Half-Throttle

The Former SGT Gutkin

2008-02-16T05:30:00.000-08:00

In the weeks leading up to our mission in Central America we had been working at the Headquarters building in Draper, UT. Gathering tools and completing endless amounts of online courses, and death by powerpoint briefings. In the hallway leading to the office there is a large recruiting poster. It’s holographic so depending on which angle you view it from there are different images. In bold letters across the top it reads “CITZEN SOLDIERS.” The main picture is of 9 or 10 people both men and women from different ethnic backgrounds, all of them wearing civilian clothes and sporting huge smiles. Walking past it I noticed that when the angle changed the citizens changed into soldiers, standing at attention in their shiny new class A uniforms. Noticeably gone were their smiles, I’m sure they were photographed that way to show their new level of professionalism. To me it looked like they had been happy as civilians, but now after joining the Army had realized they had made a huge mistake, and the uniform/Army was making them miserable.

They had held our connecting flight in Houston as long as possible, but now it was time to move. SGT Gutkin (pronounced Goot-ken) had shown up at the gate left his carry on luggage with us and gone to get some food. That was the last we saw of him, after repeated calls to his cell phone and pages over the airport intercom we had to get on the plane without him.

“I want you to make sure that man gets a court marshal.” Said the small Canadian woman sitting next to me. The baggage guys had been under our plane looking for SGT Gutkin’s luggage for the last 45 minutes. Since he had not boarded the flight his luggage had to be removed, severely delaying our take off. Finally we pushed back from the gate, relieved to be on our way to Panama.

As the plane taxied from the gate to the runway Captain Thomas was busy on his cell phone, calling Headquarters in Utah trying to find out what happened to Gutkin. If Gutkin was smart he would call headquarters and coordinate what to do next through them, and if he was smart he wouldn’t have missed the plane in the first place, we were quickly learning what a dummy former SGT Gutkin really was.

Being miserable in the Army is not uncommon, every soldier understands that things going wrong is part of the job. This was the first time I had seen a case of DUMM syndrome (Dummies in Uniform Made Miserable) become contagious, and spill over into the civilian world. During all the waiting and phone calls CPT Thomas had been informed of riots in Panama City. He was told that if we could get off the plane we should. So moments before the plane throttled up for take off we turned back for the gate. I always get a laugh when the Army pretends to care about my safety. They went out of their way to save me from savage tourist destination Panama, but anytime I want to volunteer for a mission to Iraq I’ll be gone in a heartbeat.

Groans filled the plane as the pilot announced we were headed back to the terminal so a few of the passengers could get off. Thankfully he didn’t announce anything about the riots in Panama. Honestly a couple of school girls could have been pulling each others hair in the streets and the Army would have shut the mission down. I felt terrible for the people left on the plane. One passenger was on her way to her sister’s funeral which was being held the next day, and was going to miss her connection in Panama City. I never found out how long the flight was delayed, but after having to pull back to the gate, then waiting for the baggage guys unload our luggage, I’m sure it was a long time.

After picking up most of our bags, and visiting the lost luggage office to tell them which bags had gone to Panama without us we headed to a nearby hotel. If former SGT Gutkin would have just gotten on the plane it wouldn’t have been delayed, and we wouldn’t have had time to get the message about a couple of homosexuals spraying each other with water pistols. We would have made it to Panama on schedule and the mission would have gone on. Gutkin threw a major wrench into things, when the Lifers finally found him it was around 11:30pm he had managed to stay lost for nearly 10 hours even though we had airport security looking for him.

A soldier can get away with several small mistakes, but one big one was enough. As I type we are on plane to Panama, while Gutkin is on his way back to Salt Lake City. He will be picked up at the airport, and taken to headquarters where his stinking cowardly body will be ripped apart limb from limb by grouchy Sergeant Majors, Colonels, and Captains.

Looking out the window of the plane I can see Panama City, the crossroads of the world. Tall buildings and twisting roads jammed with wild drivers, smoldering buses and honking horns. It is good to be back but one thing is certain; I am really going to miss my motorcycle.

--Ryan

900 X 16

2007-09-02T12:01:00.000-07:00

My helmet had been giving me problems ever since it fell off the handlebars and bounced down the road on the way south through Mexico. The visor was broken on the left side making it flap annoyingly in the wind, and it was so scratched I really couldn’t see much out of my left eye. Still I kept it all the way to Panama. This morning I glanced over my shoulder to check another road and the wind popped it off. I looked in my mirror to see it bouncing down the road, and realizing how nice it was to be able to see, I decided not to turn back for it.

I rode 900 miles that day and spent 16 hours on the bike. If I eat then I will have to go to the bathroom, which will slow me down even more, so I only stopped for gas and a small snack at a KFC in Chihuahua. I thought about getting a hotel there too, but I felt like I had a little more I decided to ride to the next town.

It was starting to get dark, and I was driving through mostly rural areas with lots of farms along side the road. When I switched on my high beam I felt like I was in lightspeed, it looked like I was driving through a tunnel of bugs. Although I was crouched low behind the windshield I couldn’t get low enough to be out of the path of the bugs. And since my visor was hundreds of miles back on the road I was constantly getting hit in the face. The best I could hope for was a reassuring splatter when they hit. If I couldn’t feel the cool bug juice running down my check after the stinging impact, then I knew there was very pissed off bug climbing around inside my helmet. Several times I had to reach into the helmet and smash one of the insects against my cheek. To keep them out of my eyes I had to keep my sunglasses on long after the sun was down. Driving through the pitch black with sunglasses on I could only see a few feet in front of me. Once bouncing over what I guess was a blown tire. I never saw it, maybe it was a stay dog I really don’t know.

Because it was dark I stopped at the first hotel I came across after leaving Chihuahua. Staggering through the door I asked, “How much for a room?” The man behind the desk replied “300 pesos ($30.00).” Maybe I was a little punchy from my long day with little food, but I thought I heard hesitation in his voice. “300 pesos is a lot for one person amigo. Do you have wireless internet or a swimming pool or Air conditioning?” They didn’t, and in a small town like this hotel’s should be going for $10-$15 not $30. Tired as I was, I knew this guy had seen an exhausted Gringo walk through his door, and thought that I would pay anything to get some sleep. I offered him $20, when he didn’t take it I said, “You know something Amigo, I’ve been traveling for 3 months and I’m tired of being charged more money just because I look different than you.” I staggered back out the door holding the frame to steady myself.

It was about an hour to the next town, where I walked into a hotel and had almost the same exact conversation, “$30 is a lot amigo…” Again it was another hour to the next town, through bug-infested roads. Where I paid $30 for a hotel, but at least they had Internet and A/C.

--Ryan

Break on Through

2007-08-26T09:03:00.000-07:00

Trying to cross the Guatemalan border the right way, by stopping and explaining the situation would just draw more attention to me. So as I approached the Mexican Frontier I knew I couldn’t stop. No explanations or excuses, just driving as fast as possible through the Guatemalan side of the border. I had planned on crossing at a border I had been through before, so I would know what to expect. But I got lost on a small dirt road for hours and crashed several times, so once I found civilization I followed the signs heading straight for the border.

Since I have never been to this crossing I don’t know what to expect. My brain is filled with explosions directing me which way to go, I am making life-changing decisions at 40 mph. Drive too slow the Guards may have time to react, to fast I may have an accident, get caught and well I don’t know what would have happened.

The familiar sight of 18-wheelers lining both sides of the road sent a shot of adrenaline racing through my body. This meant the border was right around the corner. At the first checkpoint the road split into 3 lanes for traffic leaving the country, there were chains in place to stop cars, but they were lying on the ground, and when I approached there were no other cars trying to cross. Guards with shotguns strapped to their backs waved at me to stop, I slowed down feinting I was going to follow the rules, then blazed right past them.

I thought that would be it, and sunny Mexico would be next waiting with open arms. But I could see 2 more checkpoints up ahead that I would need to pass through before I was out of Guatemala. The road split leaving a large median in the middle, and since I could see that the chains were up at the next checkpoint, I stayed left turning into oncoming traffic. Again large trucks lined both sides of the road leaving no room on the shoulder. Hoping for no cars coming my way I continued down the road. I can see the guards at the other checkpoints waving at me, and now all the truck drivers waiting their turn to cross are waving too. After a few nerve-racking minutes it was all over, I had made it to Mexico.

I already have the permit for the motorcycle, so I will just need a stamp in my passport from Mexico and I can be on my way. But here I am told that this crossing is only for truckers, tourists need to go to another crossing. They tell me I will have to go back to Guatemala, and south a little bit to the next crossing. I happen to know there are some very pissed off Guatemalans at the border I just came through, even if I hadn’t blown past the guards they still wouldn’t have let me in. I explain that me going back to Guatemala is impossible, they won’t let me back in. The guard seems to have some sympathy for me, and says, “Okay if you can go into that building and get them to stamp your passport I’ll let you go.” In the office the guy behind the desk gives me the same story, and tells me to go back. Smiling I walk out of the office stuffing my passport into the tank bag on the bike, “Yeah they stamped it no problems.” I tell the waiting guard. He is busy inspecting the permit on the windshield, and tells the suit standing behind him it’s good. The suit just shakes his head, and guard says I will have to go back.

Climbing on the motorcycle I apologize for what I am about to do. “Amigos going back to Guatemala is not possible for me. I hope you will not be angry, but I’m driving into Mexico.” A few seconds after thumbing the starter, I can see the Mexican border disappearing at 90mph in the mirror. I feel like I’m flying a cruise missile, trying to put as much distance between the border and I. Hoping the Mexican police won’t be waiting for me around the next corner.

--Ryan

25 Bucks

2007-08-23T08:56:00.001-07:00

Making videos along the way has been a lot of fun. Youtube is the most common video site, but there are others that reward you for uploading or making a good movie. So I upload them to several different sites. While I was waiting for my tires to be mounted 1 of the salesmen let me borrow his computer so I could check my email. I had a message from www.flix55.com telling me that “Episode 1: Half-throttle” had won and award, and the prize was $25. I was pretty excited; it’s nice to receive complements on your work.

When I was done at the computer I went back to the clothing and accessories department to continue flirting with Bethzy the girl working behind the desk. She spoke good English and liked listening to my stories about incompetent border guards.

I walked in and told her about the prize 1 of my videos had won. “Your not going to believe what just happened.” I said with a grin. “I just won $25 for 1 of the videos I was telling you about.” Bethzy thought that was great, now my claims of being a Hollywood movie star were making sense. “Yeah, I’ve driven over 9000 miles, and somebody was thoughtful enough to give me a slap in the face prize of $25, not bad for 3 months of work.”

I had been at the dealership 4 hours waiting to pay for my new tires. There was a problem making the invoice because this brand of tires was new to the dealership. I accused Bethzy of keeping me there so long on purpose because she wanted to flirt with me. She denied having anything to do with it. I was still sarcastically ranting about how great it was to receive such a big prize. “I’m set now, maybe I’ll get a couple of those $400 BMW helmets.”

“Tell you what Bethzy, let’s me and you take that 25 bucks and burn it on the town tonight.” She readily agreed, and we made plans to meet later that evening. For dinner we had tacos, the bill for 2 of us came to $1.93. And the movie we went to see was $3.00 a ticket. By then it was late, and my plan of spending all the money had failed.

Hmm, maybe that slap in the face was more of pat on the behind.

--Ryan

Avon Distanzia

2007-08-23T08:54:00.000-07:00

This trip has taken me over 9000 miles so far, but I had my Distanzia’s before I left. I would guess they had about 12,000 miles on them, pretty good for a motorcycle tire. I have been through everything with those tires. They crossed 12 borders with me, and took all the potholes, ruts, mud, and road kill Central America could throw at them. Through all that I didn’t have 1 flat tire.

At the BMW dealership in Guatemala City I changed them out. Normally a person would be happy to have new tires, but I felt like I was losing an old friend. I knew I could depend on them to carry me over whatever stood in our way. The dealership didn’t carry the Distanzia so I had to get something from Continental called the “Attack”. They have a tread pattern that looks like it’s mostly for show. Hopefully I have the same good luck with these tires as I did with the old ones.

Now that I have my new tire’s I plan to get out of Guatemala as fast as I can. I know it’s beautiful here, and the people are great, but I just don’t have good luck in Guatemala. And my drama with the border guards may not be over. I still need to make it to the border without being stopped by the police, and get through the Guatemalan side without any papers on the motorcycle.

--Ryan

Breaking Point

2007-08-18T19:16:00.000-07:00

Corinto, Guatemala
9255 Miles

After a long drive from El Salvador and a few nights in Copan Ruinas I made it to Corinto the northern Frontier of Guatemala and Honduras. On the Honduran side there is a large new customs building. A man there glaced at my passport and handed it back to me. I asked if there needed to be a stamp. He told me, “No we don’t give stamps here.” The guards down south had insisted they did. I cancelled the driving permit in Honduras and headed into Guatemala. When I came across the small shack housing the guards there, I stopped and pulled out a paper with 2 names on it. I had been given the names at the first border I was turned away from, they told me that they had telephoned these 2 guys in Corinto and they would be expecting me.

When I found 1 of the guys listed on the paper he didn’t know anything about my problem. He took 1 look at the expired permit and said there was nothing he could do. He said he could let me into the country but when I tried to leave they would want to see my permit. I’ll take my chances, this whole mess started when I was waved through this very border by the same guards who are telling me I will have to show a permit to get out. I’m likely to find the same thing on the other side.

During those 4 days when I was stuck on the Guatemala/Salvadorian border I reached a point where I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. I didn’t care what happened to the bike or if I ever got home. I had hit my limit and didn’t have the strength to fight anymore.

This feeling of hopelessness, and despair is what I had come for. To put myself in a position where only I could help myself. Where there is no one to pat you on the back, and tell you everything is going to be all right. Your mind begins to fracture with each side pulling you to a new stage in your life. Whether you become a blathering idiot begging a Guatemalan border guard to let you in, or keep your cool until you can catch your 2nd wind is up to you. Travel is beautiful, enlightening, and sometimes heartbreaking, but never taking the journey means never finding out.

--Ryan

Sleeping at the Border

2007-08-17T09:01:00.001-07:00

One of the Mormons has a friend of a friend that works at a Guatemalan border. So today I drive north to where this hook up works. I was disappointed when I got there to see that he was just one of the “Border crossing experts” who hound tourists, and not actually a border official as I had been told. He took all my papers and went off to get me a permit. Which I knew was impossible from the last 3 days of trying.

By the time I had become completely fed up with everyone, those trying to help and those who didn’t give a damn. Everybody at 2 borders knows me now, the local people who live, and sell food and goods there felt bad for me, the border officials hated me for giving them so much trouble.

Had I driven up and given them my fake permit they probably would have let me right in. But I let somebody else help and now my cover is blown. Everybody is watching me now, but I am also a crazed lunatic and not thinking straight. So I drive up to the border guard and try the fake permit anyway. They see through it straight away and take the copy away from me, I have more but knowing I want to run they have the road blocked.

Before I get arrested in Guatemala I turn back for Salvador. But I have already cancelled my permit there, and they won’t let me pass. When I try to get a new one they tell me I can’t cancel 1 and get a new 1 in the same day. Which I know is a lie, because I had cancelled 1 and received a new 1 the same day at the first border I tried when all this trouble started. But I have stepped on enough toes for 1 day so I stay quiet.

I pull my motorcycle across a parking space to protect where I will set up my tent and sleep for the night. An older Salvadorian woman comes over to see what I’m doing; I explain the situation as best I can. As she wipes the mud from yesterday off my helmet with her fingers, she starts to cry while apologizing for all the problems I’m having with her country. She walks back to her shop and comes back with a large piece of black plastic and starts to spread it over my tent, to protect from the rain. I thank her and explain the tent doesn’t need it and she understands after awhile.

The night in the parking lot was uneventful. 18-wheeler trucks passing through all night with brakes hissing, and engines grumbling made sure I didn’t get much sleep. But nobody messed with me, and as promised I had my permit at 7:00am to go back to El Salvador.

--Ryan

Stuck in the Mud

2007-08-17T08:57:00.000-07:00

On my way to the border with a plan on driving straight through the Guards I stopped to say goodbye to some of the Mormon’s who had been so nice to me. When I told them my plan they begged me not to do it, “First let us go to the border with you and try to talk with the Guatemalan’s.”

I rode the bike to the border and tried to walk across the bridge to talk to the Guards. But I was stopped by the Salvadorians and told I couldn’t leave the bike here, like I had done yesterday. The more I try to leave and get turned away the more suspicious I look. So my friends walked over and tried to talk with them.

They came back in a few hours frustrated and told me, “They think you stole the motorcycle.” Never mind that I have the original title and over 30 movies online following the trip from home to here, if that is what they think then nothing will change their minds. Now my idea of running the border doesn’t seem like a bad idea. My friends agree that it may be the only way.

I decide that if I am going to do it I had better go to a different crossing, there is 1 farther to the south. They won’t be expecting it there, so I said goodbye and headed south. The nice twisty road soon turned to mud with large ruts. I had made it pretty far into the mountains, when the bike started to head for a big rut on the side of the road. I watched it all happen in third person, unable to do anything about it. I had closed the throttle and remember wondering why the bike wasn’t stopping. After almost 9000 miles of riding grabbing the clutch and brake slipped my mind, and the bike went crashing into the rut.

I fought with the bike for hours, lifting it off its side and trying to drive it out of the rut only to have it fall more than 10 times. I had to unclip the luggage off the sides to shed weight, and use the fold up shovel (E-tool) I had “borrowed” from the Armory before I left. I turned the bike 180° as it lay on the ground and then had to drag over 500 pounds of motorcycle out of the ditch, something that I would have thought was impossible before. All this and I still had to lift the bike up 1 more time. Water was still running down the ditch, several times I almost had it up but my boots slipped out from under me, forcing me to start all over.

Covered in mud and exhausted I started to wonder if I should set up my tent and spend the night there. It was starting to get dark and I was running out of strength, it wasn’t likely anybody else would be foolish enough to use this road; help wasn’t coming. It took a lot of yelling and cursing to lift it that last time, I was surprised when I did lift it successfully. I rode back to the little town that had warned me not to go up the road. Stopped at small store for a something to drink, the owner looked a little frightened when the mud covered gringo walked in, and found a cold Gatorade for me to drink.

Back at Juan and Raddis’s house they washed my clothes and let me take a shower. I was exhausted my arms still shaking from all the lifting and pulling I had done on the mountain. Finding the edge of sanity is what I had come on this trip for. Getting stuck in the mud and having to fight my way out is why I bought a GS. I had every right to be angry, frustrated and disappointed. But I couldn’t stop laughing.

--Ryan

Just 5 more minutes

2007-08-17T08:56:00.000-07:00

This morning at 5:00am when the Bishop went to teach seminary I left on my motorcycle to try the border 1 more time. Being Monday I thought, maybe there will be a manager there who can do more to help me. I waited until 6:00am for him to show up, but I was already out of patience. So I asked 1 of the other Guards to write down the address where I needed to go in Guatemala City. After he gave me the address and phone number, I walked back to Salvador and rode my bike to town. I parked my bike back in the garage, and packed a bag with a change of clothes.

Before getting on the bus I called the number I had been given at the frontier. No one answered, so I took the bus back to the frontier and asked again where I needed to go. This time the manager was there; he looked at the address and told me it was wrong. Through a translator he told me that maybe he could help me, and I should stay there while he made some calls.

As I wondered around the frontier the “Expert” from yesterday shouted “Mister Mister Mister! You give me $5.” “Why would I give you $5?” I asked. “Because I help you yesterday, cross border very fast.” “Really? Then way am I still here?” He had a disappointed look on his face as he realized this was an argument he could not win. I laid down on a bench with my backpack on my chest, and fell asleep for a while, once startling myself awake with my own snoring. I was still so tried from trying to sort all this out. The Manager wanted to see the stamp in my passport from when I left Guatemala the 1st time. I told him that where I crossed there was no building giving out stamps. Then he wanted to see the stamp from Honduras, I searched through my passport a dozen times but couldn’t find it. Maybe they didn’t give me 1, maybe Mitch has 2 in his I don’t know what happened. Now after 10 hours of listening to this guy tell me “Just wait a little bit longer, I will help you.” The solution is for me to go back the 600 miles to Corinto in Northern Guatemala. Since I can enter Guatemala, and my bike can’t I asked if I could take a bus to Corinto, it is only about 100 miles from here. “No they will want to see the bike.”

After 10 hours of listening to them say, “Just 5 more minutes.” I walked back to El Salvador to get a bus to town, the Guards there wanted to know why I was being turned away from Guatemala. So I was taken to an office and asked questions I didn’t understand for 30 minutes. After I said “tourist” enough times they let me go.

I honestly can’t remember anything being on the Guatemalan side of the border, and feel that if I drive all that way I will be stuck with the same problem even father from home. The people here tell me that the form they need to cancel my permit is in Corinto. The guards in Corinto just need to push the “send” button and email it down, but they won’t do it.

I have one last hope; the sister who is letting me store her bike at her house has a friend of a friend who works at a Guatemalan Border. She doesn’t speak English so she called her sister in Calgary, Canada where I served my mission. We passed the phone back and forth as her sister translated the conversation. She is going to call him to see if he can do something to help me.

While she is checking on her connection, I went to an internet café scanned the expired driving permit, and emailed it to JaggiLines. In his control room he will be able to change the date on the document no problem. I have driven to the edge of insanity, and it is Guatemala.

--Ryan

Border Crossing Bureaucracy

2007-08-13T19:30:00.000-07:00

“Mister Mister Mister!” The Guatemalan border-crossing “expert” shouted as I pulled up to the Frontier. Another know-it-all to help me through the process of getting my passport stamped, and a driving permit for the motorcycle. I ignore him, but he stays with me shouting “Mister Mister Mister!” Pointing in the direction of the next office that I am already walking to. After a while he gives up, and leaves me to figure it out by myself.

7 hours later I left the Guatemalan border and headed back to El Salvador a broken man. On my way south we passed through northern Guatemala, but Mitch and I left the country through a seldom used border crossing. There was a building on the Honduran side but nothing in Guatemala. There was no obvious place to cancel my motorcycle permit. I found it in my mess of papers while I was at this border, but it had expired 2 days ago.

The 1st person who helped me told me I would have to go back to were I left Guatemala the first time. That means back through El Salvador, and Honduras nearly 600 miles out of my way. I was polite at first, but it didn’t last long. Our conversation ended after I pounded my fist on the Lonely Planet book several times, crumpled up the expired permit, and threw it on the ground. The guard with the 9mm picked it up, straightened it out and gave it back to me. I noticed he kept the hammer on his pistol was cocked, anybody who carries their gun that way means business, so I walked away to cool off.

I went and sat by my bike, and thought about how far I needed to back track for 1 stupid paper. Some middle aged men driving 2 white vans from California showed up and asked what the problem was. 3 of them were from Poland, 1 Costa Rican, and 1 American. They had loaded their vans with toys to give out to children while on their roadtrip. Some very cool, very helpful dudes, the Tri-lingual (Polish, Spanish, English) Costa Rican took me back to the office and helped plead my case. During the arguing in Spanish he turned to me and whispered “Go outside and put $50 in your passport.” Which I did, but the Guard would not take the bribe. He said he wanted to help if he could but the computer would not let him make a new permit. I would have to leave the motorcycle here at the border and go to a government office in Guatemala City to take care of the expired permit. But wait, the 1st guy I talked to tried to send me 600 miles back to where I crossed the 1st time. My new friends reached into their bag of toys and gave me a yo-yo shaped like baseball. “Looks like you might be here for a while, you could probably use this.”

So after 7 hours I turned back for Salvador. Unfortunately I had cancelled my driving permit there, so I was stuck trying to explain why I cancelled 1 permit and needed a new 1 the same day. Quickly I am being strangled to death by all the red tape, and being polite to the border officials is becoming more and more difficult.

On my way out of town to the border I passed a Mormon Church. Since it was Sunday I stopped and caught the last part of Sacrament meeting before heading to Guatemala. But after being stopped at the border, I would need somewhere to store my bike while I took the bus ride to Guatemala City. When I got back to Ahuachapan the Bishop was still at the chapel, and helped me to find a member with a garage where I could keep the bike. Then he took me back to his house and gave me some food. During dinner the Bishop told me there had been an assault on the road to Guatemala City today, and it could have been me. He thought it was a blessing I was stuck in El Salvador with them. I probably deserve a punishment more than a blessing, but as a Bishop he is the expert. I asked if they knew an Elder Dunn 1 of my best friends from home who severed his mission in El Salvador. The name sounded familiar to them so I pulled out my laptop and brought up some pictures I have of him. They recognized him right away, and said, “Elder Dunn needs to come back to El Salvador to loose some weight.”

I would have happily stayed in a hotel, but they insisted I stay with them. The Bishop pulled a mattress into the small front room of their house for me to sleep on, and asked if I would need anything else. I was exhausted from all the craziness of the day and just wanted to sleep. So he said goodnight and walked into his room. The 1 bedroom in the house had 2 queen size beds, 1 of those I was sleeping now. Which meant that he and his wife were sleeping on the box springs, or sharing the other bed with their 2 small children. So much kindness from these strangers made me uncomfortable.

--Ryan

Worlds Mildest Police Chase's

2007-08-09T14:51:00.000-07:00

Driving on the roads in Central America is fun, down here it’s a free for all. Just do whatever needs to be done to get to your destination as fast as possible. For me passing cars is a habit. I will be happy if I can drive from Panama to the Untied States and not get passed once by another car. I feel it’s safer to drive fast, than it is to have cars sneaking up on me from behind.

Today around the city of Leon in Nicaragua the police were everywhere. It’s times like these I wish I could turn my headlight off. I can see the police checkpoint from a ways off, but because of the BMW’s super bright headlight they can see me too. When I see orange cones in the road ahead I will try get in close behind a truck or something bigger than me. That way I can hide all the way into the checkpoint, then cruise through before they realize I am there.

Today my plan backfired when they stopped the truck I was hiding behind, maybe they saw me, or maybe it was just a bonus I was there. The officer asked for my documents on the bike, which I gave to him. Then, pointing to his eye said he saw me pass a truck, and I needed to pay. I had been passing trucks all day, and couldn’t think if the last one would have been in eyesight of the officer or not. I pointed to the broken yellow line in the road and told him it was okay to pass. He shook his head and kept pointing to his eye, while I kept pointing to the yellow line, and pretending to not understand what he was asking. This went on for a while, but he eventually became frustrated and let me go.

After this I was on my guard for more checkpoints. I found a truck driving at a good speed and stayed behind it, no more passing and no more speeding. About 10 miles down the road there is another checkpoint. I can see it through the windshield of the Toyota in front of me. When the pickup is through and the cop can see me, he starts waving madly and pointing at the side of the road.

I love the TV show “World’s Wildest Police Chase’s” I watch it secretly hoping the bad guys get away. When they get caught I think, “If I was driving that old red Ford pickup I could have gotten away, even if the cops had spiked my tires and there was no rubber left on the rims.”

So here is this (likely crooked) Nicaraguan cop waving at me. My day has come. I pretend not to see his frantic waving and continue to coast at 10 mph right through the checkpoint. A few more meters I am over the speed bump, and have made a clean get away. We both know his old 4-cylinder cop car rusting on the side of the road will never catch me.

Getting away from the Nicaraguan police has given me a big confidence boost for when I get back home. Even if it would be classified under World’s Mildest Police Chase’s, it makes me think, maybe I could….

--Ryan

The 6 Dollar Hotel

2007-08-07T09:57:00.000-07:00

After being on the road for over 2 months it’s hard to keep shelling out money for hotel rooms. So staying somewhere cheap doesn’t seem like a bad idea. My place in Managua has really taken the glamour out of travel, and comes with a free case of the Heebie Jeebies.

My $6 room has 2 fluorescent lights, giving it an eerie glow. It has a fan, but no air conditioning. There is a toilet with no seat, which I use only as a last resort. There isn’t a showerhead in the shower, or a curtain to keep the water from spraying on the floor, when I use it I must be careful to not step on the cigarette butts leftover from the last guest. I can’t help but wonder if water from the sink is making my teeth dirtier as I brush them.

Staying in a place like has become normal to me. Not sure if that is good or bad, but when taking a trip that seemingly lasts forever you can’t always stay in nice hotels. So I must do what is necessary to get by.

--Ryan

South America Vote

2007-08-06T11:51:00.000-07:00

By now some of you must be wondering about the vote to South America, so let me explain. The Trans-American highway (Alaska to Argentina) was started in 1914, and still remains unfinished, due to political and engineering problems. The swampy piece of land between Panama and Colombia is the Wild West, disease, and bandits are at home there.

The safest way to cross the Darien Gap is to ship the bike from Panama City to Bogotá, Colombia. A plane ticket for the bike is about $650, and for me it would be $250. Times it by 2 for the way home, and it’s about $2000 just to cross a border. That is just too much for my pocket book to handle.

My problem now is the voters sent me south. Can’t blame them it’s what I wanted before I knew how much it was going to cost. Luckily life in the National Guard has given me a new perspective of how voting works. So when faced with this problem I thought; what would “The W.” do? How would my Commander in Chief handle this situation? The answer was simple.

“All you voters can go to Hell.”

--Ryan

Rough Road

2007-08-06T11:48:00.000-07:00

I was making good time on the road from San Juan del Sur to Managua, until the police diverted traffic onto a side road. If they were giving an explanation I couldn’t have understood, so I turned off without complaint. Soon the road turned to mud, and my bald tires made it feel like ice.

The ruts act like black holes pulling me closer, trying to swallow me whole. I have to steer into the rut to counter act the slide downhill, and soon find myself having to ride in the middle of it. My front tire misses a big hole, but the back falls in. It’s deep enough that my bike lands on the frame, and before I lose all my momentum I let the throttle loose and walk the bike forward, spraying a rooster tail of mud and water a mile high. Once I am moving again I have to keep my legs down to steady the heavy bike. But the road is too much and sends crashing to the ground.

Now covered in mud and pissed off I have 20 cars, trucks, and chicken buses spread out in each direction waiting impatiently for me to lift my bike up and get it out of the middle of the road. After violently throwing my helmet into the trees I heave the bike up and jump on. I almost fall over again, this time onto an oncoming car but wrestle the bike through the mud and back onto the main road.

After walking back for the helmet, I made it to Managua. Still covered in mud, but in one piece.

--Ryan

Solo Gringo

2007-08-05T07:47:00.000-07:00

Nothing could ever match the hollow feeling I had as the plane circled lower to the Baghdad International Airport. The plump girl overflowing in the seat next to me was jabbering on about the desert. “Look at all the buildings, I think that’s the Tigris River.” She says tapping me on the shoulder, and pointing out the window. My head is buried in the book “Kite Runner” I keep hoping something in the book will be happy, just like I’m hoping the plump girl in the seat next to me will shut up. I don’t want to think about Iraq, or how crazy it was to sign up to go there. For the moment I want to ignore where I am, and the fear I have.

It has been 7800 miles since I left home, and for the first time I am riding alone. After traveling so far I have a habit of looking in my mirror for Mitch. Now he isn’t there, only this time it isn’t because he is broken down somewhere waiting for me to notice and turn around to find him.

Riding solo isn’t all bad, I will have to rely completely on myself. But not being able to carry on a conversation in Spanish will make the trip a bit lonely. Conversations inside my helmet have already started. Soon they will take place in the hotel, and then as I walk down the street. A good defense against would be thugs. “Hey, don’t mess that gringo. I heard him arguing with himself about whether or not it’s bad to drink motor oil.”

I am afraid to go alone, and just as before I will ignore the fear and do what needs to be done. I don’t know how much money it will cost, or where I will be staying at the end of each day. I don’t know the route I will take, or how much longer I will spend on the road. But I will get there…. Eventually.

--Ryan

Why Not?

2007-07-24T09:08:00.000-07:00

When I was in Iraq I spent hours staring at a large world map I had hung on my wall. I put thumbtacks in all the countries I had visited. The United States, Mexico, Belize, Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Canada, United Arab Emirates, Iraq, Cambodia, Thailand, Laos, France, Italy, Switzerland, Monaco, and Germany. Now counting Panama I have set foot in 21 different countries, but it will never be enough.

Staring at that oversized map I would trace my finger down through Central and South America. Dreaming about conquering it all on a BMW R1200GS. It was the dream that kept me going during my time there. I don’t know how long it will take or how many miles I will travel, but longer and farther is better.

Whether I go North or South I will be going alone. Mitch is flying home from Costa Rica for school. So if I must go alone why not go south? If I am already in Panama why not go to Columbia? If I have already ridden across the northern hemisphere, why not do the southern?

--Ryan

Halfway

2007-07-20T20:41:00.000-07:00

It has been 8 countries, 56 days, and 7000 miles since we left Utah. Don’t think 7000 miles is far? Try driving from Seattle to New York to Miami to San Francisco. You still wouldn’t be at 7000 miles, but by then you would get my point. Through blasting heat in Mexico, and pounding rain in Costa Rica half-throttle has made it halfway!

During our journey the only real danger we have experienced has been the traffic. We haven’t been robbed or chased by bandits. Crossing borders was tough, but I don’t think we paid anything that wasn’t due. We haven’t been pulled over by crooked police and intimidated for bribe money. In fact the only place we have had police problems was in Utah.

So where is the party? What did we do to celebrate crossing the Panama Canal, and getting to Panama City? We checked into a hotel and slept for 12 hours, woke up and took a siesta. Then we went to see Transformers and watched some giant robots tear up a city.

Reaching halfway in the trip has brought me no relief, or sense of fulfillment. Panama is the only country on this trip I haven’t seen before, the only new frontier. Thinking about turning north and heading home makes me feel empty. To the south is the Darien Gap and a continent I have never seen. After driving this far, I feel adventure pulling me south, south across Darien.

--Ryan

Clutch

2007-07-17T10:13:00.000-07:00

When a simple motorcycle part like a clutch cable goes missing or breaks the fix is relatively easy. Or is it? Saturday July 14, 2007 after driving over 150 miles in soul pounding rain we arrived in San Jose, Costa Rica just after 4:00 pm. Soaking wet we are doing our best to navigate through heavy traffic while looking for a hotel. After stopping at several possible locations we realize finding a hotel with parking this far in the city is near impossible. So we decide to head towards the edge of town. I jump on my motorcycle, turn the key, hit the starter, and down shift only to have my motorcycle leap forward and cut out.

The tension on my clutch lever is gone, Ryan looks at me, and in a sarcastic tone asks, “You ok?” wondering if I had forgotten how to drive. I respond, “My clutch cable just broke.” We are both upset yet neither one of us is surprised, I am far over due for some bad luck. Spotting a parking lot behind us we decide to push my bike into oncoming traffic on a one-way street, and against the odds we make it with no problems. After we get the motorcycle situated to be worked on, the parking lot attendant comes over to see what the problem is. He informs us all the shops close at 3:00 pm on Saturdays and nothing will be open until Monday.

I felt like giving up, parking the bike, and paying over $100 to leave it there for the weekend. Then it hits me, I need a bicycle or at least a bicycle store. I am in luck there is one less than a block away. I pull the broken cable and head up the road to buy a temporary replacement. The shop owner has what I need, or at least what will work for now. The bicycle cable is slightly thinner than the original, but hopefully it will do the job. Back at the parking lot I open up my tool kit and get to work, 45 minutes later I have the worst looking fixit job ever, and a working clutch. When we are ready to leave the attendant refuses any money, and wishes us a safe trip.

Once we find the hotel, it takes us 5 minutes to completely destroy the room. Motorcycle luggage covers the floor, and wet clothes hang from the walls dripping puddles onto the tile. We dump the water out of our boots and wring out our socks, trying to get ready for our next day of riding.

--Mitch

The Pan -American Highway

2007-07-16T10:05:00.000-07:00

The Pan-American Highway runs from Alaska to Argentina, with a small break between Panama and Columbia known as the Darien Gap. The Pan-American is the main road when passing through a small country like Costa Rica. It is incredible to me that the largest road in this country would be classified as a “Scenic Byway” back home. Rather than being a road set aside for family drives on Sunday, the Pan-Am must support an entire countries infrastructure. From motorcycles, to 18-wheelers and buses everybody going through Costa Rica must use this road.

It has been raining hard for the last few days, soaking our clothes and boots. The humidity is too high for anything to dry overnight, and because it was likely to rain again today we didn’t even bother to put dry clothes on. I even used the same wet socks as the day before.

Today we took the Pan-Am into the clouds south of San Jose. The altitude meter on my Zumo GPS cuts out above 10,000 feet, but I would guess we rode over 13,000ft. It was a moment you’ll never see on a postcard. Rain all day, slick roads, and a temperature of 55° F. Riding through the rain we got so cold we had put just about every bit of clothing on we had brought, just like back on Highway 12 in Utah.

Above 8000ft we were riding in the cloud that was raining on us, making it difficult to see. The twisty narrow road made passing a suicide mission, so stuck behind a slow moving truck driving 20mph can last forever, and there are no passing lanes.

I came around one corner to see white car trying to pass a bus. The driver panicked when he saw me, and locked his brakes trying to get back into his own lane behind the bus. The car slid sideways and shot off the road, it was nearly swallowed whole by the dense jungle. Mitch and I pulled quickly to the small shoulder and ran back to the car, hoping everyone was okay. The only person in the car was the driver and he was fine, I gave him a ride down the street to a place where he could call for a tow truck.

Had he been a little faster he may not have been able to get back behind the bus, I like to think I would have had time to react but it’s likely we would have met head on. After our close call we decided it would be best to use a 18-wheeler for cover. So we had to ride at 20mph for nearly the whole day.

--Ryan

Border Crossing

2007-07-14T16:06:00.000-07:00

Crossing borders can be difficult. Crossing them with a vehicle you can be strangled to death by red tape. On average you will have to visit 5 different buildings per crossing. Shell out money at each place, fill out forms, get stamps and stickers wait in long lines out in the heat. Through the whole experience you will wonder how you could have arrived on everybody’s first day, since nobody will know for sure what you need done.

When we crossed from Guatemala to Honduras we came to large new looking facility. It was a welcome sight, maybe this would be over quickly. We filled out some papers and our passports were stamped in minutes. Next came the permit for driving in Honduras. Apparently the office was down the road and we would have to be escorted there. So a guy who spoke about 3 words of English gets on the back of my bike to show us where to go. We end up driving an hour to Cortez, Honduras where they issue permits. But when we get there the office is closed for the day.

Our helpful friend wants to keep our passports and original titles for our bikes, to make sure we don’t skip town without the permit. After talking him out of that idea we stayed in a hotel for the night, and were back at the office bight and early. 6 painful hours later we were back on the road. Time stuck waiting for a permit: 30 hours.

Yesterday we left Nicaragua for ecotourism friendly Costa Rica, if any country down here would have the system streamlined it would be Costa Rica. But in the fifth building we came to the computers were broken, and some of the truckers trying to get through had been there for 6 hours. With the computers down there was no way for them to do it manually.

Mitch and I tried just going for it, but got stopped at a checkpoint and escorted back. After a few hours the computers came back online and people started to move very slowly. The girl typing in the information must have been going at about 6 or 7 words per minute. We were stuck there for 8 hours, didn’t get out until after dark, and it had started to rain. We had to do 15 miles in the rain and dark to make it to the next town.

Hassles like this make miss the chicken bus.

--Ryan

Granada

2007-07-12T20:37:00.000-07:00

Granada is the major tourist destination in Nicaragua. Mitch and I would visit Granada every chance we got during our 4 month “New Horizons” tour with the National Guard. The Spanish Colonial city has cobble stone streets, and beautiful architecture. It sits on Lake Nicaragua, which was formed after a volcanic eruption closed it off from the ocean. Making it home to some interesting fish, like the freshwater shark. The eruption also left 100’s of little islands in the lake some have been developed with small guesthouses for rent. A few years ago we went on a great kayaking trip through the islands and saw some cool hotels and one island home to a bunch of monkey’s.

This visit was a bit of a let down. It has rained pretty hard both days we have been here, keeping us hiding in the hotel. Which isn’t all bad, we always seem to be tired after riding the motorcycles so much. A couple days of rest gives us time to update the website. Finding time to ride, film, edit, blog, keep the voting page updated, and upload from (sometimes painfully slow) Internet cafés can really wear us out.

Nicaragua also seems to be going through a power crisis. Both Managua and Granada have had daily power outages while we have been here. In Granada it has been happening at night. Even in a welcoming city like Granada it can be eerie walking around at night with no streetlights.

--Ryan

Lawyers, Guns, and Money

2007-07-11T21:10:00.000-07:00

I have Garmin Zumo GPS to guide us on the trip. Down here it’s more like a $700 compass, but it can be loaded with music and used like an iPod while riding. I haven’t tucked my headphones inside my helmet since we crossed the Mexican border. At first I was nervous about driving in Central America and wanted to be able to hear everything around me. But after I became comfortable on the road, I didn’t put them back in.

Honestly I like singing to myself. For one whole day while riding in Honduras I sang Warren Zevon’s “Lawyers, Guns, and Money”. It’s been worth driving to Honduras just to be able to sing that song. On the bad dirt road between Gracias and Tegucigalpa, with the jungle all around I shout the lyrics to put extra emphasis on “And I’m hiding in Honduras, I’m a desperate man. Send lawyers, guns, and money the _____ has hit the fan.”

After singing it so many times my voice becomes harsh. I sound like a lifelong smoker, like Dirty Harry singing Karaoke. When my voice changes from smooth to harsh, and before it starts to hurt from singing too much I sound like a rock star, snarling at the jungle.

I am creating my own world inside my helmet (It’s a muggy humid world where people sweat a lot). It is where I am a Jedi Knight flying a landspeeder through bad traffic, where I am a rock star singing to an adoring crowd. Where become a fighter pilot leaning hard into a corner to feel the G-forces pulling on me, and compressing the suspension of my bike.

--Ryan

How I learned to stop worrying and love the Bike

2007-07-10T15:11:00.000-07:00

Guest Bloggers: Andrea and Julia

Guest Bloggers, you ask? Yes. Guest Bloggers that are forever indebted to their knights in shining armor. Well, knights in shinning motorcycles, at least. Julia and I met Ryan and Mitch at the aguas termales, thermal hot springs, just southwest of the town of Gracias in Western Honduras. Julia and I hail from New York City and came to Honduras searching for adventure and to get as far from the beaten path as possible. Turns out we got more than we bargained for.

Prior to our encounter with Ryan and Mitch, we spent a few days in and around Copan, gawking at the Mayan ruins and learning the more colorful bits of Mayan culture and history that were omitted from our public education. The Mayans were an awfully productive community considering the civilization was ‘shrooming for over 1,000 years.

Three bus rides and 5 hours later, Julia and I to eventually made our way from Copan to Gracias. We spent over 5 hours in the back of decrepit school buses that have not passed safety tests for at least 35 years, practically sitting on the laps of some unlucky fellows. Since I caught a mild bug and ran a fever the previous night, we decided to take it easy and spend our evening at the aguas termales just out of town. We inquired around town and all the locals agreed that the hot springs were lovely and easily accessible. We hailed a tuk-tuk (yes, that's what they are called in Thailand, not Honduras. However, I have not heard anyone call these little golf carts anything of interest, therefore I will continue to call them tuk-tuks) and ventured out on a daunting dirt road leading to the hot springs. A road that would be totally sweet to take my mountain bike on, but was a bit of a killjoy in our un-shock absorbent tuk-tuk. The ride took forever, but we made it to our destination.

Shortly after submerging into the warm embrace of the hot springs, Mitch and Ryan came over and introduced themselves. Lovely conversation and several hours later, Ryan was kind enough to offer us a ride back to town. Immediately I felt my stomach turn. And then drop. I had only worn a bathing suit, skirt, t-shirt, and Chacos- hardly protective gear. Plus, that road was scary enough via tuk-tuk during daylight. Besides, riding off in the dark with a man I’ve only just met in a foreign country sounds like the plot to some B-Horror movie. Or maybe just an urban legend. Either way, I hardly knew these men. How could I put my life or Julia’s in their hands?

Looking around, I realized we didn't have many options for getting back to town as the other bathers seemed to have left and tuk-tuks were not as readily available as we were led to believe. It took a heck of a lotta convincing, but I realized it was the best option. Ok, our only option. I swear I could hear my dad telling me I’d be an idiot to get on that Donor-cycle. I guess my dad raised an absolute idiot. I wondered if being a registered organ donor in New York carries over international boundaries?

I didn't realize Ryan drove a Beamer. Ladies and Gents, it’s quite a sexy bike. More importantly, it looked like it could handle the ruts, rocks, and divots in the road. I didn't pay much attention to Mitch or Julia because I am selfish and extremely self-centered. Julia could fend for herself, right? Hmm, ok, so I was terrified and hadn’t felt this way since probably the last stupid thing I did. But Ryan assured me that Mitch would be very cautious with Julia in tow. Geez, what a relief!

Ryan, always the gentleman, gave me his helmet to wear. Lacking more excuses, I hopped on the back of his bike, wrapped my arms around him, and then proceeded to break at least 4 of his ribs. I kid, I joke. I only broke two. Ryan is a steady driver who finds his line and doesn’t panic. I admit, after a few minutes, I loosed my vice-like grip and just enjoyed the ride. A pretty sweet ride. Please note: Ryan is an absolute saint to have put up with some loony chick from New York freaking out on him and yelling obscenities in his ear. The man has patience, I tell ya. As for Mitch, this wasn’t Julia’s first rodeo. She didn’t make a fuss like me.

But Wait! There's more! Yes folks, the drama continues. After parking their bikes into their fancy hotel parking lot, the fellows insisted on walking us home. Of course I got us lost and we took a very long walk around a very small town to end up at the supremely budget hostel that Julia and I had decided to stay at. A hostel that both the management and the guide books failed to mention locked its front door at 9 PM. Promptly. As it was past 11 PM, once again Mitch and Ryan came to our rescue and told us we could crash at their hotel room .

Unfortunately for the boys, Julia got violently ill and spent the entire night in the bathroom vomiting and with diarrhea explosiva. With thin walls, I don’t think anyone slept through this ordeal. Also, Julia’s illness coincided with a broken water pump in town, so the hotel did not have any water or plumbing for the night. The bathroom was a disaster. Julia was dehydrated. I ran around the courtyard and hotel, scavenging whatever supplies I could gather: empty flower pots (Ok, I emptied them), a bucket of water in a tool shed (Yes, I broke in. But it was an emergency), and other items that might be able to alleviate poor Julia’s discomfort. Mitch and Ryan were so kind and understanding throughout the entire ordeal .

Readers, I am not sure how many people would have been as kind and generous to us as the protagonists of this epic tale. It’s not that I don’t have faith in people. But people have limits. Just like Paul Bunyan and Johnny Appleseed before them, Ryan and Mitch are true legends. At least in our book.

As a side note, the next day I ventured out on rougher terrain with the boys, got hooked on the adrenalin rush, and gradually felt comfortable enough to hold a camera with one hand while the other only lightly grasped Ryan’s shoulder. But that’s just my version.

In The Groove

2007-07-09T18:48:00.000-07:00

I know riding a motorcycle is dangerous. But it doesn’t feel that way when I ride. On small 2 lane roads across Central America lane sharing is a way of life. As the road twists through mountain passes, lumbering Mexican beasts of burden billow black toxic smoke. Your choice is to breath the smoke and let it fill your eyes, or go for it.

Weaving in and out of traffic I become hypnotized. The danger doesn’t register, I am leaning hard into a corner passing a chicken bus. When I can see around the bus there is a truck coming my way. I don’t flinch, I don’t brake, I put the front tire of the BMW right on the centerline. I’m not crossing my fingers, I feel no adrenaline. I don’t hope the vehicles next to me wont swerve. Somehow I know they wont change the path they are on. I feel completely in control of things completely out of my control.

Once while passing a bus I lifted my right hand off the throttle. With the throttle lock in place the bike continued to accelerate. At 60 mph while passing I reach out not thinking, just riding. I caught myself at the last second, realizing that dragging my hand along the bus was a really bad idea.

It is hard to describe the feeling I had. I was totally aware, yet unaware. In control, but out of control. Musicians playing together get in the “groove”. Soldiers in combat can speak without words. Motorcycle riders can control the space around them. Until they get hit. Then they lay on the ground, bleeding, and looking at their mangled bike, with a expression on their face like there has been some kind of mistake.

--Ryan

Look Ma. No Brakes!

2007-07-01T10:00:00.000-07:00

Entering Guatemala was surprisingly easy thanks to a 7 year old boy. After getting our motorcycles sprayed at pest control and having our passports stamped, we were directed by immigration to the customs building for our driving permits. It is at this time a helpful young Guatemalan speaking very little English informed us that we needed copies of our passport, title, and drivers’ license. I was hesitant at first because our place in line was well established and no actual official had indicated that we needed such copies; but Ryan to see if this boy’s claims were true followed our new friend out of the customs building and into the crowded street disappearing from site. Ryan returned moments later when I was approaching the front of the line, its at this point that I noticed a small piece of paper no larger than a post card listing the required documents, the boy was right. Switching places with Ryan now I am being led out of the nicely cooled building and into the hot street to receive my necessary copies; thanks to the lack of information by yet another government agency, if it were not for this young boy looking out for ill informed tourists we could have been stuck at the border for an extra hour or more.

After tipping our new found friend we hopped on our motorcycles and were off to Tikal. The first 23 miles of road into Guatemala from Belize is rough dirt and gravel containing ruts, large potholes, and rocks the size of coconuts, no wait that was a coconut. After dodging the seemingly endless barrage of hazards this country calls a road we reached pavement but I soon came to the alarming realization that this paved section of road is much much worse. There are long evenly spaced gouges in the road; it looks as if a drunken grader operator was sporadically dropping the front teeth just for fun. The potholes are replaced with pot-lakes Ryan is in the lead and at one point he all but disappears when he is unable to steer clear of one. “Thank goodness for the Body Glove snorkel or he may have drowned.”

We reach the turn off to Tikal and pull over to check my rear brake; after installing the new sprocket and chain earlier that day there was some noticeable rubbing from one of the brake pads. It has apparently gotten worse because the caliper is now too hot even touch I purchase three waters from the nearest store one for Ryan, one for me, and one for the brakes. Upon removing the caliper and separating the badly worn brake pads we reinstall the caliper and were off. Only Twenty more miles to Tikal I make it a point to not use the rear brakes but when we reach the parking lot the brake is fully compressed and now there is no brake pad left. We decide to wait until our tour of Tikal is over before trying to fix the bike giving it time to cool.

Removing the brake was easy deciding what to do was a bit more difficult. Every person we asked said the nearest mechanic was in Flores located 40 miles away. With some debate and 6 zip ties the rear caliper is now securely attached to my swing arm. I never saw the need for a rear brake in the first place they are highly over rated. We reach Flores and find a hotel but it’s to late in the evening to find a mechanic, maybe tomorrow.

--Mitch

God Bless the Mennonites

2007-06-30T19:24:00.000-07:00

It felt good to hit the 5000 mile point. We thought we would be on our way back from Panama after so many miles, but it turns out we were just entering Belize. Thankfully the countries get smaller from here.

Not far into Belize Mitch noticed that his rear sprocket had turned itself into a table saw blade. The chain had worn deep into the teeth of the sprocket making each tooth look like a hook, if not replaced soon they would begin to break and the chain would start to slip.

Luckily we were in Belmopan the capital city of Belize. The capital of an entire country, finding a mechanic or spare parts should be no problem right? Wrong big time, Belmopan is lucky to have a gas station. We couldn’t even find a bank that would exchange our Mexican Pesos for Belizean Dollars. The Mexican Embassy even turned our Pesos away!

We caught a break when the only bike mechanic in town rode passed us. He didn’t have any parts would could use, but he did point us in the direction of a Mennonite Colony, “If it’s in Belize the Mennonites will have it.” He said.

After bouncing down the dirt road to the colony we found the shop easy enough, and sent the owner rummaging through his storage room for a new chain and sprocket. After a few minutes he came back with a dust covered plastic bag. Inside was a glossy black 43 tooth sprocket, on the side was stamped KLR650. Cheap Mexican chains and sprockets intended to run a 150cc scooter have plagued our trip. And here in the middle of nowhere was an honest to goodness Kawasaki KLR650 rear sprocket. If they didn’t have one our next option was to buy a bus ticket back to Cancun, the nearest Kawasaki dealership is there. So this was a major break.

I guess what I am trying to say here is; buy a motorcycle with a shaft drive. And thank God for Mennonites.

--Ryan

They call him Pinball

2007-06-29T13:54:00.000-07:00

Mitch “Pinball” Curwen has made it through Mexico.

It took 4992 miles, and 2 motorcycles. He is on his 6th chain, and 3rd sprocket. He has dropped his motorcycle 5 times, been in 1 accident, 1 ambulance ride, had 4 stitches, and 1 high-speed dismount on a muddy road. He has been pulled over by Mexican Police and watched them siphoned his gas tank. Broken a turn signal and lost a pair of nail clippers. He had a Guardian Bell, a gift from a friend to ward off problems when placed on a motorcycle. But he has crashed so many times it fell off.

He made his way through Mexico with the strategy of a pinball. One large unshaven steel ball bearing bouncing off of, around, and over anything in his way. How many times can it be the end of the road for one person? His first motorcycle gets a blown engine? He gets a new motorcycle. Hit a car going 30mph and land in the hospital? He gets his stitches and rides the bike to the next town that very night. He breaks a chain in the middle of nowhere? He waits on the side of the road for me to bring him a new one.

There is no motorcycle endorsement on his driver’s license, he hasn’t taken any riders safety courses, and he has more balls than brains. But he does have a ½ shell helmet, combat boots, a leather jacket, and a black handkerchief. Nobody could have blamed Mitch if he had gone home after the Heritage broke, or after his accident in Sonora. But someday when Mitch is an old man, and his grandkid climbs on his knee to ask what he ever did that was so great. He won’t have to say “Well… I was going to ride a motorcycle from Utah to where the road ends.”

--Ryan

Mahahual

2007-06-27T17:28:00.000-07:00

I didn’t realize it until we got here, but I have been to Mahahual once before. I came with my family on a cruise ship a few years ago. I didn’t recognize the name because most Gringos simply call it Costa Maya.

The main road through town is made from sand, and the water is bright blue and green. With no cruise ship at the nearby port Mahahual is quiet and relaxing. I was walking down the deserted sandy street and saw a man trying to free his kite from a palm tree. I looked up to see where the kite was and saw this cloud passing by. The sun was streaming around the dark cloud making a giant halo. I stood in awe, watching it float by. I could look at the sky for the rest of my life and never see a cloud that perfect. A feeling of nirvana and peace came over me, I heard the cloud gently say, “Never leave this place.”

On our 2nd day a ship pulled up and the town transformed completely. Every inch of the sandy road is now covered with souvenir stores run by aggressive shopkeepers chasing tourists as they walk by. Bar owners beckoning for the cruisers to come in. During lunch today I made sure to mention we weren’t with the cruise boat that was at the port, and we wanted the real prices. I was surprised when he took the menu back and brought us a different one; everything on the new menu cost about $1 less.

Mahahual is a great town, but it would be better without the cruise ships turning it from sleepy to touristy.

--Ryan

Cenote

2007-06-25T21:04:00.001-07:00

Cenotes

Swimming in the Cenote was awesome. After riding for an hour the water cooled us perfectly. To get from the road to the cave other tourists were hiring horse drawn rail cars. The small cars could hold 5 or 6 people at the most. We could see where everybody was headed, and after riding our motorcycles an hour we wanted to go all the way. The people running the rails told us it was impossible, they said our motorcycles would not be able to make it down the bumpy road.

So off we went down the rail. Riding down the track was intense and a few times we had to swerve onto the shoulder to let a horse and carriage by, but we did what the locals thought impossible. After parking right next to the opening of the cave we changed clothes and walked down the stairs at the entrance.

Mitch and I brought our snorkels and masks so we could do some exploring underwater. We would take turns hovering at the surface and watching the other dive. We couldn’t believe how deep we were getting. Going down it didn’t seem that far, but when I watched Mitch swim down to where I just was it looked incredibly deep. We guessed we were diving to about 30 feet.

If there had been food vendors at the Cenote I don’t think we would have ever left. Leaving the cool water to put on a riding jacket and helmet in the humid Yucatan was hard. The trick is to always be last. I talk like I’m in a hurry, “Hey Mitch, hurry up man I want to get on the road.” Then I drag my feet while he puts his dark leather jacket and helmet on. There is no prize for putting everything on first. The only time wearing protective gear is bearable is when you’re riding, if there is no wind in my helmet I may drown in my own sweat. When I get ready last I can jump on the bike and go, while Mitch is overheating waiting for me.

--Ryan

Hostel

2007-06-24T18:50:00.001-07:00

Hostel

We stayed in a hostel for the first time on the trip. It reminded me how much I hate them. Mitch and I got a room with a bunk bed. I always get the bunk on top, a habit since Basic Training. When you are on the bottom people are always sitting on your bunk, or standing on it to grab something off theirs. I have enough reasons to kill Mitch, last thing I need is for him to start screwing around with my bed.

The hostel did have an air conditioner, but they didn’t turn it on. There was a ceiling fan but it was blowing air on the partition they had built to divide the place into rooms. So I lay there listening to the fan in a pool of my own sweat. Smelling the hippies in the next room.

I have been chased out of hostels by the smell alone. I want to shout “Hey! This place does have showers. They even give you the soap.” But it’s no use; hostels are full of hippies. I always see them lying in their beds, all day long. Why did they come all this way to just lay there? Go check out Mexico!

I don’t mind helping people in need. So now I will go put a clothespin on my nose, borrow a giant wooden pizza spatula, and turn sleeping hippies over. I would hate for any of them to get a bed sore.

--Ryan

Regret?

2007-06-19T20:10:00.000-07:00

Being alone inside my helmet listening to the wind rushing by, my mind starts to wander. I really can’t control it, so when it asked me if I would ever regret taking this trip I laughed out loud. If comedy is all about timing, my mind is perfect at it.

This really was the most ridiculous question anybody could ask. I analyze it from every angle. If I make a fortune in the stock market, or go bankrupt and live on the street. If I get married have lots of fat babies and live a long life, if I get cancer and die young. Could I ever look back and think this was all a huge mistake? Can a person ever regret travel?

Of all the places I could be, none could make me happier than the inside of a sweaty helmet on the bumpy Mexican road to Veracruz.

--Ryan

True Grit

2007-06-16T09:55:00.000-07:00

Our trip so far has had some ups and downs. Getting past the Mexican Drivers permit in Sonora was a nightmare. Worrying about Mitch being able to continue the adventure after the breakdown in Arizona were some of the worst days ever. But we grit our teeth and drive on.

The first time I can remember having to grit my teeth was Basic Training. Dingo Boy was saluting with his left hand and couldn't figure out why Drill SGT Pipken was so furious. I was nearly in tears I was laughing so hard, but after a few weeks of training I had found that gritting your teeth was a pretty good cover for smiling. Watching Privates get “smoked” is the most entertaining example of modern day torture a person can hope to see. But if a Drill Sergeant can see that your enjoying it you will be the next participant.

"Hey Dingo Boy! One of these things is not like the other." Drill Sergeant Pipkin shouts standing 3 inches away from Dingo Boys face, foaming at the mouth and spitting as he speaks. "You had better fix yourself, before I throat chop you and skull drag you up and down the Parade field." The problem here is that Dingo Boy is standing directly across from me, like an image in the mirror. So when the order came to present arms, and all our arms snapped to our brow in a sharp salute Dingo Boy did look like the rest of us. Since he could only see what was straight in front of him he had snapped his left hand up to match my right. It wasn't his fault. Dingo Boy was from a backwoods town in Louisiana, and the most brainless thickheaded person I have ever met.

The Drill Sergeants barrage of insults continued. "I'll throw your butt so far out of the Army that when you land there won't be anything but brown rip-stop on your uniform!" I bite down hard to cover the smile that is brewing my face grimaced in pain. Maybe it's the sun in my eyes, maybe my muscles are sore from all the PT this morning, maybe it's a blister in my boot from yesterday's 10K road march, but as long as I keep gritting my teeth maybe Pipkin wont notice that it's really a smile. "Hey Dingo Boy do you wake up every morning and hit yourself in the head with a brick?"

I am trying to help and while keeping my salute in place I make eye contact with him and begin to move my elbow up and down, trying to hint that it's his right hand he needs in the air. Playing off my direction he begins move his elbow higher and lower, changes the angle of his hand, moves his fingers above his eyebrow and then down below. But still the fury of Drill SGT. Pipken rains down on him. "Dingo Boy I will kill you!" Finally noticed by the Drill SGT I begin to knock out an unspecified number of push ups, while keeping my body stiff I slowly move up and down parallel to the ground, my hands cold on the January asphalt of Fort Leonard Wood, while paying the price for laughter and watching sweat roll off my brow, still I grit my teeth.

Driving from Sayulita to Guadalajara we hit our first rainstorm. Drops of rain big as your fist pummeled us from the sky as we drove through mountain passes soaking us completely. We stopped for a moment to put the rain fly’s on our tank bag then kept going. During the heat of summer the heavy trucks create grooves in the soft asphalt. Now those grooves are pools of water so we must ride in the middle to stay on the high ground and avoid hydroplaning. Oncoming traffic is sending a constant tidal wave of water at us from the road. Forcing me to grip my handlebars tight as the waves crash against me. I shake my head after each swell breaks trying to clear water off the visor of my helmet, hoping to catch a glimpse of traffic before the next wave breaks.

During a lull in traffic I glance in my mirror to check on Mitch. The black bandanna with the skulls is off his face and around his neck. I can see his teeth. But can’t be sure if it is from pleasure, or pain.

--Ryan

East or West coast

2007-06-06T08:46:00.000-07:00

Mitch Picks: West cost and El Salvador

Mexico’s west coast is by far the best choice over all. It is a more direct route leaving us ample time to explore other countries; or more time to get back home if something happens that delays our progress. There are many possible towns and sights to see along the way including Mayan ruins, beaches, and jungles. We will be traveling close to the coast the entire way giving us more chances to camp on the beach; this is also a great way to enter Guatemala and it leaves us in a perfect position to go to El Salvador a country that I truly enjoyed last time I was in Central America.

Ryan Picks: East cost and Yucatan

I think we should visit the east coast and Yucatan Peninsula on the way down. It is the only part of Mexico that I have not seen, and I am excited to go there. The beaches, the Mayan ruins, the 355 days of sunshine every year, what’s not to love? Going this way will mean that we would see Belize on the way down and save El Salvador for the trip home. Plus something tells me by the time we get to Panama we will be so tired of riding we will want to turn around and take a more direct route home.

How many miles to Panama?

2007-06-02T13:14:00.000-07:00

Throw out some wild guesses for how many miles we will travel before hitting our final destination in Panama.

We are not even out of Sonora yet and already the odometer is reading 1700 miles!

Winner gets a sweet Half-throttle t-shirt! So get on google earth and start mapping out where we have been. Remember to add in a couple thousand "we're lost and driving in circles" miles.

Good Luck,
Ryan and Mitch

Name Mitch's new bike

2007-06-02T12:05:00.000-07:00

Hey everybody I need help naming my new bike. It is a 2002 Kawasaki KLR650. Watch the video, and check out the pictures.

Post your ideas for a name as comments so everybody can see. I will pick a few that I like best and put it into a vote.

Thanks,
Mitch

Good day to own a GS

2007-05-28T04:16:00.000-07:00

It was a heartbreaking day for both of us. Mitch is faced with going home, and I with continuing alone. After everything we have done, and dreamed about it doesn’t seem fair.

It was however a good day to own a BMW GS. Broken down on the side of the busy hot freeway, we finally decided that attempting to tow Mitch’s bike was the best option. So with a few strands of 550 (Parachute Cord) we made a tow strap. I tied it off to the frame holding my Jesse Luggage, worrying that the extra weight would cause problems.

Slowly we started out down the shoulder of the road, weaving between all the normal debris bits of tires, and trash. With busy traffic zooming past us on the left it made for a nerve-racking operation. Things were going well when I noticed up ahead a bridge crossing a dry riverbed. The long bridge had no shoulder! I beeped my horn to signal Mitch I was going for it. Pointing like a charging Calvary Rider with sword drawn I down shifted and let all 100 horse’s loose. Traffic was whizzing by and we had to be up to speed to merge safely before the shoulder ran out. With Mitch, his bike, and all his luggage 600 pounds is a low guess as to the extra weight the GS was pulling. She got us up to 75 mph without complaint and safely across the bridge.

After asking directions at a gas station we began a 10 mile trip down a small road to a hotel. I kept a close eye on my temperature gauge afraid that the GS would start to over heat towing Mitch through the 100 degree plus Arizona weather. She performed like a champ though never missing a beat. The only problem we had on the way to the hotel was one strand of 550 slid under Mitch’s front wheel, jerking his steering hard to the left and nearly sending the both of us crashing to the pavement.

We have to wait out Memorial Day before we can take his bike into a shop. Only then can we know if this is the end of the road for Mitch.

--Ryan

Broken Down

2007-05-27T17:47:00.001-07:00

We have been in Arizona 2 days and the Heritage Special has broken down twice. The guardian bell that Brady gave me must not like the heat as much as I do. The first time was on Saturday the 26th Ryan and I had just made it over the pass into Flagstaff when my bike suddenly died. I was able to push her into the parking lot of a Del Taco, the problem was easy to find a dead battery the fix was a bit troublesome I removed the battery and sent Ryan on a mission into unknown territory to try and find a new one. As I waited every person that passed seemed to have the answer on how to fix my bike. The first asked if I had checked the breathers I not knowing what those were informed him that of course I had. The next parking lot mechanic told me that if I was having trouble keeping it running that it must be the alternator. None of the five people that stopped to tell me how to fix my bike seemed to notice the apparent gap in the area where my battery used to be. After 20 minutes of evading every possible weekend wrench Ryan returned with the needed part a new battery. After a quick install we noticed that the positive and negative terminals were switched so I sent Ryan once again to find a longer positive cable when he returned we wired it up temporarily to get on our way to Sedona and Jerome.

Sunday the 27th we were on our way to Tucson everything was going well until we were just out side of Phoenix and suddenly my bike loses a tremendous amount of power Ryan and I pull over on the side of the highway to assess the problem. It starts fine has fuel but doesn’t run with the power that it once had so with a modified tow-strap made from 5-50 cord I have Ryan tow me to the next gas station. We call a few mechanics and realize that due to the Holliday that they are probably out riding their bikes or enjoying some air-conditioning. We find the nearest hotel and I have Ryan tow me there we are still trying to fix the bike but will probably have to wait until Tuesday to have a shop look at it. I hope and pray that this is not the end of the road for me.

--Mitch

Deseret News Article about us!

2007-05-27T15:20:00.000-07:00

Strangers to guide traveling duo
By David Rasmussen
Deseret Morning News
SPRINGVILLE — Two friends traveling to see the world is one thing. Letting a third party decide exactly where they go is a new twist.
Mitch Curwen and Ryan Grassley, both Utah National Guardsmen, embarked Wednesday on a journey of epic proportions.
On a motorcycle trip covering nine countries and nearly 8,000 miles, the pair's daily route will be decided by an Internet poll voted on by strangers. The two men will follow the chosen-by-vote route until they reach the Panama Canal. After creating a Web site for their trip — www.half-throttle.com — Curwen and Grassley decided to map out their preferred routes for each leg of the journey.
Each day, visitors to the Web site can vote on two proposed routes, saving the duo any unwelcome confrontation.
"On our first trip together we got in disagreements about places we wanted to go — if we wanted to go by the beach, through the forest, things like that," said Grassley, 28, an electrician from Springville. "So this time, to make it more interesting, and to save us some arguing with each other, on all of our traveling days we'll put it up to a vote."
Born out of an idea hatched in an all-but-empty discotheque in El Salvador, the two- to three-month journey began Wednesday at Grassley's Springville home.
With plans to stay with friends when possible and camping when necessary, the duo set out with only the things they could pack on their bikes — a 2005 BMW R1200GS for Grassley and a 1982 XS650 Yamaha Heritage Special for Curwen.
"My ride will be a little harder, but it will work for me," said Curwen, 27, a native of Ophir and currently studying at Dixie State College. "I'd rather go with some discomfort than not go at all."
Throughout the trip the duo will work out of Internet cafes to update the Web site, posting video blogs and reports on sites such as MySpace.com, Youtube.com and others. Additionally, they will map out their route and discover where friends, family and strangers will send them. After publishing the site May 18, within days Curwen and Grassley had already received more than 500 votes from people around the world regarding the route they'd travel from Springville to St. George.
The route Wednesday, as picked by voters, was Highway 12.
They arrived safely in St. George but got a speeding ticket in Garfield County.
Because the two are active members of the National Guard and the possibility of being called up to Iraq is always present, they felt a need to "live it up" and take the motorcycle trip they'd been planning for years.
Additionally, however, Grassley described himself as an "advocate for travel."
"I've traveled a lot, and I felt like a lot of Americans don't realize how great the rest of the world is. They are just stuck in America," he said."I hope a lot of people tune in and see the world's got a lot to offer."
And what should happen if they are activated for duty during their trek?
"Then we drive as fast as we possibly can," Curwen said, "and do whatever we need to do to get back."

E-mail: davidr@desnews.com

Freezing on Highway 12

2007-05-25T09:21:00.001-07:00

Freezing on Highway 12

Our first day of riding was rough. Highway 12 sent us up into the clouds with its high altitude and froze us to the bone. Even though Mitch and I pulled over to put extra clothes on the 40 degree temperature plus 60-70 mph wind chill made for a very cold ride.

The only reason that I kept riding through the cold was knowing Mitch’s apartment had a hot tub in St. George. When we arrived at 11:30pm Mitch told me it was broken. So I climbed into my sleeping bag on Mitch’s couch and shivered myself to sleep.

Just outside of Escalante both of us got a speeding ticket. I’ll be happy to cross the border soon, where a traffic violation can be solved with a few pesos on the spot, or buying the officer a beer will get you a friend that can give you a police escort to the next town.

We came through Zion National Park after dark. And it made for a really cool ride. Cutting through the night with a narrow beam of light from your headlight down the twisty road, and glancing up at the towering cliffs above was an adventure.

The bikes have been doing great so far. Mitch gets a little annoyed at having to fill up twice as often as I, but I don’t mind taking a break every 100 miles or so. We will get there, eventually.

--Ryan

Getting out of town

2007-05-24T14:10:00.000-07:00

Getting out of town

To get ready for a trip like this takes a lot of work. So I wanted to drop a quick thank you to everybody who helped us.

The guys at Motorcycle R and R in Midvale were great, they are the only place to go if you drive a BMW. They spent a whole day going over every inch of my bike. Making sure everything was up to date and in working order. They even let me hang out in the shop and look over the mechanics shoulder while he worked, so maybe I learned a little while I was there. When I asked what tools and extra parts I should take on the trip. They said, “You drive a GS, just enjoy the ride.” Is it possible to drive 8000 miles and have nothing break? We shall see.

Partyland in Springville was a huge help preparing the “Get Lost” party we had. It was a big success and I was surprised at how many people came to see us off. So many goodbyes are in order when leaving for so long and the party made it easier on everybody.

Thanks to all our friends that helped us prepare, set up the party, and gave us treats for the road.

But a big frowny face goes to the guys at MotoXoutlet in Orem. Mitch bought a tire from them and they gave us the constant run around. Told us it would be done in two days and it took 5 so Mitch has his bike with no front tire just sitting there. It was frustrating because we needed to be out filming more video and taking pictures for the trip. If Orem is over run by aliens and the only way out is by motorcycle, and you don’t have tire. You would be better off letting yourself be captured, at least save yourself the stress of trying to buy something from MotoXoutlet.

--Ryan

Hi

2007-05-18T08:05:00.000-07:00

Week one has been a trial. I've been up until 2:00am almost every day in an attempt to finish the website. It is now 90% complete and I can rest a little easier this weekend. I am looking forward to getting on the road and heading south our first stop will be in St. George UT I live at Canyonlands and our apartment is being renovated so I have to move all of my stuff from one apartment to the other. Mitch