Jay is sleeping in a caravan. I’m in a tent, getting organized, packing the motorcycle, and sitting down at the picnic table.
Sure! Here’s the translation:
“I’m trying to locate Highway 170, Jay and another rider I met on the road recommended that I ride this highway. The road runs along the Rio Grande, right next to the border and Mexico. I’m planning my way to Los Angeles and trying to include beautiful roads.
How many miles is it to Los Angeles? Oh, it’s 1150 miles, how much is that in kilometers… wow, it’s 1850. 17 hours of riding without stops.
Seven in the morning – the motorcycle is ready. For a moment, I hesitate whether to make coffee or hit the road. The caravan door opens. Jay steps down with a cup of coffee in his hand. ‘I made you a cup of coffee.’ Jay stays sitting on the caravan steps, I drink my coffee at the picnic table opposite him and ask where the entrance to Highway 170 is. ‘After the gas station, turn left, it will take you to Highway 170.’ ‘Goodbye,’ I say. I get on the bike and head out on the road.
After a few miles, the road hugs a creek, continuing along it, sometimes veering up into the heights and then returning close to the creek again. It’s really beautiful here. I turn left onto a dirt path that leads me to the creek. I get off the bike – wow, how beautiful it is here. I take a banana out of my bag, snap a few photos, and head back to the road.”
“On the road, there are patrols looking for border smugglers. I continue for a few dozen miles, stop by a group of wild horses, take some photos of them, and then head toward a small town.
I’ll fill up with gas, including the spare tanks. When I cross the Texas desert, I won’t encounter gas stations or settlements. I feel a strange sensation when I enter the gas station. I feel like I’m in Mexico, everyone around the station seems Mexican. The cashier speaks Spanish. There’s no mistake. A thought crosses my mind: maybe I’m in Mexico? Did I accidentally cross into Mexico without noticing? That can’t be. Just to be sure, I ask the guy filling up next to me, ‘This is the United States?’ ‘Yes,’ he answers.”
“I’m filled with gas in every possible tank on the motorcycle and head north on Highwa 67 toward Marfa, a small town before the desert. I’ll stock up on food and water for the journey ahead. I move into the desert, with vast desert expanses on both sides of the road. I can see the heat waves blending with the horizon. Dozens of miles and the landscape doesn’t change. Apart from me, I only meet Border Patrol vehicles patrolling along the road. At the next turn, I’ll turn left onto Highway 90, toward the town of Marfa. The road crosses the town, and on my left, I notice a guy sitting on a porch playing the guitar. I turn the bike around and turn off the engine. ‘You play really well,’ I say. He walks over to me and hands me a business card, ‘I have Facebook,’ he says. ‘Can I take a photo of you?’ I ask. ‘Sure,’ he says. I lean on the bike while he plays songs from the 70s perfectly. I ask him to play ‘If Not for You.’ ‘Wow, you play it perfectly,’ I say. ‘I’d stay here with you until tomorrow, but I have to keep going,’ I say. “A few hundred meters ahead, there’s a supermarket. I park next to an old pickup truck. I buy more water and food and head back on the road.”
“I’m amazed by the power of the desert. It’s vast, it’s enormous. The road is straight, and for dozens of miles, I ride at 90 miles per hour. There’s no wind, it’s like riding inside a bubble. In the distance, I see a train approaching, dragging endless cars. The end of the train connects with the horizon. Before it passes by, I wave goodbye, and the train driver responds with a powerful horn, causing me to laugh. Just when I’m alone in the face of this immense nature, I’m calm, peaceful, and happy, connected to myself in every possible way. Still at 90 miles per hour, and I feel like I’m floating.
I’m about to reach Highway 10. It takes me to Highway 8, which leads me into the New Mexico desert. An even more extreme desert, feeling threatening. The thought that if the fuel runs out, or if there’s a breakdown, crosses my mind. I think about it: when there’s a problem, we’ll solve it. The air is becoming very hot, probably because it’s already noon. It’s a good idea to stop, remove some layers of clothing, and open the ventilation openings in my jacket and riding pants.
Two in the afternoon – I stop at a place with a few tables and shade by the side of the road. The food I bought in town is spread out on the table. The water in the small cooler is still cold. I drink a lot, the ride is drying me out. I rest my head on the table, take a light nap, and continue on my way.
For rides like these, I installed footrests on the guard, I lift my legs. A playlist is playing in my helmet, the cooler serves as a backrest, so I can ride for hours. But what is that thing ahead? A huge black, threatening cloud. The road leads me right toward it. This doesn’t look good. Maybe it’s a tornado? It grows bigger the closer I get. Interesting, the sky around me is blue, with not a single cloud, only this thing hanging in the sky.”
“Raindrops are gathering on the helmet as I approach. I accelerate to 100 miles per hour (160 km/h) to try and escape this thing. I’m not the only one speeding up, all the vehicles are going as fast as I am. This doesn’t look good, I have to escape. The rain intensifies, a strong wind is raging, and just before this mass covers me, I manage to escape from it. Wow, that was scary. I look in the mirror and try to understand this phenomenon. I’m sure it was a tornado.
The sky returns to being blue and calm.
It’s already evening, starting to get dark. I’ve been riding continuously since seven in the morning, and it’s almost seven in the evening. I think I’ve covered six hundred miles today (965 km). I should find a motel. I’ll continue to the next exit.
Yes, there’s a motel here. I’m very hungry. Before I go into the motel, I should eat something. McDonald’s, the only restaurant that’s open. I go in to eat, but I’m afraid to leave the bike alone. Every few minutes, I go outside to check that it’s okay. Maybe I’m just paranoid, but the people here look strange. It seems right to go to the motel.
“There’s a room available on the third floor, but there’s no elevator, it’s broken,” says the receptionist.
“That’s okay, I’ll leave the gear on the bike. I’ll only take what I need,” I say.
“Hey Jay, how are you? I’ve reached New Mexico,” I say. I promised him I’d call when I arrived in the evening.
“Herzel, don’t leave your gear on the bike. The last time I was in New Mexico, I stayed at a motel and they stole all my gear from the bike,” he says.
I don’t take a risk and go back to the bike. In two trips, I carry my gear up the stairs to the third floor. It feels great to rest after a long day of riding. After a shower, I get into bed, lay my head on the pillow, and try to retrace the journey I made today.
Five o’clock in the morning, the alarm rings.
I’m wearing winter gloves, another warm shirt. It’s still dark and cold. A standard breakfast is served in the lobby. Coffee and a bagel with cream cheese, one more coffee before I head out, and I get back on the bike to the road. A huge sign says, “Welcome to Arizona.” I realize I’m now in Arizona.
The desert changes, it’s darker. Cacti line the road, and I ride for hours, stopping only to refuel.
It’s three in the afternoon. I stop to fill up. What’s this price, $4.99 a gallon? In Texas and New Mexico, the average price per gallon is $2.8.
“Welcome to California,” says the guy fueling next to me. Ah, I’ve reached California, I say to myself. I didn’t see a ‘Welcome to California’ sign. Great, if that’s the case, there’s not much left until Los Angeles. With the feeling that I’m almost there, I sit down to rest. I order a donut and coffee and look at the bike from my seat. An hour passes, and I get back on the road. The traffic on the road to Los Angeles is insane. Five lanes and it’s all stuck. It takes me three and a half hours to reach Ayal’s house. At nine in the evening, I arrive exhausted.
650 miles (1040 km), 16 hours of continuous riding. Ayal hears the noise of the bike and comes out to greet me.
Ayal is a good friend from military service, much more than a friend. He makes sure I feel comfortable, serving me hot and homey food that I’ve missed so much. It warms my heart. We stay in the living room, talking and catching up.”
Here’s the translation:
“Boaz, who saw my posts on Facebook, invites me for lunch. Tammy, who hears that I’m at Boaz’s, calls me, ‘You have to visit Eitan.’ After a fantastic lunch with Boaz, I head to say goodbye to Eitan and Sharon – childhood friends from the village.
I spend another day with Ayal and his family. Ayal takes his bike out of the garage, installs his daughter Dor on it, and we ride together to buy a bike for Dor. By evening, we return with three motorcycles.
In two months, I’ll be back, and I’ll continue the journey. Tonight, I’ll fly. Ayal puts the bike back in the garage. It will stay here until I return. Ayal drives me to the airport, and we stop along the way at an Israeli restaurant. I devour hummus, schnitzel, and a few other things that Ayal orders.
In the afternoon – check-in. I’m waiting at gate 35, boarding the plane in 35 minutes. Swiss Air will take me to Switzerland. The system announces: the stewardess announces, ‘Group number 2 to board the plane.’ I sit down, fasten my seatbelt, and 15 hours of flight ahead.”
