Aqueducts and Amigos

I was actually a little bit sad to leave San Luis Potosi; after making so many connections and having such a good time the previous evening, it seemed like a terrible thing to leave a city I'd felt genuinely welcome in. Still, further travel beckoned. I had never heard of the city of Santiago de Queretaro before starting this trip, but I'd been advised by several people along the way that it was worth visiting, and as a halfway point along the route I'd originally thought I could do from San Luis Potosi to Mexico City in one day (which would have been a bad idea), it was ideally placed.

The route from San Luis Potosi to Queretaro was largely autopista with little of interest to see until I entered the state of Queretaro. Everyone has a different idea of what constitutes "classic (insert country here) scenery, and for me, Mexico brought to mind lush, forested mountains with farmland covering the valleys below and extending up the slopes, dotted with small towns in the sea of green, and for the first time, that was exactly what I was riding through as I approached Santiago de Queretaro. My first view of the city was quite spectacular; as I crested a rise onto the highway running around the edge of the city, I was greeted by more undulating, green hills with what looked like a gleaming, modern city sprawling out around them and rain clouds dissipating overhead. As I exited the highway onto one of the city's main boulevards, I was greeted with a spectacular sight: a nearly 1.3-kilometer-long arched aqueduct dating back to the mid-1700's, part of a system that once supplied the city's water from nearby springs.

Beautifully maintained, the aqueduct seemed like a bridge between the old and new eras of the city as I rode to the apartment in which I would be staying, a theme that I'd soon find repeated throughout Queretaro. My host for the night, Leonor, upon hearing that I knew next to nothing of Queretaro, insisted on giving me a guided tour of the Centro Historico, only a short walk away. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, the Centro Historico was a unique combination of colonial grid planning and winding alleyways built by the Otomi who inhabited the area prior to Spanish colonization and coexisted somewhat peacefully after the founding of the city. Leonor took me around many of the most important landmarks, with history lessons interspersed; I learned that Queretaro had been one of the most important cities involved in the Mexican independence movement, and that the first Mexican constitution had been written here. The Baroque architecture all throughout the Centro Historico was beautiful, as were the many monuments to the important figures in the city's history.

There was only one problem: I'd forgotten my camera at the apartment, and I didn't want to leave with nothing but cellphone photos of such a great city. So, after returning for a shower and a quick dinner, I went back to the Centro Historico as night fell, this time armed with my Nikon. There is a particular sort of beauty in walking an old, yet still vibrant city by night, particularly as the streets clear and one is left without any crowds or signs to obscure the buildings.

Even at night, parts of the Centro Historico were still buzzing with people, including a large group dancing in the main plaza, and several small shops, restaurants, and food stands were still open even as midnight approached. 

Walking around at night with my camera wasn't what I'd had in mind for many of the places on my trip, if any at all, but it was a different, and somehow more intimate way to get to know Queretaro, and I was grateful for the chance. 

The next day, I packed up once again and set off towards Mexico City, the first place on the trip that I'd actually been to before; once earlier this year, and once in 2018. I'd seen a good number of the most famous sights in the city, with Teotihuacan, the Templo Mayor in the middle of the historic district, and the Museum of Anthropology being major highlights, but this visit, I was there on business, or at least as close to it as one gets on an intercontinental motorcycle trip. After several hundred miles of riding without a windshield or left-side mirror, I wanted to replace both ASAP, and Mexico City seemed like my best chance. Traveling through Mexico City would also give me the chance to link up with my friend Eric, one of the lasting friends I'd made while living in New Orleans years ago, and who'd built a career as a musician since moving to Mexico City eight years ago. 

A word of advice to anyone considering driving through Mexico City, on a road trip or otherwise: DO NOT drive through Mexico City. Where Americans view driving as a mildly to moderately competitive sport, the residents of Mexico City consider it nothing less than gladiatorial combat. The first few miles as I made my way into the city were exhilarating in the sense that impending soon can be, but after more than an hour of cars barging in and out of traffic around me without any real regard for what was in front of or beside them, I was ready to get off the bike, and was relieved to drop my things at Eric's and catch up over dinner.

The next morning, I embarked on my mission to find a new mirror and windshield. Three shops yielded mirrors that either fit in the mount but were too small, or that were large enough but wouldn't screw into Honda's oddly specific mount, until I finally gave up and went to the nearest Honda dealer. Half an hour and two separate attempts to sell me a bike I already owned later, and I was riding away with a new mirror. They'd had a nice windshield that would have fit the bike, but didn't have the oddly specific mounting nuts that I'd destroyed in the fall and needed to attach the windshield (notice a theme here?)

Being able to see behind me in both directions was more than worth the trip and the inflated dealer prices, however, and I left with the bike feeling much closer to whole than it had before. 

Amistad Internacional

8/10/2019

Still sore and angry with myself from my repeated and unwelcome encounters with the ground the previous day, I loaded back up and set off from Estacion Wadley towards San Luis Potosi, thanking the heavens that I hadn't damaged my luggage racks and mounts. My tweaked handlebars made for some interesting moments navigating the dirt road my hostel was on, but once I got back onto pavement and up to speed, I adjusted quickly. I'd thought the lack of a windshield was going to be an annoyance, but I was surprised at how much I enjoyed it; besides allowing vastly more cooling air to flow past me and through my jacket, not looking through a large piece of plastic actually made the Twin feel much smaller than its loaded weight of close to 600 pounds and tall suspension would otherwise indicate. I was reminded of how much I enjoy "naked" bikes, and the close connection with both the road and the bike itself that an unimpeded view of the world fosters. I also crossed the Tropic of Cancer en route, which means very little in practice, but was something of a reminder that this long way south still has an awfully long way to go.

Although I was still riding through the desert, the falling temperatures and rising mountains told me I was heading towards the highlands of Mexico. The scenery was gorgeous, even with the sun out the temperature was perfect, and as I left mining country, the roads got curvy. So, I had a little fun.

Blogspot's video size limit is laughably small, so watch here if you like.

I made it to San Luis Potosi with several hours of daylight to spare, where I was met by my host Pao and her family; another Couchsurfing connection, I would be staying in a quite nice room that I had more or less to myself, something I have come to consider a luxury on my trip. Pao gave me directions to the historic center of San Luis and recommended I go see it first thing. Her advice was spot on; the Centro Historico contained several gorgeous colonial-era buildings, along with a beautiful theater/opera house and cathedral (which happened to have a wedding going on while I was wandering around).
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 San Luis Potosi's architecture and historic center were certainly beautiful, but for me, the best was still yet to come. I was able to get an hour or two of work on the bike, in which I was able to bend the handguards back into shape and get the handlebar realigned in its mount, though I found to my annoyance that it was, in fact, actually twisted just enough to notice, but not enough to affect the handling. Still, I was able to fully turn the bars in both directions again, something the mangled guards had prevented since my falls. As I was finishing up, my host came out and announced that we were going to be spending the evening with several friends of hers and that I had little choice in the matter. I accepted the offer, happy for the opportunity to socialize a bit; though I'd had some time to chat with my hosts in previous locations, my human interaction on the trip thus far had been limited to the few words exchanged with gas station cashiers and restaurant staff, plus an ever-growing number of people curious about the trip after seeing my loaded-down bike. Truth be told, I was craving some social interaction with people my age.

We were picked up shortly thereafter by Pao's boyfriend, and made our first stop at one of SLP's cervecerias artisinales, where I enjoyed a genuinely excellent Mexican lager brewed in-house, and lively conversation about our various international travels; it turned out that my host had lived in upstate New York for a year, and had greatly enjoyed the opportunities to explore New York City. Moving on, we met up with several others at an American-themed bar called Rockabilly that, were it not for the live band singing in Spanish, could have been plucked whole off Lower Broadway in Nashville and deposited 2,000 miles away. While I was fully enjoying my ever-expanding journey into Mexico, a few reminders of home never hurt. The others we met were a group of diverse backgrounds, all of whom seemed to enjoy hearing the story of my travels thus far, and the plans of what was to come.

The group included Victor and Samuel, two doctors completing their five-year residencies in San Luis Potosi. I nearly fell off my chair when, after telling the group I was from Nashville, Victor mentioned the Predators and proclaimed his love of hockey, a taste acquired during a visit to Las Vegas while the Golden Knights had been on a playoff run. I had fully expected sports talk at some point, given the rabid popularity of soccer throughout Mexico, but I absolutely had not expected to find another hockey fan in a country where snow might be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I was similarly surprised when Samuel, hearing that I was American, switched from rapid Spanish to perfect, entirely unaccented English and continued our conversation without missing a beat. It turned out that he'd not only lived in Houston for two years, but had attended an American school in Queretaro, another city I planned on visiting, for most of primary and high school. In the course of a few minutes, I'd gone from an outsider to feeling like I'd known the people I was talking to for far longer than the short time we'd spent at the bar. Comparing notes on the Mexican and American medical systems with the two doctors was an enlightening experience, particularly given the vast difference in organization and scope of practice between emergency medical service practitioners in Mexico and the USA. We ended the night hours later on the roof of yet another friend's apartment, with the experience of getting briefly stuck in the apartment elevator doing nothing to dampen our spirits. My night in San Luis was by no means my first experience with Mexican hospitality, but it was the first time I felt like I'd built up genuine goodwill with the people whose country I was a visitor in. It felt like something of a turning point, one that took me from being a mere visitor and tourist to a genuinely welcome guest, and as I prepared to leave San Luis Potosi for Queretaro in the morning, I no longer felt the subtle rush that accompanies a journey into completely unknown territory. Even if I'd never laid eyes on the places I'd be visiting, I could go in knowing that I would almost certainly be welcome.

Why Do We Fall?

It seems almost poetic that my worst day of the trip to date should follow one of my best, but life apparently has a sense of irony. I left Monterrey fairly early, in order to make the 5-hour ride to the area of Real de Catorce with daylight left to spare. Though I stuck to the carretera once again, the route away from Monterrey had its share of interesting scenery and sights. It also turned into the longest continuous stretch of riding I'd had since starting the trip; starting out from Monterrey with a full tank, I paid little attention to the decreasing frequency of gas stations until it occurred to me, on a straight, desolate stretch of road kilometers from anything, that I was in genuine danger of running out of fuel. For reference, the Africa Twin holds five gallons of fuel; according to the bike's trip computer, I was averaging around 42 mpg, with 170 miles showing on the meter. You can probably do the math. About 10 miles later, I found a Pemex and all my fears were relieved. I filled the tank with a grand total of 4.3 gallons, and resolved not to pass up fuel opportunities again.

As the miles wound away, I started to see more changes in the landscape, as I had while traversing Texas. More hills and mountains were popping up, and while I was most definitely still in the desert, the land and flora were turning from dull tan and grey to green, painting a scene that could have come out of a travel guide.

Along with the change in scenery, the temperature was finally changing; in the space of an hour, the 100+-degree temperatures I'd been experiencing since Corpus Christi fell to high 70's even with the sun out, enough that highway speeds with all my jacket's vents open actually started to feel cold!

The closer I got to Real de Catorce, the more I started to see signs that I was progressing into mining country. The route to the area follows a heavily used railway line, dotted at regular intervals by tiny towns with names like Estacion Catorce and Estacion Wadley that had clearly once fed the mining industry, but were now all but dormant. I would be staying in one of these small towns for the night, but after dropping my things off, I wanted to explore Real de Catorce itself. Nestled in the middle of the Sierra de Catorce plateau, Real sits at over 9,000 feet of elevation; once a center of silver mining with a population of over 15,000, the town was nearly abandoned when the mining industry collapsed in the early 1900's, and the current population is less than 1,000. There are two routes in an out; one from the north, following a 27-km cobblestone road up a mountain and through a 2.5-km tunnel that exits at the edge of town. The other is an 8 km route that, on a map, winds through the mountains and ends in the central plaza of Real de Catorce.

I, of course, opted to take the mountain road, hoping for an exciting ride and gorgeous views. Signs along the road starting in Estacion Catorce warned "SOLO VEHICULOS 4X4s." "No problem," I thought to myself. "I've handled dirt, gravel, and steep hills on this bike before, I can handle this." And for the first 7.5 km of the 8-km road, I was more or less right. The mountain road started out as winding pavement, quickly transitioned to smooth dirt, and then, to my chagrin, to rough rocks cemented together with gravel. Anything over 20 mph shook me and the bike so viciously that I was concerned about losing parts, so slow going was the rule of the day. In addition to the rough surface, the left border of the road was a sheer rock wall, and the right edge of the road was the sky; an ever-increasing steep drop down to the floor of the canyon whose side I was traversing. Still, carefully working the clutch and throttle, I made it nearly all the way up, enjoying the beautiful mountain vistas along the way and stopping to take some photos at an abandoned silver mine.

You'll note, in upper left of the first photo, the steep, winding rock path that made up the road, and the old, heavily modified Jeep wagons used as transport along it. Real de Catorce lay just over that ridge, a mere half kilometer from where I had parked. I thought I could make it using the same careful technique that had worked for me thus far; I was proven spectacularly wrong when my front wheel caught in a gap between two rocks, knocked me off balance, and the bike tumbled unceremoniously over on its right side. I was unhurt, as was the bike other than some scratches on the crash guards, but one of the Jeeps was coming up the road behind me and I was frantic to get out of the way. I tried the practiced technique for bracing a heavy bike against the ground and pushing/lifting it back up onto its wheels, but to no avail; I couldn't get the wheels on the ground, and the bikes' 500+ pounds were coming back to bite me. Luckily, the Jeep driver stopped, and along with two of his passengers, we got the Twin back upright and on my way again.

...for another couple of hundred feet. This time, trying to stay as far from the sheer edge of the road as I could, I overbalanced again, ham-fisted the throttle, and sent the bike over on its left side with a sickening crunch and the sound of breaking plastic. When I picked myself up off the ground for the second time, I found that I'd shattered the windshield and left-side mirror against the rock wall, and badly bent one of the metal guards surrounding the handlebars. For the second time, the occupants of the Jeep following me helped me back up and into the seat where I found, worryingly, that the handlebars had shifted in their mounts and apparently twisted, limiting how far I was able to turn them to the left. I was embarrassed at having fallen over twice with an audience, I'd smashed up my bike, and I'd very clearly strained my back trying to pick the bike up alone. I angrily powered up the rest of the hill without incident, and realized once I got to the top that I should have been doing so all along. Live, fall, and learn, I guess.

Despite the ordeal involved in getting to the town, the anger at myself that I could scarcely keep down, and the pain in my back, I couldn't help thinking that Real de Catorce was worth the difficult ride. The town exuded history and old age; were it not for the few cars and motorcycles parked along its steep streets and the electric lights illuminating the many restaurants, shops, and the central plaza, one could be forgiven for thinking they'd stepped back to the 1900's.

I found a restaurant in which to get off my feet and enjoy some delicious gorditas, and then took a short walk around the town. Real de Catorce is fairly small, but very much worth seeing, both for the views of the surrounding Sierra Catorce, and the atmosphere of antiquity that pervades the town. As it happened, I ran into the passengers of the Jeep who had helped me up off the ground earlier, all of whom were happy to hear that I was largely unhurt, and astounded when I answered their question of where I'd come from with the story of my trip from Nashville thus far with the help of one of the younger childrens' surprisingly good translation skills. Even in the low moments, Mexican hospitality was making everything better. After stopping in the ornately decorated church and taking another lap through the central plaza, I got back on the bike and headed out of town.

Having no desire to break anything else on the bike, I took the main route out of the city, starting with the old mining tunnel-turned-road mentioned earlier.

Riding through the one-way tunnel was a borderline surreal experience; several smaller tunnels appeared to branch off in either direction, clearly relics of Real de Catorce's former industry, and riding in complete darkness under a mountain with only my headlights illuminating the way was most definitely a new experience. Once I emerged onto the main road, I was hopeful that I could try to relax on a much longer, but much smoother route back to my hostel.

No such luck.

The 27-km cobblestone road descending to the main highway was every bit as rough as the mountain route I'd taken in, though thankfully over a gentle downward slope and not a steep grade. Bouncing and shaking my way down, the thought that I'd rather be somewhere else entered my head for the first time. I was tired, I was sore, I was on one of the most uncomfortable rides of my life and, due to the time I'd wasted falling over, I was about to break my cardinal rule of not riding at night in Latin America. I was thankful when my wheels finally hit the smooth asphalt of the highway, and even more thankful to make it back to my hostel and fall into bed. It had been, without question, the hardest day of the trip so far, but on the flip side, I was still alive, wasn't permanently hurt, and other than the worrying twist of the handlebars, nothing critical had been damaged on the bike; it still started, ran, rode, and stopped as competently as ever. I hadn't ended up in a broken heap at the bottom of a canyon, and I'd still been able to see what I wanted. Sure, I'd fallen, but assuming that I could make an 8,000-mile trip through nearly all of Central and South America without falling over at least once would have been the height of arrogance. Most importantly, both mentally and physically, I'd gotten back up and pressed on.

A Border, a Waterfall, and a Reckoning

(Written on 8/9/19)

Wednesday dawned, and I was nervous. I’d already covered over 1,000 miles in the course of my journey, but six miles from where I’d woken up, everything was about to change. I’d ridden those thousand miles in a country whose language I spoke natively, where all my cards worked seamlessly, where I had cellphone service almost everywhere, where cartel violence and occasional roving bandit groups weren’t a concern, and where I could drink the water without worrying about the unspeakable after-effects. None of these things were true of the country I was about to enter, nor of the majority that would follow it, a thought that weighed heavily on my mind as I triple-checked that everything was packed up and ready to go.

The Mexican border is almost unavoidable in Laredo; other than the subdivisions, one of the three bridges across the Rio Grande and into Mexico is accessible in a few minutes from nearly every part of the city, and the number of currency exchanges, Mexican flags, and travel services increase significantly the closer you get. With all that said, the process was surprisingly easy; I’d crossed into Mexico twice by plane, but never by ground, so I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. After paying the bridge toll on the American side, I made my way across the bridge to Mexican customs, where an officer took a cursory look through my bags, stamped my passport, and sent me on my way. “That’s it?” I thought, as I got back on, started the Twin for the first time on foreign soil, and took off into Mexico, a thrilled feeling building in my chest. Hang onto your helmets boys and girls, we’re finally going international.

My plan was to put a reasonable amount of distance between myself and the border before the day was out, with my goal being to make it to Monterrey. Once I’d withdrawn enough pesos to hold me over for a couple of days and filled up on water, I managed to make pretty good time on the Carretera, at least for the first hour or so. Past that though, I ran into a twofold problem; the highway had rapidly transitioned into the grooved-pavement nightmare typical of construction zones, and I was getting fatigued. With my bike’s air temperature readout stuck at 105 and my single-minded focus on racking up miles, I hadn’t noticed that even with regular sips from my water reservoir, I was getting dehydrated, and a little hungry to boot. I pulled off at a roadside tienda, where I found some delicious chicharron tacos, enough water to mitigate the effects of the crushing heat, and my first experience with Mexican hospitality in the form of a pair of truck drivers who were thrilled to hear that I’d ridden all the way from Nashville, and shocked that I was going as far as Santiago. They insisted on paying for my small lunch, and sent me on my way with phone numbers and promises of lodging with multiple family members, should I pass through Mexico City. I got back on the road feeling refreshed and genuinely welcome, this time avoiding the construction zones and highway tolls in favor of back roads paralleling the Carretera through the desert; so it went for another 150 miles or so.

Monterrey, and the mountains surrounding it, appear almost abruptly from the landscape; one mile, you’re in classic Mexican scrubland, the next, you are confronted by three massive peaks rising out of the desert and haze in imposingly beautiful fashion. Monterrey isn’t quite a city in the mountains, but there is no place in the city where it’s possible to forget that you’re surrounded by them. After parking at my AirBnB for the night, I used the remaining daylight for a (steep) trek up to the Mirador de Obispado, a former church-turned-museum, the Obispado contained a detailed and fascinating history of the prehistoric people who inhabited the region, the founding of Monterrey by the Spanish, and the long and complicated set of occupations and revolutions that led to Monterrey’s independence from the Spanish and French and eventual absorption into the Mexican state. Further up the hill above the Obispado, a small plaza stood, crowned by a gigantic Mexican flag flying above the city and with gorgeous view of nearly all of Monterrey.

After returning to my room for the night, taking stock of how far I’d come and how far I had yet to go, and discussing my exact timetable with Ngaire, I was force to reckon with the sobering fact that I was not going to make it to Panama on time. I’d reserved a September 4^th crossing from the north coast of Panama around the impassable Darien Gap to Cartagena, Colombia, but given the daily mileage I’d been averaging, the fact that I still had five border crossings and close to 2,000 miles of riding between Monterrey and Panama, and the fact that I did actually want to explore many places along the way, it was clear that making the boat service’s requested September 2^nd deadline for inspection and customs prior to departure from Panama was completely unrealistic. I was faced with a dilemma: do I abandon the idea of exploring, blitz it for Panama, completely avoid any sort of mechanical or border delay, and hope to make it on time, or do I re-book for a later trip leaving September 20^th and take my time exploring Mexico, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Honduras, Costa Rica, and Panama, with the small-to-moderate risk of running out of money completely?

Readers who’ve been following thus far can probably guess which conclusion Ngaire and I both arrived at. I will be staying in Central America about two weeks longer than I’d originally planned, but with time in hand to actually enjoy all these places I’ll be visiting; all but Costa Rica and Mexico are completely foreign to me, and I feel I’d be doing myself and everyone who’s supported me along the way a disservice by blowing through all of Central America too quickly to see anything. This was not a decision made lightly, nor without a great deal of anxiety, but having had time to sit and think, I fully believe it’s the right one.

With the weight of a strict timetable lifted, I found a couch to surf for one extra night and spent Thursday exploring the multiple national parks surrounding Monterrey. Morning took me to Parque la Huasteca, encompassing one of the three large mountains surrounding Monterrey. The views as I wound through the picturesque park road were nothing short of breathtaking; mountains like nothing I’d ever seen in the US rose up in wave-like forms, the striations in the rock bending and twisting as though giant hands had molded them, with large caves visible at the top of sheer vertical rock faces. While the park was crisscrossed with hiking trails, I was reluctant to leave my loaded bike at any of the trailheads, and so enjoyed the park largely from my seat. Even limiting myself to vehicular pursuits brought opportunities for fun an exploration; after passing underneath a massive dam, the park road dead-ended into a dry riverbed with tire trails running through it. With my tires aired down slightly, I continued onto the dirt, marveling yet again at the Twin’s off-road ability even with all my gear on board. I followed a few meanders in the river until turning around at an expanse of deep sand; I had no desire at all to end up with my bike stuck in such a remote place.

After dropping my things off at my host’s apartment, I set back out to find the waterfalls of Cerro La Silla, the iconic bifurcated mountain that has become the symbol of Monterrey. My first attempt, down what I thought was the road to the “Camino de las Cascadas” ended with a rocky dirt road completely blocked by a herd of cattle who were none too happy to see an American on a motorcycle disturbing their grazing. A few minutes of furious Google-mapping and a few more miles later, and I’d found the trail to the waterfalls. As I hiked up the lower part of the trail, I started to wonder if my efforts had been entirely in vain; there were obvious signs of a large stream having run next to and around the trail, but the place was bone dry. As I ascended further, however, I caught the faint sound of falling water, and the first of the active waterfalls. It was clear that it hadn’t rained for a while, but there was still enough water coming over the lower falls to cool off in, and signs of more up ahead. The trail, however, turned nearly vertical in places; several spots had me wishing I’d brought my climbing shoes from Nashville. Still, the hike and climb were worth it for the picturesque scenes I found, and I descended happily after cooling off once again in the freezing cold water.

My next destination is Real de Catorce, an old silver mining town a few hours south of Monterrey, and from there onward to San Luis Potosi. Thanks for following along once again!

Mini-Bikes, Mega-Heat

Fresh off all the adventures in Houston, I made my way to Corpus Christi via a few long stretches of mostly boring rural road. I'd like to say I spent the day gaining all sorts of insight and road wisdom as with my last stretch, but really, I just wanted to get there. And through the occasional showers that dogged me throughout the ride. I had a set of tires on their way to meet me in Laredo, but the ETA on that wasn't until Tuesday, 8/7, giving me a few days to kill in Corpus Christi.

Arriving in Corpus Christi, I was met by my very friendly hosts Ana and Travis. Ana works with international students, and Travis is a motorcycle mechanic, so both seemed very excited to hear about my trip and the routes I was taking, and we hit it off pretty well. Having arrived fairly late in the day, I partook of some of the fantastic and fantastically cheap Mexican food that is a hallmark of South Texas, and went to sleep. Sunday, 8/4, I woke up fairly early and made my way to the USS Lexington.

I won't bore readers with more ramblings about another museum ship, but the sheer scale of the Lex was impressive to see, as was its extensive service record; over 40 years from her 1943 commissioning at the height of World War II to her retirement in 1991, she saw action in nearly every major Pacific Theater battle from September, 1943 onward. I also found an unexpected hometown connection; Nile Kinnick, the University of Iowa's only Heisman Trophy winner and the player for whom our (gorgeous) football stadium in Iowa City is named, became one of the Lexington's first casualties when he was killed in a training flight accident.

I'd planned on only spending a couple of hours on the Lex, but by the time I made it through all the exhibits, flight deck, and the huge portions of the ship that are open to the public, it was late afternoon and I just wanted to get back to Travis and Ana's and relax. I'd expected to spend a quiet night back at their place, but they had other ideas; Travis is part of a large and growing group that drag-races mini-bikes at a park outside of Corpus Christi, and they invited me along for their weekly gathering. The variety of minibikes there was surprising, and a little funny in a way; who would expect to see a bike that was barely knee-height with TWO heavily modified lawnmower engines bolted into it and synchronized?

This was grassroots motorsport at its absolute core, and I was loving it! I spent most of the meeting snapping photos of the riders and racers, and both they and I loved the results. It was yet another reminder that in the pantheon of motorcycling, there's far more than one way to have fun on two wheels.

I spent Monday relaxing and writing; after a week on the road and filling every day with something, whether it was riding or sightseeing, I needed a short break and time to catch up on thoughts and photos. Late in the day, I departed Travis and Ana's for South Padre Island; I'd decided to spend my last night in Corpus Christi camping at one of the National Park Service campgrounds on the beach, and arriving in the early evening, I was absolutely not disappointed by the view. I quickly set up my tent and dived into the warm waters of the Gulf, enjoying the tang of salt water and the crash of waves for the first time in over a year.

I dried off and got dinner going before darkness fell, and was treated to one hell of a sunset, the first I'd been able to really take in since starting out.

And soon after the sun went down, I fell asleep to the sounds of waves on the shore and the persistent, gusty winds blowing in from the Gulf across the island dunes. I was rudely awakened around 5 AM by raindrops filtering through the mesh of my tent; believing the 0% rain forecast for the evening, I'd left the fly off in order to enjoy the cooling winds, and so had to frantically grab it out of my bike bags and cover my tent up before my clothes, sleeping bag, and camera got soaked. I climbed back into my tent soaked in rain water, but with my things thankfully dry.

The sky made up for it with a spectacular sunrise as day broke a few hours later, and after drying my tent, I struck out for Laredo. Laredo would be my last stop on the US leg of the trip, the place where I'd get my tires replaced and a few final checks on the bike before crossing over. It occurred to me as the miles ticked away under my wheels and the environment around me changed from coastal grasslands to desert, that I'd already seen a huge change, from the forested mountain foothills of Tennessee, to the Cypress swamps of Mississippi and Louisiana, and now to the southern desert. It felt like the quintessential South Texas experience; large stretches of sand and mesquite trees, with the gaps filled in by several species of cactus, the long gash of the highway as the only indicator that humans had, in fact, been through this inhospitable landscape. And the heat.

My goodness, the heat. I was doing 75 mph on the highway, and the thermometer on my bike was reading 106; I'd never experienced anything like it, much less ridden a motorcycle in such conditions, and I was rapidly sucking down the contents of the water reservoir in my tank bag. I arrived in Laredo without melting, and temporarily left my bike in the care of Johnny Gregory's Motorcycle Service; a true mom-and-pop shop, they got my tires changed very quickly, along with making sure my wheels and chain were in good shape. Highly recommended to anyone passing through Laredo!

I write this on Wednesday morning, 8/7; in an hour or less, I will pack up the bike, eat a quick breakfast, and push off for the last time in the United States this year, and for close to a year altogether. As far as I have come already, it feels like the "real" adventure is about to start, and I'd like to thank everyone who's followed my journey thus far for reading my thoughts and ramblings. I can't wait to share the coming adventures with you all. Into Mexico!

Mileage: 1,482

Of Bayous, Brothers, and Battleships

Natchez sunsets are absolutely gorgeous.

It seems stupidly redundant to call any day of an intercontinental motorcyle trip a "transit day", or to write about it, but that's exactly what Thursday, 8/1 was. I woke up in Natchez, I needed to get to Houston. End of story. No problem, just hop on the interstate and settle in for 300 miles, right? Well...


One thing should be made clear when it comes to my route planning for this trip: I hate riding on interstates and their foreign equivalents. They are long, straight, flat, boring, and most importantly, there's nothing to see. Moreover, with a bike as loaded with gear as mine is, the wind and air coming off passing cars and trucks tends to throw you all over the place, it's loud as hell in my helmet at high speed, and my fuel economy goes down the drain. Needless to say, the "avoid highways" option in Google Maps is almost always checked. This often leads to trips taking longer than I might otherwise like, but almost always ensures that I'll pass something interesting along the way, and so it went this time.

Crossing the bridge from Natchez to Vidalia deposits you squarely into Louisiana farming country. You could be forgiven for thinking, with acres upon acres of cotton, tobacco, and corn stretching off into the distance, and the names of the old plantations prominently displayed at the roadside, that you'd stepped back in time a few hundred years to the days of the Antebellum South. Thankfully, though, with machines doing the work slaves once would have. So it went for mile after mile; some would call it boring, I called it an opportunity to take in the scenery while listening to an audiobook through my helmet Bluetooth and not worrying too terribly much about where exactly I was.

The sign welcoming me to Texas was obscured by construction equipment, but the significant improvement in road quality was enough to tell me all on its own. As farmland gave way to forest and forest turned to coastal plains and swamps, I finally spotted the skyscrapers of Houston in the distance. As luck would have it, I'd found out earlier in the day that one of my former college roommates, Alex, was living in Houston and would be able to host me for a night. After a long and increasingly hot day in the seat, I was happy to have a roof over my head, a shower, and good company. The private tour of the Johnson Space Center that Alex's girlfriend arranged for us through a friend didn't hurt either.

Yep, I got a behind-the-scenes tour of THE place where American astronauts are trained, where the latest designs for International Space Station modules and potential crew vehicles are trialed, and where the space suits that keep them all breathing are designed, tested, and built. Nerding out doesn't even begin to describe it.

When the first thing you see upon entry is a Saturn V laid on its side, you know it's going to be a good day. Our guide, Jocelyn, started us off with a quick rundown of the Apollo program and a few interesting facts about how the astronauts were able to sleep on the moon and how closely they were studied after each mission landed. Next up was the main astronaut training center, which was jam-packed with mock-ups of multiple International Space Station modules, prototype capsules, and designs for manned vehicles under consideration for future missions to the Moon and Mars.

We got a very detailed explanation of the training process and the particular challenges faced as NASA prepares to send astronauts back to the Moon and beyond. Jocelyn's specialty is Human Performance, and she gave us some fascinating insight into the changes the astronauts' bodies experience over long periods in space; I'd been completely unaware that we undergo significant immune system changes, sometimes leading to dormant childhood diseases such as chicken pox recurring in adulthood, and that in a zero-gravity environment, blood and fluid begin to pool in the skull, causing chronically increased intercranial pressure and vision changes.

We also got a nearly complete history of NASA space suits and extravehicular activities (EVAs), and it was great to hear about the various challenges faced early on in the space program, how they were overcome, and how NASA is preparing for more landings in the near future. All in all, it was a wonderful look into the inner workings of NASA, and would have made the trip to Houston worthwhile on its own.

There was another piece of history I was hoping to see however, and that was the battleship Texas. Laid down in 1913 and completed in 1914, Texas was the last of the "Dreadnoughts", the first generation of battleships built prior to World War I. She is, as far as I am aware, the only surviving warship to have seen action in both World Wars, and served with distinction as both the flagship of the fleet supporting the D-Day landings in Normandy, and in support of several landings in the Pacific Theater, including Iwo Jima. She has been moored in San Jacinto Park as a museum ship for over 50 years.

Once again, stepping aboard Texas felt like stepping a hundred years back in time. The small but dedicated group of volunteers tasked with upkeep and restoration have done a thorough job of keeping the parts of the ship open to the public in the same shape they were when she was retired, and have actually restored some of her gun emplacements to working (though not firing) order.

Being able to tour the machine spaces and engine room of one of the last surviving ships powered by 1900's-era reciprocating steam engines was a joy, as was imagining the difficult conditions her sailors must have worked under while the ship's guns bombarded German and Japanese emplacements while Texas dodged return fire (she was only ever hit by enemy fire twice, with only one combat fatality in almost 40 years of service).

Though she has been kept in sheltered waters for the entirety of her time as a museum ship, 105 years of exposure have taken their toll; large parts of her hull have been weakened by rust, and a series of pumps work 24/7 to keep her lower decks from flooding entirely. Texas is scheduled to be towed to drydock in either Galveston, TX or Mobile, AL sometime next year for extensive overhaul and repair, including replacement of much of her hull plating and structure that have been damaged by rust. Hopefully that will keep her around to educate and fascinate another 100 years' worth of museum-goers. 

I left early in the day on Friday, 8/2 for Corpus Christi, but with a great appreciation for what Houston had to offer, and with quite a bit more knowledge than I'd come in with.

Tracing History

Day 1. Zero hour. Go time.

Monday, July 29th dawned, and I was nervous. I had told myself I was going to leave, and I was determined to hold to that, but between last-minute cleaning and prep in the house, quadruple-checking that I had everything I wanted to take with me packed into my bags like Tetris pieces, and making sure the bike was ready to go, I had more on my plate before hitting the road than I really wanted. It was nearly 4:00 P.M. by the time I finally locked my bags into place, pulled on my gear, and fired up the Twin, but I was determined to get somewhere that day, and damned if I'm not stubborn about these things sometimes.

It's hard to describe the mixture of feelings running through my head as I rode away from my house and made my way west out of Nashville; a touch of sadness at the thought that I wasn't going to see my home for close to a year, a bit of dread at the potential dangers, however unlikely, that lay ahead, slight bewilderment at the fact that I was even doing this in the first place. The biggest and best feeling of all, however, was that bubbling, adrenaline-rush, heart-racing feeling of excitement that only comes when you have embarked on something really, exceptionally cool and out of the ordinary; I hadn't even made it onto the highway yet, but already I was grinning under my helmet and tapping my fingers on the handlebars in anticipation of things to come.

And then, in the most quintessentially Nashville fashion, as though the city was giving me a final f***-you for leaving it behind, I got stuck in traffic.

After roasting through close to an hour of stop-and-go, I was thirsty, sweaty, and needed fuel, having traveled a grand total of 12 miles, but after satiating the Twin's thirst along with my own, I finally got on the road I'd been seeking all along, the one that would form the first leg of my journey: the Natchez Trace Parkway. The Trace is a 444-mile long roadway that closely follows the original Natchez Trace trade route from Natchez, Mississippi to Nashville; first walked as a bison hunting trail by the Natchez, Chickasaw, and Choctaw, the Trace came to be heavily used as a Revolutionary War-era trade route by boat merchants returning north after floating their goods down the Mississippi to Natchez. After the invention of the paddle steamer made it possible to travel both ways on the Mississippi and ports along the river sprang up, the Trace fell into disuse and was largely abandoned The Parkway itself was started in the 1930s as a Civilian Conservation Corps project under FDR, but wasn't fully completed until 2005. The rich history of the old Trace has led to considerable archaeological discoveries along the way, and there are markers for historical sites, natural features, and Native American ceremonial mounds and territorial boundaries seemingly ever couple of miles. In addition, many parts of the Old Trace are preserved as hiking trails, intersecting with the Parkway in numerous places. I had ridden the portion of the Trace from Tupelo to Nashville when Ngaire and I first moved in 2012, but doing the entire route was a goal I'd held since then.

While it would technically be possible to ride the entire 444 miles in one day, and I'd certainly done more than that on a couple of occasions, I had neither the daylight that first day, nor the desire to do so at all; I saw this part of the journey as an opportunity to enjoy the natural beauty of the South, and to learn more than a bit of American history. And so, I set off to do just that. It didn't hurt that I had picked a beautiful evening to start out, the sun low enough in the sky to not boil me in my riding gear, and no rain to be seen.

One of the monuments I'd most wanted to visit was the grave of Meriwether Lewis, and I managed to make it while the sun was still up. It seemed appropriate, given what I was embarking on, to stop and pay tribute to one of America's greatest explorers. Not long after leaving Lewis's grave site and having just crossed the Alabama border, fading light and a close call with a deer convinced me to stop and make camp for the night.

I awoke to find that I'd pitched camp right next to a fast-moving, spring-fed creek with a short hiking trail surrounding it, and so I started my morning surrounded by nature, hydrated with actual (filtered) spring water to boot, before packing up and resuming the journey. I'd had it in mind to make it all the way to Natchez on the second day, but finding myself in Tupelo, MS around noon, I decided I had to visit the birthplace of Elvis Presley. The museum and exhibits surrounding The King's childhood home were surprisingly subdued given the astronomical fame he achieved, and I found myself learning far more than I'd expected about the origins of and influences behind his music. Stuffing myself on lunchtime barbecue didn't hurt, either.

My meandering down the Trace continued until the late evening, when I pulled off at Rocky Springs, one of three campgrounds maintained by the National Park Service on the Trace, hoping to grab a shower before pitching camp, but was surprised and disappointed to find that not only were the showers closed, but all the running water to the site appeared to have been shut off. Between the lack of water, oppressive humidity, and nearly having my dinner stolen by marauding raccoons, it wasn't the greatest end to a long day

Once again, I woke to find that I'd inadvertently camped next to an interesting landmark, this time the abandoned town of Rocky Springs. According to the placards on site, the town had grown from a trading post on the Old Trace to a reasonably large cotton production area with a population of over 2,000. Union occupation during the Civil War, erosion of the cotton crop from nonexistent soil conservation, the expiration of the namesake spring, and both a yellow fever epidemic and boll weevil infestation in 1878 conspired to drive much of the population out, and Rocky Springs was abandoned completely by the 1890's, a Methodist church being the only remaining structure. The site was almost eerie; the ruins of cisterns, bank safes, and a few machine parts and foundation fragments are all that remains outside of the church, and the thought of a town being abandoned in the modern day for anything short of an epic catastrophe is a nearly foreign concept.

With less than 60 miles of the Trace left, I opted to continue the historical theme for the day, and detoured to the Civil War battlefield of Vicksburg, MS. After weeks of fighting and huge losses on the Union side, Ulysses S. Grant's 47-day seige of Vicksburg starved out the Confederate defenses in July 1863, surrendering complete control of the Mississippi to the Union and effectively cutting the Confederacy in half. I had learned about the Battle of Vicksburg at length in high school, but scarcely understood its importance in the Union's victory, nor the astounding lengths to which the Union army went to secure the city. Having never visited a Civil War battlefield before, I toured Vicksburg with a somber sense of awe; the scars of the war are still very much visible in the fields, trenches, and craters, and the preserved artillery, placards listing each repulsed attack by the Union army and losses sustained by both sides, and memorials to the numerous infantry, artillery, and navy units who fought at Vicksburg made it all too easy to imagine the horrors of the Civil War. I left Vicksburg knowing far more than I had coming in, and I don't think it'll be the last battlefield I visit.

Back on the Trace, I could feel the opening leg of my journey coming to an end as the miles ticked down, but still took the time for one more detour to the Windsor Ruins just north of Natchez. The site of one of the largest antebellum mansion ever built in Mississippi, Windsor was destroyed by fire in 1890, leaving 23 enormous columns that once supported the main part of the mansion as its only remains. It is one of the better-known landmarks on the Trace, and even though I wasn't able to walk among the columns, it was still a spectacular sight.

 Arriving in Natchez felt at once like a relief and the start of something else entirely; there would be no more easy camping wherever I felt like, no limited-access roads that I wouldn't have to worry about sharing with many other motorists, and likely far less shade than I'd grown accustomed to. The next phase of my journey, through Louisiana and Texas, loomed large, hot, and humid in front of me.

Mileage: 620.3

Mpg: 42.8