Frowning, I decelerate. Speed up. Grit my teeth as Rufio stu-stu-stutters along. The same feeling as the times I’ve come precariously close to running out of fuel, except I’ve just filled the tank.
Pulling off, I check my phone. Looking at the vast expanse of nowhere-ness, I’m not surprised at the outcome: No service. Lacking any other obvious available option, we carry on. Deal with the stuttering as it comes. Try to discern if there’s a pattern, a rhyme or reason. But there isn’t. It’s annoying, befuddling.
Line of asphalt stretching as far as the eye can see, we drive and drive. Watch silently as Texas unceremoniously flows into New Mexico.
Pulling into a town marked only by a few houses and a gas station I check again. See the bars signifying the ability to make contact with the rider family network. Sending my thumbs into flurry of action, I type symptoms and questions into the tiny screen. Press submit. Fill the tank and carry on. I’m tempted to sit here and await a response, but the sun is hanging precariously on the horizon and I’d rather not get stuck for the night in this gas stop town.
Cruising along, optimism builds. It seems the stutter is gone. Except it’s not. It’s just infuriatingly, without reason, sporadic.
Seeing the sign for Roswell, I perk up. Just the town I’ve been aiming for. A place where one of two things seem likely – solve the moto problem or get abducted by aliens. And either way it’ll be a memorable and much needed change of pace.
Town park visit complete, I get Baylor situated on the patio. Fluff his sleeping bag, pour fresh water into the bowl, disperse a cookie and head into the coffee shop in search of wifi and answers.
Opening the page, I feel a wave of gratitude. Comment after comment giving advice, suggesting things to check, outlining problems to look for. Strangers from afar happily furthering my moto education, sending support and encouragement.
Squinting at the screen, I take a breath. Stretch, readjust for improved posture. Sip cooling mint tea and feel the slightest tickle of relief. All signs point to bad gas. A solvable, non-tragic outcome. I’ve practically drained the tank getting to this spot. Am ready to fill it come morning. Leave this stuttery, tight-jawed day behind and start fresh. Not an expert in my own right, but close enough with this veritable army of knowledgeable riders and readers along for the adventure.
Not for the first time, I marvel at my good luck. Give thanks for the community that exists on the road. Roll into the darkness in search of a home for the night -not knowing a soul in the area, but far from alone.
250 days down. Many to come.
