This is the end

Before I left for this trip I had read a lot of other motorcycle travel logs that went awry on their own journeys into the south. I had left with those thoughts in my mind but I tried to suppress the really bad ones and not let them haunt me. Especially one in particular where a solo trip through México ended in a man being paralyzed from the chest down as a result of a run in with a crazed donkey… If any of you have been keeping up with Andy’s blog you are well aware that my own voyage has now ended but that doesn’t mean that it was a failure in my mind. Furthermore, like every story there is always another perspective and mine is quite different from the one that Patient detailed in his story….

After we finished getting our paperwork in order at the border of Guatemala we mounted the bikes and headed off into the overcast sky after yet another painless border crossing. The town we crossed into didn’t have a paved road and we fumbled our way through the seediness in an effort to get away from it. Patient’s GPS worked wonderfully though and after a few missed turns we found ourselves on a road with truckers and busses on it. Those two types of vehicles are always a good sign and we rode on the poorly conditioned dirt road at a modest speed as the sky sprinkled drops of dew upon us. The clay surface of the road became slick and it took us about forty minutes before we meet the pavement again thirty five miles later. By the time we meet the pavement the sky was starting to dry up but we still maintained a moderate speed due to the pavement that was littered with potholes and other various hazards.

We wanted to hit up the ruins at Tikal but Patient had realized that his bank card was missing the morning we left México and he needed a new one so we were headed to the nearby island town of Flores. Everything I had read or heard about Flores was all good so I figured Tikal could wait another day. I mean it is supposed to be a vacation here, so why hurry through it? The plan was to ride to Flores and stay there for one night and gather information so that Patient could have his bank card ordered and sent in the mail to a hotel. After our last experience with overnight shipping we knew that such a thing only exists in the idea of said services, so we would therefore have a few days to make the run to Tikal and take in another vast and breathe taking ancient city. We had also heard that Tikal’s security guards are know for their weak ability to thwart off bribes to spend the night in the spiritual temple laden grounds. Tikal was one of the most dreamed about places to visit on my tour so I was extremely happy as we passed the turn off for the ruins on our way into Flores. I could hardly wait to bribe the guard and string my hammock up in the forest and feel the energy of both the jungle and the prehistoric empire that now sleepily lies at rest. Twenty minutes later we started seeing signs for the town of Santa Elena and it was relieving to know that the days ride was almost at an end. That’s when the reality of things going awry entered my dimension. The split second that changed my day was a swift and heavy one. Along the roads there are many tiny villages called pobolados and upon entering them there are variously sized and shaped speed bumps to slow the traffic in these pobolados. With our bikes long traveling suspensions we only had to slow down to about fifteen or twenty miles an hour while the cars and trucks literally had to come to a crawl to conquer the massive bumps. It just so happened that this pobolado wasn’t marked and I happened to take my eyes off the road to glance at my tank bag for a brief second when we came into it. I also happened to be trailing that day and was riding more in the center lane due to the potholes that were littering the right side of the lane I should have been in. Add all these happenstances up and guess who was riding too close in a bad position as well as who had no idea that the speed bumps were coming up? That’s right, it was me…

By the time I was looking up again I felt like I was already on top of Patient pushing him off the obstacle. I tried in vain to swerve my bike to the right and avoid hitting him but my speed (probably around fifty or so), the bump and his slow speed combined like a perfect algebra problem solved and made for a nasty collision. I had had dreams about all kinds of crashes and bad things happening to me but running into the guy I’d been following for almost four thousand miles only was not one of them, but not even fathomed. When I first looked up I could see Andy’s face turned and looking at me with an expression that was asking why I was so fuc*ing close to him. The seconds after the impact went quickly but what I remember is trying like hell to keep the bike under me. It was swaying in a tight s pattern and I recall trying to grab my rear brake to gain control of the machine. Since I tried to swerve right to avoid hitting Andy I was now riding in the grass next to the road and the next thing I know I see the ground coming and in all my semi professional years of crashing myself into the earth I tried to get my body into a ball and land with a dive roll to break the impact. I believe I flew over the handle bars and landed with my left rear shoulder first which took most of the impact then heard the hard smack of the back of my helmet merging with the earth. I distinctly remember the flying in the air and hearing the thump of the helmet, or was it that bone snapping in two? It all happened so fast that I may never know. I think I also rolled a few times after the initial impact because I was about twenty feet in front of my bike.

My mind has always been clear and calm in almost every trauma I’ve put my body through. It was that way when I was tossed like a rag doll through the back window of an automobile accident that left me with three fractured vertebrae. It was clear when I fell off a rail in the terrain park on my snowboard and torn the ligaments up in my shoulder. It was calm the day I rode into a tree, knee first, on my snowboard and tore up my ligaments on a powder day at home in Vail. The only time I can recall it not being calm was when I was eight years old running through the house playing a game I called diver. I was wearing the long stripped tube socks of the seventies but only had the socks pulled up as high as my ankles. The rest of the length of the sock was left out in front of me so that they were my “fins” as I “swam” through the house. I stepped on one of the fins when I was running through the house and promptly brought myself down in a swift motion. My little arm hit the end tip of a large wooden rocker and my bones snapped like a bowl of Rice Crispies crackling and popping in the mornings of my youth which immediately prompted the howling like that of a young girls instead of a young boys. .. It was very far from being calm I might add.

As I digress… That 25th day of October I was also level headed and I immediately knew something was wrong with my shoulder when I tried to push myself up off the ground seconds after I stopped rolling across the top of it. I looked to see where Patient was and was relieved to see him standing next to his bike that was now on its kickstand twenty five yards up the street. His right side saddle bag was sitting on the ground next to him instead of on the bike and I grasped the fact that between the ache in my shoulder and the look of his somber face looking at his destroyed saddlebag I knew my bike was not going to be pretty. After my initial pushup I brought my knees under me and put my face back into the ground to take the pain in. Inside my head many thoughts began to rush into and out of my brain like hurried NY City subway commuters on a Monday morning . It was probably irrational for some of those thoughts to come to me but they did anyhow…

I can’t believe my trip is over. I can’t believe I just ran into Patient. I can’t believe my snowboarding season is now going to be delayed. I can’t believe that my shoulder is the only part on my body that is throbbing with a piercing pain. Why is my tank bag next to me? I hope my camera is ok. How did my goggles come off? Patient is going to kill me for smashing his saddlebag. I can’t believe I just ran into him and I am the only one lying on the ground. Is this a dream? I guess I won’t be making it to Tikal. I wonder what my bike looks like. Where is my bike? Maybe I’ll be fine and my trip really isn’t over yet. I don’t want to be hurt again; this is really going to put a damper on my snowboarding season. I wonder why there are no blondes down here in Central America? Wow this pain is unbearable, I need to get moving and deal with getting things back in order. How am I going to wash my hair with only one hand? The last time I hurt my shoulder my girlfriend was visiting and she was an excellent nurse. Yep that pain sure is potent. Sharp and powerful it is…

As these thoughts were floating through my psyche I overhear Patient asking me a question. I cease my flow of limitless thoughts and listen as I pick myself up with my stomach muscles and come to my feet whilst uttering a few words to let him know I’m with it. “Yeah I’ll be fine, Where’s my bike?”

“Are you sure you’re all right? What hurts? We gotta get your bike upright.”

I looked around as he talked to me and the situation was immediately clear to me. The initial thought I had was true. I started walking towards my bike and realize, probably only because Patient was saying it aloud, that gas was leaking out of the tank because the bike was upside down leaning against a small burm. As I stepped next to the bike I saw that it was also leaking oil, the right side saddle bag was no longer holding shape, the front fairing was missing, the consol was gone, the ignition was dangling loose, one of my mirrors was missing, and the other mirror was bent in an absurdly silly shape. All the while, there were at least nine or ten people running around speaking in the excited voices of pure adrenaline flowing freely picking up the shattered remains of my faring and consol and showing them to me. Talk about surreal. The shock of my injury and the realization of these simple things brought back the one thought that seemed to be consuming me ever since it came to me. I can't believe my trip is over.

An older gentleman showed me a piece of the small odometer that was once my gas gauge dial. A small boy was displaying to me a tiny piece of glass that was once part of my head light. Many other instances followed where these strangers kept showing me pieces of my bike then placing the piece in a small pile that began to grow at the foot of where Patient and I stood in awe of the mess I’d made. Patient finally spoke and what he said registered in my mind, for some unknown reason, that I needed to perform this step. I walked a few steps closer to my bike and without any thought squatted down, grabbed the handle bars with my throbbing left arm, a piece of the frame with my right one and lifted the bike upright. I felt the crinkle of freshly cracked bones move about inside my upper chest then stepped away to stand in shock some more. I heard Patient telling me to sit down and relax so he could handle things but I just stood there accepting the reality and calmly rationalizing how to get out of it. The people were still scavenging the area for parts and were still bringing them to me and I was beginning to wonder the purpose of this. Patient said in his blog that looking back at it, it was actually rather humerous in a twisted sort of way. But as I stood there dumbfounded by the complete reality of my pain and probable exit out of Guatemala, I was stupefied by the purpose of their actions. I kept thinking “why are they gathering these parts? They can’t possibly think I want them. I’m sure as hell not going to super glue them back together and I just can’t fathom why?” Today as I write these words I am still dumbfounded by their actions and the only logical reason I can conclude is that they don’t like trash cluttering the sides of their roads…

Dealing with pain for me means that I occupy my mind with something else. Usually this is a deep breathing mediation while I am undergoing the self inflicting painful process of getting tattooed; that day I occupied my mind with a plan instead. I knew I needed to gather myself and my bike and get to a safe place to store the injured stallion while I could then go see a doctor and real analyze the true situation of my injury. Patient was thinking along the same lines and was talking to one of the locals up near his bike where I couldn’t hear them. He came to me and explained that he was talking this fellow, Danillo, into the nearest town almost twenty miles away to find a truck that could came and pick up the mess and take me to a hospital. He was obviously aware of my injured shoulder that I was trying to hide from him, for reasons unknown. He returned about thirty minutes later with a truck.

Once Patient left it dawned on me that I no longer had to play charades and finally let the pain overtake me. I sat down in the grass next to my bike and tried to think about how everything was going to go down. I had the wits to dig into my tank bag for my voice recorder and make some notes about what just transpired. I also pulled out my camera and took a few shots of the scene as well. By this time the pieces had been gathered and the mothers called their young back home now that the excitement of the crash was subsiding. Only three kids remained with me not really talking but just sitting and staring into nothing with empty eyes not believing what we were living in that particular moment. They told me that they thought I was dead when they saw the flash and sound of my accident. None of them could believe that I was still walking and that was the simple conversation we had before the silence ensued while we waited for Patient to return. One of the older gentlemen that helped gather the pieces came out with a glass of water, some pills and a plastic chair for me but my stubborn mind refused all help. He put the chair in the shade and offered me the pills. I got up and walked to the chair giving my thanks while I kindly refused the pills and water because I couldn’t think of the water as anything more than the surest way to catch a case of runs. Runs in my current condition would not help matters is all I could think while the gentlemen looked at me with crazy eyes for refusing the pills. On top of this I also wanted to be aware of all the decisions I made for the rest of that day since the one I made last ended up putting me into the ground. I sat and took deep breaths in to try and calm my mind…

Once Patient had returned I suggested that we go to the city first and found a hotel so that I could store my mess. After that was taken care of I would then go to the hospital. Patient wasn’t keen on my plan but I acted pretty calm for the pain I was enduring and he went along with me just to appease me. Once we found a crash pad, no pun intended, I began to unload the things out of my now twisted and unsecured saddlebag. After I was finished securing my gear I got in a cab and found a private doctor on recommendation of Danillo. He explained that the general hospital was crowded with people and I’d be lucky if I saw a doctor there in four or five hours. The Private Doc took a few X-rays and told me that he could either put me in a full shoulder pad replica type cast (which would have my shoulders rolled back with my palms on my hips, thumbs forward, and only having the ability to move my arms from the elbow down) or perform surgery on my dislodged bones. Looking around the hospital with the knowledge that I had purchased medical evacuation travel insurance I said that I would come back if I felt that I needed anymore of his assistance. He said sure and asked for the equivalent of thirty bucks for the consultation and the X-rays. I was sent on my way home in the same sarong that I came in with as my sling. No drug prescriptions, no questions, nothing more…

I then purchased a calling card and began the painful process of getting home. Like all insurance companies my Medivac insurer initially denied my request for a flight saying that I had been treated and I should be fine. This due in part to the fact that all they knew after speaking with my inadequate Doc, who said he released me and I would be fine, I was nothing more than a minor injured crybaby who didn’t require their services. However, once I explained what his services actually consisted of, the position of my almost protruding bone, the options before me at his dirty clinic, the condition of both my mental state of mind and my bikes physical damages they recanted their initial claim and put me up through the chain to talk with the next person in the corporate ladder to resolve my situation. After talking with two more representatives of Medjet Assistance I was able to give my email to a nice young woman who worked for two days coordinating my safe return home. Now that I had them communicating in email I could at least go sit down while Whitney and I hashed out the details of my return. Whitney put forth an extraordinary effort to get me home as soon as she could and had me booked in first class on the next available flight out of town so that my trip home would be as comfortable as possible. She also coordinated a ride to pick me up from the airport and contacted the Vail Valley Medical Center so that they knew I was coming in. She covered more bases than I had thought about and once I returned home I was glad to have purchased the insurance and also glad that Whitney took such careful consideration to my well being. It was another one of those experiences with a company that actually leaves one with a satisfying taste in the mouth and makes me think that I am a little too harsh on our corporate conglomerates that run things here.

Patient meanwhile looked into my options for how to deal with my bike. The first of which was the option of leaving it there with a shop to fix it and then return in the spring to finish what I had started. The second one was to ship the bike stateside. The third was selling it there. He found a Kawasaki dealer and had the owner come by the hotel to meet me and hash out the details of my growing list of questions. Lucky for me the Charles, the owner, spoke very good English and I didn’t have the barrier of language to deal with while I mulled over the options before me. I came to the conclusion that it was best to send the bike home and finalized the details by signing a notarized legal document giving Charles the power to ship the bike home for me.

Three days passed waiting for a flight and a slight depression slid into me as the reality of that initial thought that consumed me after the crash came true. I sadly got into a cab and said goodbye to Patient after we had our last breakfast together south of America. I got to the airport with a lot of extra time thinking customs and immigration would be a hassle explaining the stamp in my pass port that said I came into the country riding my motorcycle. I was sitting in the lobby of a tiny airport when I heard the vroom of Patients BMW pull up outside the edifice. I saw him in full garb, helmet and all, stride into the check in area looking for me. He came over to me and said goodbye once more then promptly headed out knowing it was difficult for both of us to see me end my trip so soon. Immigration was a breeze and as soon as I boarded the plane it was a welcome sight to see the big seats and I ordered a glass of wine before the craft even took flight. As you can imagine many more followed before I touched down at the Eagle airpot. It all felt like a dream as I was whirled back to my homeland in the same manner that Dorothy clicked her heels and woke up in Kansas after her terrible ordeal on the damn yellow brick road. The sad part of it was that I never remembered putting on a pair of ruby red slippers…

I ended up getting a fine surgeon at home in the Steadman Hawkins Clinic to perform a few cuts and install a pin to put my almost two inch displaced clavicle all back together. I had to wait eight days for this to all go down after my initial break but I had no worry of staff infection or not waking from a poorly controlled anesthetic since the surgery was performed in one of the top rated knee, shoulder and orthopedic clinics in North America. Granted, I’m not knocking the clinic I visited in Guatemala but in comparison a week of uncomfortable pain while waiting for worry free care was worth it since my injury was no wear near life threatening. As I’ve always said when I turn in this vehicle of my life it will be have been thoroughly tested and pushed to the limits of scientific endeavors…

This chapter has come to a close and I feel like the trip was successful even though it ended in an untimely manner because of the fact that it left my mouth salivating for more. More adventure, more dialoguing of globe trotting, more unplanned days, more carefree thoughts, but mostly the desire to be more like the person I know I am and was brought here on this earth to be; living the dream…


My friend Patient all alone in the jungle now that I have left him...

The passage of time between Palenque and Guatemala

The written words have faded again. This time it is because that all elusive word time, has slipped by unnoticed in my enjoyment of how this adventure has been unfolding before my very eyes. Granted, lots of thoughts about what I’m going to discuss in my writings have filled my mind in the many miles I’ve journeyed since my last update. But they rush through me like the wind in my face as the bike pushes forward through the humid land of limestone and jungle… And it is hard to find them again once the flow of wind is not in my face anymore. I left San Cristobal more than a week ago and headed into México’s majestic Mayan temples of Palenque. Patient had left the day before and I made the ride solo through the land of the anti-political group, The Zapatistas, where the Mexican government has no reign. The signs stating this fact were so imposing on me that I couldn’t muster the will to stop and photo the warnings when I entered their small villages knowing the meaning behind their struggle for freedom.

I had plenty of time to wander and explore the city of San Cristobal de Las Casas and found that it was an interesting place, and one that I liked for numerous reasons. Built in the sixteenth century by the Spaniards the quaint city of cobblestone had a charm I had not felt or seen in any other place we had stopped. The narrow sidewalks were barely wide enough to hold one person and were hard to manage with all the taxis and traffic zooming by on the streets. The people there hold disdain for the church and its controlling power of over the mind to live freely. They don’t like the judgments passed on them for choosing a life outside of the church and that is a feeling that I have always been able to identify with. Moreover, in México, the church is something the poor and unthinking have unknowingly condemned and committed their lives too in the hopes of a better chance in afterlife (heaven) as their will to prosper has been trounced upon by the haves. In my opinion morals are morals no matter who the preachers are… They also hold contempt for the corrupt government that has long held them under foot in this society that has no middle class. There are haves and have not’s here and the have not’s started rebelling against the government long ago. On January 1, 1994, an armed non violent indigenous group calling themselves the Zapatistas, in the name of Emiliano Zapata, took over this city and demanded more freedom to farm their lands and be free from the governments corrupt agenda that was holding them down. I knew that coming into this city and was excited to see how different this place felt from the rest of the México I had been touring. Generally the southern states of México are more rebellious and we thoughtfully avoided the state of Oaxaca due to its current ongoing struggle in the capital of that state. The people there are much like the Zapatistas, although less organized and not indigenous, who are tired of being taken advantage of and are rioting and protesting in the streets until the governor of that state is removed. They have a teachers union standing behind them and I doubt that the thousands of unruly citizens will stop until they have their request filled.

As I digress… The ride to Palenque through the jungle of struggle was impressive knowing that they succeeded in winning some semblance of freedom from their oppressive government. The ever present ominous skies of Chiapas were also looming above to help add more contrast to the fleeting feelings that were going through my head. It was good to climb back atop my abused horse and get moving again after the week of lingering in Cristobal while I was down waiting for the ill-treated sprockets and chain of my chariot. I eagerly climbed in the saddle and rode fast and hard through the winding road of the revolutionaries after I topped off at a Pemex station. I knew from an email I had received from Patient that the ride was to consume nearly three hours over the course of 138 miles and settled in for the view as I twisted my way up and down the hills of the mountainous jungle. He also noted that the cool nights in the high elevation were gone for him and would be for me as well once I descended back down to the reality of México’s lowlands…

I stopped at a swimming hole to disrupt the ridiculously hot temperatures and wash away some guilt in the falls of Misol-Ha. The falls towered above me as I walked down the path that leads to the pool that lies below the one hundred foot cascade. The dense mist that rose from the force of nature splashing down was hanging in the air giving life to the wall of rock that separated the pool from the river above. The growth of moss and flora was so abundant it looked like Bob Ross himself created the picturesque scene on his canvass and showed it to the gods so they could make it true to the beauty of his work. I quickly stripped down to my bathing suit and jumped into the painting before I could surmise how to even begin to photograph this splendid scene. I also quickly forgot about the heat and humidity that was no longer boiling my mind and swam in the cool waters towards the center of the hydraulic where I could best feel the force of the cascade as it tumbled down the wall and into the deep pool that was holding me like a mother with her new born . The current was swift and kept me at bay as I struggled to reach the powerful force of gravity where the hydraulic was created. I whirled my arms with all my power and finally reached the goings-on and gave up on my struggle to feel, only to be sent rapidly without restraint back into the massive pool and away from the power of it all. After I swam some more and wondered how this place would be much different if it were in the land of lawyers and greed I was happy I stopped and enjoyed the massive falls at Misol-Ha here in México. Patient and I have had this ongoing conversation about how lawyers would have a heyday here exposing all the ripe opportunities for frivolous lawsuits and it constantly reminds us of Carlos’s “only in México” book that we now surely believe has a ton of marketable value, for both lawyers and photographers alike.

I circumnavigated the pool and found a narrow foot trail that lead behind the falls and had the opportunity to silhouette a young woman against the misty tower of water. I almost felt like a pervert but hastily came to the reminder that I am one and felt no guilt for taking a few shots of the loveliness that a woman can exude, just being a woman. Once I finished the walk and redressed for the remainder of my ride and the descent into Palenque I sat near the edge of the jungle and listened to the unseen monkeys play in the triple canopy of The Lancandon Rainforest. Twelve miles later I found myself in the city of Palenque and the hotel where Patient was holed up in the air conditioned room profusely sweating. He had toured the ruins that day and was speechless repeating the phrase “words can not do justice to the enormity of those temples…”


We awoke early the next morning and toured the ruins in the waning hours of golden light that sunrises tend shed. The humidity was strong and the sweat was quickly consuming Patient’s not so dry attire. Thirty minutes into the tour he was drenched and only the small band between the bottom of his shirt where it was overlapping his trousers remained untouched by his constant perspiration. As we ascended up and down the steep steps to the temples it looked like a rain cloud was assigned to hover above him and kept him moist with its dew. His mantra that he kept repeating yesterday rang in my ears all day as we walked in awe of the Mayans superfluous planning of this ancient empire. My photos felt awkward and forced as I tried in vain to show the scale of the temples as well as the beauty of the ornate carvings in the edifices. The carvings represented the meaning of the structure and they had all their bases covered to include everything from the smoke breathing spiritualist to the dentist… No stone was left unturned (no pun intended) by the time we exited the grounds and overall it was another mind blowing experience. To think that the city was erected in the middle of a triple canopy jungle in 4 A.D. and by the simplest means possible was and still is almost incomprehensible to my modern American mind. The Mayans held fort there until 700 A.D. when the gods took the cities last ruler and the city slowly became uninhabited with his passing.

There was little we could say to one another with such awe within our minds and thus we headed out on a four hundred mile leg of road into the limestone shelf of the Yucatan Peninsula to be at one with the feelings. We were searching for the city of Tolum and the Mayan ruins there that lined the coast of the world’s second biggest reef system. The young porous earth stretches south from Cancun into Belize, Honduras and Nicaragua and east into the salty blue underworld of the Caribbean coast’s popular diving attractions. We covered our four hundred mile goal and stopped a hundred short of the city tired and groggy from the day’s events. We settled into a hotel on the beach with a pool and a cozy room that was equipped another one of México’s waiting for the lawyers of America nuances. This one in particular had wiring emerging from an obviously bad connection in the wall that lead to a switch which controlled the waters temperature by means of the intricately spliced wires held together with nothing more thin a thin strip of black electrical tape. Even if I weren’t in ninety degree heat with ninety percent humidity I would have forgone the use of this shady system and cleansed my body in the refreshingly chilly waters emanating from that contraption. In other words my fellow friends, as tempting as it was I was still smart enough to refrain from flipping the switch whilst standing naked in the shower…

We awoke early Sat morning eager to get to Tolum and ate at one of the few restaurants that was open. The shack had a few tables of locals who were fervently stuffing burritos down their gullets. Burritos at 8:30 am you ask, well only in México is my reply. I didn’t want burritos myself but they sure seemed to be enjoying them so much that Patient was coaxed into trying one for himself. A thick black paste lined the small corn tortilla that was said to be chili negro by one of the eager beavers at a nearby table. He ate the one small burrito in three quick bites and had a flame of heat rolling out of his mouth shortly afterwards. I am so glad that I stuck with the ol’ standard of Huevos Rancheros and avoided the ring of fire that was soon to come for my pal Patient…

After breakfast was finished and Patient’s maw was sufficiently back to a normal operating temperature we mounted the steeds and blazed north to Tolum for some beachside cabanas and relaxation. There were hammocks swung up in tress and a bar that had swings instead of seats to help with the ambiance of the way too laid back resort we ended up staying at. The cabanas were meager at best, but they had everything we needed to make the stay worthwhile. Two beds, although Patient swore his was box spring not a mattress, furnished with mosquito nets sat inside a raised 12x12 concrete slab that made the foundation. The sides of the cabana were loosely dressed with thin logs that allowed the air to move freely into the structure, hence the mosquito nets on the beds. A thatched roof of palm frawns topped the building which sat a mere thirty yards off the beach. From the roof of frawns a single cord lacking a switch was dangling down towards the center of the room with a light bulb that only worked between the hours of 8 p.m. to ten p.m. For obvious reasons the light was manipulated through the means of either screwing it in or out in order to make it function. We ended up staying there for three nights while we explored the beautiful area of Tolum. The first night we tied one on at the resort as Patient let the sound of the crashing surf wash away the pain of his many tormented years managing restaurants. The beer flowed freely into our bodies as the sunset turned into night brought the daily ritual of hard rain into the beachside resort. To my amazement the deluge of water lasted a mere twenty minutes or so and left the cabana unscathed, to include the light fixture. After the deluge my mind was a bit foggy but I think that’s when we hooked up with Mr. Bacardi and the night quickly became a blur.

The next morning we were in no mood to rush things and fell into the routine of the laid back atmosphere and lazily swam, read snorkeled and swung the day away. We found more swings hung from a high deck above down on the beach made of bamboo frames topped with plastic mattresses the size of double beds. The swing helped coax us into a lethargic melee of slowing down and before we knew it the evening surge of water was pushing us off the beaches. You could see the wall of rain heading towards us as the sun was shedding its last rays of light and Patient had to run to the cabana to put his laptop away before the downpour exploded above the resort. Thirty minutes later all was well so we rode into town and had a feast of a dinner at an artistic flavored bar with brightly colored Mayan paintings adorning the walls.

The last day we had in Tolum we toured the ruins and snorkeled the reef below them. The early morning light wasn’t grand but the clouds held true to their nature and helped fill in the contrast of my photos with a nice dramatic sky. The ruins there were no where near as grand as Palenque but they were just as beautiful perched on the cliffs above the aqua blue sea and white sand beaches. We snorkeled the reefs off the beach at the site and dreamily washed a few hours away. Tolum, due to its location, was one of the last Mayan villages to fall as a result of the Spaniards invasion of México in the mid fifteen hundreds. The Spaniards then took advantage of the Mayan advantage and occupied the fort as a means to guard the coast after they stole the site from the Mayans. The humidity was high that day and we had heard and read about cenotes in the area so decided to go cool off in one after we left the ruins of Tolum and ate some lunch. A cenote is a freshwater pool of water that forms in the porous earth of limestone that makes up most of the Yucatan peninsula. Some cenotes stand out in the open above ground, but the ones we wanted to visit were the ones that collect below the ground in the numerous cave systems of the area. Because we wanted to visit those we had to acquire a guide and found one in the guide book not too far from the cabana.

We arrived with snorkels and masks in hand at the cenote anxious to explore the underworlds in the dark caverns. The guide gave us some wet suits and picked us up in his “limo” from a parking area and took us on a fifteen minute drive through the thick jungle to explore the first of two caves. He explained that because the earth is so permeable in the Yucatan that the caves water levels can change quickly if a big storm moves through the area. It reminded me of the hazards of canyoneering in the slots of the Colorado plateau where one must be cognizant of the weather in order to be safe. Once we arrived at a small clearing he pulled over and we saw a metal ladder that descended beneath the earth into a deep hole. We climbed down into the dark abyss nervous and excited all at once. He started a generator above ground and a number of spot lights, both above and under the water, came to life exposing the large circular room of the caves entrance dressed with stalactites and stalagmites. These two scientific terms refer to a formation specific to caves and they take the shape of large icicles that hang down (stalactites) and rise up (stalagmites) from the caves ceiling and floor respectively. From here on out I’ll just refer to them as icicles to ease the processes of the mind and explain if the are hanging down or rising up so that you know which icicles I’m referring too.

The water was ice cold and the wet suits were a welcome treat as we merged into the underworld of cave snorkeling. As we swam down into the cracks and crevasses of the cave a rich sense of supreme calmness radiated from within me. The eerie icicles in the cave made me feel like I was in the setting of a Wes Craven horror movie and somehow it made me feel more at ease as I explored the creepy scene. We dove down into the cracks and swam underwater through many tunnels and cracks in the vast cave. We also had to be careful when we were coming back up for air as the caves formation may fool you into in pocket where there is no air but a mass of hanging icicles ready to poke you in the head instead. We a snorkeled in a huge loop there exploring the pockets and strange geology for about forty five minutes when the guide said “times up” and we regretfully made our way back to the dock where the metal stairs ascended up towards the small beam of natural light. The guide asked us if we wanted to walk around the cave for a bit before we left and then lead us into the darkness towards the opposite side of the opening. He shined his light down into a small pool of water where once you went in it the only thing to do was dive down into a mouth of the underworld. He said that this was one of the jumping off points for the diving tours and it instantly made me wish I had my dive certification.

Once back above ground we loaded into the limo and drove ten minutes to another small clearing where we unloaded and descended another ladder that lead beneath the earth. At the bottom of this ladder was only a small area of rock that was above waterline and the vastness of open space and the generated lights from the last cave was no longer there. The guide handed us flashlights and stepped off the rocks into a shallow pool that lead us into a narrow tunnel. The water was barely deep enough to swim in and he reminded us to watch our knees on the protruding stalagmites that rose from the floor once we started swimming. We swam above the stalagmites in a twelve foot long narrow channel of the cave of more formations than I ever imagine existed. The icicles from above hung so low that if we didn’t keep a watchful eye above water as well we could have easily bumped into them with the surface of our heads as we snorkeled our way through the maze of corridors. At the end of this first narrow channel the cave opened up into a room where we stopped and turned the lights off and I don’t think I’ve ever had a better opportunity to use the “couldn’t see my hand an inch from my face” phrase to explain the utter blackness that followed. The guide brought the reality of the cave back to us with a click of his light and we followed him into the maze of narrow channels for another forty minutes before we made a loop back near the entrance. At the end of the last tunnel of icicles we came to a large room that opened to depths of thirty to forty feet. It and actually allowed us to dive down under the water after feeling so restrained in the tunnels of the maze of crazy formations we had nearly crawled through. Literally, there were times when the icicles rose up from the depths so close to me as we swam above them I used them to pull myself forward instead of kicking my legs in a swimming motion. If only I had an underwater housing for my camera… After the cenote tour ended I felt like it had been one of the best guided adventure trips Id ever indulged in. I highly recommend anyone visiting the Yucatan peninsula to partake in one.

A month had nearly passed and our tourist cards for México were about to expire. We entered Baja on the 28th of Sept and it was now the 23rd of Oct. I was becoming aware of my trip ending soon and it also occurred to me that making it to Panama was probably not going to happen. We talked about what was next on our list of places to see and things to do and came to the conclusion we should start heading south again. We awoke on the 24th and drove a hundred miles to the border of Belize and made another hassle free crossing. The national language of Belize is English and neither Patient nor I had planned on doing or seeing much in Belize so we blasted through the country in one day. We stooped in San Ignacio near the Guatemalan border and decided that we should at least stay here one night and head across the border tomorrow. San Ignacio is surrounded by rolling hills and has many beautiful attractions that draw locals and tourists here to partake in the many adventures in the area. There was a tubing tour we were interested in but it cost 70 bucks and that was defiantly out of the budget so we hung out with some Rasta’s and avoided doing much due to the high cost of everything there with the exception of food. Hell even beers were two bucks a piece. We awoke early and had our first almost American meal of flapjacks, potatoes, eggs and bacon. I hadn’t eaten potatoes or even seen them on any menu in the month we spent in México so I was happy to at least enjoy those before we rode the twelve miles to the Guatemalan border.

As most border towns do the border at Guatemala seemed sketchy and we had people hounding us to exchange money to Quetzales, the local Guatemalan currency, as soon as we pulled into the border area. We dismounted our bikes and checked ourselves out of Belize first while we thought about whether or not we should make a small exchange to get us through the border. While at the customs counter in Belize I asked what the exchange rate was and saw that the locals outside were giving a fair rate making a measly two percent on each dollar we changed. At every border we have to check ourselves and our bikes out of one country then cross the actual border and check ourselves in with immigration then find customs to declare or bikes as well in the new country. Cash seems to be the only means to pay the fees at customs and immigration for the vehicle permits so we changed twenty bucks worth between us into the local currency just to slide us through. We have both heard lengthy horror stories about being overcharged during this process but we had yet to experience them ourselves and easily moved away from the border happy to have another new stamp in our passports…

Too much rest?

As you all know when I arrived in San Cristobal de Las Casas last Wednesday I had permanently damaged my sprockets and chain that had been newly installed in San Diego before the trip began. On Thursday I had found a dealer online that shipped parts to foreign countries and rushed back to the hotel to put in a call for the parts and get them sent out ASAP. Just for peace of mind I forwent ordering the parts online because I wanted to physically talk to a live person to ensure that the parts I needed were in stock and that I could also get them sent DHL (from my understanding in the motorcycle world touring community DHL is the fastest and safest option to ship worldwide) so that they could be overnighted... Patient had brought his cell phone for emergency use and was kind enough to offer its use to me in my time of need. When I returned to the hotel he was at his Spanish language class and had left his phone in the room for me to use. He had locked his phone so that if he lost it someone couldn’t start making calls on it and run up his bill. He had also told me the combination to unlock the phone...

Once I returned to the room I hastily picked up the phone and punched in the code so that I could make the call to the shipper. I must have entered the code incorrectly because the phone asked for it again. Again the same message of error popped up after the second attempt to enter the code. The third time I entered the code I looked in my journal where I had written it down and ensure that I was using the correct one so that I could begin the process of getting back on the road. The message of error that popped up this time was one of great disappointment. The phone was now asking for a PUK code, which is entirely different than the regular passcode, in order to continue with unlocking the device. I was distraught. I knew the shop I was calling was about to close and I had not the time to walk back into the zocalo where public phones were available for my use and also knew that the order was going to have to wait another day. When Patient returned to the room I asked him for the PUK code and gave him the abridged story of the lockout... He asked me what code I had been using and we found out that I had incorrectly written down the code thus causing the problem. He had no idea of what a PUK code was and couldn’t unlock his phone either. No biggie he said, and off we went for some grub and beers. He bought me a few shots and told me not to worry because he could just go on the Cingular site and regain a PUK code.

After some tacos, beer and tequila were consumed we went to a cybercafé and he looked into regaining access to his unusable phone and I sent out a few emails to loved ones. The website was very unhelpful and he had to use the customer service email option to contact a Cingular representative directly. Friday came and went with out a response from Cingular and Patient was showing signs of a disturbing manner. I was able to use the public phone via a phone card to get my order in that was supposed to be shipped that day via overnight express. Saturday came and Patient still hadn’t received a response form Cingular and his patience could now be used as thinner to strip the thickest glaze from an antique piece of furniture. Sunday he went for a ride to a nearby canyon and avoided checking his email altogether thinking that he surely wasn’t going to get a response from Cingular on a such a holy day. Monday morning arrived in its usual overcast fashion of the rainforest fog that consumes this place and he had still yet to hear anything about his phone situation. That day he sent three or it might have even been four more emails to Cingular detailing his disgust with their company. Moreover, the last email explained that in the ten years he had been a customer who had never made a late payment and that if his money was all they wanted, they could take it and shove it up their stupid asses and cancel his contract if no response was received by the close of business that day due to their failed efforts to resolve his situation in his time of need. Mind you, I couldn’t feasibly post the real version of his disgust in their company without offending some of you so I transcribed it to you as an abridged ''clean'' version of his hatemail that was sent on that Monday morning. Shortly after this last transmission was sent he finally received a response from their customer service team with the utmost regret that they had offended him so much as to receive such a lengthy and complicated email regarding their services... They also offered him an apology and asked that he remain a loyal customer. The much needed PUK code was also assigned to unlock his phone.

Both Monday and Tuesday came and went without delivery of my overnighted parts. Patient had finished a weeks worth of Spanish classes and we discussed the option of meeting further down the road. I was tracking my package on the website and the last update was showing that it had left San Francisco on Saturday the 14th bound for international delivery. I was now getting worried about the package and this morning Patient and I went out for breakfast before he bailed out of town headed for the beautiful ruins of Palenque, one of the great Mayan cities of the 14th century. I went to a cybercafé to again check on the status of my package while he returned to the hotel to pack. As I was logging unto the website to track the package he comes back to the cafe and says with excitement that it is at the hotel. I close all the browsers I have open and hurriedly walk out of the cafe. In my haste I had forgotten to pay the cafe for their services and had to walk almost forty yards back to it before I could go to the hotel and get my parts.

I checked the package and all the parts were there so I quickly dressed and rode my shrieking moto (the noise from the distraught chain sounded like an abused soul being whipped like a banshee when it was moved) to a nearby Yamaha dealer I had found to install the parts. I could have done the job myself but the hotel we were staying in had no parking and they were kind enough to let us park in their tiled courtyard that I didn't want to mess up with the greasy job. Once I arrived at the Yamaha dealer the mechanic was on a break and the sales rep was unsure when he would return. Maybe an hour, maybe a few hours was the best answer I could get. I then walked to a Chevy dealer and found that they didn't service moto's and was frustrated with having to accept that I was either going to piss off the hotel or do the job in the street; an endeavor I wasn't up to but one I would resort to if I had to wait one to three hours for a mechanic. When I was resigned to this option and ready to ride back to the hotel and do the job myself in the street I notice a Honda dealer a few stores down from the Yamaha shop. I go in there to find that it is only a car dealer but that there is a Honda moto shop a few blocks down the rode. Back on the shrieking banshee with more odd looks from the pedestrians I ride the bike the few blocks to the Honda shop. There, a young mechanic and I discuss the job and I leave it with him and an estimated finishing time around four or five o'clock this afternoon. I walk back to the hotel where Patient was waiting and tell him the news. The ride to Palenque is supposed to take about three and a half hours and leaving that late would surely put me in or near the ruins in the cover of darkness so I decide to stay here for one more night and meet Patient tomorrow. I find a cheaper room in the same hotel and go out for one last walk in this beautiful city. I haven't taken many photos here but will load the few I have later.

Right now I am basking in the happiness of knowing that the red rocket will be all good again in a few hours and the urgency to get moving again is fading with these realizations. The week here was both bad and good in the sense of not knowing how long I would be stranded here and at the same time I was able to slow down and take more culture in. As the many miles of country I have missed blazing the roads south like a banshee myself cannot be relived or discovered again from the eyes and mind of it being a first time experience. It's all part of the grand adventure though and I shall continue on without a plan and see what will come up next as the adventure nears its turning point where I must head north and away from the feelings of freedom that have been pulsating through my veins the further I have gotten away from the consuming America I have been yearning to flee…

No rest for the wicked

The days have been long and the written words have been few. We blasted through Baja in a wink of an eye and now I am finding that we did the same through mainland México. Lucky for both of us we had our first case of viral stomach problems on the ferry ride from La Paz. It was the first day we had yet to ride the bikes and the ferry was much nicer than we thought it would be, especially the much needed bathrooms; before we entered them that is. The ferry is mainly used by the truckers commuting back and forth to Baja delivering goods to the peninsula that may as well be an island. They were drinking heavily on the ferry and we noticed it when the singing began. We were the last level to unload from the ferry when we arrived in Topolombpo at three in the morning and I was quite happy knowing that all the drunkards were ahead of me instead of behind me at that ungodly hour. We had planned on not driving at night on this trip but the ferries arrival, late or early however you want to call it, changed those plans leaving us without any other options. However, we did meet a fine steward of México on the ferry and he actually went out of his way and escorted us to a hotel in Los Mochis in the early morning hours after the long transit across the Sea of Cortes. My thanks go out to Carlos for his conversation and help on that otherwise uneventful day. It was however the only day I had dumped my dike in the thousand or so miles it took us to run down the peninsula. I was using my straps to secure the bike to the deck of the ship and thought that I had sufficiently secured one side. I proceeded to secure the other side and when I pulled the strap taught the first side came loose and the bike instantly fell over and made a loud thump as it hit the deck. I picked it back up and realized that I had used the straps incorrectly and they were not grabbing as they should have been once the tension was applied. After all that dirt and nasty sand I couldn’t believe that was the first time I had the bike on its side. Oh well, it wasn’t the first and probably won’t be the last time it will be keeled over like that…

From Los Mochis we blazed the sweaty humid pacific coast of México to Mazatlan after a brief nap in the hotel that Carlos had set up for us. In Mazatlan we actually did the unthinkable and shopped at a nearby Wal-Mart. Patient had dropped his camera one too many times on the tile floor (every floor seems to be made of tile here) of our hotel in La Paz and was in need of a new one. I went along just for the experience and ended up buying a few odds and ends for my still unsettled stomach. Carlos had mentioned that he was going to someday publish a photography book titled ´´Only in México´´ and when I was walking the streets of Mazatlan that night looking for food I saw a photo he would have loved to have for that book. I saw a family of four riding around on a scooter. Yeah you read that right, four people packed atop one scooter. The mother was driving and she had one child around three years old standing on the floorboards holding unto the handle bars with another child around eight years old sitting directly behind her with another one or two year old sitting in his lap. ´´Only in México´´ is the first though that came to my mind, and I wished that I had my camera so I could take the photo and send it to Carlos for his book about the peculiar culture that lives here in this land of beauty in both its people and topography… After the layover in Mazatlan we get another beautiful early morning sunrise before we start heading east trying to gain some ground in this gargantuan country. We toured some tequila factories in Tequila, got lost in Guadalajara and rode through the heart of the biggest city in the world. The funny thing about México is that there are two routes to take, one free, one that charges tolls. The free one is usually packed with buses, truckers and numerous insane drivers and the tolls are packed with booths asking for our precious dollars. I had intended on being cheap and taking the free routes but after the first day’s experience on those roads I realized that time is money. The free-way is no way to try and make any gains in distance as the buses and trucks spit their pollution into your lungs. The two lane roads are hazardous, no wait- more like life threatening as the game of chicken seems like the only way to travel on the free-way. Once we realized the importance of living so that we can complete this trip we quickly changed plans and upped the budget for México…

The funny thing about the roads is that no matter if you take the tolls or the free ones they all get to the next town and lead you right into the downtown area of it. Even on the toll roads once you enter the city the road suddenly ends and before you know what’s going on you are smack dab in the middle of traffic lights, one-way streets, signs that are confusing and the free-way crazy drivers that could care lees about your life on your moto.

For instance, when we came into Guadalajara Patient was leading us by means of his GPS. I was looking at the map on my tank bag and knew we needed to change roads and was looking for the new one. However, the only road signs we saw were of cities and not actual road route numbers. I kept looking at my map to try and orient us through this new way of relating but Patient was sure his GPS would lead us through the madness so I sat back and watched him find his way through the city. He was doing great until… I saw a sign that pointed towards the right that I knew we should take, but I also realized that he was too preoccupied with the computer to notice. I followed him away from our turn off and had an odd feeling that we would soon be lost. Shortly after the missed turn I see him in the fast lane looking at his GPS more than he was looking at the roads trying to find out where the hell we were and how to get on the right road. In México, I must also note that the drivers here are much more aware than the drivers we see on our freeways in the states. They actually use the fast lane as a passing lane and not a cruising lane. They don’t pass on the right making it a free for all road rage race against the rest of the traffic. Furthermore, they signal oncoming traffic with their hazards about upcoming hazards, and they also know where the fuck they’re going and are in a real fucking hurry to get the fuck there. I cuss for the sense of how it actually goes down as the road moves under foot in reality. Knowing this about the drivers here I change lanes into the center lane and stay behind Patient as he slows down to try and find not only where we are but where the road that we need to be on is located on his dainty little computerized machine located on his handlebars. Two cars are riding his ass hard and I am amazed by his resilience to ignore them and concentrate on his GPS whilst moving moderately along. He finally notices that I am in the other lane and moves over to let the traffic through…

Shortly after this he pulls over to the side of the road to relocate us on the machine. I bring up the possible missed turn now inaccessible, and restate that we are defiantly on the wrong road and need to reorient. He agrees and we get off at the next possible exit and head south unto a road that looks very bad and gets worse as it progresses. He is pointing forward like this is the right way and moves along anyway. We travel through a small village and the road shortly turns into dirt and mud puddles. After about ½ mile we take a sharp right and travel along another dirt road that I feel like is getting us somewhere back towards normalcy. Granted, I don’t even have a compass on this adventure and am only armed with maps and my somewhat twisted internal sense of direction but it has gotten me through this life so far. The road becomes normal (for México) and we are now back on track in his mind, my mind, and the computer’s mind. He races around another blob of traffic and we are coming into another sketchy barrio and I am at once skeptical before I even get to relax from the last run around. However, I follow and we soon find ourselves in an even worse off scenario than before. He looks over at me and says with a very sarcastic tone that the GPS says we are on the on onramp to the toll road we were looking for when we entered Guadalajara. I know we are on the wrong road, he knows we are on the wrong road, but we continue on… We find ourselves riding right through the middle of a Sunday afternoon flea market with looks of awe from stander bye. I am at this point enjoying the scene and smiling, waving and nodding at the community we have rolled into. Another mile rolls on and he pulls over screaming at his computer. Now you are aware why I have named my travel partner and this character Patient. Not once through all of this did he stop or slow down to reorient but he just kept preserving through the madness of being lost, confused, annoyed and frustrated. When he pulls over he looks at me and says that nothing more than throwing his GPS against the side of the dilapidated building we are next to would make him happier. He then utters that he would pay a cabbie a hundred dollars to get us back on track. I wave one down and ask for directions towards León on the autopista. He gives them and we are off again after I threw the cabbie a few pesos with me now leading. Shortly after this we see a mass of traffic that we cut through this on our sleek machines. Another added bonus of México is that the rules of the road need not be obeyed… We soon find a road that leads towards a named town on my map and stop at a Pemex (the only gas station in México) and ask a few more questions. As always, most people here can’t afford to travel so their directions are little more than another wishing well penny tossed into the gutter but they at least, in mass, have some value. We get back on a road heading the opposite direction and soon find a turn off for the toll road to México (for those of you uninformed -the capital of México is México City and it lies in the state of México and is commonly referred to as both México and D.F.). Yes this is also the same road we missed what has now been almost three hours ago… Lucky for us the town of Tequila is the next on our itinerary.

Tequila passes on without much to tell except a few distillery tours. We saw the farming of the blue agave the process of how the plant is turned into the fine tasting breath mint. Then after one night it’s off to Morelia we head amazingly without headaches. Morelia is one of México’s colonial towns that was recommended to me by a fellow friend who lives in Vail that was born and raised in México. Because the city is also a college town we find affordable accommodations right near the center of all the colonial beauty. Most towns in México are dominated by a church or churches which are usually near a block long courtyard or park commonly referred to as the zocalo. We find parking near the zocalo and split up to canvass the neighborhood when we come into town looking for hotels. This strategy has worked well so far, but that day when I returned after my half hour or so of looking to reunite and confer about prices, safe parking, and comfortability and wait for Patient to see what he found. Another fifteen minutes go by and I’m beginning to show a little concern about where he is. After another fifteen minutes pass he gets out of a shows up being escorted by the tourist police with a funny story about getting disoriented and having to take the cab back to the zocalo. After a few laughs we head to the hotel that suits our needs and tour the city on foot for the rest of the night…

D.F. is the biggest city in the world and we were quite nervous coming into it having just making a two-hour detour through a city about the same size of Denver a few days prior. We left early that day giving ourselves some extra time to find our way through the heart of the city and started making the chilly climb into the central mountains of México where D.F. sits. We reached a touch over ten thousand feet and had to put on extra clothes to stay warm on the ride. It was a nice change from the heat and humidity of Baja and the pacific coast that was now laying hundreds of miles behind us. When we ride through a pine forest in the cool mountain air it reminds me of my home in the mountains of Colorado. We arrive on the outskirts of the megalopolis and can tell that getting through this city will be a long time consuming affair even without any missed turns. The traffic is worse than any traffic I have ever dealt with living and driving on the populated ‘’one person per car roads’’ of So Cal, to include LA. We sack up and prepare for the commute right into and out of the downtown congestion. Thank god for that mechanic who righted my fan problems or else my bike would have surely boiled over or blown up from the sitting and waiting and crawling along in the mess of it all. I lead us into the city keeping a constant eye for signs with a list of towns written down and stored in the corner of my map case. Patient followed close behind tracking us on the GPS. That day the GPS did not lead us astray and we cruised right into and out of the city without a hitch. Well except for one…

We were on the outskirts of the city headed in the right direction and see our last and final sign for the city of Puebla, the way to freedom and away from the massive concrete jungle. I see a bad traffic jam in the off ramp and we come to a stop behind the mess of Semi’s, buses, taxi’s, ordinary commuters and even more commonplace the ubiquitous pickup truck’s packed so full that there is standing room only blocking the off ramp. These loaded up pickups are probably another one of Carlos’ ideas of good photos for his "only in México" book. I see another sign that says Puebla and shoot the gap between a few semis and a taxi to get around the mess. I see Patient follow me and as soon as I round the corner of the new road I’d taken I realize that it was leading us in the wrong direction and back into the mass of growth. Once I realize this I look in my rearview and see Patient waving at me like I really fucked up. I now know I did for sure and come to a stop on the side of the road. He pulls up next to me and reassures me that I fucked it up and we would have a hell of a time returning to the original exit if we continued on this route. He looks over at the side walk on the one-way road we’re on and says lets take this back the ¼ mile or so to the point where I made the wrong turn. Hell, we are in México and traffic laws seem to be worthless so I hop up on the side walk and head back to the congestion behind my fearless leader. The road curves to our right and we can’t see much of anything around the bend as we illegally commute along the walkway. However, lucky for us no one was using it as it for what is was designed and we return to the congested blockage with no apparent problems from the illegal maneuver. We scurry our way through the mess to find a broken down dump truck causing the back up and weave around him back unto the road to freedom from the masses…

We were trying to get as far away from the city as we could and pushed the bikes hard towards the gulf coast and the building ominous clouds that lye in wait. Another money grubbing booth takes another ten bucks off us and we race away from it like it was the plague trying to make up some distance after having a two and half hour layover commuting through the sixty plus miles on the artery of downtown traffic that ate up our time. We arrive at another toll and I look to my tank bag to obtain my wallet and find it not there. The map case where I had been keeping it for easy access was wide open and I realize that I am now without my wallet and my credit card. Initially I had set it up as a fake wallet in case I got robbed and had been keeping less than fifty dollars, a laminated fake color copy of my driver’s licensee and a few expired credit cards in it. However, that day I had put my real credit card in it to pay for the tolls so I wouldn’t have to carry so much cash on me. Bad Idea. We continued on and stopped about seventy miles later to rest and call in the lost card.

The next morning we try and leave early so we can get to the next city we want to visit and find that my bike won’t start. The starter is cranking fine but no combustion is getting into the engine as the starter is the only noise coming from the motor. I pull it apart and replace the plug before we can head out for the day. That causes us an hour delay and we fall short of San Cristobal de Las Casas, our intended city of arrival. We stay in what seems to be the wallet capital of the world as every store we pass has at least a shelf full of ‘em. The first hotel we stopped at even had a few Tommy Hilfiger designer wallets in their glass case where the front desk was located. Normally I don’t carry a wallet and only use a money clip but here on my trip it serves as a nice cover for all my money that I want to hide from the probing eyes that look towards it once it is pulled out of my pocket. Consequently, being money wise (more like cheap) I bargain for one and save three dollars over the nicer fine leather one that is exactly like the one I just lost and a perfect size for a few cards and a few dollars. The one I choose is a tiny Velcro style wallet and I can’t even put an ID or credit card in the intended pockets for use of said items. It does have a zippered coin pouch though and that has been a bonus. Patient laughs at me for buying a kids wallet every time I pull it out and it saddens me that I was actually being that cheap…

The next morning we move the bikes out of the lobby where we safely stored them, load them and prepare for take off when all we hear from my motor is the starter cranking. This sounds familiar and I am reasonably frustrated that I have to pull the bike apart again to check the reading on my plug. Once apart I find the plug to be in normal shape and am now at a loss for how to solve my problem. Patient thinks I may have some gunk in the carb because the plug was dry when I pulled it but we could smell gas when I was cranking the starter. He leaves for breakfast while I look further into the problem consulting my manual. He returns with some starting fluid and we give that a go. After ten more minutes of fuddling my way through the process of messing with my fuel mixture screw, plug connections and using the starting fluid she reveals no sign of functioning properly. A guy from the hotel comes to me with a mechanic and he tells me that in an hour or so he’ll have time to take apart my crab and fix it for me. Patient talks to me about leaving and reuniting in San Cristobal and I agree that he shouldn’t have to wait for me and I’ll email him when get the bike running and moving towards Cristobal. On his way out the door I give the starter one more crank and she finally gags, chokes, coughs and runs again. I put it all back together, add some carb cleaner to my fuel tank hoping to solve the problem and we head out together on what was supposed be an hour or so drive up into the mountains that many indigenous Maya people inhabit and into the beautiful city of San Cristobal de Las Casas.
The ride was absolutely stunning. It’s hard to put into words how beautiful the lush green jungle rose right from the road and into the cloud filled rainforest. Patient showed me a chart on his computer that details the elevation changes on the route and it looked like the seismographic chart of Charles Manson’s polygraph test explaining to the police that what he did was normal and sane. We started the ride at a few thousand feet and climbed up and down between that starting point and up to seven thousand feet through the winding road that appeared to be created by the manufacturer of the child’s toy Slinky. Waterfalls abound splashed their moisture unto the road creating a green mossy film a top the pavement. Sounds a little nerve racking doesn’t it? The last 28 miles of the ride took a sharp eastern heading and climbed strait up the snaking road into the cloudy mist that we could see above us up until that point. Patient was in front of me and in no time we were in the thick mist and I could barely see him enveloped in the fat dense fog that surrounded us and the hills. We came upon a few trucks and they were creeping up the foggy hill. It was all I could do to remain patient and not take my life into my hands and pass them. My patience wore thin moving so slowly and I rolled on the throttle and moved past the sluggish vehicles with the rush of adrenaline pumping through my veins not knowing when the next twist in the road was or when the next oncoming car would suddenly appear from the white cloud I was riding through. The route took us a total of 128 miles and the ride took well over three awe inspiring tension filled hours of serene calmness. I know of no other way to describe the route so I shall end it with those feeble attempts to relate how stunning it was…

Along the route we passed many Mayan villages where the people were seen walking the road carrying loads of wood and working their land. Fruit stands were set up, numerous animals were seen grazing in the lushness, a burro was obstinately standing in the road; a bull was even more terrifying when we approached his willful presence in the middle road on this stunning ride. It was so engaging I only stopped once along the way to snap a few photos. I think back to the route as these words flow from my mind and am regretful that I floated through that land so swiftly trying to comprehend the entirety of it all. It is a ride I could make a thousand times and see and feel something different as each moment passes me by on each and every curve of the ride…
Once it was all over and we rolled into Cristobal I felt stronger than Buddha himself and the energy within me was hard to comprehend. We filled up on gas right away and split up finding our own way to the zocalo. I see Patient’s bike and find parking nearby and slowly dismount my ride not really believing what had transpired in both my mind and my eyes. I see Patient wave me down, take off my rain gear and walk over to the zocalo to sit and be alone for a while. I find a shoe shine stand and sink into the chair and have my dirty boots polished while I take it all in…

After we meet for lunch split up and canvass the town for hotels and settle into one I unload a few things and want to do some maintenance on my bike before I tour the scene. I notice my chain hanging down about six inches lower than it should be and can’t believe the run of luck that has struck me and my bike. I inspect the sprockets and see that they are in terrible shape and try to tighten the chain anyhow. The rear axle nut is dreadfully loose and the chain is stretched beyond help. The abused rear sprocket is causing the chain to become tight at some points and loose at other points. I need new parts immediately and decide to settle into this town while the looking and waiting begins… I read a great tagline before I left for this trip and it said that the adventure begins when plans go awry. I am now beginning to grasp the meaning of those words and am letting the trip unfold as it may from here on out. I came here without a plan or itinerary and am aware that even so these circumstances are leading me into an adventure I hadn’t thought of. We rode hard and fast to get here and this is where I had initially estimated when I’d slow down and start taking more of each town in. I can see that reality becoming more and more real as these turn of events leaves me with no other option but that. Even though I am very skeptical of religion and its powerful agenda Vaya con dios is a saying I’ve used for years. The gods have allowed me to come this far before this turn of events happened. Now I shall begin the real adventure of this trip as I wait for it reveal the meaning of why these events started happening at this moment.

Baja Norte

These photos are from the Baja Notre section of the trip. I posted that story on the advrider site and wanted to at least post the photos here for your viewing pleasure... If you click on the photos they will enlarge in a new window. My travel partner also has a blog going and if you're interested you can check out his version of the trip on his page located at: www.andrewpguyheadingsouth.blogspot.com

In the middle of the desert on the Baja 1000 race course lies Coco's Corner. He is quite a character and beyond the race and a few motorcycles every now and again, he has very few people travel through his desolate neighborhood. He collects panties from the ladies when they come in flocks to hang out and party during the race.








A window inside one of the many missions. This one happens to be designed by the same architect that designed the Eifle Tower and is located in Santa Rosilia.

a sure sign that the store located near these 3 dimensional signs sells beer...

Left overs from one nights fresh catch of the day while we toured the dirt roads of Baja's northern coast...

Another shot of coco's corner. His entire fencing system (about 50 or so square yards) is made of beer cans. This is the entrance to his lair and some more of his handy work.

A cactus grove off the side of HWY 5, the dirt section we traversed.

Back on the pavement after three days of dirt

Patient riding on a section of the northern dirt roads

Looking south right before we pull into Guerro Negro on the traverse across the peninsula to the pacific coast.