Lining up in 'downtown' Marathon before taking off after the sun has set. A full moon will be our porch light.

     The thought of thousands of Comanche warriors, riding south by the light of the full moon has always fascinated me. Mainly because I know first hand what a full moon in the Big Bend is really like–so bright that you cast dark, crisp shadows. So bright that you can almost read a newspaper by it. When I was younger we used to climb mesas, ride horses, or even drive our car without headlights by the light of a Trans Pecos full moon. So it wasn’t much of a stretch to figure that a man could ride a bicycle by its night light.

     I took up cycling when I got infected with the yuppie sport of triathlon. I was bicycling more than I was running or swimming, mainly because cycling was the more enjoyable of the three sports. Triathlons lost their luster after the birth of our third child. Suddenly Diann took a dim view of my absence for swimming class, long runs and two-hour bike rides. I cut back my activities to just bicycling around my neighborhood.

     Then one day she came in and said that she had met a woman whose husband was in a bicycle club that rode every Saturday and Sunday. They met at the corner of Colorado and Turner at 6:00 a.m. She offered that I ought to join them. Next Saturday, I got up at 5:30 and pedaled my way over there through the darkness.

     Sure enough, there were about six or seven men there, all on bicycles, squeezed into those funny Spandex pants that make you look like a package of Jimmy Dean sausage, only in a black wrapper.

     After an introduction ("My wife told me it was okay to come.") we set out. The rides became a regular part of my weekend routine, and soon I got to know all of the men in the group that referred to itself as the OCOFOB, or Oak Cliff Old Farts On Bikes.

     It was over breakfast one morning that the subject of a west Texas ride came up. They knew that I had one foot in Pecos County at all times, so they asked me if I could organize a ride out there.

     I had participated in the Prude Ranch Triathlon the past three years, so I was very familiar with the bike portion of the race which ran from Balmorhea to Fort Davis. It was a gorgeous stretch of road, and we could finish the ride at Raul’s Barbecue. The next thing you know we were out in the Davis Mountains, pedaling away.

     Now going on a bike ride in west Texas is like eating Lays Potato Chips–you can’t have just one. On each return trip I had to top the previous ride. In the ensuing years we rode from the McDonald Observatory to Balmorhea, from the Gage Hotel to Panther Junction, and from Fort Stockton to Marathon, but in the back of my mind I kept remembering those bright, full moon nights and I wondered, could we do a ride by the light of the moon?

     Finally I got up the nerve to pitch it to the bike club. We would ride during the first full moon of September, one of the brightest moons of the year. In other parts of the country it is known as the Harvest Moon, but to the Texas settlers it was known as The Comanche Moon, when the tribes cut a swath of destruction into northern Mexico.

     Not only would we ride during the Comanche Moon, but we would follow the old Comanche War Trail, which is today known as Highway 385 between Fort Stockton and Marathon. However, we would take the path the braves followed on their return trip, from Marathon to Fort Stockton. This route had the advantage of being mainly downhill, with a prevailing tailwind.

     "Ride a bike at night, along a highway? You are out of your mind! We’ll get run over!"

     I assured them that the amount of traffic between Marathon and Fort Stockton at midnight would be minimal. "Besides," I reasoned, "Well have lights on our bikes and we can wear reflective vests."

     Whether it was my enthusiasm, or the fact that the concept intrigued them enough to give it a shot I’ll never know, but they bought into the idea. Saturday afternoon we drove down to the Gage Hotel. The plan was to eat dinner about an hour before sunset, then suit up and begin the nearly 67 mile ride to our place east of Fort Stockton.

     The first thing we noticed was that no one wanted to eat dinner because the thought of getting onto a bicycle with a full gut was not too appealing. We all opted for dessert.

     By sundown we were filled with anticipation, so much so that one of the guys locked my keys in the car. Fortunately I had an extra key in my wallet, so that solved that problem.

     Soon we were under way. The Comanche Moon did not disappoint. It was so bright that every rider had turned off his bike lights in the first five miles. We even had our sag truck, a pickup following far behind to pick up any stragglers, turn off his headlights.

     The entire countryside took on a surrealistic quality, wrapped in shades of gray and blue. We could see perfectly. On the open plains to our left and right, I could imagine huge groups of Comanches, riding south with their war paint on, their bows and arrows slung over their shoulders. I was also struck by the quiet. It was so still and silent your could hear crickets chirping.

     Nearly four hours later, we rolled into the ranch. It had been an incredible ride. The one thing we had not planned on was having anything to eat when we finished. We were starving but all that we had to chow down on was some chips and a few cookies.

     The next year we were much better prepared for a post-ride feast, and through the following years we have gotten it down to a set routine.

     A crockpot wouldn’t hold enough food for eight starving riders so I opted for a cooking technique my grandfather used for cabrito, or goat. First you dig a pit in the ground, then you fill if full of mesquite wood and set it afire. Once the fire has burned down, you should have a pit full of coals. Take your meat (preferably a brisket, or some whole chickens) season it, then double wrap it in heavy duty aluminum foil. Take your foil-wrapped meat and wrap it in wet burlap, then loop some baling wire around it to hold it together. Scoop out a hole in the pit full of coals, drop in your wrapped meat and cover it with coals. Then cover the entire fire pit with dirt, go away, return in 8-10 hours and dig it up. Simple!

     With our meal buried in the ground about 2:00 pm, we pulled into Marathon on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend at 7 pm. After five years, we knew the drill, yet the air was heavy with anticipation. By now the Comanche Moon Ride had achieved almost mythic proportions. Two years ago a reporter and photographer from the Dallas Morning News accompanied us for a feature story that ran in the Sunday paper. Our whole neighborhood knew about this trip, but it was still limited to the same nine men simply because I couldn’t sleep any more bodies at the ranch. (As it is, most of us sleep on cots out in the front yard.)

     We always reserve a table at Cafe Cenizo, the Gage’s restaurant, out in the courtyard, near the fireplace, and we only order dessert and coffee. Fort Stockton resident Houston McKenzie joins us on the ride, and hauls all of our bikes down to Marathon in his pickup truck, while we follow in a Suburban. John Mac Carpenter and wife Barbara come along to drive Houston’s pickup truck back to Stockton, while we use the Suburban for our sag vehicle.

     As we sat and talked over coffee and blackberry cobbler, Jeff Chandler called us outside. This year the moon rose while the sun was just beginning to set, so you could look to the west and see the sunset, then to the east and see the full moon on the horizon. Without getting too new-age weenie on you, it was what some would call a spiritual experience.

     As we got into our bike shoes, unloaded the bicycles, and strapped on our Camelback water carriers, it was hard not to be excited. A couple from the Gage came over to watch us and peppered us with questions. Instead of the expected response of, "Have you lost your minds?" we instead heard, "That’s pretty cool."

     We formed up for a group shot in "downtown" Marathon, then took off up highway 385, slowly fading into the bright moonlight.

     The route does not start off well, because the first thing you hit right out of the chute is a long, steady uphill climb out of town, then turning left up another hill onto highway 385, and continuing for another half mile. But once you are past that, it flattens out and actually has a few good downhills.

     In the past we usually counted on a prevailing tail wind out of the southeast, but this year it was drop dead still, not a breath of wind. As the evening wore on, the moon climbed higher in the sky, making things brighter and brighter.

     Going past the Dimple Hills Ranch by the light of the full moon is a feast for the eyes. The smooth, rounded hills take on a bluish texture, while the open plains in front of them look like a parade ground for a huge tribe of Comanches. I thought for a moment that perhaps the annual Comanche raids into Mexico were like spring break, a moving party coming down from the plains. While it may have been a party for the Comanches, it was hell on the inhabitants unfortunate enough to be in their path.

     Historical accounts say that the Comanches basically took whatever wasn’t tied down, because it was their way to stock up for the coming winter. Some villages in Mexico, such as San Carlos, had become so accustomed to the annual raids that they piled food, blankets and other valuables at the edge of town in hopes that the Comanches would take what they needed and spare the villagers lives.

     Riding a bicycle over the old War Trail is about as close as you can get to the Comanche Moon experience. Unlike driving a car, where you are looking through a window as you stay in a seated position, a bicycle puts you out into the picture. You are astride a vehicle, much like the Comanches straddled their horses. You can feel the wind in your face, hear the sounds and have a complete 360 degree view of the countryside.

     That said, none of us were accomplished enough riders to hang over one side of our bicycle and fire an arrow from beneath our handlebars, like the Comanches did on horseback. But we did feel a certain kinship with the Lords of the South Plains as we rode over the very ground they had trod nearly 150 years ago.

     With eight riders of varying degrees of fitness, it is inevitable that the group would become strung out. We therefore had several pre-arranged "rest stops" where we could all regroup while snacking on candy bars, Cokes and the occasional Advil.

     The midway point between Marathon and Fort Stockton is a roadside park named Warnock Park in honor of my late grandfather, Roland Warnock. I can recall the dedication ceremony held here back in 1962 just as vividly as if it took place yesterday. It was the first time I had ever flown on an airplane, a prop number that had a stopover at Dallas Love Field, then continued to Midland. I had to wear a suit and tie for the trip.

     A contingent of Texas Highway Department dignitaries came in from Odessa and Austin. We all gathered at the park up in the Glass Mountains, and feasted on a barbecue dinner, then stood in a semi-circle around the covered marker as some speeches were given, and finally witnessed the unveiling. There on a bronze plaque, imbedded in stone, were the words Warnock Park. It was a tremendous feeling of pride to see my grandfather honored this way.

     Following the ceremony, my dad, grandfather, uncle Knox Duckworth from Odessa and myself piled into a car for the drive back to Fort Stockton. We hadn’t driven three or four miles when my grandfather hit the brakes, put the car in reverse and backed up about 100 yards.

     There was a large rattlesnake coiled up at the side of the road. My grandfather was bitten by a rattlesnake when he was a young man, and he had told me that he "didn’t care if he was going to a fire," if he saw a rattlesnake he would kill it.

     He, my uncle Knox and my father piled out of the car and picked up some large rocks, stoned the big snake to death, then climbed back in and drove on to Fort Stockton. I remember that snake killing every time I pass Warnock Park.

     Now it was nearly 40 years later and I was up here at midnight with a bunch of other middle-aged men, eating Snickers bars and refilling my Camelback. Seemed perfectly normal to me.

     Once you hit Warnock Park, you have an 11 mile downhill that can approach speeds of 40 mph if you pedal instead of braking. It always gives me pause to consider my sanity when we do this, but the Great Spirit must be with us because in five years no one has had an accident yet.

     After the exhilaration of that nice, long coast, you have an uphill pull past the old Fina natural gas plant (I don’t know what it’s called now, but it’s still up and running.) It’s a rather eerie, almost alien presence out in the desert, all lit up at night, with a loud hum you can hear for nearly a mile before you pass it by. At the top of the next hill you can see the lights of Fort Stockton.

     Judging distance in the desert at night can be deceiving. When you see the lights you believe you are only about 10 minutes away, but even after pedaling for another 30 minutes the city appears no closer.

     Finally we hit the edge of town and formed up for our triumphant parade down Dickinson Boulevard. Of course at 2:00 a.m., there were very few cars to greet us.

     We pedaled on, past the Goodtimes Lounge and the Fraternal Order of Eagles, then down the frontage road along I-10 to Warnock Road and the end of our journey.

     We pulled up the brisket and two chickens that we had wrapped in foil and wet burlap and buried in the mesquite coals around 3:00 pm in the afternoon. They were so tender that they came apart with a fork. After sitting out in the front yard, under the moonlight and filling ourselves, we crawled off to bed around 3:00 a.m. Sunday morning, tired, full and happy.

     I can’t wait until next year.

     Editor's Note: The Comanche Moon for 2002 will take place on Saturday, September 21. We will be at the Gage Hotel in Marathon around 7 pm to have our traditional send-off. You are welcome to meet us there, but we will have no room or food for you at the end of the ride.