Border town biker gangs, Federales and the Highway of Death

Alright, so here's an account of what is believed to be the most dangerous part of our route. In the following post you will notice that I did not follow much of the advice I was given before leaving, but I'm here in beautiful Boca del Rio to tell about it, so please forgive me. Tuesday morning we woke up at our highway-side hotel in Houston, which, by the way, was the most creepy place we've been so far. There was something going on in the room below us that involved people with loud stereos coming and going all night, and a guy sitting on watch in a car in front of the room. I have no idea. Anyway, we got up and moving by 7:30, which made it our earliest departure by about...four hours. I dropped Jill off at the airport, rearranged the luggage on the bike, and started heading south through the center of Houston. Our rear tire was at about 50% tread, so I decided to check with the local BMW motorcycle dealer to see if a replacement was available, and they had two. I decided to carry an extra tire after talking with Chip; he told me that having one shipped would be very expensive and could take weeks, if it arrived at all. So, I spent an hour fighting through 10 miles of Houston morning traffic, found the BMW shop, and spent $180 on a piece of rubber. I made it out of Houston, and from there it was four lane interstates for the next seven hours to Chip's house just north of McAllen, Texas. During the ride "Friend of the Devil" by the Grateful Dead kept coming up on my iPod, and it turned out to be a fitting anthem for the next few days of travel.