Tomorrow we cross into the US and will celebrate our wedding anniversary in Texas, beginning the next stage in our journey. We’re half way to Alaska.
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Our final run to the border is just over 200 kilometres. In that final couple of hours we pass three truck crashes. At least two of them must have been fatal. I’ll be glad to get off these roads.
The border at Nuevo Laredo is manic. There are cars, buses, trucks and pedestrians everywhere. People are walking across the bridge over the Rio Bravo (called Rio Grande in the US) by the hundred. Spruikers are handing out catalogues for the shops on the US side of the river. The traffic over the bridge is pretty much gridlocked.
We find the office to complete our paperwork quite easily. Of course, they want us to pay for the second visa before we can leave the country. A man takes a photograph of the bike and its identifying numbers. These photos will prove the bike has left the country and we’ll get our $400 refunded to the credit card. We’re out of Mexico.
We sneak over the bridge in the bike lane which is probably for bicycles. Our rego plate on the bike confuses the US official because we’re not American and we’re not Mexican. This is a minor hiccup. It doesn’t take too long before we’re in the USA.
We’ve seen some amazing sights — everything from glaciers to the desert. We’ve travelled high in the Andes and ridden along some incredible coast roads. We’ve seen exotic animals up close. We’ve made new friends and renewed friendships with old friends. There’ve been difficult days on the road and Shirl has found it hard to deal with the poverty and the neglect in some communities, but even those days don’t detract from the absolute joy of life on the road.
There are 76,516 kilometres on the clock. We’ve ridden 6,083 kilometres in Central America and 22,199 kilometres in South America — a total of 28,282 kilometres since we began six months ago.
Roll on to the US and beyond.
USA: texas to California
28 April – 3 June 2012
Brian: A very strange mood has come over us. We’ve been so excited about crossing into the US. Shirl’s been counting sleeps for a couple of weeks; there are friends coming from Melbourne and buddies from Sydney. After six months away we’ll get a huge dose of Australia. We should be over the moon.
Neither of us is prepared for the emotions we feel when we arrive in Corpus Christi on the Gulf of Mexico. We’re walking along the beach, hand in hand, neither saying much. It’s our 23rd wedding anniversary tomorrow. We’re in the US and should be in the mood for a celebration, but we’re downbeat. While we sit in a restaurant overlooking the sea and toasting our life together we admit to feeling a bit flat.
We can breathe easy now the hard part of our journey is over and it’s all a bit of a letdown. The past six months have tested us and the bike. The next three months, while we head through the US and Canada should be a bit of a doddle by comparison. Testing times still lie ahead with the road to the Arctic Circle but in the meantime we expect it to be a bit easier. We can read the signs. We can speak the language.
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We met Texas police union boss and Harley rider Ron DeLord in Australia a couple of years ago. He’s heading towards retirement after years of devotion to achieving the best wages and conditions for police. We’re going to spend the next few days with Ron and his wife Brenda in Georgetown, just north of Austin.
We scoot along the freeways at 70 mph. The oncoming drivers aren’t trying to kill us — life on the road is very different in North America.
There’s no way our melancholy mood will stay with us here with Ron and Brenda. We’re greeted with Ron’s Texan drawl, ‘Call the po…lice. There’s white trash outside my house.’
Shirley: Our time here lets me wash the bike gear and the sheepskin seat covers, all those domestic chores that are hard to do in a bathroom sink in a hotel room. We hit the Austin shops with Ron and get ourselves an iPad, a new phone and a US phone number.
The bike’s been over some pretty bad roads and the tyres are shot so we organise new tyres and a service, so it’s ready for the next stage of our journey.
Travelling on the bike for such a long time it’s impossible to carry enough medication. Ron organises for Brian to see the local doctor to get a couple of prescriptions and Brian is staggered by the cost. To see the doctor alone costs more than $200. The doctor even gives him six months worth of one medication so we don’t have to pay for it. Medical costs here are crippling if you don’t have insurance. The US isn’t a place to get sick without insurance and our travel insurance doesn’t cover this.
To help us recover from the shock, Ron takes us to the famous South Congress Street for dinner at the legendary Guero’s. It has the most extensive margarita menu I’ve ever seen and gives us our first taste of the real Tex Mex. I’m immediately a huge fan.
A lot of our time with Ron and Brenda is about food. They treat us to the US favourite of biscuits and gravy for breakfast. It’s certainly an acquired taste that we don’t expect to acquire. The biscuits are similar to an Australian scone, which are good with jam and cream, but not milky gravy. They take us to Hardtails Bar and Grill where the sandwiches are so big half is enough, even for Brian. We go to the Monument Café where it’s impossible to get a small serve. The Tex Mex is brilliant at Chuy’s Mexican. I’m in love with crispy tacos. It’s good ordering in English. I order tacos and get tacos.
Ron takes us to Threadgill’s where Janis Joplin sang before becoming famous. The restaurant is famous for its chicken-fried steak which is steak that’s battered and fried and then topped with creamy gravy. We both pass, but Ron says his is delicious.
Brian: We’ve timed our arrival in Texas to coincide with their annual Ride for the Fallen, a motorcycle ride that commemorates Texan law enforcement officers killed on duty. Eighteen police from New South Wales are coming over for the ride as is our good mate Ian Marr from Melbourne who is bringing his wife, Sylvia, and two-year-old Sarah and our dear friend Phil.
My buddy, Mick Corboy, a copper from New South Wales and I set up a memorial ride in Australia based on the Texan ride. Our Wall to Wall Ride for Remembrance has riders from across Australia converging on the national capital, Canberra, for a ceremony at our National Police Memorial.
It’s a sobering experience to visit the Texas Peace Officers Memorial in the grounds of the State Capitol building. Row after row of names of men and women killed on duty, dating back to the original Texas Rangers. There are more than 1,800 names. It seems like barely a week goes by here without a death.
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The NSW mob will be here in a couple of days, which gives us time to head to New Braunfels, south of Austin, for some special time with Phil, Ian, Sylvia and Sarah. We’re close friends and getting to see them here, such a long way from home after six months on the road, is magnificent.
After the Ride for the Fallen we’ll all ride around Texas, the Aussies on their rented Harleys. Phil and Sylvia and the baby will be in a car and I reckon Shirl will give the back of the bike a miss and go in the car with the girls. It’s going to be wonderful to get a good dose of Aussie.
When the Melburnians get together there are hugs, kisses and tears. Skype is good but there’s nothing like a proper embrace. We talk and talk and talk the night away.
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There are about 500 motorcyclists at the start point for the Ride for the Fallen. Looking around you’d think they were members of outlaw motorcycle gangs rather than off duty law enforcement officers. They’re wearing patches emblazoned with names like Gunfighters, Thin Blue Line, Archangels, Regulators, Road Dawgs and The Posse. Their emblems feature crossed pistols, skulls and handcuffs, certainly not what we’re used to in Australia where the emergency services motorcycle club is called the Frontline Tourers and our logo is a stylised fire hose with the emergency telephone number, 000, incorporated in it, and it’s never worn as a motorcycle patch.
The Ride for the Fallen goes from Cowboy Harley on the edge of Austin to t
he Peace Officers Memorial 16 kilometres away, travelling along Highway I35. The highway is closed to other traffic for the ride and motorists don’t seem to worry about the inconvenience. They sit on the bonnets of their cars and watch the ride go by. It’s a big deal for this highway to be closed. The only other event that warrants such special treatment is a presidential visit to Austin. And it was closed just a week ago for the funeral of Jamie Padron, a young police officer who was shot and killed when he responded to a call about a drunken man shoplifting at a Walmart Store. The gun culture here is a foreign thing to us.
Shirley: The boys go off to do blokey things while Phil, Sylvia and I hit 6th street where a street festival is in full swing. We can’t resist the 500 ml margaritas in long plastic yard glasses. Maybe Ron was right — we certainly look like white trash walking through the streets, sipping our margaritas and pushing Sarah in her pram. What the heck, everyone else is doing it, so when in Austin do what the Austinites do.
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Ron and his mates JJ, Hans and Randle have organised a guided tour of Texas for us. The boys are on the bikes and we girls are as happy as larks in the car. There’s barely a quiet moment, after all we’ve got six months of chat to catch up on.
First stop is Luckenbach, a virtual ghost town with the motto Everybody is Somebody in Luckenbach. There’s a country and western band playing, pulled pork sandwiches on the menu and every piece of kitsch memorabilia boasts the town’s motto. There’s no doubting we’re in Texas now.
We get a history lesson in San Antonio at the Alamo, the site of the Texans last stand against the Mexicans. It’s a shrine where there’s a ‘no hats and no photographs’ rule. James Bowie and Davey Crockett met their end here. There are very stylish Davey Crockett hats for sale. The genuine racoon skin ones are hideously expensive and kinda hideous to look at. I can live without one of these, but I can’t live without a cross-stitch pattern featuring the Alamo and a tea towel, much to Brian’s annoyance.
And I can’t resist a pair of cowboy boots from the cowboy capital of Texas, Bandera. There’s a pair made from ostrich leather for sale and they seem cheap at $109. I shouldn’t go shopping without my glasses on. They’re actually $409 and way out of my price range. I do buy a simpler pair, pointed toes, blonde etched leather, very stylish, but not that comfortable. It’s all about the look. There’s going to be a big post home from Texas!
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We opt to miss out on the tour of the Dallas Cowboys’ Stadium and go, instead, to Dealey Plaza and the infamous grassy knoll. Brian and Ian come with us and park the bikes behind our car a couple of blocks from the Texas Book Depository. Still used to the South American prices, Brian complains about how much the meter parking costs.
Today the sixth floor of the old book depository building is a fascinating museum. They’ve recreated the sniper’s nest at the window where, it’s claimed, Lee Harvey Oswald fired the shots that killed President John F. Kennedy and wounded Governor Connally. It’s a fascinating museum with lots of newsreel film about the Kennedy presidency and the assassination.
We see little about Officer J. D. Tippit who was murdered trying to arrest Oswald about 45 minutes after the shootings at Dealey Plaza. Officer Tippit’s name is on the Texas Peace Officers Memorial.
Back where we parked the bikes the meter has expired and both bikes have a parking ticket. It’s a lot more expensive than the parking meter and really gives Brian something to complain about.
Brian: Our time with the Aussies is coming to an end, all too quickly. There’s plenty of sadness as we say goodbye to our mates. We’ve had a ball travelling around as a group, sharing a few beers and laughs along the way. Ron DeLord has done a great job hosting us all and putting together a great tour of Texas.
It’s a very teary goodbye to Phil, Ian, Sylvia and Sarah, even though we have a little surprise in store for Phil in a couple of week’s time.
We bid Ron and Brenda a fond goodbye. They’ve been perfect hosts, sharing their home and their friendship. They’ve shown us good restaurants, local delicacies and Shirl’s favourite, the Sonic Drive-Thru where she can get a litre of her favourite soft drink with a squeeze of lime. She’s a junk food fan and loves all the Tex Mex food, even though she did draw the line at chicken fried steak.
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We’re on the road again, heading to the west coast.
Marathon, Texas is a quaint town on the road to Big Bend National Park. On the bedside table in the local motel are two pairs of earplugs. It doesn’t take long to work out why. There’s a train line running through the town and local laws dictate the train engineer sounds the horn several times as they pass each intersection. Some use their own artistic style, but no matter how they do it, it’s loud.
The Marathon sunset is a wonder to behold. It’s not the most amazing we’ve seen but a band of cloud rising into the sky, coloured from below gives it a very different look. It’s a perfect backdrop for a glass of wine enjoyed with other travellers at the motel.
In the middle of the night a windstorm whips up. I don’t hear a thing with the earplugs in but the noise of the bike cover whipping around in the wind wakes Shirl. She wakes me and we both head out in our undies to get it back on the bike and tied down before it’s shredded. Not only does the cover protect the bike, it hides it from prying eyes, so we don’t want to lose it now.
We know we’ll be visiting plenty of national parks here in the US so we invest in an annual National Park Pass. At $80 it should pay for itself in no time. It’s going to cost us $25.00 to get into Big Bend alone.
The countryside down here in the park is so dramatic in comparison to the flat plains around Marathon. The dramatic cliffs and canyons are startlingly beautiful.
There’s another BMW GS parked at the visitor centre. A good looking young American, Brook, and his gorgeous South African girlfriend, Lieschen, are travelling around the US on their first long distance motorcycle ride. They have camping gear and spent the past couple of days in the park. I’m really keen to get some camping gear. It’ll take some organising to fit it on the bike but I’m sure we can do it. I have to admit I’m a little envious of the times Brook and Lieschen are having.
The ride through the canyons continues, taking us alongside the Rio Grande, the natural border with Mexico. The river isn’t so grand here. On the way to Presidio the river is so shallow and narrow you can walk across it. This is probably what some Mexicans do. The plains on the US side are bristling with antennas and surveillance equipment. There are plenty of border patrols and we get stopped at one for a passport check.
We turn north towards Marfa. Shirl wants to see the Marfa lights, a phenomenon that’s been put down to everything from the supernatural to the reflection of car lights. They only appear 20 or 30 times a year so our chances of seeing them, whatever they are, are pretty slim.
The clouds are starting to gather and the sky is getting blacker and blacker. It’s going to be one hell of a storm, but I hope we can skirt it. No such luck.
Shirley: The wind picks up and now there’s really nowhere to stop and put on our wets. The wind’s howling and the rain starts to belt down. So much for skirting the storm. We have to pull up or we’re going to get saturated. The wind makes getting our waterproof jackets on a real struggle. And then the rain turns to hail, hailstones the size of golf balls. They’re so big they hurt when they hit.
We crouch down behind the bike but it doesn’t help. Brian says we should try and ride through it. It’s as black as Hades and the hail is still pelting down. I try and tuck in behind Brian but that doesn’t stop the pain. And it’s cold, really cold, in the blistering wind. We don’t get very far before we have to stop again.
The hail stops but the road’s covered in ice a few centimetres thick, making it very dangerous. Brian picks his way through following the tracks made by the cars and trucks ahead of us. He does an amazing job keeping us safe at times like this.
Brian: This is the worst storm we’ve ever ridden through
, but as quickly as it comes it goes. When we get to Marfa the hotel is too expensive for us, so I put the hammer down and head to Fort Davis, about 30 kilometres down the road.
When we get there the town is bathed in sunshine. What a difference 30 kilometres makes. We spy Brook and Lieschen’s bike outside the hotel and wonder if they made it here before the storm hit.
I’ve been feeling a bit rundown over the past few days so I crank up the heating in the room and try and sweat out whatever is ailing me. Shirl uses the heat to dry out our bike gear.
Shirley: The clothes are dry. The husband is feeling better so we head to the diner for breakfast. I can’t help but eavesdrop on the people sitting in the booth behind us, in part because one of them is Australian, and in part because they’re talking about yesterday’s storm. They’re storm chasers.
I interrupt and tell them we rode through the storm on a motorcycle while they were safe, warm and dry in the robust truck. They’re very impressed and leave us with one piece of advice: ‘Never ride towards those very black clouds.’ Thanks.
And the Australian? He was from Frankston, in the US for the stormchasing season.
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We head out of Texas after a visit to Fort Davis, one of the many created in the mid 19th century to protect travellers from the local native American tribes. The promotional video takes an interesting tack, asking us not to think badly of the men who were stationed here and how they treated the indigenous population because they operated in very different times. Fort Davis is a massive area with many buildings in ruins and others restored. Walking across the parade ground there’s an eerie feeling as the sounds of troops on parade are piped into the area. It’s like we’re surrounded by ghosts.
We bump in to Brook and Lieschen in the car park and talk travel plans. We’re heading to Roswell, the home of the UFOs. They might meet us there.
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