I expected to wake up with my heart in my throat out of sheer anticipation. Rather, my eyes opened and I was strangely calm. I took a quick and cold shower, turned in my key and went out to repack the bike. After weeks of repetition my muscles can do all of this without my brain intervening. This left me free to contemplate what was about to happen. Today I would attain my goal. Today I would see the Panama Canal. Why was I so calm?

It would be a fairly short ride, only 150 miles or so, but there was still plenty of time to get giddy. I was not rushed at all, which was fortunate because the entire state police force was out patrolling the Pan American. I halfway suspected that those two Keystone Cops from yesterday had put the Panamanian version of an APB out on me. At any time I was going to be corralled by motorcycle cops, forced off the roads and thrown into jail. Every few kilometers I saw one sitting under a tree or hiding behind a bush, just waiting to pounce. And then one of them waved. This was not a "Come here and let me stomp on your throat!" sort of wave, rather a "Hey you crazy gringo on a bike, Good luck!" sort of wave. I was quick to politely wave back, and my mind was put at ease. We were back in the friendly cop zone.

The rest of the ride went without incident, as well as without many thoughts in my head. I was completely serene. I expected, actually I wanted a flood of emotions, a gushing forth of every feeling I had experienced in the last 35 days, the last 4,000 miles, to overcome me. But nothing happened.

The frequency of billboards and streetsigns began to increase so I knew that I was getting close. The road curled up a hillside and I knew that I would soon be greeted with the sight of the Americas Bridge, a gorgeous steel strucure spanning the mouth of the canal. And then there it was. I slowed and got in the righthand lane. I looked back and forth, I smelled the air, I tried to record every instant of this experience. Are you getting this, ted? This is real! You are actually here!

To the left the canal snaked off to the horizon, to the right there were dozens of ships of all sizes staging to enter the canal. The bridge crossing only lasted a minute or so, but I can reply it in its entirety in my head, beginning to end, complete with all of the sounds and smells. And still, no emotion.

I was then thrust into the mayhem of Panama City. Thankfully, it was a Sunday, so traffic was fairly light. It wasn't even noon, so all I wanted to do was find the only hostel in town so that I could make it my homebase for operations. I wish someone could have told me that the only hostel in town had shut down sometime in the last 6 months, because I ran around frantically for over an hour telling myself I wasn't crazy when something I knew should be there actually wasn't. Also, by this time I was really regretting the coke I had for breakfast in addition to the liter of water I had drank in route. The peepee dance on the back of a motorcycle has got to look pretty comical.

I quickly navigated to my second choice, a hotel in a converted house with $10 dorm beds, paid my dues and was free to relieve my frustrations. I cleaned up a bit, started a load of laundry and went out to find some lunch. I was smirking to think that this was Panama. And here I was.

I had finally made it.

The town of Golfito sounded promising, an ex-banana exporting hub in a little bay off of the Pacific. I could definitely use a half day of riding, especially for the last big push to Panama City. Thanks to Costa Rica's benevolent signs, I didn't miss the small turnoff onto the dirt road to Golfito.

I should have known something was amiss when the dirt turned to mud. I was surrounded by rainforest and at one point a monkey ran right in front of me. Definitely something you don't see everyday. The 4 miles to Golfito were going to be interesting on a rear street tire. The handlebars were mushy and the rear end was squishing and sliding all over the place. I just knew that I was going to be digging the XR out of some puddle after I lost control. But slowly I made distance on the mucky terrain. With the XR dirtier than ever I pulled into the town square, much to the locals bewilderment.

After 5 minutes of looking around I knew that I didn't want to stay the night. It was only noon and I needed the rest, but it was not a town where much relaxing could take place. A selection of shabby hotels in proximity to a boisterous market were not enticing. I figured I would at least go check out the border to see how long it might take. Afterall, I did have half a day left.

Even though I was the only one in line at any given time, it still took 2 hours to get through to Panama. The fellow who had the task of typing up my bike permiso must have been obsessive compulsive dyslexic. Methodically he would hit the delete key exactly 3 times after each typo. 2 steps forward, 3 steps back. Frequently, truckers, who obviously pass through there every week and knew the typist, would cut in line to throw their paperwork at the guy, further throwing him off track. I really expected to get halted later on at a checkpoint because of some mistake this guy made while he was constantly being distracted.

After getting the bike fumigated, I was in my last country and accelerating onto a most beatiful stretch of highway. Divided and two lanes, no potholes anywhere. I would be able to make good time on this. I road straight until dusk, and that's when I had my first encounter with corrupt police.

I saw a sign at the bottom of a hill that said to slow down and then I saw a tiny sign that said 40kph. Towards the top of the hill, just before the checkpoint, I noticed another tiny sign, hidden to the side, that stated 20kph as the maximum. The young cop asked for my passport and then began to ask the standard questions. I figured all the formalities were over when he asked about my speedometer. Just like all the other cops I thought he was just being friendly by asking about the bike. He wanted to know my speed when I arrived so I showed him how the thing computed my average speed from the border. I should have known things were amiss when he wanted to know my exact speed up the hill. I tried to explain that it didn't save every speed, but I was very clear to tell him that I was going 40kph up the hill. The correct answer was 20kph. He then told me to turn off the bike, get off and follow him. I tried to ask him what was going on but he was silent until we got inside the little police shack. Once there, the young cop and his older boss went off on me. I didn't understand every word but I caught the words "velocidad", "ticket" and "multa". Apparently I was getting a speeding ticket. No proof, no radar, just my botched attempt at being friendly showed my guilt. I tried to protest, really just to make sure I understood what was going on exactly, but to no avail.

The young cop took me around back and showed me his cute little traffic regulation book. The fine was $60. Fine, where do I pay? He promplty jumped my case about mentioning the word "pay" outloud. Never ever do that. The next 20 minutes were spent with him going back and forth between me and his boss trying to perfect their machination. He had the ticket in his hand while he tried to lecture me. I tried to be as attentive as possible, but really all I wanted was to sign the damn thing and get out of there. It was almost dark and I still had 45 minutes to go to Santiago. During his next excursion inside, another victim started to talk to me saying that all they want was money. Of course I knew that. I wasn't worried about the $60, I was surprised I got this far without being ripped off. In a louder than usual voice so that the cops might overhear I explained to the friendly victim how I had no problem with the ticket, I just wanted to get to Santiago because it's very dangerous to ride at night. I also threw in how I always drove carefully and always obeyed any signs. The young cop promplty came out, dismissed the other guy and then showed me the back of the ticket. After a a few repetitions this is what I gathered he was saying:

"We have your passport number here on the ticket (it was still blank) so you can't leave Panama without paying. You can pay at the border, in Davìd, or here." To which I curtly replied, "Fine, I'll pay at the border." I looked around and saw no computer or phone. I figured the chances of them finding a way to forward my passport number to the border were slim to none, so I was willing to gamble. He then went on to try and tell me how the fine would be cheaper if I just payed here. Ah, I understand! But the problem is I only have my credit card and some colònes from Costa Rica. I can't pay until I find an ATM.

By then the stars were coming out and the young cop had the frustrated expression that showed he was sick of dealing with someone who only spoke half a language. If I made him repeat himself one more time I think he might have screamed. I really understood almost everything he was saying, I was just playing dumb for fun. If they're going to waste my time, I can do the same. With an utter look of disgust he thrust my papers back towards me and then got up and left. I dared not say another word. I slowly got up and walked back towards the highway and the patiently waiting XR. I really expected them both to come running after me, but it must have been time to close up shop because I made it all the way unscathed. I slipped away into the darkness scott-free, laughing the whole way down the hill. I truly lead a charmed life.

I fully expect them to be waiting for me when I return. I'm going to do my best to find a way around that checkpoint but that might be difficult without a map. I might still have to pay afterall. But for the time being, come night's end I was only 150 miles away from the Canal and there was nothing in the way that was going to stop me.

Tomorrow will be the culmination of 6 months of dreaming, planning, prepping. Tomorrow will be the zenith of 5 weeks of hardcore riding. Tomorrow I will see the Panama Canal!

The Nicaraguan/Costa Rican border was much like the one to the north from Honduras. I was quickly surrounded by the local youth, all of which wanted to serve as my guide through the border zone. I knew I could figure it all out on my own, just like I had several times before, but this time I was torn as to what to do. Should I save some money by brushing of the riff-raff, or should I donate some of my dollars to some kids who at least try to earn a living. It didn't matter because within 10 footsteps of leaving the XR, one of the eldest kids had attached himself to my side and wouldn't take no for an answer. One of the youngest and dirtiest kids offered to wash my bike and I couldn't help but laugh, as did the other kids. Everyone knew it was a joke and a veiled attempt to get a handout, so I handed him a few coins for the laugh. I was really just happy to be leaving Nicaragua for the time being and didn't really care if it cost me a few extra dollars.

After getting all the stamps in the right places I was free to leave the border and explore Costa Rica. I took a deep breath and noticed the countryside. It was a good feeling to be in a country without an army. The houses lining the highway looked well kept and the road surface was mercifully devoid of potholes. The first 3 checkpoints were manned by smiling policemen who just glance at my passport then waved me on. Costa Rica was a welcome change from Nicaragua so far.

My path led me straight to San Josè, yet another bustling capital city. For the first time in Central America I saw clear signs of how to proceed. You would expect that the most travelled and major highway would cut straight through most cities, but that is rarely the case. Each time I saw a sign telling me to turn the roadway got narrower and narrower and the buildings got closer and closer. At times the highway was nothing more than a residential street. I really wanted to ignore several signs and turn onto onramps that obviously led to major arteries, but I stayed my course and did what I was told. Because I was now an expert at darting between slow and standing cars, it didn't take long to put San Josè behind me. I couldn't imagine dealing with that traffic in a car.

I was actually on the right highway and heading in the right direction. Viva Costa Rica! I had a few hours until sunset so I pushed on. I would try to make San Isidro de General by nightfall. Now, if I had done my research I would have learned that the Pan American out of San Josè takes you into the highest mountain range in Costa Rica. Within 20 minutes I climbed into the clouds and the road turned wet and slippery. Within 40 minutes I was shivering uncontrollably and cursing Costa Rica. Remarkably I had the good fortune to pack winter riding gear. With a little foresight, something I'm not usually known for, I realized that I would be returning to a cold and blustery Texas in mid January. I had no idea I would need that gear in Costa Rica.

Armed against the frigid air with my jacket liner, rain gear, and grip heaters I continued on. Sometimes the clouds were so thick I could barely see 30 feet in front of me. I slowed accordingly but it was still a rush coming up on a line of cars crawling behind a laboring 18 wheeler, or taking turns going one by one over a partially cleared landslide. In these cases I would glide over to the center line and cautiously, but efficiently, pass the whole delay. If I could have seen through the moisture I might have seen the Cerro de la Muerte (Mountain of Death) towering overhead at over 10,000 feet.

The road finally began its decent and I could tell through the fog that daylight was short. My view of the road through the visor was now obscured by countless water droplets instead of the usual film of bugs. My eyelids would undoubtedly make better wipers than my soaked glove so I raised up the sheild to let my face take the brunt of the weather. Almost instantaneously, I had bugs squirming around in each ear. I now know what it's like to go completely mad. It was far too dangerous to stop my invisible bike on that steep and twisting slip-and-slide, so I tried to stay sane by pounding the sides of my helmet and shouting at the top of my lungs. I was absolutely miserable. Everytime I got stuck behind a slow truck it may as well have been an eternity. The only thing that made me smile was a small box truck with a death wish. On a completely blind curve he came barrelling past me in a desperate attempt to get passed the rolling roadblock in front of me. He dipped his left wheels off of the asphalt in the oncoming lane and as he overcompensated to get back on the top of his truck slammed into the 18 wheeler's trailer, throwing a few sparks and creating a sizable gash in the metal. They merely honked at each other as the truck somehow maintained control all the way around, as if this kind of conduct were par for the course. I didn't pass another truck all the way down into town.

The clouds eventually thinned and I finally arrived in San Isidro. A bit of good fortune put me right in front of a decent hotel with an ok restaurant next door. An hour later, after a fine meal of carne asada, my mood improved a little. It seems every day is getting harder and harder to stay optimistic. But thankfully, I usually go to sleep looking forward to the next day. I only have to reflect a bit on all that I've survived and endured to get this far and the next day doesn't seem as formidable.

I would really love to go a whole day without getting lost in Central America. I figured after my 2 hour tour of Leòn last night that I would have the layout of the town sufficiently memorized. Not so. I managed to waste another hour this morning just trying to get out. The Pan American highway can be well disguised when it enters a city.

I wasn't particularly enjoying Nicaragua so far, so I decided to try and get as close to the Costa Rican border as possible. If I could make the coastal town of San Juan del Sur it would only be a quick jaunt to the frontera in the morning. But in my way stood Managua. As if Leòn wasn't bad enough, the capital city was home to many different highways leading in all directions, and none of them with large blinking signs telling me which way to turn.

The Pan American branched off in several places, each time I stuck to my southerly heading. I actually presumed I was heading in the right direction until a fellow motorcyclist struck up a conversation at a stoplight. Since I had become accustomed to lane splitting it was common for me and several other riders to arrive simultaneously at the front of traffic, where I would usually garner many looks of wonderment. This friendly rider began with the usual questions and I discovered my mistake when I told him I was trying to get to the frontera. He quizzed me as to why I was going that way to which I proudly replied that I was going to Costa Rica. Duh! He then stated matter of factly that I was now heading back north to Matagalpa and the Pan American lay behind me by a few kilimeters. Now luckily, motorcycle helmets do a remarkable job of protecting your brains but they also excel at hiding emotions, like chagrin and embarrassment. He gave me explicit directions, of which I probably understood maybe half, and then I made an about face to find the right way. A few more wrong turns later as well a few instances of blind luck and I was back on track.

The town of San Juan del Sur is described as a surfer's hangout set in a lovely cove on the Pacific. It is definitely in a cove on the Pacific, but I don't know how anyone surfs there because the bay is chock full of moored boats, not to mention the surf is all of about 6 inches. And yet, there where surfers everywhere.

That night I went over to Ricardo's bar for dinner and a beer. It happened to be movie night and they were showing "The Doors" on a 10 foot projection screen. During the quiet parts of the movie you could hear the quiet restlessness of the ocean in the background. The place was full of expats and locals, and most everyone had dreadlocks. On either side of me there were inquisitive folk who wanted to know all about the gringo on the motorbike. I obliged them as best I could, but I was exhausted and I really just wanted to be left alone to watch the movie in peace.

I found it interesting that the guys on my left and my right were both native Nicaraguans and Spanish speakers, but when the guy on my right spoke he might as well have been gargling peanut butter for all I understood. He kept using words that I knew, but the way he jumbled them into sentences approached nothing I recognized as a coherent sentence. The guy on my left spoke at great lengths and I probably walked away with about 95% comprehension. Thus, the guy on my right was incredibly annoying so I turned my back to him.

Tomorrow I would be out of Nicaragua.

For the first time in a long time I heard my watch alarm go off at 6:15am. That meant I could actually get the early start that I always intend to and make Leòn, Nicaragua by mid-afternoon. Navigating would be straightforward today. Just follow the nice highway south to Tegucigalpa and then onto the border crossing at Los Manos. Then a few turns once inside Nicaragua and I should be back near the Pacific. Should be a long, but relatively easy 275 miles.

The highway lead me over and through several series of mountains and valleys. The temperature swings were wild. I brought appropriate apparal and riding gear for both extremes, but not both at the same time. I went from teeth chattering mountain passes down to sweltering straightaways in between. I'm pretty sure that's an effective way to spoil meat--freeze it, thaw it, repeat.

Aside from the weather I had several chances to play chicken. I never really understood the attraction of hurtling head on at another vehicle and I have no idea why so many Central American drivers try it with me. Sure, I can understand why they would want to pass that lumbering 18 wheeler moving at 5mph, but do you have to force me off the road by taking up my whole lane? Pitting a motorcycle against any other vehicle is akin to David & Goliath, all I have is my wits and a great deal more manueverability. Time and time again, when I would see an oncoming car swing out from behind a truck to make a pass, I would hear that stupid "I need a hero" song from Footloose in my head from that tractor scene. I would try to hold my line as long as I dared but there's no way I'm going to become a hood ornament in Honduras.

I was at the border right at noon. From everything I've read Nicaragua suffers from staggering poverty. Something like 70% of its population lives below the poverty line and I think only Haiti ecxeeds that stat. This was readily apparent the second I hopped of the bike. I was hounded by beggars and grungy homeless kids all with their hands out. I wish I could have done something to improve their state of life, but handing out money for nothing is not the answer. That's like using a bandaid to cure cancer. And not that it's an excuse, but by the time I was finished paying for all of my paperwork I only had the equivalent of 50¢ left. Oops. A bit of bad planning there. I had about 120 miles left in my gas tank to find an ATM.

For such a poor country, Nicaragua sure had nice roads. The Pan American south from the Honduran border is brand new blacktop and it seems to be lightly travelled. I tried to keep my nervousness at bay as the miles clicked by. Running out of gas in Nicaragua without any money was not a challenge I was looking for. I set a fairly consevative pace to Estreli to try and conserve fuel and once in the town I hoped to come into some cash. I probably wasted about an hour trying to locate an ATM, I had to go to 3 different banks and a gas station before I zeroed in on one that would work. Much to my relief I now had a wallet full of córdobas and soonafter, a tank full of gas.

Just south of San Isidro I looked for the road to the east that would take me to Leòn. To my pleasant surprise it was well marked and easy to find. However, here I have to retract my previous statement about Nicaragua's nice roads. This road was infested with crater-sized potholes, some of which had been repaired with piles of dirt that were meant to be crushed into place by passing vehicles. The combination of the ups of the dirt and the downs of the holes nearly sent the XR and I airborne more than once. Once I became accustomed to how the sun, now directly ahead, was working to hide the pitfalls I was able to slice a (mostly) clean path through the obstacle course. It was easy for me because I only had one set of wheels to worry about. Cars and trucks on the other hand, appeared to be terrified of dipping their tires into a pothole, as evidenced by their erratic and unpredictable swerving. Once, as I passed a chicken bus it came careening at me from the far right. Hard on the brakes, I dove to the outside and skirted around it skillfully. I wouldn't have minded so much but I got stopped at a police checkpoint no less than a mile later. As I'm dealing with the cops the chicken bus came trolling past blaring its horn at me. I halfway wanted the driver to stop and get out so I could practice my berating in Spanish. However he just leered at me through his window, grinning because he no doubt thought I was busted. But like usual, after all the formalities the Nicaraguan cops began to quiz me on the bike and my trip, and I left them smiling graciously after shaking hands. I flew past that bus 2 minutes later skimming over the tops of the potholes at about 80. It's so hard not to take stuff personal down here sometimes.

That festering road finally ended at the smooth highway down to Leòn. The city didn't seem that large so I figured I could find my hotel quickly and be out on the streets by 4pm. Fast forward to 5:30, the sun setting, and a very frustrated Ted. My Lonely Planet says that Leòn is a rarety in Nicaragua because its streets are all clearly marked. I probably ended up going the wrong way down unmarked streets a half dozen times, only to be honked at, or waved at, or stopped by a cop in order to get me to turn around. I can tell you, there was no rhyme or reason to the layout, and two way streets could become one way, the wrong way, without warning. By sheer luck I made what I thought was a wrong turn and came face to face with the hotel sign. Drenched from head to toe in sweat, I gladly payed my $3 for the room and, for once, enjoyed a cold shower.

I had thoughts of trying to stay in Leòn for more than half a day to get a better feel for Nicaragua, but I think I'm going to rush on down to Costa Rica instead.

It seems that Honduran highways try to make it as inconvenient as possible for me to reach my destination. I would have to take a zigzag path across several different roads in order to make my way south. Once I got back on the Pan American though it would be smooth sailing all the way into Nicaragua. Accomplishing this, however, would prove to be very tedious without a map.

The first leg of my trip lead northeast to the town of La Entrada. Straightforward and easy enough. I then turned south to head towards Santa Rosa de Copan and a dogleg to the east. After that town I should start looking for Gracias and then La Esperanza for the next turn back to the northeast.

The road rose sharply into the mountains. Breathtaking vistas of pine forrests slowly being covered and then revealed by dark and ominous clouds. A slight drizzle turned into a steady downpour and the air turned crisp and chilly. I didn't think it was possible to be cold in Honduras but it was frigid even at my diminshing pace. The curving and climbing roadway was riddled with potholes, sometimes so numerous that it was smoother to ride slightly off the pavement. I finally crested the mountain pass and I had steadily built up my defenses to the highway's attacks on the trueness of my wheels. The way down into the welcoming thick and warmer atmosphere below was fraught with more attacks from stubborn 18 wheelers that felt my lane was free for the taking. I safely negotiated my passage through the battlefield and was soon greeted with a few miles of straightaway.

Straightaway to the El Salvador border. What the deuce? This border shouldn't be here! This should be the town of Gracias. Crap, where's my map. Oh yeah...

Great. It was now after noon and I had just gone 100km in the completely wrong direction. I knew I should have taken that left at Santa Rosa de Copàn. I had half a mind to just go ahead and cross into El Salvador and make my way to San Salvador where I knew the other leg of the Pan American highway lived. Then I remembered that I would have to cancel my bike permiso only to have to pay for it again in an hour when the Pan Am dumped out into southern Honduras. I had no choice but to turn back towards the mine field and pray that I could dodge every pothole while parrying with careless trucks. Well, why not?

By mid afternoon I was back in Santa Rosa de Copàn frantically searching for that left turn. Not one sign anywhere. By sheer luck I happened to see a car turn down what I had presumed was an alley. I glanced up into the surrounding mountains to see that it continued at least as far as I could see. That had to be the other highway. Perfect, just what I wanted. Another secondary road. I knew exactly where this day was going.

The dirt surprisingly turned to luscious concrete just out of town and I relished in the thought that I just might make some distance yet. And then I rounded the next bend and saw a police checkpoint. Up until now, every other checkpoint I had seen in Honduras had been manned, but the guards would not so much as glance up from their newspapers as I slowly crept past. This one had four eager cops in the middle of the highway, all of them staring at the fresh meat coming their way, all of them motioning for me to stop and get off the bike. Now, I have been in Honduras before and I happened to have had a bad experience with a Honduran cop on that occasion. I knew for a fact that Honduran police were the most likely to be corrupt out of any of the Central American countries, so I began to prepare myself for how much this was going to cost.

They closely inspected my passport, bike permiso, and even my driver's license looking for some discrepency. After several tense minutes they were satisfied that everything was in order and the still air was soon alive with some friendly small talk. They fired off the usual questions to which I had my standard memorized responses. ¿De donde vienes? De Tejas ¿Y donde vas? A Panama! ¿Por cuanto tiempo hiciste aqui? Hace como un mez. The head cop was smiling as he began to tell me all about the town of Gracias. He mentioned a restaurant that had good food and the owner supposedly had a lot of information for foreign travellers. He also mentioned that the road turned to dirt because of some construction. We shook hands and I was relieved to be back underway. It is simply amazing how friendly and helpful everyone has been on this journey. Simply amazing.

Sure enough, the road turned to dirt just outside of Gracias. I never found the restaurant he mentioned but I really didn´t have time to stop. The sun would disappear in about an hour and a half by my estimation. It would be all I could do to make La Esperansa by dark. Yep, I knew precisely how this day was going to end.

I kept expecting the construction zone to end so that I could kiss my beloved pavement hello again. That never happened. The winding dirt road became progressively bumpier and narrower forcing me to stand up on the pegs and shift the XR down into first. It was slow going indeed at 20mph. I have definitely been questioning my judgment recently, but now I was questioning if I was, in fact, on the right road. Of course, there wouldn't be any roadsigns. Wouldn't matter if there was, I didn't have a map to check them against.

Well, this road went somewhere. Wherever it ended up would be just fine with me, as long as there was a hotel and someone who could point me in the right direction in the morning. Occasionally the road would smooth out for a bit and I could briskly shift into second and make up some time. This would only be followed by a section so rough that spine and kidneys would howl in protest. The XR's suspension was getting quite the work out as it was forced to tackle obstacle after obstacle. It might have been bumpier if a truckload of bowling balls was spilled right in front of me.

I finally came to a town whose name I didn't recognize nor could I pronounce. It was a dusty little place and looked suitable, but the sun was just now dipping behind the mountains and I still had about an hour to press on. I really wanted to find La Esperanza because that's where the next turn was to get me to the Pan American. But if I didn't find it in a half hour I would reluctantly turn around to stay the night in that small town, just so I wouldn't have to go through what I knew was waiting for me if I road at night.

Just when I thought my bones were going to give up and rattle apart at the joints, the bumps smoothed out and I saw cool hard pavement smiling back at me through some bare spots in the dirt. The road gradually widened and I soon found myself on a two lane highway complete with shoulders. I can't remember the last time I saw shoulders. Now I really didn't care where the road went. Anywhere that this delicious asphalt carried me had to be heaven on earth. And what's this? Little signs on the side that count down the kilometers? Unpossible! I didn't know where I was going, but I was going to be there in 37 kilometers. 36. 35. 34.....

I pulled into the town of Siguatepeque, where my new favorite highway deadends into the Pan American, just as twilight turned to darkness. I don't know how I did it, but I managed to ride straight through La Esperanza without even flinching. It had to be that dusty little town with the unpronouncable name. But I can pronounce La Esperanza. Maybe they had one of those James Bond rotating signs to keep out the gringos. Now I didn't care for I was on the cusp of the Pan American highway and in a hotel room by nightfall. That's completely uncharacteristic for how things should have gone today.

I don't feel guilty at all for eating dinner at the first Wendy's I've seen in a month. It was fantastic. I was famished and my sole needed a little American nourishment.

It's going to take an army of bulldozers to get me off the Pan American for a long while.

I had a fitful night of sleep last night, perhaps because my tense muscles would never allow me to relax. Regardless, I got out of bed early happy to be leaving Guatemala for an exciting destination, even if it was a little touristy. I could play the part of a tourist for the day, complete with expensive camera dangling from the neck advertising to all to come rob me.

I stopped on the outskirts of Chiquimuli to get gas and double check the directions I had in my head. Since my map had gone missing I would have to rely on the locals even more to make sure I stay on the right highway and never ever take another secondary road.

Within 15 minutes of leaving Quetzaltenango, I knew it was going to be slow going. My goal for the day was to make it through Guatemala City and on to Chiquemuli near the Honduran border. From there it would be a short ride across to the ruins of Copàn, and a much needed day of relaxation.

The Pan American Highway, or CA-1, through Guatemala is carved out of very steep mountain sides. The combination of occasional heavy rainfall and constant groundwater seepage tends to wash the foundation out from under the roadway in unpredictable spots. This is the cause behind disastrous landslides that devour titanic chunks of roadway. Long before any part of my body had a chance to get tired or go numb I encountered my first roadblock. Some 100 meters of highway was missing and an industrious Guatemalan workforce had quickly filled in the void with soil and gravel to the point that traffic could continue, albeit 1 lane at a time. So, as I awaited my turn I took note of the Guatemalan tendency to capitilize on misfortune. Dozens of young salesmen came out of makeshift stands and the nearby jungle to peddle their wares. I had the opportunity to purchase Coke, water, fruit drinks, chickle, almonds, weavings, carvings, and even porn. Unabashed, they went up to every car and chicken bus behind me, sometimes surrounding the vehicles, pressuring the occupants to purchase their unneeded goods. It was a long 5 minutes of repeated naysaying for me, until the flagman finally waved me on. I was understandably a little more cautious as I rode today. I knew I was right to do so when I came upon the next washout. This particular landslide had taken out an iceberg size chunk of the mountain and the inpromptu road was placed in a long arc around the dugout. If you came over the crest of the hill fast enough it would seem like the road continued straight ahead, much like a Roadrunner trick on the Coyote. Such was the fate of an Izuz Trooper. Policia and Bombero vehicles were everywhere around the area and I caught a glimpse of the crowd some 50 feet below surrounding the crushed and overturnded SUV. I don't know if there were survivors or casualties. I felt it would have been in very poor taste to stick around, being the only gringo rubber necking at the scene, so I headed on my way at an even more conservative pace. It took about 2 hours longer than the time I expected to reach Guatemala City. Then it took about 3 hours to get out. I detest big cities. They are the perfect commentary on the sad state of affairs in this world. You know there are far too many humans on the planet when that many of them decide it's a good idea to live that close to each other. It's time to stop procreating, people. The only thing I wanted to see in the city was an ATM that worked. This was no small feat. I never ventured off of the Pan Am hwy, where countless banks where located, but it was all I could do to scan the business signs on the roadside and avoid the chicken buses and taxis trying to run me over, in conjunction with the numerous delivery bikes that stared at me in condemnation as they whizzed past. There were also cops everywhere. Probably 3 or 4 per intersection. There were cops on foot, cops on bikes, and even cops on 4 wheelers. They were pulling people over left and right for who knows what, and whisking them out of their vehicles to be patted down. I did not want to be one of those victims. This means that once I passed an ATM on the opposite side of the highway, there was no way I was going to bust an illegal U-turn to get to it. The first few ATMs that I was able to make it too wouldn't accept my card. Mental note, ignore the BancoRed signs, they're bunk. The next few were locked because it was Sunday. I finally managed to happen upon one that was both open and working. Mission accomplished! Now to find some lunch. Everywhere I looked was modern commercialism gone horribly wrong. Fast food restaurants, huge mega cinaplexes and strip malls as far as the eye could see, all with unfamiliar names and logos but I knew what they were just the same because of the universal marketing ploys. Maybe I'm not that hungry afterall. I think I can hold off until I get out of this terrible and gargantuan city. That was an entirely different problem. The highway I wanted branched off from the CA-1 to the northeast. It did this somewhere in the city but I didn't know where. I figured I would see a clearly marked sign for one of Guatemala's few major arteries, but this was an unreal expectation. I don't what I was thinking because in my 2,500 odd miles and 1 month away, I had rarely, if ever, seen a sign that told me exactly what I wanted to know. What I wanted was to see a huge billboard with giant sparkling letters that screamed "HEY DUMBASS, THE WAY OUT IS OVER HERE!!". But Of course, there was no such sign and I flew right past a turn off that I never saw. And this is a perfect example of why I hate planning ahead. I really wanted to be in Chiquimuli by early afternoon so I could be well rested in Copàn. But now that I was off plan, I felt frustration and anger setting in. Here I was, still on the CA-1, on my way to El Salvador. Once I realized my mistake there was no turning back. I was not going to risk being chewed up again in that garbage disposal of a city. I would never make it. The cops would nab me for sure if the chicken buses didn't get to me first. No, I was now on my way out of Guatemala City but in a completely useless direction. Here would be the spot where I would normally just take a deep breath and say "Whatever". But it was not the plan. There was another way to get to Chiquimuli the way I was headed but it involved a path that I had not researched, not to mention it added about 100 miles to my day. But, such is life. I slowly put my frustration behind me and got accustomed to the task at hand. Because of all the time I had already lost with landslides, ATMs and wrong turns, I was going to be cutting it close with the tireless clock of the sun. It turns out, I was to be a victim of my own stupid foreshadowing (Remember after I survived the Copper Canyon I said that the problem with always escaping consequences is that you never learn from your mistakes?). My path now took me far to the south where I was to look for another highway east. It was getting late in the afternoon when I reached another turn off to the north. The route I needed headed north to the town of Jalapa and then cut across east to the highway that lead to Chiquimuli. It looked pretty far on the map but the funny thing about kilometers is they fly by so fast. From my 2 day experiences with this new map I knew that I could cover 3 inches on the map in about 2 hours. And that's about how far I had to go when I reached Jalapa. The sun was about 45 minutes from setting which gave me a very narrow window to reach the other highway before darkness overtook the twilight. Here's where my over inflated ego and invincible sense of confidence kicked in. The smart decision would be to stay the night in Jalapa, get an early start in the morning and still be in Copàn by noon. But that is not what adventurers do! They do not take the easy way out, and I was not about to either. Where is the challenge in folding your cards right after the first bet. I'm gonna shoot the moon! Now that 3 inches on the map I had to cover was on what was described as a secondary road. It was presumably paved as denoted on the map. I expertly picked my way through Jalapa and was soon riding down some very smooth pavement indeed. This was going to be a snap. I was back on plan, baby. No holding me back. My shadow was growing ever longer in front of me, stretching itself lazily out to the trees in the foreground. And then the pavement turned to gravel. No big deal, I can still do 45. I'll still make the highway in plenty of time. And then the gravel turned to dirt. Hey, I can handle this. It's fairly hard packed. I'll just slow it down ever so slightly. And then the dirt got rutted. And washed out. And sharp rocks appeared everywhere. I was forced to slow down to a crawl. No sense turning back. I already knew what I was up against since it hadn't been that long since I went through it before. I tried to convince myself that riding at night wasn't really that bad of an idea....on a rough dirt road....in Guatemala. The sun inevitably crept behind the horizon, as I continued to crawl along this secondary road. Soon I was in complete darkness, save for my weak headlight, and the stars came out in splendid glory. As if I couldn't have predicted the storyline thus far, the road forked into 2 equally appealling directions. There was no split on my map. Well, let's go left this time. A half hour later, after some perilous inclines and declines (remember, my rear is a street tire now) the road forked again. This time there was a group of Guatemalans hanging out nearby, so I tucked my ego between my legs and went to ask for directions. After a lot of misunderstanding and denial it finally became clear that I had to backtrack to the first fork. Hey, why not. It's already pitch black, what have I got to lose. I've got nothing but time. I wasn't terribly worried about banditos. This was far in the backwoods of Guatemala where good hearted folk live. I was worried about breaking down or running into livestock. It was very easy to outrun my dim headlight so I kept to my snail's pace all the way back to the fork. The irony was killing me. I kept cracking up at how I always manage to get myself into these situations. Will I ever learn? Here I was, reliving my own past not 1 month later. By the time I returned to the first fork the locals had gathered around, no doubt prompted by the now familiar grunt of the XR returning. So, I made use of my expert direction asking skills and pointed to my map for emphasis. My map. Where the heck was my map? Perfect! That's exactly what I needed. My one clue to this puzzle, and now it had vanished into the Guatemalan abyss. I suppose I'll just add my map and it's sleeve to the rapidly growing list of items (1. Central America map, 2. GPS, 3. tent, 4. rearview mirror, 5. right riding glove, 6. iPod, 7. license plate holder, 8. tire irons) that have either broken or gone missing on this trip. I suppose the strain was more than they could bear. By the time I get back I expect I'll be riding a gas powered unicycle wearing only my swimtrunks and sunglasses. Back to the crowd that had by now surrounded me. I am starting to get a little tired of constantly being the center of attention. That is not a spot I do well in. I love talking with locals when you don't need anything from them--like chatting with everyday folks at border crossings or at the ferry crossings. My Spanish really seems to flourish when I am unencumbered by having to say the right thing in the right way. But when I have the pressure of not only comprehending what is being said but making sure that I am also understood, I tend to stumble and miss important key words. Like when these folks were kind enough to tell me that yes, I was finally pointed in the right direction and that the highway was directly ahead, but that it was more than two hours away. Two hours? How could that be? It couldn't be more than an inch on my now AWOL map. Maybe they meant 2 hours to Copàn and not just to the highway. Man, I wish I was fluent. Regardless, I pressed on into the darkness. Occasionally I would pass a house with a streetlight. If there was power this far out I had to be going the right direction. After what seemed like hours, I finally came upon the town of San Pedro Escondilla. The zócalo was alive with hundreds of people out on the town, enjoying the taco stands and perusing the artesania stands. And on the other side of the town the dirt road turned to pavement. Glorious pavement, how I've forsaken you! Forgive me as I take advantage of you one more time and twist the throttle to the limits of my vision. During the day I had built up an impressive collection of bug guts on my visor. This presents no real problem when there is sufficient daylight. But at night when your eyes strain, constantly scanning every shape to see if it's a car, cow, or just a bush, those bug guts are more than a nuisance. Not to mention they take the light from every passing headlight or overhead streetlamp and diffract it into bizarre patterns, so that everything seems to be coming at you straight out of a Dali painting. Fortunately, I was now out past most bugs' bedtimes so I was able for the most part to ride with the visor up. Roll the dice, I'm on a streak! Now tears were streaming out of my eyes from the constant tickling of the wind. But I didn't care. I was finally on pavement. When the secondary road finally intersected the highway to Chiquimuli, I didn't even need to read the misleading signs that were posted. I turned the handlebars to the left and gassed the XR up to speed. With Venus setting on my left and Mars and the Pleides rising on my right I knew that I was headed north and in the right direction. I finally made my hotel by 9pm. I had been riding for over 11 hours straight and my detour ensured that I covered the better part of 300 miles that day. I had done it once again. I had defeated the Guatemalan backroad demons just like I had defeated their brethren in the Copper Canyon, and my body was suffering for it. It was difficult to turn my head and my throttle hand refused to make a fist. After paying for my room I stumbled back to the bike to unpack, and then struggled with the key for a few minutes before the sight of my thin mattress for the night was revealed to me. 4 inches of foam padding never looked so good. I passed right out. But just before, my second to last thought was a self assuring "Nothing can hold you back from Panama", while my last was "Never again...."

The ride out of San Christóbal was rather bizarre. Perched up in the mountains of Chiapas I had to ride down through the clouds to the border. It could have been any road in the world and it was easy to forget that I was about to leave the relative safety of Mexico that I had become accustomed to. Surprisingly enough though, I wasn't nervous. I think I have finally gotten my travelling legs centered under me and my sense of adventure is being piqued. I looked at the border not as a strange place of armed soldiers and wayward travellers, but more like just another set of hoops I had to jump through to get to Panama.

It really is interesting what you have to go through to get a stamp on a piece of paper...

The Guatemalan side of the border was a madhouse. Throngs of people everywhere, chicken buses overloaded with crops and baggage, and no sense of organization whatsoever. I was directed down a side road, a devious detour that lead to countless makeshift stands for the locals to sell their wares. I don't handle crowds very well and I was almost overwhelmed at the narrow path I had to navigate through these stands to get to the Aduana. I don't see how any car, much less a bus gets anywhere here.

Just remember, it's just hoops. First jump, get the bike fumigated. No problem except I had no quetzales to pay the agriculture department. Second hoop, find a black market cambio man so I could trade some pesos for quetzales. Luckily I stood out something horrible so they basically found me. Easy and done. Third hoop, get passport stamped at Aduana. Not so easy. Apparently I had to go the 4km back to the Mexican side because I didn't know I was supposed to be stamped out of that country. Ok, back on the bike for the 5th hoop. Mexican Aduana. Of course, they sent me straight to the 6th hoop: I had to pay for my Mexican visa before they would stamp me out. Onto the Banjercito, pay the nice man $21 then back to the 7th hoop (which is really still the 5th). Mexican Aduana man is smiling now, informs me that I still have until Feb 1st on my visa and bike permiso and I don't have to pay again, sends me on my way to hoop 8. Squeeze my way through the clausterphobic throng, straight past the fumigation stand and back into Guatemalan Aduana. Cleared the 8th hoop, now onto the 9th, get the bike permit for Guatemala. Getting easier now, I can see the light. Fill out papers, show bike title and Mexican permiso, then hoop 10. Go next door to the bank, past the heavily armed guard, pay the clerk 41 quetzal and then back once again to show I paid and pick up all my papers. At last! Back on the bike, no more hoops, fire it up, put it in gear, ease out the clutch and....one more hoop! An man comes out of nowhere to stop me. He wants to see my bike permit. Fine, whatever, it's right here (of course I'm very friendly about it as he is well armed just like everyone else with authority). Last hoop and I'm free!

I finally get to break out my Central America Lonely Planet, my nice CA map, and I get to pack away the Mexican items for awhile. It was only 2 and a half hours to Quetzaltenango, and after I arrived I had loads of time to soak up the Guatemalan atmosphere.

I'm not sure if I will ever get used to cold showers. They definitely wake you up though, and there is no need for coffee after being assaulted by liquid ice. I had a fairly short ride ahead of me today, only about 150 miles up into the mountains to the colonial town of San Christóbal de las Casas. Shortly after crossing into Chiapas I dismissed my earlier machinations on how to deal with banditos. This state was actually rather upscale and affluent in appearance. The capital city, Tuxtla Gutierez, was clean and modern. They even had little countdown timers on the stoplights so you knew exactly when the light would turn green.

Since I had a light day, and since I failed miserable at running errands in Acapulco, I decided to put my time to use and look for a Honda shop. My rear tire was hanging on admirably, but soon I would be in Central America and I was unsure if I would be able to take good care of the XR once out of Mexico.

Like usual, just like I knew what I was doing, I found the Honda shop within minutes and went inside to practise my Spanish motorcycle vocabulary. They had 2 tires in stock that would work, one a gnarly offroader and the other a more modest street oriented tire. Since the Copper Canyon was long behind me and I really intended to stick to pavement from here on out, I went with the modest one. It should last 15-20,000 miles and should carry me much further than the Canal and back.

I rode the bike back to the service room. Obviously, it was nothing like what you would see in the states. They were using milkcrates as bike stands, make shift tools and no tire machine anywhere in sight. This was going to be fun. After about 10 minutes of watching the gregarious Antonio fumble with my wheel I decided to jump in. I was worried he was going to warp my brake rotor the way he was haphazardly wrestling with the thing. I asked if we could just remove the rotor and then told him that I had something better than his unweildy tire spoons. Luckily, the Copper Canyon saw fit to let me escape with one tire iron. Between the two of us, it still took the better part of 30 minutes to change one tire. The whole time the other service man and a few other salesmen would come in to chastise Antonio because I was helping him. We all had several good laughs and before long the bike was back together and I was ready to roll.

I said goodbye to my new friends at the shop and left Tuxtla knowing that there were very few hurdles left keeping me from Panama. All I had to do was cover the distance. Basically, it's all downhill now.

Except for the winding single lane road up the mountains to San Christóbal. On the way up I confirmed one of my suspicions as I glanced out into the valley below and saw nothing but a disgusting brown haze. Most of Mexico is covered in this haze but you never really notice it until you can look down on it. It almost makes you glad you have to go through the hassle of getting your car to pass emissions in the states.

The steep road was dotted with traditionally dressed people wearing colorful plaid skirts and bright flowery shirts, carrying various loads and goods on their backs. This was my first view of some of Mexico's true native people, descendants of the Olmeks. Though I was breezing past at 40mph I felt I was able to somewhat glimpse how they still lived off the land growing maize, and capitalized on tourism with their brightly colored and artistic weavings. I wonder if I could ever truly understand their lifestyle, or they mine?

The best thing about the ride up though was the chill in the air. I think I topped out at around 6,000 feet, and the difference was refreshing. I pulled into San Christóbal late afternoon and the temperature was probably around 75. It amused me to see everyone wearing sweaters, jackets and hats. I would have been happy in my swim trunks, although maybe they wouldn't be so pleased. I pretty much covered the whole town before I got my bearings and zeroed in on my hotel. $6 for the night, and they even helped me pull the XR up the tall curb and through several hallways so that it could sleep soundly too. If this trend of bear-market prices continued I would have no problem stretching my money to Panama and back. And I suppose that was the deciding factor because the next day would take me to the Guatemalan border. I couldn't turn back now that everything was getting cheaper.

I suppose I looked at Guatemala kind of like spinach: how are you gonna know you don't like it if you don't at least try it?

The bike was running smooth today.

I suppose it could have just beaten me senseless over the last few days, but I guess I wouldn't know the difference anyway. Things were going well today. I left Puerto Escondido at the leisurely hour of 10am with the hopes of covering some 200 miles to Salina Cruz in eastern Oaxaca. It's still amazing how a few nights of good solid rest can give me an overwhelming sense of confidence and well-being. It's also amazing how quickly that feeling deteriorates. I almost feel bi-polar when one minute I think that this trip is futile and senseless, and the next I muse how nothing can stop me from reaching my goal. Luckily, I've gotten good at ignoring most of those notions and I just keep pushing on each day.

I made great time to Salina Cruz and was nearing the state of Chiapas. Reputedly the most dangerous state in Mexico, home of the Zapatista revolution just over 10 years ago. If I was going to be robbed anywhere on this trip, why not in Chiapas? I played out mental scenarios on how the banditos would get me to stop. Perhaps a chain stretched across a lone stretch of highway. Maybe a schoolbus pulling out of nowhere sending me down some blind alley. Hmmm, they would definitely be crafty and well practised after 10 years of practise. I was going to be ready for them.

I decided to push on past Salina Cruz since I was still feeling fairly fresh. I rode out of the mountains and into the plains of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, where the wind loves to howl while it tries to blow you off the rode. I was still within about 50 miles of the Pacific and now I was also less than 300 miles from the Caribean. The roads were wide and straight as I was now on the Pan American Highway. Before long I was in a town called Tapanatepec, just shy of the Chiapas border. It was almost 4pm and I had covered 330 miles. Good grief, what am I doing to myself!

The interesting thing about riding on the Pan American highway is not the abundance of trucks or its slightly Americanized feel with truck stops, but rather the toll that 10 years of heavy traffic has taken on the surface. In each lane there are two channels just as wide as dually truck tires and spaced accordingly. The pavement has been squashed and deformed to the point that I would imagine a truck driver could let go of the steering wheel and let the channels guide the wheels while he slept. This made for some thrilling side effects on the XR. In turns you could almost use the outside of a channel as a bank of sorts and really get the corner speed up. Of course, if you slipped out of the channel it meant a perilous slide into the outside channel or worse, off of the edge. I decided not to push my luck and made a slow and easy pace into Tapanatepec.

Tapanatepec is basically a truckstop town. I cruised through to see what there was to see, and soon doubled back to the few hotels I saw on the way in. I got a room for the night for $10 and made the acquaintence of Manuel, the proprietor. The room was actually very nice and even had a hammock outside. Although the abundance of mosquitos and large flying beetles ensured that I was sleeping indoors that night. Manuel invited me out to his roadside taco stand for some much needed dinner.

My Thanksgiving feast consisted of 5 Tacos al Pastor, a side of refried beans which contained probably more lard than beans, and 2 Coronas (I can't stand Corona, but he had no Pacifico and it would have been rude of me to say no once he offered). All the while trucks rumbled by on the Pan-Am highway and a nearby TV was blaring a Mexican novella. I was quite entertained to say the least.

It was a picture perfect Thanksgiving, if you ask me.

A good night's rest did wonders for me. I only awoke at 11am to go pay for another night, then I went right back to bed, all the while enjoying the one movie channel they had in english. In the afternoon I found a local lavateria that would wash my clothes for $2. And since I had no clothes to wear except my swim trunks I was forced to slather up my gringo body with sunscreen and mosey down to the beach. A surfer's paradise indeed! I have never seen 10 foot waves before, nor have I really seen so many surfers in one spot. It was so tempting to brush off Panama altogether and find a way to spend the next month here in Escondido. I would love to know how to surf, especially on waves like this Mexican pipeline.

That night the hotel had a reggae band play at the pool. Since they were much too loud to sleep to, I again was forced to go enjoy the scene. I hung out at the pool bar for a few hours, chatted with some Australian and French surfers, and patiently waited for the band to stop so I could get some more sleep. My body still ached, but the beach was slowly working its wonders. I really wanted to stay there for awhile, but the funny thing about resting so much is it makes me anxious. It had only been a day, I was barely rejuvinated and already I was itching to get back on the road. I suppose that makes me a glutton for punishment.

One more night of American movies. One more night of motionless sleep. One more night closer to Panama. One more night closer to Panama, huh? So you think you can make it all the way? Well, why not go for it then.

And that's a perfect example of how I make decisions. Never planned, always on a whim, and as spontaneous as possible.

The only good thing about Acapulco is that's where I learned the joys of lane-splitting...

It is a tiny strip of land between the Pacific and a lagoon and lies just outside of Acapulco. I decided to try and stay there because it is supposed to be cheaper and away from the hustle and bustle of the larger city. And it was only another 250 miles away. Now's the time to really test my endurance.

In my 2000 or so miles that I've driven in Mexico, I've come to learn certain facets that are unique to the art of surviving on Mexican streets.

First off, most traffic laws are merely suggestions. Speed limits are never to be followed. The first time I was passed by a Policia vehicle was the last time. There are no speed traps, ever, so the idea is to maintain a safe and prudent speed no matter what the signs say. I was almost a little nervous about passing a Federale truck loaded down with angry looking, well armed soldiers until I realized that first, they are probably the only ones who have to obey the speed limit, and second if they didn't like me passing them they would have to get their beast of a truck to catch me. It turns out that no one thinks anything of passing any slow moving vehicle, regardless of their authority.

I've also noticed a clear heirarchy in Alto signs. The only time you have to obey them is when there is one of Mexico's finest in the intersection, watching everything like a hawk. And even then it's up in the air. If there´s a stoplight and a stopsign at an intersection, you obey the stoplight. Of course, feel free to run it if you feel it's necessary. And if the stoplight is not working, pretend you didn't see the stopsign. The only time it's wise to stop for a stop sign at all is at railroad tracks. And that's really only when a train is present. But I don't think anyone would mind much if you felt you didn't have to stop. I have found the best strategy for safely surviving intersections is to set myself up behind a big car, call him my blocker and dive through in a quarteback sneak. I've yet to be tackled...

Now the thing about topes is that the danger is not inherently in the tope itself. The XR could probably fly over most of them at 60mph and I would even feal a jolt. No, the real danger is in the cars that seem to break most of Newton's Laws and stop instantaneously just before the tope, as if their shocks were rigged with dynamite and hitting it at anything above 1 inch/second could mean their lives. This in and of itself, would be no big deal, if the XR had breaks suitable for the street. I really should have put that oversized rotor on. One time I was following a minivan at what I thought was a safe distance. I glanced down to check my map and in less than a second that van had gone from "hey, look at me, I'm cruisin along" to "holy crap, I'm about to have a motorcycle enema!". With ninja like reflexes I artfully dodged that brick wall of a van and swerved into the oncoming lane. I flew over the tope at eleventy billion miles an hour and didn't feel a thing. And thankfully, neither did they. Imagine the commotion it would have caused to have a crashlanding cosmonaut land on their hood, all because I flipped over the van and its physics defying brakes.

Compile all of this with a bike that is everything a barcalounger is not, and you've got yourself one helluva adventure!

I've talked before about how nice some of the roads are here in Mexico. I've used all sorts of analogies to try and convey how they appeared to me, but let me say this: The ride into Playa Azul was the most entertaining stretch I've been on yet.

The pavement gods had seen fit to provide me with their finest, stickiest, freshest example of blacktop yet. 100 miles of predictable serpentine sweepers carved right out of the cliffs that plunge into the Pacific. The only reason my tires have lasted this long is because of roads like this. Being able to spend so much time leaned over on the edges ensured that my tires did not wear into the pathetic shape of a car tire. By the end of it I was almost sea sick. A full 2 hours of swinging from one side to the other. The full 2 hours I only saw 2 other cars. Full confidence in traction. Indescribable.

If the ride into Playa Azul was any precursor, then the town itself should have rivaled Punta Pescadero in Baja. Well, not only is Playa Azul an annoying oxymoron, it is a terrible misnomer. Just saying it outloud conjures up pleasant images of sipping tasty frozen beverages with tiny umbrellas while swaying in a hammock. But this dingy, nasty little town is only fit for dogs. I know this because upon my arrival I was greeted with the sight of 2 dogs humping in the middle of the street.

I managed 250 miles by early afternoon for what? I decided to take advantage of my time and make sure I was well rested for the next time, so that I could make a quick escape to somewhere more suitable. I suppose I'm just a little bitter because I lost one of my gloves in Playa Azul. I'm still not sure how, I just know that now I am the Michael Jackson of motorcyclists--the one glove that is, not his other claim to fame.

I was asleep by 6pm, which of course meant--and I should have seen this coming--that I was wide awake at 1am. What a perfect time to get some reading in.

Melaque is a very pleasant town right on the coast. The beach was full of Mexican tourists as well as a few out of place Canadiens in speedos. I was very happy to keep to myself and tried as usual no to attract too much attention. Occasionally a hard working youngster would come by trying to offload a handmade necklace or a freshly carve pineapple and I would have to let them down by explaining that I didn't have any money on me. They seemed to be satisfied with the promise of "Well, we'll see tomorrow." I hope they're not waiting for me.

That night I found a quaint little restaurant in the town square where a plate of chicken enchiladas and a Pacifico set me back $3.75. I could have sat there for hours watching the town's youth zip around on scooters, exhibiting skill that could be put to good use on the track. Wanting to get an early start in the morning, I turned in around 8pm. Well, I tried to turn in.

As I laid in bed, it seemed that about every 10 seconds there would be a thunderous rumble that would shake the walls. At first I thought it might be raining, but then I remembered where I was. I headed outside to investigate. My search led me down to the beach, and at this point I suppose a night walk on the beach shouldn't be out of the question. Now, the beach rises up out of the ocean at such a sharp angle that when the swells come in they seem to rise up and fall over themselves in the space of about 5 feet. There was definitely no surfing here. And this was the source of the terrific rumbling. I gue