Have you ever joined a trip with grizzled veterans as the new guy or girl? It’s an exciting, yet exposed feeling. You don’t know what you don’t know. Bring the cannoli or the chain lube? Preparing for a motorcycle road trip is an art of prediction based on past experience. Wanting to fit it and not ask too many dumb questions, new riders will usually bring what they have. That’s where this story begins.
Joe was a Texas transplant from Indiana who makes a quick connection and becomes the life of the party. He’s a great neighbor whose 1967 Sears Puch was restored by our Fellowship team while he was between jobs. A class act, he air shipped deep dish pizza to us from Chicago after his family and the Puch moved there. Everybody loves Joe.
Seeing that we were trustworthy enough to rebuild his Sears heirloom, he joined one of our annual five day Big Bend trips. These are roughly 1,400 mile rides in late November where we dress for the heat of the day and cooler desert temps at night. Rides like these are not parties or wedding showers where there is a lot of advance detailed planning. Show up with what you have. And that’s what our friend Joe did.
As I’m headed out of the garage to get on my loaded bike, Joe walks up and I do an automatic body scan for required safety gear. Having faced wives in the aftermath of prior “incidents,” this is a learned response. My eyes follow from his helmet (check), jacket (check), pants (might get cold) and finally to shoes that looked like he was dressed for a lakeside lunch in fern bar.
We’ve all been there; caught unaware wearing a Hawaiian shirt to a formal dinner party. Etiquette is a tricky thing. Looking at Joe’s shoes, I imagined his frostbitten toes numb in the winds to come. Pulling out an extra pair of riding boots like a dinner jacket, I said, “These are yours’.” We take care of our own in the Fellowship. Little did I know that this was a preview of coming attractions.
Ever wonder what artists see in other’s art? Whether it’s a painting, prose or song there’s always more nuance the longer and deeper you look. Big Bend is one of those canvases that never gets old. Every trip it becomes more alive when seen through new eyes. Joe’s eyes were telling tall tales at the White Buffalo Bar in the Gage Hotel on our last evening in Marathon. A lively time was had by all. So lively that I ended up riding Joe’s bike back to our accommodations up the road. He really was the life of the party.
Early next morning after a fine Mexican breakfast, we headed north on two lane 385 toward Fort Stockton. Looking to the right where the sun rises with such majesty that you sing hymns to yourself, all I could see was fog. Everything on a motorcycle like a fast horse is different than sitting in a car. The sunrises are more spectacular, the smells liven your senses and the temperature matters a lot. At 48 degrees and 20 miles into the 60 miles to Ft. Stockton, Joe pulls alongside me pointing at his gas tank. Usually when a warning light goes off, this is code for, “I need gas now.” On a group ride, you plan around the smallest gas tank which was Joe’s. Remembering now that his bike had not been topped up the night before, I signaled for him to turn around. He wasn’t going to make it. Not leaving my wing man, we rode back to Marathon leaving the group to motor on ahead.
Now, on the way back to Ft Stockton the air temperature dropped from 48 degrees to the low 30’s. This is a combination called freezing fog ice which blinds your face shield and makes the road slick. The new challenge was threading the needle on getting further ahead into shelter sooner vs. conditions. How fast to go? Riding with one eye on my rear view mirror with Joe behind me, I was concerned. He had no cold weather riding gear. His bike did not have a windshield. He had to be really cold because I had all those things and I was really cold. My helmet visor was crusting with ice behind my windshield. He later reported only being able to see my tail light like a lighthouse in the fog.
This is where the tension of icy conditions makes your mind start to play tricks. Does Joe have frostbite back there? He looks awful stiff. Maybe he is so frozen that on the next turn he will miss the curve and keep riding straight off the road? Knowing I may have to explain this to his wife, I slow down and literally ride with my eyes glued to the mirrors around the next bend in the road. Hmm, he’s still there. He may be the new guy, but he’s got true grit.
Coming into Ft. Stockton, our group had parked to the left off the main road through town at a gas station with a laundromat. What a combination. The thing about laundromats is that they are warm with hundreds of clothes dryers where our guys were huddled inside to thaw out. How did they know that? Doesn’t matter, I’m just glad Joe made it. His tale of not being able to feel his face with petrifying body tremors spurred us into action. Seeing Joe drop his trousers for warmer gear in full view of the laundromat patrons and passersby added further urgency.
The temps were still in the 30’s which meant swapping his bike for Bob’s on the trailer which had electrical connections for heated riding gear. Then, everyone dug out their extra stuff until we had Joe wrapped up like Hunter S. Thompson’s Song of the Sausage Creature. “Here Joe, take my pants, please.” He was toasty as a brat in a jalapeno tortilla wrap all the way home.
It was a heartwarming scene (literally) to see everyone pull together through adversity for Joe. Some bikers treat their motorcycles like their wives and girlfriends; no one else can ride them. But Bob gladly put Joe on his bike. This was just another way of showing love and generosity with each other.
Do laundromats save lives? Indeed. But fellowship bonds souls who leave no one behind.