Invisible Lines and Invisible Men

Riding Day 17

Last night we camped in a rest stop alongside our good friend Highway 90. In Texas it’s legal to camp in rest stops, and The Bob found a nice one close to the termination point of the day’s ride. We had everything set up early for a change, and dined on vegan chili and sticky rice, not the kind of thing you’d probably eat at home, but out here, camped in a rest stop, it was most definitely elegant cuisine! We chased it down with hot chocolate, talked for a while before climbing into bed, and then proceeded to sleep like the dead. This morning we all felt great as evidenced by the jocularity that permeated the morning ritual of drinking coffee and breaking down the camp.

We clipped into the pedals around 10:00 and quickly fell into an easy rhythm, the miles piling up as we made a long, gradual descent into the little town of Sanderson, TX. The morning was already warmer than it had been for the previous 4 days, and for the first time since we left San Diego, I peeled off all my layers except for a single, short-sleeve t-shirt and riding shorts. I lathered on the sunscreen as my arms had been covered up to this point, and away we went. We knew that there’d be a lot of small hills, but we didn’t anticipate that they’d be endless

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Small hills can be a lot of fun, because you can often gain enough speed on the preceding downhill to carry you at least part of the way up the ensuing hill, then grind your way to the crest. And that’s what Odie and I were doing over groups of 7 or 8 hills before we’d hit a 3–4-mile stretch of relatively flat road. We’d ride in 15-mile increments, meet The Bob for food and drink, and then start all over again. The temps kept climbing, we kept riding, and the miles kept accumulating.

As we angled back toward the border with Mexico, Border Patrol vehicles became ever present, their radars set up in brazen fashion every few miles to search the surrounding barren plateaus and desert for folks desperate enough to try sneaking into this country illegally across such miserable terrain. At one point, a Border Patrol Agent parked behind the OREM and had a conversation with The Bob, asking if he was okay, all the while peering into the OREM’s bowels. And as I pedaled and contemplated, which riding a bike cross-country allows one to do plenty of, it occurred to me how fortunate I had been to be born on the “right” side of an imaginary line, and how unfortunate all these other folks had been to be born on the “wrong” side of that same imaginary line.

Around 4pm our water ran out, the temp had reached 89 degrees, and we decided enough was enough and ended for the day having ridden 80.33 miles, which left us 61 miles west of Del Rio and the end of map section 3. The Bob retrieved us, and as I settled into the cramped rear seat in the OREM that has become my sanctuary at day’s end, I felt grateful for having the opportunity to abuse myself by riding a bicycle cross-country, at times less than a quarter mile from a fence that helps determine who can and can’t have the same opportunity. This juxtaposition, when viewed from the perch of a well-worn bicycle seat, is hard to digest.

Tonight, we are being hosted by The Bob’s good friend Deborah, who has graciously welcomed us into her house for the next few days. She had made us enchiladas for dinner, and I wolfed down three huge helpings with a vigor that would put most teenage boys to shame. After dinner we sat around talking, laughing and sharing our stories. It was a good evening, an evening that we all needed to help recharge our bodies, minds and souls. And in large part, it was a good evening because we were born on the “right” side of an invisible line drawn by invisible men

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