CROSSING LAREDO: WRONG TURNS, RED TAPE, AND THE POLICE ESCORT I DIDN’T SEE COMING
Here's the thing about border crossings - they exist in their own dimension. In Nuevo Laredo, standing still in front of that green electronic "AVANCE" sign, surrounded by a forest of yellow posts lined up like mini-Argonaths—the chill-down-your-spine-inducing markers of the northern border of Gondor, I found myself navigating what can only be described as a masterclass in patience and perseverance.
Border crossings are supposed to be mundane. You show up, hand over your paperwork, they stamp it, you go. Easy. But if there's one thing the road teaches you, it's that nothing ever goes as planned. Nothing.
Nuevo Laredo was no exception. Paperwork piled up like a bad joke. Red tape wrapped around everything like a snake in a bad Western. Wrong turns, power outages, and confusion before clarity. In that moment, I had to laugh. It was like bureaucracy and chaos were dancing in a tango of redundancy, just waiting for me to lose my mind. Signs pointed nowhere, and everything moved at the speed of mañana. The kind of slowness that seems to exist only at border crossings, where time itself takes a siesta.
But borders are not just lines on a map. They pulse with their own unique energy. They're special places where cultures blend and rules flex to accommodate the daily flow of life. They're rites of passage. The confusion? That's the ceremony. The mess? That's the memory. There's a rhythm in the disorder, if you're willing to embrace it. Anyone who tells you different has never really crossed into adventure.
After I survived my baptism by paperwork, my journey through purgatory with a stamp at the end, I spotted a Policía Estatal standing next to The Pearl (my bike). Alarm bells rang in the backstreets of my brain—this is where things could go even more sideways—but to my surprise, he wasn't there to ruin my day. Instead, he was genuinely enthralled by The Pearl. We started talking. He asked questions about the bike, I had answers. I had questions about what culinary delights I needed to try in Nuevo Laredo, he had answers—Alambres and Chivito.
The conversation shifted to where I could find such taste bud loving delicacies in the direction I was headed, and when the word Monterrey rolled out of my lips, the next thing I knew, I was being escorted through the maze of beaten-up trucks, lights flashing, creating order in the chaos all the way to the main road and police checkpoint some 20+ kilometers away.
Imagine this, me and The Pearl, and a Guardia Estatal cruiser parting traffic like the Red Sea. We rolled through the checkpoint with a final wave, and just like that, I was on my way. I couldn't help but feel grateful for that small act of kindness that somehow felt bigger than life. The road never gives you what you expect—but it always gives you exactly what you need.
When you finally break through, when you point your headlamp toward that open Mexican highway, you carry something new with you. The road ahead feels different - earned through experience, enriched by unexpected kindness.
Riding United speaks to these moments of connection, these crossings that remind us how artificial our boundaries really are. This ride is about more than the miles—it's about embracing the chaos, finding the rhythm, and staying open to the unexpected moments that make everything worth it.
The path is full of surprises, some of them frustrating, some of them like this—beautiful, out of nowhere, and utterly human.
So, here’s the deal: if you believe that things happen for a reason, if you believe in the power of community, change, and the ride itself, then help. Point your cursor to that DONATE PAGE right above, give to the RisingUnited.org Hera Rising Mission and join the ride. We’re on this journey to make an impact—and just like the road, we’re going to take it one mile at a time.
When we ride united, we rise united. And sometimes, that rise starts at a border crossing where nothing makes sense, and everything is exactly as it should be.
