True Grit

Our trip so far has had some ups and downs. Getting past the Mexican Drivers permit in Sonora was a nightmare. Worrying about Mitch being able to continue the adventure after the breakdown in Arizona were some of the worst days ever. But we grit our teeth and drive on.

The first time I can remember having to grit my teeth was Basic Training. Dingo Boy was saluting with his left hand and couldn't figure out why Drill SGT Pipken was so furious. I was nearly in tears I was laughing so hard, but after a few weeks of training I had found that gritting your teeth was a pretty good cover for smiling. Watching Privates get “smoked” is the most entertaining example of modern day torture a person can hope to see. But if a Drill Sergeant can see that your enjoying it you will be the next participant.

"Hey Dingo Boy! One of these things is not like the other." Drill Sergeant Pipkin shouts standing 3 inches away from Dingo Boys face, foaming at the mouth and spitting as he speaks. "You had better fix yourself, before I throat chop you and skull drag you up and down the Parade field." The problem here is that Dingo Boy is standing directly across from me, like an image in the mirror. So when the order came to present arms, and all our arms snapped to our brow in a sharp salute Dingo Boy did look like the rest of us. Since he could only see what was straight in front of him he had snapped his left hand up to match my right. It wasn't his fault. Dingo Boy was from a backwoods town in Louisiana, and the most brainless thickheaded person I have ever met.

The Drill Sergeants barrage of insults continued. "I'll throw your butt so far out of the Army that when you land there won't be anything but brown rip-stop on your uniform!" I bite down hard to cover the smile that is brewing my face grimaced in pain. Maybe it's the sun in my eyes, maybe my muscles are sore from all the PT this morning, maybe it's a blister in my boot from yesterday's 10K road march, but as long as I keep gritting my teeth maybe Pipkin wont notice that it's really a smile. "Hey Dingo Boy do you wake up every morning and hit yourself in the head with a brick?"

I am trying to help and while keeping my salute in place I make eye contact with him and begin to move my elbow up and down, trying to hint that it's his right hand he needs in the air. Playing off my direction he begins move his elbow higher and lower, changes the angle of his hand, moves his fingers above his eyebrow and then down below. But still the fury of Drill SGT. Pipken rains down on him. "Dingo Boy I will kill you!" Finally noticed by the Drill SGT I begin to knock out an unspecified number of push ups, while keeping my body stiff I slowly move up and down parallel to the ground, my hands cold on the January asphalt of Fort Leonard Wood, while paying the price for laughter and watching sweat roll off my brow, still I grit my teeth.

Driving from Sayulita to Guadalajara we hit our first rainstorm. Drops of rain big as your fist pummeled us from the sky as we drove through mountain passes soaking us completely. We stopped for a moment to put the rain fly’s on our tank bag then kept going. During the heat of summer the heavy trucks create grooves in the soft asphalt. Now those grooves are pools of water so we must ride in the middle to stay on the high ground and avoid hydroplaning. Oncoming traffic is sending a constant tidal wave of water at us from the road. Forcing me to grip my handlebars tight as the waves crash against me. I shake my head after each swell breaks trying to clear water off the visor of my helmet, hoping to catch a glimpse of traffic before the next wave breaks.

During a lull in traffic I glance in my mirror to check on Mitch. The black bandanna with the skulls is off his face and around his neck. I can see his teeth. But can’t be sure if it is from pleasure, or pain.

--Ryan