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 guess I was just too tired, or it was just too noisy earlier and I just didn't notice it. But now that it was nighttime and everyone was in the townsquare, it was all you could hear and feel. I've never heard anything like it, and the swells were only 4-5 feet. But like a hyperactive chihuahua on a short leash, each wave would approach, rise up suddenly and crash back on itself like its owner was jerking its chain.

All that really has no bearing on anything, really. It's just that nothing really exciting happened today, so consider it filler.

I had to pull over repeatedly to wipe off bug carcasses just so that I could see. This guaranteed that unless you are completely stopped, the helmet visor must me down at all times lest you're thirsty for a bug-gut cocktail. The other problem was that the temperature had been steadily increasing since I had arrived on the mainland. You would think that at 60mph the wind would be enough, but it still gets quite stuffy in the helmet if you don't at least crack the visor. I would roll the dice occasionally, like when passing over topes in small villages, and open up the visor so that I could enjoy a breath of fresh air......and whammo! Bug in the face.

Even with the visor cracked ever so slightly some persitent gnats would find their way through. And then they would crawl. And then they would find my ears. And I would be completely helpless as to how to rid myself of these pests. I would scream "GET OUT OF MY EARS!!!!", but they wouldn't listen. Innocent bystanders would however, as if I didn't garner enough strange looks as it was. It's amazing the kind of concentration it takes to keep a bike upright when you have gnats in your ears.

Now it seems reasonable that I would be safe from all bug attacks with the visor sealed tight. I might suffocate or overheat, but at least I would be bug-free. Not so, that's when they send the big guns. Dragonflies and butterflies the size of your fist would fly out of nowhere on a kamikaze run on my helmet. As they ricocheted off there would be a deafening "PING" and the momentum of our combined velocities would cock my head back and to the left, over and over. There's just simply no way to dodge bugs at that speed. My only hope was to take out their best and brightest so that the next evolutionary cycle of bug-dom would be tiny and weak for the next rider.

By 1pm I felt like I had survived the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan, so I pulled over to regroup. I ended up in a pleasant town called Melaque. After cruising the cobblestone streets I found a nice enough place right on the beach to have some fantastic camarrones empanizadas. Soon thereafter I decided that I had had enough for the day and I would stay here for the night.

I came across some bungalows on the beach and managed to successfully haggle a bit on the price. After taking a cold shower (not by choice) I realized how beat up I really was. Perhaps it was the emotional roller coaster I had been on the last few days, but I was mentally and physically drained. I didn't know it at the time but I would end up sleeping until 1pm the next day, and then stay another night to fully recoup.

I would arrive with plenty of time left in the day to do some sight seeing and would attempt to enjoy this tourist mega hot-spot. Immediately upon pulling into town I noticed something different. No convertible Beetles carrying precious tourists were to be seen anywhere. That's at least one major improvement. The town also seemed cleaner, not that I was that picky after almost 3 weeks in Mexico, but still, something about first impressions. Maybe I could learn to like this.

I managed to find a hotel in the most popular vacation spot in Mexico for the lump sum of $16. My Mom has taught me well. I even had a private shower and a ceiling fan! Yep, life was good. I rested for awhile and then headed out to see the town. I still couldn't ditch my inherent sense of elitism as I spied on the countless gringos. All they had to do was get off a plane. I had to survive the Copper Canyon. Relax Ted, these are people too. Not everyone can be a superhuman.

I found a not-too-crowded cafe to have a wonderful shrimp burrito complimented by the ubiquitous ice cold Pacifico. I learned the lay of the town in no time and felt completely comfortable strolling amongst the gringos and locals in Viejo Vallarta. At sunset, I strolled the beach and daydreamed about the girl that should have been holding my hand. As the sun faded and dipped below the horizon, just about everyone whipped out their cameras to try and capture the perfect memory. Not me. This sunset was captured permanently in my mind. A mental snapshot that included feelings of relaxation and sighs of relief. I was starting to enjoy myself again. Tonight would be a good night.

I found a bar that was a perfect example of things that just should not be. In the heart of Mexico I stumbled across this strange watering hole with a Canadien bartender, patrons from Ohio, Washington, California, and 3 Mexicans that had all previously lived in the US. And everyone spoke English. It was almost harsh on my ears. After 2 beers, two lovely ladies came in and sat down right next to me. Great, now I had to practise my game. Oh yeah, I don't have any game. Well, here goes...

I commented to them how strange it was to be in a bar in Mexico where everyone spoke English, and furthermore, how everyone seemed to know each other. Of course, they lived in Puerto Vallarta and knew everyone there but me, so how nice that they feigned interest for a little while. We chatted back and forth while I tried to impress them with my trip so far and they informed me of the day to day struggles of teaching English in paradise (mental note: get job in paradise). Before long, the Rico Suave of the 3 Mexican locals came over to give it his best go. The poor fellow had no idea what he was in for. It's funny what can seem like an honest question when you possess limited English. He came over and asked very smoothly "So, do you ladies come here often?" The girls erupted in laughter and I think I actually saw his tan face turn red. Later, they invited him over and tried to explain the reason for his embarrasment, but how can you fully explain a foreign culture's humor in one night? After 2 more beers, I felt I could sleep well enough so I said my goodbyes to all and ambled back to the hotel.

It's safe to say that I enjoyed Puerto Vallarta. I guess tourist traps aren't all that bad.

I made for the highway and tried to put some miles between me and Mazatlan. That bizarre zoo where the animals had escaped into the streets and were set preying on the weak. At times it was difficult to tell who was the predator and who was the prey but then I would spot that wide-eyed tourist with his wallet out flashing cash, all the time trying to play it cool and in-the-know. We gringos are so outmatched in this jungle and I wanted no part of that.

After a few hours of riding along a nice stretch of blacktop my attention turned to the vegetation. Gone was the sea of brown and tan with the sparse splotches of green, the occasional cactus or scrubbrush. The mainland was not only a figurative jungle. This land was some deranged botanist's experiment gone mad. Palm leaves the size of sails, thick ivy draping from tree to tree so tightly woven you could fish with it, not a glimpse of soil anywhere. This mountainous sea of green on my left was only interrupted by the thin serpent of blacktop slithering out from under me, and by the actual sea of blue to my right. Occasionally the canopy overhead would open its cumbersome arms to reveal a pale blue sky. This hazy shade of azure would arc into the horizon ahead where it met progressively lighter shadows of misty mountains, each bulge further and further away, until they meshed into the same color and land and sky became one.

I thouroughly enjoyed my ride south that day. I found a small fishing village on the Pacific to rest for the night called San Blas. After a phone call home and a delightful dinner of carne asada (I was completely stuffed for a total of $4), my spirits were slowly elevating. I was actually looking forward to tomorrow and the surprises that it would bring.

The last 9 days have been amazing, mostly so because of the amazing company. I can't think of a better group of people to spend a vacation with then with Jesse, Michele, Ramse, Carol, Tyler and the locals Carlos, Jose Maria, Canilla and Armando. Well, I can think of a few more people that would have improved the group, but unfortunately they had to work like a bunch of suckers.

Aren't we a beautiful bunch?

Some of the highlights of last week were:

• The snorkeling in front of the house was incredible. It was like flooding the exotic fish store and swimming down the aisles. Puffer fish, angel fish, parrot fish, moray eel, star fish, manta rays, sea cucumbers, spotted boxfish, spiny lobster, sea urchins, and a host of other species that I don't know the name of. My first night there we went at night and spent about an hour swimming amongst the rocks that protect these delicate fish. During the day time the sunlight would catch certain fish at the right angle producing a kaleidescope of color. I've never witnessed anything quite like it, and you could go at any time after a 15 second walk down the stairs to the beach.
• If the snorkeling was amazing, imagine what 4 scuba dives was like. Well, 2 out of 4 were indescribable. We rented some gear and did 2 dives right in front of the house. On the first dive the current had carried us so far out to sea that when we surfaced the sight of the speck of the house elicited a unanimous "Oh shit!" from all 3 of us. I think it took about an hour to swim back to shore. The second dive was even more of a hassle. We thought we would be smart and walk a ways up current so that we would drift back towards the house. Much to our dismay, apparently currents can completely change direction in the matter of 3 hours. Try to conserve air while exhausting yourself fighting a force with much more endurance than you have. It's impossible to scuba against a current. That was probably the shortest dive in history. For the next 2 dives we went out on a guided tour to the Cabo Pulmo reef system. These went markedly better for us. Having somebody who knows about the area makes all the difference in the world. The water was crystal clear, visibility was probably over 100 feet, and I've never seen anything like that reef. Grouper the size of hula hoops, angel fish the size of basketballs and even more species which I can't name, vibrant coral and fans; it was as if someone microwaved a crayola box and poured the contents onto the sealife just for us. We spotted a white-tip reef shark, and interestingly enough my first instinct was to try and chase it down (it was only a 4 footer). Didn't even get close. Even with all our gear on the shark is infinitely more adapted to being underwater. In between dives we pulled up to a rock that was home to a pride of sea lions. Jesse and I got out and snorkelled around and a few of them came within about 10 feet of us, blowing bubbles to warn us not to get any closer. On the way to the second dive the boat captain thought he saw a school of sharks below so he slowed and began to turn the boat around. The irony was not lost on me that here we were, circling for sharks when usually it's the other way around. I didn't see any more sharks but I did make out the outline of a giant sea turtle swimming below. In one day I saw more sea life than the Discovery channel ever told me was out there. Simply amazing.
• Down a lone stretch of dirt rode about 45 minutes from the house there is a trail that leads up into the mountains. After a halfhour's hike on this cactus lined trail is a massive granite boulder. On one side of this boulder is an rapidly disappearing example of Native American painting. Pasty red paint describes the shapes of a marlin, a bow and arrow, and 2 men. It was a humbling experience to see an artpiece that predates written history, and it still survives. Not to mention that the XR really loved the ride out. After a while I finally eazed into my comfort zone and would allow the bike to gently skate below me as it pounded over rutted washboard at over 50mph. It was fun leaving my friends on the ATVs in the dust, although I'm sure they didn't appreciate me spitting rocks at them off of the rear tire. But that was what the XR was made for, and who am I to keep it leashed in its element?
• We invited the locals over for a party that Saturday night. Everybody came with their families dressed in their Sunday best. I felt a little out of place since in my limited wardrobe I only had a choice of 3 t-shirts, but I soon felt at ease when they figured out I spoke limited Spanish. It was fun serving as a translater of sorts between my friends, the gringos, and the locals. I really enjoyed seeing how much enjoyment the locals got out of their families. The kids were well behaved and brought endless entertainment to the parents. Oh, and the food they brought was exquisite. Canilla, or as he is known "El Lobo Del Mar", went out the night before and spearfished up 7 lobsters and countless parrotfish. I almost felt guilty eating the same creatures that I spent all week admiring, but once you taste them you can't stop. It was a fantastic dinner enjoyed by all, and then the guitars were uncased for a night of singing traditional Mexican folksongs. I will never forget that night.

After the dust trail from my friends' suburban had settled I quietly loaded up the bike and was underway for La Paz. I'm not ashamed to admit that more than a few tears fell from my helmet. I was overwhelmed with what lay ahead of me. Panama is incomprehensibly far, and I had no one to share in the journey. I hear a lot of motorcyclists enjoy riding because it is an escape. For them, they are forced to concentrate so hard on keeping it upright that everyday worries and troubles are shut out. I barely remember the winding path back to La Paz. So many "What ifs" and "What the hell am I doing's" bounced back in forth in my mind that before I knew it I was at the ferry terminal. Apparently, I had made a subconscious decision to head back to the mainland. Previously, I had wanted to head all the way up the Baja Peninsula to Enseñada so that I could witness firsthand the insanity that is the Baja 1000 race. Without even knowing it, some part of my brain realized that my confidence and motivation was waning rapidly. If I was going to have any chance at Panama, I was going to have to stop puttering about.

Well versed in the ways of ferry ticket purchasing, it was almost as if I knew what I was doing this time. The ferry left at 5pm so there was enough time to grab a delicious lunch of fried fish at a beachfront restaurant. As departure time approached I made the acquaintance of a Frenchman that would be joining me on the 15 hour ride to Mazatlan. I thought that my trip was impressive, but this crazy bloke had ridden his bicycle from Toronto to here. It had taken him the better part of 2 months and here I was whining about 2 weeks of solitude. We had some good conversations on the ferry ride and his undertaking left its mark on me. If I was going to make it, I had to forget about the ultimate goad and just enjoy the ride there. Easier said than done.

That night on the ferry, I again had problems sleeping. I went outside to the upperdeck to do some stargazing. The race to the west was well underway overhead. Mars was in the lead, being trailed by the full moon with Orion close on its heels, and bringing up the rear was the dog star, Sirius. I think I watched that race almost to completion as the rising sun drowned out their images with its gradually increasing brightness.

A new day, and a new mission. Just get through the day and try to enjoy it. Ignore those feelings of doubt and sadness. Take a deep breath and enjoy being alive. You can do this.

I expected an even greater military presence in port of Mazatlan, afterall it was a much bigger city with many more people passing through. But to my great surprise I coasted right off the ferry, through the parking lot and onto the mainstreet outside. Lucky me, I guess that the Mexican Army is only worried about the flow of drugs in one direction. Afterall, who sneaks drugs into Mexico? Things were looking a little brighter, so I gave the XR some gas and was off to explore Mazatlan.

Lines, lines and more lines. Get in line to get to the bike. Move the bike into line to get to the check point. Here, 1 long line splits into 4 shorter lines, which conveniently still didn't move. The army was showing a fierce presence. As I waited my turn to show my papers and be interrogated as to why I felt I should be in Baja, I couldn't help but be impressed by the display of Mexican firepower. Every soldier was armed to the teeth. M16's, B.A.R.s, hand grenades, and the occasional cup of coffee. I felt sorry for the poor mule that tried to carry drugs past this platoon. They were tearing every 18 wheeler apart, ransacking the cargo, and then respectfully helping each driver repack it correctly. Quite the operation in scare tactics. I prayed that no one had sl¡pped their stash into my saddlebags while the XR was sleeping in the ship's hold.

After 90 minutes of baking in the morning Baja sun, it was finally my turn. The lead soldier and I politely exchanged pleasantries and then it was down to business. "Abre este", he said pointing to my saddlebag. Oh please don't let there be anything I didn't pack! The last thing I wanted was to come this far and then be whisked away to rot in a Mexican jail. As I unzipped the bag I glimpsed the familiar sight of my toiletry bag. One step closer to freedom and paradise. "Abre este", he said pointing to my backpack. Oh no! Surely that fiend would place his stash in my backpack, it's much easier to get to! I slowly unzipped my backpack, convinced that I would spy a brick of marijuana.....but it was my camera bag, just as I had left it. "Ah, photos....buen viaje!"

And with those words I calmly pushed the bike out of the way so that the next victim in line could endure some fear. I turned around to the sight of dozens of families and truck drivers repacking the entire contents of their vehicles. All I had to do was zip up 2 bags. Today was a good day to be a tourist.

I made my way out of the port at Pichilinque and into La Paz. 2 hours away from paradise. I had come through some of the most trying experiences of my life and nothing could slow me down now. As if I had lived there for 50 years, I navigated expertly through the hustle and bustle of the city and was soon on the Carretera Numero Uno, which would take me all the way to Cabo San Lucas if I was so inclined.

But no! I would smartly turn off halfway there, at a small village called Los Barriles and then follow 30 minutes of ambiguous dirt road to the exact GPS coordinates of the house (you have to love modern technology and the internet) where I would spend the next 9 days sunbathing, socializing, drinking, snorkeling, scubadiving, offroad-riding....basically anything I could ask for in a heavenly setting.

I raced down the deserted highway at breakneck speeds, paying some, but not very much attention to the signs telling me "Cuidado, Curva Peligroso" that were flying at me like yellow pizza boxes being thrown like newspapers. I had no time for their silly advertisements and I sure wasn't hungry for piss-flavored pizza, I had somewhere to be!

Thanks to the GPS, I arrived directly in front of the gate that my friend Jesse had been thoughtful enough to fashion a sign out of an empty Tecate box that read "Ted aqui". Since there's no such thing as addresses down there, I felt the chances were acceptably insignificant of there being another house expecting another Ted on this day. So I confidently opened the gate, walked across the cobblestone patio, opened up the handmade wood and wrought iron door, exclaimed "Estoy aqui!".....to an empty house.

I read the note that my friends had left for me. They had gone to the Cabos to pick up the last 2 people we were expecting for the week. At least I was in the right house! And it was all mine for a few hours. I promptly grabbed a Pacifico, went out onto the veranda, gazed out onto the impossibly blue sea, and was soon fast asleep in a lounge chair.

Es Paraíso.

Before I knew it I could smell the salt in the air. Within miles of Las Mochis people had setup countless stands all selling the same things: camarones, pescado fresco y cocos helados. Unfortunately, I had no time to sample their wares becuase I had somewhere to be.

I had no idea if the ferry across the Sea of Cortez actually ran that day. My plan, simple as it was, was to head on to the port city of Topobolampo and inquire there about the schedule. Of course once I arrived I realized that I didn´t have enough money to buy a ticket and there was no bank that would be open on Sunday. Not even an ATM existed in that small town. So, I regressed back to Las Mochis, past all the countless taco stands selling their wares and within minutes I had plenty of pesos for the botelo. Back again, past the stands, towards the sea and one step closer to my friends.

I pulled past the guards and looked for the entrance to Baja Ferries. After figuring out that I first had to have the bike checked out from a guy on the other side of the yard, I had my ticket in my hand and I could barely contain my excitement. By noon Monday I would be sitting on the beach drinking an ice cold Pacifico with the finest people in the world. I've never seen my watch move that slowly.

I decided to pass the next 9 hours by enjoying what little there was to do there in Topolobampo. The small port is mainly reserved for commercial fisherman but there was one touristy beach about 20 minutes away. At the entrance to the road there was a family of beggars that had strung a lanyard across the road which they would raise to slow every approaching car. I'm sure they had a very noble cause, but all I could think about was being decapitated by their horizontal guillotine. Luckily for me, the intense thumping sound eminating from my bike had them stunned like deer and they forgot to raise their lanyard for me. Haha, the peasant jousters were going to have to try much harder to dismount me! (I'm not that heartless, I actually gave them some pesos on the way out.)

Out on the beach I stopped for some lunch. The local specialty is pescado zarandeado, which consists of a whole fish covered in spicy sauce and vegetables wrapped up in foil and baked over coals. It sounded to good to resist until I saw what they brought out. It was colorful enough, but I suppose I just have something against ingesting needle thin bones and scales that cling to your throat like popcorn kernals from hell. To date, that was the only meal that I have not enjoyed. Call me picky.

After wasting lunch I turned back towards Las Mochis and the taco stands. I picked a shaded spot in between 2 stands and spent the afternoon reading and enjoying the smells wafting my way. If my appetite had not have been ruined I'm sure that any one of these stands could have satisfied me. Oh well, good to know for the next time I'm in Las Mochis--don't eat at the tourist dive, eat where the locals hang out. Actually, that rule applies everywhere. I can't believe I fell for the oldest trick in the book.

At sunset I headed back towards the beach, but thankfully, not for dinner. I previously saw a sign for the Cueva de Los Murcielagos, and since it had been a whole 3 weeks since I had seen a string of bats fly around in Austin, I figured it would be 10 times more exciting in Mexico. I pulled off of the road and patiently waited, camera in hand, for the winged insect eaters to come out and play. I think almost every car that left the beach that afternoon honked at the silly gringo sitting astride his motorcycle as they passed me. And finally the bats flew out towards me!

And by bats, I mean mosquitos. I was absolutely swarmed by the giant blood-suckers. I left a Ted-shaped hole in the cloud of dust I whipped up turning around and flying out of there. Apparently, the sign is there to bait a sacrificial lamb so that the mosquitos will leave the locals alone. Haha, very funny.

I returned to the dock to wait out the next 3 hours. I passed the time by scratching my numerous intravenous infiltrations, and I also chatted with a Mexican family on their way to Baja for vacation. The 2 kids were enthralled with my bike and the father used to race motocross so the conversation was right up my alley. I learned a lot of new words and they seemed to enjoy my company. As the ferry horn announced its arrival with a throaty cough, we parted ways and I joined the line to board.

Once inside the cavernous boat I was directed to turn off of the main ramp onto a narrow ledge designated for motorcycles. They then motioned me to tie down my bike with some greasy ropes that were laying about. I think I still have stains on my hands. After saying goodnight to the XR I climbed upstairs and staked my claim on a seat for the night. Tomorrow I would be in Baja!

I again woke up way too early and I had no idea what I was in for today. It would turn out to be a near disaster and possibly the hardest day of my life. But paradise would not be nearly as enjoyable without going through a little hell.

I now knew which fork to take out of Batopilas and quickly said my goodbyes to Señora Monse and the Belgians. Once again, the XR and I were underway into the mountains of the Barrance del Cobre. I must be getting used to how squirrelly the bike is on loose rocks and gravel, because before I knew it an hour had flown by and I was in the middle of nowhere. In just a few short days I quickly had become accustomed to seeing anything and everything in the middle of any Mexican road: cows, goats, kids....a dishwasher. The last thing I ever would have guessed came flying around a corner so suddenly that I jumped with a fright and nearly dropped the bike. In front of me were 4 atv's complete with riders decked from head to toe in bright racing gear. Surely this was a mirage. They paused only long enough to make sure that they too were not hallucinating and then screamed up the hill I had just come down. Wow, now I really had seen everything in the middle of nowhere.

I was only an hour into the ride and I was beginning to tire. The slight lull I was experiencing after coming down from the atv adrenaline rush was not helping either. I needed something to pick me up and the one thing I had forgotten to pack was a Dr. Pepper. As if it was scripted, around the next corner came a KTM dirtbike, again complete with rider decked to the 9's with flashy riding gear. Apparently, I was not the only one crazy enough to ride through the Copper Canyon. As he stopped right next to me, it occurred to me that I was headed in the right direction and out of these tiresome mountains. These bikes and atv's had to be coming from somewhere close because they did not have nearly the 300 mile range that I did. As we chatted a total of 8 more bikes pulled up. We talked for maybe a half hour and evidently became fast friends. They gave me a phone number to reach them in their town, Kubla Kahn - somewhere near Mazatlan, so that we could hang out later on down the road. That should be an experience!

As best I could, I got detailed directions from them as how to reach the town of Choix and the paved carraterra that began there. I had done somewhere around 100 miles on dirt and it was beginning to wear me down. I actually longed for some smooth tarmac and the memory of that racetrack out of Creel flashed in my mind. They told me the quickest way out was to cross the Rio Fuerte, look for some army guys (they reassured me that I had nothing to worry about the Federales, and I believed them) and then in the pueblito of Guayamos turn left so that I didn't have to ride up the difficult mine rode. I thanked them all, they took a group photo of us all (I will upload it if they email it to me), and I kicked started the XR to ride away. Re-energized I quickened my pace. The bike had never felt this comfortable offroad and my new goal was to be in Choix by 3 or 4pm so I could enjoy the afternoon. And then I dropped the bike for the first time that day. I didn't go down hard, but it was a blow to my confidence and was a precursor for how the rest of the day was destined to go.

Any normal XR is a light bike weighing in under 300 pounds. If you add a six gallon tank, 100 pounds of gear and make sure that everything is packed as high as possible, you wind up with one overloaded, top-heavy beast. After hefting the bike up and dusting myself off I was amused to compare the situation to what you might see on The World's Strongest Man competition. I was noticably out of breath and drained from the effort. I would really prefer to not have to do that again.

I reached the Rio Fuerte and began to grow a little concerned at my first river crossing. The motocrossers had warned that the river would be over the crankcase but not as high as the air filter. Should be nothing to worry about. I found the best place to cross by taking notice of the group of Federales on the other side motioning to "Pase aqui!". I emptied my brain of all negative thoughts and slipped the clutch 9/10ths of the way across. How embarrising. The motorcycle gringo had stalled his packhorse 10 feet from shore, and how convenient that there were 12 Federales to witness it. Thankfully the XR realized my predicament and decided to start on the first kick. I didn't know if I was supposed to show the Federales my papers or even if I needed to stop at all. So I didn't. Almost instantly, I was again isolated in the middle of nowhere.

The worst thing about the untravelled backroads of Mexico is the pueblitos that you have to go through. The tiny villages are actually quite pleasant and the people that reside there are resilient, proud and incredibly polite. But they are miserable to me because they are impossible to find your way out of them. One road goes in and seven go out. I managed to get hopelessly lost in every single pueblito that I came across. If I ever got out of these cursed mountains I could write a book on asking directions from startled locals atop a dusty motorbike. I really have to find out what they are thinking when I pull up.

With more luck than I deserve I found my way to Guayamos and with my first pick I found the lone road out. A mile down the road things began to look much less well-travelled and doubt began to grow. The previous few hours of riding had followed the river and never gained much in altitude. The rode now rose sharply up a mountain and got so difficult that I knew I had to be on the mine road. I tried to turn the bike around in what I thought was the best spot, but I caught a rock wrong and was thrown to the dirt. I promptly let loose with a string of prafanity that made the surrounding cactii blush. Luckily, my vulgar misuse of the English language went mostly unnoticed by the 3 cows standing nearby. I know this because they were Spanish speaking cows, and they confirmed their incomprehension of my expletives with blank stares and constant cud chewing. Phew! At least I hadn't pissed anyone else off besides myself.

Everytime the bike is on its side it pours gas into the airbox. This guarantees that you will soon grow exhausted trying to kick it back to life. This time I had the advantage of being on a steep decline, so I put it to good use and coasted back into Guayamos. I came across two teenagers who I confessed my ignorance to so that they could show me the road I wanted out. But, to my disappointment, they reassured me that I was, in fact, coasting the wrong way down the road that I had to take out. Fifteen minutes later I had the bike pointed in the right direction and finally unflooded and running. This time I went up the road past where I had injured my ego and got passed some of the most difficult offroading I thought was impassable. But again, doubt crept into my mind. I convinced myself that the mine road went to Choix, but I should have asked those teenagers where the easy road to Las Mochis and the coast was. Of course! They were sending me up the wrong road because I was too dumb to ask the right question. Once again, I turned the bike around and once again, down I went. No profanity this time, I was too tired. At least I was experienced in coasting down this road and made good time back into Guayamos.

By this time in the afternoon I was out of water, physically and mentally drained and dangerously close to heat exhaustion. I needed help. I stopped at what I thought was the local schoolhouse, but it turned out to be a cinderblock house that belonged to the kindest and most helpful family in all of Guayamos. The fates were being cruel but not completely heartless.

I don't think I caught my breath for a full hour. I have never been that tired. I hated the dirt, I hated these horrific never-ending mountains and I hated this trip. I was near tears. What the hell was I doing here? I wanted out. I wanted to quit.

But quitting meant....well, it didn't mean anything. I simply couldn't quit. Not because I wouldn't let myself or because I couldn't live with myself later. I couldn't quit becuse it was an impossibility. There was no other way out. I had to get out of this situation myself. There was no one to call. There was no way to get the bike and myself out of these mountains short of riding it myself.

I spent the next hour talking with the beautiful family that had given me water and shade. They invited me into their house where I utilized my expert direction finding ability and once again they confirmed what everyone else had been saying: the road to Choix and Las Mochis was that goat trail up the mountain. I strained to bolster my confidence. The water and rest helped greatly. I stopped any "What if?" that tried to find its way into my thought process dead in its tracks. I will make it up that mountain and out of these dispeccable mountains. These mountains that were so beatiful and inviting, and were so very close to breaking me. The largest Venus flytrap I have ever encountered. I would not let the Copper Canyon swallow me without a fight.

I spread my maps out on the dirt floor to triple check my location with the family. I was amazed to see that the children, ranging in age from what I guess was 4-8, not only understood the concept of a map but all could read the names of any city and locate themselves with ease. I would end up riding over 150 miles through those mountains and valleys and not once did I see a true school. Simply amazing.

That family probably saved my life, or in the very least they saved my trip. I wish I could have given them more than the heartfelt thanks of a weary traveller, but they wouldn't have accepted any more than that anyway. The very definition of human kindness. We should all strive to be like them; the world would certainly be a better place.

The afternoon was passing rapidly and they warned that I still had 6 hours to go...if I made it up that mountain. If I could have thought about anything other than willing myself to the top I would have realized that 6 hours would take me past the sunset and into darkness...in Mexico....in the middle of nowhere. Looking back, I can't believe how far I pushed the limits that day. For the 3rd time I left Guayamos and started the trek up that impossible road. Merciless on the clutch I spun the rear tire furiously, fighting and clawing every inch of the way. I passed the first spot where I had dropped my screaming XR, then soon after the second. I will make it up this mountain, or die trying.

The road began to switchback on itself countless times, and with each corner in the infinite series I slowly began to relax and get in a groove. I simply could not think about what would happen if I got a flat, or what I would do if I snapped my chain, or how awful it would be to make one simple mistake and plunge off into nothingness. Those were thoughts of fear and had no place in my mind. I will make it up this mountain. Without losing any focus, the eerie beauty of the mountains began to dispel my newfound hatred for them. I suddenly found myself smiling. This was a true test of survival. I wanted to push myself on this trip, I wanted to come back stronger. Not exactly like this, but who was I to question the situation. I could only react to what was presented to me, I could not control it.

I climbed that mountain for an hour and a half. I did not stop once, nor did I drop the bike. When the road levelled off I knew that the worst was behind me and there would not be anything else that difficult for the rest of my trip. Nothing could stop me now. I finally allowed myself to look forward to Choix and the possibility of rest. I was not out of the mountains yet, but it was all downhill from here.

At the top of the mountain I encountered a new challenge. The solitary road I had been following suddenly split into two equally well-travelled routes. No signs anywhere. Dumbfounded, I chose the road on the right, as it was more westerly and seemed to head in the right direction. I allowed myself to daydream about that logic problem where there is a native who either always lied or always told the truth, and you can only ask one question. I lied to myself and presumed that I had made the correct choice. Afterall, only time will tell. And the funny thing about time is it never stops. The sun was getting lower and I had no idea how much further I had to travel. And so, I could never stop. I was in a race against time and slowly losing. I twisted the throttle more than I was comfortable with to try and catch up. The road forked again. I chose the road the took me into the setting sun, as that was west and had to be the right one.

The road went on to split time after time, and each time I tried to go west. The sun eventually set on me and I would be slowly plunged into darkness. It was a terrifying and absolutely beatiful sunset. Through some astronomical coincidence, the moon and Venus were close to the sun that day and I could use them to navigate. I didn't know if I would ever reach Choix, but at least I was heading west, and away from those hateful mountains. Someday I hope to miss them, but not today.

I have no idea what I've done to be so lucky, but I picked my way through that labyrinth the first try. I rode for 12 hours that day and had covered 110 miles all on the most difficult dirt roads I ever want to see. I later measured the distance on a map and Batopilas and Choix are only seperated by about 40 miles. The road I was on didn't even show on any of my maps. Neither did any of the pueblitos I passed through. I had succeeded in riding solo through no man's land, completely off any map with only the stars to guide me. Unbelievable.

110 miles to go 40. I ended up dropping the bike 4 more times. Somewhere in the Copper Canyon lies my tent, some tire irons and my iPod charger. They bounced off somewhere. I never noticed and I think I'll manage the rest of the trip without them. If fact, I'll probably ship back all of my camping gear to lighten the bike. But that is a concern for after I leave Baja. My only concern now is recuperating.

By the time I finally reached Choix my muscles were screaming at me in agony. The ligaments that hold up my neck were on fire. I felt like I had been beaten for half a day. The most beatiful sight in the world was that of Choix peeking at me through the lowland hills. I can't believe I made it. I can't believe what I had to go through to get there. I can't believe that I was now so very close to seeing my friends in Paradise. I could not wait to be in Punta Pescadero. Now, I had earned it.

I slept like a baby that night in Choix. I laughed myself to sleep at how many times I cheated death on that ride. The problem with pushing the limits that far and actually making it is, you don't really learn your lesson. Somehow, I managed to stay just ahead of the consequences of my actions. It was by far the most adventerous, and definitely the most stupid thing I have ever done.

I woke up at what would normally be the time I would be getting off work and headed downstairs to fill my belly with some wonderful and free breakfast. I had a chat with some Canadiens that were in Creel for the incredible singletracking that it offers to mountain bikers and they began to warn me of the perils I was about to face on the way to Batopilas. Overly steep downhills, tight switchbacks and livestock everywhere. But scenery that did not disappoint. They said they rented a car just for the drive alone and I couldn't wait to witness it firsthand.

After a quick fillup at the Pemex I was underway. The air was crisp, the sky was clear and my heartbeat was quickening. After the last tope I twisted the throttle and got up to a comfortable cruising speed. With darting glances I tried to gather in all that was being presented to me outside of my tight focus on the road. The tarmac was unbelievable. This is what motorcycles dream about when they are put to sleep in the garage at night. A pristine racetrack in the sky. The road cut through towering limestone bluffs and snaked its way perfectly amongst the pine trees in elegant esses. I was in heaven.}

After 40 or so kilometers I was at the turnoff for Batopilas. I left the racetrack onto the dirt road that the XR had been begging for. It was fairly easy going at first as I jogged my muscle memory to automatically guide the bike underneath me. My goal was simple that day: do not drop the bike. 70 kilometers to Batopilas, all on dirt. But I tried not to think about that and cleared my mind for the task at hand. The Scenery was singing its siren song however, begging me to plunge of the edge and come take a closer look.

Remember that Creel sits at 7,000' and I was heading to Batopilas at 1,500'. Only 15 or so kilometers remained and I was still breathing mountain air. Am I on the right road anymore? I figured I should be plunging into the more tropical climate of the valley below by now. And then I rounded a corner I will never forget. I was at the edge of the Earth and my path was taking me down the scariest, most treacherous looking goat trail I had ever seen.

You could probably fry an egg on my brake discs after I managed my way down that verticle wall. I didn't think it was possible to balance the XR at a pace that would bore a snail. In my wildest imaginations I would never presume to force a road down that mountain. Aferall, some things have got to be impossible in this world. Whoever constructed that road is a mysterious magician because I'm still not sure how he got me and my bike down to the bottom.

The rest of the ride pales in comparison the that terrible descent and I made quick time to Batopilas. I cruised down the main street after crossing a rickety wooden bridge. The XR was idling pleasantly causing thumping reverberations off of the local concrete buildings. This in turn caused a wave of turning heads from the local spectators as they followed my progress through the small town. In no time I was on the other side and itching to get out of the Copper Canyon and on my way to see my friends. the road split shortly therafter and I was clueless as how to proceed. Now would be a good time to turn around and break the unwritten male rule of not asking for directions.

It was about 1 o'clock and uniformed school children were out in the street, apparently done for the day. One young lad decided to hold out his hand as I passed, which I instinctually slapped in a friendly high five. This one kid sparked a domino effect that would leave my hand numb and nearly gloveless as every kid in town clamored to high five the motorcycling gringo. Shoutin' hoopin' and hollerin', I was at the center of a one motorcycle parade. It was everything I could do to keep the XR upright and coasting with only my left hand on the grips. What an entrance! And what a memory.

I really need to get a mirror so I have some idea of what I look like when I stop anywhere in Mexico. I arrived at Casa Monse's, the best hostel in Batopilas, to inquire about directions. As I swung open the screen door, the sight of me forced her to rush from her kitchen and escort me to a table. Insisting that I relax and cool down she hit me with a barrage of questions about the usual curiousities. I tried my best to keep up with her and relax at the same time as she forced some fresh squeezed juice. Señora Monse keeps an amazing garder right there in her courtyard and the juice was exquisite. I was soon informed that the next town out of the mountains was over 7 hours away and that I would be staying at Casa Monse's that night. How fortuitous that I turned around. I would never had made it if I had kept going past that fork in the road.

The rest of the afternoon was spent sleeping and reading, trying to recover from the exhausting ride in. Later that afternoon, some Belgians arrived to enjoy the hostel. At dinner they invited me to join them, and the resulting conversations were some of the best examples of why I love to travel. You can never learn more about yourself and your place in the world than by seeing how other cultures and people view themselves and you. We talked at great length about the United States, its leaders, and American culture. I will spare you our political views but I would like to pass on a glimpse of European work ethics. At 38 hours, the Belgians say their work week is over and every minute is logged methodically so that no one exceeds it. They have over 30 paid Federal holidays per year and about 2 weeks of personal holidays that they can choose to take whenever they like. They really can't understand how Americans are productive at all, usually working over an average of 50 hours per week, and with only 2 weeks of normal vacation time to recuperate. I tended to agree with their assesment and think it's a little insane myself.

But I don't have to worry about that again for a few more months!

I wasn't the slight bit nervous this morning as I rolled up to the frontera. I got an early start to avoid the long lines, but little did I know that I would be the only one crossing for a good fifteen minutes. I really expected the bored customs officials to be more inquisitive, but the crossing couldn't have been simpler. Go here, show your passport. Go over there, make some copies. Come back to the start and pay the fee. And away you go! I even think they understood most of my Spanish. As I left the frontera I really began to wonder if I had everything I would need, but if worse came to worse I suppose I'd just have to backtrack and try again.

Navigating through Ojinaga was a breeze as well. Within no time I was whisked away onto the autopista for the 2 hour trip to Ciudad Chihuahua. I was laughing out load to myself at the thought of what I was doing. Here I am in the middle of the Chihuahuan desert on a dusty, overpacked, extremely tiresome dirtbike, and I couldn't be happier. Who does this kind of stuff? Everything is going so well. Everyone I have talked (or tried to talk to) has been nothing but smiles and friendliness. I have felt nothing but safe for the entire distance I've covered so far. And I don't expect things to change.

Once in Chihuahua I though about stopping for lunch, but rather than get myself lost in the rather large city trying to find a taco stand from which I could guard the bike, I pressed on to Cuauhtomec. Again, the same problem presented itself except to furthur complicate things I got myself lost in some back neighborhood looking for the next carraterra. Luckily my usually faulty sense of direction decided to cooperate for once and I soon found myself leaving Cuauhtomec and up into the mountains. By that time I had sufficiently supressed my appetite to the point where I might as well make it to Creel. Ah Creel, where the Casa Margarita hostel provides free homemade dinner and breakfast.

Tomorrow I plan on heading up to Batopilas, some 140kms up the road. The first 40 of which are tarmac, leaving the rest of the trip to be run on dirt. The XR will love me for that. Now, I brought 3 different maps of this region and only one shows the road continuing on out of Batopilas. And that is the one road I need to be there so I can reach Las Mochis and the ferry to Baja. There is a ferry leaving tomorrow night, but the next one doesn't leave until Sunday night. So, if the fates are with me I will find my road (or make one) and be in paradise on Saturday. Otherwise, I will have to backtrack to Hermisillo and my friends in Baja will have to await my arrival on Monday. Regardless of how things turn out tomorrow, I am not in a hurry and I will thoroughly enjoy either route. I hope.

Man, if I had to call it quits right now and head back, I would still think that this has been one of the most rewarding vacations of my life. And it's only been 4 days! My doubts and anxiety have swiftly turned into confidence and sheer excitement. I really felt mentally lost that day I left Austin. I'm so thankful that my friend Jon and another riding buddy, Chuck, decided to join me out to Big Bend. That first day was rough, but we quickly settled into a relaxed pace and took 2 full travel days out to the deserts of west Texas. In the last few days I feel that both the bike and I have been put through the 3 major tests that I was really worried about: Rain, Offroad, and Endurance. After last Monday's downpour, riding over 70 miles of backcountry trails in Big Bend, and over 650 miles overall, I feel a newfound trust developing between me and the XR. There's a slight chance we just might make it.

Riding offroad in Big Bend was simply a thrill. Good clean fun...well, good dirty fun! I really thought the XR would behave like a pig with all that I was forcing it to carry, but after a few dozen miles we began to adapt to each other. Rather than muscling it through deep gravel pockets or over rocky slopes, I found that after awhile the secret was to simply give it a little more throttle and relax my death grip on the bars. In one stretch I twisted the right grip full tilt and was rocketed up to 60mph--at which speed the XR finally felt like it was starting to get happy. This could easily become dangerous, I thought. And then we happened upon a junction between the trail and a drain sluice, wrought with foot deep ruts and soft silty deposits. I tried idling down the steep grade but I apparently target-fixated on a ditch and down I went. Thankfully, I was creeping down at the blistering pace of a snail, so I merely stepped off the bike and laid it over. After expending the greater part of my energy trying to right the beast I then had the pleasure of trying to kick start a flooded big bore single cylinder dirt bike. Out of breath does not describe my respiration pattern. I sounded like an athsmatic at a hay ride. After about 10 minutes of furious kicking the XR roared back to life, which was conveniently the amount of time it took my bruised ego to heal. And away we went into the barren wilderness to set up camp.

I bid farewell to my friends today in the ghost town of Terlingua. I was torn between a sorrowful goodbye and an increasing giddyness towards what lay ahead. The ride solo out to Presidio will probably be one of the most memorable of my life. So many thoughts and feelings, and yet I had to stifle most of them because the road was easily one of the most curvacious pieces of tarmac I've ever encountered. That highway had as many ups and downs as my life has had over the past year. It was as if the XR had led me onto a concrete rollercoaster, on which I was the only person lucky enough to ride. I don't think I passed more than 2 cars in the 60-odd mile jaunt. This was isolation at its finest.

I'm all set for the border crossing tomorrow and I plan to make it to Creel at the mouth of the Canon del Cobre by tomorrow night. As I pulled into the motel earlier today, an overly kind and talkative old man made my acquaintence. I must have been a sight, covered from head to toe in the wonderful dirt and dust of Big Bend, because he immediately offered me a cold beer and ample advice on the next few days. I'm sure he's going to talk my ear off later on, which is fine by me because you just can't research the wealth of information that he's sure to pass on. For now though, I'm off to find my last dinner stateside and let the anticipation build.

It's a little odd to leave on a huge trip and have no one to say goodbye to. No goodbye hugs, no "Good lucks!", no "Be Safes!". Just an empty house to push me towards the unknown. In that respect, at least I'm not leaving much behind. Everything I could want is waiting for me out there in the world.

The bike is prepped, I'm all packed, Panama here I come! There is nothing left to do, but to simply go.

The day of departure is rapidly approaching! I have so much to do, so many loose ends to tie up and no time to do it. At least that's the way it feels. I can't believe how much work, research and planning it's taken to get this far, and at the same time how the last few months have just flown by.

I did a test ride up to Dallas last Tuesday to see my family and just to make sure everything on the bike was the way I wanted it. I have to say, the ride wasn't as bad as I expected it to be. Of course it was buzzy, windy and basically 3 hours of general discomfort, but other than that everything was great. I'm glad I had the chance to give things a whirl, not only because I got to hang out with my family, but because I found a few problems that desperately need to be fixed tomorrow.

The most annoying problem was with the new grips. The morning air had a slight chill that became quite hypothermic at highway speeds. My girly hands began to suffer the arctic barrage. With a conceited grin I flipped the switch to the grip warmers to go ahead and feel them out. 5 minutes later I was holding a branding iron...ahhhhhhhhmmmm, that's nice. Everything was looking up until 5 more minutes passed and the bike begins to decellerate. What the? I grip the throttle tighter and give it a slight twist to bring the bike up to speed. A minute goes by and the bike begins to slow again. Logically, I grip even tighter and twist even more. Now at this point the heat is beginning to singe my palms, which I suppose distracts my keen mind from the fact that the grip warmers are heating up the adhesive inside the grips so they no longer hold. That throttle grip must have made 7-8 full revolutions as I attempted to maintain a constant speed. Before long, I decided to pull over and zip tie that sucker in place. I think tomorrow I'll use safety wire it to secure it in place permanently.

The next annoying problem has to do with the exhaust. The pipe dumps directly onto the license plate holder and after a few hours on the highway the plastic mount resembles a marshmallow in a blast furnace. I'm surprised it didn't catch fire. Also, putting any weight on the fender like a backpack, causes lots of shiny red plastic to be forced onto the scorching hot muffler. A quick stop to Wendy's and a small contribution of aluminum foie served as a quick fix to save the plastic, but I need to fashion some sort of exhaust deflector to prevent furthur melting. Other than those two annoyances, I think everything else will sort itself out in time.

I think my friend Jon is going to ride out to Big Bend with me on Sunday. It will be nice to have some good company on the way out. I'm going to need something to will lessen the shock of leaving everything I know behind and plunging head first into the unknown. I find myself getting dizzy at the prospect of being away for months, not to mention riding a dirtbike over 4,000 miles to the Panama Canal. I have to force myself to take a deep breath, take a step back, and like a member of AA: focus on one day at a time. First stop Big Bend, then the border crossing at Presidio, then Ciudad Chihuahua, then Creel, Batopilas and Las Mochis, catch the ferry at Topolobampo and arrive shortly at La Paz. From there it's 2 hours south to my friends' house in Punta Pescadero. You will probably hear my deep sigh of perfect relaxation as I reach their house and a well deserved 10 days of beach paradise. But that's just the beginning.

After Punta Pescadero the bottomless pit opens up. On November 15th I wave good-bye to the last familiar faces I'll see for months. I'll turn north and ride 500 miles to Ensenada so that I can be there for the start of the Baja 1000 on the 17th. The timing is almost too perfect. I can't travel that far, be that close and not cover a measly 500 miles out of my way to witness that race first hand. After watching "Dust to Glory" I get giddy at the thought of riding my XR on the same course as the legends that endure that race every year.

Right after the race is exactly where my definite plans end. I will leave Ensenada, turn south and not look back until I'm gazing over the Panama Canal. Who knows what's going to find me along the way? I'm not even sure I'll make it, but the adventure is the exact reason I'm going.

My intention is to use this website to keep in touch with family and friends while I'm on my journey. It will also serve as a means to share pictires and my experiences with anybody who comes to this site. We'll see how well it works in the coming months.