THE BATES MOTEL

With temperatures finally easing into the mid 50's, Jackie and I hopped on the bikes and rode to the town of Rodeo, NM, 7 miles to the south on Highway 80.  We went looking to pick up a quart of milk but the town was closed up tight for the Holidays.  The winds were at our back going, making for an easy ride, but the return to the park called for pushing hard on the pedals, almost twice the effort.....Which put me in mind of a cross-country tour I had made with my riding partner Earl Norman, about 10 years ago.

March 8^th 2002 85 miles

Douglas, AZ to Crossroads Hwy 80 and Interstate 70 (20 miles west of Lordsburg, NM

Five miles north of Douglas,AZ we picked up a most benefiting tail wind. On the level we were effortlessly gliding along at twenty to twenty-five miles an hour. I’m so inspired with the breathless beauty of this spiritual country that I mentally log it into my “Places to retire” book.

Leaving Douglas, AZ

Just over the Arizona state line, 50 miles north of Douglas, is the town of Rodeo, NM.   With about 40 full time residents, an art gallery, and small grocery store, it's a welcome oasis here in the high desert.  The grocery store is small, mostly canned and dried food, no produce and prices are generally quite inflated, but the old rule stands, “Supply and Demand. Just the fact that something is available here in the barren land is comforting and the price becomes unimportant.
Leaving north out of  Rodeo, the wind we loved this morning, was easy to hate this afternoon. We were already tired from 60 miles of ups and downs and now we have to fight an ever-worsening rough road, with banging headwinds, for another 25 miles onto The Crossroads. The wind churns and swirls, confused, not knowing which way to jar us next. It is strong and violent, slapping our faces red.

We make it to the Crossroads. If you've ever been down this road you'll remember it as nothing much to remember.  It's where Hwy 80 from the south ends and intersects with Interstate 10, about 20 miles west of Lordsburg, NM.

We had finished a punishing day of into-the-wind riding and were ready for a good
rest. The plan had been to push hard and stay at a motel, no tenting in this wind. Someone during the day had told us we would find a motel when our hwy 80 hit Interstate 10.
A greasy spoon truck stop sign lit the night sky as we pedaled in but no anticipated motel neon shown on the now fading horizon.　Rolling closer to the corner we noticed a rambling sprawl of about 30 connected units with a center court that had battled and lost to a now healthy profusion of weeds. Sidewalks were well guarded by untrimmed cactus and required keen attention of ones elbow placement. The motel  appeared to be deserted.

From the corner of my eye I noticed movement in the far back corner of the weed infested court. Moving forward and to the right I was able to see a woman that looked to be hanging clothes on a line. I walked quickly, but carefully toward her, being aware of the reaching cactus arms. “Hello,” I said and extended my hand to shake hers. She said nothing and continued to attach clothespins and clothes to the line ignorning my hand. I said, “Any rooms available for a couple of guys to stay for the evening?” “Nope, they went out of business a year ago,” she answered, short and curt. I could see the maintenance crew had long ago abandoned their duties and that the place was locked up. It was also apparent that this person was indeed living here, albeit not in luxury. Just then a man emerged from a room near where the woman and I were talking; better said, where I was talking. He came over, not in a threatening way, but not exuding friendliness either. His hand accepted mine for a handshake and I asked him what I had had asked her. He said, “ The bank foreclosed on this place some time ago and we are the caretakers.   Now I’ve kicked around in the underbelly of many parts of this country and have, not only a firsthand understanding of bullshit; I was also given the gift of a sixth sense. His “caretaker” line was wishful thinking, the truth probably being he hadn’t been run off because no-one cared if he was there or not. I followed my intuition, produced a twenty-dollar bill (Which would, by the looks of his puffy face and shabby clothes fetch him a drink or something better than dried bread to eat.) and asked, “Being the caretaker, could you loan us a key to one of the rooms for an evening.” “Ain’t no electricity or water,” He said, stiff necked and business like, enjoying his recognized authority. “That’s OK, you’ve got the best rooms in town,” I said, giving him a wink and a smile. He motioned me to follow him back to the room from where he had just emerged. His, and his ladie's room was not messy or neat but sort of an organized heaping of many items. A partially used brown candle was setting atop a mound of many candlelight hours of  multicolor wax.  A two-burner Coleman stove served as their kitchen range and a large open steel pot with five single gallons of water served as the sink. The two beds were made, one used for storage and one for sleep. There weren’t any offensively telltale odors, so I imagined (given their circumstance) they were somewhat clean of body and not breeding too many tiny livestock. Besides, she had presence of mind to wash clothes. He said, picking up a key and pointing, “six doors down on the same side, Barbie will clean it up for you.” “Thanks, my partner and I will be back in half an hour. We need to go over to the truck stop and call our people, they get worried when they don’t hear from us by sundown,” I lied, thinging, “That is about the best security, short of an all night, pepper spray armed sentry, that we have."   I handed him the twenty-dollar bill and Earl and I wheeled the bikes down the sidewalk, pass the arms of the spiny cactus and into the cracked asphalt parking lot. We mounted our bikes and rode across the dark highway to the all-night truck stop.

An overpriced, over greased platter of Mexican burritos was served by an over weight, overly bossy waitress. The shining part of dinner was a telephone at our booth; No cell phone back then.  I called to alert my friend back home of our tenuous circumstances and to have the New Mexico State Police come looking for us if I didn’t call her by seven o’clock the next morning.

Pedaling back across the unlit highway to the even darker motel, I could feel the Mexican grease in my stomach. I couldn’t help but wonder if the all night chef was cooking with an extract from the famous southern Jumping Bean. The grease was working pronto, looking for a way out; which direction it was planning it’s exit, I wasn’t sure. I hoped it would stay with me at least through the night; I needed to replace the day’s expended energy.

Our twenty-dollar key opened room 206. The beds were made, complete with pillows, and that is the way they stayed. Neither Earl nor I were adventurous enough to place our bodies inside of the mystery sheets. Lamps sat on night tables, plugged into wall sockets long void of any electricity. A large wall mirror was a little dusty but we were able to make out the two oddly dressed guests. The sink, closet and bathroom were jammed with assorted, non-motel related items our housekeeper Barbie had no doubt removed from floor and beds. No big deal. Any clothes we did take off could be stuffed into bags or draped over the bikes.  Our drinking water was safe in plastic bottles and a since all water had long ago been shut off, a shower could wait for another day.

                                               Our room at the Bates Motel

I'll admit, thoughts of Hitchcock’s Bates Motel did have me a little on edge when I noticed, under a flap of cardboard in the sink, a large pool of dried blood. After seeing that,  I made sure an intruder would have to knock down, and then climb over, Earl’s bike if they attempted to gain access through the door. I figured that would give me ample time to hoist and aim my  pepper spray. Comfortable in our sleeping bags atop the beds, we turned out our flashlights and sank into a deep 85 mile, uneventful nights sleep.

A relieved goodbye in the morning.

In the morning we called our friend in Iron River to let her know we had survived the evening.