Part One. The Road and the Rio Grande Valley.
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 guy 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 the customs officials had struck up a kind of awkward, playful friendship. On his last trip across the line, the agents promised that if he told them his decades-long secret, just this once, they would let him cross unchecked.
"So what was it?" they asked. "What were you bringing across all these years?"
The man drew up a wry smile. “Bicycles.”
—Roy, whom I met at a film screening in Tucson
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