I used to ride cross-country a lot, usually in March for Daytona Bike Week. This was before Interstate 10 was completed. Back then, the four-lane highway petered out in several places and you had to get off your motorcycle and bushwhack a path through penetrable jungle. I didn’t mind; it was a break from the wind. Anyway, I was heading home to San Diego, leaving Van Horn, Texas before dawn on my basement-butchered 1968 Harley-Davidson Sportster. Riding past a darkened Chuey’s Mexican restaurant, traffic was non-existent. Soon the cold, crisp air of the Sierra Blanca Mountains swirled around inside my helmet.