Subterranean caverns and biker musings

I entered the fourth cave-based park of this trip thinking that not only had I been here before, but that these caves, Carlsbad Caverns National Park, had been the first National Park I had ever visited. (Links to previous posts about Mammoth Cave NP in Kentucky, Oregon Caves NM in Oregon, and Lava Beds NM in California).  Once I got past the iconic, and oft photographed staircase from the Natural Entrance leading to the caverns however, nothing looked familiar.  I later realized that I thought I had been there before as a kid because I had seen photos of a visit my parents had done with other adults on a family vacation when I was quite young.  Over time, the memory of those photos from my childhood morphed into a pseudo-memory of a real-life occurrence.  The way the mind works is fascinating!

I had arrived at the park early morning as the Rangers were raising the American flag and opening the visitors center for the day.  With only about four other people entering the vast cave system at the same time as me, it didn’t take long to lose sight of each other and feel alone in the massive caverns- a little scary, yet serene.  Although I knew I would physically pay for it later, I was still glad that I chose the entry route that included such amazing sights, like Bat Cave, Devil’s Spring, Green Lake Overlook, and the Boneyard, that I would’ve bypassed had I taken the elevator.

After touring the caverns, I headed south on US-62/180 towards Guadalupe Mountain National Park and the mountain range known as one of the best examples of a marine fossil reef.  The same massive horseshoe-shaped reef, from an ancient inland sea, that helped form the caverns also created the Guadalupe Mountains.  About half-way between the two national parks, I spied a sport bike stopped on the shoulder, on the opposite side of the road, with two Harley touring bikes stopped about 50 yards ahead of it.  Since we were in the middle of a desert with temperatures in the 90s, I decided to stop to make sure the sport bike was alright.

Me: “You OK?”

Sport biker:  “My bike is broken down.”  He points to his oil saturated left shoe, so I look inside the faring and see oil covering everything.

In his mix of English and Spanish, he tells me that he doesn’t know who to call but that the two bikers up ahead said they would call a truck for him.

Doubting that bikers who would be calling him a tow truck would’ve pulled so far away, I jumped on my bike and rode up to them to see what the story was.  Long story short, they figured that since he had cell phone coverage, he could summon his own recovery vehicle and were leaving him to do so.  I thanked them for the info and spun around to return to the sport biker, while they mounted up to continue on their way north.

Me:  Hey buddy, they aren’t calling a tow truck for you, do you have someone you can call?

Sport biker:  Yeah, I just talked to a good friend, he will be here in 30 minutes.

I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to call one of my towing service options and spend the afternoon waiting with him, since my first, and last, motorcycle towing incident several years ago proved that motorcycle tow trucks take hours to arrive.  I gave him my tuna lunch pack, an apple and some water, after he assured me that his friend was reliable and wouldn’t leave him stranded. He was very grateful for the gifts and thanked me profusely.  Feeling a little guilty about leaving him, I asked him one last time if he was sure his friend would get here quickly.

Sport biker:  Yes, Señora, he will come and I will be OK.

A little stung that I was now a señora, and no longer a señorita, I bid him farewell and continued south towards Guadalupe Mountain National Park   As I rode away, I contemplated what it meant to be a “biker.”  As a middle-aged woman on a brand-new Harley, I’m sure I looked like a RUB, or Rich Urban Biker (a derogatory term typically applied to wealthy, urban, white-collar professionals who ride expensive, accessory-laden Harley-Davidson motorcycles, but only on the weekends or for short distances).  I recalled a few humorous scenes from the 2007 movie Wild Hogs, a whole movie dedicated to the concept, and had a good chuckle.  The truth is, I really didn’t care what being a biker means to anyone else.  I was seeing the country on two-wheels, and collecting experiences, one mile at a time, and enjoying every single minute of it. That seems like a good enough definition of “biker” for me 😊

Until next time…keep the shiny side up!

P.S. I didn’t tell the story about giving my lunch to this guy for acknowledgment of a good deed. I told the story in hopes of reminding everyone who rides to always be prepared for roadside emergencies. Keep your bike well-maintained and do a pre-ride inspection- you can catch so many little things at home before they turn into big things once you’re on the road. And even a little short ride can result in being stuck on the side of the road for hours, so it’s always a good idea to have snacks, some water, and weather/conditions appropriate gear with you. OK, public service announcement over 🙂