The following is a story by: strikingviking1@earthlink.net

On March 31, 2001, I departed for an 8,000 mile motorcycle trip on a Kawasaki 650 Dual Sport, from Palm Springs, California, through Mexico, Belize and Guatemala, returning May of 2001.The following is a true accounting of this arduous journey of 32 days.



Cinch down your gear, hop on your bike, let's go for a ride..

March 31, 2001

Blasting at 90 across a desolate Sonoran desert precariously balanced on two wheels, with the sun sinking rapidly behind me, causing my shadow to stretch out toward the orange mountains in the distance . . . if Wily T stays off the road tonight we both get to have supper somewhere.

There is nothing to disturb my focus, no radios, no conversation and no cops. I taste the dryness in the air, I feel the parching wind, I hear my engine thumping to match that of my heart beat, I see the panorama encircle me and I even smell the cactus. I am slipping into a trance of hyper awareness... The line between reality and dream state grows obscure.

A wrinkled blacktop rolls out to the horizon before me as a serpentine red carpet beckoning me into the heart of old Mexico.

Nightfall on a Mexican highway is not the end of the world, the odds just shift dramatically, there is about a half hour of light left and 100 miles to the next town, I stay on the afterburner and... "fire all of my guns at once and explode into space"

April 1, 2001

Jamming south on Mexico 15, lots of toll roads and bad as truckers in a hurry. Weather is just between a tee shirt and leather jacket so opt to keep the hides on for safety and keep moving to stay cool. Had a close call when I hit a speed bump and the rear license plate peeled half my knobbies off the rear tire down to the cord. No new meat available for 500 miles, kept on the hammer with fingers crossed and made it safely to Culican where it was kind of replaced with an equivalent. Ho hum

Mexicans are nice and friendly, at every traffic signal from Mexicali south, when they notice my over laden motorcycle, I am greeted by shouts of, "Adonde va?" (where are you going?) I reply, "Voy a Guatemala!" they laugh and shout with amazement. Their gleeful curiosity eggs me on, it is though they knew I was coming.

Not much traffic in either direction, and for the most part, the road is good. I am leaving the corn and cotton fields behind for tropical vegetation as I recently crossed the tropic of cancer and thunder on south toward the equator. Guadalajara is almost around the bend and I just checked my watch and it is only April. I must be dreaming.

A day in the life...

April 2, 2001

Mazatlan was okay except for the tourist, tourist facilities and tourist attitude. If you subtracted the tourist bars and high rise hotels, the beaches and countryside would be great. Warm weather, pleasant climate and relatively easy to get to and poof...you have a magnate for every geek from around the world. Why is it that tourist love to travel to far away exotic places that have everything they have at home like Mc Donalds, Pizza Hut and all the major retail franchises? Rock, hip hop and rap blares everywhere as Mexicans try to impress you with, and make you comfortable with, American slang. It is a successful formula economically for some, but seldom for whom need it the most, the desperately poor. The more I travel to exotic places over the years before and after tourism, the more I realize nothing ruins paradise quicker than US dollars. (That is unless you count missionaries)

Last night I saw a giant neon sign that said, "Girls Girls Girls"... obviously a place where there are lots of girls without clothes and my lustful curiosity got the best of me as to what the local chicas looked like unwrapped. Indeed the place was full of naked, half naked, recently naked and soon to be naked beauties. After politely declining to purchase $12 drinks for several of them, they realize I am not a businessman from Chicago and seek other prey.

Suddenly, the pick of the litter snuggles up next to me and cannot get over how handsome I am and how badly she would like to leave with me. She is dying to go back to the room with me, and for the price of what I have budgeted for hotels for the next two weeks, this could be a reality. I pause and ponder, maybe I could just camp outside for two weeks. But in the end it comes down to this gorgeous little muchacha and waking up to poisonous snakes, scorpions and banditos for the next two weeks. I stand my ground firmly on wobbly knees and wire home for more money.

April 3, 2001

On the road to Guadalajara, gassed up and rolling to a steady pace with nothing to slow me down except toll road booths. You may occasionally encounter banditos in Mexico of one sort or another, toll road owners are the most prevalent. Every ten, fifty or hundred miles, you must stop and pay the bandito for enjoying his road. Five bucks here and ten bucks there, you try to keep track and estimate what this costs per mile, ten cents a mile here and thirty cents a mile there. Just when you think you have coughed up your last toll of the day, it is one more five-dollar toll! All we can do is grin and bear it. Toll roads are great though, sort of like mini US Interstates complete with rest areas, snack bars and bathrooms that don&Mac226;t make you gag. Like US highways though, there are many hundred mile stretches with nothing in between, except corn and cotton fields, and with the high cost of tolls making it cost prohibitive to most travelers, foreign and domestic, the! y are almost deserted. I experimented with the "Free roads" of single lanes in each direction, potholes galore and maniacal truck and bus drivers and concluded that, for motorcyclists, toll roads are a bargain.

The coastal plains are behind me now as I wind my way up through the mountains into the somewhat cooler central highlands. Pleasantly banked turns and dormant volcanoes in the distance temper the discomfort of eight hours in the saddle. It has been worth it every second! Gentle thermal clines of cool air refresh my body and soul, and no matter what, I just cannot get this smile off my face.

Late Afternoon April 3, 2001

Mexican truckers are never bored. If they ever start to get bored, they simply engage in their own private favorite past time. Chicken. It is a game they can only lose to another trucker. It goes like this: on a crumbling, single lane in each direction road, the engaging trucker spots a small car or motorcycle approaching in the distance. He makes an attempt to pass the vehicle in front of him only when he is certain he cannot successfully pass and return to his own lane before he encounters the smaller vehicle head on. The smaller vehicle has no choice but to swerve dangerously halfway off the road to avoid collision, thus, he is chicken. I know at this moment they are grinning at their terrified cowering prey as they add another notch to their steering wheels.

This is getting old to me, and what the heck, "Soy muy loco tambien" so I decide to test them to see how far it will really go. Here we go, oncoming truck in my lane, we are both doing 70mph. This time I do not swerve, staying the course, hoping he backs down and returns to his own lane defeated by a triumphant motorcyclist. (James Dean would be proud) Trucker does not blink and I suspect he may even have had an erection as he roared toward me with the anticipated splat of a giant insect on his front grille. I wait until the last possible moment before almost having to stop and run off onto what could only pass for a shoulder to a motorcyclist. I swear I saw pieces of smaller vehicles imbedded in his front bumper as he flashed by with the rear tire of his trailer grazing my mirror. What a rush! I have "Hells Angels MC" tattooed on one arm and "Crazy" tattooed on the other (a name given to me by them back in the seventies) and most that know me well, consider this an ! understatement, but this guy gets a new rating. Maybe he has, "el berserko grande" on his arm. None the less I take it all in stride as part of the experience, keep smiling and glide on through the last stretch to Guadalajara. It has been a long day and once again a rapidly darkening sky hastens me toward the safety of a city and a much anticipated two day rest/layover. Mi vida loca

April 4, 2001

I do not know if Guadalajara is a European city with a Mexican flare or a Mexican city with a European flare, whatever you consider it, it is a spectacular synthesis of the two. Next to San Diego, this is the nicest and friendliest big city I have ever been to. For city folk, the people are polite and helpful and the women are staggeringly beautiful. On every street corner I spot armies of beauties I would marry just see them in their underwear and they actually smile back for whatever that is worth.

Cab drivers even give good directions and though the traffic is thick everywhere, you can eventually reach your destination without getting to lost and still see interesting things in the process.

I use a Lonely Planet guidebook as a reference and outline for my journey and it has given great reviews about the Plaza de Mariachis which is just around the corner from my hotel. It also states that it is not a safe place to be after 9PM, so I wait until 9:30 and stroll over to observe the transformation. Sure enough, the tourist leave and the locals and street people slide in, my kind of crowd.

After a few beers and some great Mariachi tunes I head back to the hotel, one last look though, reveals a 9.5 sitting alone and smiling in my direction. I assume the enticing look was intended for someone standing behind me, but I checked to be sure, and there was no one there. She mouths at a distance at which I could not hear, "Como estas?" I calmly stroll toward her table trying not to trip over to many chairs in the process, wipe off my chin and sit down.

My language skills thus far, are minimal at best, but it is amazing what a half a semester of beginning Spanish and a burning desire to, ah, ah, communicate, can do for conversation. We laugh and joke for a few hours over cervezas and it is looking like, it is, now or never time, so I blurt out something about going back to my hotel to check out my Spanish book. She bites, and we&Mac226;re off, here go those wobbly knees again. Everything is looking good until the hotel clerk slams on the brakes, with the, "This is a family hotel senor" routine, "and that is not your wife." I try to argue, "Yes, but she might be someday." He will not budge and I assume this is a peso shakedown and try to determine the toll for passage. He mumbles something about cameras and nods over his shoulder, sure enough, a camera, in a $16 a night hotel!

We do a long kissy face good bye thing with assurances to meet again tomorrow sharply at 3PM, and she is emphatic to be on time, "en punto." My thoughts are in the gutter, in fact, that night, the curb was looking like a skyscraper.

The next day she pulls a "No show" and I actually wait an hour and head back to the plaza thinking maybe the location got misinterpreted. Duh. I hate it when they sober up and come to their senses, there is a lot to be said for striking while the iron is hot.

Spent the rest of the day and night hanging out in Plazas and Cathedrals and making calls home on a finally functioning satellite phone.

The more things change, the more they remain the same.

April 5, 2001

Saddled up and loaded down, it is back on the road again after my much needed two day rest. It is always nice to hang out, kick back and recharge the batteries for a few days now and then, but there is nothing like the feeling that comes with getting back on the trail. Motorcyclists at this point are known to hum and mumble a few off key bars of Willy Nelsons, "On the Road Again" as they head off again into another days adventure.

Jumping back into traffic, is not a simple matter. You have to find a pattern, develop a rhythm, establish a pace and determine your level of aggression. There is no hope for a passive rider in Mexican cities, you must ride faster than the flow of traffic, whatever that is. I pull out of the hotel parking lot, and do a split second road check. A long string of buses and trucks are closing in rapidly, it is now or never. If I miss this shot, I'll suck diesel fumes for miles. No time to reconsider, I launch, pulling out in front of the rapidly approaching pack. If my engine skips a beat, hesitates or if I am in the wrong gear, it's pancake city. I make it, but barely. I am wide awake now, and it is time to get down.

There is a special lane out there for aggressive motorcyclist, it called the white line, as in the one that separates cars from each other, and when using it, it's called "White lining." Some consider this extremely dangerous and reckless driving, to the guys I ride with, it's a walk in the park, but it does require a sixth sense, in order to be successful. The consequences of miscalculation, are obvious.

I am loaded down heavily with saddle bags, tank bag and tail bag and thus have substantially reduced my agility, but that won't slow me down. People driving cars don't always have a lot of regard for motorcyclist, I don't think it is intentional, it is just that we take up less space and don't appear as threatening as say, a bus. If we are not aggressive, we won't get anywhere.

Cars are chaotically changing lanes, I am whipping in and out of open spaces and my protruding saddle bags occasionally, actually brush across a fender or two. It is close enough quarters, where my mirrors, clip those on the cars. As I slalom my way out of the city, I try to predict the odds of returning home with both knees intact. I shudder at the possibilities, grin and twist the throttle, rocketing past the last traffic signal and out onto the open road.

The ride to the small colonial city of Morelia is short, sweet and uneventful except for almost running out of gas. It was not for lack of stations at first, but rather procrastination and just having to see how far I could push it, that made my little carburetor start gulping air and sputter to the side of the road. Ended up having to lean and swirl to get at that last liter of fuel hiding in the far corner of my tank, which allowed me another 20 mile burst and to finally coast into the Pemex station bone dry. . At least I know for sure, what my range is now.

April 6, 2001

Guadalajara was great but the small stone city, 200 miles south, Morelia, is it! If there was a place, feeling or thing that I was looking for on this trip, I did not know what it was until I arrived here. A 16th century colonial town with zero hustle and surprisingly organized. Cathedrals, plazas, and secluded courtyards are down every narrow passage way. The traffic is heavy, but orderly and friendly. As in the rest of Mexico, people seldom cut you off intentionally or speed up to prevent you from passing. All things considered, folks down here are mighty polite.

Not only is it easy to get lost in a 400-year-old city, but it is easy to get lost in time. You could wander for days and never get bored. It is a place to ponder the past, speculate the future and memorize the moment. Me encanta

The 18 dollar a night hotel I am staying in is a converted mansion built in 1723. I am expecting at any moment for Zorro to pop out from beneath a stone archway and challenge me to a dual. It is going to be difficult leaving this place, but I've vowed to return.

April 7, 2001

The windy road to the next city of Cuarnavaca pulled me up twisty, hair pinned mountain turns to over 7500 feet through a magnificent forest of thick towering pines. At first, it was 20 miles of biker&Mac226;s dream, fresh laid asphalt, but then 20 miles of decaying, crumbling surface, and then back too great again. Many hours in the sharp curves fatigued me so bad I had to pull over for a break because I actually got car sick. I had the road to myself averaging 30mph and the scenery was as breath taking as the altitude.

Cuarnavaca is another rapidly developing colonial city that is showing the pain of such. The action in these places usually centers around the central plaza, marketplace or Zocalo. People come from everywhere to cruise on foot, to enjoy the local orchestras, Mariachis, dancers or various vendors. It is a place to see and be seen. You can feel the magic with the cathedrals lit up in the background and the atmosphere of celebration. Viva Mexico !

April 8, 2001

The road to Oaxaca was difficult, slow and fatiguing. At one point it took two hours to go thirty miles and almost nine to complete the 275 miles to the capital. The last two hours were spent riding in treacherous total darkness through windy narrow mountain roads with more donkeys than I thought existed. The roadway is their hangout after dark and even before, and they are not much worried about getting out of your way. It is up to you to dodge them and they know it. I wonder if they are this confident with trucks and busses. The darkly tinted eye shield on my full face helmet makes it difficult to see the road ahead, let alone a fallen rock or chunk of debris, if I flip it up, bugs fly into my eyes. My nerves are frayed. I try to keep wedged in between two cars, one to light my path better from behind, the other to alert me with brake lights to signal an obstruction ahead. The other two drivers know I am in trouble and pace me like this for the last 50 miles to help guide! me to safety.

For the most part, motorcycling in Mexico could be classified in general, as white knuckle riding, last night I went to a new level... could not get off red alert until I closed my eyes behind my hotel room door. I guess that is why I have not seen any other motorcycles coming or going since California. Why does this make me smile so much?

April 9, 2001

The quickest way to get the most out of a new city, is getting a hotel closest to the plaza or town square as possible, glance at a map and head out immediately before getting too relaxed in my room. Generally much of the cool things to check out are within walking distance of the Plaza (Zocalo) so I ride around the Zocalo in an ever widening search pattern until I see everything I want to come back to, and almost never get lost in the process. It is a great system, because I am on a motorcycle, can whip in and out of traffic with relative ease and park anywhere I want, including sidewalks in Mexico.

They do however, also have a helmet law here, that although it is not strictly enforced, can be used as an excuse to generate a little pocket change for the local constable. Such an occasion occurred tonight, when as I was parking my bike at the Plaza, as I was approached in a friendly manner by one of the local auxiliary cops. He wants to let me know that there is a helmet law and that I should be concerned for my safety in case I get too drunk that night and crash. I tell him I'm not much of a drinker anyway, as when I do drink, I sometimes wake up peeking through bars. We laugh and joke for a while and soon a small crowd of real cops is standing around asking me questions about my trip. It was not necessarily my idea of mingling with the locals, but I was getting that important opportunity to practice my Spanish.

They see the decal on my bike for my Judo school and want to know more. I tell them about my classes and a bit about Judo in general. I explain how much better it is to use nonviolent compliance techniques on resisting arrestees, as opposed to beating them with their sticks etc. An expert knows, real strength is a soft touch. One thing leads to another and I have agreed to a seminar the next day. Many of the cops I train back in California like the techniques I teach them because they do not have to get carried away on people as much, and ultimately get a beef on themselves for excessive force. I doubt however, that concern for possible future litigation, is a primary concern for a Mexican policeman. Nos vemos manana.

One great thing about Mexico is how the food varies from region to region and how great it all is. I mostly eat at small sidewalk restaurants and cafes because you can watch them make your meal and observe Mexico passing by in the process. It is time to chow down on the local cuisine and there is only about twenty places to choose from on each block. I let my nose be my guide and once in awhile am swayed by a fine young chica serving la comida.

I am still trying to find one thing I do not like about this country.

April 10, 2001

Lately every new town I hit makes me think this is the place to hang for a awhile and Oaxaca is no exception. I am continually amazed at a people that have so little, find so many excuses to celebrate life. They have much to teach me. One thing for certain, more important than bringing lots of pesos to assure a great time in Mexico, is to flash a smile and share a compliment. You will have friends for life.

Time is a growing factor as a third of my month has passed and have had to develop a system of appropriating the hours in the most efficient way possible. If I stay moving on the road every day, it leaves little time for exploring, yakking with the locals and studying. Eight hours in the saddle and eight hours of sleep leaves me with eight hours to eat, write and post journals, study my Spanish book, read up on Mexican history and culture, explore the area and most of all, seek the woman of my dreams.

It all boils down to priorities, and mine, along with my ultimate destination determinations, change every day. There is simply too much to see, hear, enjoy and feel. The month I have set aside for this trip could easily get eaten up at almost every town south of Guadalajara. I wake up in the morning and study maps and read the guide books to see what lies ahead. I am overwhelmed at the possibilities. What would happen to my Martial Art school should I decide to stay gone for, oh let us say, another year? I figure that it is what it might take to really absorb Mexico, but then again, what about Guatemala, and since I am down there, what about the rest of Central America? Once I get to Panama, I could just toss my little motorcycle on the ferry for Columbia and be in Bogota in two days. Since I am in Columbia... you see how it goes? You never really get enough!

I spent ten years bumming around Asia off and on, actually lived in Thailand for two years, learned to speak, read and write Thai and feel like, at best, I barely scratched the surface. See what I am up against here? How will I ever get to know the world if I stay another day in Oaxaca?

April 11, 2001

Had the traveler&Mac226;s dream last night, got invited home by a local to meet the family, have dinner and see how the other half does it. I ended up getting friendly with one of the auxiliary policemen whom I met the other night who was a cop, but without a gun, yet had a badge. (He reminded me of Andy of Mayberry) I think he served in some type of advisory position because the other cops kept calling him professor and he taught primary school in the daytime. He insisted I come to his house for dinner, not mentioning much else.

I realize that certain gestures in different countries mean different things, but the way he kept slapping my knee and laughing as we sat talking made me a bit suspicious. Decided to clarify our orientations right away so nobody had to be disappointed later and asked him about where the best place to meet the local senoritas was. He acknowledged that there were such places, but since he was a married man with children, he did not know where they were. Great, lets go eat.

The family was all there, grand daughters, cousins and grand parents and we all sat down for the traditional Mexican meal in this small beautiful home situated in a nice quiet neighborhood. We went on for hours about our lives here and there and with all the hand waving and pantomiming, probably understood almost half of what the other was saying. It was all great fun and the little grand daughters, five and seven kept asking why I had to go away. Gulp. After swapping addresses and pledges to return soon, they announce I am now an official member of their family, which is kind of nice to hear when you are 3,000 miles away from home in a strange country.

Now for the highlight of the evening, they announce we are off to a Salsa dance lesson where there are many young beautiful senoritas who would like to meet, for possible marriage, a fine-looking American such as me. Whirrrrrr, Handsome man's filthy little mind begins to spin. I have heard of these type of deals before somewhere in a Men's magazine, and now it is a reality. My imagination accelerates, there I am surrounded by all those slender, young beauties I have seen in the Plaza, all throwing themselves at me, awaiting my command, my only problem, which to choose.

I am not really much of a dancer, in fact, I cannot dance at all, but I had the best time in years dancing away with all my young, olive skinned, long haired, toothless grinning and 250+ pound dance partners. They did know their Salsa and did move with amazing agility, but let us just say, it is a good thing I did not take that viagra my friend gave me for that "special occasion" before I left.

Arrived safely before sundown in Tuxtla Guitierez after a long hot bumpy road from Oaxaca in the blazing sun. Temperatures of 100+ and lots of curves to keep me awake. Drank 4 liters of water and did not pee once, felt like a prune cooking in a solar micro wave. 380 miles in just 10 hours is the best time in the last week considering all the stops for speed bumps in small towns and villages to slow traffic and military check points. Teenagers with automatic weapons always make me nervous, but they never completely stop motorcyclists for the customary drug and gun searches like they do everyone else. Nice to know there are still some perks.

This capital city is really kind of boring and only stopped here because my next destination of San Cristabol was too far to reach in one day. Try to not drive at night, as it is so dangerous and nerve racking. Found an eight dollar a night hotel and had my first crummy meal in Mexico. Nothing was open except, Mexican and American fast food places, yuk, settled for Mexican El Mac.

April 12, 2001

Finally on the road to magical, mystical San Cristabol, the heart of the rebel movement in Chiapas and a stones throw from the Guatemalan border. I spiraled pleasantly upwards through the clouds and mist of the farthest point south in the Central Highlands of Mexico into a city of indescribable beauty. Narrow cobblestone streets, Indians dressed in their bright colorful costumes, quaint restaurants and hotels. Laid back parks and Plazas, a bustling marketplace and an atmosphere that beckons one to stay for a long while and contemplate. It is all here, no need to go any farther, and it is here that I must make that decision on whether to continue south to Columbia and fly home in a few more weeks or finish the Mexican route down to Yucatan and up the Caribbean coast and back home through Texas. Both are great adventures and I will know in 48 hours, but it may come down to a reluctant coin toss. I would urge any readers to come here quickly before the rest of the world finds ! out what an outrageous place this is and it is not really so dangerous as to prohibit traveling here. I love all those fear stories. It keeps the lames away.

April 13, 2001

San Cristobal is everything I have heard about and more, another Mexican city to fall in love with. Lots of those narrow cobblestone streets that demand to be explored and get lost in. The food is a bit too cosmopolitan for my tastes, I want Mexican only. It is the most immaculate city yet, in Mexico and so far, the wettest and coldest. I do not ride at night without my warmest gear. European hippies and Bohemian types abound, struggling so hard to be cool and nonchalant, they forget to brush their hair and probably their teeth. They do manage to get by okay with panhandling, ripping off other travelers and meager stipends from relatives back home, happy to pay to keep them away. Nothing like being a sponge in one of the poorest regions of a third world country.

Lots of normal foreigners living here also and it seems like I am the only person in 50 miles who is not fluent in Spanish. I am jealous. It is driving me crazy. Although my Spanish is coming along slowly but surely, it is taking too long and I was supposed to be fluent by yesterday. (Must be all those drugs from years ago, I admit it, I inhaled)

Spanish is not easy though, and even when you know a bunch of words and can even recite them, understanding the replies from real Mexicans is, well...time consuming. And what about all those syllables? Why does it take so many syllables to say one word?

In the language book it states, after I say this you rely that etc. and we carry on, except they do not. Every time I ask someone in Spanish, "Hello Jose, how was your trip to Mexico City?" The Mexican looks at me and asks, "What are you talking about, I have never been to Mexico City and my name is not Jose."

How can they all talk so fast? At first I thought, I just happened to run into only disk jockeys and auctioneers or that they saw me coming and said to their friends, watch how fast I can talk and confuse this guy. The moment I utter the simplest of Spanish phrases like, "Como estas?", they assume I am fluent and launch into jabber land so intense, I can only blink my eyes as my hair blows back. I have though, discovered a way to slow them down. When I first encounter them, and one of us initiates conversation, the first thing I tell them is, "No hablo Espanol," which does not stop them from continuing to talk, only slows it down enough, to communicate with, say, a five year old and we then, do just fine!

Spanish grammar is kind of like Algebra, you learn a few rules at first and think, this is not so bad and actually start to figure it out and then wham, a whole new set of rules to memorize and hoops to jump through to shatter your confidence. I am determined to master it, hey millions of Mexicans speak Spanish, so why can&Mac226;t I?

If any of you are ever at this stage, whatever you do, do not follow any recommendation to read 501 Spanish Verbs. (The Spanish bible) Sure it has all the verbs listed and their definitions, but it is the conjugating of those verbs which will make you throw up your arms in despair. On each page is one verb listed at the top, and below, about 100 different ways to say it. One measly little verb! The worst part is, you cannot get away with skipping that level, unless you want to remain locked in penetrating dialogue such as, "Why you go your house tomorrow where?" Often, as I stand back all proud after blurting out a sentence with no pauses, my confidence soars, until the Spanish speaker asks me, "Are you sure you want ketchup on your pancakes?" So much for feeling like one of the guys.

As a nation hung up on the Constitutional provision sanctioning a free press, we shudder at the thought of book burnings, but just this one time I would be willing to make an exception. If every copy of 501 Spanish Verbs was burned simultaneously, there would cease to be any reference and we could collectively get away with using the verb, in let us say, only about ten different ways.

April 14, 2001

After careful consideration regarding my decision on the direction and ultimate destination of this journey, I have decided to take decisive action and ride into Guatemala to think about it some more. I wanted to leave this morning, as when I get the urge to be on the road again, there never seems like there is much else to do but twiddle my thumbs and pace the floor until departure. To kill time, there are a few cool side trips to Indian villages and a boat ride across the local lake to see crocodiles, but I have done that so many times in Asia, that it seems like old stuff by now. I could probably even use my old pictures from previous trips to villages and rivers and I would never know the difference. Am I a man anxious to get moving or what?

The only thing holding me back now is the late afternoon rains that were not supposed to start until May and since I slept late because I had so much fun last night partying with the local motorcyclist I met from Tutxla Guitierez, it is now mid day. The idea is to get an early start and cover as much ground as possible before the rain starts. It looks like I will finally get to use that rain suit I so reluctantly dragged along taking up valuable space and weight.

The notion of competing with maniacal bus and truck drivers on narrow, potholed mountain roads in the rain does not thrill me and is thus far, the only real threat I feel in Mexico. To comprehend lunacy, you must witness busses passing one another barreling down hill on blind curves, with their buddies coming at them from the opposite direction doing the same thing. I am not certain if it takes bigger balls to drive that bus or be a passenger on it.

Anyhow, from here in San Cristobal, I am only a few hours to the Guatemalan border and then about four more to Guatemala City or maybe even Antigua, which is supposed to be a better place to hang. Have heard a bunch of recent horror stories involving crossing that border, so let us do what we do a lot of here in Latin America when there is not much else we can do, keep our fingers crossed!

April 15, 2001

Bailed out of San Cristobal on schedule this morning. Glad once again to get back on the road, three days was to long in that place. Too many foreigners for me. Hard to find real Mexican food, even the small food vendors that they kept confined at a distance from the centro, sold only hamburgers and hot dogs and virtually all businesses catered to foreigners as well. There are many interesting backpackers and other travelers to meet, it is just on this trip, I want only to speak with the locals. When I see other travelers or hear English spoken, I know I am in the wrong place.

The ride down 190 (Pan American Highway) was drop dead, killer gorgeous and a perfect temperature for riding with a jacket. It felt like I was cruising through the Sierras, hey, come to think of it, I was. Another recently paved and gently curved road all the way to the border. Lots of local Indians in colorful traditional clothing at their native markets and riding around horse back through the woods. Although it is a major hassle, just to keep my friend Dale happy, I periodically stop, drag out my little camera and snap a photo or two. She would never forgive me if I returned empty handed.

Crossing the border was a breeze, except for a minor hassle that was my own fault for not reading the signs. Guatemalan immigration sent me back a few miles to get an exit stamp on my passport that I neglected to get earlier. After all was said and done, the whole process took only about 30 minutes.

I was warned that entering Guatemala would be somewhat of a shock, and indeed it was. Compared to Mexico, it was total chaos and a bit dirtier, well, lots dirtier. For the first time on this journey I had second thoughts about proceeding any further, and thought about how nice it would be to have a partner watching my back. This border region is spooky. I have been a street guy for most of my life and survive on instincts and intuition. All the warning buzzers have been going off and red flags are a flapping in the wind. If something is going to go down on this journey, it is going to go down in Guatemala.

At 1:00 P.M., I am told it is a 7-hour drive to Guatemala City, it gets dark at a bit after 6PM, but there is nothing in between for an overnight. I have no Guatemalan currency and no Banks exist until the city, but I do have a full tank of gas!

The scenic Pan American Highway slices through high mountain passes, dramatic gorges and jungle terrain and varies from the best to worst of driving conditions. It crossed my mind that I have just officially left North America, by entering Central America, and a thousand miles south of where I am spending the night, lies the Equator. I have only been gone 17 days, but you know how it is when you travel and depart from your daily routines, it seems like a year.

I assume because it is Easter, that is why the highway is lined with so many local Indians on foot going here and there. There are literally thousands in their bright colorful costumes carrying loads on their heads and dragging along small children. I want to take photographs, but like Asian tribal people, they think you are stealing their soul and get pretty angry if you photograph them without consent. I will just buy some postcards instead.

The road turns to gravel often and never with a warning and always in the middle of a turn. Traveling down a deeply rutted, chuck holed road and there is a sign, danger up ahead, what could be worse, only a landslide!

In the late afternoon I am climbing again up another mountain as the fog rolls in, and suddenly it goes down to 100 foot viability, I slow down because I cannot see the road. A horn blares behind me and I am now aware that there are about five busses tailgating me, wanting me to speed up and traffic everywhere is barreling down at breakneck speed. Between here and Guatemala City, people are going to die tonight on this road, I am determined not to be one of them, I move to the right and hug the shoulder. Believe it or not, I am still smiling.

After about 30 miles, I finally descend out of the clouds and gratefully back into the light of day. At last I can see again, but the sun warns me with a lengthening shadow that it will not show me the way much longer and once again I count down the miles to safety. No time to stop and rest, eat, or pee for that matter, at this point, seconds are critical. Mexico was deadly at night, double that for Guatemala.

April 16, 2001

The road to Guatemala City last night was solid bumper to bumper traffic, moving at about 5mph, in the last two hours of darkness. I cannot wait, I cast my fate to the wind and shit can what is left of my common sense. I white line it all the way. Military and police check points set up every few miles looking for guns, drugs or graft. I doubt they are there to protect and serve. The people look frightened and forlorn. I dangle a phony press credential around my neck in some ridiculous belief that, they may see it and not want to hassle a journalist from an American motorcycle magazine writing about his travels in Latin America.

When I hit the city, it was nothing like the other previous ones in Mexico, where all you have to do is ask for the city center, drive around a bit and find a new friendly little hotel. I pull up to people to ask directions, they cower as though this is an assault, I smile and laugh, "Buenas Noches!" It does not work, they just look at me in fear, but ultimately point me the right way, apparently relieved to not have been mugged.

I have no money and find a Bank with an ATM machine, the building is surrounded by barbed wire and the ATM machine booth has the windows beat out of it and the door ripped off. I wonder, did this just happen tonight or has it been like this for a while. I proceed, assuming I am being watched and prepare for attack. The ATM machine asks how much of the local currency I want, I do not know the exchange rate or what I am requesting, I punch a button and crisp bills are spit out. A man is waiting in the shadows outside the booth, I prepare for action. He smiles nervously and says,"Buenas Noches." I suppose he was equally grateful I was not there to mug him.

Back on the dark deserted streets patrolled sporadically by convoys of packed police cars, I find El Centro. It turns out to be a conglomeration of bus depots in filthy unlit streets of sleazy hotels and druggies lurking in doorways. They could shoot a sequel to, Blade Runner here for authenticity. I spot a hotel that has a lobby big enough to park my bike in during the night, no problem, even had color TV with a satellite link, and had my first taste of CNN since leaving California. It does not interest me, we got the pilots back from China, Israelis are still killing Palestinians and it is raining profusely in South Dakota.

I have been without food or water for about eight hours and, decide to venture out to one of the grimy little food stalls and take a chance. It took a while to get it across that I only wanted chicken and rice, but once we understood each other, it was pretty good and they really tried to please me, seeming happy I was there.

On the way back near a blackened alleyway, I am approached by a skinny unshaven man with sunken eyes, speaking perfect English, claiming to be traveling from Israel, down on his luck and wanting to sell me his grandmothers ring. I explain that I have no money and he persists, again, I explain, "zero cash, not a penny," and he backs off, but reappears at the next corner. I smell a setup. He approaches stating, "Hey man don't worry, I am not following you" and is now within 3 feet. He is obviously no physical match, but none the less, bold and confident. He has done this before. I peg him for a straight razor man and am certain he is proficient enough to open my throat with graceful ease. I am a tenth of a second from killing this pathetic predator. In a fraction of an eye blinking, my neck will be slashed open or his will be torqued backward a full turn. I am prepared for a well-practiced lightening swift technique that will end his miserable life instantly and without remor! se. Neither of our moves requires a step, we are close enough. I smell the foul breath of a demon. We glare into each others eyes. We both see death. My heart is pounding like there is a boxer working a speed bag in my chest. Now he also realizes the danger, and with widened eyes, he slithers back into the sewer from where he was born and I step carefully back to the hotel.

Locked down in my room, behind the barricaded door, I try to relax and shake the adrenaline rush that I kind of enjoy. I am very much aware I made a near fatal mistake tonight, I hesitated, I am losing my edge. Ten years ago, he would have died at the four-foot mark. That is all I need now, busted in Guatemala for taking out some masochistic fool. God damn, this is almost as bad as Los Angeles.

April 16, 2001

Bailed out of Guatemala City early this morning into utter confusion. It is a very complex city to depart from and was getting so tired of spinning my wheels, I asked a taxi driver to show me the way and I would pay him any amount he wanted. We drive for twenty minutes down alleys, highways and crowded streets. I have to be wary, I think he is helping me, but if you have ever traveled the third world, taxi drivers can be your worst enemy or best friend. We could be on our way to meet his buddies, or he could be doing me a favor, I won't know until after the fact. He finally stops, points forward and says, "go straight for 30 minutes and ask again." I am so grateful, I hold fistfuls of money at him, he refuses adamantly and drives away. What a great way to leave Guatemala City.

For the first half of the day I was hugging the borders of El Salvador and Honduras, saying to myself, yes, no, yes, no, yes, no. Finally it was no, because if I went any further south, I was totally committed to Columbia at that point, time wise. The Mayan ruins of Tikal are just up the road 300 miles and a beautiful Central American rainforest is just down the hill, which is right around the corner from Belize. From Belize, I can return to Mexico via the Yucatan Peninsula and cruise up the Caribbean coast a bit. All those in favor say aye. I thought so, so that is where I am headed.

An hour outside Guatemala City, the traffic thins out and the road improves slightly, allowing me to pick up the pace and take the edge off the blazing heat of the tropical sun. It takes some readjusting to get used to the way things are done in Guatemala as opposed to Mexico. The moment I crossed the border, I missed Mexico and almost turned back. Mexico is orderly compared to Guatemala and Mexicans have a certain way going about things that I really enjoy. Can't wait to return.

These women are so efficient down here, not only can they walk to the market with a child in each arm, but they can do so, while delicately balancing the groceries on top of their heads on the way home. I see them do it everywhere, flawlessly, but am suspicious, someone has to drop something once in a while. I am determined to find out, and get a picture. I pull off to the side of the road and wait, they pass smiling, but probably suspect what I am up to and signal to all the women coming and going to be extra careful because there is some weird gringo up the road with a camera and don't screw up our rep. I wonder, does this cause or cure cervical problems?

The steep mountains in the distance are suddenly before me and I find myself soaring through breath taking mountain gorges and peaks. I am in the rain forest now, and it is doing what it is named for, raining. It feels sweetly warm as it tenderly drenches my light clothing. There is always a dilemma when riding a motorcycle and it begins to rain. Should I stop and go through the hassle of putting on rain gear, ride on through hoping it is just a brief squall and I will dry out in a half hour or find a place to pull off and wait. (I opt to keep riding, how did you guess)

I can only hope it will subside soon so I don't have to finish riding into the cold of the night soaked to the bone. It ends as quickly as it began, but not without dumping a full load a la early Monsoon and completely drenching me. It is still warm and feels good and I am smiling.

The foliage is getting thicker and greener, I can smell the jungle around me fresh with rain, fresh with life and embracing my weary soul with what I search for. The plants and trees look familiar, of course, they are the same as the house plants back in California, only here they are fifty feet tall. I have to continue when I want to stop, and savor, but once again, I am behind schedule and won't get into the eco-preserve until after dark.

It is dusk as I enter the last town before Tikal National Park, it is the one where the Lonely Planet web site has posted a travel warning relating to several recent murder-robberies by four crazy armed men. I don't slow down and keep rolling along. Guys with guns rule.

You see lots of warning signs as a traveler, like the ones with silhouettes of certain animals you might encounter crossing a road. Signs designating, cattle or deer are common in the US. The first one I see here is of a monkey. Imagine that, a sign warning me a monkey might suddenly leap into the road and splatter himself all over the front of my little motorcycle. I see several more signs about animals I would need an encyclopedia to identify. The one that alarms me most is what appears to be that of a crocodile or alligator crossing the road. I wonder, what does happen when you run over a crocodile? I guess you just hope he keeps his mouth closed as you roll over him so he does not pop your tires with his teeth.

Arrived well after dark in Tikal National Park to the sound of Howler Monkeys doing what they are known for, howling. There are only three lodges in the park and the two cheap ones were full, so ended up splurging and dropping $53 on a room for the night in total luxury. A long awaited shower, clean white towels and a huge firm bed. ZZZZZZZZZ

So alive in the tropics...

April 17, 2001

After a great meal of something something chicken last night, crashed out from exhaustion and slept like a log in spite of the howling Howler Monkeys and whatever else was making weird noises in the trees. They shut the power down at 10:00 P.M. out there, so when it gets dark, it gets pitch dark and I got the nicest feeling of isolation.

The Tikal National Park is actually an eco preserve, known best for its Mayan ruins of temples, pyramids and other monuments several thousand years old. Certainly have seen my share of old things on this trip and am beginning to wonder, what is the big deal with all this old stuff. Everywhere I go, something is pointed out that was used or built by people from a long time ago. To be of any real value though, it has to be at least a couple hundred years old, or it is just considered used.

Maybe in a few centuries somebody will be giving guided tours of my ranch in San Diego County... "And this is how burned out motorcycle thugs lived four hundred years ago, this particularly stubborn suburban reject wanted to be so far away from people that he had to build his own power station using the ancient technique of harvesting energy from the sun with photo voltaic cells..." Hey I could be on the verge, (or urge)of being famous.

I got to the ruins early to avoid the crowds, but now the other fascinated Anglo tourists have caught up and march in with their genuine safari hats, multi-pocketed vests and zillion dollar Nikon cameras clicking away with assortments of lens to capture every bird, bug, tree or angle of the ruins in the absolute best light or distance. Personally, if I want to have the best quality photos, I buy postcards and with all that money I save on camera stuff, purchase a new motorcycle every year.

Anyway, I am starting to feel out of place, I am the only guy there without a genuine safari hat or canteen and I think they have noticed my K Mart camera and are starting to murmur and point. This could be trouble. The tall skinny guy, with the long neck and wire frame glasses is eyeing me suspiciously. I am about to be revealed as an imposter any moment, there is no telling what a tribe of nasal toned screeching eco-tourist is capable of, but I've heard stories. So I quietly step backwards and try to slip into the jungle before any serious mob action goes down.

On the way back down the trail, a small crowd of about fifty people has formed in a circle around God knows what. The stillness of the meadow is being violated by the incessant clicking of 50 Nikon cameras in unison. People are fumbling for more film and hurriedly swapping lenses in their zillion dollar cameras as the huddle of hunched over eco-tourists closes in step by step. I am curious, what could be so fascinating as to attract a crowd with such enthusiasm, it must be a giant diamond popping out of the earth or some religious deity making a surprise appearance. I quietly sneak up behind, peering over their shoulders at what looked to me like a squirrel doing the cutesy face thing while eating a pretzel.

Back in the main camp, there is not much to do but pack up and ride out or get friendly with the other travelers. I do not usually get too cozy with other foreigners, other than exchanging necessary information occasionally. They are usually European, or Americans that think like Europeans, and if there is conversation, it always gets down to politics, and mine are always different from everyone else. I really like my country a lot and do not appreciate Euros criticizing the home front and given the opportunity, they always will. I am one of those dinosaurs that is still willing to slug somebody for bad mouthing my country or my government. Even if their comments are justified, I do not want to hear it from a guy that wears a bikini to the beach or has a girlfriend with hairy armpits.

I wave good bye with a weak smile and ride out of the park headed for Belize. The road to the border is rough, rugged and mostly gravel, but deserted of other traffic, absolutely nobody coming or going except on foot or horseback.

Before crossing the border spent the last of my Guatemalan currency on gas and oil for my overdue fluid change and then gave the last six bucks worth to the kid in the station. Boy did his face light up!

After the mandatory spray down on my motorcycle for bugs at the border (they all do it, I guess they do not want each others bugs) I am off into English-speaking Belize. The countryside is lush and green and the road is patched but decent and almost no traffic. It is a straight shot into Belize City and for once I arrive somewhere well before sundown. After the ATM machine spits out what I estimate I will spend in the next 24 hours, I am off to grab a hotel and get a taste of the price structure here. Whenever I am in a Third World country and products are costing more than they do back home, I know something is wrong. The sleaziest hotel in town was fifty bucks a night and if you could find a restaurant, it was operated by grinning Chinese waiters that spoke no English or Spanish and served the worst food I have ever eaten. Across the board, everything was more expensive there than the US. They had nice beaches and I am told some of the best diving, but that is all.

April 18, 2001

Got a late start rolling out of Belize City. Took almost an hour to find a restaurant that was open and actually sold semi-edible food. The breakfast was horrible and all I asked for were eggs, how can anyone screw up eggs? Have been searching for a real massage place for the last 4,500 miles and finally found an old Chinese woman who applied all her secret stuff for $25 and sent me on my way. I am now scheduled to be cured of whatever ails me within a few days.

The ride to the border was quite pleasant, hot and humid, but under those conditions if you keep moving, it is tolerable. The roads around Belize are not bad by local standards, straight and surfaced well enough. One thing about the British, they always leave behind good infrastructure.

The border transfer was a cake walk, except for the departure fees for this and that, another rip off. I really deliberated on whether to speak negatively of a country or not, but I almost feel a responsibility to warn other travels about what a rip off Belize is. Everything is very expensive, overvalued and you are always under served. They have wonderful beaches and superb diving, but the rest of Belize made me sick and disgusted and I came there with a really good attitude. So if you are from Belize and read this, I am sorry to slander your country, but you ought to do something quick before the word gets out and no one wants to come back.

I had intended to get a hundred miles in after crossing the border into Mexico, but just as I entered, Monsoon struck with a vengeance. I debated whether to hassle donning my rain suit or not, and decided it was probably just a squall. It took about ten minutes of getting hit with this giant fire hose blast of water before I was convinced this would be a long one. By that time I am soaked to the bone so the rain suit was not much use. Rode the last twenty miles into Chetumal and holed up for the evening in a $15 a night hotel with a friendly and helpful staff. I am so glad to be back in Mexico, feels like home compared to where I have been lately, but unfortunately it also marks the return leg of my journey. By the time I am done zig-zagging my way home, I should pound out another 4,000 bone jarring miles via Vera Cruz, Puebla, Zacatecas, Chihuahua and Copper Canyon, popping up somewhere near western Arizona in early May.

When riding a motorcycle, you look like hell after about the first hour and it only gets worse as the morning progresses. Nothing like starting out the day after a nice cool shower and getting a blast of diesel soot in the mug. When sitting on a motorcycle, your face is directly even with the exhaust outlet on a bus. Therefore, when waiting in traffic behind a bus and the bus revs its motor to accelerate, you get blasted with a cloud of black soot enveloping your whole head inside your helmet, (hopefully you are holding your breath) leaving a nice coat of grime on you and your motorcycle. Multiply this times fifty and you get a good idea of what I look like by noon. At night I scour my face, which has been covered and protected all day by a full face helmet, and after several intense scrubbings, I wipe it with a clean white towel and the towel turns black. I often wonder what the Mexicans think when I pull up..."Oh no, here comes another one of those dirty, greasy Americans! , probably getting ready to steal something..."

April 19, 2001

Another pleasing ride through the Mexican countryside from Chetumal to Villa Hermosa. Three hundred and fifty miles through a green gentle forest that canopies the roadway, shielding me from the heat of the tropical day makes the hours fly by pleasantly. I am so at home in Mexico, I have it all down now, I know the food I want, I know where I want to stay at night and I am halfway decent at remedial conversation. I absolutely love hanging out and chatting with the locals and cannot figure why this is such a thrill to me. Maybe it is just that small things amuse small minds, but whatever ever it is, I enjoy it immensely. I have fallen in love with a nation.

Whenever I stop for more than a minute, I try to make a friend, nothing serious enough to start lending each other money, but just exchanging some humor and information about each other really makes it nice for everybody. Mexicans always have time for friendship.

I know how to make Mexicans happy. I just tell them what a great country they live in and how much I enjoy the people and towns. Their faces light up, their eyes twinkle, theirs grins stretch ear to ear and their chests puff out like lifeguards. I do not have to exaggerate or stroke them with false praise, I just tell them about my experiences. I explain about all the people I have met that have helped me out and I go on and on about the beautiful cities and the great motorcycle experience this has been. They are so proud of their country and love to hear that others, I think especially Americans, recognize, that they too, are a great people, with a great country.

We often assume that because so many Mexicans try to emigrate, one way or another, that they do not love their own homeland and want to come north to take advantage of American wealth. If you think about it, all they are really trying to do is escape the misery of extreme poverty in some locations, by crawling across deserts and staggering through mountains for the opportunity to beg for work Americans do not want to do anyway. It is not like they leave the land they love so they can earn $100,000 a year, instead of $50,000.

This is not an, "open the floodgate" speech, because that does not work either, it is just something to think about when you see a group of men huddled on a street corner somewhere, dodging police and immigration officials so they can beg for work to feed a hungry family back in the home they love. It is only by the grace of some God somewhere, that I was born within certain geographic coordinates, that dictate, as my counter part in the third world struggles to eat tonight, I go to the ATM machine.

Thundering across Mexico trying to keep the rubber side down...

April 19, 2001 (late evening)

Okay, it is time for me to get something off my chest and they say confession is good for the soul, so here goes. I ran over a dog last week. I know I should have owned up to it right away and announced it in my journal the night it happened, but I was ashamed, not because an accident occurred, but that I did not stop. It was not a pedigree monster like a Rottweiler worth zillions of pesos, just a regular run of the mill, mid-sized pooch of questionable heritage and come to think off it, kind of scrawny anyway.

In Mexico, you see thousands of dogs everywhere, and everywhere you see dogs, you see dogs doing what dogs like doing most. If they are not engaged in their favorite activity, they are engaged in the process of promoting that activity. You know the scene, a coy little hussy swishing her tail in every direction, just enough to give a small pack of mutts with their tongues lolled out panting profusely, enough incentive to nip at one another in order to be first in line for love. You know the scenario, kind of like a night club in California.

Anyway, apparently as I was riding through a village near the border, somebody shooed a dog away from their taco cart and right into the side of my bike. I do not know if any of you have ever experienced the thud that goes along with your vehicle colliding with an animal or not, but sometime in your life you will. It will make you sick, as it made me sick. I turned around to see what happened and I observed him do about a half dozen somersaults and run off limping on three legs, with what was, probably a broken leg.

Here is the bad part. I panicked. I thought no one would understand, and that I probably just ran over the village favorite canine. I imagine hundreds of furious villagers chasing me in mass, swinging a hang mans noose over their heads demanding revenge. String up the Gringo dog maimer, do not let him escape! Or worse yet, what if this was the only dog of the grandson of the President of Mexico? I envisioned it all. Norte Americano arrested and held without bail for vicious assault on helpless dog, district attorney expected to ask for the death penalty. His name was probably El Fluffy or something and probably never bit anyone or did anything bad in his life. This is it, I have no choice, I make a run for the border. I must flee to Guatemala in order to avoid certain death. I will demand political asylum. As I cross, the border guard on the Guatemalan side points to the side of my motorcycle and pinches his nose. Oh no, I think he must have noticed sku! ll fragments on my engine block or something and has probably heard of this atrocity and not wanting a dog maimer in his country, will send me back into the arms of the maddened mob. But no, it is not skull fragments, it is dog feces. Dog feces! Hey now, this changes things. My guilt subsides a bit, the nerve of that mutt, how dare he...

Okay things are about to even out here. If in fact, this was El Fluffy to some poor heart broken Mexican child, I am truly sorry from the bottom of my heart and some way, someday, I will make this up to you. On the other hand, if this is just another mutt, a product of parents who probably did not even know each other, before or after their fatal act of union, thanks a lot for crapping all over the side of my bike, why don't you watch where the hell you are going next time and be glad you still have three good legs left.

AMF

April 20, 2001

Spent the evening last night in Villa Hermosa at the only available hotel, another expensive one with elevators, air conditioners and smartly dressed little fellows to carry my bags. Yuk! This was a businessman's hotel and I really felt out of place. I like staying where the locals stay and eating where the locals eat. I must be a peasant at heart, plus, I figure it is their country, they do not have a lot of money and basically know value when they see it. The Lonely Planet guide book lists many good bargain hotels, unfortunately, thousands of other travelers read the same book and are converging on the same hotel at the same time, and the owners realize this and raise their prices. If I walk in a place and there are other Anglo travelers, I know I am where I should not be, and walk out.

Most cities in Mexico are famous for something, an old church, remnants of a decaying ancient civilization or site of a historic battle where somebody killed somebody famous, however there was not much to see in Villa Hermoso except for the museum and I believe I have fulfilled my quota. To be honest, I do not have a lot of time to see much of what I should on this whirl wind odyssey of 8,000 miles in three, third world countries in 32 days. It is worse than a shame, but I do the next best thing and try to meet and enjoy as many people as possible in as many places as I can as Mexico flicks by with alarming speed, admonishing me, it is almost over. Most of the time I must settle for just seeing the oldest ruins, biggest cathedral or site of the most killed, silently chanting dates and numbers under my breath for later recall.

But then I think, already I have forgotten how many thousands of years old the last pyramids are I saw or how many centuries old the cathedral I was in yesterday is, and the battle grounds from where I now sit and numbers of dead are a distant memory already. My Poly Sci professor has a PHD in history and is very conscious of dates and numbers, what if he quizzes me? I will stammer and stutter, fearful he might doubt I was actually there and maybe made this whole thing up just to excuse the lectures I missed.. Okay professor, I saw the ruins of the Toltecs, Aztecs, Zapotecs, Olmecs and double X. I personally met the tribes people from the Meztecs, Mesotecs, Costecs and Spastecs.

To summarize Mexican history. (I suppose world history also) The first thing you must remember to do when going to visit other civilizations is, bring an army so you can kill all the people who do not like your God, steal everything of value, destroy monuments to their Gods, enslave the rest and make them build churches to worship your God.

Laterrrrrrr that very same day

It was another early departure and spectacular ride through the countryside on the way from Villa Hermosa to Vera Cruz. My little Kawasaki 650 seems pleased to be breathing at sea level again and does not bog down when I blip the throttle anymore. All I do is change the oil and replace fuel and it just keeps thumping along steadily at a miraculous 55mpg if I stay around 60mph. This is an amazing little bike that tries and succeeds to be all things, to all riders on and off road. I liken it to a high speed mountain goat that will not quit. Occasionally I jump off-road on a trail for a better view of something straight up a hillside. No problem for that, or barreling down the autopista at 90mph, which is the only safe place to do that. I am six four, and weigh in at 220 with 60 pounds of cargo and there is still room for more. The aerodynamics are off a taste and the stability factor is challenged loaded down like this, but that is what it is built for and adjust my suspensio! n accordingly. It runs on the premium grade fuel when available or the cheap low octane stuff they claim is 87, but probably, is considerably lower and only knocks going uphill when lugging it. Coming from a stone-cold Harley rider of 30 years, this is a mouthful of good words for a rice burner.

Stopped in a small roadside restaurant with a thatched roof and dirt floor that had about five big semi trucks parked in front. It is the same deal here as back home, if the truckers eat there, it must be good. Most of the restaurants I eat in don't have menus or posted prices, you just ask what they have, they tell you, and you agree. The food is always at least interesting, and usually delicious. The bill ranges from bargain, too cheap, too really cheap, and have yet to use the pepto-bismol. (Knock on wood)

The waitress is about 12 or 13 years old, and is glowingly telling me about the fish her brother caught this very morning. She indicated it was quite large and was very anxious to show it to me. I agree to view and smell it first. She is jumping up and down in the kitchen proudly waving this big fat fish in the air, reminding me her brother has just caught this fish in the river outside this very morning. Well, the eyes are a little cloudy and probably contains enough mercury to build an out door thermometer but it does not smell too fishy. (The Martha Stewart test) and how can I say no to this pudgy little sweetheart who is so thrilled and anxious to cook me this delightful fish. When she finally delivers the goods, I tell her before I eat this wonderful fish, I must have a picture of her and I, and the fish together. She blushes and giggles with wide-eyed delight at this request and quickly fixes her hair for her moment of glory. After this humongous meal of fish and beve! rage, she almost apologetically hands me a bill of a whopping 30 pesos! (About three dollars) During the meal, I had become friendly with the truck drivers and went through the usual litany of questions and answers about the bike and my trip. They were also having big meals of who knows what, and chasing it all with a few cervezas. Actually I started counting and it appeared they had all downed four or five. They kept offering to buy me beers suggesting it makes the trip go smoother. I thought about all the close calls I have had with guys driving riggs like these (specifically those games of chicken) and it sent a chill up my spine, now I know where they get their courage to drive so aggressively.

We have mapped out the remainder of my trip together and they have told me all the secrets to driving safely in Mexico, and now it is time to say good bye and hit the road. I have one last request, and that is a group photo with my bike parked in front their trucks. They mumble something in Spanish, which I thought was an acknowledgment and agreement, but rapidly disappear. I figured it was another one of those misunderstandings and prepared to ride off when I notice them returning with fresh clean shirts and combing their hair vigorously. One last look in the mirror and we gather together for the farewell photo and final pledge to see each other again someday. I hope it is not with me splattered on the front of one of their grilles.

Had my first experience with the infamous Federales this afternoon. After being waved on past the customary Military Check Points on close to a hundred occasions throughout Latin America, I am finally stopped, questioned and asked to open my saddle bags. I am ready for this, and choose the one with the last weeks crusty dirty laundry that has taken on a life of its own. I never let on that I can speak the language of people that have guns pointed at me until I am sure of their intentions. If they want to harass, intimidate or shake me down, this takes all the fun out of it for them as I keep smiling and waving my phony press credential that dangles from my neck. Soon I realize, all of the other soldiers have abandoned their current tasks and are now surrounding me and my little motorcycle, not with authoritarian interrogatories, but simple curiosity. They too, were just as amazed to see a lone man riding across Mexico as all the folks I have previously encountered. T! hey ask the same questions, I ask for a photo, they eagerly agree and their supervisor adamantly declines.

Vera Cruz turns out to be a rather expensive city, considering what I have encountered previously, but it is still cheap by US standards. It has probably one of the liveliest Plazas (Zocalos) this side of Rio, and it is packed nightly with bands wailing, orchestras enchanting, citizens promenading, old folks dancing, transvestites a swishing and peddlers peddling, all under the bright stars of an embracing festive night sky softened by a cool ocean breeze sliding in off the Gulf of Mexico, tugging at me to stay up all night and savor.

April 21, 2001

The evidence of a high fat, high carbohydrate diet is gathering rapidly around my mid-section. This is the longest I have gone without training in 22 years and pledged to myself not to lift weights or involve myself with the Arts for the entire trip, hoping some of these nagging reoccurring injuries might just go away. Athletes have a saying regarding conditioning, years to gain, days to lose, and I am beginning to ponder what my top students are going to do to me when I get back on the mat with them in 11 days. Actually I suspect my two top Black Belt students, whom I have entrusted the fate of my school to while I am gone, can probably kick my ass now, but decline to do so out of respect. They are like the sons I never had and have never experienced a moments doubt they could handle any situation as well or better than I. Without total faith in them, this trip would not have been possible.

The Martial Arts to me, are not just exercises for show, they are a lifestyle I've adopted for survival. I practice my technique as though my life depends on it, because, it often has. I try to make it through life on a good attitude, but sometimes that is not enough. As the notorious American outlaw, John Dillinger so eloquently pointed out, "You get more with a smile and a pistol, than just a smile."

I am slowly and painfully realizing that this venture does have an ending and it is coming to soon. I try not to think about it. How will I handle it? I doubt I will be able to ride smoothly and graciously with dignity back across the border at Mexicali. Maybe someone will have to drag me kicking and screaming. No, I will be a gentleman about it, I will pause and reflect. I will reconsider, ride a few more blocks, stop and have one more taco, take a deep breath and sadly leave the real world for the mundane, surrendering myself to mediocrity once again to dream and plan, re-evaluate and reschedule. I will always remember what it says on the cover of, Peoples Guide to Mexico about the Mexican experience, "wherever you go, they you are."

..Motorcycle writing across Latin America...


April 22, 2001

No matter whom you ask for help or directions in Mexico, everyone is eager to assist. If they do not have an answer to your question, they will run upstairs and find somebody else who might. I have been searching all over Vera Cruz for a place to do my laundry and the frustration is growing as fast as the mold on my clothes. A young guy on the street in front of the gym reads me and asks what I am looking for. I explain my mini-crisis, and he knows a place a few blocks away. He insists on taking me there, he was busy doing something else, but, he knew I was having one of those days. Turns out he was born in Vera Cruz and moved to Fresno at the age of nine and was just back to visit his mother for a few months. We drop the laundry and headed back toward the gym to get in a work out together, he knows someone there who gets me in free. It&Mac226;s been hard holding out, so I finally breakdown and violate my self-imposed moratorium on training, and hit the weight pile with determined! enthusiasm. It was almost a hundred degrees outside in the sweltering heat of the coast, and considerably hotter in the stank, breezeless gym. It was nice to hear iron being slammed around again, while maxing out under loads that were merely my warm up a month ago. The boys are going to have fun with me when I get back.

I try to answer his many questions about the martial arts as I can in between sets as I gasp for breath. I tell him he reminds me of my two youngest Black Belts who are like my sons, he knows that is a great compliment. We hung out together for the night and rode around the city he was so proud of. Made another friend, who could not do enough for me, we swapped addresses and said good bye. It has been a series of these scenarios, of being befriended by total strangers that ask nothing in return.

Got a late start on the road to Puebla because of a late night with Ariciela. It is a straight shot of only a few hours to the next stopover and 90 Minutes on the autopista (toll road) draws me from the brutal heat and humidity of the Gulf of Mexico to a state of leathered up and snaking through the cool highlands once again. Things have gotten too casual lately and a few close calls wake me up to the fact that I am not out of this yet.

I like riding on Sundays best, everybody is off the road and in church so I get to see these huge families coming and going throughout small towns and villages, all dressed in their finest clothes marching together holding hands. Family and honor is very significant to these people, they don't just talk about it, they live it.

It is hard to get a high protein meal here, but they have these little restaurants everywhere that sell roasted chickens and I always try to eat at least one a day. I stop in a small pueblo for lunch, and it is the best garlic chicken in the region so far. As I sit studying maps waiting for my meal, a roving band of Mexican minstrels with wooden xylophones entertains the crowded restaurant. Wherever you go in Mexico, there is music, always there is music, even when there are no musicians or singers, it still lingers.

As I ride further up the road, I see a sign that points to Oaxaca, just a short hop over the mountain, and I reflect on the my newly acquired Mexican family. I could make a short detour and see them once again for another good bye. I smile at the thought of the clear eyed, playful children who did not want me to go. It is another one of those yes-no moments. I try to remind myself of the reasons I must return to California for. Oh yeah, I almost forgot, I am supposed to be a Judo teacher somewhere and my poly sci professor was nice enough to give me a few weeks off without kicking me out of class and I guess I should not push my luck. Actually I think he might be glad I am not there pestering him with my many questions and controversial comments. In the end, I know I must keep to the return schedule which puts me on US soil about two hours before my first class with him. Talk about timing.

Checked the CNN weather report, lots of rain ahead....

April 23, 2001

Did not get to see much of Puebla last night, as arrived just as the torrential downpour did also. I was determined to glimpse something significant, so I ran up the street ducking in and out of doorways, dodging as much of the rain as possible. The plaza was deserted, but from under dripping trees, I could still appreciate the surrounding ancient stone structures. The way they light up these colonial cities at night, makes you want to reach out touching the past to make it real and imagine what life was like back in the day. Well, we know it was pretty good for the Spaniards anyway.

Stayed in an $11 a night, converted old mansion again with an enormous inner courtyard. No private baths, but beautiful wood plank floors with huge 14 foot double door entries in all the rooms. No dresser, just a giant trunk to set my gear on, probably 400 years old. Maybe Cortez took down one of his mistresses here.

Got in the wind by 8AM in order to pound out as many miles as possible before the afternoon storms hit. Billowing clouds on the horizon darken as the day progresses and the race to beat the foul weather is on. Much to stop and check out, but cannot take the chance, as competing for road space out here in destruction derby, with the zero visibility that rain creates, is beyond mindless.

Made it through Mexico City without getting lost, which is a small miracle in itself. Got caught in long line of busses and the carbon monoxide was so thick, I actually could not breathe, breaking into a big time case of violent dry heaves. (Very tricky to drive in heavy traffic while barfing inside a helmet) I don't know how people can survive here, I fear I will be coughing up black golf balls any minute.

All the riding today is via the autopista, so very fast but quite uneventful. When I need a break, I just pull over to one of the many fruit stands that line the highway in agriculture regions. Each area has its own specialty, depending on what is grown there. There has been a lot of fresh squeezed pineapple juice and sweet mangoes lately, but today, it is all about strawberries and fresh cream. Big, giant bowl fulls of dark red strawberries!

The gas stations (Pemex)are all owned by the government and are always great for a little interaction with the locals. From the moment I pull in, I am surrounded by curious young men firing a multitude of questions. It is like being in one interview after another. Where are you from? Where are you going? Then the trick stuff comes on, this is where I get to use my newly acquired language to explain the inner workings of my engine. How many pistons? What about the valves? They want to know the mileage and how it varies under load. They need to know the best tire pressure, horsepower and top speed. As a bonafide motorcycle enthusiast, I am more than happy to delay my trip to talk shop when it comes to bikes. We go over cam dimensions, gear ratios and carburetor jetting. While this is going on, the younger boys are impatiently waiting in line to try on my helmet and proudly prance around facing the store front window to see how they look. Ultimately, I depart to a chorus of, "! Buen Viaje Amigo" with the small crowd waving enthusiastically, good bye.

The city of Guanajuato is not just another magical colonial city. This place has power. I am bowled over by the charm. Windy, narrow, little cobblestone roads that twist underground through ancient stone subterranean archways for almost 2 kilometers mark my entrance to the city. The darkened caverns are lined with balconies and exits to the streets above. I am flabbergasted. Every direction I turn, I see the site for the perfect photo, but remember, I did not bring along a Nikon and will buy postcards instead.

There are cyber cafes everywhere, as Mexican students have discovered the net, and since they cannot yet quite afford a computer, they settle for renting. It is nice to have access as a traveler, to the Internet, but it is also quite frustrating to write from one of these Café Internets. They are filled with young students and the guy running the place considers himself a disk jockey and loves to crank up all his favorite songs to warp ten, which are usually American Rap. If that is not enough to demolish concentration, the keyboards all stick, there are keys I have never seen before, it takes forever to log on and you get bumped off about every ten minutes and have to re-log on. Often this causes about 2 or 3 hours worth of work to evaporate into cyber space. I barely understood the commands on my computer at home and here they are all in Spanish, and of course, there is obviously, no spell check! So here I sit attempting to recall and elaborate on my thoughts of th! e day, make some sense of it, and still have time to see the city tonight. I will get around to editing, probably next year.

People seem so surprised that I am traveling alone, but I am never alone in Mexico. There are people everywhere I want to talk to. Where ever I stop, some one always approaches with questions and conversation. If they don't, I do. People take it easy here, there is never a big rush to get things done, manana does not necessarily mean tomorrow, it just means, not today. Everyone makes time to give directions or tell me about their city. My days are to short. If I brought a partner, I would not have time to talk to him.

Stayed in another charming little multi-storied hotel. Among the guests, were about 20 heavily armed, uniformed Federales traveling in four big marked Suburbans. They must be on a big public relations campaign, because they were extremely polite to everyone, opening doors and smiling to all. I asked them what they were doing and they indicated, that they were part of a roving anti-drug task force. They were surprisingly sloppy with their weapons. I can't help it, whenever I encounter people with weapons, I try to visualize the best way to take them away, just in case. I rode up the elevator with two of them, touting M-16 machine guns. These guys would have been easy to disarm, I counted four moves, to get the sidearms as well. It is not so much that I am good, they were just very sloppy.

Road signs are another interesting issue in Mexico. When driving along Mexican Highways you will see signs that resemble in design, and meaning, similar ones in the US. One sign might indicate 100kph (60mph), but since everybody is going 80-90mph, and in front of the cops, I can only conclude that road signs here are not written in stone and are subject to interpretation. I think suggestion is a better term. The government suggests you travel at 100kph, but it is really up to you.

Their red eight sided signs posted at intersections, that says ALTO, probably, just mean, you ought to alto if you want to. To the locals, it means only down shift, then continue. The government thinks you should alto, but hey, if you are in a hurry, do not let the sign slow you down. To be sure, I looked up the word alto in my dictionary, sure enough, it means to halt, but then again, my dictionary also says that, manana, means tomorrow.

When the government is serious about wanting people to stop or go slow, they make you stop or go slow. It does not require an alto sign at all. They do this with objects of varying height and angle, according to whether they want you to nearly alto or totally alto. They call them topes. Brad and I first discovered what a topes is on the ride to Cabo San Lucas last year on our Harleys. We are zipping along the countryside just south of Ensenada, when we see the sign, "topes, 1000 meters." Not being familiar with topes, or signs posted in Spanish, we don't think about it much and keep cruising along about 80mph and see another sign that says, "topes 100 meters." We were thinking, it probably meant, taco stand ahead, but by the time that last 100 meters closed in, it was to late... Topes means speed bump!

People talk and complain a lot about the corruption in Mexico, especially when it comes to the police accepting bribes. When a cop stops you for breaking the law and insinuates you could pay the fine to him, instead of to the judge, but you are certain, you have not broken any law, you should by all means, protest. Tell him you wish to follow him to the police station and see that judge. If this is a shakedown, he will normally choose to allow you on your way, rather than waste valuable time that could be better spent shaking down his next victim. On the other hand, if you are driving down the road anywhere, and say, ran a stop sign or maybe were doing 80mph in a 50mph zone and get pulled over...let us see, in California, that would be a $300 fine, a point against your record and a jump in insurance rates. Imagine how horrible that would be if you could get off on the spot with, say a fifty?

After all, we all know there is no corruption in our political system, that no multinational corporation has ever donated money to a campaign to get a government official to look the other way on something that had a negative impact on millions of citizens. The only difference is, only the super rich benefit from graft in the US.

Next stop, Zacatecas with a quick zig-zag across Copper Canyon and a long stretch back up the Sonoran Desert to Mexicali. 6,000 down and 2,500 to go. I study maps at night now minus my previous enthusiastic anticipation. The trip home is deflating my spirit.

I do my best thinking out on the open road and on this trip, there has been lot of that. I doubt that I will ever be the same after this journey, but that was the objective, to stop being the same. I guess that is why I travel so much, it gives me a chance to observe from another perspective, all the issues that confront me as a man, and consider the other solutions. Living in the US, we all know exactly what we are going to everyday when we wake up. We know basically who we will see that day, what we will watch on TV and what the weather is going to be like. You know how it is all going to turn out and if it is not perfect, well, you are covered by insurance. It is so refreshing to get completely away from the security of life as I know it, familiar scenery, people, culture, language and of course the most critical, being in situations where there is potential for events to go radically wrong. (a sure sign of upcoming adventure)

Who in their right mind would jump on a motorcycle and ride to Guatemala alone? Pick me, pick me! As soon as enough people told me this trip was a bad idea, I was positive I was on the right track. My favorite starting point in life for anything, is where the last guy gave up. I assumed there would be big problems. I had no preconceived notions about a laid back vacation, I did not want one. I figured I would be robbed at least once, so had a tailor sew a secret pocket inside my levis and keep a dummy wallet with copies of important documents and thirty bucks in chump change in my front pocket to make the man with a gun happy. Created a very realistic, phony press credential to flash at authority figures I suspect might set me up. Brought along two sewing kits, one for my clothes and one for my flesh, in case it comes to that. Mo also sent me with enough injectable anti-biotics to cure half the infections in the whole country. Jim packed my tires with green slime to seal pu! nctures, welded special brackets on the bike frame to stabilize my heavy load and sent me with emergency spare parts that replace what you break when you go down and survive. Louis stuffed a satellite phone in my pocket with instructions to call for emergencies. Okay, hello Louis, I am down here in Guatemala and have just been run off the road and a bus is driving away with my leg, could you please send an ambulance? Joe has twenty grand in back up cash, with coded message instructions that vary according to my level of crisis. If there is major trouble, it is he who will come to bring me home, one way or another.

Jim is not one to worry, he is the kind of guy, you could tell, "hey Jim, your hair is on fire" and he would just brush it off. Jim would never do the hand wringing thing in front of me, but he comes to me now, with the look on his face that says he has been wringing his hands. "I got a bad feeling about this one brother, I had an awful dream last night that was pretty real, and maybe you should reconsider." I laugh, "Yeah, and I had a dream about me and Pamela Anderson too, so I guess if she shows at my house tonight I better start getting worried."

Which brings me to the subject of bar codes. Now that science has made all these dramatic inroads to mapping the human genenome, I predict they will soon discover what I have known exists all along, a secret bar code hidden deep within our DNA. The bar code is really just an expiration date, that can not be altered. It obviously varies from person to person or animal to animal for that matter. It is the only thing that can not change, the date we expire, it is predetermined at conception. What we can change is, how we live up until that moment of expiration; safely tucked away in the suburbs taking all the right precautions, maybe dying of cancer anyway or rolling the dice, jumping out of airplanes, climbing mountains, swimming the ocean floor or simply always taking a different path.

Living on the edge...

April 24, 2001

Esta manana, estoy muy triste

Got saddled up and cinched down with the usual crowd of onlookers and well wishers this morning, but somehow it is not the same anymore. The clock is ticking away much faster now and I am down to my last 2,000 miles and 8 days. Now when somebody asks me, "Adonde va amigo?", I hang my head and mumble, "California." This morning, I am very sad.

The upcoming storm moving in from the west into Zacatecas has me a bit uneasy and have decided to detour and ride northwest directly into the path of the storm, hitting it early in the day before it has a chance to really unload. This will put me zig zagging back northeast the next day and hopefully behind the storm and on into Copper Canyon about a half day ahead of schedule. Zacatecas is now replaced with Durango and it is a long, hard ride, but worth it to avoid the fury of foul weather out on the prairie.

Disk brakes on a motorcycle are a mixed blessing, especially on the front end. If used correctly on a straight, dry surfaced road, you should be able to smoke your front tire with a two finger pull on the brake lever and stop on a dime, with eight cents change. On the other hand, if used without the rear brake, in cornering, on a dirt road or slippery surface, the results can be devastating with the front end sliding out from underneath the rider. Guys like me get lazy and cocky and often even boast about being so good at feathering the front brake, that we do not even bother using the rear. Both brakes should be applied simultaneously for maximum control.

Two hours riding the Autopista on smooth straight roads with no traffic has dulled recently finely honed riding skills and habits, and I should have sensed what I did not see. As I approached a busy intersection where I needed to stop, I casually executed a two finger pull on my front brake, not noticing, the oil build up in the center of the lane that had turned into a thick paste. I continue to slide into the intersection with the front end buckling sharply. I release the front brake, put my foot down, which gets immediately kicked backwards, but the bike stays upright, only now, in the middle of oncoming cross traffic.

I hear tires wailing from a truck now angling sideways toward me, and realize in a split second that the rapidly approaching bus has no chance to brake, and swerves at the last moment spraying me with road dust and gravel. The skidding pick up stops within two feet of my knee. Before I left on this trip, my friend Bill painted my helmet a bright flourescent yellow to make me easy to spot in such situations, we say loud pipes save lives, but so do colors. I push my bike to the side of the road, to assess damages. Nothing hurt but my pride and a twisted ankle, it really sucks when you lower your guard like that and make such a stupid mistake, but that is how it happens. No time to shake the adrenaline rush, it is back on the road, I have a storm to beat.

As I finally pass the last traffic signal, I briefly reflect back to 18 months ago while road racing with my friends on our way to a wedding up in the Sierras. It was Jim and Louis who were first to find me out in the desert after I ran off the road at 90, and hit a boulder, launching me another 75 feet. I was in and out of consciousness watching 30 of my friends and students as they stood by so solemnly while the helicopter quietly whisked me off to the trauma center 150 miles away. I guess that is why they were a bit apprehensive about this trip, there is no one around to call an ambulance most of the time and few hospitals to go to anyway. As machines pumped air into my fluid filled lungs the doctors were warning me that my martial arts, as well as my motorcycling times were over. It took several days to be able to move my arms and legs again and the first thing I did, was dial up the Harley dealer and order another bike. I laid down a thousand miles on a new Harley with! in a week and was back in the ring in three months. I love these bar codes!

The highway is wide open with no traffic in either direction to speak of, but from the top of the dome to the horizon is an ominous solid black. Giant drops of rain are beginning to thump on my helmet warning me, time is running out, I am still 2 hours out from the warmth and safety of Durango. The rain increases, smearing the dead bugs and diesel soot on my darkly tinted face shield, I am flying blind, all I can see is the flicking yellow line separating me from oncoming traffic. The sky lets loose and suddenly it is like being in a giant car wash, so intense, it washes clean my face shield and windshield within 30 seconds and then subsides. This was only my warning shot over the bow of what is coming ahead.

I decide I can still beat the bulk of the storm if I pick up the pace. I fold in the mirrors, lean forward tucking behind the small fairing and slam the hammer down. The wind roars louder and louder inside my helmet. Kawasaki claims the bike does 110 mph, my last look said 95 and climbing, there are cattle in the fields, which means cattle in the roads, a light rains settles in and the trees are whizzing by in a blur. I cannot tell if the trembling is coming from me or the motorcycle.

I am WFO (wide fucking open) and reaching for the top and I do not dare look down to verify my speed. A mild cross wind is tugging on my saddle bags keeping me teetering on the edge of a high speed wobble from which I know there is no recovery. Mother nature is not on my side today.

It is like being hit with the full force of a fire hose at this point, and in the distance I barely see the flash of brake lights from the car in front. I can not see that far ahead to understand the reason, but none the less, assume he had a good cause and slow down to about 40mph. In an instant, the road has turned to gravel and then to mud. Cars ahead are sliding and bogging down buried to the axles. My bike spits up a rooster tail of red muck until the knobbies on my rear tire bite in and I rocket forward passing everything in sight. Without skipping a beat, this motorcycle has transformed from a Porsche to a jeep, I fish tail onto solid pavement and pound on in to Durango.


April 25,2001

Off to another late start, because of another late night, because of another chica who thought I am such a handsome man. They must have a grapevine somewhere.

Got some real bad advise or a big misunderstanding, from another American traveler about the road to Copper Canyon. He told me that, although, it was not an Autopista, it should be one because it was straight, double laned and well paved. In fact, it was a windy, narrow, and extremely potholed road for most of the three hundred miles.

The sky was dark from the moment I left Durango, no sense wishin' an hopin' for a squall, I give in early and take the required ten minutes, to wiggle into my one piece rain suit by the side of the road, before I need to. Within a half mile, what we used to call Monsoon Doom in Thailand, hits with a vengeance. There is almost no traffic, but it is all hair pinned turns with major chuckholes in the pavement and plenty of wandering goats and donkeys to keep me alert.

A pack of wild dogs is busy gnawing on a slowly decaying animal carcass by the side of the road, judging by the stench, it had been there a while. I flash back to El Fluffy, I wonder if these are his cousins. Is he back in the arms of the grandson of the President of Mexico or the main course of a taco fiesta?

Wind of course is always a factor when riding a motorcycle. It is almost never completely still in any direction before you start riding. It mostly blows toward you or against you. The good news is, if you start your trip fighting a head wind, you get a pleasant tailwind on the return. The nightmare is, a crosswind, in a crosswind, you can never win. A crosswind comes in strong from the side, causing the rider to have to lean into it to keep from being blown off the road. This would be tolerable if it stayed that way, except, it does not. Once you lean into the crosswind, within seconds, it can abruptly whip in the opposite direction, now pushing you down further in the angle you were just leaning. This is an extremely stressful and deadly condition to ride in.

Today, there are exceptionally hard crosswinds blowing for hours at a time. I am often nearly at 45 degrees in the struggle. My neck is whip lashed in every direction and just when I think, I can not take it anymore, it begins to hail. Hail is coming at me the size of marbles, and at 60mph, it feels like I am being shot with a pellet gun on full auto, from head to foot. I am concerned the ice balls may shatter my face shield, so I slow to a crawl. I check my watch, I am hours behind schedule with no chance of reaching Copper Canyon by nightfall. Today, life on the road sucks.

I drift back over the past weeks of this odyssey, here I am this stranger in a strange land, this wandering, vagabond, martial artist, motorcycle thug with a dream about to end. On this journey, I have often felt like Mel Gibson, in Road Warrior, where he is drifting in off the plains into these bizarre concoctions of humanity. Sometimes they were the great costumed celebrations of holiday crowds erupting with music, laughter and dancing like Semana Santa. Other times, like in Guatemala City, the last stop between purgatory and hell, where I could feel the icy fingers of evil clutching at my throat and choking on the hideous stench of death, I wondered if I would even get out alive. This has been one of the more extraordinary adventures I can recall. There is seldom a slow moment, there is always something to alert me to the fact that I am alive. As demented as this sounds, the closer I am to death, the more alive I feel.

This is not just reckless behavior because I'm oblivious to the consequences, indeed, I know them well. It is not death or pain that scares hardcore motorcyclist, it is paralysis, we can handle anything but that. I have experienced this briefly after a motorcycle wreck 18 months ago, when there was swelling against the nerves in my spine. As it turned out, after the swelling subsided, I could move again. My only concern was, who of my friends loved me enough to step up to the plate and do the right thing for me. In a private moment afterward, they all assured me, "We would never let you lay there brother..."

April 26, 2001 Got done with the handsome man deal early last night and was up at the crack of dawn this morning galloping off across the prairie on my mighty iron steed, en route to my last destination of wonder, Copper Canyon National Park. It is supposed to be four times the size of the Grand Canyon back home and still inhabited by not so friendly, cave dwelling Indians.

For the first time on my trip, I took a wrong turn and ended up halfway to Chihuahua before I noticed my error. Rather than commit the mortal sin of backtracking, merely changed my plans again and chuckled to myself over that slogan that rings in my head so often about Mexico, "where ever you go, there you are." It turns out, I lucked out, my original plan would have took me on a route that did not connect to a major road home and I would have had to backtrack 300 miles, half of it gravel.

The sky was clear, the road open and free of traffic for hours. Out on the open plain like this, you can see for miles in all directions, and thus are relieved of the constant concern of animals bolting out of the woods and into the path of a little speeding motorcycle. It is considerably more scenic when the forest or jungle butts right up against the roadway and you get plenty of banked turns to keep you awake. The problem is you never know what is going to pop out of the forest unannounced. I remember on a similar motorcycle journey across Southeast Asia in 1988, there were often herds of water buffalo that would come crashing out of the jungle to cross the road and were not concerned much about what was in their path. Or try riding around a turn into a pile of elephant dung. Once my partner Tony, and I, were on more of a trail, than a road and suddenly there was this huge cobra coiled in the center of the road doing the hooded thing. Hey Tony, that looks like the guy in! the pictures, we took a break until he slithered back into the jungle. It is about 60 miles in between small pueblos now and sure enough, in the distance, those damn clouds are billowing once again as they silently sneak over the mountain tops in the distance. They don't fool me anymore, I know what they will do in a few hours. Jamming across the Chihuahuan desert, without much to see or worry about, gives me time to reflect back on all the recent events, it would have been nice to video the whole trip. The Mayan Ruins are so far back in the past by now, it will take photos to jog my memory. The names of all the people I met, I forgot before we said good bye. The faces though, the faces I shall never forget, especially the young and very old. As I pull up to the toll plazas or military check points and see the teenage soldiers with their machine guns perched behind sand bags looking so serious, I realize these are the faces of the young boys in the gas station that wer! e trotting around wearing my helmet only yesterday. I can't resist, I make silly gestures to see if they react. Sure enough, their little brown faces erupt with a string of bright pearls and they are waving good bye to me once again. I know there is a job to be done and everyone is doing the best that they can, I just will never get used to kids with automatic weapons. I look once again to the creeping clouds forming ahead and the face of the old Indian woman at the protest rally in Oaxaca begins to form. I studied her in the plaza for hours, as I gazed into the creased canyons of her face, and felt the aching echo of centuries of exploitation and sorrow. She will be with me when I die. The home stretch into the small town of Creel is a series of rolling hills slicing right through a sweet smelling pine forest, a roller coaster ride climbing to nearly 8,000 feet and cooling down fast. This is Mexican cowboy country, it is all pick up trucks, cowboy hats and very primitive Indi! ans. This is the gateway to Copper Canyon, the wild west, Mexican style. I love it here, a man is a man and you cannot get sued for giving somebody the finger or for spilling coffee. Step in a hole buddy, and you are on your own, don't call a lawyer, try watching where you are going next time. It is clearly a, mind your own business environment, yet they still give you a, "buenos dias" back, but it is accompanied by a nod instead of a wave.
I make small talk with the locals to feel them out in a restaurant. They are clearly skeptical of me until I tell them, I too, am a rancher in California and love the open spaces and isolation of the mountains. I am now one of the Mexican good ole' boys. They all shake my hand, a gesture that still has meaning in these parts. These are the type of men that look you in the eye and stand behind their word. You don't need an attorney to figure out what they mean. I bet you could fist fight here without going to jail.


April 27, 2001

The temperature dropped to thirty last night, in fact, they had predicted it may snow. It was dry enough, but the clouds drifted on by during the still of the night without further menace. It is 400 miles, but a 15 hour drive to my next overnight, Hermosillo, from there it is only another 600 miles to home. I have only 11 hours of daylight, as I do not wish to get caught in the curves at night again and there is no place to layover between here and there.

I am rolling out of the motel parking lot just before dawn. The temperature is still in the low thirties. I am wearing every piece of clothing I packed, then I add the rain suit, topped off with my leather jacket and two pairs of gloves. I look like the Pillsbury Dough boy. With all this gear it still will not take long for hypothermia to set in, two hours max. According to my calculations, in two hours, hopefully, I should drop to below 5,000 feet and combined with the warming morning sun, be shedding this multi layered array of survival gear in a sweat.

Soon after topping off my fuel tank, I am gliding back down through the forest with the sun yawning at my back, causing the towering pines to cast shadows that point the way home west. Little currents of freezing air sneak past the zippers and neck warmer, I do not care. I am alone on this crisp mountain morning, I not only hear and smell the forest, at this moment, I am the forest.

For two solid, glorious hours, I am soaring as an eagle back down to the Sea of Cortez, viewing rock formations that defy my imagination. There is drama around every turn, I stop a half dozen times for Dales photos, none will make the cover of National Geographic, but she will get the idea. This is Yosemite to the tenth power!

One thing for certain in Mexico, things change in an instant. Suddenly, on this road seemingly built for motorcycling, in the middle of a sharp turn, there is a chunk of pavement missing leaving about a ten inch deep chuck hole in my lane. There is no time to brake, I can only stand up on the pegs and ride it through. I am almost quick enough, but not quite. My seat snaps back with the recoil, smacking me in the butt, sending shock waves up my vertebrae, causing my already two ruptured disks to bulge further against the nerves. It was like getting hit with a thousand volts up the spine and into my finger tips. A feeling I remember well from my final years in Judo competition.

I have experienced the suspension on this bike eat bumps, ruts and rocks in the road and spit them out the rear tire, without a hic cup. This time, I am certain the rims must be bent, forks twisted or something out of whack. A quick roadside inspection reveals no damage and I am off on my way with two hundred and fifty miles of more of the same, only now it is in the blazing heat! The hair pinned turns are steep and endless, as I corkscrew my way down to the awaiting desert below. Once again, I am car sick, fighting nausea, and as far as the eye can see, it is continuos.

I try to stay to the left in my lane to avoid the many rock slides that are not quite cleared yet and have spilled into the roadway, but now logging trucks are grinding uphill straddling the center line in an effort to straighten out the curves, it seems like we always meet in a turn. They always veer off with room to spare, but it still unnerves me. I think it is time for breakfast.

April 28, 2001

I wasn't going to tangle with the heat today, so I woke up at 4am and rolled stealthily out of Hermosillo and into the dark glowing Sonoran Desert en route to Mexicali long before sunrise. It is solid cactus forest on one side of the road and massive power lines buzzing overhead, on the other. The cool morning air commands leather jacket and gloves as there is still a mild blue chill to the morning sky. Soon the heat of the desert will blanket itself around me and not let go until I reach some air conditioned hotel room in Mexicali. It is just myself and a few lone truckers savoring the approaching dawn, I wonder, do they feel as free as I?

There is not much to break the monotony except a few small towns, with not yet open restaurants and small markets. This could be Texas or New Mexico, the terrain is the same, nothing to do but think.

I toggle back and forth between the events of the last month and what lies ahead. Until now, I have not even considered what the first thing is I would do when crossing the border. I reluctantly peer forward. It would not take much to get me to turn around and head back toward Columbia.

The first stop should be my 130 acre, remote mountain ranch out in eastern San Diego County. When I stand on those oak tree studded rolling hills, I feel old California flowing through my veins. I harvest electricity from the sun, water from the earth and heat from the oak trees.

It is here that I come to recharge my batteries with early morning Yoga and meditation. It is here that I come to speak with my long dead father. It is here that I have an afternoon to spend with my neighbor, Milt, a kind old wise man with huge leathery hands, I consider Moses. It is here that I celebrate the earth. It is here that I hope to die.

There will be much to do. I'll have to fix the fuel pump on the tractor right away so I can grade my roads before the approaching late springtime heat dries the ground to powder. The fruit trees should have blossomed by now and tiny nubs of peaches, plums, apricots and apples may have even begun to ripen. Soon I will compete with the deer and birds for the first succulent taste of fruit ripened on the vine. Every year, we all wait until the last moment to begin the feast, they always beat me by a day, but there is usually enough for all of us.

Maybe I'll catch a big fat catfish from the lake, pick some fresh vegetables from the garden and have a quiet supper out on the deck and wait for the moon the rise over the clear mountain skies. The first week of May means t-shirt weather until late in the evening, with the stillness of the air softly punctuated only by the occasional hooting of owls high in the oak trees from which I will hang blissfully suspended in my hammock. I dream about the massive oak trees, some of which I have named, many of them centuries old and suppose they were saplings as Cortez marched across Mexico wreaking such havoc on the Aztecs. Yes, this is old California magic.

The sign ahead says, Mexicali is 200 kilometers away, about 120 miles. I have been maxing out all morning on the throttle and not certain what my fuel consumption rate is, I doubt there is enough left in the tank to make it there, and I've come to far to turn back There are no towns in between and no stations, but often out in the middle of nowhere there will be a Llantera, a small tire repair outpost where you would least expect one, and they usually sell gas from an old rusty barrel for double what the Pemex price is, a bargain, when you are about to run out in the middle of the desert.. A man working on a road crew tells me, there is one up ahead a few miles. I start to think, maybe I should just take a chance and straight shot it into Mexicali, just to see if I can. If Brad were here, he would say, "Hell bro, let's give it a shot." Brad is not here and I do not want to run out of gas alone out in the desert. I stop.

There are about 4 or 5 men at the Llantera, who of course immediately crowd around to see what this stranger is doing riding in off the desert on an overladen motorcycle covered in dead bugs from head to foot. The usual questions are asked and answered. I am getting good at converting miles to kilometers, inches to centimeters, quarts to liters and even my thoughts in English to phrases in Spanish. I am in kind of a hurry to beat the rapidly rising temperature, but it is too late. The photo albums have come out. Now I know what the family and favorite hiking spots look like. We talk some more about the beauty of the desert and his children going to school, if I let it go any further, I am going home with them for lunch. Adios, mis amigos.

The sun is high overhead now and even in the wind, my helmet is hot to the touch, I have learned to guzzle a full liter of water at every stop. I see lots of buzzards overhead and hope they are not following me, knowing something I do not.

I try to cool myself down by drifting back to my last day in Chiapas riding through the chilly pine forest and into an Indian market, that I wound up in after taking a side road for no apparent reason. They were not particularly friendly, but not openly hostile either. They spoke neither English nor Spanish. I gestured for permission to enter their market camp. I received a nod without a smile in return. There was the odor of fresh food cooking over open fires, but the only one I recognized was that of roasting fowl. I pointed to the chicken rotating on a wooden spit over glowing coals and was quietly issued a crispy half a bird on a wooden plate with no eating utensils. They offered a drink of some type in a battered steel cup, I declined. When I finished, I held out a handful of coins and an old woman took the appropriate amount without comment and we all nodded an expressionless farewell.

I can't really blame them for their wariness of strangers, being friendly and open, has bought them little in the past except misery and exploitation. They do their best to live in isolation and away from lifestyles alien to them, yet their villages are constantly invaded by tourists stomping through snapping pictures and intruding upon their ways. I know somewhat how they feel, for I too, have chosen to live in isolation, and myself and my like minded neighbors are not so inclined to greet uninvited guests with such tolerance.

My travels over the last 25 years have been primarily confined to the third world nations of the planet. I am at home in developing countries and anxiously adapt quickly to their ways. I am often asked how I reconcile the poverty, starvation and misery I encounter. It is not that you get callused so much as you just must learn to accept certain things and push others out of your head. I knew that if I let the guilt get to me, I would have hung myself in India. At times the suffering of others has been so intense to witness I have openly wept. I recall frequently the haunting late nights along the Cambodian frontier after visiting the refugee camps and how when I tried to close my eyes, I would hear the thunderous pounding hoof beats of centuries marching past, turn eerily into the heartbeats of bewildered, huddling, hungry children.

In poorer countries, coins are tendered more often than bills because things seldom cost the full amount of paper currency. At the end of the day, you wind up with your bills turning into an uncomfortable pocketful of coins. Coins are the perfect gift to beggars, and I watch to see what the locals do and add proportionately. The grim reality is, it is based on a misery index. The man with no legs gets several coins worth several dollars, the man with one good leg gets only one and the children, because there are so many, get handfuls of the tiny coins, for their tiny hands.

There is an old man in the street in Saigon from a leper colony, with no hands or feet to hold his coins, I drop a big handful of dollar coins in his tattered metal jar, he says nothing as he looks into my eyes. He knows I have done this to ease both our nightmares.

April 29 , 2001

Mexicali, doesn't have much fame to claim other than being the state capitol and hosting a university. It is a quiet city on the US border and gateway to the Imperial Valley and the shortest route home for me. I could be at the ranch in 2 hours, I'm clearly stalling at this point, I need another day, maybe two. It is probably snowing on the other side of the border or there is hurricanes not safe to ride in, I better wait it out here, just in case.

Two bars are recommended tonight, one a strip club across from my hotel, (I don't feel like being a handsome man tonight) and the other, Ole', a low key, locals hangout, which is just what I needed. The first thing the bouncer does is, ask me, in perfect California English, to move my bike from where I parked it, he wants it closer so he can keep an eye on it for me. The basic questioning goes on, where you going, where you been? I happily unload. He says I need to meet his other friends and owner of the club, they have to hear this. They all ride Harleys and on weekends, often take day rides out to the US mountain town of Julian, which is just down the road from my ranch. They get me a seat in front of the band and after they buy me a few cervezas, we swap addresses and I beg them to come visit me at the ranch. They want me to return for their Wednesday night motorcycle rallies. I also meet the most beautiful girl yet, in all of Mexico, but of course, she has a boyfriend. !

At sunrise, my eyes snap wide open and I am instantly awake and ready to ride. I march down to my bike like a zombie with no thought except to get on the road. It is almost over now, I feel like I'm being forced to wake up from a wonderful dream and I make frustrating attempts to stay within that dream, as though fighting to stay asleep. I dread the moment I leave Mexico. An early morning hard core motorcycle ride should take the edge off. It is Sunday again, and the roads even in the city are deserted, everyone is in church and out of the way.

I actually have longed for a lousy experience at the end of my journey to make it easier to leave, to be treated bad somewhere, insulted, robbed or shook down by a cop. Something to make me think twice about coming back. I want to pick a fight with Mexico this morning, come on give me an excuse, I dare you. I've tried to get it all out of my system this last month, to become so weary I count the days with anticipation until I return home. It is just the opposite. It is like sex with some one you love, the more you make love, the more you want. I am addicted, I am strung out and there is no cure.

An old man is standing on the street corner waiting for something. I want to provoke him into being rude, I don't want him to be nice. I say in my gruffest New York tone, (I am not from there) skipping the buenos dias part, "Where is Tijuana?"

I can tell already he is not going to ease the pressure, when he fatherly pats me on the back, waving his other arm in the direction I need to travel. He gives me detailed directions, and repeats them so I don't get lost. He elaborates further about what I will see and the famous statues I will pass along the way. Mexicans loves their heroes and every guy that ever stood up against the Spanish has a street named after him or a statue of him in every town. If it is not a name, it is a significant date that they can relate to expelling the Spaniards. It may have taken them an extra century or two, but they seem appropriately relieved, to be rid of the Spanish. Mexicans are a fiercely proud people, yet it is pride without arrogance and a greatness without being condescending to others. Their graciousness is one of their most prized institutions. I have been awed by them at every turn. Mexicans have taught me much on this journey, and Mexico has reminded me of much that I have ! forgotten and needed to recall.

I wind out every gear, after blasting off from the last traffic signal and onto the sparkling new Autopista en route to Tijuana. Not a soul in sight and once again, I am WFO and burning with motorcycle fever compounded by travel lust. My last 100 miles will be on a superbly engineered highway with graceful wide banked turns. My throttle is torqued wide open, my spirit is on fire as I pound out the miles through the mountains to the Pacific Ocean. My final destination closes in faster than I can conceive. The last town before Tijuana is Tecate, home town of the beauty with the dark crystal eyes I met the night before. I must stop to satisfy my curiosity, I must know if there are anymore like her. Maybe it is something in the water. Maybe her sister will be in the restaurant where I'll have breakfast.


April 30,2001

Monday morning, Tijuana, Mexico

I am up early again, pacing the floor in my sleazy hotel room conversing with myself once again. I might as well just be a man about it and get it over with, besides there is so much to do at home, like... oh yeah, the same old routine.

The border was jammed with traffic for over a mile, but nothing a little white lining can't handle. I pull up to the customs inspector, and bellow out laughing, "Go ahead, ask me where I've been." He laughs back, "Okay, where have you been?" I reply, "Fucking Guatemala and back!" He asks with a smirk, "Bringing back anything?" I can't help this one, "Yeah, a fucking good time!" He chuckles, waving me through.

It's a strange feeling jamming up Interstate 15, back in the sterile world of time tables, schedules and predictability. The traffic is loading up but I don't care, I white line it up the center whipping in and out, I know now, I am invincible and ride accordingly. The chilly morning fog rolling in off the sea bites through my levis prompting a mild shiver up my spine. It doesn't matter, in 95 minutes I'll glide into the blazing hot Coachella Valley via the Banning Pass and back to a hearty welcome from my friends in Palm Springs. I will try and convey what has transpired the last month, I doubt I can find the words. I will go down to the local nightclub with my friends and stand where I usually stand, off to the side or in a corner. People ask me often about the faraway look in my eyes. How do I explain to them I am actually in a tropical jungle somewhere, or hitch hiking across Ireland, or standing in the foothills of Everest and the guy across the bar looks just like the! Sherpa guide that once saved my life?

I have gazed upon the rice terraces of Bali, examined the Great Wall of China and stomped through monasteries in the Himalayas. I have done six thousand miles across Southeast Asia on a motorcycle, rode a bicycle across Laos and crossed parts of Burma on an elephant. I have shot the rapids of Hells Canyon in a rubber kayak, been up the Me Khong River in a long tailed speed boat and dove into the depths of the Gulf of Siam peering through wrecked sea going vessels on the bottom of the ocean. I was in the Philippines when the police shot it out with the military, several coups in Thailand and visited Tiananmen Square shortly before the uprising. I have driven the cease fire line between India and Pakistan along the Indus River, literally between rows of tanks aimed at one another and boxed my way in and out of the back streets of Asia from Hong Kong to Bangkok. I know well the sound of