This is the story - no names have been changed to protect the guilty ...

Texas To Tierra del Fuego

Dec 25, 2006

Christmas day seemed the perfect day to begin the adventure of a lifetime for purist adventure riders. My name's Dick and the other South American wanderer is Bo. Both from the Dallas area - we departed at 3:00pm on Christmas day. Cold and windy was a true beginning for the ride. We met at a well known wide spot in Texas called Carl's Corner. Just happens to be the new watering hole and truck fill-er-up  Willie Nelson is supporting. He's pushing the new wonder Bio fuel. Wasn't open when we got there - but didn't slow us down none.

Click to enlarge

(Picture is in the middle of the Peruvian desert about five miles from the Pacific beach. This sculpture loomed up in the desert as it sits about two-hundred yards from the highway. The sculpture is constructed from concrete.)

 After a brief rolling hello we pointed the pair of R12 GSA's south and never looked back. With the late start we just rolled on until dark thirty caught us near the Mexican border in the little town of George West. Anxious to get going we departed the little Texas town in the dark morning and thirty-two degree temps. The sun welcomed us as we rolled toward the border and my first experience crossing into Mexico. Bo is a seasoned traveler down south with a few previous experiences like Copper Canyon and others. Bo is a pleasure to ride with as his experience as a tourmeister lends credibiliy to his decisions. My experience is directed more in the direction of the Continental Divide Trail and the Trans America Trail. Bo just recently accepted the tourmeister role of the local Dallas BMW club. That along with his sometimes weekly breakfast rides keeps his Beemer hummin.
The border crossing was an experience with the more than three operations necessary to register the bikes with the border people and to pay the refundable $326 tax payment. Then it was on track again southward toward Tampico - a reservation at Holiday Inn. After a harrowing ride dodging local traffic we struggled into Tampico to begin the experience of searching for a hotel in the dark and fighting city traffic. One interesting detour around bridge construction took us and bumper to bumper traffic off road in the middle of town, through the woods on a dirt trail weaving through trees. We talked later what it must be like to take the detour after a rain. We'll get an early start in the morning to head south along the gulf coast and then angle west to make way to the Guatemalin border.
More to follow - including pictures. And if you wish to track us all the way ... go to www.bogriffinrides.com and look for the Star-Traxx link. Bo sports the satellite antenna on the top box to send the tracking signal. When you find Star-Traxx, use griffin as the user name and password to login. As this continues I will give more feedback of the bikes performance, our border crossing foopaws and more interesting details

 Tampico to Vera Cruz

Don't know which is worse - the damned dogged determination of two riders up at 5:30am and on the bikes anxious to get out of town or the desire to get on the road no matter what.. The rub comes when the town won't let you out. A solid hour of circling the area of the highway (if you want to call it that) and coming up with nothing but stares from folks on the street who watched you pass by only moments before. This happened many times until a quick stop at a taxi stand for directions turned out to be the solution when a spanish speaking driver escorted us out of town. we paid and headed south.

We intended to cover a lot of ground today but wound up with a miserable 350 miles of bad roads, innumerable 30 peso per bike toll roads, kamikasi drivers and TOPES. What are Topes? Drive down one of the major arteries at speed and then have a line of cars, suv's, busses, and taxi's slow down and form a long line so that each vehicle can pass safely over a single, or multiple speed bump. Yep, speed bumps on a major highway. Many, many of the damned things. And then when everything is cruising along - how about a military road block in the middle of nowhere waving you off the road. Happens. Particularly when two good lookin' guys on good lookin' BMW's sidle up. Then the cursory search and a hint that a dinero will buy a cup of coffee anywhere. Pay up - paddle off! Grin and bear it - it can only get better.

Vera Cruz is a bustling and very attractive city on the gulf. In season hotels are crammed with touristas. A cursory search uncovers an off-the[beaten-path $600 peso honey of overnight bliss for two worn out riders. Twelve hours in the saddle for three hundred and fifty miles to show ... well ... tomorrow's another.

Day 4

It sure feels good riding behind an experienced trail breaker. Ridin' 40 years plus my-own-self, but when a fella like Bo puts so much work into navigating and steerin' out-o-trouble - well, I just sit back and absorb it all. I'll willingly follow.
Twelve hour riding day. Seven to seven. Lunched up at 4:00 at a beautiful wide spot called Matias Romero. Cafe under the trees and all the serving senoritas wore short black skirts and hot pink blouses. Not that I was lookin' or nothin'. It was here that Bo decided to put up a blackmail picture - honey you really shouldn't be following this thread.
Pulled into Arriaga after dark thirty. Rode the last hour in pitch dark conditions on crazy mountain rodes. No mas!
Figured out how to pull pictures off my camera finally without a reader.
Pictures to come. Don't forget to check Bo's website for pics.
Hasta La Vista, baby!

Dec 27, 2006

Up and at 'em early on day three. Spent a fair amount of time searching for a hotel in Vera Cruz. When we parked they packed a number of cars in a small area and when we came out at 6:30 the next morning they had to send out a fella to find the owner of a car to let us out. Vera Cruz is a honey of a town right on the gulf coast. We peso'ed up again at a small bank - the toll booths and Pemex fuel are money pits. When I figure out the exchange rate - I'll know what we paid for gas. The road south is a mountain twisty paradise when you figure out how to pass and be passed without dyin'. Sugar cane trucks carreen all over the road and are stacks a good ten foot over the sides of the bed. Taxi drivers - just stand 'em all up to the wall and ...
Breakfast at a small hotel restaurant and staffed by the cutest ... honey, are readin' this? Found an internet store on the square in San Andre's Tuxtla. The only help we get here is the owners ten year old son. Great kid - plays internet games like a whiz.
I will get to some of the questions when I can. My camera won't upload ... working on it. Bo's website carries his pictures.
Hey Richard, good to know you're kickin'. Yeah, got the Jesse's on ... and there's a story in that. Wish you were here.
We are headin' south toward the other coast - Porto Rista maybe.
I have to say this! Mortgage the house. Don't buy shoes for the kids. Put the wife to work! Whatever you have to do - make this ride if you only make it to Panama. Nothing prepares you for the sights, sounds, smells, and flavors as you go further south.
See ya!

Dec 28, 2006

Left Arriaga after a wonderful hotel breakfast.  Bo and I spend most of our time at meals using his handy little translator so we don't call the waitress something unseemly. Pushed hard south to make time for the Guatemala border. We are taking the southern route. And this adds a strange twist to the ride. You don't really recognize the change until it becomes unbearable. But a quick look at the temp on the bikes computer tells it all. By noon it is hovering around 85 degrees. The closest town to the border is Tapachula. With a little search we turn up an Internet room for to connect. We both update and I walk up the street and find a computer store with a card reader. Oh boy! Then it's time to get packin'.
As we approach the border, hundreds of meters from the immagration area we are chased by screaming and whistling boys waving their arms and gesturing for us to pull off the road. Turns out three of these are to become our saviours, and our bedevilment.
It becomes clear we WILL follow their lead. One boy attaches himself to Bo and another, Juan Carlos, to me. Bo's boy is mean and pushy. They get along fine. (Did I say that?) Juan Carlos is consistantly urging me to get out my passport, and after many glances between Bo and myself, Bo stays with the bikes while I casually act as though I know what I am doing and follow Juan. At a window in a small building a little guy eagerly stamps my passport. Haven't got a clue what it meant, but I do know that he said, "dias cansallis please". Who's got cansallis - not me? But there is a fellow at my elbow pushing a very large wad of bills at me. He's the money changer. Speaks very good California english as well. Fifty american later and I've got cansallis. Pay the passport guy and walk back toward the bikes being towed by Juan. The money changer never leaves my side. "You will need more before this day is through," he said with a smirky smile. How right he was!

I can safely say that neither Bo nor myself ever experienced anything remotely like what took place in the next three hours. Yep, took all of that befor everything to take place before we can see the interior of Guatemala.
Bo had his passport stamped. Then we are urged by the ever present boys to get out the rest of the paperwork to get copias made. First Bo and then myself. It's about this time after the boys have the copias in their hot little hands that we discuss the fact that we have to get back to Mexico immagration to get back the $325 tax deposit we paid at the northern border. So we are told to go back to Tapachula to find the immagration office. Nope, it ain't at the southern border - WHERE IT SHOULD BE! The boys tell us they will wait for us ... with our paperwork until we get back. That made us feel better. Back to Tapachula, can't find the banco. Get directions from another banco. Turn out to be wrong and we ride back and forth looking for the elusive office. When we do finally find out where the banco is - a guard tells us this is not the right place. We must ride out of town - NORTH - to the immagration office. We do eventually find it and get our deposit refunded. Then it's back to the border.

Day 5-6-7
What more to say … the memories flash by in the apparitions of smoking busses, carts loaded with people pulled by a single gaunt horse. Landscapes changing with the locale and people and characteristics lost in their faces as they stare as we speed by. But it is the incestuous nature of the border crossings that clog the memory. Filing to the rear the fresher, happier sights and smells. One of my personal weaknesses are the nina’s and nino’s faces when I hand them a small animal. It is an old habit picked up in Alaska when I lived in the bush and learned to carve small moose and cariboo, bear and beaver. Not very good carvings- but fulfilling when I made buying trips to Talkeetna for supplies and gave out the animals to Indian kids. And although their craftsmen fashioned the same animals from beautiful ivory - my animals seemed to raise their interest. So Walmart had a sale on small plastic African animals, dogs, sheep, cats, bears, etc. for almost nothing. My tank bag is always full of animals when I travel. It helps me forget the crossings. No more about borders. Reporting will continue only about the battles won.
The crossing into Costa Rica went well with our convoluted method of one standing watch over the machines while the other ran the gauntlet of separate offices. One on one side of the road to get a permit to give you another permit to exit. Copias to be made and inspection checks on machine and man. We pass most of the time. But once in a while Bo must be fumigated for mosquito’s and other dangerous bugs he may carry.

The nite before day 8
The run from the Costa Rica border to San Jose was very dicey. Traffic became a phalanx of endless cars and busses creeping at a frustrating 28 mph. Passing is an art to be practiced with caution as most of the roads were twisting or ups and downs making it difficult to visually prepare. Darkness descended as we climbed a final mountain covered with a dark foreboding cloud. No mist or rain, just a cold pall of darkness and flashing headlites glaring through a dusty fragmented face shield. The lights of San Jose in the distance felt like a beautiful woman across the room. Smiling at you taunting, but still a distance apart. There was a harrowing end to the day as we made the town. Alight mist falling obscured the face shield even more. Wearing glasses prevented raising the shield. Circling and circling we searched for an old friend of Bo’s. We were to spend the night with them. It was startling to me to ride up onto the mountain through barrio’s dark and foreboding. I felt overwhelmed by the exhaustion of the days travel and experiences learned in other countries. I was uncomfortable and I vented my misery.
We found the hacienda and met the folks. Gracious and warm hosts and comfortable lodging. The next morning I spent time with Roy. A Costa Rican he answered my question about my fears of the nite before. It seems I was wrong. So I made breakfast for Bo and all was better. Makeup sex is still the best. (Would my editor please check this for insight).

Day 8
Take a day off! Okay! We did. Bo’s friend Brad (the perfect host) provided bed , good food, conversation, and relaxation. After I cooked breakfast (yes, I do hire out, but I ain’t cheap) we fired up and scoured downtown San Jose for the Cact’s Hotel. One interesting sideline was a quick stop for directions at a bustling motorcycle shop selling all Chinese scooters, small single cylinder motorbikes and even a few larger bikes. There was a striking resemblance to Honda’s from earlier era’s. The motors and metalwork all compared equally to Yamaha’s and Suzuki’s but with names like Genesis or Zephyr. While we stood in the shop searching a yellow pages a fellow walked up to our bikes parked across the street and stuck a piece of paper to each front fender. We had been ticketed. No signs indicating ‘no parking’. But he gestured that there was no parking or else. Three hundred Colonia’s - each. Now that’s just too much. The guys from the bike shop who at first indicated we should not pay … now said pay-up to avoid trouble.
So damned humiliating - paying tickets you don’t deserve. After all, three hundred Colonia’s totaled out to about seventy-five cents each. We’d been had - again! But somehow there’s always silver in the shite. After the payoff, Bo asked the scammer if he knew of the Hotel Cacts. Sure, he said and turned pointing around the corner. The hotel was there - around the corner. What goes around …!

.
At the Hotel Cacts we met BB. That’s what he calls himself. Rides an eleven-fifty GS and had been doing the Pan American highway from the US to Panama with Heimy and others until he split with the group when a decision couldn’t be made about the cheapest method of shipping around Dariens Gap. So he saddled up and beat it back to San Jose. Been there since November living in the Hotel Cacts. Charming little place with a pleasant and not unattractive woman who runs the place, and just happens to own the block. BB ain’t no dummy! He spun whoppers about Jaime and one knew it all fared true. Can’t lie ‘bout that. He also gave great play by play of places to see and places to stay on the trail south. Just so happens he really came thru. But that’s another story - for another day. After, all we have the Panama border crossing looming in the future.
By the way … no one asked what the hells a Cact? So I’ll tell ya anyhow! A Cact is a South American Indian shaman. A medicine man.

Day 9
Rode to the Panama border and Davide Panama. Made the border crossing in the early afternoon and slid easily through with no problems. Immediately after leaving the border it began to rain hard for some distance. We were soaked when we arrived at Davide. The hotel suggested by BB back in San Jose Costa Rica turned out to be a winner. It also included a Casino across the street. Lost $20 in the slots. Spent the evening walking the streets looking for an Internet Café only to find out the little café in our hotel was pulling in some strong wireless. It had also been suggested by BB to introduce ourselves to the manager. We didn’t have to. As we maneuvered the bikes to go into the hotel to register an older feller jumped out of a SUV, introduced himself and began shouting orders to bell hops and guards to get our stuff. He let us know that we were to put our bikes in his little hiding place where it would be inside the hotel and under guard. The next morning Paul, the manager, sat us down in his office as we checked out and made a phone call to his hotel in Panama City to set up a reservation for our stay there. He was fabulous and cleared the way for us in every possible way. I suggest anyone making the ride consider the Hotel Nationale in Davide Panama and ask for Paul. Tell him we sent you.

Day 10
Ride from Davide Panama to Panama City. Rained hard again just as we entered the city. Checked into the Hotel Executive in downtown Panama City. After checking in we sat down with the concierage and made calls to cargo airlines and Copa to make arrangements for the bikes and Bo and I. We finally worked it out with a cargo flight to Bogota and a later flight on Copa for us. Spent the rest of the evening talking to you through our computers. We have to get an early start to get to the airport and load the bikes for the flight. Nite all!

Day 11
Deliver bikes to Girag Cargo at 9:00am. Interesting time to get the bikes weighed, fill out paper work and disassemble for shipment. The teardown consisted of removing the windshield, mirrors and that’s it. Very simple until you think about the reassembly. Don’t want to think it about it yet! Stuck around hoping to see the bikes loaded. Didn’t happen. Found out they intended to load both bikes on one large aluminum pallet after wrapping them in saran wrap. Then tie the bikes down with large webbed cargo nets. Decided to call a taxi and go to Copa Airlines and check our luggage and get the tickets. Then took another taxi out to the Panama Canal and take the tour. Saw a large ship go thru the locks and watched a film explaining the building of the canal and the future of Panama. Panama is a very bustling and very large city. Old and new converge in a classical way and in some ways is warm but with a very modern feel. Then it was back to the airport where we waited for the 7:25 flight to Bogota. Spent the afternoon searching for and finding a wireless connection. Then it was surfing in the airport. Fun! When time came for flight to depart we were still sitting. All of a sudden it occurred that it was past boarding time. When we checked the gate we were told the flight had moved to a gate a long walk away. When we got to that gate we were told that the plane had departed - and well - all hell broke loose. Turned out - after we pissed off some Copa officials - were loaded on a bus and carried out to board a back up plane for the flight. We got to Bogata. Got a taxi and found a fancy hotel.
That’s all folks!

Day 12
Very interesting day here in beautiful Bogota. I am going to make this as boring and detailed as possible because I believe anyone making this ride should know what to expect.
We were up very early and grabbed a quick breakfast at the hotel and took a cab to the aeropuerto to meet up with the bikes after their flight from Panama on a 3:00am cargo flight. I’m sure they missed us not meeting them at the airport.
Girag Cargo is very close to the main terminal - which makes it necessary to know later. We were greeted at Girag warmly but were told that nothing was going to happen for two hours. Is that ever an understatement. So, we walked to the terminal and had breakfast - again. Killed some time. BTW, that terminal is bustling. We walked back to Girag and a fellow pulled our paperwork and told us it was time to take the originals to customs. This is not customs for us - it’s for the bikes. The hike to Dina aduana (customs) is about a quarter mile. Now follow this closely. We arrived at Dina and started to walk into the large expansive office. Four cleaning women at the far end of the hallway shrieked at us not to walk on their freshly mopped floor. We stepped back. And waited, and waited, and waited. No one asked us what the … we were doing there getting their floors dirty. Then during an ongoing conversation it was noted that it is Saturday. Bureaucrats don’t work on Saturday - do they? It went on like that for maybe an hour. Finally a fellow walked in and stepped in front of a lone figure sitting behind a computer. Mind you … there were at least nine cubicles for someone to work from. There was one person working. Then we got a break. A fellow walked up and asked us if we needed help. When we told him what we needed, he stepped in front of the man at the desk and in Spanish told him our story. The guy dropped what he was doing and jumped right on our paperwork. It gets better. Now we need copies. The guy who acted as our interpreter told us what we needed and said we could get them at the terminal. That’s another long walk. But wait a minute - he said he might have a solution. It seems he is connected with FedEX and they have a depot right up the way. We should follow him, and get the copies there. OK-we did! That should be the end of it … but no - we need more copies. We did the proceedure again. While all this is happening - we notice a door behind us in the customs office that reads, “get your copies here”. But it’s closed and locked. Yeah - but don’t say it!
We got the paperwork and passed customs. Walk back to Girag. At this point you’re asking yourself, how do those guys making a record run south do this.? At Girag they sort our paperwork until everything squares and finally tell us we can go to the bikes. Another hour is spent reassembling the bikes under the helpful kibitzing of about fourteen Girag guys. They love the bikes and want to know everything. There is another bike next to ours. They shipped three on that flight. The guys name is Guest, hails from Washington state and rides an F650 with one of the huge aftermarket fuel tanks blue in color. We never did see him or hear from him. If anyone knows of him or how to contact him, let me know. With the bikes assembled - the only way out of the terminal was literally out the front door and down a flight of stairs. Which we did quite easily I must admit. Paid a cabbie to escort us to the city limits and the road to Cali Colombia.
We didn’t know, but there is some sort of holiday in Colombia. Seems like all the folks on the east side of the country want to go west - and all the folks from the west … well, you get the idea. We made very slow time going south from Bogota. We knew eventually we’d never make it to Cali. We just kept humping. Then we hit the lower Andes. Let me tell you - you have never seen twisties like these. Going up - going down. It make it even slower. We pushed hard and passed hard. Remember what I said about traveling at night in Colombia. As darkness descended we also descended toward a mountain town called . Two notable events occurred. About a mile or two out of town a huge oil slick appeared. Someone had thrown sand down but it barely cleared the problem. We hit it at about forty miles an hour. No one went down but it continued to be dicey all the way to town because there was a trail of oil in our lane all the way down the mountain.
When we approach a town called Armenia we were of course searching for a hotel. Nothing appeared until we came around a corner and there were at least six policia standing in a triangle area. I yelled to Bo to ask them. He did and hell broke loose. I could only guess at what was happening because I couldn’t hear and one of the young policia insisted on asking a ton of questions about the bike. They never fail to draw a crowd. All of a sudden I noticed one of the young policia race off and return on a Suzuki motorbike. He took off and Bo followed. So I followed into the heart of a bustling town on Saturday and all that that brings. People milling on the streets, street vendors hawking everything imaginable. We finally stop in front of a very nice hotel and Bo and George (that’s the kids name). Remember, he is policia, and he is twenty, and very full of enthusiasm. Oh, and he speaks pretty good English. No room at the inn. We take off again to another hotel. This time luck. Not only are we treated like kings, but they open a gate and we ride the bikes down into the basement of the Hotel. George has another friend Policia who shows up and the pair pose for pictures before going upstairs for our check in. I wish you could have been there. Here is this kid in Policia uniform speaking Spanish a mile a minute to the staff and everyone (the lobby is crowded) backs off. I guess you don’t mess with the Policia. The entire staff kicks into overdrive and we have nothing to do but soak it up. Later when we got to our room there were two fresh glasses of lemonade waiting. I’m tired. It’s 10:30pm. There is no air conditioning - they tell us you don’t need it in the mountains. They’re probably right. There is a fan going. Bo’s already asleep. Pretty good day. But tomorrow - we don’t stand a ghost of a chance getting to the Ecuador border. Much like today.

Day 13
Armenia to Posta Colombia. It is a pleasant ride in the beginning with straight roads and motorbikes everywhere all seeming to a fixed destination. Each small village appears to be in full swing with some sort of festival. All small one-lane streets are clogged with buses belching clouds of black diesel smoke and have no regard for the safety of others as they take a lane. Then it is into the mountains again. We have been slowed by the mountain switchbacks but it is the great number of slow trucks and always on the uphill’s. Passing becomes a dangerous dance when it is necessary to pass as many as six to eight vehicles at a time. The cars are mostly underpowered and cannot pass at speed. So it becomes a dance through dangerous curves and blind downhills to make any time at all. There is a fine line between caution and schedule. Those are your choices and you must be prepared to make them in an instant and with good instinct. It also helps to have a road racers command of the skills to pass high speed both uphill and downhill. It becomes very stressful and I catch myself strangling the bars. It is only when I relax completely on the throttle and clutch and reatain the connection with the bike that I can go faster and more secure. There is no clutching above third gear. All the shifting becomes instinctive and smooth with no clutch action. I just don't use the clutch period. Just a slight tap down and blip of the throttle when rolling hard into the corner and a swivel up when coming out. Over and over and over, until it is a blur. I use a method some will find strange but it works for me. I use the side of my boot toe just above the sole to shift up. It is an old trick old school flat trackers used. I wasn't a great a flat tracker but I got to spit lies with the likes of Dave Aldana and Mike Kidd. It allows a quicker shift with less toe movement. When you place the side of your toe on the end of the shifter, it is less of a movement to raise the toe and shift up. Missed shifts are eliminated by slightly rolling the foot into the up shift. Sorry I got into that but I found myself thinking more about the smoothness of the shifts and the need for better transitions through the turns. I use gears much more than brakes when coming into the turns. If I have to brake hard - I know I am overcooking the transition. Long days of this mountain riding is very tiring. The only way to enjoy the scenery and the time on the bike is to relax and let the machine do the work.
We arrived in Posta in the dark and heavy traffic. We got lucky with a hotel and spent another great night.
About the hotel. A young man with his wife and baby on a motorbike led us to a nice hotel. The desk lady informed me of no rooms. Just then a man walks up and begins speaking very quickly to her, turns to me and says in perfect English, “I will take you to a better hotel. Follow me.”
This gentleman walks three blocks to another hotel as we follow on the bikes. He takes me up to the desk and helps me get checked in. Downstairs the staff bellboys and the manager are clearing dirt out of a lockable storage area to park the bikes. After the bikes are put to bed. Victor, our mentor invites Bo and I out to dinner. We take two cabs to a great little restaurant and introduces me to the Colombian national beer. Love it! Victor has a beautiful wife and two gorgeous daughters. We talk and exchange email addresses. It seems Victor is masters educated at South Carolina U and works for BP as head of South America geological operations. Colombia it seems is second only to Venezuela in export of oil. And intend to increase production. He is also very concerned that Americans learn that Colombia is not the terrible country that we have come to know. He talked animatedly about the changes in the last six years since the crackdown against guerrillas and the downfall of Escobar. (I must admit I never really felt anything but comfortable and secure in Colombia. To add, it may be one of the most beautiful countries on our journey so far!)
About Posta! When we rolled in the streets, the cars, many people, the trees are all covered in a white powdery dust. Victor's daughters describe to us the festival that had just taken place. It is called (in American) the two days of black and white. The first day, Saturday, everyone walks around town, there are parades and floats, bands, and merrymaking. Lots of drinking. Everyone turns everyone else black. They rub bootblack or other substances on their hands and walk around color the faces of everyone else. The second day is just the opposite. Everyone becomes white with the powder. The girls became very excited as they described the experiences. I think I’ll come back for that one some day.

Day 14
The day started in the mountains, stayed in the mountains, and we were in the mountains when we arrived at Quito Ecuador. What happened in between is the … well, it happened.
Much like the day before it was a ride through the Andes. I would have preferred a bit of down time at sea level, but that never happened. We were at or above the clouds most of the day. In and out of a mountain rain shower. Just enough to make it hazardous riding and a good soaking besides. As we neared the Ecuador border the customs aduana and Dian snuck up on us. Luckily we pulled off at the right building and checked through Colombia customs and checked thru the bikes. Things changed drastically when it came time to clear Ecuadorian customs. It appears that the festivals over the weekend left most of the population clearing back to Ecuador on Monday. The day we were there. So when we went looking for the office, there it was - a long line snaking around the building. Throngs of people standing, sitting on the ground, or lying in the grass. When it finally sunk in, all there was to do was get in line. COLA it is called. And when anyone was observed sneaking ahead in line loud yells went up, “COLA, COLA.” Bo and I stood as inconspicuously as possible. That’s like trying to sneak an elephant into the room. Behind us in line were a number of not unattractive young girls who, I must modestly say, found me particularly funny in many respects. My Spanish, or lack of was hilarious to them. But I was able to make points when I pointed out that a gorgeous five foot black girl looked amazingly like Janet Jackson. All the girls screamed at that. But whenever I turned from then on, she was right there at my elbow looking up at me. What can I say? When ya got it ….
We stood in that line for two and a half hours. Here is an interesting side light. I walked around the building as Bo stood in line to check on the bikes. As I turned to make my way back a fellow walked past wearing a very dirty, very obvious riding three-quarter jacket, riding boots, and carrying a helmet. I walked up and asked if he was riding the highway south. He looked at me like I was foreign - well I was sort of - and said, “No, we’re riding north to Colombia.” “From where?”, I said. Peru, came the answer. I told him my name and he told me his. Ray Green. And I would guess from his accent, a brit or possibly Australia. And that was that. I felt like he considered me an invader. More and more I get that impression. The ex patriots consider outsiders as invaders, and truly don’t want us spoiling their good thing. As he disappeared I made may way back to the que. As we stood in line I heard the unmistakable sound of a boxer firing up. I hadn’t seen the bike for all the cars. Backing out a space was an older eleven fifty two up with two racks fashioned just ahead of Ray’s knees. In the racks were two five gallon jerry cans for fuel. That is all I saw. Anyone knowing this fellow let me know. He looked like with the proper medicinal adjustments, he’d have a story or two to tell. I’m a sucker for a good sloshed liar. Not to imply that adv riders lie. Nope!
We finally made it to the customs window, cleared and cleared out. Then it was the bikes turn. We needed to find the aduana and get the proper paperwork for Ecuador. We found the office and two very bored ladies told us to wait five minutes. Almost immediately a short, thin fellow walked in and after a frustrating mix of bad English and worst Spanish we found out we had to go to Tulcan Ecuador to get the aduana paperwork. Here’s the rub. The little guy is going to ride behind one of us to Tulcan. I throw Bo’s gear behind me (I didn’t bring a pillion seat with so the little guy two-upped with Bo to Tulcan. There we completed the office routine and lit out. Told it was five hours to Quito - it took more. Mountains were murder (speaking for myself) because of the hassles earlier. But we made Quito a little after dark. Rode in circles looking for the Turtlehead Brewery where we were supposed to pick up a meet with Richardo. Richardo is out of town we find out but a very engaging fellow at Applebee’s (the manager) finds a map and shows us the way to the Turtlehead. Instead we opt for a hotel and he suggests the Marriott and gives us a business card that will get us a ten or fifteen percent discount. The hotel is five star and very elegant and just up my alley. Just what I live for. We get the discount and rack out.
Tomorrow it is mechanica for the bikes. An oil change only for me. Tires and oil change for Bo.
I intend to dedicate time to give my full impressions of the bikes. Love ‘em or hate ‘em - you have to appreciate when they never miss a beat or let you down!

Day 15 (counting the days - I find they don’t add up - but I’ll figure it out!)
Free Day, free day, free day! Nothing like lounging around a four star hotel for the day. Up early and room around awhile trying to find a bike shop. A small Suzuki shop is all that’s available and Bo’s looking for a rear tire. He wants a Metzler Tourance, but, guess what? Back to the hotel and waiting for Buster’s Bar to open. Bo’s a lush and can’t wait for another hour. Turns out Buster’s is where our contact for bike repairs hangs. So - Bo’s not a lush. Not unless you mean fruit juices. In the meantime we make a decision to find the local BMW shop. Turns out is out by the airport. Now is where the fun begins. This is a very, very nice dealership. Auto’s and moto’s. But it is very obvious that they have bikes as an afterthought. They do have a service department run by one fella for both cars and bikes. There is a mix-up right up front by the service manager when we are informed that two oil changes can be done in the morning. Now hold on there! Didn’t Bo just get off the phone with an English speaker who informed him that we could get the bikes done that afternoon. Including Bo’s new rear tire. No tire to be had. They will do the oil changes. So while we wait, I notice a new set of Metzler’s on a brand new GS sitting on the floor. My first mistake? I showed Bo! He immediately went to the top guy on staff and asked to buy that rear tire. The guy immediately went into reverse. People who know me - know I rarely have an opinion!
Bull#@&$ .. Let me clear this up now. I ran a Triumph shop for years. There is no way I would sell you that tire off a new bike. I didn’t say anything. I just went out back and watched Carlos change my oil. Speaking of that oil. This is the first oil change my bike had at 4,000 miles. Oil looked like it came out of a French fry deep fryer - when the oil hasn’t been changed for two years. Very thin, very dark, and when held to the nostril, very rank. A number of factors came into play. The motors on both bikes ran very warm a number of times in high heat days with traffic and congestion. Throw in other factors like very high altitudes, bad gas, and dumb guys who don’t change the oil when needed. I threw that in because I just know one or even two of you will denigrate me for destroying such a fine machine. It is working just fine despite my shortcomings, thank you. So, with new oil changes and the same rear tires in place, we returned to the hotel to go bar hopping. Let me make this also very clear - I go bar hopping. I go to bars to drink beer and hop whatever barmaid … honey, are you there? Bo does not drink beer. That does not qualify as bar hopping. And if you ever wanted a good bar - Buster’s in Quito Ecuador is hard to beat. Part of the reason is the absurd individual who owns it - and also owns the Turtleshead Brewery.  Don’t tell Albert Cruncher I said this, but he is one twisted individual. Clearly of very opinionated mind we got along famously. He has one drawback. I couldn’t buy him a beer on his day off. Now who does that? But he can carry on a one-sided conversation. So here’s what you got. A righty, Albert, and a confirmed lefty, me, and the heat was on. Particularly when It came to discussing South American politics. And unless you’ve been a tree for twenty years, almost every country down here is always boiling.

(Pictured is Albert, left - the good looking one is me).

The day after we left Quito we saw on a TV as we ate dinner three hundred miles away, news that Quito was in the middle of student unrest with the government. At the outset Albert told Bo of a local distributor, a Korean called Tommy, who could sell him a Dunlop. Bo left immediately to get a tire installed. So I had nothing better to do than sit and talk politics with Albert, and while I’m at it have a beer. Or two or three or …
Albert had called Tommy for Bo and priced the tire at one-fifty. When Bo got back later the tire turned out to be a French Dunlop (price just went up) at two-fifty. But he’s happy, and that’s what counts. Albert takes off to check his other bar (the Turtleshead) and Bo and I decide to have dinner there.
The Turtleshead is almost directly behind our hotel the Marriott. We jump in a cab in a downpour and what that cabby had to do to get there was astounding. The Spanish love their one-way streets. When we arrive we see Albert’s KTM ADV sitting soaked in the rain out front. When confronted with the news, Albert’s answer is all Albert. "It's a f******* bike. If it gets wet, it gets wet, so f******* what." The Scotsman in him is crude and disgusting, and all heart. My kinda guy! Under that very rough exterior is a deeply twisted and street educated lover of the language with an intelligence for clear thinking that is refreshing. Now that I’ve destroyed his preferred rep, I recommend you look him up when you hit town. He knows bikes, rides bikes, and likes folks who ride ‘em. Unless you’re a lefty. Then you better have better lies about riding, and he’s good, very good.
The twist of the nite was a private tour of his fascinating beer brewery stuffed away behind a locked door. We talk good biking. We got a free tour. You should be so lucky!


Day 16
Quito Ecuador to Machala Ecuador. Now there is a ride for you. Look at a map and you will see more than one route to Machala. We took the high route. The extremely twisty, narrow, truck and bus trafficked, rain-slicked, and twenty-foot visibility route. The mountains sit atop a mixture of fog from the coast and clouds. So not only could we not see the road, but if we had, we would have probably sat it out. The road didn’t exist in places. In it’s place was dirt and rough stone now made into mud and slippery rocks. Twelve or thirteen miles in three or four hours. I don’t lie. The road goes north, east, and west - to go south. A half days ride brought us to a place where we could divert west to a more sea level route. Ten thousand feet to six feet above sea level - what a difference. We have a good road, more accommodating and far less stressful. The ride down to Machala is uneventful until we enter Machala. It is old world Spanish with very narrow streets and the marketplace is bustling. We must have looked a sight as we crept through town covered in dried mud as well as the bikes. We didn’t waste any time and stopped on the main drag at a downtown hotel called the El Centro. The desk girl wouldn’t talk to me because I couldn’t speak Spanish. Hurt my feelings. Bo got us in using his higher class of pigeon Spanish. Even talked a kid into parking our bikes about four blocks away in a locked garage. The kids dad’s locked garage. Slick huh! We all sleep better when you don’t have to think about bike security. The hotel room boasted the loudest frio unit to sleep by. Plus, they don’t supply towels, a roll of toilet paper yes, and one sheet to sleep on and another sheet for cover. We just gotta quit roughing it!

Day 17
Broke clear and warm. Damned warm! Up at six thirty and gone by seven thirty. Seventy-nine degrees. The road is swift and mildly traffic strewn. Not much to report other than you’ll never in your life see so many banana plantations line the highway. We experience a fair amount of tribulation finding the exit from town. This is either a simple task or friggin exercise in futility. That is why you will read from so many that the simplest method is to ask a cabby to lead you out. Simple if you find an amenable taxi pro who will work with you. Believe me when I say, “learn to speak Spanish, learn to speak passable Spanish, learn the local language!” Or wallow in the futility!
Once out of Machala the road south turns lazily toward the coast. One hora and the border crossing looms. Ordinarily I could report problems finding and dealing with the aduana or immagration people but today was enviably pain free and almost a pleasure. Until we hit the last office. The aduana (customs) office at the border for Peru. Two very nice fellas wave us off the street heavily foot trafficked by hawkers and marketeers of all shapes. I am run over by a pull cart laden with pineapples as I step off the bike. Rolls over my boot which is the only protection between a broken ankle and escape. I go thru the process first and marvel at the third world pride the official takes in his position. He is very business like and flourishes the stamps and signatures with aplomb and pomp. He takes it very seriously. So do I - this is no time to make waves. Bo’s turn. I get to stand in the sun and watch the bikes. We are warned sternly by the officials to set our helmets and jackets in his office lest they be snatched and gone in a moment. Bo disappears for many minutes and then the official appears by my bike with Bo’s paperwork. There is a snafu. It appears he has noticed that Bo’s license plate number does not match his title. Nope, one number off. I explained this earlier. But guy that I am I pull him away from the rear of the bike with flailing arms and many, “no problema, no problema por for vor!” He turns swiftly to me and punches himself in the breast with a hearty, “problema por me!” I grab his arm and point him toward the vin number on the steering head. He looks at the number and grimaces. Bo shows up. Pointing at the plate we are both, “no problema’ing” him until he enters his office shaking his head. Bo disappears into the office and a few minutes later steps out smiling and waving me to mount. I do, he does - and we get out of dodge. I never asked what evil occurred in that office. I figure Bo slipped him something to make his day!
The road south into Peru becomes a day at the Pacific beach. And a gorgeous one it is! We follow it’s contours until almost noon when all of a sudden Bo swings a quick Retorno - U turn to you and me, and slides mercifully into a beautiful seaside restaurant on the beach open to the wind and waves. Huge flights of Albatross glide lazily in the blue sky. You must see these giant sea birds to believe their beauty. Fish is the menu item of the day (probably every day). Then with the usual picture taken by a bronze skinned beauty we hit the road. Eventually the seascape turns to playa (desert) and it becomes clear that we are rolling over the seabed of millions of years of evolution. We are turning inland and the views change and the people as well. It is one of conundrums that the same evolution that moved the sea shore westward changes the people of each country into their very own distinctive characteristics. If you watch for the eccentricities’ they become interesting rather than disturbing. The land makes the people - and the people are the land.
Interesting note: almost immediately you notice that the roads are covered by small single cylinder motor bikes with rickshaw style carriages on the dual wheel rear axles. They are brightly appointed with garish paint and rude markings. Most are filled with whole families on familia business. There is a noticeable lack of caro’s. So this is a whole mode of transportation method that we have not seen in other countries.
We make a water stop and talk over the possibility of an early hotel stop in the next town. Works for me. I’m so anxious I take the lead and lead us directly into a confrontation with smokey. Visualize this! Straight road into a bending left sweeper. The sign over the road says ’Pura’ to the left and another unwanted town to the right. I swing to the left. That’s where we’re headed, Pura, Peru. Just as I’m well into the left curve I look down just in time to see both lanes have arrows pointing at me. Where I come from that means ’One Way’. About that time a big truck comes straight at me laying on his horn. I lock up everything and whip a Ueee, go the wrong way on an entrance ramp and get on the right road. Just as I get on the right road, I look up and a Policia is standing in the middle of the highway signaling me to get off the road. And he’s not being nice about it. Figure he saw the whole thing. Yep - he did! In exquisite Spanish hand signals I am adamantly pointing out (by pointing at my two eyes with two fingers) how I never saw the one way highway. He is telling me how stupid (I think that’s what he was saying by gestures and sixty-mile-an-hour Spanish) we are for going the wrong way on a one way highway.
I play dumb. I do dumb real solid! “No Espanola”, a number of times does the trick. He shrugs his shoulders and gestures for me to get the hell outa there! Another Policia on the other side of the highway has Bo squared away as well. I later learned that Bo never knew what the hell was going on. He hadn’t seen a thing. Poor guy! He missed all the fun!
Piura is classic Spanish and an exquisite little town. But that doesn’t fairly do it justice. It is similar to a small European city, very cosmopolitan, and the people are too. We pulled up in front of a gorgeous old school Spanish hotel and checked in. I’ll give it four stars. First class all the way. Bo’s first question as always, “Do they have wireless?“ It just gets better.




Day 18
I am playing catch-up! It is all Bo’s fault. We got as far as Piura and scooted on down to Chimbote. An early arrival there was to our benefit. We needed Peruvian Solese. Best place to go is to a bank if you don’t want to hassle with money changers on the street. There are plenty of those but I wanted a bank. Bo stayed in the room and interneted (how’s that for a word) his love affair with the computer. I walked the streets. I love to walk the streets in a strange city. Found a bank with an ATM on the street. Choosing English I got just what I asked for. Now I’ve got a fistful of dollars. I wanted Soles’. Go into the bank. Get a number? That’s the way it works down under. My turn at the teller’s window is a hoot. It’s an older guy who speaks no ‘merican. I get across I want my dollars to turn magically into Soles’. He keeps turning my bills first one way then the other. He holds each bill up to the light. For cryin’-out-loud I just got the damned money out of your ATM! The cute young woman to his left turns quietly away from her customer and asked me sweetly what it is I wish. I explain, and thank her. She explains to older guy. I get my Soles’ and exit before the guards pull a gun. It’s on the way back to the hotel that I see something is cranking on the El Centro Plaza. It’s right across the street from the hotel and assures a good Friday nite in ‘ol Chimbote, Peru. Not much else happening so I go back to the hotel. Hundreds of people are pouring into the plaza so I lean on the rail on our balcony and watch the goin’s on. Turns out the presidential elections are in full swing and the candidates are at our hotel and will soon go out to the bandstand set up for politicians speech’s. This is good ‘ol boy down-home politickin’ where the candidates do a lot of handshaking and back-slappin’. It gets real noisy with large crowds of faction crowds trying to out-shout each other. And that’s how we went to sleep. Wonder who won?


Day 19
Chimbote to Lima, the capital. I won’t bore you with the ride down except to say it was boring. Except for one stop. I liked this stop. It is Bo’s idea of time off. Otherwise - you never stop! I will have to say more about that later! This stop took place in a little whistle-stop town. We would have missed it but something drew us toward the beach. Problem was, there was no way to the beach thru town. But right across from the plaza (every town down here has a plaza) was of all things - an internet shop. Bo squared off a flat spot on the new rear to get there and there we sat until he finished his business. Me, I started walking around. This town had no people in it when we pulled in. All of a sudden the street around the bikes were full of kids and adults showed up to sit in the shade in front of a small kiosk selling cold drinks and chips. Questions flew as usual about us, about the bikes, where ya from, where ya goin’, and all the usual. The most asked question, “how much does the bike cost”? In any language I always recognize that one. It was the kids I love the most. They came in all sizes and shades of clean. It was when I began handing out my little ‘animals’ that it became a laughing and squealing good time. Then it was time to go. The rest of the ride to Lima was inconsequential. But the town of Lima. I didn’t like it. You have never seen smog and dark filth as in this place. It was only when we found our way to a suburb called San Isidro that it cleaned up. We met Bo’s friend Dino and he wanted us to follow him to a hotel he wished us to stay the nite. That got interesting too! We pulled right up to the front foyer of a very exclusive five star hotel. Before we could swing our legs off the bikes a fellow walked out stiffly to inform us that we could not park the bikes in front of HIS hotel. I said we were checking into HIS hotel and the bikes were staying there. He stood with arms crossed with two of his henchmen as Dino and I walked into HIS lobby. We were told the charges by a sweet young desk person and was informed that the rate would be three-hundred and forty-seven dollars for the ‘mericans and one hundred and nineteen dollars for Dino. The Peruvian! I just said OK, “let’s go. Sides, I don’t like that guys attitude”. As I walked out thru the door I paused at his side and said quietly, “how do you say ‘asshole’ in Spanish.” He turned to me and I walked to the bike. The next hotel was about the same story. We told Dino he had to come down in class. The next hotel was perfect and we stayed. We even got the bikes washed by two staff guys for ten Soles’ each. That’s about three fifty. Then Dino said he wanted to take us to dinner. Fine, make it seven!
Dino picked us up to the admission there would be four for dinner. He carried us down to the waterfront to see the sights and then set off for the restaurant. But first the forth! Her name is Rosario. A long haired dark Peruvian lady suitable for a man of Dino’s experience. Dino had previously informed us of the continental pursuits of a married man. He explained that it involves knowing three women. One other woman to a married man is trouble. Two others and then the wife is a risk. But three makes it so enthralling and worth the risks. I must admit that I find Dino stimulating and very smart for his advanced age. I must learn all his secrets. Dinner was absolutely perfect when a man like Dino knows everyone on staff and they treat him like royalty. We received the very best table and when Rosario quietly complained to a waiter that Bo and I couldn’t see the lights of the city, we were moved to a more convenient table to glistening smiles from Rosario. Dino surprised by unveiling a bottle of Johnny Walker Red he had removed from the trunk of his car. Ordered by Dino the waiter immediately appeared with four highball glasses. But before he could pour - Dino ordered additional drinks in the form of a Peruvian specialty know as a Pisco Sour. Needless to say it was delicious. But Bo, not a drinker at all - was the center of attention briefly as we chided him to try it. He did, but you could tell that his heart wasn’t into the drinking part of the evening. Dino suggested steaks for everyone and knew to ask that they be cooked to his liking. Before the steaks arrived Dino asked the scotch be poured for dinner. A scotch like that demands to be served on-the-rocks only. And we did. The steaks arrived medium and plump and brazed to perfection. These steaks sat on a bare plate demanding attention. Each steak an exact match to the others. And they were wonderful. I have never had a steak so perfect. Bo seconded that. It was explained to us that these particular steaks were imported from Argentina. Dino never shirked his duty to keep the scotch glasses full and the conversation was poignant. Rosaria and I were seated together and matched bite for bite until I gave up and threw up my hands in defeat to a woman who finished her steak when I couldn’t. She was quiet but never hesitated to call over a waiter when a water glass needed filling or noticed someone required more salad on their plate. She spoke no English, but never lacked understanding.
Dino was very hard on Bo for not following the drinking fashions of his country, but did so only in jesting and Bo went along. But he never broke custom, and never drank all evening. Somehow the conversation turned to dancing and it was decided that we go to a club.
Rosario as designated driver took us unerringly to her favorite club. Dino knew the owner. Once seated in the throng of very young couples and single women leaning against the walls it became very clear that this was saltsa dancing. And I must admit I was in absolute rapture. I live to dance. Before the dancing, there were cold glasses and pitchers of national Peruvian beer. Can you see where this is leading?
We danced very late. I danced a lot with Rosario. Dino danced with Rosario. Even Bo danced with Rosario. I have pictures with my cellphone camara. Living proof! I will tell you that I vaguely remember getting to the hotel. Rosario must have had a time getting Dino home. Bo was sober and ready to ride. So at the appointed hour I put on a great front. I acted like I knew what I was doing, but I can tell you - it was painful. Very painful all day!
Day 20
I don’t remember much about day twenty. There was pain. Struggle to keep the eyes open through the twisting, painful, excruciating mountain passes. The unending and wrenching heat of the desert. Sand! Sand blowing hot and hard. Small towns with nonames. I mostly remember the pain. I never let on. It brought back memories of a time long past. I don’t want to remember. Too painful! Thankfully we arrived at a large rambling, glaring white structure called the Hotel Tourista in Chala, Peru. It sat on a precipice above a bay spotted with moored fishing boats and a rolling surf. I remember getting my stuff into the room. I believe I was the one who checked us in. Now I remember. We were out of Soles’. But he took dollars. Thirty dollars, a ten and a twenty which he held up to the light and rubbed with his thumb and index finger. They were real, but I had no way of telling him.
Once in the room, I put down my bag, went back out and put the bike cover on, and went back inside. I took off my riding boots and lay down on the bed at four-thirty. I don’t remember anything else until I heard the sound of crashing surf through an open balcony door at six a.m.
Day 21
Chala to Tacna, Peru. I had a good day of only requisite impromptu moments of pleasure. I am not finding the riding to be much fun anymore. It is more work than fun. Not the way I like it! I will say more about these opinions later.
There was a wonderful stop for breakfast. How it was chosen doesn’t matter. Sitting alongside the highway is a ramshackle building made out of adobe blocks. It is whitewashed and has small tables sitting under a patio roof made of bamboo frames with thatched reeds to shade the sun. There is a little girl holding and carrying her baby sister. The baby is learning to walk. The mother is not over five feet tall and spills Spanish from her mouth by the bucket. When we let her know that we want huevos and popas’, she lets us know that can be done. We pay her with the last of our Soles’ change. She is very happy. They don’t see many tourists. They don’t have much. Before we leave I give my last two soles piece to the little girl. We chipped the ice together. She has a beautiful face and an innocent smile.
Sand dunes and blowing sand all the way to Tacna. Arrive by three thirty. That’s pushing hard. Very hard, but the payoff is time to catch up with duties. So here I am in the lobby of a three star hotel called the Hotel Tourista in Tacna. Tomorrow we cross the border into Chile. I was told by a stranger in front of the hotel that there is sand all the way to Santiago, Chile. That’ll be something new!

Day 24
Copaipo to Santiago Chile is miles and miles of hard crosswinds, blowing sand and straight to occasional bending roads. Mostly in good condition the roads become very monotonous and the scenery is much like the day before, and the day before that. Here’s a note. I remember one strong vision of the entire day on the road. Later in the day Bo recalled it the same way. You’re sitting in the saddle and moving a little for the five-hundredth time this morning when you look up and in the distance is a very large billboard sitting a distance off the road. Almost feels like home when the familiar outline of the McDonalds yellow arches loom across the landscape. Alongside the arches is a huge graphic of a perfect hamburger with glistening lettuce and succulent meat. My first thought (and apparently Bo also) was how great a Big Mac would taste right now. Right now at eighty miles an hour, sore ass and all. Now I ask you - does advertising work - or what?
I began to have insights to the days events. At the blistering pace Bo was kicking up I could see Santiago looming up in our near future. Last I looked Santiago was a fer piece. And I was right. We made Santiago by four and four hundred and sixty miles. In time to search for and find the BMW store and check the bikes in for repairs for Bo and oil, filter, and air-filter for mine. It is another situation of a BMW car dealership also fronting as a Bike shop. The bikes are just tucked back in a lonely part of the lot. Again, as an after-thought. No accessories, no tire racks with shoes to ponder, no parts counter or parts man to harass. There was a lot going on. A fellow from Buenos Aires leaving on his new GSA for a few hundred mile ride and then to return to the dealership to leave the bike for shipment home. An older fellow from Rio who returned from Ushuaia with the BMW World Tour Team. Seems he had fallen under his GSA somewhere in the rough and broken his ankle. Spent some down time in a small local hospital and then returned to Santiago to get the bikes shipped to Australia. If your not familiar with the World Tour, it goes something like this. BMW sets up and ships four GSA’s to a point somewhere in the world. Guys sign up from around the world to be part of the team to meet the bikes and ride a great distance. This year they started in Africa. When they reach their destination the bikes are serviced at BMW wherever and then shipped to the next part of the world. At some point they ended up in Alaska and a new team of riders met the bikes and set off for Tierra Del Fuego. That’s where the fella with the broken leg fell in with the team. The bikes are now at this dealership in Santiago awaiting shipment to Australia. (Wouldn’t mind that ride my-own-self)!
While we waited at the dealership the service manager called in his top mechanica to test ride Bo’s machine. The dealership was a flurry of activity as we waited. When the guy got back you could tell by his boisterous conversation with the service guy that something was up. As they talked I happened to lean over the seat and got a good whiff of burning something. Smelled very familiar. Just like transmission oil and rubber burning and everyone was pointing to oil all over the bottom of the bike. Something was up alright. Bo’s got thirty thousand plus miles on the scoot and a thirty-six thousand mile warranty. Good timing I’d say!
The staff found us a hotel and called a radio cab. Around here that’s a better taxi. They all look the same to me. But the hotel! Now that’s something entirely different. As we pulled in I could tell we had discovered something very unique. I personally am in a perfect place and immediately fell in love with the place. It is called the Hotel Acacias De Vitacura. It is a garden hotel. I have only seen one before and this one is unique. It is off the beaten path of this very large European style city of five million people. It is urban swollen with people interacting on all of its streets. The buses run constantly and are not belching diesel unlike most of other places we’ve been. The traffic is more subdued in its desire to overrun everything in its path. The Spanish spoken here is basically the same except everyone says Hola instead of Buenos Dias or Buenos Tardes in greeting. The tempo of the language sounds more Italianesque than the lilting Mexican Spanish. The hotel is a low ranging series of buildings totally enclosed by towering trees. There are footpaths leading off in all directions begging to be explored. So I did. One led to a small clearing with a perfect small version of a double goal soccer field. Perfect for a game of three to a side. Take another path to a large gazebo with patio tables covered with cloth tablecloths with all the dinner placements for large parties or small weddings. One path led off deep through the trees to a pool and the sound of someone doing vigorous laps. And there were more to explore. An evening three course meal menu and early morning continental breakfast. What more I say! So I called my wife and told her to get on a plane, pack the passport, and come on. She declined but made a counter suggestion. Ride to Ushuaia and instead of taking Bo’s route to Buenos Aires for the flight back - ride back to Santiago - stay a few weeks and start my next book. Sounds capital to me. Exactly what I was looking for. I new the book would never get started with the distractions of the city. Besides, Albert still wants to do the ride around Columbia in the summer. And he’s only a thousand miles from here.
So here we are here for a few. Until they can pull the surgery on that poor bike. He really punished it on the ride from Copaipo to Santiago. I think I would have nursed it to Santiago.
Here is my observation of that style of riding. At sixty-five to seventy indicated the heat gauge on the GSA (don’t think I’ll ever get used to the sophisticated gauges on this thing) sit’s a comfortable approximate one-eighty to two-hundred degrees. That’s a comfortable range for a reciprocating engine. I tend to see the inner workings of the motor and can feel those pistons punishing the cylinders under power. It is when you push the speed up to seventy-five plus that you see the temp gauge add markings of higher temperatures. Add in arid dry higher temps of the desert. At these higher temps the oil is scalded and breaks down. It’s viscosity is seriously compromised. My oil through the sight glass is black at the dealership. The same stock air filter when the bike was new causes crap to get into the engine. With less than three thousand miles since the last oil change at Quito Ecuador - it should not be that bad - but it is. Climb through the mountains with fuel that doesn’t meet the standards of the US - leave it too low a gear and you get the disturbing misfire in cylinders. That creates heat.
I treat my bikes better than that.
The R1200 GSA
While I’m at it - here is a short commentary of my impressions of this BMW. It is the only BMW I own. I own many other bikes and a scooter. As a matter of fact it is my first BMW although I have ridden probably a hundred or more over the years. It is nothing special. It’s just a machine. BMW has built its sales base by implying quality above all others. My wife and I have driven BMW vehicles. Nothing special there, they just cost more to service. This bike at speed is lighter feeling than it’s actual weight and more maneuverable. At slow speeds (until you get used to it) it is top heavy and cumbersome. That’s why you see so few in serious off road situations unless handled by top riders. (Would not recommend for first timers). The motor with fuel injection is responsive serves up a good power band. Nothing new there. The Chinese can do that with all their copies. I am still a little skeptical of that one-off design front suspension. I notice at just the right high speed going into a fast downhill switchback that if you tense up the slightest and counter-steer just the wrong amount it wants to push out just a bit. Ease up on the grip of the bars - tighten up the thighs and roll the hips into the corner and it steers into the turn rather than turning out. A much more definitive and satisfying feeling. (I am taking into account the added weight in the side and top boxes). In other words - when you’re tired and doing all the wrong things - she doesn’t want to behave. I also know that the front and rear suspension will be replaced with Ohlins when I get home before I would take it on another sojourn. I prefer a bike that forgives my mistakes. And I have bikes that do just that. I would rather see BMW steer in the direction of giving to the consumer the benefit of their years of racing tried experience rather than dazzle with technology and innovation. Let the after-marketeers do that! I will say one great thing about the BMW. On a long ride it is a wonderful benefit to have a shaft drive rather than a chain. Although I am totally comfortable and always prepared for any problem with a chain - it is a comfort not to oil the chain or do the adjustment. I do catch myself occasionally feeling for the backlash of the chain tension feeling for the next adjustment. There is one other point I find disquieting. You must travel these roads to appreciate the feeling you get when it is two hundred and forty miles between gas stops. Look at that road and visualize a breakdown. I have bikes in my stable that I can repair in any situation. If anything breaks on this bike you better look for a truck. I try to have road service in case - but Bo’s descriptions of his bike failure in Terlingua chills the blood. He simply says you can forget BMW road service. I’m sure I’ll find out someday. These things are just getting too techy. Was a time you took the scooter out for a long ride and it broke three times in the day. And nothing upset you because you expected it - and you fixed it! Not today - you’re stuck. But I’ll give it credit. Seven thousand miles plus and not a foul until now. Don’t punish the steed - and it’ll give back. Every time I think of this - reminds me of Truegrit. Remember when John Wayne rode the little gal’s Blackie carrying him and the girl because she was snakebit. Rode the horse to death. They killed two horses in that film. Blackie and Beau, John’s wonder horse. I never killed a bike. And I ain’t gonna start now!
The tires …
I am running Metzler Tourance front and rear. I don’t believe there is a better tire made for the type of riding we are doing here. I have them on three of my adventure bikes. The bike I rode the Continental Divide Trail with Tourances are still going strong. I will change them when I begin a new long ride. They wear exceptionally well.and an added bonus is the addition of “RideOn” sealing additive for peace-of-mind. I have never had a flat in any situation. Desert with cactus, off road with debris - never a problem. Never leave home without it! I gave Bo two bottles (very expensive gift) for Christmas. His new rear tire (which he keeps comparing to my Tourance - and is astounded how mine is wearing compared to his) has “RideOn”.
The Saddle
Throw away the stock saddle! That is exactly what I said. I made a deal with a fella just before leaving Dallas for a brand new Sargeant ‘Custom Made’ Saddle. One of the intricacies of the trade featured his taking my stock saddle Good riddance! You can probably do quite a few miles on the stock two-by-four. But I’ll guarantee you go farther on the Sargeant. Sargeant’s claim of using Atomic Foam may be boastful - but it works. When you first sit on one after the install it feels like a brick. It is only after a hundred miles that it begins to pay for itself. Sargeant, if you’re listening - good-on-ya - and thanks! One more point. Joel will love this. I also traded him my two stock Continental TKC 80 knobbies (standard from the factory) as part of the deal. There is never a situation I can think of where those tires are needed for this bike. They will absolutely drive you crazy on the long road with vibration and noise, and wear out before you get there. And I will go anywhere he goes with my Tourances - and probably pass him! Now there’s a challenge. And I can just hear Joel snickering.
Last Comment ….
Maybe someone has said this before. When you get to a point somewhere south of the north part of Peru - you will need an adapter for your tech widgets. Cell phone, laptop, digital camera - all the chargers that you carry will need the adapter from our standard flat bladed plugs to one which converts to two round pins. That’s what works down here. We picked one up in Topopilla after we couldn’t plug into the internet shop. She just pointed across the street to a little shop where we bought the adapters.
Tha-tha-tha-That’s all folks!

Day 25
Santiago to Temecua Chile was an easy day if you don’t count my illness. I know everyone fears the dreaded Texas Two Step. Well, I been two steppin’ for days. It appears we planned to make the Argentine frontera, and did, with time to spare. The ride to the frontier is one of the most beautiful yet. It snakes through the most gorgeous mountains passes, past high mountain lakes, and features a brilliant change of flora and fauna I have ever encountered. Getting through customs and aduana was without doubt one of the easiest made easier by the chalet style design of the buildings. The entire area is a picturesque replicant of the swiss mountain ski area’s. Skiing is very big here. Just glad we missed that time of year.
We made our way to San Carlos de Bariloche situated on the lakefront of a high mountain lake. As we passed into town we spied a clutch of bikes sitting in front of a fueling station snack bar. Turned out to be ten or twelve single cylinder adventure bikes decked out for long distance. This gaggle consisted of a group from Moto Adventures, the Texas based adventure tourism firm that supplies trips to Ushuaia from Santiago Chile. You fly into Santiago and the bikes are there waiting for you - having been shipped from Texas by container. They have a chase vehicle that carries their luggage and all they have to do is get to the booked hotel at night. The group left town about the same time as we were booking our hotel. I’m sure we’ll run into them again. We have passed a surprising number of bikes coming north out of Ushuaia. Hope the line at the sign isn’t too long when we get there. If all you want is a picture - book your flight and get here. That’s all it takes. I guess adventure is what you want to believe it is.
No breakfast, no lunch, and dinner is out of the question. No wonder my cargo pants don’t fit anymore!


Day 26
San Carlos de Bariloche to Sarmiento Argentina constitutes a four hundred plus mile run south for a short way into rugged flatlands. The altitude is still about four thousand and the temps climb into the eighties. It becomes very subtle, but disturbingly obvious that you are in the desert and the road is becoming more and more unfriendly. Turns out (I find out later) we are well into the Patagonia desert and the terrain is beginning to threaten. The long roads, blowing wind, and potholes that look like a P-38 strafed the road make one think of little things like - wonder if I have enough water for a breakdown. I have seen other stark white bones beside the road. Emu are scurrying across the road and sit in the arroyo’s. It is a test of man and machine to maintain a line to keep the suspension in one piece. Then the real test begins. A stretch - stretch hell, how about a mile or so of the road is now marbles an inch deep on an ice skating rink. You know - your favorite kind of surface. Inch and a half gravel with ruts and deep furrows of deeper gravel moved into formation by the numerous cars, trucks, and buses. Just about when you feel under control and moving right along an SUV comes by you throwing up a cloud of dust totally eliminating visibility and the ability to breath. But you get through it and eventually a ribbon of asphalt opens up before you. Hallelujah, and pass the scotch. A huge lake looms up out of nowhere. (Should be there - right. After all, it is Patagonia). And sitting nearby is a town so familiar defies description. You know those flat little towns in lower west Texas. The ones with wide streets and blistering heat. Hello Sarmiento, here, have a hotel.

Postscript: It has been a recurring problem (for me) of Bo setting up the computer in the middle of the night or times like four-thirty in the morning. Not once or twice but many occassions. Hadn't said anything until now but at three o'clock this morning (told you 'bout my problem) went back to bed and then Bo got up. All OK until he returned to his bed when I had a thought. Hope he doesn't decide to do it again. Sure enough - I heard it getting opened up and then the soft glow filled the room and then the steady taptaptap until I couldn't stand it anymore. I said, "I've had enough of that fucking computer at these hours". And lay back down.
Next thing I know he is getting up and putting on his gear.
Simple truth is he is obsessed with that thing and nothing stands between him and it. He left. He is gone from his commitment - and good riddance.
Judge it any way you like - that stinks. All he had to do was close the computer and get some sleep. I did!

Jan 23, 2007
Sarmiento to San Julian Argentina and the Patagonia throws more surprises at you. The ride starts out innocently enough until the wind becomes a factor. Wind blowing from the west. Now this is a real brain teaser. You would think with the Atlantic on your left - the wind would blow from the east. No, as the waves approaching the shore testify. The wave tops are blown back out to sea in a huge spray as the wave struggles to make its way shoreward. The bike leans precariously into the wind to maintain a straight line. This becomes a test of will. It also judges the capability of your neck muscles to hold the helmet against the winds. To make matters worse the oncoming trucks (eighteen-wheelers) rush past and blast bike and rider with an airburst difficult to withstand. Sometimes it is the pass that is most difficult. As you pass a big truck on the left, the wind ceases to be a problem. There is a respite from the winds blast and the truck seems to suck you into its track. Just when you feel comfortable and reach the front wheel of the truck the wind blasts you again from the right driving you toward or dangerously close to the edge of the road. When I say edge - I mean edge. There are no safe aprons to the road. The road - and gravel. Soft large gravel. Almost seems they had a laugh when they put it down. Bring on those Moto riders - we’ll fix them! Sometimes a large deep arroyo looms up ahead. The road dips down with twists leading to the bottom. The sides of the canyon walls offer protection from the wind - but also trigger another surprise. The wind is thrown into swirling patterns, pummeling the rider from one side and then the other. Add in the fact that it must be impossible to keep the road maintained. The holes - and that’s being nice - are numerous and have no definite pattern. Lose concentration for a minute and pay a big price in punishment.
The town coming up is San Julian. It is a long way to the next town - so lets call it a day. San Julian turns out to be very tourista conscious. Try to check into a hotel and they tell you they are all full up. You question the advocacy of that statement but are told it is OK, try down at the tourista office. They may be able to help. The girl in the office is helpful. She takes one look at you and says to go to this hotel. They will help you. The hotel turns out to be more of hostel and is less than great. My first preference is a good hotel with amenities. The one amenity that is sure to please is the little desk clerk. No matter that I continue to remind her of my limited Spanish. She spills out endless Spanish describing all that San Julian offers. She shoves brochures into my hand and points one direction and another until all is a whirl. It is only later that proves her right. The walk down the avenue, as she calls it, toward the beach is a bright surprise. Flopping and rolling in the surf and on the beach is a large gaggle of seals. And off to one side in a small area protected by rocks are another small herd of penguins. Now I know they must belong to the town and are brought out to delight the tourist’s. Maybe not - but it’s still a sight. There is a wooden pirate ship for the kids to play on - with ships guns and mannequin pirates with sabres and patches over one eye.
Dinner is surprising when I walk the streets and find a small intimate restaurant full of people. All have a glass of red wine and good conversation. A stranger among them wearing weird clothing that shows the marks of being wadded up in a ball (which they were) only distracts them for a moment. It is traditionally late for dinner and these diners are comfortable eating at ten thirty at night. The restaurant is called La Juliana. My daughter’s name. So I am comfortable too.

Jan 24, 2007
San Julian to Rio Gallegos Argentina begins by being wet. The bike is under its bike cover and everything is wet. The ride south is wet but strangely comfortable and comparatively smooth. Very little to no wind, but a slight drizzle reminds you that it is Patagonia. A little less than an hour south Patagonia rears its head again. This time it is fog and haze so dense visibility is cut to dangerous conditions. The slight amount of drizzle coats the helmet shield. The fog obscures oncoming traffic and makes it difficult to see curves coming up. Once a Llama bolts across the highway ahead of the bike. It is fawn colored and beautiful with its long neck and small head. It slips on the asphalt and recovers. By that time it is gone into the mist. The fog dissipates, clears, and returns to keep the reminder alive. The bike proves its worth and gives indication of being very sure footed. It is a very secure feeling. The road is wet and slick and the bike tracks like on rails. It doesn’t let up as Rio Gallegos looms up ahead. The town is wet and soggy. Ruta three is under repair as you enter town and there are detours through rocky mud with slow traffic and mud spattering becoming a problem. The face shield is flecked with dirty water. Flip it up, and glasses become useless. A YPF looms up. The fuel stops are an oasis in the delirium of the Patagonia. YPF is owned by Repsol, the largest fuel supplier in Argentina. Repsol, by coincidence, is one of the largest sponsors of motorcycle entries in the Dakar races. It was in aYPF fuel stop yesterday that I met two very nice folks from Australia. They are riding a two thousand and one GS and are on their way north to Buenos Aires and then from there to Santiago. We traded some information and they intend to stay at my favorite hotel in Santiago. We may meet up there and do the town. They are shipping their bike home and following later.
In this latest YPF a young lady with a baby comes up and pats my arm and says, “hola”. We had only seen each other at an earlier YPF. Friends without speaking. When asked for a ‘mapa’, there is only one choice. It is a map of Patagonia. It is a very good up-to-date map. It shows that it is just a short distance down to the Chilean frontier and border crossing. It is just after noon, and too late to start for the border. So here it is - the Hotel Alfonso. Walked to El Centro. Bought a hooded sweatshirt and an Ethernet cable for the internet. Now possible to connect. The hotel will let me connect. I don’t care. There are streets to walk, and people to say, “hola”, to.

Jan 28, 2007
Have not posted since Jan 24. Very frustrated with the internet structure as you travel south thru the Patagonia. Catch myself thinking of this desert more as a living, breathing adversary. Sometimes beguiling with a cruel side that threatens and cajoles the traveler to make a mistake. I’ll have more to say about that later.
The days since the ride from Rio Gallegos southward will be encapsulated to retire the frustration I felt on the ride. It went something like this. Would have spent more time in places like Rio Gallegos, but was just not comfortable there. Thinking more and more that the ride should culminate as soon as possible and go home and look elsewhere for adventure. Maybe ride down to Tennessee and ride the Dragon over and over with my friends down there until time to move on. But something was driving me on. Spent time mulling over the maps until a plan evolved. Ride hard down to Rio Grande (didn’t know what to expect there) and then a hard drive down to Uhsuaia and get the damn picture of the sign. Just the way I felt.
But you can’t discount the ride to Rio Grande. It is the most universally complicated section and full of mental ups and downs that require complete concentration and brain dead quiet. The Patagonia threw rain, fog, and high winds at the two us (the bike and I are becoming quite close) until it numbs. Temperatures dropping as miles drop behind. Then the ferry ride. A nice quiet respite. Go to pay and am told with a shrug to forget it. It’s a moto. Forget it! OK! Back out to wait among the lines of cars on the ferry and there’s a fella standing next to a touring cycle with panniers hanging all over it. He is very sunburned wearing a floppy brimmed hat, shorts and cycling shirt. I am chilled in all my armored gear. His name is Dirk, and he’s from Belgium. Been riding South America for more than six months. Can’t stay much longer because his Visa is expiring. Will ride to Uhsuaia and then ship out for Australia. Plans to stay on the roads through countries for two or three years. He is very animated. Almost as though he misses talking. I can imagine spending days in the saddle with no contact. That is one tough guy. But he is not the only cyclist on Ruta three. There have been many duo’s and even one pair (man and woman) on a tandem touring bike. Saw one father son team. The boy was on a downsized tourer with all the panniers in place. You ride the Patagonia - you respect what these folks are accomplishing. Dirk and I exchange email addresses. If youre ever in Belgium ….
The first frontiera looms up and becomes a seemingly interminable wait in long lines to get thru customs and aduana. Out of the first border only to be confronted by a second miles down the road. Not as tough - just have to get through it. Of course then comes the dreaded seventy miles plus gravel road south toward Rio Grande. It begins near San Sebastion. And it is a bastard. Well it was the day I rode it. Started out as just gravel, deep rutted walnut sized gravel made crazy by the cars and heavy trucks which throw it in all directions under their wheels. Then the narrow dirt and gravel road began to get wetter with pockets of muddy water and slippery ruts. I can see the cloud and gray rain falling far down the road. It seems to be pacing me - going in the same direction. Pick up the speed and let the bike do the trackin’. Trucks and cars whiz by the opposite direction throwing sheets of mud and water your direction. Dodge and judge as well as possible. Just get through it!
Then you’re out! At the last border - you get road. Real good hard road. It feels good. Even if you and the bike are covered in mud. I don’t care anymore. Getting kind of proud of lookin’ like this. Just a hop down to Rio Grande. Pull in for fuel (YPF again) and ask about a hotel. He points across the street. Doesn’t look like a hotel. Leave the bike at YPF and walk across the street in full armour. I think I scared the cute little desk clerk. But I turned on the smile and charm and got a room. It turned out to be the highlight of the week. The best little hotel since Santiago. A bar with a bartender who knew with a smile what Johnny Walker means. And how to serve it. The restaurant served mean steaks and continued to amaze as patrons sat in comfort having dinner and drinking heavy reds at eleven o’clock at night. The sun went down and it was still light at nine-thirty. I asked the little girl about internet as I turned to climb the stairs. She said, “Si”, and I crashed. That’s all I remember of the day!

Jan 28 con’t. 2007
So the plan went something like this. Mountain climbers do it this way! They set up a series of base camps, and when it is time to make the assault for the summit - they just make the final push. That’s the way I planned this ride. Here is a good comfortable hotel providing the comfort for the final assault. The sign in Ushuaia had come to symbolize this for me. Then after the sign - the ride to Santiago, and home. Got up early, raining, naturally! Do it anyway. Considered just sitting in the bar - waiting for sunshine. Climbed on the wet seat and gassed it south. I must admit the ride was turning interesting. Trees begin to appear on the hillsides and in the valleys the further south you go. The Patagonia surprises over and over. The signs tick off the kilometers to Ushuaia. The closer the bike hums to the destination the prettier it gets. The hills become a series of mountains and mountain uphill then downhill twisties. Up through clouds and down into the valleys. Until finally the final curve lays a panorama of Ushuaia and the bay. Large ships at dock with a navy shipyard line the bay while mountains lay astride the far shoreline. Fuel up and get the skinny on the road to the Parque Nachional. This is truly the last push to the end of Ruta three. A tortuous ride through town traffic along the lower shoreline and out into the Parque. It is a gravel and dirt road to the end.Jan 28 con’t. 2007
So the plan went something like this. Mountain climbers do it this way! They set up a series of base camps, and when it is time to make the assault for the summit - they just make the final push. That’s the way I planned this ride. Here is a good comfortable hotel providing the comfort for the final assault. The sign in Ushuaia had come to symbolize this for me. Then after the sign - the ride to Santiago, and home. Got up early, raining, naturally! Do it anyway. Considered just sitting in the bar - waiting for sunshine. Climbed on the wet seat and gassed it south. I must admit the ride was turning interesting. Trees begin to appear on the hillsides and in the valleys the further south you go. The Patagonia surprises over and over. The signs tick off the kilometers to Ushuaia. The closer the bike hums to the destination the prettier it gets. The hills become a series of mountains and mountain uphill then downhill twisties. Up through clouds and down into the valleys. Until finally the final curve lays a panorama of Ushuaia and the bay. Large ships at dock with a navy shipyard line the bay while mountains lay astride the far shoreline. Fuel up and get the skinny on the road to the Parque Nachional. This is truly the last push to the end of Ruta three. A tortuous ride through town traffic along the lower shoreline and out into the Parque. It is a gravel and dirt road to the end.Jan 28 con’t. 2007
So the plan went something like this. Mountain climbers do it this way! They set up a series of base camps, and when it is time to make the assault for the summit - they just make the final push. That’s the way I planned this ride. Here is a good comfortable hotel providing the comfort for the final assault. The sign in Ushuaia had come to symbolize this for me. Then after the sign - the ride to Santiago, and home. Got up early, raining, naturally! Do it anyway. Considered just sitting in the bar - waiting for sunshine. Climbed on the wet seat and gassed it south. I must admit the ride was turning interesting. Trees begin to appear on the hillsides and in the valleys the further south you go. The Patagonia surprises over and over. The signs tick off the kilometers to Ushuaia. The closer the bike hums to the destination the prettier it gets. The hills become a series of mountains and mountain uphill then downhill twisties. Up through clouds and down into the valleys. Until finally the final curve lays a panorama of Ushuaia and the bay. Large ships at dock with a navy shipyard line the bay while mountains lay astride the far shoreline. Fuel up and get the skinny on the road to the Parque Nachional. This is truly the last push to the end of Ruta three. A tortuous ride through town traffic along the lower shoreline and out into the Parque. It is a gravel and dirt road to the end.
Interesting thing happened on the way through town. I dropped my digital trusty camera. It has hung around my neck on a strap since early two-thousand six. It hit the pavement at about forty mph and slid alongside the bike. I pulled over as quickly as possible before a car ran over it. I pull it out constantly to fire away while rolling. The strap came to me in a twist of fate. On the road to New Mexico and the Continental Divide Trail with a group of guys - we stopped for gas. As I stood in line to pay a young guy in cargo pants had a strap around his neck that said ‘University of New Mexico’ with his keys dangling from it. I didn’t hesitate. I told him I’d give him five bucks for the strap. He looked at me weirdly - and said no - laughed along with his girlfriend, and walked off. As I approached my bike he walked up and held out the strap. I looked at him and reached in my pocket for money. He shook his head and said he could get another. I love that strap. We been through a lot together. So I couldn’t get mad at it when it dropped my camera. I fixed the strap and rehung the camera. It took the picture of the sign.
The dirt and gravel road is also traffic to cars and tour buses. Many, many, cars and tour buses. Touring cyclists and hikers also crave a track on the road. It twists through the forest overhung with trees. Rough wooden bridges carry over rambling streams pouring out of the mountains and host trout the size of medium sized dogs. That’s what I heard anyway. Around curves, over hills, down into valleys, and around the last turn, a huge parking lot with tour buses on one side and cars on the other. I park on the other. And there is the sign.
There are tourists from all over the world awaiting their turn at the sign for pictures. You just have to wait. Be patient. I just wanted to laugh. So, you’re not exactly Lewis and Clark. But there is satisfaction in being there. Ten thousand miles. Dallas to the sign. I looked. I took a picture of the odometer on the bike. Ten thousand miles. Now that’s huge. That’s a stellar day in your life. The damned sign did mean something after all!
It was an anti-climatic ride back to Rio Grande. That was the plan and I stuck to it. Another night at the hotel, and I felt good.
Interesting thing happened on the way through town. I dropped my digital trusty camera. It has hung around my neck on a strap since early two-thousand six. It hit the pavement at about forty mph and slid alongside the bike. I pulled over as quickly as possible before a car ran over it. I pull it out constantly to fire away while rolling. The strap came to me in a twist of fate. On the road to New Mexico and the Continental Divide Trail with a group of guys - we stopped for gas. As I stood in line to pay a young guy in cargo pants had a strap around his neck that said ‘University of New Mexico’ with his keys dangling from it. I didn’t hesitate. I told him I’d give him five bucks for the strap. He looked at me weirdly - and said no - laughed along with his girlfriend, and walked off. As I approached my bike he walked up and held out the strap. I looked at him and reached in my pocket for money. He shook his head and said he could get another. I love that strap. We been through a lot together. So I couldn’t get mad at it when it dropped my camera. I fixed the strap and rehung the camera. It took the picture of the sign.
The dirt and gravel road is also traffic to cars and tour buses. Many, many, cars and tour buses. Touring cyclists and hikers also crave a track on the road. It twists through the forest overhung with trees. Rough wooden bridges carry over rambling streams pouring out of the mountains and host trout the size of medium sized dogs. That’s what I heard anyway. Around curves, over hills, down into valleys, and around the last turn, a huge parking lot with tour buses on one side and cars on the other. I park on the other. And there is the sign.
There are tourists from all over the world awaiting their turn at the sign for pictures. You just have to wait. Be patient. I just wanted to laugh. So, you’re not exactly Lewis and Clark. But there is satisfaction in being there. Ten thousand miles. Dallas to the sign. I looked. I took a picture of the odometer on the bike. Ten thousand miles. Now that’s huge. That’s a stellar day in your life. The damned sign did mean something after all!
It was an anti-climatic ride back to Rio Grande. That was the plan and I stuck to it. Another night at the hotel, and I felt good.
Interesting thing happened on the way through town. I dropped my digital trusty camera. It has hung around my neck on a strap since early two-thousand six. It hit the pavement at about forty mph and slid alongside the bike. I pulled over as quickly as possible before a car ran over it. I pull it out constantly to fire away while rolling. The strap came to me in a twist of fate. On the road to New Mexico and the Continental Divide Trail with a group of guys - we stopped for gas. As I stood in line to pay a young guy in cargo pants had a strap around his neck that said ‘University of New Mexico’ with his keys dangling from it. I didn’t hesitate. I told him I’d give him five bucks for the strap. He looked at me weirdly - and said no - laughed along with his girlfriend, and walked off. As I approached my bike he walked up and held out the strap. I looked at him and reached in my pocket for money. He shook his head and said he could get another. I love that strap. We been through a lot together. So I couldn’t get mad at it when it dropped my camera. I fixed the strap and rehung the camera. It took the picture of the sign.
The dirt and gravel road is also traffic to cars and tour buses. Many, many, cars and tour buses. Touring cyclists and hikers also crave a track on the road. It twists through the forest overhung with trees. Rough wooden bridges carry over rambling streams pouring out of the mountains and host trout the size of medium sized dogs. That’s what I heard anyway. Around curves, over hills, down into valleys, and around the last turn, a huge parking lot with tour buses on one side and cars on the other. I park on the other. And there is the sign.
There are tourists from all over the world awaiting their turn at the sign for pictures. You just have to wait. Be patient. I just wanted to laugh. So, you’re not exactly Lewis and Clark. But there is satisfaction in being there. Ten thousand miles. Dallas to the sign. I looked. I took a picture of the odometer on the bike. Ten thousand miles. Now that’s huge. That’s a stellar day in your life. The damned sign did mean something after all!
It was an anti-climatic ride back to Rio Grande. That was the plan and I stuck to it. Another night at the hotel, and I felt good.

Jan 28 The Kidnapping 2006
This ride isn’t over by a long shot! To make up for the ride down - it is just beginning!
Wasn’t looking forward to ride north to Rio Gallegos. It meant looking forward to the gravel road to hell. Been there - done that! Suck it up - just do it. The sun is shining. The wind is not too strong. And I’m feeling sublimely at peace. Must be the sign! The bike’s undercarriage is mud covered. I hope the exhaust covered in mud will not send the heat gauge up. I watch it as the miles eat away. Eventually the first of the border crossings rears up.
Just stand in line and gitter done. So I’m in line. All of a sudden there is a commotion behind me, and there are two fellows in full riding armour carrying helmets standing toe to toe arguing. Standing toe to toe arguing for these two is no easy task. One is younger, bald, and stands a full six foot five. The other pushes five-four. That’s enough for a chuckle if they didn’t argue so vehemently. It was drawing others into the fray. Soon there were five or six grown men yelling at one another about something. I didn’t have a clue. The tall younger one looked at me looking at them, and stepped up. Went something like this!
“You’re Americano, right?” In broken but very plain English.
“Right.”
“Which way are you traveling? North or south?”
“North.”
“Right, OK, left or right?”
“Left or right what?”
“Left or right road, what do you think?”
“Didnt know there was left or right. I am riding Ruta three.”
“Bad road. You should take the left.”
By this time the argument was at my front door. And I didn’t know what the argument was.

(The picture to the right is Renoto).

“He’s riding Ruta three,” six-foot-five said to his friend.
“That is not good,” the friend said.
Now I was the subject of the discussion. I just wanted to get through customs.
“Take the left with us. Is better road and leads to La Calafate.”
“I’m going to Santiago.”
Then it got serious. Tall guy turned to short guy and got angry. He was angry at me but was yelling at short guy. They were not speaking Spanish. Similar but different. And a hell of a lot faster.
“You will make a big mistake if you don’t come with us to La Calafate,” the short guy said in clearly better English. He smiled up at me and said, “My name is Reanoto.”
“And your friend,” I said.
“I am Otto - and I am come from German heritage,” tall guy offered as he reached out and shook my hand. “You must come with us to La Calafate.”     (The picture is Otto).
Now we stood in line as a threesome. They helped with Spanish when I needed it (which is often).
Reanoto stood rooted and firm in his conviction to convince me of an experience if I could see my way clear to ride to La Calafate. But when I asked him to describe or explain why the ride there - he just smiled. As we stood in the next line for aduanna, we discussed my ride down from Texas. They were overly sympathetic to my less than exciting distractions on the ride. Did I see Machu Pichu? No? How could you not see Machu Pichu? Did you go to Bolivia? No? Everyone goes to Bolivia! They were adamant that South America offered more than a highway and a sign to the traveler. After all - hadn’t they motor trekked most of the continent. They rode two older model GS’s and were fully outfitted with communications headsets and satellite radios. Obvious they preferred road tires and they liked to ride fast. At the next border the discussions heated up. They wanted to know where I go after Santiago. Then they talked together in that other language.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Otto and I are from Sao Paulo.”
“What is that language you speak?”
“Portuguese of course,” Otto said mocking my ignorance. Should have known I thought. Brazillians! Makes sense.
“Where do you go from Santiago?” Otto carried on.
“I’m going home.”
“But you have only been in desert and highway!”
Renoto became pensive and very, very serious. “Richard, listen to what I have to say. Our wives are flying from Ushuaia to La Calafate. But we invite you to join us for an adventure.”
Otto broke in quietly, but also very serious. “We stay in La Calafate for a few days and then we too are going to Santiago. Our wives will fly there too.”
I was getting double teamed. Reanoto picked it from there. “We want to show you real South America. When we leave Santiago, we go home to Sao Paulo. And we want you to ride with us to Sao Paulo.”
I was getting pulled in hard. I’m entirely too easy!
“What is special about the ride to Sao Paulo?”
“Because we will show the best part of South America. We will take our ride north through the Amazon.”
And I was hooked. And I was kidnapped.
The ride to La Calafate was fast. These guys ride fast but follow all of the decorum of the road. They don’t cheat the other traffic and don’t take chances. They were good. As good as it gets for riders anywhere.
I’ll make this simple. La Calafate may be one of the most surprising and be one of the most beautiful spots on earth. It showed up on the GPS Worldmap as a lake. Appeared to be a fairly large lake. And the road ended there. What it didn’t show was the town of La Calafate on the southern side of the lake and the snowcapped Andeas mountains on the northern side. And pouring out of the mountains like ribbons of white infusion are the glaciers which spill into this high mountain lake. The town is tourista and very European in ambiance. There are many tours to spots on the lake to watch the glaciers calve.
As you slide off the mountain to enter the town you find yourself first on a road which mysteriously becomes runway zero-five. As you ride down the middle of the runway there are motels, hotels, and homes built precariously close to the edge of the concrete runway. Half way down there is an intersecting runway just about where the tower sits controlling the air and ground traffic. Then there is the town at the end of the runway. They fly jets in here. That’s fun!
Otto and Reanoto rode around town until two very lovely women ran out into the crowded street to throw their arms around the two men. They climbed aboard their hubbies bikes and guided them to their hotel. I went in to get a room and was turned away. But the young lady called another hotel and got me room. The town was packed with tourist’s. Surprised I could a room at all. When I got to the other hotel - well, all I can say is ‘color me very pleased’. It is absolutely charmed. The Patagonia Rebelde a Hosterias is French country and tastefully beautiful. Run by the son of a Buenos Aires businessman who exports furniture from Europe for the Argentine market.
Otto told me when we split ‘not to worry’. We stay for a few days and then on to Santiago. His smile says it all. His wife stands just beside him and looks at me. “You will have adventure with Otto and Renoto!”
That’s an understatement.