This is part two of a series of writings which document my solo cross country road trip taken on my 2008 Kawasaki Z1000 in the month of March, 2022. I would realize a life long dream which would evoke new dreams of even greater journeys via motorcycle travel. Read Part I here.
After a night's sleep in the outer tip of Florida's Pan Handle, I made off for what would be my longest riding day of the trip. It was a Friday, I blocked my google calendar at work with a massive time slot titled, "Ask to Book" (read: please do not book me). Leaving at around 8:30am central time, I had my eyes set on reaching somewhere in Louisiana.
Before setting off on this trip I did my fair share of research, I also did complete a cross country journey in my Jeep wrangler with my girlfriend in 2020. I was familiar with the interstate method of traveling and crunching miles. What I was warned about via forums, podcasts, and conversations around motorcycle travel is to avoid hyper fixation on your destination. Not only does it take away from your experience of the journey, but it is also quite dangerous if you aren't entirely present while riding at high speeds on your bike. I would find myself falling victim of this poor practice on this Friday afternoon.
Leaving Florida was a breeze. Once I hopped back on I-10 I had no trouble crossing the massive bridge over into Mobile Alabama. Wanting to get a feel for the city I stopped by a cafe, had a quick lunch and did a few laps in the downtown area. I came across a sign that impacted me tremendously, I was standing beside an old slave market. I grew up in the Northeast, Boston to be specific, where we were told that the dark history and presence of racism was a southern issue. While the lingering issues of racism remain to be fully addressed up north, I had never seen such an explicit image of the 400 years of slavery in the US in a public space.
After seeing that sign, I was quite ready to get moving. Hopping back on the interstate, it wouldn't take long for me to cross into Mississippi. Crossing into my third state, I let out a celebratory cheer, raising my left hand high! But wait a moment... I shifted my weight back ever so slightly and felt my backpack which was strapped to my pillion seat completely shift out of place. Holy sh*t. The same backpack that housed my work laptop and other important items. I slow down from my 70mph cruising speed, jumping over to the right lane. There happened to be an exit coming up, I took the exit while my left hand frantically pressed down on the back in an effort for it to not fall. On the off ramp my grip would prove to be insufficient and just before I was able to pull over my bag fell. Thankfully, by that point I was going at a slow pace, no damage done.
I spent a few minutes letting the adrenaline of potentially losing my ability to work for the next month ease off. I then completely re-engineered my strap set up with my Rok straps.
Road conditions were noticeably poor in both Mississippi and Louisiana. The latter having hundreds of miles of construction zones, yes, hundreds. If you've ever taken I-10 across Louisiana you know it has a tremendous amount of bridges to traverse the swamplands, those narrow, several mile long bridges often do not have shoulders. Couple that lack of space with bumps and debris and you can imagine it was not the most confidence inspiring portion of the ride.
Took a quick gas & snack break somewhere in the Bayou State. Had to "drop the kids off" in a gas station bathroom. I guess the lingering adrenaline and hyperfocus of the ride made me forget to lock the door. Some teenager opened the door to the bathroom, we lock eyes awkwardly, he see's I'm sitting on the toilet, pants to my ankles, and quickly closes it and walks away. Sorry about that.
I was still in Louisiana by the time night has fallen, albeit by the Texas border. At this point I had done over 400 miles, it would have been a great time to call it a night and find any old motel there and then. Lets consult Google Maps. Hmmm Houston is only another 120 miles....
This is where in retrospect I didn't make the wisest decisions, where my inexperience on a trip such as this one showed. I decided to book a room at a motel in Houston, took a good sip of water, topped off my 4 gallon fuel tank and hit the road.
It was a relatively empty highway. I found myself riding at a steady 90mph, not letting up on the throttle. Crossed the Texas border - still have over 90 miles to go.
As I near the Houston metropolitan area (still having around 60 miles to go or so), a black Honda Civic who seemed to be just as determined as me was cruising a bit faster than me - excellent. My philosophy on speeding is first of all, be safe. Second, if someone is going faster than you, then you shouldn't be the priority of any law enforcement. That civic would become my unnamed friend on the road, if they went fast, I could go fast.
I pass a huge oil refinery as I near the city. When I say huge, I mean the 4th largest in the United States, the ExxonMobil Baytown Complex. A burning smell of sulfate nearly suffocates me. Head down, keep going.
I arrive into Houston proper, a labyrinth of intertwining highways, overpasses, and vehicles greet me. Must be a sister city of Miami because the drivers share that invincibility complex, driving as if they have a few extra lives to spare.
Turns out the spot I found was in a pretty industrialized part of town, not particularly easy on the eyes. My Uber driver is a Houston native, she lived in different parts of Texas, like Austin but says Houston is home - she's not a fan of Dallas, few are.
The neighborhood nearing the restaurant is poorly lit, there are a bunch of stray dogs. I ask if thats common to my driver, she says, "uhh not really, you just picked an interesting place to go". As we pull up to the restaurant she asks "you sure you wanna go here?" I've made it this far, haven't I?
I have a pretty good meal. The place is pretty full and there is some sort of performance going on, the singer is getting the crowd involved, not so much singing, more like daytime peppy television program type of performance. I have my beers.
Going against conventional judgement, I decide to walk off a bit of my meal in the area. Walk down to a gas station about 2 blocks away. What would otherwise be a quick stretch felt like a mile long walk down the halls of a prison yard. There was some encampment of folks who were warming themselves via fire in an old oil drum. I told myself to keep my head down keep walking. I hear stray dogs barking in the distance, not letting up on the barks, but I don't see why. As I near the source of the barking, I see two dogs seated in a vacant lot to my right, no fence holding them back, I try to understand why they're looking towards my direction and barking but not moving. I look a bit forward and sure enough, a dead full sized Rottweiler is laying lifeless a few yards ahead of me. You could tell that the creature had recently died, not only by its mourning companions barking 30 yards away, but there was some stool leaking out of its ass. Damn. Maybe seeing this innocent creatures mortality was the reminder I needed to slow the fuck down, given I had just blasted hundreds of miles over the legal speed limit on a street rocket.
I turn back to the restaurant, spooked to the bone. I didn't have my phone out, as to not call attention to myself, but managed to snag one quick picture of the road. It was a sad and desolate place. I've been to some 'favelas' in Brasil, 'medinas' in Morocco, and other 'rough' neighborhoods around the world but that stretch of ruin stands as one of the most uncomfortably notable.
I made a promise to myself to slow it down for the remainder of the trip. Hyper fixation on a destination leads to a lack of focus, and clouded judgement. Not to mention, there is so much beauty along the way. Life happens in the in-betweens. More to come.