Tuesday, January 11 - The 800 Mile Day     With first light, I headed back into El Paso and to the first McDonalds I saw. I pulled into the lot, parked the bike, and shuffled inside. Oh my, does that feel good as I heaved open the door. Saharan heat blasted me in the face. I couldn’t feel my hands, my fingers were ice white, and I clenched them over and over. With breakfast and steaming hot water, I couldn't wait to wrap my fingers around the warm cup. As my order was prepared, I got my hands working enough to carry the tray. After 3 cups of hot water, a half-hour, and not removing even one layer, I finally stopped shivering. This has been a hell of a first day was the thought as I smiled to myself.  I could tell already this is going to be some trip.

Across from me were some oldsters carrying on conversations about 1938 or was it '42? They bantered back and forth smiling, joking, and down right badgering each other. I sat in silence studying the maps and making notes in the margins adding up the distance to Houston. I took note of the elevation markers. I have a ways to go is my thought as I finish adding the miles on the edge of the map. 800 Miles. Another 800 miles.      Reunited with the bike, and soon acclimated with the surrounding temperature, on into Texas I went. She better be worth it was all I kept saying to myself. I was now less than 800 miles away and I’d be there south of Houston where she lives by nightfall.      The miles were wearing upon me. Anytime I felt tired, I’d pull off the freeway at an overpass to stop and regain my senses. I did this several times. Sometimes, just long enough to get off the bike and walk around in the middle of the road. No these Texas roads aren’t traveled by many people it seemed.

At one such exit, I pulled into the town of Sierra Blanca, elevation 4500 feet, at the foot of the Sierra Blanca Mountains in western Texas. The sun showers warmth. The sky was infinite blue. I took a moment to grab a picture at the boarded up movie house and the old train station. Why would anyone want to live out here is my first thought. This must be my flaw, because I can’t come up with that reason. I rode slowly through the town. What a wonderful world to be able to choose the concrete of LA, the gun totting gas jockey’s, the cold deserts of New Mexico, the fog of the Sacramento valley, or where ever it is we choose to live our lives. I wonder if it is we who choose our lives, or do our lives choose us?  Is this the sort of thing you think about on trips like this?

Sierra Blanca, Texas

I rode out of the town, on to the overpass and left down the ramp onto this ribbon of concrete. Reunited with the pavement, the miles accumulated asthe sun rose into crisp blue sky. At one point, I pulled off the freeway into a truckstop and pulled the bike up on its center stand and catnapped still sitting on the bike. Years later, I would learn this is called the Iron Butt Motel.  Back on the freeway all that existed is miles and miles, and the thought of reaching her. After all, that's what this trip is all about.

The endless expanse...

Every now and then, a picturesque scene presented itself and I snapped a picture. It was the utmost-boring ride. Worse than western Kansas. Approaching San Antonio the terrain became somewhat mountainous, and actual trees appeared. A 10-hour drive between cities is an excursion, especially when those cities are in the same state. Lot of land down here. Anyone who speaks of overpopulation in the United States has never been to Texas. This place is expansive, it drags on forever. Some of the scenes and vistas north of San Antonio were a welcome change in terrain. I found myself thinking that I could see how towns nestled into the little valleys and draws of these mountains become attractive as they pass by one after the other.

Another one of my frequent stops in Texas at overpasses to stretch the legs.

San Antonio enlarged upon the horizon after a 10-hour non-stop ride. It was a maze of freeways as I worked my way eastward through the city. I left the metropolis on a high speed flat race for Houston. What a piece of art the road to Houston is, straight, flat, no traffic. Except this repeating scene of a cop and a pulled over speeder every 50 miles. I hit the cruise, popped in Tom Petty, and away we go.  Running out of tapes though, I’ve brought everything from Erasure to Madonna to Van Halen to The Best of 1957.     Upon entering Houston, Texas I came upon a huge pileup on the other side of the freeway. Cars had been reduced to twisted hunks of metal including a jackknifed semi, twisted across the road. Cars were strewn everywhere, hoods pushed up or imbedded into another car. Broken glass shards lay like discarded diamonds sprayed across the lanes of freeway. Searchlights bounced brilliance upon glass walls of office buildings on either side of the freeway illuminating the scene. Ambulance lights pulsated alongside firetrucks and rescue personnel converged through the rubble. The reflective tapes on their outfits glowed white under the lights. Above in the night sky a helicopter hovered. Traffic backed up 4 lanes wide as far as the eye could see. I must be under a lucky star to have survived this trip so far.      After the huge pileup, I went deeper into the city and encountered a myriad of construction. The further I went, the more disorientated I became. Not knowing where my turnoff was or when it was coming up, I lost all sense of direction. The map I have of the city is small and not very detailed. I eventually stopped alongside the freeway underneath a street lamp and studied it in the darkness as traffic hurtled on by. I have a map light that plugs into the cigarette lighter on the bike but no go. Even stopped, I couldn't make heads or tails and construction cones stood all around me. The orange lights atop the cones blinked out of sequence in a jumble of pulsing orbs.  I kicked it into gear and headed down the road.  Eventually discovered I was right where I needed to be. I turned south out of the city and my turnoff was just a mile ahead. My lucky star, remember?     At the edge of the city, a deadly thick fog enveloped me, just as bad as yesterday morning in Sacramento. I wolf-packed with some other cars because I couldn't see 20 feet in front of me. Nasty, nasty fog, then I almost missed the turnoff to Clute, Texas. Finally pulled in at 11:45 PM Central Time. 15 hours to cross Texas, the distances are staggering. Yesterday I crossed 3 states in 20 some hours. Texas gobbles up the hours and you don't feel as if you've gone anywhere.     I pulled into town tired but pleased at myself and feeling relieved. I've done it. 2000 miles in two days. I'm here. Her directions on how to get to her place are exact and I’ve no trouble finding the place. I coasted into the parking lot and shut the bike down, and just sat there looking up at her place on the second floor. I made it. Through the cold and fatigue, up and over the mountains, through the grapevine racetrack of LA, the gun totting gas jockeys of Las Cruces, the hypothermia, the nothingness of wide open Texas, the freeway pileups, past all the speeder thirsty cops. I really made it... all to reach her.      She wasn't home.      I couldn't believe it. Her cat she described over the phone was even pawing at me through the picture window. Maybe she didn't expect me at this hour, maybe she's sleeping or maybe she went to the corner market. At midnight on a Tuesday? I was clueless, stumped, she knew I was coming, we planned this whole trip and the coming week together. I would at least expect her to leave a note on the door but true to form she doesn't. I ride up the street to a payphone and call her apartment. The phone just rings on and on, she could be dead inside and I’d never know. Scenes from every bad movie I’ve ever seen pop like flashbulbs in my mind. I call again, still no answer. I call her work, no answer, I drive over to her work, closed.      I must be the most trusting, naive, faithful guy in the whole world because the thought that she stood me up just couldn't possibly exist here, not in this situation. I decide to hang around. She must have gotten tired of waiting for me to arrive, went somewhere, and would return shortly. I rode back to her place and waited a little bit sitting on the bike in front of the second floor apartment.      Wait a second, this is stupid. I've got a warm sleeping bag right on the bike. I tugged the sleeping bag and mat out, tromped up the concrete stairs to the open balcony. Mine as well camp out on her doorstep till she gets home. Maybe she’s out with friends and forgot I was arriving this evening. I unrolled the sleeping bag out on the concrete and crawled into it. She'd return. I haven't come all this way for it to come to this. I was sure of it.        Wednesday, January 12     Early in the morning at first light, it started to drizzle. I thought no, this can't be happening. It's like out of a bad movie, she has to come, maybe she got the dates screwed up and thought I'd arrive today. The rain started coming down in sheets. The pouring runoff from the overhang above splattered onto me. I pulled the foam mat out from beneath me, and used it as a shield so I wouldn't get soaked. Well at least something is working, I thought, lying on her concrete stoop in front of the door still fully clothed inside the warmth of my sleeping bag. I didn’t even bother to remove my boots or jackets. She'd show up any time now. I decided to sleep a little more as it rained a steady drizzle.     She never showed. Nothing. I suppose if I ever do find out what happened, she'll have some fantastic excuse. She was always good at those.      By noon I was seething ill will. I spitefully packed up, fired up the motorcycle, and rode in the pouring rain over to where she works. Still not a clue. I called her place again, no answer. Not even an answering machine. I passed a sign for the hospital and the thought flashed across my mind. I thought no way, enough is enough.      Decided I needed, no, deserved, a good strong breakfast after eating $1.27 McDonalds breakfasts and my military issue MRE's. I have some left over from my drill weekends. I've brought some with me so I won't have to buy so much food. They taste horrid though. I've eaten a little every 2 hours on the two-day drive here. Sheer quanitywise, it hasn't been a whole lot. So I found this Denny's here in Freeport, Texas and I’ve settled in writing this journal of these two crazy days and studying the maps, which is little more than a road atlas of North America, state by state.     Should I wait or leave or what? She might not even be around for all I know. Then on the other hand she could have stiffed me but good. I've decided I never want to speak to her again or ever see her. I'm still seething. It’s taken me an entire platter of Texas Bacon and Eggs, on special, to calm down.   To think I rode 2000 miles in two days and she stood me up?  What now for the motorcycle traveler?     The only option is to go on. Key West, which simply sounds like a cool place to go, I just like the sound of it, is another 2000 miles. And then it would be 4000 miles back. That’s 6000 miles and I only have 5 and a half more days. As I finished adding up all the numbers, I laughed, you are nuts! Maybe if I had one more day, I could make a dash for the Atlantic. I'd dip my big toe in, or my front tire, then ride back across the entire United States to make my first class Tuesday morning. Five and a half days, hmm, not quite enough for 6000 more miles. Yes, I know, I am crazy, but give me time, the trip has only just begun.     I think what I’ve decided to do is travel parallel to the freeway along the Gulf coast. Head east, get as far as I can get then just turn around and dash across the United States. Wherever I am is where I’ll be. How's that for freedom? I have very little money though, plenty for gas and a little for food, but nothing else. And... I haven't even bought my books for my classes yet.     My personal ‘motorcycle touring concept’ when I haven't anyplace to be specifically, is to just hop on the bike and see what's out there. And yes, I have been influenced by Jean Luc Picard.      I keep thinking I should try to stop worrying about how much distance did I cover today although it is difficult for me to stop riding. I stop moving, I get restless, in a matter of hours, sometimes minutes. Each stop, the bike looms ominous nearby taunting me to so much as attempt to be still.      The whole concept of looking at a map of the United States and saying, geez, I’m in Freeport, Texas. I look where Freeport is, then where Sacramento is, and the distance between the two. Traveling with no particular destination or reason other than doing it because one enjoys it, thirsts for it, longs for it, dreams of it, the open road, and that's all the more reason I need. It's beyond unique to hop on the motorcycle, ride 2000 miles, then sit down for a good meal and be able to say home is very far away.     I need to ride.

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