New Years Day on the Border

My escape from Florida was a blur of misery combined with regret, plus the underlying urgency to escape incarceration. In simple terms, I was a fugitive of justice. As my faithful readers will recall, I was being sought by the local authorities for my Christmas shoplifting spree at Grady’s junk yard, just a few days before the Christmas holiday. With the local constables circling the trailer park like buzzards, I had to devise a plan to escape without detection. This would be difficult however, because the local constables had enlisted the aid of some vacationing Federal turds who wanted to try out their new GPS enabled heat-seeking tracking devices. As I hid in the neighbors sheds, and under some of the nearby trailers, I came up with a plan that would give me flight from the impending doom that I faced. All plans aren’t as simple as this one, but somehow, and probably purely by luck this one worked!

I had the ol lady and the girls set up a diversion by setting fire to a large pile of privacy fence that the neighbors at lot 104 had stashed near the road. Just before the Fire Department arrived and as the fire raged, my brother Mark entered the park with his enclosed race car hauler. Because it is aluminum, the GPS heat seekers wouldn’t be able to see inside the unit. He managed to get the rig into our lot, load up the bagger, my gear and a case of beer as the authorities focused on putting out the fire. As he rolled back out of our park, I jumped into the side door for the long ride to the state line. After a few dozen miles, I realized why motorcycles don’t like to ride in trailers. No suspension. I mean, yeah, they got springs and stuff under there, but you can’t tell when you’re trapped inside with nothing to sit on but an old greasy tool box, or a used Hoosier tire. Imagine how bad it is for your bike, being tied down to the floor inside one of these things. Needless to say it’s a bumpy ride. My plight worsened as I realized that the beer was also being agitated by the bumpy ride. With only 22 beers left, I began to figure the minimum daily adult requirement of Bud for a six hour hell ride. At the rate they were foaming up, we may need to make a pit-stop. That need would be impossible to impart to my driver though, as I neglected to get the handheld CB radio from the trailer before we split, so I had no communication to the truck cab from the hauler. Alone inside the dark aluminum box with only my thoughts, my bike, and a few beers, I realized that the worst thing you can do to your motorcycle is to haul it inside one of these things.

Time passed, and as I navigated my enclosure with my Mini Mag Lite, I found an old tarp and some shipping blankets which I fashioned into a sort of chair. As we bounced along, I tried to imagine how many hours or minutes had passed. The only way I could figure time was by how many beers I had consumed. By the time I realized 6 beers were gone, I had a another problem. Where to pay the rent. This issue was easily resolved when I discovered an empty fuel can inside the hauler. I could fill this thing up and then dump it out the side door as we went along. Or, I could just leave it in there and the next time Mark went to the track, he could pour it into his race car and more than likely win the feature! The humming of the radial tires combined with the roar of the dual exhaust from the truck eventually got to me, and I kinda went to sleep for a few minutes. Maybe it was just the lack of oxygen, or the consumption of too many beers, or whatever, but I needed some rest anyhow. I always said that I would “sleep when I’m dead�? but I never realized what Warren Zevon really meant until now….

I awoke to a horrible noise and the feeling of weightlessness as I slammed into the side of the hauler’s aluminum wall. My previously darkened world was now filled with sparks and debris as I instinctively tried to grab a stationary object. A terrible screeching and grinding combined with a feeling of being upside down made for a rude awakening. The smell of smoke and burning rubber added to the confusion, as I desperately tried to figure out what was happening to my peaceful nap. When the light show and sound effects ceased, I found myself wedged between the front tire and frame of my bagger flat ass out on the hauler’s floor still holding on to the strap I had grabbed only seconds before. I shook off the shock, and checked my limbs and package for damage. It appeared that I had survived the “A�? ticket thrill ride with little or no major injury, so I scrambled to my feet and headed towards the side door. In mere seconds, I realized that there were major portions of the hauler’s skin missing, and I particularly noticed that my beer cooler was stuck in the wall near the rear of the trailer. I turned the latch on the side door and the whole thing fell off. I jumped outside and found myself on the slope of a ditch near the pavement. The hauler, although seriously wounded was upright on its four flat tires and reasonably intact considering the disaster it had just went through. As I watched Mark backing the truck down the breakdown lane towards me I began to imagine what had just happened.

My story: “You sorry fu(#er, you tried to kill me!�?
His story: “Man, I fell asleep, and sideswiped a semi, and the friggin hauler came off.�?

Later I learned that he really did hit another truck , and the hauler did come off and then flipped once or twice. But I didn’t care, because I survived and I still had a long way to go, and a short time to get there. As the citizen travelers gawk at the mess on the side of the road, I rolled the bagger down the deformed ramp of the hauler. I got the hell outta there just before the Highway Patrol arrived.

A few hundred feet up the highway I saw mile marker 13, and I immediately assumed that Mark had effectively gotten me across the state line, a little worse for wear, and somewhat sore, and whatever else. His portion of the mission was done, and mine was just beginning. I bid him adieu, and wished him good luck. I had assumed that I was in Georgia, but it just didn’t feel like home anymore. Although I didn’t exactly know where I was, I headed north just to make sure I was clear of Florida and the impending warrant waiting for me there. A few hundred miles later I took a left.

Back on the road again, I realized that my life was much better when I was moving fast and just riding my motorcycle for all it was worth. We both had escaped the potential doom of the flipping car hauler, and deserved a good romp in the sun. Riding gives me time to think about important stuff. This thought came to mind: If I was gonna make Tijuana Bike Fest, I needed to haul ass, and do as my attorney told me. His advice stuck in my mind. “As your attorney, I advise you to ride at maximum speed�?. I did exactly as he suggested. I needed to get the heck outta the states before the local warrant became national.

Most of my journey west was uneventful, with the exception of a loose ground wire at the battery which caused the bagger to sound like she was blowing up. Backfire, popping and general loss of power come along with this ailment, and is often known to scare the shit out of people driving next to you. I have experienced this problem before, and it was quickly corrected on the side of the road. I can fix most of the stuff that goes wrong with my bike, but I sometimes have problems figuring out where I’m going.

I was traversing the country living like some homeless dude, sleeping behind auto parts stores, bars, and diners, or wherever I could keep a low profile, and raise my ambient temperature. It was sometimes cold rainy, and miserable. One thing was sure however, it was better than being locked up in the county hoosgaw. It was somewhere in southern New Mexico that I realized how lost I was. My original intent was to escape to Mexico through a border crossing near Brownsville Texas, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, I forgot to take a left somewhere in the desert. It didn’t matter, as I was hundreds of miles north of where I was supposed to be. Traveling further west, I unfolded a map at a gas stop in Baja California to figure out where I was going. It was then that I realized I was already near my destination. The camel jockey at the counter was pissed that I didn’t fold the map back up correctly, but I reminded him that I was an American, and I had specific rights regarding particular paperwork handling. He didn’t understand, and I wasn’t surprised.

There were literally thousands of bikers crossing the border at Baja, so my entrance to Mexico was routine. In minutes I was free from the oppression of the US government. My fake passport wasn’t even scrutinized. I was actually on schedule, for once in my life, and one day early for Tijuana Bike Fest. I decided to stop for a beer at some cantina called “Toro Grande�? This may have been my second mistake.

I arrived at the most opportune moment, to observe some sort of floor show involving a donkey, and a young lady which I assumed to be some sort of petting zoo situation. The locals on the other hand were for some reason pissed about the action. A few seconds later there were people, bottles and bar stools flying all around the place in a melee of destruction and confusion. I heard cries of “ayeee�? and “Federalies�? and some other stuff like that. It was crazy. I don’t speak the language very well, but I knew that something was up and it wasn‘t good. As the barnyard animals ran out the front door I moved into a door with a sign that said “telefono�?. A few moments later, I heard gunshots and people yelling “pisteleros“ and aye aye aye or something like that . I’m not sure. It was noisy, and I was kinda drunk so I won’t quote on what exactly happened. All I know is that the next day, I went to Tijuana bike fest, and had a great time! And I want to say thanks to Taco Bell, which I recently learned is the Mexican Phone Company, for letting me sleep in their phone booth on my first night in Mexico. They should close down those sorry ass restaurants they have here in the US however, and stick to the telephone business if they wanna succeed! Until next month, adios, and mucho accelerando!