ball is dropped in my gut as I think of a relationship past. She had been the latter of the two options, succumbing to a heroin addiction that she was never able to shake. One of the darkest points in my life, that experience has shaped, molded, defined, you name it, the way I look at relationships and interactions with people. Never really trusting until given reason to, living through it snapped me out of a naïve shelter that I still carry with me to this day. I really hope these kids make it through unscathed. I toss them some more food; he was a nice kid for the moment, despite any demons that may be haunting him.
A memory of a friend’s shout for “Prada Marfa” echoes in my head and I have no idea what he was talking about, back in my life formerly known as Chicago, until the roads less traveled take me to Marfa, where my next turn to camp for the night will lead. Just outside of Valentine (a city that bears an unfortunate name to an unfortunate holiday), there is just that. Prada Marfa. Sitting solemnly, abandoned and isolated like a foster kid forgotten at a bus station, in the middle of the desert there is a Prada Boutique, complete with display windows. This still shocks me as I’m not yet accustomed to the odd, unusual and wonderful things that will inadvertently come across my path on this journey.
Rolling through Fort Davis, the road to Balmorhea state park twists, turns through a gently rolling canyon that seems to have been carved out of the earth by the designers of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Monumental cliffs, round, tall and independent, yet bound together line the highway and this road is a must see for any biker, let alone tourist. The beauty draws my focus and attention as I pull over to take some pictures. At the same time, a well camouflaged herd of deer make an appearance as the Muscle rolls to a stop to act as my temporary tripod.
The deer scatter while I idle on the roadside and they run across the road and gracefully bound over a barbed wired fence with an ease so apparent, it looked practiced. Balmorhea is not an overly visually impressive state park, but it will do for the night. Situated far enough from the Mexican border to be comfortable, it gives me my first trial of sleeping in the foldable hammock that was brought for just these types of situations. Knowing that morning will come quickly and the push to get to Big Bend is urgent in my mind, the hammock serves as an easy set-up and pack for the night, even though I string it between two support posts of a shelter. Aside from the lackluster grounds, the park has some great people, who just happened to be from…the Chicago area. Kevin and Kathy from Tinley Park are also riding across country on their bikes, although navigating the opposite of my current path on their way to Los Angeles. Nestling into the hammock, the stars envelop me in a night sky that, like a precocious 3 year old, does not end simply because a horizon tells it to.
Rest should come easy, but it’s not expected and I find that the non-expectations are right on target. The comfort of a down sleeping bag only works when given the proper loft above or padded underneath by a sleeping pad. Hammocks…they don’t have this sleeping pad and the night wind whips below me, chilling me bum. Obdurate as I am, this is not dissuasion and I am thoroughly convinced that exhaustion and my stubbornness will win out in the end and the remainder of the night will be slept in peace and comfort. Wrong again. Tossing and turning all night does nothing but prove that stubborn does not equal a win and the tent should have been set up at the first gust that blew my eyes open.
Morning comes and with it brings grump and grog while the ritualistic packing of camp occurs. In the midst of the daily chores, an older gentleman from Manitoba approaches to make small talk. The conversation meanders like these border back roads and seems to go nowhere, when abruptly he farts and sounding like a leprechaun doing a John Wayne accent, says “well, I better go make breakfast” and walks away. Roses paint my face as I turn my back to him with shoulder jerking, silent, belly laughs. As soon as he’s out of earshot, a full-out wail ensues. A big ol’ Canadian cowboy, his flood pants are permanently shackled by his designer fish suspenders that undoubtedly thwart any attempt at escape.
The road back south is uneventful as promises from the prior day’s ride for breakfast, at a diner in an old caboose, are broken. The next several hundred miles are, like all the rest, foreign and beg me to ride on. Presidio presents itself and we hang a southeast to continue along the border through 
Big Bend Ranch, just west of Big Bend state park – the next destination and camp ground. Hwy 170 revs me up as the landscape unfolds and uncurls in a beauty unknown, with enough curves and bends to make pin-up models look like their two-dimensional posters that get tacked to garage walls and above urinals in bar bathrooms. If this highway was not designed by, for or with bikers in mind, whoever did it missed their calling in life. An easy 35 miles per hour massage the Muscle through dips, turns, bends, curves, hills that run parallel along the snaking Rio Grande. 
Speed is not needed nor wanted cruising through these mountains with rock formations that seem to not only span geologic eras, but entire worlds and continents at the same time. 
I’m giddy. I’m like a 12 year old on X-mas eve, albeit dressed in head to toe in leather, wearing sunglasses, a helmet, bad ass boots and riding a 1250cc/120 horse power Harley Davidson VRSCF Muscle through the Texas desert. Eat it Mad Max, this is my Thunderdome. One Dan enters. One Dan leaves.“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”
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