2 Brain dead in Tuscon

Harley, the Canadian biker who lambasted me months before about overdoing it on the bike was absolutely right. Six hours can be too long.
Approaching Tuscon the speed limit turned to 70 mph and most traffic was doing 80. My little bike could just handle it, but getting out from underfoot meant the bike took some serious punishment. I dropped into fifth to gain power, but at 90 it felt like things were going to fly apart. It was getting dark, and traffic was getting heavier.
For this one stretch, I definitely would have felt safer on a bigger bike, but I would never admit that to anyone.
  I was dodging and weaving and exposed and couldn't find a safe place to go my own pace. Each time a semi trailers would pass me, it jostled me around the road.
By the time I pulled into a conveince store just off the interstate I was tired, Brain dead and thirsty for drink.

Walking up to the store, a tall well groomed man of about 30 or 35 asked me if I had any change. He was standing in front of a pop machine, so I just assumed he wanted change, quarters for a dollar or something, I told him I didn't have any and walked past in the store.
You've got to love those American convenience stores. This one had a wall made out of coolers, filled with cases and cases of terrible fucking beer. How do alcoholics get gas in the states?
It was handy, in a couple ways. Gas stations were open late, beer was always on hand, and it helped complete my stereotype of Americans, overweight junk food eating, hummer driving, fireworks buying alcoholics who bought piss beer in increments of 24.
 I asked the gas station attendant if he knew of a hostel close by. He didn't know what a hostel was. I asked if there was a YMCA. He didn't know that either.
What about a cheap hotel? A blank look.
Why would this guy, likely living with his parents, know about cheap accommodation. I needed to talk to someone closer to the edge.
I pondered and looked at the beer display, it would be nice to camp tonight, buy some beer and sleep the sleep of angels.
It came to me in a flash. The well groomed man outside wasn't looking to exchange bills for coins. He was panhandling.
I walked back outside.
Were you asking for money to buy alcohol?
This huge white guy, I'm guessing 6 foot 4, turned red and sheepishly bowed his head.
"Yes,' he said.
'Great,' I said. 'Where do you live?'
'Nowhere.'
Great I said. 'Where are you camped?
He hesitated. 
'Like where are you staying?' .
 'Behind this place.'
"Perfect.Would I be able to camp with you?
'Ummm....'
What I would later come to know about  down and out folks, is that just because they've come onto hard luck doesn't mean they aren't fussy. This guy more than most.
He really didn't like sharing spaces.
"You want beer right?"
"yeah,".
I told him my situation, my lack of funds and showed him my bike and my camping gear.
"I'll pay.
 He was clearly suspicious of me. Looking back, I might have been a little more circumspect and a little less cheap. He might have had some mental health issues. A gigantic, well dress homeless guy with a dire thirst.
He agreed to my terms. We got a 15 pack of Budweiser and he showed me where he was camped.The great part was that it was close. But it was truly disgusting. he had just made camp there recently and hadn't had a chance to clean up.
He found me some spare cardboard and I laid out my sleeping bag 10 feet from his. Setting up the tent seemed impertinent.
Though clearly not a talker. This guy wanted to. Damn did he talk.
That's how I got to meet Samuel James Hazard.