"West Texas Winds ~ Math ~ Refueling Luck"

Honey and I had been in strong winds before, but these were different.  I had guessed that they were gusting at about 25 to 35mph, but found out later, from a local, that they were blowin' at 40~60.  That, in and of itself, isn't that bad, but the thing was that they were gusting from 0mph, and coming at me at exactly a right angle to the direction of my travel.  It would be totally calm one second and then WHAMMO!!  They would hit me like a mac truck, and I'd be headed for the gravel on the right side of the road.

They'd gust for two or three seconds and then instantly stop.  When the wind was hitting me, Honey had to lean way over on her left side, to stay in a straight line.  Then POOF!!  No wind and we'd be heading into the oncoming lane.  It was truly a test of my strength… reaction time… and riding ability, to keep Honey on the road.  I decided to make it a test.  Instead of getting upset, or feeling sorry for myself, I said, "Ok Ned… let's see what you got."  Turned out, I had the right stuff, but boy oh boy… it certainly was a test.

Besides the wind, the day also took a little out of me when I ran out of gas, coming into Iraan.  This time it wasn't my fault.  When I had tanked up at the previous available gas station… it was only about 125 miles to Iraan, which under normal conditions is well within Honey's range.  4.7 gallons @ 40mpg = 188 miles.  I'd gone 190 between her meals many times in the past.  Several times over 200.  I can normally gauge how many miles we have left, by doing some quick math, when I turn the valve to her reserve stomach.

Even though the wind was not a head wind, it was obviously taking its toll on Honey's food consumption.  When her main tummy emptied and I turned the valve, we'd only gone about 90 miles, which calc'd out at about 25mpg!

                                                   

After I did the math, I did it again.  25 times 3.7… that's 3 times 25 is 75, plus .7 times 25 is 14 plus 3½, gives me a total of 75 plus 17½ comes to 92½.  I looked down again, and sure enough, my odometer showed 91 miles.  Honey was only getting 25mpg, and with only one gallon left and 35 miles to the next town… we had about 10 miles of trouble in front of us.

Fortunately the highway had dropped down from the high open plateau, and was going down thru a huge canyon, which was protecting us from most of the wind, so I leaned forward and settled my chest down against Honey's tummy to lessen the wind resistance, making Honey and me slightly more streamlined, as to (hopefully) increase the mileage we were getting.  I was lucky… if we were still in the open, the wind gusts would've made it unsafe or impossible for me to assume this type of position.  I even pulled in the clutch lever and coasted down the hills.

My efforts came within 1.2 miles of succeeding.  Honey ran dry, and I coasted to the side of the road with the town of Iraan, and Honey's next meal, within sight.  Rats… I knew I wasn't gonna leave my girl alone and walk to the town, and there was no way I should expect to get as lucky as I did back in Santa Anna, and only lose 45 minutes.  I was bummed.

 

I was as tired as I'd been at any point on my trip (to that point), and my back and shoulders were almost numb from the constant pushing and pulling on Honey's reigns, keeping her on-line in the wind for the last six hours.  I dismounted Honey with my head held low, expecting to be there for hours.  It was around 2pm, and I'd only seen two cars in the last 50 miles or so.

I was wrong.  I saw Butch's vehicle coming from the distance on a dirt side road.  First as a cloud of dust, then as it followed his(?) driveway towards me, as a large pickup truck with a brown-skinned man in his 60's behind the wheel.  He drove right up to me and rolled down his window.  I had pulled off the road at the entrance to what was most likely the access road to his home, or perhaps his place of work.

What were the odds that Honey would run dry at someone's driveway?  What were the odds of someone coming down that driveway within about two minutes of me parking there?  With this kind of luck, I had no doubt that he had a can of gasoline waiting for me in the back of the truck.  I was half right.  He did have a can, but it was empty.

He offered to take me the short distance into town and return me to Honey with some gas, and this time I decided to take the chance of leaving my precious woman on the side of the lonely highway alone.  I figured that if anyone happened to come along in the time we were gonna be gone, my luck was so good that they would probably know Butch and wouldn't think about stealing from one of his guests… or perhaps even wait there and guard the gal until we returned.

Butch was a Native of the area (I didn't write it down, and I've forgotten which Tribe he descended from), so he declined my request to take a picture of him along with a part of his soul.  And just like Ron (the other gentleman who helped me refuel in Santa Anna), he refused any reward or re-payment for the gas he used, or the time he spent.  God, I love Texas.

Janet and Lisa at the MMGS were sweethearts, and when I got back on Honey to continue my journey, I shook my head in disbelief.  It hadn't taken 45 minutes like the first time… this time I only lost 15 minutes… absolutely incredible.  Sometimes I'm embarrassed about how freaking lucky I am.  Clearly, I must have done something really good in a previous life.  I sure don't remember saving anyone's life, or anything like that in this life.  But perhaps I've done enough little stuff in this life, to warrant a small gesture of thanks from the gods.  In any case, I do NOT take these acts of good fortune lightly.  I always remember to say my prayer of gratitude.

"West Arizona Winds & Me"

My relaxed feeling of hope for finding true happiness would have to wait.  When I got back on the road, the winds had picked up dramatically.  They were blowing almost as hard as they had in West Texas.  When one of the gusts almost knocked me off the road, I shook myself awake, and got my mind back on reality.  It was like the gods where telling me to stop 'pipe-dreaming' about 'love' and pay attention to what I was doing.

Life is not always like a storybook.  Fairy tale endings do not happen to everyone.  Circumstances have dealt me a life that has been a tease.  I thought I had found my soul mate when I married Mimi… then again with Ann.  Now my hope that Donna was going to fill that 'void' in me was…

 

BOOM… the wind slapped me in the face and reminded me that most likely, my mistakes with her were going to be enough to keep me from experiencing the happiness I was dreaming of.  I had had my chances.  Why should I expect to be rewarded now… this late in my life?  It would be easier for me emotionally, if I accepted the fact that I would be alone for the rest of my life.

 

I made my selves remember that there was still a lot of enjoyment a man like me could experience.  No one else can bring me happiness… it must come from inside me… I will never be able to make someone else happy, until I am happy already… all these silly clichés were bouncing around in my head, when all of a sudden…

WHAAMMO… the wind hit me again… hard… but this time from the opposite direction as the last time!  WAKE UP NED!…  STOP DAYDREAMING!  You can feel sorry for your selves later.

The next 15~20 miles were probably the most difficult riding conditions of the entire adventure.  The winds were gusting to at least 50mph, and to make it even worse, the low-lying hilly terrain was causing the wind to swirl, and hit me from different directions.  One moment I was being pushed to the left, and then the next second, to the right.  To say it was unnerving was an understatement.  The fragile and delicate thought of finding love and living happily ever after, had been shattered.

I was determined not to shatter (and scatter) Honey and my own body parts all over this highway.  My vision quest would not be as much fun if it was being done from a hospital bed, with tubes and machines keeping me alive.  Time to focus on the real world…

I didn't need to go poddy or get gas, so I found a semi truck-trailer to park next to, to block the wind while I had a cigarette.  I went thru my routine of stretches, twists, and bends, and noticed my shoulders were starting to burn again, but welcomed the distraction of the discomfort as a not so gentle reminder to keep my attention on the task at hand, and not let my mind wander back off into la-la land.  I still had quite a few miles to go that day.

I looked at the time on my phone and then at the odometer on Honey, and smiled.  They both said the same thing.  Three-thirty-three.  I decided to let my mind wander… after all… I was parked safely and resting, and… this was not a race.

 I like it when 'synchronicity' comes out of life's 'chaos.'  I've always been a numbers guy.  There's something secure and calming about them.  I guess it's their consistency and inherently dependable nature.  It's always given me a comforting feeling to know that some things can be explained in a rational, scientific manner.

Yet another example of how many different aspects I have to my selves.  I had just forced one of my selves to stop it's enjoyable, albeit melancholy daydreaming of esoteric love, and now I was feeling happy to be grounded in a firmly three-dimensional thought process.  I've never tried to count the different selves within me, but my guess is that the number is in double digits.

I'm not sure if I've mentioned this yet, but I've always felt happy to have multiple person-alities.  I normally do not enjoy being alone, and having someone to talk to when I am alone makes me feel better.

"Taumie & My Mexican Heritage"

Taumie is my sister's middle child and oldest daughter.  She and her kids and her kids' kids, have upheld their responsibility to keep the world populated… that's for sure.  I like to say about our family… "We're Mexican, and we breed like rabbits."

That reminds me of a joke.  My Mom told me this joke, and since then, it's been one of my very favorites.  It is not a politically correct joke, but I have told it many times without any problems… probably mostly because I always tell my audience that I'm ½ Mexican, and that my Mother, who was 100%, is the one who taught me the joke.

 

Here it is:

A mother duck and baby duck… a mother skunk and a baby skunk… all four of them were walking down the side of a road.  A car came around the corner and ran over the mother duck and the mother skunk.  The baby duck started to cry and the baby skunk asked him, "Why are you crying?"  The baby ducks says, "The car just ran over my mom, and I don't know what I am yet."  The baby skunk says, "Well, let's look atchya… you've got feathers, webbed feet, and a bill for a nose… you must be a duck."  

Then the baby skunk starts to cry.  The duck asks him why… same reason… "The car killed my mom too and I don't know what I am yet."  The baby duck says, "Well, let's look atchya… you're not black and you're not white, and you smell like hell… you must be a Mexican."

I just love that joke.  Most of the Mexicans I tell it to, love it as well.  That's one of the many things I've always admired about my brown skinned relatives… most of them are very self secure, and have no problem laughing at them selves.  Mexicans… in my experience… do not take themselves nearly as seriously as white people.  That's one of the things I've always admired about them (us)… they typically have a great sense of humor.

There are other things too, like… the importance they put on family…  their honesty… generosity… work ethic... things like that.  Often, I am more proud of being Mexican than I am of being white.

Also… my heritage gave me a decent 'pick up line' that I used when I was a young buck.  I used to say, "I'm half Mexican and half Dutch, which makes me a Viking Lover.  I just love to rape and pillage.  First I rape them, then I make them love me."  I know, pretty crude, but… it was surprisingly effective at times.

Taumie and her husband Gerry (or Ug for short) made me feel truly welcomed into their home.  Out of everyone in my family, Taumie and her 'brood' seem to understand, or at least tolerate me better than anyone else.  We call each other the black sheep of the family, but don't worry… we know our hearts aren't black.  Maybe it's because our hearts are so big, that we sometimes have problems with other family members.  Or maybe it's because of our higher intellect.  Or better looks.  Or maybe it's 'cuz we're all so darn modest.  In any case, I was really looking forward to spending a few days with them.  I always feel better when I'm near them.  Thank you for loving me Taumie.  I love you more.

"My Drinking & My DUI"

Every once in a while I get reminders of how much my drinking habits have changed:

It's nothing to be proud of, but for most of my life I wouldn't be without an open can of Bud between my legs while I was driving.  When I was in the required 'treatment program' after getting my DUI a few years ago, I learned an interesting factoid.  Apparently, the statistics show… on average… when you are behind the wheel after having had any amount of alcohol… something bad will happen one out of 300 times.  That may seem like pretty good odds, but check this out…

… After doing a very honest and conservative estimate, I came up the fact that I had been behind the wheel over 7,000 times without ONE incident.  I started to raise my hand in class, as my first instinct was to brag about how good I was at breaking the law, but then it hit me… I should be grateful that I was so lucky, not proud of it.

That was the first moment I can ever remember thinking that I was gonna stop making drinking and driving such a routine part of my life.  The fact is, I've been a changed man since that moment.  I used to drink an average of at least 12 beers a day.  I'd usually start around 9am, and drink a six-pack during the day, then polish off the rest of the 12-pack that evening.  And if it wasn't a 12-pack, it was a fifth of vodka!

Since my DUI, I think my average intake is more like two per day.  (Editors note: now the average is closer to one, or perhaps even 3-4 per week!).  Sometimes I feel boring (and/ or bored) with the difference in my thought process and behavior, but most of the time I feel good about myself.  I also started going to the gym on a regular basis.

The upcoming ½ century mark of my life had put a different attitude in place for me.  I realized that I was obviously going to live longer than I had predicted, and that if I didn't start taking better care of myself, the last part of my life was gonna be hard on me.  I still thank the 'gods' for allowing me to 'beg' for my DUI.  Besides the financial and embarrassment factors, it was one of the best things that ever happened to me.  Here's the way it played out:

It was five years ago (October of '03), when I was going home from an afternoon at a Renaissance Faire, and I had had about seven or eight dark beers… grog, they called it.  My body had gotten very proficient at processing the alcohol I put in it, and I considered my selves to be professionals, and felt proud of the way we could drink.  Anyway… when the cop pulled me over and wrote me a ticket for an unsafe pass, I could have gotten on my bike and rode away.  He 'tried' to 'only' give me a speeding ticket, but I decided foolishly to make him a counter-offer.  This is where my life made a dramatic change…

Instead of thanking my lucky stars for once again, 'getting away with it'… I got back off the bike and walked up to the cop.  This is how cocky I had become about my drinking and driving.  I knew I was most likely over the limit, but I had gotten to the point where I thought I was invincible.  In a very polite and respectful voice, I told the cop that he might want to consider attending my court appearance, as I was planning on trying to convince the judge that the pass I had made was not an unsafe maneuver.

 

I recall the cop simply shrugging his shoulders, but still… I couldn't let it go.  I began to explain to the cop what my argument was gonna be (how freaking stupid could I be?)  This is how 'necessary' it was for me to get some help with my drinking.  I told the cop that passing the two cars at once was MUCH safer than passing one car and then trying to squeeze my bike in between them… and then pass the second car.

After I had finally finished my polite and respectful tirade, the cop looked at me sadly, and said, "Oh… I didn't smell the beer on your breath before… please step over here."  I know I passed all his physical tests, but then he said there was one last test to take.

I blew into the little mouthpiece and he showed me what the machine indicated.  It showed 0.108, and my first thought was; wow… all those beers and ONLY a 108… that's pretty good!

It wasn't until the handcuffs started to really hurt, sitting in the back of his car, about ½ way to the Santa Cruz Jail, that I started thinking that I had made a mistake.  Not about drinking and driving.  That realization wouldn't happen for several weeks later at the treatment program.  I was mad at myself for the mistake of not riding away from the scene of the crime, happy to only have gotten an unsafe pass ticket.

My cockiness about my supreme ability to drink and drive safely was astounding.  It's embarrassing to admit how deluded I was at the time, but at least I was able to learn my lesson before anyone got hurt.

As I filled up Honey's tank, I was grateful that Ludlow had reminded me that one out of seven thousand was a statistic that I should consider a miracle, and not a badge to be proud of.