Thursday, November 06, 2003
-5th entry-
Border crossing from El Paso to Ciudad Juarez
Powering into El Paso Texas by 1pm I have a few house keeping thngs to square away before hopping the border. Coming in from the open road I am a little out of synch with the city traffic, but I manage to find my lane without too much difficulty. Mexican licence plates dot the freeway and signs direct drivers to the International border via the downtown exits.
I need to find the Best Western I was supposed to have reached yesterday to pick up an Amex card my folks FedEx’d to me in case I run into any problems. No matter how nasty and dirty you are, if you roll into a hotel and pull the Gold card out you are welcomed home with open arms. Might be the most useful tool in my cache of gear.
OK, one final inventory and I am off to Mexico. HOLD HOLD! Where is the title to my bike?! I need my title to cross over and I think I left it in Boston! CRAP, I did leave it in Boston. After a frantic call home I get a faxed copy sent to me and the original dropped at FedEx just in case I get turned back at customs.
Here we go, the American leg of the trip is done, and the Mexican is about to begin hopefully without much delay.
To C. Juarez points the arrow running alongside a 20 foot barbed wire fence separating the freeway from a plateau and deep ditch. I have seen this set up before driving past Sing-Sing prison in NY.
Across the bridge and around a sharp bend I see the line of overheating cars trying to enter the states. People are out of their cars pushing them up foot by foot as the inspecters rummage through each truck and suspicious vehicle. I proceed to the inspection point going the other way and am waved right through But, but where is the beaurocracy, bribes, heartache and requisite paperwork I read about? Senor, I would feel a lot better if you asked to see my passport or registration or something and stamped me full of ink please, I read all about it. Nope, nada, move along please.
Crossing into Ciudad Juarez you are immediately confronted with the fact that you are no longer governed by the rules and regulations of the states. Hand painted signs advertise things from tire repair to haircuts to fireworks and tattoos. The exaust fumes are intense and the pedestrians mingle with the rumbling traffic without concern.
I am in Mexico. Holy shit, I am in Mexico and it is scary. What have I done, what tempted me to come to this place. What is that smell? How do I get away from this border town and into the open plains and sleepy towns. Jesus, that cop is eyeballing me.
JUST DONT CRASH.
After about 20 minutes of following a guy that I thought was American until he told me to follow him to the Chiuahua freeway in broken English I was out of Ciudad Juarez proper. This is more like it. Two lane highway with professionally mounted signage and speeding trucks ahhhh. I get to thinking about how easy it was to cross the border, what was I stressing about, piece of torta. I see something on the horizon, it looks like a military blockade, either that or a huge carwash in the desert we shall see.
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 3:40 PM
Border crossing from El Paso to Ciudad Juarez
Powering into El Paso Texas by 1pm I have a few house keeping thngs to square away before hopping the border. Coming in from the open road I am a little out of synch with the city traffic, but I manage to find my lane without too much difficulty. Mexican licence plates dot the freeway and signs direct drivers to the International border via the downtown exits.
I need to find the Best Western I was supposed to have reached yesterday to pick up an Amex card my folks FedEx’d to me in case I run into any problems. No matter how nasty and dirty you are, if you roll into a hotel and pull the Gold card out you are welcomed home with open arms. Might be the most useful tool in my cache of gear.
OK, one final inventory and I am off to Mexico. HOLD HOLD! Where is the title to my bike?! I need my title to cross over and I think I left it in Boston! CRAP, I did leave it in Boston. After a frantic call home I get a faxed copy sent to me and the original dropped at FedEx just in case I get turned back at customs.
Here we go, the American leg of the trip is done, and the Mexican is about to begin hopefully without much delay.
To C. Juarez points the arrow running alongside a 20 foot barbed wire fence separating the freeway from a plateau and deep ditch. I have seen this set up before driving past Sing-Sing prison in NY.
Across the bridge and around a sharp bend I see the line of overheating cars trying to enter the states. People are out of their cars pushing them up foot by foot as the inspecters rummage through each truck and suspicious vehicle. I proceed to the inspection point going the other way and am waved right through But, but where is the beaurocracy, bribes, heartache and requisite paperwork I read about? Senor, I would feel a lot better if you asked to see my passport or registration or something and stamped me full of ink please, I read all about it. Nope, nada, move along please.
Crossing into Ciudad Juarez you are immediately confronted with the fact that you are no longer governed by the rules and regulations of the states. Hand painted signs advertise things from tire repair to haircuts to fireworks and tattoos. The exaust fumes are intense and the pedestrians mingle with the rumbling traffic without concern.
I am in Mexico. Holy shit, I am in Mexico and it is scary. What have I done, what tempted me to come to this place. What is that smell? How do I get away from this border town and into the open plains and sleepy towns. Jesus, that cop is eyeballing me.
JUST DONT CRASH.
After about 20 minutes of following a guy that I thought was American until he told me to follow him to the Chiuahua freeway in broken English I was out of Ciudad Juarez proper. This is more like it. Two lane highway with professionally mounted signage and speeding trucks ahhhh. I get to thinking about how easy it was to cross the border, what was I stressing about, piece of torta. I see something on the horizon, it looks like a military blockade, either that or a huge carwash in the desert we shall see.
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 3:40 PM
Thursday -4th entry-
I am writing this entry as I sit in the hole of two enduro tires. Bare feet hanging out the door of my motel room, just about a yard away from I-40’s stampede. My stogie is wafting back into my non-smoking (by request) room, but I am too tired to pry myself out of my rubber donut hole a reggae remake of Dark Side of the Moon has me bobbing and typing and bobbing and smoking. Amarillo, Texas, indeed a fitting name. But this is the end of my day, I should tell you about how it got rolling, or rather didn’t get rolling.
6 am wake up call at the Budget Host Inn in Mount Vernon, Missouri has me up and into my riding gear like Firefighter I Basic training. Boots in pants require only a step in and pull up of suspenders and I am halfway there. Jacket, gloves, glasses and helmet and I am ready Do I have to brush again in the morning if I didn’t eat anything between last night’s brushing?
Loaded up and ready to chase the darkness into the horizon I mount Frankenstein and give her a pelvic thrust to knock her off the center stand, but she doesn’t roll. Flat! Again!
Across the street is a huge trucker repair shop, but they won’t touch it. I am not worried so much as annoyed that my early start got delayed. Following the truck stop foreman’s instructions I flip the hazards on and putter down the commercial two-lane street past the fast-food joints and gas stations. 2nd left, OK-past the school and into the town square. Tire shop should be around here somewhere. Closed, as can be expected.
So as not to be too late for my date with the highway I start to disassemble the rear portion of the bike. Bags off, bolts in hand, calipers/rear brake dangling by a cord and there it is, I have my tire in hand, worn nail protruding from center has me smiling for some reason. Got this far, might as well try to break the bead and patch the hole myself.
Sun is up, mailman stares as he drops his deliverables, empty school bus rumbles by on route to picking up deliverables. An hour later I am bleeding from every knuckle and sweating through. Getting a tire off its rim is very difficult business without the proper heavy tools. I gave it a good go, but the $10 I paid to have the rubber part the rim was worth every dollar. Got any bandages back there?
A beautiful little town square with nice people, but I was itching to get to El Paso, my jumping off point into Mexico by tonight and if that wasn’t going to happen, Roswell, New Mexico. Gas and go without dismounting found me in Tulsa in no time. Cherokee Country. Signs on the side of the road instruct drivers Do not drive into smoke!
In downtown Tulsa I pick up a PCI card modem for my computer. Surrounded by all the consumer comforts of home I decide I should look for a bike shop and buy some new tires before I cross the border. Two hours later I find the right sized Twinduros (knobby tires) and plunk down the $350.
I threw away a nasty pair of socks I manned since NY, and I picked up 2 tires my luggage has grown to Carnevalesque proportions. With enough tie downs and bungee cordage I secure them in a fashion that offers low back support and upper support and mid support too People are not only looking at me funny on the highway,. They are starting point and drift into my lane forgetting they are driving.
The afternoon went by fast. A college aged women with a Texas women’s rugby sticker on her Jeep and the same Oakley’s as I went head to head on the straights. It may be Indian country, but this cowboy will not be taken by a Jeep Cherokee today.
Note to self- Trucker restaurants are way to go. Usually all you can stomach, offer showers (!), phones with data ports at tables, and if you strike up a conversation it lasts through dessert. Not as singular an experience as riding a bike, but I am sure they too miss chatter We trade speed trap locations, I hit the jello&fruit tray and bear down on the neon hotel district in search of a bed and a place to write
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 3:37 PM
I am writing this entry as I sit in the hole of two enduro tires. Bare feet hanging out the door of my motel room, just about a yard away from I-40’s stampede. My stogie is wafting back into my non-smoking (by request) room, but I am too tired to pry myself out of my rubber donut hole a reggae remake of Dark Side of the Moon has me bobbing and typing and bobbing and smoking. Amarillo, Texas, indeed a fitting name. But this is the end of my day, I should tell you about how it got rolling, or rather didn’t get rolling.
6 am wake up call at the Budget Host Inn in Mount Vernon, Missouri has me up and into my riding gear like Firefighter I Basic training. Boots in pants require only a step in and pull up of suspenders and I am halfway there. Jacket, gloves, glasses and helmet and I am ready Do I have to brush again in the morning if I didn’t eat anything between last night’s brushing?
Loaded up and ready to chase the darkness into the horizon I mount Frankenstein and give her a pelvic thrust to knock her off the center stand, but she doesn’t roll. Flat! Again!
Across the street is a huge trucker repair shop, but they won’t touch it. I am not worried so much as annoyed that my early start got delayed. Following the truck stop foreman’s instructions I flip the hazards on and putter down the commercial two-lane street past the fast-food joints and gas stations. 2nd left, OK-past the school and into the town square. Tire shop should be around here somewhere. Closed, as can be expected.
So as not to be too late for my date with the highway I start to disassemble the rear portion of the bike. Bags off, bolts in hand, calipers/rear brake dangling by a cord and there it is, I have my tire in hand, worn nail protruding from center has me smiling for some reason. Got this far, might as well try to break the bead and patch the hole myself.
Sun is up, mailman stares as he drops his deliverables, empty school bus rumbles by on route to picking up deliverables. An hour later I am bleeding from every knuckle and sweating through. Getting a tire off its rim is very difficult business without the proper heavy tools. I gave it a good go, but the $10 I paid to have the rubber part the rim was worth every dollar. Got any bandages back there?
A beautiful little town square with nice people, but I was itching to get to El Paso, my jumping off point into Mexico by tonight and if that wasn’t going to happen, Roswell, New Mexico. Gas and go without dismounting found me in Tulsa in no time. Cherokee Country. Signs on the side of the road instruct drivers Do not drive into smoke!
In downtown Tulsa I pick up a PCI card modem for my computer. Surrounded by all the consumer comforts of home I decide I should look for a bike shop and buy some new tires before I cross the border. Two hours later I find the right sized Twinduros (knobby tires) and plunk down the $350.
I threw away a nasty pair of socks I manned since NY, and I picked up 2 tires my luggage has grown to Carnevalesque proportions. With enough tie downs and bungee cordage I secure them in a fashion that offers low back support and upper support and mid support too People are not only looking at me funny on the highway,. They are starting point and drift into my lane forgetting they are driving.
The afternoon went by fast. A college aged women with a Texas women’s rugby sticker on her Jeep and the same Oakley’s as I went head to head on the straights. It may be Indian country, but this cowboy will not be taken by a Jeep Cherokee today.
Note to self- Trucker restaurants are way to go. Usually all you can stomach, offer showers (!), phones with data ports at tables, and if you strike up a conversation it lasts through dessert. Not as singular an experience as riding a bike, but I am sure they too miss chatter We trade speed trap locations, I hit the jello&fruit tray and bear down on the neon hotel district in search of a bed and a place to write
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 3:37 PM
Tuesday, October 28, 2003-2nd Entry:
A hard day on the road.
It’s not as if I have got to catch a train or deliver a tuxedo to a groom already late for his wedding, but there is a sense of urgency that guides me as I ride. I gas up, piss, down a coke, rub eyes and hop right back in the saddle for another 200 miles. I did this all day. Maybe I am moving west so deliberately to reach some new scenery. As a New Englander I just assumed OH, IL, WV and PN would look somehow different, nope.
Not to say that things are the same either; here people drive American, no BMW’s, Audis or AlfaRomeos. For that matter, most vehicles on I-70 are of the 18-wheeled variety.
Breaker 1-9, do you read me? I got a lipstick red BMWya coming up to mile marker 3. Coming in nice and hot say we show him how crowded the field can get...Yeehaw! OUT!
This is trucker country. Simple math dictates that 18 beats 2. If they are Kings of the road motorcyclists are sharecroppers, in the big picture I am barly more relevant than dear which, by the way, litter the road so prevelantly that there is a special roadkill division in the highway dept. whose job it is to hoist the fresh kills up onto a tan pick-up bed.
I am running about 400 miles behind schedule, but I requested an early wake up call and am promised no more rain so I should be able to make it to OK City by tomorrow evening, that is of course assuming the Kings don’t come looking for some harvest.
OUT!
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 3:26 PM
A hard day on the road.
It’s not as if I have got to catch a train or deliver a tuxedo to a groom already late for his wedding, but there is a sense of urgency that guides me as I ride. I gas up, piss, down a coke, rub eyes and hop right back in the saddle for another 200 miles. I did this all day. Maybe I am moving west so deliberately to reach some new scenery. As a New Englander I just assumed OH, IL, WV and PN would look somehow different, nope.
Not to say that things are the same either; here people drive American, no BMW’s, Audis or AlfaRomeos. For that matter, most vehicles on I-70 are of the 18-wheeled variety.
Breaker 1-9, do you read me? I got a lipstick red BMWya coming up to mile marker 3. Coming in nice and hot say we show him how crowded the field can get...Yeehaw! OUT!
This is trucker country. Simple math dictates that 18 beats 2. If they are Kings of the road motorcyclists are sharecroppers, in the big picture I am barly more relevant than dear which, by the way, litter the road so prevelantly that there is a special roadkill division in the highway dept. whose job it is to hoist the fresh kills up onto a tan pick-up bed.
I am running about 400 miles behind schedule, but I requested an early wake up call and am promised no more rain so I should be able to make it to OK City by tomorrow evening, that is of course assuming the Kings don’t come looking for some harvest.
OUT!
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 3:26 PM
