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)
"The greatest and noblest pleasure which men can have in this world is to discover new truths; and the next is to shake off old prejudices.” - Frederick the Great
Passing through ghost towns and seemingly soon-to-be ghosts towns such as Shafter and Terlingua, gliding through the Big Bend Ranch, (just west of Big Bend Park) and attentively navigating the precarious switchbacks that snake down into Chisos Basin, a campsite is available and the tent is up in record time. With enough light left in the day, and apparently feeling that there wasn’t enough road chewed up that day, I saddle up and set out on a 60 mile trek around the park and down to the Rio Grande at the Santa Elenya canyon. Betty floats on her wheels, not being bagged down by heavy packs and full saddle bags, she responds to the slightest touch and it’s freeing to be able to just “cruise,” these are my favorite rides. Expansive doesn’t even begin to describe the mountain range, and had I been raised here, I might think that this is how the entire world looks. Mountains have been described in these writings before, but each time new ones appear, it’s like watching a rerun of a favorite television show, but each time it airs, the show changes just slightly enough to rope you in again and again, coercing new oohs and ahhs. 200 proof distilled beauty.
Enough fear and respect exists for the dividing line of our two countries, however apprehension does not override curiosity as the engine purrs to silence and I make the walk down to the trickling waters of the Rio Grande. Ever leery for banditos and other stereotypes, one eye is kept on the water as the other scans the riverscape for possible threats, like a crazy iguana. To the right, up river about 100 yards, three people emerge on Mexican property and a lump forms in my throat as all my preconceived notions whiz through at once. Stopping all movement and eyes squinted to slits; I confirm that it’s nothing more than a very pasty dad and his two kids. Breakin the law, breakin the law. Seeing a shallow area, where they crossed, impish thoughts of my own crossing start stealing into my head, ooh a picture on Mexican soil – that’s a good one. They walk closer and after some brief introductions and conversations, guide me to the best route to cross over. Oooh, I’m a bad boy, gonna buck the system and illegally cross into Old Mexico, take that authority. But authority has other plans. As I bend over to remove my boots and begin to roll up my pants, two border patrol agents are perched at the top of the path and promptly halt any stripping that was about to occur, sorry ladies. Their waves beckon as the small family and make small talk on the way to the heavily armed political soldiers, contemplating our fate.
The mountain range and river have replaced the concrete and razor wire, but the boundaries are still just as prominent, were just crossed and note was taken. Hands on their firearms, the pendulum stance of good agent/bad agent swings into play, they being to ping pong threats and niceties for the next 20 minutes. Knowing I’m not in trouble, and with a grin buried beneath the surface, I listen intently while searching for ways to get pictures of the vehicle, the agents and their kick-ass MP4 assault rifles. Apparently I’m not very good at stealthy pictures and the agent catches me red-handed. Telling him that the pictures are of the surrounding mountain pass, he doesn’t press the issue, but upon review of my photojournalistic escapade, all pictures are blurry and are promptly deleted. Damn my unskilled stealth photography. For those of you interested, if you should get into trouble while illegally crossed into Mexico, agents are standing 20 feet away are not allowed to assist you, should trouble arise. If trouble should arise, then you just created an international incident and will be plastered all over CNN. Or, perhaps, quietly never heard from again. As tempting as it is, and as tempted as I was, current knowledge dictates that this course of action is not advised.
Fully amused by the teeter-totter lecture and the fact that for once someone else is in the hot seat, the race against the shadows back to camp once again begins. Sunset falls on the mountains, giving them a red glow that reminds me of the campfire coals that I yearn for but are not allowed in this park. Chisos Basin is snuggled in a towering mountain court, resembling a large, brown cereal bowl with the campground the residual milk at the bottom. Chuckling, the realization that I’m just one of a few random fruit loops drifting aimlessly in this cosmic milk draws up satirical images in my head. Someone in a campsite close by is playing an eerily beautiful violin and it echoes off the canyon walls, a surreal serenade, given my surroundings as it pierces the silence. 
Floating through the air on the notes from the strings, smells of grills, burgers, onions, steaks and other luxury foods tease my nostrils, which have a direct line to my stomach. I eat freeze-dried spaghetti. Mmm. Sitting at the trough of the canyon leaves no room for cell service and electricity is limited. There is, however, an old timey, red, wooden phone booth for emergencies and aside from its practical purpose, is quite picturesque.
The plan to camp for two nights, take in the sights and attempt a formidable hike are cut short as the weather report rolls in behind my two wheels, and carries a more sour tune than what I’ve grown accustomed to tonight. Just like the Clash, a mental battle of should I stay or should I go plays itself out in catchy repetition. Heeding the advice of a friend, I go with my gut and make the decision to leave in the morning. The question begs to be answered “is my gut telling me to go because of some 6th sense intuition?” or have I been alone too long and, looking ahead to how long it will be before I see someone again, “am I just longing for laundry, easy conversation, a shower and familiar faces?” Riding sunup to sundown has finally taken its toll, physically and mentally and my tightly knit mind starts to fray and unravel rapidly. Only being on the road for 3 weeks is the weapon I use to battle a sliding depression tonight, as it doesn’t seem a long enough time period to be justified. My only companion has been the deafening rushing of the wind around the helmet, with some days the sound being loud enough to wake the dead. Every day, I wish that it would. Isolation is an efficient predator, raking its claws of solitude and gnashing its teeth of self-doubt. For me, being a social creature, I fall easy prey to this carnivorous beast and the only defense is to kick my own ass. Recognizing that it is way too early in my adventure to have a thought like this, and realizing the extremes of the rides undergone to date, the tent beckons and argument is futile. Getting up to prepare for a night’s rest, warnings of bears and mountain lions have left me on further edge as I back into a camp chair and squeak a half-scream like a little girl. It’s bed time.
The morning sun brings new light to the canyon and to my perceptions. The previous days’ big rides have the internal clock set for a 6.30 wake up call, cracking my eyelids; they’re shut just as quickly and slumber remains until 8. The past 24 hours of experience have left me with the hard lesson regarding the importance of adequate food and rest. It’s an absolute necessity. If you, the reader, take anything away from any of my ramblings, take this. You are shite without either or both. Take time to properly care for yourself in rest and food. Being a student of all Discovery Channel survival shows, you’d think I knew this. Well. The only way I learn is the hard way; this has been proven repeatedly over the course of the past 33 years. Morning may have brought a refreshed perspective, but not a revised forecast and the decision to leave still holds strong. A breakfast of tasty oats and coffee is eaten silently and motionlessly while the beauty of the canyon walls and all surrounding is devoured along with my vittles. Invisible to the world around me, a red fox comes trotting into my campsite, within 10 feet of my Folgers and there’s not enough time for me to move unnoticed and grab a camera. Sly fox trots fearlessly but cautiously on his way past my legs to more important adventures and the resemblance between the two of us does not go unnoticed. For the rest of breakfast the camera is lock, loaded and ready to take aim, but there is no more quarry, except for a little bird who decides my oatmeal is tastier than cactus seeds and promptly perches on my cup for a bite. I am Snow White of the desert and dare not put out my arms for fear that flocks and herds will perch and nestle against me. The marqueed bear and mountain lions do not make a cameo on this trip and relief infused with disappointment simmers.
Packing completed, the campsite is scanned one last time, and once again there is absolutely no footprint of any existence. Like an apparition floating on the desert heat waves, there is no sign of me outside of the few hours spent hunkered in each camp. The gypsy in me takes pride in this knowledge and the former night’s feelings of melancholy are painted over by a gratified, mischievous revelry in the fact that only I know where I am at any given moment. Enter sh!t eating grin.
Geared up and rearing to go, 1st gear once again kicks down as Betty purrs back through fog enveloped switchbacks at a blistering 10 miles per hour out of the canyon. Not happy with the current state of atmosphere, pressing on releases me into the cactus valley floor that is bright, sunny and clear of any rain, for the time being. This is the World Cup of mental games and while riding the lone highway, reflections of last night’s struggle and the swiftness with which it overtook me read like a newspaper in my head. Ink smudged and dirty fingers, I wash my thoughts in the faith of what keeps me going. As if to prove the point, the Devil rears its horns out of the desert floor to ensure I do not forget he's always with me. Family, friends, followers. Your comments, calls, texts and email are the biggest propellant of my psyche, frame of mind and success of this adventure and I thank you. Knowing that you’re still out there and I’m not forgotten means more than you could possibly fathom.
On March 6, 2010, in the border town of Del Rio, Texas, the Muscle is emptied, covered and the disc lock is pinned into place. Dirty, exhausted, aching for real food, a bed and a shower an America’s Best Inn (not the best, by the way) will be tonight’s Four Season’s and the Sirloin Stockade buffet will serve as Gibson’s Steakhouse. Food can be eaten with a fork and knife, isn’t prepared with 2 cups of boiling water and there is dessert. Oh sweet dessert! Cakes, cookies and pies dance on my tongue like a pack of Oompa Loompas, as they’re carried off into an eagerly awaiting stomach. Back at the motel, the only thing dirtier than the stories the walls would bleed if poked, are the dingy, used-to-be white sheets that I’ll slip into after a luxurious, flip-flopped shower.
Thoroughly enjoying a night’s sleep on a mattress that doesn’t involve my elbows knocking into the ground, morning preparations for the big push are made. This perhaps will be the biggest push of the trip, attempting an estimated 600 miles through the Texas desert, along a most disconcerting border. Apprehensions are reignited and the success of this part of the trip is unconstructively debated. Perceived biases, countless warnings and multitudes of advice received from all angles tumble heavily through thought as the desert ride begins. It’s going to be a long ride.
The morning is drenched in rain; the storm I had so determinately avoided has finally found me. Rolling out in full rain gear, I look like the Michelin Man’s north woods cousin, puffed out and dripping head to toe in blaze orange. This is not the look of a biker. I do not care. I am dry and safe, tough guys be damned. The Muscle skates along the border, breezing through towns as if they don’t exist. They may as well not. Marked on the map, but little else, most of the towns ridden through look as though nobody has occupied them for quite some time. Until I get to Roma. A cool little big town, Roma has all the necessities needed for a town to survive, restaurants, shops, car washes, an unexpected oasis in the middle of nowhere. Outside of the town a hand painted billboard boasts a phone number and touts promises of mole and tattoo removal. No thank you, I’ll pass. What they don’t tell you is that their primary instrument for said removals is a belt sander. The respite and civility of Roma and its people start to pave a transformation of perception. These towns are not the looming holes of death that have been dug into my mind and I can feel fear turn to apprehension which morphs into a chrysalis of caution and the real view of small town people and their hospitality finally emerges.
The border welcomes me now, if no one else, as I push past Laredo and my mind opens like the road before me. The only current threats being rogue goats, cattle and wild horses that feel they need to share the road with all travelers. Dogs run loose in towns and the country, feral as the countryside they call home. Dodging the local fauna, the road takes me to Brownsville’s port of entry, where the line to get into the U.S. seems endless. Through steel bars and red and white gates I see droves of people, on foot and in cars, strive to enter the land of the free. The line going into Mexico is completely empty, a nauseating reminder of previous cautions and our current state of affairs. Leaving Brownsville, I once again roll on the throttle with the promise of the gulf of Mexico close at hand.
It feels as if I’m literally on the road to nowhere. A desolate (it is 7pm) two-lane highway bordered by sand dunes and the distant blinking of offshore oil rigs, the water is not yet visible. My body tenses and shakes at the thought of finally seeing the gulf after so many miles spent traversing, what could have been, an unforgiving desert landscape. I call this the road to nowhere and it gives me my first taste of the bug army as I pull over every 5 miles to clean my face shield. The anticipation of reaching Boca Chica state park builds like a static charge and my excitement is ready to explode into a frenzied smile, but the water remains elusive. Constantly pulling over and checking a now-working GPS, Betty and I inch closer to the blue on the screen. Convinced the gulf will cleanse all my fears of the previous 1,400 miles and the waves will drown any bias or prejudice I may have had, we continue to roll on. I see the sign: Road Ends 500 Feet. Cautiously rolling up, the asphalt begins to turn to sand and when riding forward is no longer possible, I set the kickstand down and walk the remaining 100 yards. There it is, the gulf of Mexico crashing into the surf and cascading into my eyes. It’s not the most scenic view, but this is my Rembrandt, my Van Gogh and I have never set my eyes on anything so beautiful. A renewed energy explodes in my soul after a grueling 13 hour ride. I was right. I am cleansed. All is good.
Never foregoing common sense, caution and observation, had I been a more seasoned traveler or less susceptible to the media frenzy and misguidance of others, the ride along this border would have been spent with more time and exploration. Fear was based on lack of knowledge and now that I’ve experienced this beautiful part of our country, shame settles on my shoulders for succumbing so deeply to this prejudice. My ideas of this leg of the journey are akin to the small town kid that has never been to Chicago or New York, that replies with “you live in Chicago?! People get mugged and shot there!!” With every place in this world, there is going to be a shameful underbelly that gets reported on and sells the most papers. This is, unfortunately, the word that will be spread and with it dangerous stereotypes. Even though the border ride is complete and I breathe a breath of comfort, I would like one day to bury those biased notions for good, taking my time along this uniquely gorgeous landscape, getting to better know the land and its people.
"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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