Border, border, border…It’s calling me like a siren calls a wayward ship captain. Enough can’t be said for being able to park you bike near your room. We’ve been blocks away. Even when we park on motel grounds we’ve been a good distance from the bikes. I wasn’t worried about the bikes being damaged since they were secured everywhere we stopped. It’s just not fun schlepping your luggage back and forth.

A foggy morning and our visor wipers aren’t working they don’t exist and the going is slow. Add to that the poor condition of the road in this direction. We pass the scene of the tire deflation, the Tropic of Cancer and run through a 15 mile construction zone where asphalt is just a memory as are any completely flat and horizontal surfaces.

A checkpoint we saw on the way down is still in operation and we get pulled over yet again. I feel like it’s feeding time at the zoo and everyone is watching the motorcyclists. Let’s go through the entire luggage yet again. Everyone is very nice even if this is getting old.

Twenty miles from the border at another checkpoint we ask the magic question, “Where do we turn in out paperwork?” We are assured that it is now at the international bridge. Before we get that far we get pulled over for allegedly speeding. We probably were, but going 40 kph gets you a rectal exam with a semi. This is the first time I felt we were being worked for a bribe. The cop says it’s an $85.00 fine and I insist on going to the police station to talk to his boss. Mike is also being worked and won’t let on that he speaks Spanish. They finally give up on the dumb gringos. It’s a shame this happened so close to the border since it taints an otherwise great trip.

At the border we are in the line from hell. We push the bikes until we get tired and then ride. At the Mexican toll we ask where we turn in our paperwork. “Oh, it’s back there senior.” ARGH!!!! There’s no way to get back and neither of us want to redo this 1.5 hour trip through the border. This happened to last time and I’ll have to go through the paperwork at home, not that I can remember how that works. In the back of my mind I keep saying, go back, go back. So, there are 4 lines of traffic all going the same speed which is slightly to the right of 0 mph. There is a time when we can see the line separating the two countries, but we can’t get there. The Mexicans in line encourage us to split lanes, but our bags are too wide.

At the US border booth I tell the guard I’m going to say something inflammatory just so I can stay in the shade a little longer. I hope Don had an easier time getting through. Mike and I are crispy from our jaunt in the sun and pull into a burger joint just past the crossing.

I had hoped to get to Houston for the evening and bid farewell to Mike. The 3 Mui Macho Muchacos are officially broken up. I knew this time would come and haven’t been looking forward to it since we were having such a good time. Good times don’t last. Fortunately, good memories do.

Near Alice, TX the weather is getting ugly. For the last several days I’ve been riding around with 1 tennis shoe and 1 boot since the blister and my boot can’t coexist. Rain won’t help and I call it a night early. Mike plans on pushing through to San Antonio and will be the first one home.