Cycling on the border in 1987 had never been accused of being a social event. While living near Amistad Dam and 2 miles from the Mexico port of entry provides a unique and a visually stimulating cycling experience, companionship was not part of that experience. I began my usual solo Sunday morning ride heading South, crossing the International Boundary and Water Commission overpass. The air was clean. No traffic. Ahead in the distance I could see the supine silhouette of the "Sleeping Lady" mountain range 75 miles into Chihuahua.
I was going to Tlaloc, the Mexican Rain God located about 10 miles into Mexico. It was built in 1968 for spiritual help in providing rain to fill the newly built Amistad Lake and Dam. The virtues of which have yet to be fulfilled. I had ridden the route many times. Always non-eventful. Never encountering another rider.
I passed through the exit gate of American Customs and rode atop Amistad Dam. I gave a head nod to the two Mexican foot soldiers. Clad in their green uniforms, black combat boots and shouldered M-16's. They were leaning over one of the rails looking over the top of the Dam 200 feet below at the green, turbulent water of the Rio Grande as it passed through the gates. The soldiers were always there. Always guarding. Always silent. Sometimes I would get a turn of a head and a glance but that was about the most I could expect. I crossed the Mexican port of entry. I detoured around the inspection gate never slowing. The Mexican guards had never shown an interest in either inspecting or talking to me.
Shortly after passing through customs I noticed a truck pulled to the side and stopped on the side of the road. Hmn. Even motor traffic was unusual out here. My curiosity peaked when I noticed a man next to the truck with a bicycle making some sort of mechanical adjustment. I stopped. Smiled. I knew if I spoke he wouldn't understand. I knew if he spoke I wouldn't understand. Maybe we didn't need to speak. He was wearing what appeared to be a team jersey with the name "Pro Medic" across the chest. The bike was old, cro-moly with an indistinguishable brand name. The tires were worn. There were scuffed toe clips on the pedals. He rattled off a some sentences so fast I could only pick up a couple of words. I did hear Tlaloc and correr. Which was where I was headed and I thought correr meant to run. Then he looked me straight in the eyes and I had no idea the words he said but I knew he was asking me if I wanted to race. So of course I said "Si." He threw his bike in the back of the truck and took off in the direction of Tlaloc.
About 3 miles down the road I began to see cars, trucks, a black and white patrol car and an ambulance. All were parked in the shadow of the rain god. There must have been 40 or 50 people out there. Apparent dignitaries in suites roamed about. I saw young, beautiful girls with sashes across the front of their dresses. People were waving small hand held "Mexico" flags. A large banner was draped on the foot steps of Tlaloc that read "Carta Blanca." And there were cyclists. 25 or 30 of them all wearing race jerseys.
I spotted the man I had seen earlier. He came over to me with a piece of paper. I printed my nombre, anos and ciuadad. I said "no tengo dinero." He pulled some pesos out of a fanny pack and gave them to the official next to us. He smiled and said "Fernando." I returned the smile and said "Dex." Some guy with a gun said three words that must have been ready, set, go and fired the gun into the sky.
I had no idea where we were going or how far it was but we were off. Immediately three young riders sprinted away from the pack. I was obviously not in their cat. I remained in the next pack of about 20 riders. The first couple of miles were hectic as I jockeyed around for position. We started down a steep hill that takes a back road to the city of Acuna. Two of the riders including Fernando made a move. I got on their wheel and the 3 of us were away.
The road toward Acuna is a series of small rolling hills for about the first 8 miles. As we would approach the foot of the hills, the two Mexican riders would go berserk and push hard up the hills. I don't think they were really trying to drop me as much as it was just their style of riding. It wouldn't be until the downhill or flats that I would catch back up. The three riders ahead were not in sight nor was the pack behind.
We raced together, past the purple ceniza, beside the yellow bloom of the prickly pear, through the Chihuahuan Desert. We passed an old man in a wooden pull cart equipped with 15" automobile tires and drawn by a mule. There were small adobe dwellings with no paint and make-do roofing material. No signs of electricity, phone or indoor plumbing. Was this 1988 or 1930?
About 12 miles into the race, at one of the hills, the third rider in our group dropped. I heard his heavy panting. I heard his moans. I turned and saw the dry salt on his squinted face. He had been broken. He dropped. Now it was just me and Fernando. We rode side by side. He was still attacking the hills. I was still catching him on the down side. We eventually caught and passed one of the first 3 riders that had dropped from the lead group. I had no idea how far we were racing but I knew we were approaching Acuna.
As we neared the foot of another hill, Fernando yelled "Dos kilometers." Then he left me as he charged the slope. I struggled after him. I topped the hill. I could see. There was a lot of dust and commotion. A crowd of people were positioned on the side of the road. A banner was strung across the street that read "meta." I saw Fernando ahead. I pushed down the hill, caught his wheel, waited, then switched gears, stood on my pedals and sprinted past him at the line.
We sat on the ground, our bikes leaning on the wall of a tienda, both of us wasted. A young boy came over and handed each of us a sliced orange. We did not speak. My conscience questioned the humanity of sprinting past a newly acquainted friend that had spontaneously paid my entry fee. We looked at each other. In silent communication we shared the pain, the competition, the challenge and the thrill. And probably in that order. My conscience was cleared.
Thirty minutes later we were in an outdoor patio for the award ceremony. The speaker announced the names of the two young riders that had broken away early in the race and had won. A man apparently from the Acuna newspaper Zocalo took their picture with one of those cameras that still had the big single flash bulb. He would replace the bulb after each shot. They grinned as they held their trophies above their heads. The people waved their flags and applauded. The speaker then began to speak again. None of which I understood until I heard the words, "Dex Tooke, Del Rio." Fernando sat beside me. He was smiling, clapping and motioned for me to go to the stage. There had been a veteranos category which Fernando or I either one have no problem qualifying. The man handed me a tall trophy with the words "CONSELO CABALLEROS DE COLON PRIMER LUGAR ". The reporter took a picture as one of the young queens kissed me on the cheek.
I rode solo home. I approached American Customs. They asked if I was bringing anything out of Mexico. I removed the trophy from my jersey pocket. "Just this."
I still ride the border daily.
el gringo...running slow...running solo...in the shadow of Tlaloc.