Horse Trailer Water Tank
Chasing motorbike adventure in Latin America
In the lowlands of the horizon seems to flee. The flames are gold, white clouds impossible. We leave racing bike. Suddenly, the view changes. Rose driving the bike at the horizon, a rider flails in the air 10 feet above the ground. It not good. Jeff came to the road at 70 miles per hour. Katie mode paramedic Jeff soothing, running his hands behind his back, probing, check the ribs, legs, arms. Falling Tower Jacket ripped from the shoulder to the waist, removing the guard to unlock the We-Build-A-Shirt Bridges. It is scratched, but at times she laughed, pointing to the "I Can not Believe I'm Still Alive" smile that is his default expression.
Ryan pulls the bike and begins to pick up the pieces scattered across the desert. The luggage is destroyed. The right handlebar was bent almost to the tank. The mirrors turn signals, front fender, broke in a microsecond. Both rims have dents. Incredibly, he still runs. It puts the parts that still work on the bike, he takes a test ride. It will last another 7,000 miles. Our motto: We will do this work.
Jeff told him what happened. A small bird had jumped in his way. The next thing I knew he was off the road, went into a culvert. "I thought, wow. Mrs Superman. Oh, Look, there cycling. Oh look, it is the bird … "In a field of irregular stones, which had landed in the sand.
BEGINNING
The trip took place long before I was ready. A phone call, an invitation to the label, with a group of runners run in a BMW five-week journey of 8,000 miles from Peru to Virginia. I want to document the voyage, a fundraising effort for a group that builds bridges in remote areas world. He had been thinking of a long journey, a little open without support vehicles, the experience of being totally "out there." It seemed to Bill Mount. A third of the distance around the world with total strangers. I had a new BMW F 800 GS and thirst. If there was a point of no back, I crossed before hanging up the phone.
First, the riders. Ken Hodge is a specialist insurance benefits and a full member of the Rotary Club in Newport News. motorcycles known later in life, when he bought a bicycle, a horse across the country within 48 hours, then began to dream of a great adventure, something good question.
He recruited his daughter (Katie a fire department ambulance) his step-son (Ryan a bicycle mechanic and dirt-pilot) and best friend Jeff Ryan. I am impressed by their preparation. Montan old BMW F 650 R 1150 and individuals. Ryan had spent a year renovating the bike, probing depths, memory repair manuals for each machine. They provide tools and spare enough to handle almost any emergency.
IN THE ANDES
We stop to see the old figures Nazca deleted in the rocky desert. From the top of the tower, you can see a figure with hands raised. Just north, the Pan American highway divides in two the figure of a lizard, decapitating the creature. Bound by the strict approach to traffic levels of copper, the experts who put on the road are not even aware of sacred relics, discovered when it became common in aerial flight.
I realize that we are so blinded by the spotlight, the concentration that the inspectors were in his handwriting. The trip will be a series of images, looks, captured at full speed.
Descendants people who built the Inca Trail, Peru manufacturers know their stuff. But the interlacing, the flow of momentum, which our respect. The old road climbs funds marine slope hills, barren ridges broken ridges carved by landslides. Afternoon we in a high plain inhabited by thousands of vicuña and alpaca. From afar, our first view of snowy peaks. There are yards of stone on the slopes near shacks in one piece. In the middle of this giant of nothingness, a lonely shepherd walking on the side of the hill.
We found that distances on the maps are those of the Condors. We traveled very tortuous sometimes takes a hundred towers (or miles) to reach a peak to another. The map shows the cities, but to our bad, not everyone can have service stations. We buy gas in a small outpost of a woman with a shady cube with a pot of coffee, then poured into a plastic kitchen funnel fabrics in our reservoirs. The clocks throughout the city. We drive down into the night. Us do the next traffic light, over 20 buildings on two streets, find a hotel, and park bikes in an enclosed courtyard with dogs, chickens, birds dead, plastic bottles and animal hides tanning on the wall. Instead of the usual output signals, the restaurant Our hotel has a green arrow which says: "Escape". This is not a criticism of the food. The forces of the Andes to the sky has been known to demolish villages integers.
The next morning, started the bike and climb in the Andes on a clear path. We fluids, hair, double brackets, the square becomes climbing the side of a single peak at 4700 meters high. I can not believe a single word: delicious. We pass through the fog and clouds low, the sunlight slanting in the sky. The valleys are green and fertile, a mixture of ancient Inca terraces and more modern farms. Delgado Eucalyptus along the road, providing shade huts with roofs of red tiles. A girl tends a herd of goats (identified with colored ribbons) in a green meadow, book in hand. At one point I think the clouds parted to reveal the spots of blue, but when I look I see is a rock covered Snow, another 3,000 or 4,000 feet of the mountain. Come out to the top of the ridge is a dozen or as small shrines, chapels adorned with flowers and tapes and photographs of their loved ones. The site of a bus accident. On a hill across the valley paragliding work stations, the appearance of eyebrows capitals brightly colored, conspicuous or angels.
We share the road with the vicuña, alpaca, llama, sheep, goats, dogs, roosters, pigs, Horses and cows. In an alley near Abancay, a bull is my blood to pass the burden and make a gesture to connect with his horns. One night, after sunset, I turn a corner wheels and a beautiful Roan, in light of our bikes, the way of filling with large eyes and hooves flashing, inches from my head. I realize that sweep poses risk of riding. The novelty of our bikes passing fade and fauna have time to react.
Introduction Cusco, Ryan demand directions, a young girl who leads us to a narrow cobblestone streets, slick with rain, stiff as a bobsleigh. The rocks are misaligned, as teeth. The spikes are not pulling at all. People in the street frantically wave their hands, indicating that the path is steep. I touch the brake and the bike falls pinning my leg against the curb, a quarter inch shy of a fracture. The bike is behind me down. It is distressing. The villagers help us raise motorcycle, turned up.
A police escort brings us to a hotel that allows us to keep the bikes in the lobby. Without bothering to take a shower, we proceeded to the bar rats Norton the northeast corner of the square. The owner, an expatriate American again Norton has made a point of continent. The walls are decorated with photos of the trip. Above the bar is mounted the head, the four former U.S. presidents, with their soundbites better known: I am not a thief. I did not inhale. I do not remember. We will find weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. We drink beer, stories trade, trying to climb back in recent days. The dead battery. The hole in the radiator. Repairs on the road. The rush of unrelenting incredible beauty.
Three days in the desert north of Lima generate some details. The total absence of life, the three colors of sand. Young boys pedaling tricycle carts ice in the middle of nowhere. We entered the area nimble <I> </ I>, but instead of mist, we meet A crosswind of 60 mph, which sends a layer of sand sliding across the road like a special effect in a film by Steven Spielberg. Two narrow lanes for subject to sandstorms, thick enough to swallow the front wheel, deep enough for a grader is ready to erase the quicksand.
We decided to test a secondary road through the hills. We spent a dirt road and everything changes. We went through living with people, dogs, small tricycle taxis in the fashion of old bikes. Kids scooters pass, take pictures with their cell phones. The fastballs divided highway finger launch bash plate as strong and constant roar like the sound of an aluminum bat. We paddle our way through the gravel, gray dust of all, parts dropping, teeth rattle. Oh yes, that's what we wanted.
ECUADOR
In Macara, we sat on the sidewalk near a place of lesser importance, eating pork cooked by a woman with a plump yellow dress. His daughter brought us three beers (giant) at a time, and keeps results in a carton of milk for the accounts later. Children crossing the streets on motorbikes, calm, good luck with the girls in the back. On the other hand, girls on the benches. Jeff cultural experiences a revelation that the South American girls have breasts, and use tight pants … and "Hey, I think she loves me. "
Our dining companion is David McCollum, an American expatriate who had met Ryan ADVrider. Com. He tells stories of riding the Ecuadorian Andes, and gives us advice on the management of roadblocks. "Act stupid. Do not communicate Spanish. Say "no-smoking Spanish" (I do not smoke Spanish). If all else fails, have Katie mourning. "Uh, Katie did not" cry ". Day We read in the Andes in Ecuador.
Impressions: sharp edges. Lumpy, the conical outcrops. Monasteries in the high hills. The steep slopes so ever a working machine. A couple standing on the black earth, the man holding a wooden hoe, the wife of a bag of seed. A woman on horseback, red cape and black, coiled whip in one hand. Trees. Cloud. Mist. The feeling of a Japanese block print, those providing the road tends to infinity.
I introduced the group to a family tradition. When we travel, we end up every day counting high point, lowest point and the funny bone. After this day, I'll add "moments Pucker." The trucks run down the fog, running without lights, signals by the waveform spectrum out before. Appear in our path without notice or reason. We go through the construction sites where the road narrows to a path that offers no escape. Part seems awfully close to the new concrete, rebar strewn defenses. The other side is a precipice. Pucker now? Play choice. Sometimes the surface, half mile bobsled mud, gravel, water jet, the maneuverability of the bike as a little loose. Twice we have a turn and to find a way, the surface collapsed, swept away by the underground waterways. Katie moment comes when a cow, without any conditions, adding the path your bike. For Jeff, passes a truck suddenly swerved to avoid a pothole, the trailer is it sways like a baseball bat.
Us have spent two days in Cuenca, a city of 500 years, surrounded by mountains. Ken phones later and discovered that the vessel would take us and bikes of Ecuador in Panama there are (if we had drugs or illegal aliens have been no problem, but there is no accommodation for tourists <I> </ I> with bikes). We ask David to help. As we assemble in Quito, working the phones. It is a contact, a man known for doing things when no one else can do. We find that magician of air cargo in the turtle's head, a biker bar Quito. At midnight.
The next morning, the bike section military airport, then into cold storage. The floor is covered with steel balls integrated, through which steel slide pallets. For the next three hours struggle moorings. A thin man dressed all in black oversees the operation, take pictures of bikes with a digital camera, making sure the batteries are disconnected, the tires are deflated. Drug-sniffing dogs put their noses in every corner.
Then, as our bicycles were on the way to Panama in the belly of an airplane.
CENTRAL AMERICA
Central American countries are the size of postage stamps. You can cross in one day and a half to spend a day on average to the customs and immigration. Ken had made Xerox copies of all documents (passports, certificates, registration, VIN numbers) and had notarized. While working with the staff office air conditioning, we sit in 100 degree heat and the ants carry seeds to see the dirt under the ground. We will be used for applications several specimens, the traders waving separate bills in front of our face, the young hustler ready to facilitate the process, the food vendors in the hope overcome hunger caution on the local cuisine.
Before embarking on this trip, I read the opinion of the State Department Travel. The Peru section has warned that five Americans have died from liposuction in Lima. OK, that liposuction is consensual, or band of thugs armed with vacuum cleaners and accessories sharp strong? Almost all entries in the Central American countries warned on false checkpoints, bandits in uniform soldiers in the middle of nowhere.
Along the road signs in one eye is blood red and the warning <I> <vigilants / I>. We round a corner to find two soldiers on foot patrol, miles from the nearest town. They ask for paperwork. Adrenalin makes my mouth cotton. David, our friend in Ecuador gave us good advice: Act stupid. Smile. It seems that we have a natural talent for it. No Smoking <I> Spanish </ I>. After checking our papers, we wave. In the coming weeks, we will be arrested on several occasions, popular with dogs, an X-ray devices that seem to wander with knives cutting car antennas when the blade should be. Border, the boys coveralls and masks bike with a jet of liquid designed to kill insects stowaway too lazy to cross the border by their own means. It Some soldiers at all station attendants and convenience store armed restaurants, guys with guns on Pepsi trucks. We are aware of poverty, a culture of criminal opportunity. The night air can take your bike naked, you can not find a hotel with parking.
These countries are bound by the soil of the United States, and our culture has rocked its way through. Central America is a culture of the motorcycle. The genius by families perched on the narrow seats, wearing helmets with visors that are missing. In Panama City, we met a group of drivers Harley. Bicycles are beyond the size of the shells, horns on the soundtrack special effects. They surround us and ask if you want to join their regular weekend burger tour. We followed an exclusive country club, Mira Flores beyond the locks of the Panama Canal. We will send instructions for a bed and breakfast coast. I slept that night in a hammock, a bottle of beer still in his hand, the blades of a fan whirring gently.
America Central has a meaning different from Peru and Ecuador, with a different severity. We move in the green field at a rate to be Natural, Virginia or Colorado or California. The vegetation is similar to fireworks, only green. Here, a single plant groups have taken up a slope. There is explosion of different species. A war slow.
We have been in the chair for three weeks. Nothing can break our rhythm. Pan left the road and find ways to make it seem as if she had two flat tires, the sound as you drive an oil spill. There are narrow, the bridges of a rail vehicle, a long narrow gauge, mismatched, or a lesser roads, steel plates thrown through the rotten wood. Intrigue is a mash-up geological, without the power of the Andes, but rather unexpected changes in altitude and tight turns for an interesting journey. Municipalities are advertised with speed bumps and potholes that can swallow bikes. I see road signs only for the country, the silhouettes strange animals. A snake crossing. A jaguar crossing. In Costa Rica we have reached a 30-mile stretch of gravel road, and the world turns dust. The jet charge life. We romp, jump, walk, based on the gyroscope. I try to read the strange shadows that appear in the dust bikers, jeeps, huge trucks without lights not always accurately. There are breaks in the cloud of dust when I see fields full of white oxen their feet and egrets. The sky tinged pink by the light of Sun's almost like a feeling of peace.
We spent one night at the Arsenal a tourist destination for thrill seekers with discretionary income. Posters Announce walks canopy zip line through the jungle, the possibility rappel waterfalls, night walks to the lava, kayaking, canoeing. We ignore the offer, the saddle and ride in the rainforest. A group of Meercat swarms down an embankment on the road. The monkeys frolic in the trees above. A tourist on a steel grill casting a shadow on the road a spot of color in the sky. Looks like someone was hanging clothes and forgot to take his clothes.
Nicaragua has its own meaning. We drove past volcanoes so big that they do with their time, crowns hidden in the clouds with a wide brim. Don Quixote in his hat a bowl of barber. The streets are jammed with cars horses. We found a hotel near the village square. Opposite the hotel is a virtual store offers the galaxy. The traditional culture is slowly losing ground to bandwidth. Link to rival the towers of churches, fences to block the cellular large statues of saints in the surrounding hills.
We visited a bridge built by the organization Ken in a remote area of Honduras. At the junction of the main road, I think we are entering a drainage ditch. In fact, during the rainy season, the road becomes impassable, the surface of the clay very clever for traction. Now the bike in front of a path marked by erosion, working their way through the rocks exposed by the force water. This is by far the most technical riding of the season.
Route 40-mile will be five hours to cross. Gullies clawmark Ken bike out in him, Katie walks into a ditch and wrecks his motorcycle windshield. Even Ryan has problems. The river, when scope is terrible. I take photos of motorcycles as they come through, pushing a bow wave in front wheels, jouncing rocks on the other side. If a trip can be reduced 1? 250 years of a second, a moment etched in memory, these images would be.
We crossed into Guatemala, and spend the night with Hemingway imitators Jimmy Buffet and candidates in Rio Dulce. The hotel has a wonderful sense of bad taste. Ceiling fan sparks showers. Food is cut at regular intervals, like water. If you want a shower, get out. We spent a day riding in the rain. Water destroyed one of my cameras, making the display in an aquarium. Hey, I have enough pictures.
Almost There
In the first city the border with Mexico, we stopped for directions at a busy street. Sideswipe my bicycle a truck, hook a sidecar, and drags me down. I am safe and sound, but the windshield and dashboard are in fragments. The police, when they are the opposite of help. Us garbage collection, every tape in sight, and begin. We are unstoppable. Amount, but the mood changes of speed and timing of the flame. Katie, Ryan and Jeff have to be back at a certain date or lose their jobs.
The trip becomes a function of time at a distance, greater pressure to erase the part of Mexico, and a final border crossing in the United States.
We struggle through long paths, nursing motorcycles are signs of wear. Ken cycling takes place. Ryan's visor. Katie treat their windshields smashed by BMW as a badge of honor, but a wind of 75 mph is exhausting. Jeff has lost bike Nubbins the rear sprocket, the chain begins to decline. He will go to a U-Haul 100 miles from home.
Five weeks after departure, we see the lights of Newport News. When you enter the city, Ken, Ryan and Katie spread across the road, side side, arms in the air. The long trip over.
About the Author
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