The Bike Hike: Illegal Border Crossings

By Daniel Ross

Is the story of a guy's dream to travel the Pacific coast on his bicycle. To leave everyone he loves and everything he owns to depart on trip with no return. After thinking about it for 10 years, he finally decides to do it. This trip will take him from Montreal, Canada throughout the United States and along the Pacific Coast to end in Vancouver, Canada. During his journey he learns to live with what he has. He learns about the outdoor experience and to live with nature. He gets challenges and different situations to overcome and also the physical and mental strain he endured. He visits cities, and meets people he will never forget. He must change his itinerary, sometimes because he wants to, other times because he has no choice. This writing brings this adventure to a climax which is unexpected. The Bike Hike brings twists and turns that he, himself cannot foresee. For three weeks, he describes the freedom he senses within, and the fears that can be around, at any corner.

Mr. Trump,

You have been talking about fi xing immigration and broken borders by deporting millions of illegal aliens. Putting up a wall is not the immediate solution to get rid of illegal aliens or undocumented residents. I was an illegal alien for ten years in the United States and lived the American dream at its fullest. I was able to obtain all the necessary documents to have a great life In the U.S.A. including; Social security card, ID card, Bank card, credit cards(7), Drivers license. I paid income tax also. Yes, illegal aliens can pay taxes; Police offi cers arrest illegals with no papers all the time. Because of internal bureaucracy and ill-will they are released hours later. The biggest problem is the social security card.

That is just a few examples of internal bureaucracy loop-holes. If the government would address these loop-holes, you could solve a lot of immigration problems.

Mr. Trump; before putting up walls and deporting women, children and good hard working people, read this book. It will help you restore immigration issues in the United States with dignity. These people are not the enemy... They just want to live the American dream.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514433676

Daniel Ross

Daniel Ross was born in 1958, in the parish of St-Pie X, Quebec City, Quebec, Canada. The fourth of five children of French-Scottish descent, his first spoken language was french. He attended a Catholic-Irish public school and dreampt of becoming a police officer. He successfully graduated high school and went on to work in the restaurant and hotel business for 33 years. Throughout these 33 years, he accumulated 33 jobs. The idea of writing this book came to him after an adventure which changed his life. Having lived in Hollywood, Ca. for ten years as an illegal alien gave him an inside look as to what the American dream really is. It also shows what the life of an undocumented resident is like.

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Copyright © 2016 by Daniel Ross.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2016901710

ISBN:       Hardcover       978-1-5144-5628-6

       Softcover       978-1-5144-3366-9

       eBook       978-1-5144-3367-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/10/2016

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CONTENTS

1. The Dream

2. The Departure

3. In The Heart of the USA

4. Bike Hike Departure

5. Riding Arizona

6. Like Being On the Moon

7. Hello, California …

8. Discovering California

9. Smelling the Pacific

10. Christmas in California

11. Arriving in Los Angeles

12. Illegal Border Crossings

13. Making Extra Cash

14. The Idea

15. Getting Another Job

16. The Price Is Right

17. Mom is Gone

18. The First Kiss

19. Attempted Robbery at the Chesterfield Hotel

20. I Need Identification

21. The Hollywood Movies

22. Meeting Friends

23. Diverse Ethnicity

24. World’s Best Weather

25. Crashing Universal Studios

26. Discovering Los Angeles

27. Job of a Lifetime

28. Learning to Order

29. Making Friends

30. Hollywoodland Tours

31. Beverly Hills Stars Home Tour

32. Hollywood Sign Tour

33. Pitching Frankie’s at NBC

34. Going Home

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Daniel Ross was born in 1958, in the parish of St-Pie X, Quebec City, Quebec, Canada. The fourth of five children of French-Scottish descent, his first spoken language was French. He attended a Catholic-Irish public school and dreamt of becoming a police officer. He successfully graduated high school and went on to work in the restaurant and hotel business for 33 years. Throughout these 33 years, he accumulated 33 jobs. The idea of writing this book came to him after an adventure which changed his life. Having lived in Hollywood, CA for ten years as an illegal alien gave him an inside look as to what the American dream really is. It also shows what the life of an undocumented resident is like.

If you have any questions about the book, email the author at [e-mail]

Special Thanks

I would like to extend a Special Thank-You to the people who helped and

supported me realize this dream for so long, Merci Beaucoup…

Jocelyne Ross

Carol Ann Ryan

Mala Dansirisanti

Peter Ryan

Matthew McKernan

Patrick Rouleau

Technical Computer Program Advisor;

Sebastien Martel La Bastille

Also a Big Thank-You to the Xlibris team in the Philippines;

Maegan Arevalo

Charles Freemont

June Almeria

Rey Santos

Lloyd Griffith

Jenny Albert

THE DREAM

1

It’s another gray morning in Montreal. I’m preparing to leave for my destination, San Diego, California. A friend of mine, Sylvan, helps me with my luggage to the bus station. In my luggage, I have a new bicycle, a tent (for two), a sleeping bag, a food container, dry foods, an alcohol fuel burner, two bags on each side of the bicycle, clothes, maps, and my Walkman. I proceed with my departure toward the Canada–U.S. border. I hope I thought of everything to bring with me: passport, Blue Cross medical insurance (six months), money, bank card, address book, birth certificate, and ID. I’m ready to begin an adventure I’ve been dreaming about for years. The trip consists of taking a bus from Montreal to New York and from New York to San Diego in five days.

Then travel from San Diego, California, to Vancouver, Canada, on my bicycle, pedaling roughly 2,300 miles to Vancouver where I will settle down after my trip.

The reason I’m doing this trip in part goes back to 1976 when I was working at the Quebec Holiday Inn Downtown as a receptionist. It’s one of my first jobs after high school. A tall slim man enters the hotel wanting a room for the night.

The unusual thing is he has a bicycle and not very much luggage with him. I ask him where he’s from. Vancouver, he says.

You mean you pedaled from Vancouver to Quebec on this bike, and you’re going to PEI (Prince Edward Island)? That’s fantastic …, I reply in amazement.

After checking him in, I call the Journal de Quebec so they can cover his story. After talking with him, telling me the things he’d been through, I can imagine doing something like that.

Being alone, having to fight the elements, going up and down the Rocky Mountains, and traveling over five thousand kilometers, it sounds so surreal. I think one day I would like to do something like that. What an exciting adventure it would be!

Today, December 3, 1996, I’m embarking on that dream I’ve had for so long.

There’s no return to Quebec in my adventure. I’m giving up everything I own—my apartment, my car, my job—to do this trip. All I will have in this world is what I’m bringing with me: my bike, a brand-new 21 Speed Bigfoot Norco, and what’s on it. I feel a little afraid and also excited. I don’t know what to expect or what I will face on this trip. But I think I’m ready for The Bike Hike. I proceed with my departure toward the U.S.–Canada border that turns out to be an adventure on its own.

This is my story … After spending over an hour on a Greyhound bus from Montreal, we arrive at the U.S. border. I feel good and confident with what’s ahead of me. From this point on, I must learn to live in the present. I have no rent to pay, no paycheck to get, no car or gas to buy. The sense of having no responsibility and commitment makes me feel more focused on what I have to do now. There are eight people on the bus, mostly people from the United States going back home, I guess.

The bus stops. We go in the border patrol office where we check in.

Then my turn comes. The officer, a tall clean-cut well-spoken man with a serious look takes my passport and inspects it. Then he asks me, Where are you going, and how long will you be in the United States?

I answer, San Diego, and I will be staying for about one month.

What is the reason of your visit?

I will be traveling the Pacific Coast Highway from San Diego to Vancouver on my bicycle.

He pauses and looks at my passport and a sheet of paper. He asks me, Did you ever have any trouble with the police or the law before?

I reply with no hesitation, No …

He asks me again, with a more stern voice, Did you ever do anything against the law? Or did you ever go to jail?

No, sir …, I replied.

Wait here a minute.

After talking with his supervisor and looking at me up and down, the supervisor comes to me and asks me if I have a tattoo on my left arm.

Yes …, I reply.

He turns to his fellow officer and says, Yes, that’s our man, and walks away.

The officer asks me to take my luggage off the bus. But, sir,—

He interrupts and says, Take your things off the bus now. I’ll explain what the problem is.

After taking my bike and luggage off the bus, all of a sudden I begin thinking about the three joints of pot I have that Sylvan gave me earlier before leaving Montreal as a going-away gift. Sylvan hands them to me and says, Smoke these reefers when you get to California … and think of us.

At first, I wasn’t too sure about crossing the border with a few joints on me.

When I boarded the bus in Montreal, I felt a little weary, so I thought to hide them in the bus toilet area inside the waste paper basket, taped against the wall on the inside. So this way, if something happens, I wouldn’t get caught with them on me. And once I passed the border, I would retrieve them. I hear the United States is very strict to people bringing in drugs in the country. When he asked me to take my luggage off the bus, I thought it was because of those joints. After getting everything off the bus—my bicycle, my two huge bags, and my backpack—I come back to the counter.

He tells me, Mr. Ross, you have a problem with the law in your country, which you must resolve before entering the United States. There is a warrant out for your arrest in Canada.

What for? I ask him.

It doesn’t say, he replies. We don’t get that information. So at this time, I must put you in handcuffs and detain you until a Quebec provincial police officer comes to get you.

I feel a little relieved; it wasn’t because of the three joints. Oh well … It’s not a big loss.

The person who will clean that bus tonight will get quite a surprise.

After helping me with my luggage off the bus into their pickup truck, he handcuffs me and says, It’s for my protection and yours. I feel a little embarrassed, but I go along. They take me to the Canadian border, which is a quarter of a mile away. A Quebec provincial police (QPP) officer is waiting. A well-groomed officer, he has a strong French accent. He looks at me with a reserved grin.

He begins a friendly chat with the American border officers. I suddenly interrupt him and ask him what’s going on.

He replies, Attends Un Peut! Wait! I’ll tell you when I’m good and ready. For now, don’t say a word. A few minutes later, he turns to me and says, Do you have a tattoo on your left arm?

I tell him, Yes …

He then asks me, Do you have a scar on your left knee?

Again, I say, Yes … Getting nervous, I ask, What’s the problem?

Well, Mr. Ross … you have a warrant out for your arrest for a few unpaid traffic violations dating back to August 1993.

Is that all? I reply in frustration.

The U.S. border patrol officers look and grin at each other as one takes off the handcuffs, looking kind of disappointed I’m not a heavy profile criminal.

When the U.S. patrol officers leave, the policeman—his name is Francois—takes his handcuffs and puts them on me. I ask him if it’s really necessary. He answers, For your safety and mine, blah, blah, blah … I must put them on you.

What now, Mr. Officer, what are my options?

Well, you have two options. You go to jail for eighteen days at Bordeaux Penal Institute in Montreal, or you pay the fine. What is due now, $466. The balance you can pay later.

Frustrated, and without thinking, I tell him, Take me to jail …

Thinking about it for a few minutes, I decide to pay the fine. I know it’s going to make a dent in my spending money for the trip. If I had a chance to do it over again, I would do the same thing. A few years earlier, I was a little rebellious. I fought the law system for the last three years. And I guess the law won. I refused to pay fines at the time because they were given unfairly.

Just because the system stinks doesn’t mean you don’t follow it. I lost, and now I pay. I’ll know next time. Sometimes situations may come back and bite you in the ass.

After telling him I was going to pay the unpaid fines, I ask him how we proceed. He asks me, Do you have the exact money on you? I tell him I don’t have enough. Then we’ll go to the bank in town, about five miles away. You will withdraw the money needed, and we’ll go to the police station where we can do some paperwork and pay what you owe. I will give you a receipt, and then you can be on your way.

What about these handcuffs? Can you take them off?

He says, I can’t …

Why not? I reply.

This is police procedure, and you could decide to run away.

I smile and think to myself, You have $2,000 worth of my equipment in your trunk, and you think I could run away. Can you imagine … just for a few traffic tickets?

Honestly, I really think it’s situations like this that makes people turn against the system.

Here I am at the bank—in handcuffs. How embarrassing. I come out of the car; the officer escorts me to the ATM so I can withdraw some money. After withdrawing $460, we go to the police station so I can sign some documents.

As we arrive at the police station, I suddenly realize I left my ATM card in the machine. It’s two-fifteen, and the bank closes at three. As I go inside the station, I’m thinking I have to go back to bank as soon as possible so I can retrieve my bank card. Francois, the officer, tells me he has to lock me up while he does the paperwork. At this point I ask him, Is it really necessary? Are you doing this on purpose to be a jerk? I’m becoming more upset about this whole situation.

What a waste of time. He’s being a little overzealous. He locks me up in a cell. I begin pacing like a lion does in a cage. I’m at the Canadian–American border, wondering what will happen next. I’m getting upset and having second thoughts about my trip. I’m realizing this trip is not beginning very well for me. After the paperwork is done, and I pay the $466, he tells me, You’re free to go. I ask him for a ride to the bank. It’s two forty-five, and the bank closes in fifteen minutes, and it’s one mile away. He tells me he can’t. But earlier you told me you would. I think, to a certain degree, he has sympathy for me, but he can’t because something came up, and he can’t leave the station. I ask permission to leave my gear at the station and jog to the bank as fast as possible. I get there within minutes of closing time. I ask for my card—well actually, Tanya’s card. When I decided to go on this trip, I put all my money in Tanya’s bank account and took her banking card. That was in case something happens to me, she would get my money. Tanya is like my adopted daughter. She is the daughter of my best friend Lynda, and once upon a time, she was my girlfriend. When I get to the bank and ask for my card, they don’t want to give it to me, claiming it wasn’t mine. Oh my god … I begin to panic. I never thought of that situation. What’s next? Please … you must give it back to me. I need it. I’m beginning a trip on my bicycle, and this card is my only source of money, I tell them. It’s my daughter’s bank card. You must believe me. An idea comes to me. I can prove it if you don’t believe me. Call this bank in Quebec City, and ask for Melanie. Melanie works at that bank, and she’s Tanya’s aunt. She will vouch for me. She knows the situation. Please try to call her. The manager tells me it’s an unusual procedure but decides to call anyway. Let’s just hope Melanie’s still at the bank.

After the call, the bank manager comes back, gives me the card back, and is nice about it. After this ordeal, I walk back to the police station to pick up my stuff. I’m feeling relieved, but upset. Now my problem is how to get back to the border with my entire luggage, which weighs a ton. At the station, they call a taxi for me.

The border is about five miles from the police station. The taxi arrives one hour later. I load the car, an old light blue Dodge Valiant. I tell the driver, Take me to the border and out of this country.

The driver is in his late fifties, scruffy looking, unshaven with old clothes. He tells me, I don’t go to the U.S. border side.

Why not? I ask.

He says, The last time I went there, the U.S. border patrol officers searched my taxi for over an hour and almost demolished it. They took it apart, thinking there were drugs in it. I can drop you off at the Canadian border if you want, but that’s as far as I’m going.

I agree. I really don’t have a choice.

The problem I don’t know about at the time is that the U.S. border is a quarter mile further from the Canadian border. I must walk a quarter mile with my entire luggage. I must carry them in stages because I have so much.

It’s embarrassing and depressing.

As people are waiting to cross the border, they look at me. Some are smiling, probably thinking, What is that idiot doing? By the time I get to the U.S. border, the day is ending. It’s getting dark, and a new shift is coming on. I go to the desk and give them my passport. The officer, a female, maybe in her midtwenties, very pleasant-looking, but her uniform doesn’t do her justice. She looks at me and asks me, Where are you going, and how long will you be staying in the United States? Then she asks me, Did you ever have a problem with the law? For a moment, I become numb. I don’t know what to answer. I pause, she looks at me and goes back to the computer, and she comes back to me, asking me a second time. Nervously, I try to explain to