Abandoned Blogs and Orphaned Apps

...are both crimes against humanity and deserve punishment. In hopes of avoiding a sentence to the House of Pain your intrepid guide has returned.

For the moment the story of the original transamerican crossing will remain paused. I want to be certain to give the proper attention due accurate assessments of Kansas bike shops and barbecue, and New Mexico's "Hatch" chile. Since I'm writing from a New Mexican motel room on a different ride it just doesn't seem fair to allow my current thoughts to color my other critiques.

So, what's the point? Tonight, I'm not certain there is one. I have no new pictures, and this ride is mostly about getting back to Mobile, AL in order to shoot the third edition of CMT's Sweet Home Alabama. Which means I've ridden 1000 miles in two days, much of it on interstate highways that can and have been seen by most of you, leaving me little more to talk about than my surprise at the sheer number of Border Patrol agents and State Troopers patrolling the Christopher Columbus Transcontinental Highway.

I have made a new observation; Germans in America are the most affable, friendly, generous and helpful people in the States. In two days I have received excellent hotel, food, road and route advice, and even a standing offer of a place to stay in New Mexico--all from Deutschelander ex-pats. I can't explain what's drawn me to them, but for 48 hours now I have been hard pressed to stick out my hand and say hello without receiving a distinctive "Halloo!" in return. Maybe my next move shouldn't be to Boulder or Xhiang-Hai, but to Hamburg.

The Brits in Lovington, NM, earlier today were equally friendly in the self-conscious way the English prefer, but as they were tourists to the area, themselves, they weren't able to offer me the sort of extensive guidance proffered by their Teutonic peers.

Wolfgang towed his pair of Italian race bikes into the gas station immediately behind me. 30 seconds later we were long lost friends reminiscing about all the rides we'd never taken together. Learning of my plan to stick to Highway 10 in order to eat up as many miles as possible Wolfie insisted I alter my route, adding 40 miles, perhaps an hour or two, another great road, and lifting spirits that were getting deflated by the endless game of dodge the dead truck tire treads. I have now seen the White Sands in fall, which I'm a little sorry to have not photographed. Even the low lying bushes covering the low dunes of White Sands are succumbing to the shifting shades of fall, painting the desert in the ochers, rusts, reds and yellows I'd left behind in the forests of the east.

For tonight, danke schön! Danke!