“Cities of the Plain” Cormac McCarthy
Chapter 5 - A Hard Day
In keeping with our usual habits we were up early and preparing for
our ride. The land had a different look here; we were close to moving
out onto the plains of Texas. There is no straight dividing line, but
when you pass into Texas from Louisiana, the hardwood trees become more
and more sparse, and the fields and grasslands grow in size. The look of
the land becomes less “eastern”. We were about a hundred miles east of
Dallas, and after looking over the maps the night before, we realized
that we could make Phoenix tomorrow night if we could put a couple of
500-mile days together.
Our goal tonight would be Pecos, about 520 miles west on I-20 through
the plains and oil fields of central Texas. After Dallas we would head
west to Abilene, where the I-20 would turn southwesterly and pass
through Big Spring, Midland and Odessa before finally coming into Pecos,
about 50 miles east of the I-20 terminus with the I-10. With luck, the
next day would see us quickly continue to the southwest to I-10, where
we would head due west and up into the Davis Mountains. After crossing
the mountains, we would drive down into the town of Van Horn. From
there, we would ride over to the Mexican border and follow that up along
the Rio Grande. Then we would follow the I-10 through El Paso and on up
into New Mexico, before heading west for our destination in Arizona.
Just saying the names would produce an excitement in my bones. Dave told
us that after Pecos, we would definitely feel that we were in the West.
All of us were excited about this part of the trip, two days traveling
through the American West to Phoenix, where friends of Dave (and
hopefully some wine, women, and song) awaited us.
We left Tyler early and quickly rejoined the I-20 north of town. On the
outskirts of Dallas we stopped and gassed up, had coffee and a Danish,
and restocked the cooler and traveling bar. We asked some locals about
the best way to negotiate the maze of beltways and highway connectors
that surround the Dallas area. Soon we were back on the highway, and in
about 45 minutes, we were back on the I-20 west of Fort Worth, heading
for Abilene on the plains of Texas.
For a hundred miles we headed into the west, the weather was warm and we
made good time. The traffic seemed to subside around us, and a steady
stream of trucks was evident far into the distance. We saw plenty of the
low oil wells pumping away, up and down, and you could smell oil in the
air. We went past a couple of road-kills that were just a flat round
pancake of goo about five feet across; I had no idea, maybe a steer. If
you were riding at high speed right behind a truck you didn’t have time
to react as the mess appeared from beneath the rear of the trailer and
you found yourself right on top of it. But I hated the little slip the
bike always made as it went through the road patty.
There was trouble on the horizon, though. It was in the rear view mirror
actually. Dave started slowing down in his old green VW. We slowed as
well, and we could see smoke coming from the rear. We pulled off the
highway and stopped at a garage that sat alone by a crossroad. I
remember thinking how bleak the place seemed to me, what it must be to
grow up in such a desolate environment. We all gathered at the rear of
Dave’s car as he opened the engine compartment. It didn’t sound, smell,
or look good. “This sucks big-time,” he said. “I think it’s fried”
“What do you want to do?”
We talked it over. Dave had only spent about $350 in purchasing the car.
He knew it was a long way for the old little bug to go but felt if he
could just get it to Los Angeles; it would be a cheap commuter car for
school. We talked with a mechanic there, we did not like the options of
getting it towed and serviced somewhere, and we did not have the money
or the time. After a round of spirited negotiations, Dave sold the car
to a mechanic for forty dollars. He dug the title out of his gear and
signed it over. We took all of Dave’s personal stuff out of the forlorn
little Beetle and crammed it into Gerry’s VW bug. Gerry took the car
over to the air machine and pumped up the tires to handle the additional
weight of Dave and his gear.
This whole episode had taken about an hour and a half. The chance of
making it to Phoenix tomorrow night was now looking rather dim. We had
nothing for it but to get it on the highway and screw it on up to speed
and see where it got us. Even that was a misnomer, as it now took Gerry
awhile to get his loaded VW up to highway speed. Onward we went, past
Abilene, and turned to the southwest heading for Pecos and the I-10
beyond.
We pulled off the I-20 highway in the town of Big Spring to gas up and
have a hot coffee. I was ready for a break. I pulled up to a pump and
filled my tank. I closed the cap on top of the tank and heard a hissing
noise from below. I bent over to see gas dripping from the tank on to
the hot engine, forming an explosive cloud of vapor around the bike! I
pushed it away from the pump and jerked it back onto the work stand. I
got the tools out and the seat up, I removed the main bolt that held the
tank on, shut off the fuel feeder stopcocks and pulled the fuel lines
off, and pulled the tank off the two large rubber bushings that held it
on the bike at the front.
It did not take long to find the problem, there was a hairline crack in
the bottom center of the tank where there had been metal-to-metal
contact between the tank and the frame, the vibration finally caused the
failure. This was either a design issue or a poor installation, but
whatever it was, I was standing here in Big Spring, Texas, with no gas
tank on my bike.
I asked the garage attendant if anyone in the area could weld the small
crack in the tank. “Oh man,” he said, “no way!” He took a toothpick out
of his mouth. “You gotta be careful welding a gas tank, ‘cause they’ll
blow up from the fumes that the welding heat will generate. I hear you
gotta pack ‘em with dry ice or some such thing before you can weld ‘em.”
He put the toothpick back in his mouth.
This was really not the kind of news I wanted to hear. I asked the
garage attendant if there was a Honda dealer in town. He said yes, and
pointed towards the garage office where he said I could find a phone
book and a phone. This was better news. In a minute I had the Honda
dealer on the line and asked for parts. A male voice came on, I told him
of my plight, and the year and model of my Honda. “Hold on,” he said,
and the phone went quiet for seemed like a long time. Eventually he was
back. “I’ve got a red tank from a 450, but it’s a different year so the
color will be off a bit. And it won’t have the white stripe on the side,
either. But it’ll fit your bike.” The color would be off a bit?! Who
cares! I considered this the luckiest of coincidences, I crack a red 450
tank and they have a spare red 450 tank that will fit my bike. I told
him that we would be right over to pick it up.
Gerry got directions from the garage attendant and we drove over to the
Honda dealer. We found the parts department and paid for the tank, it
cost 75 dollars. The red was a little darker and deeper than the candy
apple color of my bike, but I was glad to have it. We drove back to the
garage and pulled up to where Dave was standing by my bike. Before I put
the tank back on, I cut a strip of rubber from a discarded tire tube and
laid it over the frame tube that went across the bottom of the tank.
That should take care of the vibration issues and the metal-to-metal
fatigue. In a few minutes I had the tank once again secured to the bike,
the fuel lines reattached, and the stopcocks opened. I hit the starter;
it cranked over for 5 or 10 seconds, and then came to life. I put the
cracked gas tank in Gerry’s car; I planned to get it welded in LA so the
bike could look ‘whole’ again. For now, though, I was glad to be mobile.
It was late in the afternoon and the sun was getting low when we pulled
out on to I-20 again. We pushed on for another hour until it was dark
and getting cold, and then we got off the highway in the town of Odessa
to spend the night. It had been a hard day. For all of the drama we had
endured, we had traveled about 450 miles, which seemed like a fair day
of traveling. We got a room for the night, and then we walked to a
restaurant to enjoy a long and relaxing hot meal. We returned to our
room and licked our wounds in the company of friends over a drink and a
beer. Phoenix was getting closer, but we where being whittled down along
the way.
We had about 700 miles to go before we would be in Phoenix. Tomorrow
morning we would be past Pecos in an hour and a half, then we would soon
finally meet the I-10 and head west over the Davis Mountains to Van
Horn, a town where we would finally begin to turn to the north and
actually start heading towards Phoenix. Everyone was ready for that. We
had had our fill of the long journey through the plains of West Texas.