Kicking myself all the way

Chillin in Chile with ma Peeps

yoshic — Tue, 28 Jul 2015 05:05:00 GMT

Our 2 weeks travelling together in Chile were a blast from second 1.

I decided to stay in Matthew's Trip mode so I had us in a rental car right away for a 1,000 mile return trip to the lovely lake town of Villarica, in the North part of Chile's Patagonia. We shivered in the cold, enjoyed the rain, loved the snow, and built our first ever Summer Snowman on the flanks of nearby Pucon Volcano.

We even managed to re-create some of the angst in trying to locate un-marked hotels, mis-mapped by Booking.com, on hard to navigate roads. Check!

Then, after our chilly time we were rewarded BIG time with the ultimate Chill time in Rapa Nui (Easter Island), an Island so relaxed we had to go searching for tourist info, rather than having it thrust in our faces at every turn. 'Coral Head Hugging Hippy Crap' is what I had jokingly said of the idea 17 years ago, when Roni and I had last been in Santiago on our extended honeymoon and decided to blow it off as it was too expensive. Well to make amends we all surreptiously gave a Moa head a big hug as we started our exploration of this amazing place. And yes I also managed to scare us all on a hairy, wet, knarly dirt road in a 2 wheel drive Jimmy. Check!

Then back to Chile for my last hurrahs, and last chance to show Roni and the kids how I had lived for 3 months.

Bus station hotel, and meal at 11 pm. Check!

Hostel for 2 days in Valparaiso. Check!

City wanderings, cake time, speaking Spanish with varying degrees of fluency. Check. Check, and Check.

We boarded our plane out of Santiago en route home ... and Latin America had one last item for me to Check off: my air-side bought coffee was taken off me by one last security check on the jet way... CHECK.

Giant Hellos

yoshic — Tue, 28 Jul 2015 04:47:00 GMT

I woke pre-Chillian dawn, at a very sedate 8am, and walked in the dark and rain to the nearest Santiago Metro station 10 minutes from my last solo hostel. A short, easy, Metro ride then bus ride to the Santiago Airport and my solo travels were over too!

As I stood in the busy, brightly lit arrivals area of the rport I felt all the joy around me, as these places often excude. I felt excited to be seeing Roni, Kellan and Amaris after these 3 months apart, and smiled as I witnessed the emotional greetings occurring all around me as I waited for my own.

And there they were .... Amaris, Roni, and ... what the? Kellan is now towering a good 3 inches over his mum as they walk side be side; but he was the same height as her when I left?!

Let the hugfest begin!!!

Omg not 2 old 2 txt

yoshic — Fri, 10 Jul 2015 09:20:00 GMT

Before I started this trip I had an 'old' small flip phone, that had a basic camera, text thru the time consuming 1abc buttons, a tiny 1 inch square screen and no Web connection - that I used anyhow. Actually the phone was pretty much unused. I sent the very occasional text to Roni, never took any photos with it, and indeed hardly ever even bothered to even leave it turned on. Assuming I even knew where it was that is ....

And now here I am, a changed man. Without my smartphone this trip would have been so much more of a hassle, and my already stretched sanity would have been eroded to the point of failure. Or not, I don't really know.

My Samsung S4 has certainly made my everyday life so much easier, as I use it to check the routes I plan, to scope out possible hostels and even to find nearby motorcycle shops for tyres or other services. And to allow me to bore you all by remote of course ...

Of all my e-crutches, 3 stand out as having helped me the most.

Firstly, an offline map service called Maps.Me. This beauty has helped me navigate strange towns be it on foot or on the bike; allowing me a backup when my GPS maps dwindled to a trickle of usefulness, and giving me the confidence to strike out and explore confusing urban landscapes on foot, safe in the knowledge that I could find my night's hostel again.

Secondly, WhatsApp, which along with texting, has allowed me to send videos and messages, and even free calls (using WiFi, which is the norm in hotels and hostels, even in remote places). This of course has been a double edged sword for me, as I have struggled with the concept that my messages, my boredom, my out-reach for a connection will be answered with the urgency I expect ...

And third, the camera. Originally I had a camera proper, which I intended for everyday photos, with the phone as backup or for a lower profile. Unfortunately my camera died after 2 weeks, so my phone became the jack-of-all-trades that so many other people have become used to. The pictures have turned out great, and I gradually got past the annoyance of its touch screen; as when I am riding and I saw something I wanted a picture of, I would have to stop and remove a glove in order to use the touch screen.

When I get back home I only hope I can wean myself back down to my previous minimal phone use!

HVAC For Motorcycles

yoshic — Thu, 9 Jul 2015 07:49:00 GMT

HVAC - Heating Ventilation Air Conditioning

Once solely the preserve of your 'tin box' (as we motorcylists call 4 wheel transport), I have discovered how to circumvent the physics, mechanics and expense of installing a workable system on a motorcycle - well, the expense part not so much ...

You know that cold shiver you get when you see something absolutely cool, amazing or do something truly invigorating. ..?

How about that hot flush when you screw up ...?

.... and riding a motorcycle is all about ventilation ...

The only real problem is its none selectable for the most part, so if you screw up or do the embarrassing u turn in Central America you get an unwanted blast of extra heat, and the opposite wad a near constant factor as I wound my way through the jaw dropping and cold Andes of course.

A name on the map

yoshic — Thu, 9 Jul 2015 05:30:00 GMT

One of the things I have come to relish most is the gulf between my imaginings and the reality of the towns I stay in.

Take Valparaiso for instance, the town where I am chilling having dropped XavieR off at a Customs Yard here a few days ago, and where I am now killing time before I have the awesome family reunion in nearby Santiago in a few days time.

As one of the very few 'known' locations in South America to have a service to assist with shipping motorcycles either in or out, the name 'Valparaiso' has been known to me for well over a year. I have looked at its close proximity to the west of Santiago, and understood that it is a major regional shipping port.

Like all the towns I have chosen en route, this one did not fail to surprise. I had learnt early on to have no expectations of the upcoming town or city, as to be honest, my imaginings were just not up to it. Even when I had banked enough visuals of Latin American towns, I still fell well short from reality, as I found that not only did each country have a unique blueprint, but it also changed between towns of the same country; often and unsurprisingly, around geographic lines, like mountains and tropical regions.

Valparaiso is just over an hour's drive from smogged in, noisy, flat Santiago. Yet in that 70 miles the smog melts away, the roads suddenly wind and drop, and you arrive in the twisted story book city of Valparaiso. The city sprawls in a mainly low-rise fashion around a 270' bay, dotted with the occasional, 20 storey or so, high rise block of flats. Every usable inch of land has seemingly been claimed: large modern commercial structures and housing on and around the bay, mixed with beautiful colonial structures, Chilean Naval buildings, and then ... a container shipping yard where you would expect to see a pier, or swanky shopping area in most other city!

Away from these areas it seems anything goes. The city is built on a steep set of hills which slope to the Pacific's edge, and once away from the down town areas proper, the town turns to a mix of flimsy tin roofed homes amongst an equal number of more sturdy residences. Dogs, litter, street art fill all the spaces in between, yet the primary colours and eclectic mix of it all somehow makes it work.

It is a mad, non-sanitised, real world version of a beautiful multi-coloured sea port town of a children's book, or Miazaka Anime film, dog poo an all.

Boring Statistics

yoshic — Tue, 7 Jul 2015 00:48:00 GMT

1 Billion smiles

100,000 curves (not inc. Colombia .... ha ha!)

11,500 miles travelled (inc. Panama City to Bogota flight)

11,111 miles ridden

2,000 kicks of the kick start

1,000 miles of unpaved roads

500 hours in the saddle

250 miles walked

240 Gallons of petrol

100 Petrol stations

90 days travelling

81 days solo

80 different hostels/hotels

79 towns/cities (changed hostels in Valparaiso)

45 mpg average

40 mph average open-road speed per day

18 hours crossing borders

15 lost items

12 hours looking for hostels/hotels

11 Countries

10 Insecticide spraydowns

9 novels read

6 litres of used engine oil

3 crashes .... (all minor)

3 lost and replaced bolts

3 used engine oil filters

3 miles average walk per day - exploring post ride

2 sets of tyres (inc set still on)

2 visits to welders

1 roadside accident assistance (Colombian motorcyclist)

1 out of petrol on the roadside

1 hitch hike

1/2 a chance to do it again, if given? Yes!

0 Punctures, Breakdowns, Illness, Robberies, Police/Border shakedowns or trouble of ANY sort!

!! ZERO regrets (average)!!

The Third Goodbye

yoshic — Tue, 7 Jul 2015 00:35:00 GMT

The soppy git that I am, I felt tears well up as I patted the crated up Xavier on his bars and thanked him for looking after me so well, and wished him bon voyage.

I rearranged the 6 inch Yoshi plush (given to me by Kellan and Amaris for this very purpose) that has been with me every day (sitting in the recess between the speedometer and windscreen) and placed him sat squarley on Xavier's bars and beeped him on the nose like I have done a hundred silly times over the last 3 months.

The lid was placed on the crate, strapped down, and then the whole crate was wrapped in clingfilm top to bottom and shipping labels affixed.

A forklift came and picked up part of my life, and carried them out of sight for their own adventure.

Mechanical issues

yoshic — Mon, 6 Jul 2015 23:53:00 GMT

My last proper day of riding took me the 75 miles from Chile's capital, Santiago, to its Pacific-side mate Valparaiso, where I was shipping Xavier back to San Diego from.

For the last 11,000 odd miles, despite all the long days Xavier had had no mechanical issues apart from his clutch slipping slightly on steeper hills and severe headwinds, starting about 1,000 miles back (nothing too worisome for me as he still pulled away from a stop without it slipping so I 'knew' I could just keep ploughing on).

I found the (unsigned as usual!) hostel, the eccentric Villa Kunterbunt, where they would also be helping me arrange Xaiver's shipping on top of being a hostel. Actually, 'hostel' is too kind really, even after the places I have seen on this trip! It is basically a shabby Victorian, a good walk out of the town area, and the whole vibe is that of a house stay at your distracted Aunt and Uncles. Quirky, cold, clutterred. A nice couple though, and for the last 20 years they have ruled the niche of providing paid assistance in shipping and receiving motorcycles, some cars, and the occassional Moog into and out of South America. Definately an invaluable service, so I forced myself to take the accomodations in my stride.

So what am I trying to say here? Oh yeah, mechanical issues ...

On arrival at the 'Villa' I was told that Xavier should be nice and clean for the Chilean (and Californian) Customs inspections, so I took him to a local garage where he had his first wash of the trip! Not counting the insectercide spraydowns he endured in 10 out of 11 countries we visited - Mexico was the only one that didn't do it.

Being a kickstart only dirt bike, Xavier didn't come with a battery as it relied on the engine to supply the leccy. For this trip I had installed a 10-pack of rechargeable AA batteries so that I would be able to leave the lights, and or indicators, on when the engine was off - just in case I ever needed to, which although I did not travel anywhere near the hours of darkness, I did need in various stops on foggy or sand blown roadsides.

One vigorous jet wash later, Xavier and I returned to the 'Villa', where I noticed the turn signals were making the headlight blink at the same frequency, and I saw 1/2 inch of water in the headlight case. I got in there, dried it out, tested it and everything was now back to normal. Nice.

The next day we left in convoy to the Customs dry storage yard about 15 miles inland, with me following their pickup truck carrying the flat packed shipping crate Xavier would be in. Xavier started 1st kick - I was SO proud of the little guy - and it wasn't till a mile or so down the road that I realised his indicators were now not working, or his horn, in fact none of his lights!

Well I ain't doing anything now - my arms can be my indicators, old school.

I always knew bathing was asking for trouble, thats why I haven't got sick over the last 3 months I reckon .....

Small bike. Huge (s)miles

yoshic — Wed, 1 Jul 2015 02:04:00 GMT

I am so happy with my choice of motorbike, as I took a rather unorthodox path when deciding on basically a medium sized dirt bike to do what most 'bikers' do on larger, or way larger more road oreientated machines such as the Kawasaki KLR 650, or BMW R800 or 1200 GS.

My rational was that this had to be a voyage of discovery, trust and self affirmation. My first time as a solo traveller, my first time dealing with taking a vehicle into and through foreign countries, all in a language I was trying to learn as I went.

After 13 years behind the mast of 'at-home' parenting I felt the need to set a line in the sand, quite literally as it has turned out, for me to force myself to reckon with, to step over and into the next phase of my life. My kids, now on the cusp of their teenage and young adulthood years don't need the level of immediate proximal attention they did as babies through toddler's to young elementary students. A strong, centred father will benefit them far more now, as they begin to navigate their confusing years ahead.

By choosing a trip, and a motorbike with few modern amenities or comforts I sought to prove to myself that not only I was up for it, but also that the world would allow it, if that makes sense? My 3 month window to cover such a large distance, through so many foreign and 'difficult' countries did not allow for long delays for major mechanical or personal problems. I had to trust that not only would I be ok (safe on the road and in the societies I was travelling through) but that my bike would look after me safely and mechanically too.

In the motorcycle 'adventure' bike arena, thrust into the general public by Ewan MacGregor in 'Long Way Around', this catagory has become synonymous with the BMW R800 and more - so it's big brother the R1200GS, with the BMW reliability, electric start, comfy ergonomics and vast luggage capabilities. In stark contrast I chose a kickstart only, oil cooled, skinny seated 400 cc single, with no engineered luggage capacity, but a solid reputation as a Baja bike.

I would have to kickstart the bike every time to start it. No lazy days for me. If I hurt myself in the middle of nowhere ...

To further convinces myself to trust, not only did I do all the pre-ride servicing and major engine modifications myself, I learnt how to weld and made a luggage frame for the 2 medium sized Pelican cases which have become my home from home. So many potential failure points, like life itself. Be brave, be positive yet realistic. Trust.

And it worked! I have had the time of my life - bad days happened of course, but nothing that I couldn't tackle, learn to cope with, or move on past. Replacing vital lost bolts in small rural villages, finding a welder in a small city the morning of a border crossing, or trusting strangers with help when I ran out of petrol, or got lost.

All of these mundane affirmations of trust have resonated through me, and I sincerely hope, have settled into my core.

Lost items

yoshic — Sat, 27 Jun 2015 06:42:00 GMT

I have been trying really hard to keep track of all my stuff. On the whole I have done pretty well for 11 countries, and 60 different hostels so far.

This is what slipped thru-

1. Sunglasses (broke - Mexico)

2. DIY Camera mount on bike (vital bit fell off - Mexico)

3. Toothbrush (Costa Rica)

4. Watch (Panama City hostel)

5. Padlock (Panama City hostel)

6. ATM card (!) (Bogota Intl. Airport ATM)

7. Floppy hat (Colombia)

8. Camera mount #2, broke on long dirt road (S. Colombia)

9. 2 important bolts, fell out after long rough dirt road (S. Colombia)

10. Side stand weld broke almost completely, same dirt road (S. Colombia)

11. Luggage frame bracket weld snapped ... yep, same dirt road (S. Colombia)

12. Toothbrush #2, (Equador)

13. 1 important bolt lost, after long rough dirt road (N. Peru)

14. Sunglasses #2 (Central Peru)

15. To be continued I am sure ....

Oh, and I got SUPER lucky with my phone - I was using it to navigate and it was in a clear window section on the top of my tank bag, which I had forgot to zip shut after I had just checked it. A few miles down the road I came to a busy 2 lane tunnel with a gravel road in it, and in the darkness I felt something tapping my right thigh. I felt with left hand, and found phone - stopped from disappearing into the void only by the charging cable attaching it to the bike! (S. Equador)

Chat-Up Lines

yoshic — Wed, 24 Jun 2015 22:15:00 GMT

I was never any good at chatting up girls; could rarely think of a stunning one-line to hook their interest in a loud pub or heaving club.

It is not a skill which age has honed, I can tell you.

65 days in, and trying to initiate a conversation with a stranger at a cafe, or fellow guest at the hostel, has worn me down .. but I am still persevering!

When you speak with a 'lad' you will be told that the key to chat up lines is that you subject enough women to it, and by the lad-law-of-averages one of them will respond well. Apparently no matter how bad the line, it will still work eventually - maybe 1 in 100 instead of 1 in 5 for a 'good' one.

So I have embraced a '1 in 10' rule, as that seems to be my average success rate with starting a conversation with complete random strangers.

This is all new territory for me, this extrovert, out going, chatty persona.

When it works I enjoy the moment. It's nice to hear your own language now and again, and even nicer to speak it!

Male Menopause?

yoshic — Fri, 19 Jun 2015 23:26:00 GMT

Well I guess this confirms it. Men do get the menopause.

At least I seem to, at the early age of 46.

One moment I am literally boiling in my own juices, the next I am cold, shivering even.

One moment my skin is dry and the next wet.

Hot flushes, temperature changes, what else?

Oh yes, sometimes I am at peace with the world, the next, raging at it!

All classic signs and symptoms so I have heard. Experienced .... ahem

I guess I can just pretend its the 20,000 feet of elevation changes every few days as I ride thru the Peruvian Andes .....?

Booking.wrong

yoshic — Wed, 17 Jun 2015 11:33:00 GMT

I have settled into a routine of booking hostels or hotels ahead if I am arriving on a weekend, or I have a long ride that day and need to know I have a bed for the night. Otherwise I will do an online search of hostels/hotels in my target town, and if I see they have lots of vacancies I will note their location on gps and try them first when I arrive. For this I will either use Hostelworld.com or similar, or a site called Booking.com.

The problem with an Internet based booking system is that the hotel needs to pay attention to when they have a booking!

Case of point, yesterday!

I had a mondo day, a 350 mile ride from the town of Nazca to a tiny Southern rural town called Corire, which was to be my starting point to a few days of canyon exploring. The only accommodation I could find on the Internet for this town was the Hotel Pasada Picardo, which I booked on Booking.com and paid a non-refundable $30 - at least twice the base rate so far, but I wanted the security at the end of this long ride.

And indeed the ride was a doozy. As soon as I left Nazca I was on wide open, wind swept desert roads with a 20 mph head wind and wind blown sand everywhere. This went on for hours, and I was really relieved when after 300 miles of this, I finally turned onto a tiny canyon road that ran along the canyon base to the town of Corire.

I found the hotel easily using the gps location I had noted the day before, but ended up on a rural road at a set of closed gates about 1 mile out of the small town, on the other side of a maze of farm trails. The premises had no sign, no road name and no road number!?

After riding up and down the road a few times I realized this must be the place, but I could find no bell, and a main gate was locked. I asked a neighbour in a simple wattle home, and they confirmed it was the right place. After 1/2 hour I found a doorbell on an unmarked side door. No answer.

The sun settled lower, still no signs of life. I asked the 2 other immediate neighbours and no one knew where the owner could be. After 2 hours, with the sun behind the canyon walls and dusk arriving I wrote a note with my Booking.com reference and details, wedged it in the gate's padlock, and started to ride away to find a hostel in the town.

As I left, I passed 2 simple houses 1/4 mile away and I decided to have one last go .... Bingo, turned out that one of the tenents was the gardener for the hostel! He called the owner, and she was on her way. Meanwhile he unlocked the gate and we sat on a step and chatted over some peanuts whilst we waited.

She arrived 20 minutes later, expressing surprise that she had a guest, saying her Internet didn't work so she hadn't known about the Booking.com reservation.

Within 30 minutes of me settling in she was hosting a dinner party for 6 of her friends.

Feeling very awkward about asking for food, I retired to my room and had half a bag of mixed nuts and some water to wash it down.

Latin American Drivers Anonymous

yoshic — Sat, 13 Jun 2015 08:17:00 GMT

Hi, my name is Matthew and I am a Latin American Driver. ...

It has been 3 hours since I have driven like a Latin American

As I cannot seem to find any support groups down here, I have decided to start my own Chapter of Latin American Drivers Anonymous, as I need to kick the habit within 4 weeks or so, before I return to the USA.

Below is my Chapter's 12 Step Recovery Program :

1. Stop overtaking Police cars on double yellows, on bends

2. Stop overtaking Chicken buses and lorries on double yellows, on blind bends

3. Stop using the traffic calming bumps in towns as overtaking points

4. Stop doing U-turns across multi-lane highways (Panama City - 12 lanes (6 ea. Way!))

5. Stop overtaking buses overtaking trucks

6. Stop undertaking trucks being overtaken by buses

7. Stop riding the wrong way down 1-Way streets

8. Stop riding the wrong way around town squares

9. Stop doing illegal u-turns in front of Police

10. Stop riding on the pavement (sidewalk)

11. Stop riding on 'No Motorcycles' city through ways (Lima, Peru)

12. Stop riding thru villages at twice the speed limit (whilst being overtaken by a bus)

Matthew, the bad American man

yoshic — Thu, 11 Jun 2015 11:39:00 GMT

About 3 weeks into my trip I was on my last day in Costa Rica, and had decided to find a hostel that Lonely Planet highly recommended, in a small town called Golfito, on the Pacific coast about 40 miles west of the Panama border.

Until only a few days before I had had nothing but good weather, but then the rain arrived. Proper 'rainy season' rain, lashing down at unbelievable rates, and coming on like someone had thrown a switch. Often stopping the same, abrupt way.

Anyway, about an hour outside Golfito the rain started. I had seen the dark grey clouds for the last hour or so and had been hoping to beat them to my destination, but that was not going to happen today. The first few drops fell heavy and determined. I was on a lonely stretch of highway in the jungle, with 'bus stops' every few miles (basically an open 4 posted space with a plank bench and a tin roof) and having seen other motorcyclist do the same over the last few days, I rode my bike into the first (empty) one I found. I got off the bike and sat on the bench just as the heavens opened, and I sat and took in the spectacle, visual and audio.

My hopes that it would be a quick shower soon faded, so I donned my waterproofs, cinched up my jacket, and ventured out into the deluge. For the next hour the rain faded and intentsified many times, but by the time I got to the small waterfront town it was at a sprinkle.

Now to find the hostel, 'Hostel del Mar'.

The address was a street number on 'Kilometer 7' on the road - except that I could not see any 'Kilometer' markings. I rode slowly through the town, annoying the traffic around me, as I searched. I went through the town once, and came back again. Nothing. I asked a taxi driver. Never heard of that hostel, but 'Kilometer 7' was that way - pointing to the beginning of the town, where I had first entered.

As I got to the end of town I saw there was a dirt road splitting off and following the coast, with a hotel on the junction of the split. But not my hotel. Trying my luck I took the dirt road, and found myself in a favela, with tin roofed shacks lining the shore side of the dirt road, and a few run down houses the water side. Things seemed to deteriorate quickly after 1/2 mile of this so I thought a hostel would not be down here. Surely.

Of course I was wrong. I did a U-turn then shamelessly stopped at the hotel on the junction and asked after the hostel. They didn't really know, but there was maybe one down the dirt road. This one? Yes. OK, I'll try again.

Emboldened, I rode back down, eliciting a lot of interest from the inhabitants who I was now passing for the third time. About 100 yards further down than my u-turn point I saw a grand whitewashed building built 3 sides into the bay, and a discete sign. Hostel del Mar. Great.

Cold, wet and tired, and glad to be at my destination I looked for a way in. There was a grill gate with an open door behind. No buzzer, knocker or door bell in sight, so I called out 'Hola'. Nothing. I tried again, nothing. Mmm. I looked at the sign. Yes, this was at least A hostel, so I peered through the grill and this time saw someone with their back to me in the very front of the building, perhaps 75 feet away in a room on the other side of a long corridor that led to the grill. I called again. No response, so I ratchted it up louder and louder, till I was hollering, or rather 'Hola-ing' as loud as I could.

Suddenly I saw a lady in her 60's appear at the far end of the corrider. She looked at me strangely, and I explained that if this was a hostel, could I come in and have a bed for the night if available. She cautiously approached, and yes it was the right hostel, and yes they had a bed. Nice.

With this, she let me in, just as she was joined by a young man, who also greeted me cautiously.

She started to book me in then froze when she saw my passport photo page, and urgently conferred with the young man, and a second, middle aged man who had just turned up from the depths of the hostel.

Was my name Matthew? Er, yes.

Was I American? Er, short-answer, yes.

These answers seemed to cause pandermonium. The lady looked scared and gabbled something to her colleuges, who looked me over warily.

Had I ever stayed here before, especially recently?

Er, no, I have been on the road coming down from San Diego, pretty much a different town every night and this was my first time in Golfito ....

The tension in her face sloughed away, she smiled and shook my hand and welcomed me to the hostel.

What was THAT all about I asked.

She answered: she was the owner's mother, and had been left in charge whilst her daughter and son-in-law went away for the weekend. They had warned her not to allow a drugged up previous guest access to the hostel.

Matthew, the bad American man, you guessed it!

Tarantulas

yoshic — Wed, 10 Jun 2015 12:22:00 GMT

So there I was, riding down a jungle road outside of Chachopoyas in North Peru at about 8.30 am. It's cold but sunny, and the road is right on the bank of a brown, swollen river, which is raging on.

I am thinking about the long day of small mountain roads ahead.

Whoa. There's a tarantula in the middle of the road!

No one around, u-turn and park up.

Approach the T, feeling confident as I 'know' they aren't poisonous, and anyway I still have my gloves and helmet etc on ...

Crouch down to look. Cool, she is big, about the size of my gloved palm. Jet black and hairy. Not pleased with my attentions, she rears onto hind legs and looks mean.

So I try and pick her up.

She jumps at my hand, and on reflex I pull back and stand up, but there is now no tarantula to be seen on the road!

I freak out, windmilling 2 full circles and jumping up and down in case she is on me. Where else could she be?

I look down, and there she is, black spider on the upper left arm of my black jacket, looking at me just 12 short inches from my face ...

Jeerraaawww! Get off! I flick her off and onto the grass a few feet away, where she crouches, ready for the next round.

Not me, I am so freaked out. Besides, I can't hang around here too long I have a date with a 100 mile mountain road which unbeknownst to me is going to finish what Ms Tarantula started: scaring the wits out of me!

Once, Twice, Three times a Scaredee.

yoshic — Wed, 10 Jun 2015 09:03:00 GMT

First, aged 25 - Standing 100 metres above a canyon in New Zealand, willing myself to throw myself off and trust the attached bungie line.

Second, aged 27 - Stepping out of the open door of a small Cessna propeller plane and onto a 6 inch square plate over the landing gear, located 3 feet from the doorway, oh, and 5,000 feet above Hong Kong, getting into position to do my first parachute jump.

And now, Third, aged 46 - Riding a motorcycle from the tiny North Peruvian Andes town of Leymebamba to Celadin.

Today's ride was without doubt the longest scariest one I have ever done. The day started for me at my Hostel to the North about 50 miles, in the beautiful Andes town of Chachapoya (7,000 feet ish), where staff told me that it would take 12 hours for me to do the 220 miles I had planned today. What? No, that can't be right? They stuck to 12 hours! So, at 8 am I headed out ....

The first 50 miles or so were curvaceous jungle roads following a swollen river, and I managed to keep to about a 35 mph average on its twists and turns, rock falls, stream crossings and a tarantula sighting that I just had to investigate ... Then I hit the small town of Leymebamba, which was perched on the side of a mountain at around 7,000 feet or so, and the road wound out of the top of the town ... and shrunk from what had been a narrow road to start with at just under 2 lanes wide, to a miniscule 8 feet or so wide. It was still paved, but the mountains take a toll on these roads so it had the usual loose gravel strewn strategically near the corners, parts of the road that had collapsed into the void, and newly patched potholes with the 'Peruvian traffic cone' - a large rock, usually at least mellon size.

Things started out fine until the road climbed up and onwards, passing 11,000 feet, into the clouds, then dropping back down again - all whilst hugging the cliff edges with maximum efficiency. Clockwise or Anticlockwise became my concern, for a clockwise following of the mountain meant I was hugging the mountainside, whereas anticlockwise meant looking down into the chasms - the deepest being 1,000s of feet shear drops.

After the first few miles I thought I had found a rhythm, of spotting where the loose gravel was, the slick rocks, the tightening radius turns. But then I had a series of close calls on said gravel and turns, and realised that even at a sedate 10 -15 mph the turns were still difficult, and not helped at all by my now-reflex glances to just a few feet to one side to see what awaited my next mistake.

As I got into my 2nd hour, 3rd; I started to force myself not to look away from my chosen line - "look where you want to go, not at what you don't want to hit ... cos you'll hit it" being a line I'd been told repeatedly during a season of novice motorcycle racing, and also for parachute landings. I was finding it hard to ignore the Andean Guerilla in the room though, as I'm sure you can sympathise. Yet still the road went on thru the Andes, with no towns in sight, but also thankfully only a few buses(!) and 1 large truck(!!) coming the other way. On each of those occassions I was able to see them long before we met, and to locate a preciously sparce piece of road where we could squeeze past eachother. I cannot bring myself to think how a small car would fare in my position, let alone a larger vehicle, as there were no lay-bys at all. None.

At around hour 4 I became convinced of my mortality, and stopped on the road, and there, alone, recorded my 'love yous' to my family on my phone, then pushed on, now talking to, berating, cajoling and calming myself as I slipped on gravel here, strayed too close to the edge on a bad turn there, and sought to instill a zen like calm on my sub conscious - which by now was curled up in the foetal position in a dark recess of my mind, rocking itself and sucking its thumb. With its eyes closed.

At the end of the fifth hour I reached the end of this road, at the town of Celadin, and have never been so happy to see a yellow centre divide line! Now it was just 2 more hours of riding on regular super twisty mountain roads, but hey, now there was even the odd barrier on the edge to compliment the luxurious 2 lanes, and 20 odd foot wide carraigeway. Not that I appreciated it to my usual degree: I was a shell of a motorcyclist, a husk, temporarily emptied of the joys of biking - until tomorrow of course!

Oh, how long did it end up taking, I hear you ask - 8 hours ....

Navigating Latin America

yoshic — Sun, 31 May 2015 11:27:00 GMT

My gps has decided that I am finally man enough to find my way around a Latin American country without its help. The country? Equador, my 9th.

Up until now, my navigating has been via a Garmin GPS, a paper map, an amazing off-line App called Maps.Me that I was told about in a chance meeting with some Dutch motorcyclists, and a holistic approach, which I will go into shortly.

The GPS has basically been the backbone of my trip, as it has allowed me to venture far away from main routes with the safety net of at least knowing where I am 'lost'! It has its failings though, and the main one is cities. Basically it is unaware that EVERY Latin America city is a grid of one-way streets, and it happily advises me to turn into streets I can't, or to do left turns across mult-lane carriageway that you cannot - for miles! Initially this really frustrated me, but now I just settle into the maze and guess which one-way streets will take me the right way. Sometimes (Panama City) I have spent upwards of 30 frustrated minutes orbiting the destination icon on the gps looking for the right combination of one-way streets. On that occasion after being sucked onto a Toll road and being advised to do a u - turn across 16 lanes (8 each way! Which I did!!) I ended up just going down a one-way the wrong way, and then resorting to riding on the pavement to get to my hostel.

One of the other big challenges I have faced, especially in Central America, is that main roads arrive at a town or city and then, like a river into a marsh, just loses its defination and turns into a morass of tiny streets - mostly one-way of course. More often than not, after a confusing and long, slow, hot crossing of this urban maze the main road will turn up several streets parallel to the street where it came in!?

This brings me to my holistic navigation. Basically I try and guess what vehicles are transiting through like myself and I tag on behind. More often, now I will try and string a few of these together, so I don't have to sit in traffic. Sometimes it works ...

If all else fails, random people appear out of nowhere and help if I pull over, or some times even if I am just riding along slowly, shaking my head - like in a small town in Nicaragua where a guy on a motorcycle spotted me, rightly assumed I was lost, did a u - turn then rode next to me and beckoned to follow, then led me to the main road several turns and blocks away.

So what's the deal with GPS in Equador? Of all of South America it has decided not to show anything but the main roads of Equador for some reason, and often it will not even acknowledge that I am even on those, placing me miles away on a blank backdrop.

Luckily for me, Equador not only believes in road signs (unlike it's brothers to the North) but also the roads tend to skirt the major towns too.

So am I ready? Maybe. It'll be fun either way.

Photos: South America

yoshic — Sat, 30 May 2015 01:56:00 GMT

My best ride ever! Their local commute!!

yoshic — Fri, 29 May 2015 22:54:00 GMT

The roads in Colombia are a motorcyclists heaven, with every type you could possibly imagine from fast sweeping mountain roads, to tight serpentine unpaved roads picking their way through drop dead gorgeous scenery.

Yesterday I decided to find a fun road, so picked the faintest line on the map to a city 140 miles away to the West, with a hostel and went for it.

Within a few miles I was having problems keeping to the route as my paper map is too vague, and my gps seemed to be having accuracy issues - often placing me a mile or so from the road I was even on. This turned out to be a theme for the day, with many u - turns and even 1 double-u - turn after the gps suddenly changed its mind. And those double u - turns are embarrassing, when you were gawped at the first time you rode by!

After about 50 miles of mostly paved roads I got to the very small town of La Plata in South Colombia, and from there things got super fun, and super hairy, as the paved road ran out.

For the next 100 miles (!) the road alternated between the worst rock strewn road I'd ridden on outside of Baja, or to what I imagine the Ho Chi Min trail looked like after it had been carpet bombed (pot holes galore, going on forever, and spaced so that if you were lucky you could at least miss 2/3 of them if you kept to 15 - 20 mph.) Oh, and it was raining on and off all day too. Oh, and 1 river crossing cos the bridge was being rebuilt - luckily it was only 18 inches deep or so, and only about 100 feet wide ....

Even on a light bike like mine it was exquisite torture, like being inside a paint shaking machine, but with the most amazing views imaginable. Today I went from lush impossibly green fields, to cloud capped jungle mountains with 50 - 300 foot waterfalls and raging rivers in the valley far far below, to spooky cloud forests, green with moss and enveloped in drifting white.

All this at the agonizingly slow pace of 15 mph, upto 25 mph rarely. The drop offs were daunting multi hundred feet straight plunges into the valley below, and in many places the road had even collapsed upto a few feet in - so that pot hole rapidly approaching on the right verge where I am riding turns out to be a sink hole! Terrified. Understatement.

Just that 100 mile section took over 5 long, non-stop hours, and when it finally spat me out onto yet another section of the best paved mountain roads you have ever seen, I still had a few hours before I got to that night's hostel. A 9 hour day, with only a banana and 1/2 Gatorade for breakfast .... and I still rolled upto the hostel just before dusk.

Oh, and these amazing dirt roads - on nearly every section, no matter how beaten up or remote, I saw school children in uniform walking home from school, couples on motorcycles and even the occasional bus and truck.

A very humbling, earthing experience. To understand that our own adventures can be taking place in the normal everyday world of others.