900 X 16

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

Breaking Point

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

Stuck in the Mud

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

Border Crossing Bureaucracy

“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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

They call him Pinball

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

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