Dispatch No. 23
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The Escape
"Forty miles up the road," the man in the red flannel said, his eyes locked onto mine. I’d been riding for two days straight, and I knew—somewhere deep down—that this place, just miles from the Mexican border, could be where it ended. Then, his whisper came, barely audible: Go.
I had left Nashville just two days earlier on my motorcycle, braving ten-degree weather with a windchill hovering around minus twenty. Barely three hours into the ride, I stopped at a gas station near Memphis and called my then-wife. “What the fuck have I done?” I remember asking, my voice lost in the cold.
This ride wasn’t just a journey; it was almost a dare. The plan was to head south as fast as I could, racing against the winter chill, and arrive in Las Vegas. Even in January, I knew the desert sun would be warm enough to melt away the winter blues.
But the freezing temperatures across Arkansas and down into Texas didn’t ease up. It wasn’t until I reached Greenville, Texas, that I found any warmth—inside a dim bar where a dollar bought me a “membership” to drink in this partially wet town. The next morning, I woke to a layer of ice covering my bike and another day of temperatures stuck in the teens. The rain, when it wasn’t turning to sleet, came down steadily. I pushed on, looking at the world through a foggy, watery visor, the cold seeping through my heated gear and into my bones. The miles blurred together as I rolled through Fort Worth, Abilene, and Odessa, each town passing like a shadow in the cold.
By mid-afternoon, as I reached the southernmost stretch of the journey, the sun finally leaned over the flatlands, bringing with it a welcome warmth. But with that warmth came a fierce wind, rising from the south like an ancient force. It billowed across the plains, pushing against me, leaning my bike sideways as I fought to keep it upright and straight on the open road.
It’s in these moments that the mind starts to loop: What have I done? Who the hell thinks they can survive this? Where’s that truck I was following? But I pressed on. After enough miles, there’s a bond that forms between the rider and the bike—you come to know every wobble, every sputter. You learn when the shocks need a click of adjustment, how the tires are holding up, and you can tell how much fuel is left, even before the light flashes on (if you have one). You learn these things because survival depends on it. Feeling the bike’s changes—its subtle shifts—is the difference between making it or not.
And, in a way, the bike knows you, too. It senses when you’re tired, when hunger sets in, and when visibility fades as the sun drops below the horizon, plunging you into civil twilight where contrast disappears and obstacles hide in the dark. The bike speaks, if you’re listening, telling you when it’s time to rest before it bucks you off into the scrub or throws you sideways into a pole. It knows, and it’s your job—your life—to know it, too.
My strength faltering, my bladder full, and my tank nearly empty, I pulled into the dirt parking lot at a gas station. The station lights hadn’t been turned on yet—a detail I took to mean they hadn’t noticed night was only a few minutes away. But as I pulled up and threw down the kickstand, I saw the pumps were rusted hulks, each hose torn away. I looked again at the gas light on my bike, lit a dozen or so miles back, signifying I was running on reserve—fumes.
“Fuck…” I muttered, looking around. In my tired state, I reasoned that the few cars in the parking lot were safety enough to get off the bike, leaving all my belongings strapped to it.
I walked toward the store, hoping for a bathroom, some warmth, and maybe directions. Inside, the place was even more desolate than the outside suggested. A few drivers lingered at old, chipped tables, their eyes down. The deli counter held only a couple of shriveled sausages, and the man behind it watched me as I walked in, his eyes following my every move. The overhead lights flickered, casting shadows that made everyone’s faces look ghostly.
I rounded the corner to the bathroom, where two men, startled by my entrance, quickly turned and walked past me. Peeling off a long-distance motorcycle suit takes time, and as I did, I could hear the low murmur of voices just beyond the wall. The whispers carried, impossibly clear, even with the echo in the bathroom. I waited, listening for the sound of a door chime, expecting the men who left so abruptly to be making their exit, like I planned to do soon. But I never heard it. Nor did I hear the clatter of plates, coffee cups, or even the drone of a TV. The people I had seen earlier—drivers lingering at tables—seemed frozen in place. But why?
I glanced at myself in the dingy mirror: matted hair, road grime streaked across my neck. As I looked closer, something about my suit caught my attention. The reflective stripes on my shoulders and arms—they looked official. And then it hit me. My gear: black helmet with a symbol on the side. My bike: a black Honda ST, the kind often used by police departments across the country.
Did I look like a cop? Was there something illegal happening here, and did they think the damn police had just walked in on it?
My heart pounded, and my hands fumbled with the zipper as I stepped out of the bathroom. I kept my eyes down, struggling with the jacket, when the man from behind the counter moved into my path. He was tall, with a lumberjack build and a red flannel shirt, blocking me in the space near the front door.
“Gas?” I asked, finally looking up at him.
“Forty miles up the road,” he replied, his gaze locked onto mine, unblinking. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed others in the room—people I hadn’t seen before. Some stood, while others sat at tables, all of them watching me in silence.
Then, his mouth moved, no sound escaping. Just a single word: Go.
The ground seemed to shift under my feet as I moved, my hands fumbling for gloves that were too wet to pull free. I fished out my keys, the motorcycle engine roaring to life as the gas light flickered yellow again—how many miles did I really have left?
I yanked my helmet on, and that’s when I heard them—two men shouting at me. Their words were lost in the noise as the bike rumbled beneath me, feeling lighter than it had all day. My back wheel spun in the loose dirt below the pumps, kicking up dust as I gunned it, fighting the urge to look back.
In the mirror, I saw them throwing something—rocks? Cans? I couldn’t tell. The bike wobbled as I hit the pavement and shot up the overpass, my grip tightening on the bars. I glanced over my shoulder at the gas station; its lights were no brighter than when I’d pulled up minutes ago. Adrenaline sharpened my focus, and through that clarity, I saw the place for what it was—derelict, isolated, and now fading fast behind me.
The bike and I tore down the interstate, our two beings fused into one as the adrenaline surged through me, fueling its momentum. In times like this, the boundary between man and machine vanished; my pulse synced with the engine’s hum, each feeding off the other. We skimmed along the asphalt, the bike inhaling the last vapors from the tank, propelling us forward. Every mile felt like a gamble, the road stretching endlessly ahead, but I kept the throttle steady, trusting the bike to carry us just a little farther—knowing that, in this moment, our survival depended on moving as one.
When I finally stopped, some miles down the road in the full light of a working station and a local police station across the street, I filled the tank—7.6 gallons in a 7.7-gallon tank. It wasn’t until some time later, when I arrived in Las Cruces, New Mexico, beer in hand, that the adrenaline started to fade and the reality of how close I’d cut it sank in.
The memory of that gas station’s darkened pumps and those eyes locked on mine crept back, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever really outrun whatever was lurking back there.
Don’t believe me? Here’s the gas station
Music
Nightfall - Trentemøller
My Cat - Jack Off Jill
Shadowstabbing - Cake
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Hey J., this incident happened in my neck of the woods. I've driven that stretch of I-10 many a time, but in an automobile, not on a motorcycle. Yeah, there are long distances between services on that stretch. I sometimes had to exit and drive a few miles to a little town in search of a toilet and gas. At first, your description of the joint made me think something supernatural was about to take place. In the photo on the right, it looks like your motorcycle is parked at White Sands. Did you make it all the way to Las Vegas?
"...The people I had seen earlier—drivers lingering at tables—seemed frozen in place. But why?"
"...We skimmed along the asphalt, the bike inhaling the last vapors from the tank, propelling us forward. Every mile felt like a gamble, the road stretching endlessly ahead..." You have built such exquisite tension into this story, Mr Curtis. I know nothing about motorcycles, but I have known this measured gamble and the vocal "prayer" that comes with it - "Please, please, please, let me make it." Nice job! Oh, and I DO believe it.