On the map, it is only 13 inches from New Orleans to Albuquerque, or about
1250 miles, or a long 3 days @ 55mph. I was that close, and would spend the next
night, uneventfully in Corsicana, Texas, my first night in a motel. After a good
night’s sleep, I was off into cold, but sunny skies, more US 287 with another
500 mile ride ahead across Texas to Amarillo. All went well, but boring, a ride
I now do in 7-8 hours easy, would turn into a nightmare. Any sane person would
have pulled over, any even saner person would not have been on a motorcycle in
late November in the first place, but I was and in the late afternoon, the
temperature dropped 40 degrees in an hour, the winds hit in the 40mph range, and
I rode sideways, freezing, and hanging on for life into Amarillo. I learned that
tumble weed hit hard, as when I took off my boot that night, my left foot and
lower leg were purple. Since Holiday Inn had been so good to me the night
before, I chose the one in Amarillo, just before all hell broke loose.
Ironically the same one that we would use in Torches Across America, they still
liked bikes and bikers 30 years later. It had also started snowing, so much for
the yet to be invented Weather Channel, I was riding into a blizzard. I was glad
to have found Amarillo, it was right where the map said it would be, and in this
pre-GPS, Internet, and cell phone world, I had made it just in time. And they
were very cool, even letting me park my bike in the lobby, so it wouldn’t blow
away. A good thing because that night the wind knocked my sliding glass doors
off their rails in my room. It had taken a few hours to get warm, and the
weather outside said no riding tomorrow when I woke up. But I woke up to cold,
clear, non-windy skies, and with only 287 miles left, a ride I have no taken too
many times, I was off. It would take all day, with the major stop in Tucumcari
to eat, three bowls of vegetable beef stew to warm me up, then the last 200
miles to Albuquerque.
Now I-40 was not complete yet, and Tucumcari was all that the history books
say it was. Busy, neon lit, even in the middle of the day, and signs before and
after warning you of its presence. “TUCUMCARI TONIGHT” the signs beaconed, but
Albuquerque tonight was my destination. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and
I was in an America where things still closed down for holidays and Sundays, and
with so much space between exits, I found few places to stop, only the cold
telling me I needed fuel and hot chocolate long before needed. I had travelled
across much of America, three time zones worth, in November by motorcycle. And
the old saying the closer you get the longer it takes was true. I wasn’t sure
what Albuquerque looked like, was it tee pees and huts? How big was it? I knew
nothing of its altitude, the same as Denver, or of the Sandias, the beautiful
mountains to the east. I was travelling Route 66, which had not been
decommissioned yet, and I was living history on it. I had no recollection of the
Joads and others heading west to find their fortune, all my attention was on me,
and my fortunes, and what lied ahead. History would have to wait, I was making
it.
As I rode through Dead Man’s Curve in the dark, I was greeted by the bright
lights of a big city, Albuquerque was huge! And it took me about 10 minutes to
cruise across to I-25, then north to Montgomery, to 4401 NE-my new home. It was
dinner time, I was hungry, and I arrived to an empty home, just like I had on my
return trip a few months earlier. But John had left word with the couple
downstairs, who warmed me up and welcomed me to New Mexico. I was home-I had
made it, and tomorrow was Thanksgiving. I had much to be thankful for.
This would be my first Thanksgiving without family, and we ate up on the
Crest, taking the Tram to the top of the 10,000+’ mountain. No seconds, no extra
pie, but I was home, my new home. And I was thankful like never before. I had
John, to share Jesus with, he taught me to pray, and we started attending Grace
Church, where I actually got to hear Ray Stedman speak one Sunday. All was fresh
and new, and our view from the apartment of the mountains covered in snow made
me glad my ride was over.
I had reached my destination. I had finished my ride. I was home. It would
be almost two years until I finally made it by motorcycle to California, and
ironically on a BMW R100S, whose motor later would self destruct. God’s timing
would be perfect, in that I would meet the girl of my dreams, and we would ride
together, never alone, for the next 35 years, and we still do today. We were
married in Albuquerque, and when I was life flighted their last summer,
Theresa’s prayer was our marriage wouldn’t end there. And through the miracles
of God, it didn’t, I’m still alive. So it is easy to see why Albuquerque has a
special place in my heart.
I was 21 when I was saved, and took my initial trip across the US. And I
rode across it three months later all based on faith. Guided by the spirit of
the Lord, almost in ignorance, at least compared to what I know today. Today you
may be asked to pick up your cross and follow Jesus. Not knowing where it will
lead, but be assured it will all work out for you. When the blind man who
received his sight, was asked about Jesus, he replied, “I don’t know if He is
good or bad, all I know is that I was blind, and now I see!” See life through
His eyes today, and never look back except to share your testimony. Find out how
really good Jesus is. My ride was over, but the journey continues.
love with compassion,
Mike
matthew25biker.blogspot.com