A story told to me by Roy, a man from southeast Arizona whom I met at a film screening.
There was this guy. Every weekend for years and years, he would ride his bicycle across the border into Mexico. Suspecting that the man was up to no good, customs agents checked him from head to toe every time he crossed. They were convinced that he was trafficking some type of contraband, but they could never find a thing. The dude swore up and down that he wasn't a smuggler, just a cycling enthusiast on the way to visit family.
The man decided to move to the east coast. By this time, he and
customs officers struck up a kind of awkward, joking friendship. On his last trip across the line, the agents poked, prodded and cajolled, promising him that if he told them, just this once, his decades-long secret, they would let him cross unchecked.
"So what was it?" they asked, exasperated. "What were you bringing across all these years?"
The man drew up a wry smile. "Bicycles."
--
www.border101.org
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