Highway 41 runs from the Gran Quivira ruins to Highway 380. Forty miles of easy dirt, (unless it rains), the road really doesn’t go anywhere I need it to go but I still take the route if I’m going north/south to Santa Fe and have time to kill. I have lots of time to kill.
There are old ranches in New Mexico. This dry land requires thousands of acres to support cattle or whatever hybrid, cactus-eating animals they raise out here. Access to these ranches is via roads like 41. The road cuts through warning signs and fence lines working its way past lonely muster stations that no longer thunder with the sounds of hooves and bellowing cattle. Time continues to function out here, hour by hour degrading nails and planks, erasing the best efforts of past generations. It’s a bygone landscape that appeals to a kid raised on a steady diet of Road Runner and Wiley Coyote cartoons.
I’d like to think I could have made a stand out here, been a solitary man roping and fence-mending in the bitter wind of a New Mexico winter, surviving by my wits and taming this vast, high desert. I would have mail ordered rockets and catapults from ACME, the cartoon version of Amazon. I’d build windmills and log cabins. I’d eat snakes and shoot quarters out of mid-air with a six-gun that I took out of a dead man’s holster. Then I’d write a Rustic’s poem about the dead man titled, “His Noted Life Was Not In Vain.” I’d have all the trappings of America’s western lore and I would have shouldered it in stride. A life without comfort or ease would be met with a steely-eyed stoicism that concealed deep emotions surging through my fully realized cowboy-self.
Highway 41 is remote, the kind of road that makes you worry about tires or if you have enough water. There’s no cell phone reception and you’ll want your rig in top shape to travel out here. I keep my rig in just-above-collapse shape. Clapped out with three broken engine mounts appeals to my cowboy-self. After climbing a small ridge, 41 becomes increasingly populated by ghosts. Bent and weathered power poles spread their arms, holding nothing. I should have brought more water and a jar of peanut butter.
If you have the time, and the back road leads somewhere you don’t really need to go, I recommend taking Highway 41. There’s adventure in every movement. Joy in discovering a structure that still stands despite it all. America’s private history is waiting to be discovered, starting with the insignificant bits first. It’s on us to record the passing of the Old West. We can be witnesses for unheralded battlefields where stoic cowboys fell to Time and Nature.
For me, the only knock on the A7 is that it may be too well made. I’m at the stage in my life where I don’t need a reliable motorcycle. New bikes are darn near perfect and perfection is boring. I search for the ever-elusive soul ride: Motorcycles that drip. The best motorcycles are the ones that leave you stranded; they turn any ride into a grand adventure. Besides, quirky flaws and secret handshakes appeal to my need to be special.
