The day for leaving Real had come. I wanted to stay, as did Hank, but he'd gotten many messages of bikes on the way to his shop and had to get back. The original plan was for two days in Real and we stuck with the plan.
"El LeatherPouchMan" found Hank at breakfast, having made a custom one the previous evening sized for specific doodads.
Our new friends Katlijn and Ariana had breakfast with us again and wanted to see if we could give them rides to the town of Matehuala on our way out, to spare them a long, slow bus journey. We had no problem doing so, other than having no helmets which are required in Mexico, and the fact Hank had removed his back seat for this trip. A pile of clothes was substituted for a back seat and Ariana climbed aboard his bike, Kat clambering on board the back seat of my bike.
El Cerdo Rojo awaits
We rumbled out of town and through the tunnel, the remorse of leaving tinged with the need for speed. The curse of motorcycle travel. That joy of discovery and yet the need to remain moving, the soul soothed by the flow of wind and weaving roads ahead. All too shortly, we were down the mountain and through La Luz, then past Potrero and onto the long straights of the cobblestone highway. The higher speeds smoothed the staccato of the cobble, though I felt a bit sorry for our two passengers.
Cedral came too soon as well and we pulled in for gas, each of us hitting the ATM for a few extra pesos. From Cedral we had a tense moment as a Federale police car passed us, both girls without helmets, but he didn’t stop us. We made it to Matehuala without incident and circled the plaza in the thickening traffic, stopping to deposit our fellow travelers Ariana and Katlijn and get some refreshments before putting in the ear plugs, cinching down and preparing to head out onto the highway.
We said goodbye to our fellow adventurers Kat and Ariana, wished them well and were officially christened “cool motorbiking guys” with goodbye waves as we wove our way out of town and to the highway north.
MX 57 was a fast and furious ride back to Monterrey, the winds as we neared the mountains hitting with a punch, a pop and push to the other lane. Monterrey was thickly clouded in haze and smog and descending into the city's 100 degree heat felt like a furnace compared to the cool air of the previous days in Real.
At a weary and late lunch break, Hank said he wasn't sure whether to head on into Nuevo Laredo and sit in the long lines back into the U.S., or to detour 30 miles out of the way and up to the Colombia International Bridge crossing. Either way it was a wash, but I said I'd rather be moving than sitting still in the heat, so we headed for the Colombia crossing.
At the border, there was only one other vehicle besides our two bikes. We didn’t stop to exit Mexico since our permits and visas were for 6 months, other than paying the toll to cross the bridge back to the U.S. I watched as the Border Patrol agent motioned Hank ahead to the booth and wondered what questions he was being asked. I saw him dismount and open a side case the man tapped on, a brief cursory look all that was required, then Hank gearing back up and moving on as the agent motioned me forward.
He was nice enough, asking for my passport and where I'd been, tossing some general questions and slipping in a quick "What day did you go into Mexico?", which seemed to be the trigger question for detainment and further questioning if I'd answered differently than Hank. He tapped loudly on my side case and asked me to open it, please. I stepped off and opened the case, unzipping the bag liner and lifting out my GoPro case at which point he said "Fine." He asked me about the bike and seemed genuinely interested in the concept of adventure riding. When I told him the year of my bike and the low entry fee for that model. his eyes perked a bit. After saying thanks, I pulled on out and caught stride with Hank's bike out onto the tollway that leads to I-35 North and home.
Shortly after reaching speed, we passed under the camera stations and I knew I'd be getting a nice letter and bill from Texas Tollways, as I do not have a toll tag.
Hours of high speeds and hard winds, followed by the intense heat of the border region began to make its effect known and I began to feel dehydrated and weary. We raced on at about 80, my fuel light coming on about 25 miles from Cotulla and I sweated literally and mentally until we exited for gas and fluids. I grabbed two bottles of orange juice and a water, guzzling all three as the light began to fade.
Hank's exit for Dilley was a few miles up the road and I felt somewhat envious, knowing I had another two and a half hours ahead to make Kerrville by way of Bandera.
We geared up and hit the highway, the light fading with distant lightning on the horizon the direction I was heading. At eighty miles per hour, the exit for Dilley came up and I pulled alongside Hank, giving a thumbs up as he peeled off like a wingman in a fighter plane. I checked mirrors, tucked in and hoped the rainstorm I saw was not on my way home, despite it lying directly where I was headed.
It was dark by the time I reached the I-35 exit I needed for Devine. I was bushed and knew I had to go slow from that point on due to all the deer on the back roads, so I took a break and topped off with gas. Against my wishes, I had to settle for a McDonald's fish sandwich and Coke, leaning against the bike in the dark with my ears ringing from 10 hours and more than 500 miles on the road. I watched the local customers file in and out, feeling their awkward, unspoken tension at having to walk past the sunburned, smelly, long-haired man on his strange motorcycle. Hee hee.
A Hispanic man in his pickup struck up conversation while his wife went inside to play with Mickey D. He asked if the bike was a Triumph and when he found out I'd just come in from Mexico he responded with incredulousness. "Man, you're lucky you didn't get killed down there!" he said. I just smiled.
Despite my fatigue and desire to be home, it still felt good to ride in the cool darkness at a slower pace. I stayed alert for the ever-present armadas of deer, reaching Bandera in the dark. I cruised slowly through in the darkness, hearing the loud shouts of a few Harley riders on the sidewalk, undoubtedly fueled by alcohol.
Nearly an hour later, I was finally coasting down my gravel driveway in the darkness and stopping under the carport, my headlight illuminating the river in front of my house. I killed the engine, took off my helmet and sat on the bike in the dark, listening to the tink and pop of exhaust pipes as they cooled down in the night air.
It was a great trip.
Adios my friends!