The Livestock Ambulance

I pulled up to the scene of the accident with Alex sitting on a rock with Sarah right next to him.  His bike was upright on its kickstand; tires like pretzels, forks bent, and his side case ripped off into oblivion.  Charlie was right behind me.  Minutes ago we had been ten miles ahead pulled over on the side of the road looking for a piece of his mirror that had flown off on a straightaway.  We were scouring the shoulder when an American in a 4Runner pulled up with big news.

“You the guys with the other two riders?... Your buddy crashed a ways back on that big curve outside of town.  He’s up and talking but his bike looks done.”

Twice in two days?  How could that be?  I thanked the guy and his wife and they sped south to continue their journey.  His warning wasn’t very alarming so I calmly walked over to Charlie, reiterated the conversation, and we both saddled up and took off back north toward Alex and Sarah.  As a team of four now, we have been breaking off into pairs lately.  The faster pair will push ahead and wait up about fifty miles down the road while the slower pair catches up.  Luckily for Alex and Sarah, Charlie’s mirror fell off just eight miles since our last gas stop so we weren’t very far ahead of wherever Alex had gone down.

I remember thinking on that eight mile stretch that another half-hour delay due to Alex stacking it was the last thing we needed.  This was the 300 mile stretch without gas that I had been fretting about for the last 24 hours.  After asking a dozen locals we had determined that although there were no Pemex stations (Mexico’s government run gas station), there would be vendors along the way selling gas out of cans for people in our situation.  Sure enough, ninety miles into the venture we stopped at Catanina, BC and found a mechanic who topped us all off with fuel enough to get us all the way to the next town with a Pemex, Guerrero Negro.  All gassed up, the eerie sense of petro urgency was gone and we were ready to knock out the next 220 miles with no problem.  We would be well into the Baja at that point and finally distanced from the American tourism.

That was until the 4Runner flagged me down.  Charlie and I pulled up expecting to see Alex ramped up on adrenaline telling the story of his epic crash over and over again just like the previous day.  Today was different though.  Alex was mellow, dazed.  He was confused, asking Sarah what day it was, how the two of them had met, and where we were; he couldn’t remember any of the last week.  He was sitting on the rock with his riding gear all off and cuts and bruises developing all over his skin.  His helmet was discarded off to the side and it was pelted with paint chips and scratches.  He was alive and conscious, but he wasn’t the over-confident Alex that we are all used to.

The gravity of the situation didn’t set in until Sarah pulled Charlie and me aside and said that we needed a doctor and a truck to move the bike immediately.  When I saw the concern in her eyes I realized the trauma she had been through since we had departed the gas station.  Charlie figured that due to his lack of Spanish skills he would be more useful in helping Sarah deal with Alex’s containment.  That left it to me to fly back in to Catanina and find help.

There are a lot of times where I could probably have ridden harder with more focus but the next eight miles were not one of them.  My shifts were absolutely fluid, my throttle was wide open the entire time, and my mind was racing even faster.  My wingman had just been in a major motorcycle accident.  He was awake and moving, but obviously had a concussion and had taken some brutal hits to the abdomen. 

As I tore away from the accident I made the mental note to study the spot for when I brought help back.  From the direction Alex had been riding it was a slightly banked downhill left-hand curve.  On the inside of the curve was a high dirt hill and to the outside was a rock garden followed by a patch of sand followed by a field of cacti.  Judging by the curve and the hole in the dirt where Alex hit, he had come in too hot, didn’t make the turn, and shot off the right side into the wall of boulders.  At this point, it is now commonly believed that he stayed with the bike as he bounced off the initial few boulders (I’m talking about rocks the size of VW Beetles) and then tumbled into the dirt alongside his bike.   

The impact is the scariest part.  I would probably ride that curve at about 50mph and feel very secure; that means Al must have been doing at least 75mph in order to lose such control.  Even worse, from the road to the sand was an 8-10 foot drop with boulders crowding the airspace.  Pulling away I didn’t know how he survived; I still don’t. 

On the way back to town was a military checkpoint.  In Mexico there are army outposts every sixty miles or so where they make you stop, explain your business, and they may search you.  Who better to save the day than the Mexican army?  Apparently anyone.  The guard listened to my story in garbled Spanish and eventually ordered me through the checkpoint.  His advice: go to the town hotel and let them radio for the nearest ambulance.  Thanks for nothing amigo.  I ripped off the next two miles into town as fast as I could and came to a skidding stop in dirt at the first person I could find.  I didn’t even know where the hotel was so the lady sitting at a local café was my first responder.

I struggled to explain our situation but I made it clear that there had been an accident and that we needed a doctor.  She immediately closed up shop and told me to go find the police at the station down the road; she was going to rally her own troops in the meantime.  I hauled off to the police station to find that there was absolutely no one there.  Picture me wandering around in an unlocked, unmanned police station screaming ‘Alguien? Ayuda?  Hola?’.  Not what I had in mind when I woke up that day.  When I determined the police station bust I tore back to town to find the lady ready to go with her friend in an ancient Chevy Lumina.  I parked the bike, left all my valuables there for the taking, hopped in, and we sped off towards Alex.

Ten minutes later we arrived to find Charlie and Sarah tending to Alex who was laying under a tree in the shade.  He was making more sense now but also showing more signs of the accident.  At least he knew we were in Mexico now.  As it turned out, the lady and her friend were the volunteer medics for the town and they knew exactly what to do.  Stethoscope in hand, she first checked his vitals, then whipped out a neck brace and immobilized Alex.  Three educated Westerners in tow and the first Mexican I saw was best prepared to save the day.

While she was putting him together a livestock pickup pulled off the road to offer assistance.  Within minutes it seemed the entire city had come to the rescue; there were five vehicles there at one point all of them willing to do whatever was necessary.  I couldn’t believe the response of hospitality exhibited by a tiny town in Baja that didn’t even have a gas station.  The town folk were running the rescue now while the white people stared and took pictures.  Humbled much?

Last to show up was the police truck.  While the villagers were all tending to the injured rider, the Mexican policeman casually parked, stepped out, surveyed the scene, and went straight to the bike to take down information for his report.  I’m not the cop but I’m convinced he could have given a shit about Alex’s condition.  Nevertheless, the solid platoon of local volunteers orchestrated an amazing operation.  Within half an hour of arriving they had Alex on a stretcher and loaded into the livestock truck that was to be the makeshift ambulance back to Rosario.  Some days you haul pigs, some days you haul gringos; no difference really.

The entire time since I had returned Alex was jabbering in Spanish about everything from here to there.  He seemed much more coherent but obviously he still needed medical attention.  With him secured in the pig pen, the truck pulled out being driven by the most ancient Mexican I have ever seen.  The old man was dressed like a cowboy and his skin was more leathery than his boots.  In the cab with him were his daughter-in-law and grandson and his son in the livestock bed keeping an eye on Alex.  I hitched a ride in another truck that had pulled over until we made it back to Catanina. 

Back in town we stopped and I paid the gas man to fill up the makeshift ambulance’s tank ($40).  I quickly thanked all the locals who had helped and then hopped on my bike to follow the injured pig back to Rosario where there was a doctor. 

As old as grandpa was, though, he drove his pig truck like a champ through some tortuous mountain roads.  Forget lane splitting, he used whatever lane he wanted through the winding high desert.  It took about an hour and a half to get there; partly because old man Mexico had to pull over for a piss three different times during the ninety mile drive.

Around 6:00pm we arrived in Rosario.  The last twenty miles I had been fighting gale force desert winds coming across the sandy plains; the muscles on the right-hand side of my back were aching unbearably having fought to keep the bike upright for so long.  We finally pulled into a hole in the wall clinic on the outskirts of town.  They opened up the steel cattle doors on the truck and two Mexicans hauled Al inside the clinic for the doctor to examine him. 

After a thorough once-over the doctor determined that Alex was in no immediate danger but he decided to call an ambulance to have Al sent to the next city, San Quintin (another hour north) for x-rays.  Alex, now a cog in the Mexican medical system, had to pay $200 cash up front to the ambulance EMT for the ride.  I went through his luggage grabbing all of his documentation and necessities as they moved him onto a real stretcher and tossed him in the ambulance.  I got his email password and his phone so I could call our insurance company and report the claim (we had applied just forty hours earlier).  I told him I’d see him that night or the next day depending on how my next couple hours went dealing with all of his luggage and finding Charlie and Sarah.

Charlie and Sarah meanwhile had stayed behind to clean up ground zero and deal with Alex’s bike.  As far as we know, they managed to grab all of his belongings; an incredible feat considering that his shit was fanned out in every direction from where he left the road.  The policeman actually decided to lend a hand and had Alex’s bike loaded into the bed of his truck to be taken back to town.  Once back in Catinina, Charlie found a local with a truck who said he would transport the bike back to the hotel in Rosario for $100.  Done deal (it was Alex’s money anyway).

With the ambulance pulling away I asked the old man driving the original ride if he could take Alex’s luggage back to Turista Motel, the place we had stayed at the night before.  He agreed and we set off towards the other end of Rosario to unload nine months -worth of adventure gear into the same hotel room.  On the way to the motel saw Charlie and Sarah pulled off to the shoulder just arriving in town; I screamed something about the hotel and knew they would get the point.  At the hotel we unloaded everything, paid the family another $50 for gas and thanked them endlessly.  Eventually they pulled away and carried on with their day; these people just happened to drive by our accident and ended up spending the next six hours hauling a gringo to the nearest doctor… lazy Mexicans.

Within moments Charlie and Sarah arrived at the hotel and all three of us ghosts had the same idea: beer and food.  Alex was finally under professional medical supervision and we had gotten all of his gear back to Rosario.  Wow.  After about an hour of gathering ourselves we eventually strolled to the local market, bought a LOT of beer, and then hit the next door restaurant to bury ourselves in tacos. 

That was all yesterday.

Today was less intense but just as much mental expenditure.  We woke up at 7:00am and loaded Alex’s busted up bike into the bed of our hotel owner’s pickup.  Last night she had offered to haul it in to San Quintin for us since she was already making the trip.  We graciously agreed and then worked around her schedule.  With his bike and all of his gear in the bed the truck took off for San Quintin around 8:30am and we followed on our motorcycles. 

An hour later we arrived in town and immediately stopped at the local motorcycle mechanic to let him pick through the damage.  Mind you that we are in the Baja so these guys are very good at their jobs.  We were worried that the bike was totaled after looking at it in the morning because on top of everything else the frame was obviously bent.  After we unloaded the bike the shop owner took one glance at it and confidently assured us that he could get it mobile again. 

While Charlie and Sarah kept talking to him, the hotel owner and took the caravan further down the road to Alex’s hospital.  We pulled up and Dona Betty (hotel owner) walked me inside and asked the reception where we could find Alex’s room for me.  It wouldn’t have been that hard for me to figure out since the hotel was barely bigger than my house in America but I was glad to have her do the talking. 

Dona Betty got the directions and walked me down the hallway to Alex’s room.  Inside we found him awake, alert, and very chipper.  He was connected to an IV and laying in his hospital bed.  We were relieved to find that had no serious injuries and apparently not even a concussion.  He was bruised and swollen all over his right side but other than that doing well.  I went outside and grabbed Alex’s gear out of Betty’s truck so she could run her errands in San Quintin. 

The next few hours were pretty boring getting Alex cleared to check out.  I did have a good time smoking a cigarette with the head doctor as I rode with him to the bank to withdraw money from Al’s account.  All told, Alex paid about $250 for a night in the hospital, 3 IVs, a couple meals, and constant medical attention.  But our American healthcare system should be left the way it is.

While I helped with the checkout process Charlie and Sarah finished dealing with the mechanic and drove around town to find a hotel for Alex.  The plan leading up to this trip had always been that if one rider goes down, the others will continue on once he is stable and cared for.  Today we executed that plan perfectly.  It seems like a cold way of doing things but it is absolutely necessary if we are to accomplish our goals.  Everyone understood that going into that and Alex was prepared for it today as we arranged to leave him behind.

After Alex paid the hospital and checked out, Dona Betty returned with her truck to give him and his gear a ride to his hotel.  We caravanned over there, dropped him and his gear off, and said goodbye to Dona Betty (not a long one since we would be seeing her back at the hotel in Rosario again in a few hours).  Next we finally got some breakfast around 2:00pm.  Alex manned up and bought us bought the entire meal as a token of gratitude for arranging him, his gear, and his broken motorcycle to be delivered safely two and a half hours north of his accident.

After eating we all rode over to the bike shop (Alex on the back of my bike) to assess his bike’s condition.  Surprisingly, the mechanic swears up and down that he can have Alex’s DR fully functional again within two weeks for around $1000.  The God-King apparently still has the power of luck.  With few other legitimate options, the rest was easy. 

We left Alex in San Quentin alone while he waits for his bike to be repaired.  In good spirits, he was already scheming about camping in the mechanic’s backyard and helping out around the shop.  Now Charlie, Sarah, and I are back at Turista Motel in Rosario preparing to head south again tomorrow.  We are short one man but knowing Alex he will be hot on our trail and back with the team in the blink of an eye.

 I cannot begin to explain how grateful I am for Charlie’s and Sarah’s support the last two days.  The two of them never thought twice about indefinitely holding their trips in order to assure that Alex was taken care of in the fastest manner possible.  Even though the guy who convinced me to come on this trip is recovering an hour north in a lonely hotel room for the next couple weeks, I am eager to push forward knowing that I have these two looking out for me.  I also offer 1000 thank you’s to the people of Catinina and Dona Betty.  Without them I don’t know what we would have done.

This post was way too long and I know that.  This one was more for me than for anyone else but I hope it was worth reading until the end.  Without Alex the parameters of this trip have changed entirely.  I cannot wait until he rejoins us but until then I will be immersing myself in the unbelievable unpredictability that is my current life and soaking in the amazing companionship of my new friends and the Mexican people.

The God-King Bleeds

Forty-eight hours since I last brought out the computer and it feels like a week…  just like an evening with Mike Morgan.  There is plenty to cover but most pressing is the fact that Alex just about lit us all on fire.  Al got a hair up his ass to cook some refried beans as a dip for some tortilla chips.  Against everyone else’s better judgment he insisted on cooking them over his whisper light MSR on the bathroom counter of our hotel room here in Rosario, BC (Baja California).  Feeling particularly cocky, he ignored all other suggestions such as going outside, using the stove next door, or even lighting the gasoline-fueled MSR over on top of a cooking pan. 

Fast forward thirty seconds and I am using a hotel towel to suffocate a ferocious three foot flame billowing from a puddle of gasoline on our bathroom counter.  Alex apparently pumped too much fuel into his stove and it immediately leaked all over the apparatus and the counter.  When the fireworks started, Alex calmly picked up the stove and walked out into the parking lot to keep the bottle from exploding and killing us all.  That left me the duty of putting out the remaining fire puddle with the nearest thing I could find: a now singed hotel towel.  All told, we are all fine, the room smells like gasoline, and Alex lost a corner from his Fireman Chit.

While we’re on the subject of Alex losing his mojo, let’s now go over his 65mph low side motorcycle crash this afternoon.  First of all, I didn’t see it happen, but I pulled up seconds after he got back on his feet.  We were all riding south to Rosario from Ensenada on Hwy 1.  Alex and Charlie were doing warp speed in the lead and Sarah and I were chugging along at a leisurely 55mph behind them out of eyesight.  Sarah and I came around a wide bend to find Charlie and Alex pulled off on the right side off in a patch of grass.  As it turned out, that was where Al and his bike finally came to rest after he laid it down while off-roading a little trail that paralleled the road. 

I didn’t know there had been an accident until we pulled up next to them and saw that both Alex and his bike were completely doused in thick mud.  Alex was absolutely fired up about bogging down his front tire in deep mud and then riding his bike sideways and backwards for about 80 feet during his crash landing.  I think I heard the story of his experience about four times in five minutes (you can imagine).  Thankfully, Alex was fine and his bike fared pretty well.  His right pannier had two bolt points come loose and his right rack has two cracks in it.  The case has a little damage on the bottom but is holding together well.  Everything is holding together for now but we will need to find a Mexican blacksmith to weld it all back together. 

What is the lesson here?  You’ll have to ask Alex.  All I know is that it was an isolated incident caused by him alone (and that the god-king finally bled).  Al is a great rider and he accidently ended up in some mud that he didn’t foresee.  For all you worry-warts out there, don’t; I don’t hop onto dirt trails at 65mph ever.  If I ever do, I surely will not be leading the pack.  Anyway, not a bad way to remind us all that these bikes are inherently dangerous.  Of course, though, we were back on the road within twenty minutes powering toward Rosario.  Alex was leading the way.

We pulled in to town around 4:00pm and stopped for gas.  We had intended to go further and camp in a national park but it wasn’t really in the cards.  Rosario is the last town with gas for the next 300 miles (our range is under 250), which means we need to fill some water bottles with fuel for this next push.  Given the dwindling daylight and sore asses we decided to stay here at ‘Tourist Hotel’ for a night before we take on the next stretch.  We got a room with three beds for ~$40, bought some beers at a local market, and then almost burnt the place down (please refer to the first paragraph).  Now we are all enjoying the Wi-Fi and discussing the logistics of tomorrow’s sans-gas adventure.

From what I’ve seen, Rosario is a small town fueled mostly by the local population.  There is definitely a strong Baja racing influence.  Every five minutes a quad, dirt bike, or lifted 4x4 roars by our hotel.  Needless to say we fit right in.  Tomorrow we will load up on gas and keep going.

Now that today is out of the way, yesterday was a lot less exciting but very fun.  Saturday morning Charlie and Alex were set on going back to the beach to get some footage of themselves throwing sand around next to the incoming waves.  Given my last beach experience I was not interested.  While the others went to get some tacos I rode over to Tourist Information to ask some questions and study their maps.  I eventually decided to ride out to a little peninsula fifteen miles South of Ensenada because the map showed a windsurfing symbol next to its beach: sold.  I asked if the area was safe (of course it was), memorized the route, and started off around noon.  The roads leading to the peninsula were a great ride and I really enjoyed going at my very own pace for once. 

As I got closer, I noticed a lot of signs reading ‘La Bufadora’ pointing in the direction I was heading.  As it turns out, I had chosen a major tourist destination instead of a windsurfing beach… shit!  La Bufadora turned out to be a spot in the rock wall coastline where the waves rush into a narrowing corridor and then blow foam sixty feet into the sky at its apex.  I haven’t checked a translator yet, but I think ‘bufadora’ means blowhole given the attraction.  The road ended at the coastline but I had to walk the last quarter mile of it because of all the tourist traffic and vendors.   I bought a beer, a vendor convinced me to buy a $5 cigar, and I enjoyed both on a secluded part of the beach watching the bufadora go off. 

After talking to some Americans and letting them admire my bike, I decided to head back and see how the beach ride went.  Sarah and the boys had gotten some great footage and also went to a local car wash to clean the sand and salt off their bikes.  I decided it would be a good idea for me too.  I pulled up to the car wash and for $4 two guys spent half an hour cleaning every square inch of my bike inside and out.  They even shined the tires!  I gave them $5 just because I’m such a baller.

That’s about it.  That night we got to bed real early (all the sun and beer finally took its toll) and got out of Ensenada the next morning.  Then Alex crashed and almost blew us up (winner).  Now we’re all debating what kind of delicious tacos to eat tonight; this could tear the team apart.  My eyes are still peeled for the white whale: windsurfing.  Expect about five pages when I finally find it.

Border Crossings and Beer!

Wednesday morning Alex and I woke up at the Rodeway Inn and met up with Charlie to go over our provisions.  We laid everything out on the ground and got rid of everything we didn’t need.  I didn’t get rid of much; just my insulated jacket liner (I have a warmer jacket packed that will do a better job when it’s cold), my SteriPen water filter (I have iodine), and a water bottle that I thought was excessive.

We have gotten to know Charlie well.  His Aussie accent is great fun and he has the same care-free mentality we all exhibit.  He is an excellent rider and his Yamaha puts our Suzuki’s to shame.  We plan to ride together off and on all the way to Argentina.  As a 28 year-old Australian miner, he is very confident, mechanically inclined, and tough as nails.

We got a late start after the huge push from San Francisco to LA so we didn’t leave for San Diego until midafternoon.  Ninety miles didn’t sound very far but it turned out to be a nightmare navigating the SoCal traffic.  I quickly learned to lane split, which means riding between lanes full of moving traffic.  We never made any dangerous moves at high speeds but it was still terrifying slipping between all the luxury cars with my huge panniers protruding off my frame.  I calmed down when a California Highway Patrol motorcycle lane split past me doing twice my speed in the fast lane; turns out that’s what you do in California.

We finally got to San Diego in the evening to stay with Chad Jerde for a night.  I haven’t seen Chad since high school so it was great to catch up and eat his awesome burrito meal.  Chad has a cool apartment near the SDSU campus and seems to be enjoying his recently purchased ’87 Westfalia van.

Thursday morning we got up earlier with an ambitious plan to hit the border early afternoon.  Then we proceeded to spend the next six hours shopping, picking up my registration, getting gas, and finding our bearings.  It was about 3:00pm when we finally did everything that was absolutely necessary before crossing the border.  Not accomplished: getting spark plugs (we have no spares…), spare tubes (we barely have enough), and getting travelers’ health insurance.  Even so, we needed to meet Sarah in Ensenada so we had to make the move.

We decided to take I-5 South to the Tijuana crossing.  We were finally making great time in the left lane as we came to the crossing prepared for a customs search and a bunch of passport hassles.  To our surprise, all we had to do was slow down to about 10mph, hop a few speed bumps and we were in the most dangerous city in the world.  They never even stopped us on our way into Tijuana.

Begin the most Mexican experience of my life.  Lane splitting the previous day turned out to be essential as we entered the chaos of Tijuana traffic.  Forget turn signals and courtesy, in Mexico it’s all about gunning it every chance you get and keeping up with the flow.  Want to go left?  Just go and screw the car bearing down behind you; just like Chicago.  Basically, put yourself anywhere you want on the road, cut off everybody, never stop at intersections, and keep your engine revved high so people know you’re there.  Welcome to Mexico, get with the program.  Luckily, three beefy motorcycles with three loaded white guys are pretty hard to miss for the other drivers on the road and we rode around the city like pros weaving traffic.

We stopped very soon after crossing the border because we faced a serious issue.  Charlie is Australian therefore he absolutely had to have passport stamp to eventually get out of Mexico.  For Americans the rules are much more lax, but we still needed to purchase our tourist visas and import our bikes.  Lost in Tijuana, our solution was very basic.  Go back to America and try it again. 

This is where the lane splitting came in.  We skipped the entire border line back to the states by riding between, around, and through the most hectic traffic jam I’ve ever seen.  At one point we hopped the curb, crossed fifty feet of  dirt footpath, and cut off a bunch of Mexicans on our way towards the frontera (all under the advice of Mexican vendors selling trinkets in the traffic).  The US Customs agent had a good laugh at our situation and explained that we needed to take a separate lane in order to get to immigration.  He waved us on through with no apprehension and just like that we’re back home!

For about ten minutes.  On the second try we hit the far right lane and actually found immigration.  Charlie got everything straightened out and Alex and I got our tourist visas since we’ll be here longer than thirty days.  Apparently we will get our passport stamps and import our bikes in La Paz, Baja before we cross into mainland Mexico.  After about an hour dealing with Tijuana’s confusing and disorganized immigration, we were on the same page with the Mexican government and ready to ride down the coast to Ensenada.

With our limited Spanish skills and complete lack of directions we somehow managed to get on the right toll way to Ensenada around 5:30pm to much relief.  Ensenada is sixty miles south of Tijuana on the West Coast of Baja.  As a cruise ship port, it is a tourist-friendly town and a great first stop.  Plus, Sarah was waiting there for us with a hotel room.  We pulled in around 7:00pm exhausted but exhilarated.

Step one: chain the bikes together and put our valuable luggage inside the room.  Step two: beer.  Charlie, Alex, and I got to know Sarah over a case of Sol before we headed out on the town for some tacos and more drinks.  Sarah is 26, a Colorado native, and a prospective grad student at University of Montana Missoula.  So far she is a great fit for the group and doesn’t seem to mind our male mentality, language, or odors.  After a full load of pastor tacos and passing around a few more forties of Sol we all hit the sack pretty late. 

Our luxury home called the America Hotel has two beds, a bathroom, and a kitchen.  It’s all there, but don’t count on much comfort.  My pillow last night was actually a couch cushion with a pillow case over it; I love Mexico!  The beer put me to sleep pretty quick but I woke up with some sever gut-rot around 3:00am.  I put laid on my Thermarest for over an hour holding my stomach and listening to my intestines gurgle.  To add to the misery, Charlie was dealing with the exact same issue at the same time and I got to hear his glorious diarrhea symphony as I tried to hold mine in.  At some point I fell back asleep without exploding and have been fine since. 

Today we finally got a day of relaxation.  We all woke up late and got a slow start with a delicious sausage, egg, and tortilla breakfast cooked over the stove.  After wandering the tourist strip and getting some espresso we decided it was time to ride.  We all lightened up our bikes and immediately tore off for the nearby mountains to eat some dirt.  With four dual-sport bikes at our disposal, we can conquer anything Mexico can throw at us. 

We ended up deep into the far reaching neighborhoods of Ensenada and found an amazing dirt trail that lead from one side of a mountain to another.  So far, all the Mexican locals we see our very excited about our bikes and happy to see us enjoying their country.  From the summits we then bolted for the sea and ripped the bikes down the sandy beach in Ensenada.  It was a little strange buzzing by beach going tourists on a 650cc monster but it was completely legal (actually encouraged by Tourist Information) and quite a learning experience. 

I don’t have sand tires so I dropped the bike immediately when I hit the sand.  With adrenaline pumping, I was able to heave the beast back upright and never let it go down again.  After about a half mile of beach cruising, a Mexican armed official flagged me down and told me to head back to the city.  He wasn’t angry, but apparently I had hit the motored vehicles beach border.  By that time I was sick of navigating the mushy sand and ready to get back to the hotel. 

I hit up Alex on the comm system and told him I was bailing for the road… bad idea.  I wandered aimlessly away from the beach and immediately sank my rear tire until my frame was resting on the sand.  Somehow through a lot of grunting and sweating I managed to rock the bike out of its hole and kept searching for an exit point to the road.  By this time Alex was out of reach for the comms and I was completely on my own (don’t worry; it was on a sandy beach in a tourist town on a sunny day).

Finally, completely exhausted, I found a tiny opening between a barbed wire fence and a concrete barrier that led from the beach to the road.  I rode right up to it hoping to squeeze through and to my dismay, my bike would not fit through with the panniers hanging off the sides (trust me, I tried damn hard to get that thing through and the bike has the scratches to prove it).  Absolutely unwilling to go back to the sand, I decided to just remove a pannier and walk the bike through the narrow pathway.  Twenty more minutes of wrenching and grunting I was back on the road alone in Mexico. 

Surprisingly, I was not scared at all.  This country is no more dangerous than parts LA if you keep a low profile and stay collected.  I knew which direction my hotel was and zipped back there at a leisurely pace enjoying the freedom of the bike and the exotic sights.  I got back to the hotel flustered from my beach experience but much fulfilled.  I had gotten myself out of a jam alone and felt very confident.

Upon my return we all knocked back a couple beers and soaked in the setting sun.  Which brings me to Zutaza Café right right now.  All four of us are wired in and updating our various communication channels.  Tomorrow we will hopefully get some spare motorcycle parts and take care of this health insurance situation.  Until then, I have Imodium holstered in my pocket just in case today’s tacos seek revenge.

Oh yeah, I plan to figure out how to upload pictures here at some point, but until then feel free to browse Alex’s photobucket profile.  He has been awesome taking great pictures of all our feats.

http://s979.photobucket.com/albums/ae273/bigalsmith101/No%20Jobs%20No%20Reponsibilities%20No%20Better%20Time/

As well, check out Alex’s separate blog which he is scribing on ADVrider.com.  ADV is a site completely devoted to overland motorcycle travel so you will see a lot of envious fans commenting on our adventure.  Check out his perspective and enjoy the ADV love!

http://s979.photobucket.com/albums/ae273/bigalsmith101/No%20Jobs%20No%20Reponsibilities%20No%20Better%20Time/

Adios!

Glendale, CA

Tue April 6, 2011

Woke up this morning after a night on the town in San Fran with Bones, Jenny, and Alex.  Brady greeted us with beers and a rooftop view overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz.  We watched the sun set over San Francisco Bay while drinking on the roof and then went to a bar to catch the NCAA National Championship game.  I’m so glad Butler lost. 

Anyway, this morning we got out of San Fran around 11:00am after stopping at REI.  We were trying to get to ‘the five’ to head south.  Instead we got lost and ended up on a southbound freeway for San Jose.  We followed that for a while until the Hwy 101 exit came up.  Just like in southern Oregon, we bolted for 101 again.  This time the highway was much more of a freeway and we logged over 350 miles of it barreling towards L.A..  This was by far our longest day and I am definitely feeling it: sunburn, sore back, and a tired neck.  Earplugs have been a lifesaver.  So have the communication headsets we bought have been lifesavers; they have a 1000 yard range and play music off my iPod. 

We got here to L.A. around 10:00pm.  Too much night riding for me but we had a good reason to get here.  Our new teammate Charlie invited us here to Glendale to meet up for a night on our way down.  Charlie is Australian and rides an awesome Yamaha Tenere.  He will be riding as far south as Argentina with us and we are glad to have the company.  Alex and I are at a Rodeway Inn tonight in Glendale, CA.  Charlie is with a family friend a couple blocks away.

Tomorrow we all meet up and go over our possessions and hopefully shed some weight.  After we streamline our packing, we will all ride to San Diego to post up with Chad Jerde for a night.  I will be swinging by the post office in San Diego because my parents had to mail me my bike’s registration ahead of time.  So far that is the only thing I forgot at home.  After Chad’s we are hopping into Mexico via the Mexicali crossing and off to Ensenada.   In Ensenada, we will meet our fourth teammate Sarah and take it from there.  Everybody’s got one thing on their minds: south.

Four days in this trip is just beginning to unfold.  I already feel that sense of excitement I experienced while living in Hood River.  We have met only good people so far.  Many are interested in where we’re from.  When we explain we’re going to Argentina they end up hanging around for ten more minutes asking questions.

 Our bikes are kicking ass.  I had one flat in Phillipville, CA, but that has been our single issue.  42 mpg at freeway speeds has us excited for our mileage potential on the slower Mexican roads.  I have definitely become a better rider already although today I did put down my bike during an awkward turn in a parking garage.  Nothing was hurt but it was a lesson learned never to lose focus.

Now I’m too exhausted and burnt from today’s riding to continue.  I miss everyone at home, especially my family, but I’m having the time of my life.  Everybody wish us a hassle-free border crossing on Thursday and as little diarrhea as possible Friday!

For My Gearheads

For My Gearheads         

Now for some nitty gritty.  Alex and I are both riding the Suzuki DR650 because it is simple, reliable, and strong.  The DR is an enduro style bike meant to be capable on or off road.  I purchased my ’08 DR with 2,500 miles on it for $3,500 last year in Boise.  The bike was basically stock except for an engine guard and some soft luggage.  Since then, I have  poured many hours of labor into outfitting this toy into an adventure machine (with a  lot of help from Alex).  A brief list of upgrades:

4.9 gallon gas tank

Corbin seat

Raised handle bars

Lowered foot pegs

Front and rear suspension springs

Heated hand grips

Hand guards

Windscreen

Aluminum panniers with steel racks

Pelican rear case with quick release

Shinko dual sport tires with heavy duty tubes

Extended fuel mixture screw

Upgraded air filter and secondary breather

Auxiliary lights

Basically we screwed around with everything but the engine itself to make these bikes fit us better and ride harder.  Overall it has been a great success.  With the raised bars, lowered pegs, and upgraded saddle my 6’2” frame feels right at home.  The stronger springs upgrade was very important now that my panniers are installed because I’m weighing this bike down quite a bit.  Fully loaded it still stands tall under my stance and keeps me on my toes.  Hand guards, heated grips, and a wind screen make all-day riding much more enjoyable.  All of my luggage is secure and lockable and my rear pelican case detaches in an instant with all of my most important belongings inside.  The five gallon gas tank gives us a 200+ mile range and basically those two hundred miles can be all dirt uphill. 

To protect ourselves from the elements and the dangers of motorcycling I am wearing the Rev’it Cayenne Pro outfit, a pair of Georgia logging boots (shit kickers), two pairs of Rev’it gloves, and a Shoei Hornet helmet.  We settled on a very cheap, no frills motorcycle for this trip but went for the big leagues with our gear.  My jacket and pants have full armor, a three layer waterproofing insulation system, vents everywhere, and they zip together when I want.  Fully lined the outfit is warm to about freezing temperature.  Emptied and vented we expect reasonable comfort in 100+ degree weather down South.  I have one pair of warm, waterproof gloves and one pair of light, breathable gloves.  Between the two my hands will be well protected.  My boots are full leather logging style and they will not be getting blown off my feet when I go down.  Finally, my helmet is very lightweight and therefore loud as well.  It has a visor and windshield and vents very well on hot days.  Alex and I have a two-way Bluetooth comm system for road logistics or just bumpin’ tunes.  My policy on this trip is very simple in regard to this stuff: all the gear all the time. 

Possessions.  This is a motorcycle trip but I am packing for a glorified camping overland romp.  We plan to camp frequently so a tent, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, pillow, trowel, sit pad, and cooking pot are on the list (Alex is bringing a stove).  I also plan to do plenty of exploring; throw in a backpack and the ten essentials.  Being gone up to a year, I am packing clothing to fit any climate at any season.  I have packed very little cotton except for a pair of jeans and a comfy tee shirt.  Other than that, I will look like a Seattleite REI-whore yuppie.  I’m bringing a pair of light Pumas and also my Chacos.  Limited toiletries and a towel wrap up my other-worldly possessions.    Of course I have this netbook and an iPod to keep me wired while I’m out there as well.

Spares and tools take up a lot of space but obviously are extremely important.  My toolkit includes an assortment of spanner  wrenches and sockets, allen wrenches, vice grips, pliers. Screwdrivers, a tire pump, three tire irons, tube repair kit, and a heap of different lubes and welds.  I am carrying an extra quart of oil, several oil filters and spark plugs, a rear sprocket and master chain link, various gaskets, two tubes, and some chain wax.  Between that and the stock kit I have everything short of the jaws of life. 

So far, this is what I’ve got.  It’s 29 hours from departure and I feel ready.  Tomorrow I will just be tying up some loose ends around the house and battening down some hatches for my absence.  Lynn returns home from PLU tomorrow and we are going out as a family to Anthony’s for dinner.  And my birthday is on Saturday!

To Recount

Seven days left in the Pacific Northwest and I have a lot of work to do.  In one week I am departing on a long journey deep into South America on my motorcycle with my friend Alex Smith.  We have a budget of about $15,000 and a year-long maximum commitment.  Sitting at the precipice of eighteen months of hard work and planning, I think it is important to take into account the last two years of my life.  I’ve hit the road for every whim that’s come my way and it has led me through some wild times.

To recount, since graduating from Gonzaga University in 2009 I have been roaming my youth constantly searching for adrenaline, cash, or character.  After leaving the Moontower I immediately took a job delivering paper for Office Depot in Bellingham, WA.  I lived with my parents during that post and quickly learned the value of money in the bank.  Living large on the weekends and cheap throughout the week I was able to save about $4,000 in just a few months at Office Depot.  Then, over the course of a weekend, I decided to take a job offer as a windsurfing instructor in Hood River, OR for the remainder of the summer.

Hood River was my first taste of the freedom of the road.  I packed my Subaru Outback chock full and used it as a home for the next six weeks while I cruised from parking lots, to state parks, to backyards living in my tent.  I would explore the Columbia River Gorge in my free time and instruct my passion most perfect natural setting for money.  It was an Eagle Scout’s dream come true and there at the age of twenty-two I decided that my life needed to continue in this fashion.

After the wind died I returned home for a month before devoting the entire 2009/10 winter to skiing in my beloved Cascades.  I took a cashier job at Mt. Baker and lived in the employee lodge for $8/day at one of the most wide open mountains that America has to offer.  The skiing was ecstasy but unfortunately my winter was foiled by a hernia in January.  By the time I had recovered from surgery, I was out of shape, broke, and starting to seriously consider this motorcycle trip around the world that Alex kept babbling about.

When an opportunity to drive for Office Depot arose again I decided it was time to make some money.  Alex kept saying we could ride all the way around the world on dual-sport motorcycles with about $30,000 total.  Eventually I was hooked and I budgeted a lush lifestyle in Bellingham that would allow me to save the funds by the summer of 2012, our original departure date.  So for six or seven months I worked about 34 hours/week making $3,600/month saving nearly all of it.  Of course I had a ball since I was finally living on my own in a house for the first time since college: in half a year I bought a big screen TV, a windsurfer, and two motorcycles (one of which I am riding to South America in a week). 

Even with those purchases and random adventures every single weekend I was sitting on $5,000 when my next call of the wild bellowed.  There was an opportunity through my current employer to go work with Alex in Juneau, AK as a Home Depot delivery man earning $1,000/week.  Again, over a weekend, October 1^st 2010 I uprooted and underwent a complete lifestyle transformation. 

The next four months of my life are hard to describe.  I spent eight weeks in Juneau learning the job as Alex’s assistant.  In that time I began learning Shito Ryu (karate), earned my Class B CDL, and got in the best shape of my life.  I bitched about the rain a lot in Juneau but in hindsight it was a great place to be paid to live.

As is common in this line of work, one weekend I was overnight shipped to Fairbanks, AK to fill in for some guy who quit the local delivery route.  This is where my life was put on ‘pause’.  I spent two more months in Fairbanks working with three different assistants amid a horrible delivery coordinator and arctic temperatures.  I remember during my third week when the temperature finally rose to negative singe digits how vibrantly warm it felt outside.  It had averaged minus thirty degrees Fahrenheit until that point.  Not to mention I was driving a massive flatbed semi truck just one week after passing my driver’s exam.  And I was fully responsible and liable for every delivery with a $2000 deductible for every mistake I made.  And there was only three hours of sunlight.

Fairbanks was the night’s darkest hour in my recent life.  I encountered states of boredom and obsession that I’ll never forget.  When it is minus twenty-five and you’ve been working in it all day, you don’t really EVER go outside.  All I did was repeat the day before and watch money pile up.  They say I built character in Alaska; I did it for the money.  I saved 90% of my income in Alaska.  Fast forward to February of 2011 and I come home.  Finally.

I had planned this vacation starting in February for months.  Within days of returning I learned that my job no longer existed in the future but I really didn’t care.  I needed to ski, live with my family, hang with my friends, and tinker on my motorcycle.  After about two weeks it set in that we no longer had jobs and a new plan was in order.  We had budgeted the next eighteen months intending to make $1,250/week delivering appliances.  You can’t make that kind of money with zero expenses in any other job.  So we both were sitting at home in Lake Stevens, WA with $25,000 in the bank and decked out motorcycles in the garage.

And that is how I got here.  The last seven weeks Alex and I have been preparing for our grandest adventure ever and now my finest moment draws near.  Until yesterday I was worried.  I’ve been on the road so long…why not just hang up the cleats for a season?  Maybe meet a girl and build a career for a bit?  It would be nice to settle down for a bit.

Then, watching the sunset at Camano Island, the fear completely washed away as I said goodbye to my best friends.  I am ready.  The last four months have taught me that I have a lot to live for.  The extreme solitude of Alaska followed by the pure joy of my vacation have revealed just how amazing my life is here in Washington.  I have a loving family and the most eclectic group of friends you can imagine.  Why the hell would I willfully leave any of this?

My mom says I watched one too many Indian Jones movies.  She’s right!  It’s time to become my childhood superhero.  Not many people grow up to be who they wanted but here I’m staring down Harrison Ford in the mirror.  This trip isn’t some reckless stunt to prove I’m a badass; this is the natural progression of my life.  And with that in mind, please believe that I will not be taking safety lightly.  Along with my high thirst for adventure comes a low tolerance for risk.  I didn’t get to this point by making many mistakes and the same mentality applies on the road.  So everybody please: I’ll come back.  Until then, everything can wait; I’ll be in Margaritaville.