I left in the morning for the last day of an 11-month bicycle ride from the most southern tip of South America, Fin Del Mundo, Argentina, to Kingwood, Texas.

I took a back road until I got to beltway 8, a huge loop around the city of Houston. I planned to go all the way to my hometown Kingwood, Texas where my loved one’s were awaiting my arrival. Beltway 8 ended up being a poor choice of road to take home. It felt like one of the more dangerous riding days of the whole trip.

I stayed on the feeder most of the ride. My tire kept going flat and I patched it 4 times before getting into the final 10 miles. I maintained a calm and steady hyperventilation the whole way there.

When I arrived at the huge bridge going over the ship channel it was clear I couldn’t ride over it. There was a sign with a bike inside a circle with an X over it. I waited at an intersection just before the bridge trying to catch a Texan in a truck. My fellow Houstonians were not showing me much love. I got weird looks and people quickly rolled up their windows when I approached. I walked to a nearby car dealership and called a yellow cab to take me over the bridge.

I called my Dad and my Mom to let them know when I would be arriving. My Dad had asked me earlier in the week if I’d want the News to come out and interview me. He added that there wouldn’t be any pressure but if I wanted to try let him know. I respected his gesture in asking me beforehand and told him I’d think about it. Toward the end of the trip I was not thinking of arriving in the company of anyone accept my loved ones.

My Mom had called Channel 13 News, on her own, and had them waiting at the house on my arrival day. She told the one-man crew I would arrive around 4pm. I called my mom from the car dealership to let her know I would be running late and she got really serious. She said, “I didn’t want to tell you but I’ve called the news out for your arrival.” She knew I would be hesitant to say yes and went ahead and called them herself.

My mother says cuss words about as often as a nun. I think the last time she used the F word was when during the Regan administration. She said to me, before I responded to her the news is coming, get you shit together speech, “Pat, This is a big F’ing deal” “pull it together and get your ass here. Take the Cab all the way until the end of the street, then ride up like you rode the whole way.” I laugh thinking back to all of this. I have been thanking my Mom ever since the day for calling the news out. I will forever have the video of the final 50 yards of my travels.

After this conversation the cab showed up and took me over the bridge. I still had 30 miles left and I was all of a sudden in this huge rush. The frantic pace had me buggin’ out

The bridge, and the area I was in, was somewhat familiar but the first place I saw that I’d been before was the intersection of Lake Houston Pkwy and FM1960.

A few miles before getting to this point I took a wrong turn and panicked.

I tried pulling over a few cars and asking them for directions. A young man finally stopped and gave me directions from his GPS. He pointed me in the right direction and I rode on to find my way.

The bearings of my wheels had been screeching for a long time before this day from riding the last month in the rain. Ten miles from the finish line the ball bearings in my front tire cracked into pieces. I was shocked. It was too close for this to happen now. I’d already been riding on flat tires for pretty much the whole day. I flashed the possible solutions through my head. I thought about flagging a car down, borrowing a cell phone, and checking if someone would bring me a new tire.

I messed with the tire for a minute then decided to ride it until it wouldn’t turn. I rode to a gas station on Lake Houston Pkwy and 1960 and fixed the flat I’d had on the same tire. A car drove by and cursed at me to ride on the greenbelt rather than the road. I gave the guy a deathglance and gripped my handlebars harder

I smashed the pedals as hard as I could. I stopped after the Lake Houston bridge and had to re-patch a tire. I was in a frantic rush. Everything hurt. I knew this last push would be the final push of them all.

Alegria and her grandson Kayden were waiting by the bike path at the YMCA. They were the first one’s I saw riding in. The last time I saw Alegria was in Bogota, Colombia. I gave them both a hug then went on for the final 2 miles of the trip.

My tire was turning on pure metal at that point. It was like one of those moments where you know your horse is loosing blood and will die if you over work her, but you must keep going to live.

I hardly looked at anything in the final 5 miles. The route I could ride backwards and forwards with a blindfold on. I stared at the tire mostly, hoping I wouldn’t have to walk Lucille to the finish line.

Turning on to Forest Garden felt like it was all about to happen. I was two turns away from completing my goal, something I’d set out and prepared to do a long time before. It was a left turn, then a right, from the finish, tattered, weathered, sunburnt, sweaty, 20 pounds under my weight class, and exhausted. What happens will happen, but this was happening.

The ride was filled with ups and downs but I was overly energized being in the arms of my loved one’s. I pulled up to the cheers of my family and friends, who I hadn’t seen in almost 2 years. They were in my thoughts and supported me throughout the whole ride. I couldn’t have done any of it without them. I was at the exact place I wanted to be in that moment.

http://abclocal.go.com/ktrk/story?section=news/local&id=7683856

Arriving Home

And Finally, a dinner with my own family! My uncle Pat and Greg, my Aunt Sharon, and my witty cousin Steven all flew down to Texas to support, and hear it strait from the horses mouth. Thank you all!

——————————————————-The End—————————————–

Cotton Fields

I entered a familiar highway in the morning and felt energized. It felt like Houston was sucking Lucille and I through the straw of highway 59. I cruised under good weather conditions and took in the necessary scenery. I saw a single engine plane swoop in and out of sight in the distance. The sun started to set and I was far from where I wanted to be. I planned to arrive in Rosenburg, Texas so I would have a chance at arriving home by the dinner bell.

Highway 59 turns out to be an unsafe road to travel on a bicycle. Cars were wizzing by at lightspeed. I arrived in Rosenburg after dark and rented a room. I called home and scheduled my arrival time.

Sunset

The weather had cleared up outside of Corpus Christy and was suitable to ride in. On the road I saw the first sign for Houston. I pushed hard until I got outside of Victoria.

I saw 2 state troopers pulled over on the highway and asked them for directions and mileages. They didn’t know what to think of me and ignored mostly everything I had to say. The youngest of the 3 gave me some directions and said to be careful.

I felt the mental and physical wear and tear badly from the road. In the previous 27 days I had taken only 1 planned rest day. I hired a room, took all my wet clothes off, and curled up in my bed.

In the afternoon I bagged everything up and tried to mrally enough to make some distance. After 36Kms I called it quits. The winds were keeping me back and the rain was thick. The clouds were moving really fast. I found a room and rested with hopes of clear sky’s the next day.

The rain clouds surrounded by the time I was on the road. The incoming storm took over the skies. I pulled on my wet shoes and shorts and started putting in some miles up Route 77. Riding in the rain had lost its’ appeal long ago. Starting the day wet was terribly uncomfortable.

I rode passed King’s Ranch, one of the largest ranches in the world. Kingsville was up ahead and I’d had enough of the day. The rain halted as soon as I got out of the saddle.

I was cruising for finish line and planned to arrive on a Wednesday, which was 4 days away. Setting a date kept me from mashing the pedals to hard just to finish. Home was near and Lucille would be relieved of all her duties soon.

I couldn’t wait to see my family and friends.

Can't touch this

I woke up in Brownsville and got ready for the ride out. Up ahead an approaching storm was due to get in my way. Hurricane Karl was 400 miles away and this part of Texas was getting some moist tropical air masses passing through it. I got a late start on the day but had some tailwinds. It rained around 5pm. I tried to take it all in but there wasn’t much going on in this part of Texas. I stopped in Raymondville for the night and rented a room. My riding clothes were wet and so I laid them over the air unit.

“I spent the day cackling at/adoring the hicklesticks of the Texas heartland, forgetting the part of my soul reserved for the “these colors don’t run” decaled automobiles and the folks who drove them. I was back baby! I’m talking front of the line at the Dairy Queen back, ordering sweet tea and a side of fat face. Lets do this Texas! And you make sure I see that Blizzard turned upside down before you give it to me”     -Journal

I woke up early in my roadside rental. My body was sore all over from the frantic riding pace the night before. Riding in the dark was never something I enjoyed. I always felt the furthest from home after the sun went down.

I started chipping away at the final 137 Km of Mexico early in the morning. The countryside was mostly flat farmland. Mountains were something of the passed but winds were to be battled until the end. I struggled through headwinds all the way to the border.

After this day I wouldn’t be telling anyone I was going to Texas anymore. It felt like the line was approaching me rather than the other way around.  

I pulled into Matamoras and followed the traffic toward the border. Cars and trucks were backed up a few Kms waiting to cross into the US. I weaved in and out of the car line to get to the front.

I rode over the Rio Grande and arrived in the Lone Star State around 4pm. I’d made it back to Texas, USA in one piece.

Rio Grande

Crossing the line

At the border I expected an outstretched hand and a “Welcome back.” What I got was grief and back gargle from a uniformed man in a tollbooth. The border guard was bent out of shape that I went through the wrong line and was holding him up. I was used to keeping my guard up during border crossings. Mean mugging was always the easiest way to get to the other side. This particular time though, I was looking for the home court treatment. Some encouragement, a tip of the hat, or a double handed high-ten was what I hoping to see. All the same it was still a border. The bike throws mostly every uniform off at first sight. The most important thing was to get across safely.

The tollbooth man got chippy about holding his line up then ran to get his boss. I started scavenging through the junk in my rucksacks looking for my passport. I’d hidden it well for safety purposes.

I got more guff from a supervisor about following procedure. He wasn’t so welcoming. I almost started to bicker with him but decided to “yes sir” my way out of there.All the violence in the area stressed everyone out. I was relieved to put the fear and mania of these dangerous parts of Mexico behind me.

I read later that day in the Brownsville Morning Star that 25 men from the Gulf Cartel and the Zetas, organized crime groups in Mexico, were murdered right near the border in Matamoras earlier that morning.

“Shootouts were reported in various areas in Matamoros, with gunmen at times spraying the streets with gunfire and throwing grenades.”

http://www.valleymorningstar.com/articles/mexican-80474-matamoros-tuesday.html

I passed through a few more checkpoints and then it was official. I made it.

I still felt like a foreigner riding into Brownsville. Mexico was like night and day comparing it to the US. There was nothing gradual about the change. The idea that cultures clung even tighter to themselves near their borders was also true at the US/Mexican border.

I wasn’t so well versed in sparking conversations in English. Everything wanted to come out in Spanish and felt very too thought out. I didn’t forget English but had refused it as a median of communication for a long time. It now felt forced unless I was talking to someone I knew. I wanted so badly to say everything in Spanish.

Spanish is such an easy language  to be polite in and give respect. It allows you to show instant humility and chivalrous. It has this old world elegance that captivates me. The beginning and ending of each conversation are so pleasant you walk away from every interaction feeling very good.

My English tongue was a little twisted being back so abruptly. I had asked for directions in Spanish at 3:30pm in Mexico and 30 minutes later I was asking in English.

I rode into town down the middle of main street to get a little tour of the place. After 6 blocks I was through the whole thing. I was looking for a hole in the wall BBQ spot with some locals. There wasn’t all that much in Brownsville I’d gathered.

I asked a few Americans for directions to the strip mall area, a Brownsville hotspot, and left to find it.

Ruby’s BBQ was right off the highway so I started pedaling that direction. I bought a 6 pack of Shiner Boch and washed down the day with a beer while waiting in line to order. That beer was a longtime coming. I ordered some Ribs, potato salad, and a pulled pork sandwich.

Ribs

I rented a nice hotel room for the night called home. I called my brothers and sister and my parents. Houston was 400 miles away and would take me around 6 days.

I rested well and took the next day to sleep in and regroup.

In the morning I had milk and cereal at a nearby gas station. I put away a whole box of Fruit loops then rolled out of town. Brownsville was 2 days away.

I passed through a marine checkpoint around noon. It was the first main blockade approaching the border.

I was filled with bundles of information about who and who not to trust. So far it had sounded like no one was to be trusted. To me everyone looked the same; Narco trafficos, local police, Federales, and the military.

I couldn’t tell who was who and stayed skeptical of everyone.

When I pulled up to the Marine blockade I was disoriented. They asked me a bunch of questions and brought the drug dogs over. All of my belly aching pills were in my front bag and I didn’t want any trouble. My presence drew at least a dozen heavily armed uniforms.

A small then larger group formed around me. It felt like a newer higher-ranking soldier join the group every minute. Each one had a harder looking stare than the next. I went from a “Hi guys” approached to a defensive “Well No sir, I’ve never heard of the Two Wheeling Texan. I will let you know if I see him.”

They eventually let me pass when a more interesting truck full of people approached.

I pushed on hard to beat nightfall.

After some time I hit the hunger wall and saw a sign for a Mezcalaria/restaurant up ahead. I rolled in just in time for a late lunch.

On my way into the restaurant I ran into a group of Federales. I tried to linger back and avoid any contact. I didn’t know their politics or positions and just wanted to get in and out. Guns and uniforms to me only made me extra careful.

A Federale waited at the door for me and struck up a conversation. We talked for a moment and he invited me to eat with him and his three compadres. Turning down the Latino lunch invite was something I wasn’t willing to start doing. A sit down meal with people is a sit down meal.

I sat down with the group of Federales. All four of us spent the better part of 2 hours having course after course, talking, and telling our stories. They gave me the whole breakdown on what was going on out in the streets.

I heard about cops they knew who got caught up in the drug trade and others who were never heard of again. The violence going on around the border was an intense thing. They talked about the importance of keeping their identities safe. If their names or faces got out then there family’s family’s family could be missing the next day. All of these men were from other parts of Mexico. Every few months the Federales were relocated to keep corruption under control. Nobody was to get comfortable.

The youngest of this crew was my age. He was learning the ropes from this older Federales. He seemed uncomfortable in his flak jacket and on edge.

In the pueblos of this area the Chiefs of Police were usually decapitated the day they took the oath. Their heads were usually placed in front of the police stations. The drug cartels were deep rooted and nobody was unreachable.

It seemed to be a game of damage control the policing forces were playing. Not all trafficking routes were blocked. The Marines, the most lethal part of the Mexican military from what I was told, only guarded the main routes.

Everybody wore face guards and refused to show their face. I remembered back to the regular looking trucks passing by me with unmarked, gun toting, masked soldiers throughout all of Mexico. Riding these roads gave me this grave feeling, especially going in the same direction.

The Federales were all dressed up in their flak jackets and geared up. They seemed like nice folks and I eventually warmed up to them. I asked about the situations around the border and they assured me I would be OK. They gave me the same “avoid being outside at night” talk. I felt slightly safer knowing these 4 guys knew I was out there.

After a huge meal the waitress brought us out a few shots of Mescal. We all made a salute and took the shots. We tried the three different homemade brands of Mescal. On my way out I bought a bottle and packed it away in the rucksacks. The Federales covered my check and wished me a safe journey. I got back on the road with 50 Kms to go and felt woozy from the Mezcal.

I Rode passed San Fernando as the sun started to go down. I was told the Narco Tracffico people had a stronghold on this city and it was not safe to enter. I’d heard there were gunfights in the streets and gringo’s need to steer clear. People were leaving this city by the masses and relocating to other parts of the country.

The sun set over the outlines of distant plateaus and explosive clouds. Even in one of the worst Narco Traffico, police corrupted parts of the country, the sun still set beautifully.

(Looking back at this stretch it was a scary time for me. It’s not something I’d be interested in going back and doing again. It was a different experience coming from where I did. Crossing this part of Mexico wasn’t something I needed to prove to myself or anyone else. It was just the next challenge along the way is how I saw it. I am glad to say for one particular place in time I felt 100 percent connected to what I was doing and what was going on around me. This was all apart of it for me. )

Sunset over San Fernando

“Tomorrow the line approaches. What a day of all day’s to look forward to. I definitely look forward to seeing my family in a week. For my personal trek, crossing that Rio Grande will be something to remember. What an adventure it was getting here.” – A note from my Journal.

I rode around San Fernando hoping for any sign of life to pop up. I was breaking my first rule of staying out late near the US/Mexico border. I thought every passing car by would yank me off Lucille and take me to their underground layer.

I climbed up a decent sized hill and pounded the pedals hoping for something. I was exhausted and frantic. It was too late in the game to be making mistakes like riding in the dark. I got lucky and found a roadside Inne that was renting half built rooms.

The room was on the second floor of a partially abandoned building. Walking the bici up the steps my body gave out and I went crashing halfway down the steps. I was so tired and stressed from the fear that I had a minor breakdown. Soreness after a long ride was normal but adding the last 20 Kms of dark, stressful, wide pupil-ed, hard heavy riding in the dark, every negative motion was worth shrieking over.

The young Mexican woman showing me to my room watched me let go of the bike and crash down. It pinned me down against the midway point of the staircase. I smashed my hand at the bottom. I let out in my loudest voice my top 40 favorite English expletives of 2008. The young woman walked into her house and didn’t speak another word to me.

I had food in the restaurant then went to sleep.

Sunset over San Fernando

I woke up at the break of day and packed up the gear to get an early start. The road opened up and stayed relatively level over the course of the day. The heat was something else. I soaked my blue bandana in cold water and wrapped it around my head or neck. It brought my temperature down significantly. If I got ahold of some ice I’d use it. The cold pack kept me cool for hours sometimes. The mid day heat was unrideable. After eating lunch I fell asleep in a rocking chair in the front of a roadside restaurant. I started back up after 1pm and made some good tracks.

the cold pack

Around 3pm I hit a windy patch and fought the final 25kms to the Nueva Villa de Padilla pueblo.

I had some food at an outdoor parrila then found a room and laid low for the night.

I was so accustom to not thinking about the finish that I couldn’t remember what thoughts I’d had about it. I couldn’t remember if I was going to give the Roddick fist pump, Kirk Gibson’s walk-off “Train Conductor” move, or Jordan’s ’89 game 5 “fist pump jump kick” after the series winner over Craig Ehlo. The one thing I could think of was getting some Texas BBQ and a Shiner Bock right over the border.

It rained all night in Tampico. I got up early to leave and the sun dried the streets before I rode out of town. I got an email from Antonio, the El Salvadorian bicicletero I rode with a few weeks earlier. He wished me a wonderful arrival. I felt him right there with me through the ride.

Riding out of Tampico was difficult. Traffic was congested and it stayed urban for 30 Kms. I rode through rough looking neighborhoods looking for the way out of town. I weaved in and out of a 5 Km stretch of marketplaces.

(Some truckers I’d met a couple weeks earlier told me I should take extra care when riding from Tampico to the Matamoras/Brownsville, a 415 Kms jaunt. I told them my plan was to go north through Monterey, then cross over to Texas at Nuevo Laredo, skipping Matamoras all together. They advised me to take the shorter route and get the riding done as early in the day as possible. The shorter amount of time spent in this area upped my chances of travelling through this region safely. The drug traffickers were all over and it was best to be in a safe place before nightfall.

I didn’t think of situations like a person stopping in a truck full of dope and wanting something out of me. I saw it more of wrong place at the wrong time thing. With illegal activity, like the drug and human cartels of Mexico, there are poachers, opportunists, and everything else on down the line. I didn’t want to get caught up or noticed by really anyone.

I heard that unguarded back roads and short cuts were dangerous and filled with the undesirables. In the past it was easier said than done so I hoped for the best. Anything goes when even the police aren’t to be trusted. It would be best to pass through as a ghost.

Before this stretch in Mexico I stayed mostly in hospedajes or motels. The rain was relentless and staying dry at night was necessary. For the final 4 days in Mexico my plan was to travel quickly then hide out for the night. I packed food for the whole stretch in case I was forced to camp somewhere remote.)

The sun was out and it was very flat.

I was making good distances with my newly straitened back tire. When I came across a gas station I kept asking about the road ahead. One gas station attendant advised me to stay away from a 50km shortcut up ahead. Thieves and hijackers lingered were said to be on the back roads looking for traffickers trying to cut across the dessert and avoid the military roadblocks.

After 132 Kms I got really tired. There was a little roadside mango shop and I pulled over to see about staying the night. It was already getting dark and I was pushing it.

The family who ran the operation allowed me to camp on their property. I met the resident handy man Pepe, who lived in his truck out back behind some brush. Pepe took me out to a huge tower where he set up his camp. He showed me safe place to set up my tent.

A huge storm swooped in during the night. It was far away and moving northeast. I knew it wouldn’t get to me. It felt great to be out in the tent and know I would stay dry. I took some pictures of the huge sky that was lighting up and had a long sleep.

This was my first camping experience since crossing the Mexican border. Camping on the soil of a country makes you feel more connected to it in some way. I definitely felt slightly disconnected from my surroundings sleeping in so many motels. I felt energized after the experience.