Halfway

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

Mahahual

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

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

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?

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

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

Good day to own a GS

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