Tears Shed to the Wind

Tears shed to the wind:

I listen

“Has the world gone mad, or is it me?”

Such a long time it has been

Since I have beheld unadulterated beauty

The green life of these hills,

your Spring skin:

each draped over fine bones.

These hills, these words,

Remind me of your handsome curves.

Visceral and pure,

tears shed to the wind

Tears cried again, and again.

“And I can't see my love.”

~*~

Sun. Nov. 16, 2014 Somewhere in Northern Mexico

I forgot to mention the fog!

In the morning, I rode into the deepest and thickest fog I had ever seen in the desert.

I slept in a field last night. It was right next to the highway and loud, but I wasn't disturbed all night.

I navigate primitively, with a map, simply following road signs from one town to the next. Connect the dots: reality version.

My Spanish is poor—impoverished, even—but not bankrupt, and I can make myself understood. I have a harder time understanding others, but I think that will come

I can generally comprehend all road signs, and I'm working on not translating everything into English in my head.

~*~

These days spent in Northern Mexico, they were the acclimatization period. My head swirling, the ground blurring, road twisting and engine churning, I tired quickly.

In the evenings I would find a place to camp, close to the road, a place to hide the motorcycle. Not so much for fear of theft, or because I was doing something wrong—though if I've mentioned those things they must count for something—but because it made me feel more comfortable to know no one would stop for any reason, and I could sleep peacefully.

At 5:30 in the morning, before the cold light of day broke, I awoke. By 6:30 I would be on the road. One of these mornings, I reflected that the phrase the "cold light of day" while it can mean the harsh unforgiving illumination day, to me it meant the hours of the day where light had broken darkness, yet the sun had not yet appeared. It is that pre-dawn period where the light is unforgiving in its revelation of what the night has held in secret, as well as the cold hours spent before the sun makes its tardy appearance.

I began to expect those morning hours, the cold light of day that would insist that I begin moving again, despite the cold wind that would creep and seep into my clothes, then my skin and bones. Only later would it be expelled by the sun. 

The roads in the north west of Mexico, especially the toll roads and some of the free federal highways, are the nicest roads I have ever ridden. Better than anything in the states. The drivers stay to the right except to pass, so there's hardly ever any congestion, and the speed limits are reasonable. I would typically ride around 50 to 65 MPH, or 80 to 110 Km/H, and ride for 8 to 10 hours each day.

I want to specially acknowledge the financial contributions from Alexandre Nguyen, Manny Rangel, Michael Pang, my mom, and my aunt Julie, as well as Kate Phillips and Ian Wheatland for helping make these words and pictures possible!