Max here: between Bull’s limited command of the English language and the difficulty he has typing and using Google Translate due to his injured right wing, I will be helping him post until he can attend some night classes at the local community college.
From what I can piece together from his story, his original name was simply Hector, and he was born on Cinco de Mayo in Guadalajara, Mexico in the year of our Lord 2014. His earliest memories are of helping to cultivate the family farm, his job being to manicure and package the sticky green buds before they were shipped north to Colorado. When his family learned of the upcoming federal building project that may be soon forthcoming at the border, they decided to send young Hector north to find his fortune.
Crossing scorpion laden deserts(both the two- and eight-legged variety) and swimming the muddy Rio Grande (well, wading for most, but he’s a little guy), he suffered many treacherous miles; it was on such a night that the desert moon illuminated his first encounter with a band of bloodthirsty banditos; although he left them laying motionless in the very spot where they thought to leave him, the experience left him with the crippled right arm that afflicts him to this day. His daring actions to defend other himself and other refugees earned him the title of El Zurdo, “the Lefty”, leaving envious males and grateful females in his wake all up and down the border. Eventually his exploits attracted him some unwanted attention from the Chihuahua Cartel, and he had to slip across the border at Boquillas into the relative safety of the Land of the Yanquis.
At this time, he wasn’t traveling alone; more on his traveling companion in a later post…
In an effort to build a new life, he decided to change his name to something a bit more memorable than Hector, but not as sinister as El Zurdo. It was during this time that he was holed up in a barn with another undocumented immigrant, Manuel Labor, when they found a dust covered Bultaco motorcycle stashed back in the shadows. After much tinkering and cursing under his breath(his mamacita would have washed his mouth out with sopa had she heard him), he and Manuel coaxed the old machine back to life. Hector became so aggressive on the bike, charging across the dry Chihuahuan desert, pinning the throttle with his crippled right paw that Manuel began calling him el Toro, the Bull.
Bultaco seemed a little less threatening, and the name stuck.
Bull wandered here and there, sometimes trotting, sometimes hitching rides with friendly truck drivers and vacationing families. He was working his way across the southwest when he received word that there was a benevolent dictator at a place called the Casa del Whackos in Arkansas, where he could find a decent health care plan and recover from his previous injuries.
Through a stroke of luck(or was it divine providence?), the last ride he hitched left him at the trucking terminal where dad had started working that very day.
So here he sits, acting like he’s been here his entire life instead of just one week.
Viva la Bultaco!