Certain fears strike the heart a little more closely like being exposed or not having enough. Usually this involves an imaginary desert scene where your car breaks down and there is nothing or no one for miles either way. You might as well be on Mars. Unlike a car, a motorcycle can’t carry jumper cables, an extra gallon of gas or a spare tire. If your horse breaks a shoe, you’ve got to fix it on the trail with what you have. Because of these possibilities bikers on road trips carry tire repair kits, first aid, tools and sometimes even metal 90 degree fuel pump fittings to replace the factory ones that break (another story). The wise biker doesn’t skimp on this stuff because there is rarely a Plan B if you are solo.
So, there I was having just ridden one of the best roads in Texas along the Mexican border and headed from Presidio to Marfa. This is where the landscape changes from being in a John Wayne western to the rolling vistas where buffalo roam in Dances With Wolves. I was Kevin Costner riding a horse without the flag and gun. I had the movie soundtrack from John Barry going in my helmet. The 1800 cc flat six motor on the Honda Gold Wing was singing along with the French horns. Life was good.
You know those moments when something is out of tune in the orchestra or a cover band is just getting it wrong? Well, I had that feeling in the back of my mind as the usually predictable handling of the Wing felt mushy around what was a smooth bend in the road. Then you resort to the slot machine of possibilities rolling through your mind. Like banging on the top of your computer to fix a software problem, I pushed the handlebars back and forth hoping to feel the usual crisp response. Nope.
Pulling over to the side of what was now a straight stretch of road near high noon, I put my feet down and immediately knew what the problem was. Normally, you know where your foot should land because a loaded Gold Wing is around 1,000 lbs of bike and rider. When coming to a stop, the timing of your foot plant will keep you from dropping a bike that would give you a hernia to pick up, not to mention the averted glances from onlookers. Anyway, my feet touched down way too soon which meant I had a flat rear tire in the middle of nowhere.
No problem. Pull off the rear cover and break out my tire repair kit bought from my local BMW dealership. Only the best and finest will do. I know it was the best because it cost the same as a fine meal at a Japanese restaurant. To fix a motorcycle tire, you have to do something counterintuitive by making the small hole of a nail or screw bigger with a tool that looks like and ice pick used for medieval torture. Then, use another tool to push a plug inside the tire where it expands to seal the leak. My kit had five odd shaped rubber plugs that must have been the best because they had the BMW brand molded on each one. Note my trust in brands here.
I pushed the first plug into the now bigger hole in the tire and… it shears in half. Hmm.. “OK, that didn’t work.” Obviously, the hole needs to be bigger so I apply the torture device with more verve this time. It was getting hot by now and I had not seen a single car go by as I sat on the pavement behind the broken Wing. Second try and I add the patented body English of subconsciously sticking my tongue out of my mouth at a certain angle. It’s a concentration thing. Here we go, and…. the second plug shears. By now, BMW’s accessory brand promise has become a betrayal. No 800 number to call in the middle of the buffalo range with no cell phone signal. What to do? I made the hole bigger. I prayed. I tried different tongue positions and sheared the remaining three plugs. I was stuck.
When you’ve applied all your ingenuity, resources and tongue positions to a tough situation and come up short on highway 67, different possibilities come to mind. You think of your wife and children. You imagine that you see buzzards circling overhead. An 800 lbs bike with a flat tire can’t be pushed into Marfa from here. Still no cars passing. It’s getting hotter.
I’d run out of quarters to put into my mental slot machine of possibility. We don’t like these powerless and exposed feelings. The prairie was quiet and I sat with that feeling. I sat with it until I realized that I had put my trust in the wrong things. I had put my faith in pieces of rubber with a German brand. I had put my faith in my ability to fix things having gotten though a number of tough situations. As the 1970’s philosopher Clint Eastwood in the Dirty Harry trilogy says, “A man has got to know his limits.”
Having met those limits while sitting with those feelings, a peace came to me. I can’t describe it really. It just was. There were no more fancy tongue positions, slot machines or future worries. Nothing but a peace.
Right about then, I could see a white vehicle coming up behind me in the shimmering distance of the road. It took a while until the driver pulled up to park behind me. Seeing my predicament, he smiled and asked if I needed help. Noticing the Texas Department of Transportation logo on the truck door gave me relief since I was in an area known for bringing drugs in from Mexico. Funny how I hadn’t earlier considered the consequences of that kind of encounter. Whew… The slot machine started up again before I answered him since it was not obvious what he could do with a pickup truck and even if he had more BMW plugs, that was not the answer.
Between my wanting to hug him and not having an immediate answer, he offered up, “I can radio into Marfa and have someone drive down with what you need to fix your tire.” Wow, a radio in a place with no cell service. What an old school concept! Immediately accepting his offer, we chatted about things I can’t remember, but I do remember this. Before I knew it another truck pulled up from Marfa with good old American made fiber tire plugs and a tank of compressed air. You’ve got to be kidding me. He brought the physical things I needed but as importantly, a sense of humor for what he knew I needed spiritually. Jumping out of the truck he yelled to his coworker, “Ah man! You didn’t tell me it wasn’t a Harley…” implying that otherwise he would not have dropped everything to come to my rescue. Harley riders are a faithful bunch and I love them too. Fortunately for me, he could not smell the grilled Teriyaki of the Japanese Honda sitting by the road all the way from Marfa.
I needed the laugh as we quickly plugged aired up the tire.
Thanking them profusely, I was grateful to be a taxpayer in Texas and for the character of those in our public service. They were lifesavers and an answer to prayer. Only after they left did I fully realize how true this was. Not only did the BMW plugs not work, there were not enough CO2 cartridges to fill the tire if they did. The tire took a lot more air from their tank than I realized. You don’t exactly want to ruin a tire with a nail to test your repair kit but there were other ways I could have been more prepared for this. Though nails and screws randomly flatten tires this was a graceful rescue from my having created my own powerlessness.
Diverting to Midland to get a new tire for the rest of the trip, I was thankful for the nail in my tire and where it happened. I was thankful for the peace that came realizing that I worried about a lot of things that I am powerless over. That’s the kind of peace we can travel with and live by. No slot machines are required.