Saturday, March 06, 2004
Long Road Home
I am reading the newspaper in the bathtub. A knock at the door and I am ordering breakfast from a menu with pictures of the offerings next to their names- milk shakes, Sunnyside egg meal deals, steaming ruebens. The sign on the train station wall reads- "Stormy weather since you left me." Now I am at the Juarez City, Mexico border crossing. Chiles and garlic locks braided together, hanging around a dirty man's sweay neck, waist and arms.
A sad, clown wearing an exhaust fumes soiled get-up and greasy silver and red make-up approaches and begins to pull a long, orange, silky scarf from my ear. We are laughing at each other for some time before I realize he is mimicking me. My laughing trails off into a self-conscious "Hmmm.." We continue to look at each other for a bit more; am I to pay him? Waddling in even closer to me, he leans into my ear. I smell whiskey, smoke and sweet hooker perfume.
Whispers-"Got a needle in eye, lets go for ride."
I smile with a slight chuckle and nod in agreement like I usually do when I don't understand or care what people are saying to me. But he keeps staring, waiting for me to respond so I shake the smile off- "Come again, mas despacio por favor."
Much slower and clearer this time, "I need you to keep an eye on me so I don't die!"
Chuckle and nod in agreement, "Um.sure man. WAIT, what was that...?"
"Wake up.someone put something in my drink and I am messed up."
I open my eyes to find Jim with wide eyes bracing himself against the top bunk with my earplugs dangling from his thumb.
"What time is it.?" I look around the dorm sleeping quarters to find all the beds filled with heaving lumps. Some are snoring; a real fat lump still has his glasses on and a tattered map lying across his chest.
"It like 5 a.m. Just keep and eye on me, I don't want to die."
Now I am up.
"What the hell?! Let's go to the hospital, I mean, what if you do start dying!"
"I think someone slipped me something, I am seeing double and am sooo tired all of a sudden. I puked most of my last drink up, but I want you to keep an eye on me so, so."
"So you don't die.shit!...Fine."
He leans over and tries to reinsert my earplugs in my nostrils then pulls himself up onto the top bunk. Within seconds I hear the boozy snore of a man that will be sleeping until noon. I pull my legs out of bed, roll a cigarette in the common room and listen to the night doorman snoring on the couch out in the hostel lobby. In two hours Juan Carlos and Mike, our new friends and on/off travel partners through Patagonia will be stopping by on the way out of Ushuaia. We were all supposed to catch the first ferry off Tierra Del Fuego, but it doesn't appear my team will be ready for liftoff come 7 am.
10 am I check on Jim. He is still alive. I wonder if he was drugged by some evil Ushuaian looking to clean him out, or did he hit the sips too hard? I have never seen him wobbling around like he was last night, and he does know better than to wake me up at 5 am without coffee as a peace offering, so I deduce that he was served skunked whiskey at the bar.lots of it. I am all packed from the night before so I take the downtime to read a bit and chat it up with some of the other travelers in the hostel.
"So where are you two crazy motorcyclists headed now?"
"Well, we are making our way south to the tip of South America, Ushuaia."
"Yeah.well, you are here."
I laugh at myself for spouting the canned line I have been reissuing for the past 4.5 months. I guess I better come up with another one soon.
"Heading north now, Buenos Aires, maybe Rio.maybe further."
Soon we are back on the road out of Tierra Del Fuego, moving slowly, cautiously through the valleys, past the crystal blue lakes and durable Patagonian groves. The sun is setting as the crew begins to direct the line of trucks onto the ferry; we are a bit nervous that we will not be able to get aboard as the deck begins to fill. We break ranks and ride up to the front of the cue and manage to slip in between a truck full of sheep and the retractable gate of the ferry door. We are pressed in tight, no room to dismount so we put the bike stands down, pull our jackets over our heads and try to catch a couple of minutes of sleep. I count sheep as there are about 5,000 of them crammed into the perforated 18 wheeler cargo hold directly to my left. Little mouths with grey-brown teeth poke out the holes sucking in the diesel that stifles those of us in the rear quarters. Some of the sheep are already dead. They all look scared and in shock. I offer a hand full of peanuts to one of the little white furry mugs but it pulls back into its cage and stares at me defiantly through a hole. I plop a few nuts in just in case he gets hungry, I am sure they have a long way to go before the reach the end of their journey. Suerte!
Within the hour the ferry is grinding into the sloped concrete dock of the mainland and the crew makes quick to dispatch the cargo. We are the last ones off, but manage to pass all the trucks within a mile or so. It is almost dark, we are hungry and tired and Jim blows his front tire and comes to a thumping stop on the side of the road. 4 more hours to Rio Gallego and our hotel for the night. Without much talk we tie the front of the bike to a tree, remove the tire, pry rubber from rim, squeeze in new oily tube, fill her with air and remount within 10 minutes and roll out. We have become very quick with the tools of the adventure. What might have taken me all day to fix before the trip can now be `made to work' in virtually no time.
The next morning we run into Mike just outside of Rio Gallego eating lunch at a gas station. He got separated from Juan Carlos at the ferry crossing and is now traveling alone. He looks at my riding gear and rightly guesses that I hit the same mega-puddle as he did coming off the isthmus of the island. Indeed it was am abnormally wide and deep puddle, but what made it even more menacing was that as the water began to drip off my windscreen, visor and jacket it left a thick gooey substance like frog eggs or snot. It had since dried and just white and brown stains remain. I continue to tell myself it was just frog eggs and not something more.disgusting.
Mike met a few other riders on the ferry a few hours ahead of the one we caught and was told about a moto party about 1,000 clicks north in Las Herras so he woke early that next morning to make a grand entrance. We decided in the gas station over steaks that we would make a big push and join the festivities, maybe arrive the next afternoon. Now we are three. Riding the interminably long Ruta 3 north that connects the entire eastern coast of Argentina to Buenos Aires.
Mike's 2003 Kawasaki KLR is a beast, very popular with overland travelers due to ease of maintenance, durability and power, but his is very sick. Apparently he did not treat his air filter properly while making the salt water crossing of the Gran Salar so his engine sucked in a ton of dirt and all but destroyed his valves, rings and possibly his pistols and sleeves. All this causes his ride to suddenly loose power, run very lean on gas and burn a quart of oil every 500 miles. We are moving slower than ever now. Generally, when you are trying to cover hundreds and hundreds of miles of flat, straight highway in a short period of time it is much easier when you don't take breaks or rest stops except for when gassing up or catching a bite to eat. Now however we are riding an average of 40 mph and are stopping every 50 kph to let Mike's bike cool down and to monitor his oil consumption.
"Me hates it my precious, me hateses the long and boooring roads."
"I tell you, I thought I had my life all figured out, but after 2 days of this road I feel more at odds with the universe than ever. This sucks."
"Let's cut it short today and hit the penguins at Punto Tombo.will be a nice break."
"I am going to pick one up."
"I am going to punt one."
"I am taking one with me; attach him to my front fender."
Every break by the side of the road our commentary degenerates further. The road is taking its toll.
"I just tried to jerk-off on the bike.I think it is impossible."
"I am gonna sell the bike and never ride again when I get home."
"I KNOW it is possible to jerk it while riding."
The sun fades away much earlier than we are used to this far north. By 8 pm we are riding off into the dusty terrain over and around craggy low-growth to set up camp. We broke open a few box wines over a huge fire than called it a night early so as to be the first at the penguin sanctuary in the morning; hopefully before the buses full of tourists arrived. That night I slept under the stars while Mike pitched his tent just in case it began to rain.
"Holy shit, there is a scorpion under my tent!.He was shiny, black and scary looking.a lot like Darth Vader."
I pull the drawstrings on my sleeping bag so tight that just my mouth and nose are exposed for breathing. I don't think I slept as the sun was up and we were pulling into the Punto Tombo penguin sanctuary before I even rolled 10 feet off the mat of clothes I laid out under my sleeping bag. Usually, I can be found about 50 feet from the camp, or 10 inches from the smoldering fire.
Jim and I had visited other penguin breeding grounds and parks on this trip and we were pretty skeptical about the possibilities to actually get close to them, but as we pulled into a sandy spot at the end of a rocky road and parked we began to hear the screams of our winged, flightless friends. Shortly they were on us. Curious little creatures in black and white began to waddle out of the crab grass and surround us. They would walk over to the bikes, try to crawl under them, fall over and waddle away. We followed a little path through the tall grass past a few watchful males right into the center of the mating grounds.
If we moved slowly they would not become alarmed, allowing us to creep in even closer. Mike made the first attempt. With knees in the dirt and his riding gloves strapped on loosely like a falcon-handler he went for the capture.
"Got the camera ready.this one is my friend."
Slowly he leans into the nervous lil guy and makes the quick snatch. The little black head does a full 180 degree turn and begins to peck at the gloves. Mike gets spooked and drops the 30 pound fatty and begins to hop around like a little kid that exploded a firecracker in hand. We all give it a shot and land a beauty before the tourists and their guides begin to arrive. Time to go. We are but 5 hours of boring tarmac away from the motorcycle gathering so we make tracks with huge, devilish smiles to keep our spirits out of the dumps.
Arriving at the gates of the moto-party we are issued little numbered stickers for admission, and are waved in free of charge due to the impressive distance we traveled to be at the party. We are their guests and they treated us as such.
Riding past the stalls selling switchblades, doo-rags, sweetcakes, brassknuckles and homemade booze, we began to build an entourage.
All the children in the park started to run over and barrage us with the standard questions. I would answer them-
"Estados Unidos.New York.1100cc.5 months.Yes I have heard of George Bush, etc"
Moving slowly through the push of children touching Franky all over; including the muffler and heads (OUCH!) I find the spot where we are to pitch a tent for the weekend. The smoke signals from every BBQ pit in the compound read that the Argentineans are readying themselves for a full on meat fest. They love to cook over an open flam, they do it very well. Before long we have been invited to join 5 different groups of moto-enthusiasts for dinner, we drink a bit with them all, but return to our area to eat with a bunch of guys that rode up from Ushuaia a day ahead of us.
As dusk begins to fall the music starts. It is very loud, but does not even compete with the roars of engines that continue to file into the camp grounds. The party is beginning to heat up. People are good and drunk on wine and stuffed with bife de chorizo, no better time to start the motorcycle races! I predicted that people would die when I heard there was going to be time trials held under flood lights in the adjacent field; most of the people were not racers, and none of them were clear headed. Luckily however the organizers were holding `slowest time' races. 100 meter track, the winner is the last to cross the finish line without putting his foot down. An interesting, if not safer alternative to drunken rally. Jim enters the field with deflated tires and quickly slips to the back of the pack. He is moving very slowly standing on pegs, jerking his front tire back and forth trying to stay upright without actually giving the bike any gas propulsion. 10 feet from the finish line to go and he is the only remaining rider, but, he begins to show off with thumbs up, etc and he looses his snail-crawl momentum and goes down. Disqualified.
The night festivities continue until the morning hours with children still tearing around the campground on little 50cc bikes. Some of them have long since run out of gas, but now they have other children just pushing them around.the party will go on past sun up, and then beyond that. Falling asleep in my dust covered tent I hear an announcement over the loud speaker.
"Xavier Rozas.Xavier Rozas.please get your ass up to the main stage to receive your award!"
I have not the slightest idea why Jim would be on the main stage calling my name, or what I might have won an award for, but I am very tired so I drift off. Yeah, your innocent when you sleep.
The next morning I am up by 10 am wandering around the seemingly abandoned fields. The fires still burn in the pits, plates of carved off grizzle remain on all the tables, wine bottles, and forgotten packs of cigarettes. I down some warm Coke, smoke a butt and fire up the bike to ride into town for some breakfast and coffee. When I return the vendors are busy setting up their stands and Mike and Jim are sitting at a picnic table trying to recall the events of the evening before.
"She dropped the cartilage salad on my lap ordered another then drank all my beer."
"I have never pulled a wheelie while going up stairs before, man we were a menace."
"Where the hell did you go Javi, you missed the biker chicks!?"
"I went to the gym to work out..."
"HEHAhhhaaa."
That night I met the biker chicks and the gang that claims ownership of them and we all got along splendidly. It is difficult to be a menacing biker outlaw when you ride a 250cc tooler with a Harley emblem screwed to its fairing with wood screws, but they gave it a good go nonetheless. Live, ride hard, die- I understand these guys, but decline the offer to ride off with them back to their town for some good ol' fashion hell raising when the festivities conclude. We are off first thing in the morning for Mar Del Plata, the Argentinean equivalent to Palm Beach, not an Argentinean jail.
Loading up the bikes in the morning I am approached by a camera crew that asks to interview me for the Speed Channel, a cable syndicated show that will run in 15 Spanish speaking countries. I agree to the interview and tell them about Call To Fire and Gear-Up and thank all the wonderful people we have met while on the road.I am a sucker for a little self-promotion. I conclude the taping and saddle up to make the coast before the midday catches and cooks us. We have a full days ride before we shed our gear for swim trunks and frosty cocktails on the beach.
Back on the infamous Ruta 3, Jim is practicing his standing-on-seat, bare bottom moon trick, Mike is hunched over his bike listening to the engine as it slowly implodes and I am singing classic rock songs in a baby voice to entertain myself. We ride on, heading north now, Buenos Aires, maybe Rio.maybe further.
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 12:55 PM
A sad, clown wearing an exhaust fumes soiled get-up and greasy silver and red make-up approaches and begins to pull a long, orange, silky scarf from my ear. We are laughing at each other for some time before I realize he is mimicking me. My laughing trails off into a self-conscious "Hmmm.." We continue to look at each other for a bit more; am I to pay him? Waddling in even closer to me, he leans into my ear. I smell whiskey, smoke and sweet hooker perfume.
Whispers-"Got a needle in eye, lets go for ride."
I smile with a slight chuckle and nod in agreement like I usually do when I don't understand or care what people are saying to me. But he keeps staring, waiting for me to respond so I shake the smile off- "Come again, mas despacio por favor."
Much slower and clearer this time, "I need you to keep an eye on me so I don't die!"
Chuckle and nod in agreement, "Um.sure man. WAIT, what was that...?"
"Wake up.someone put something in my drink and I am messed up."
I open my eyes to find Jim with wide eyes bracing himself against the top bunk with my earplugs dangling from his thumb.
"What time is it.?" I look around the dorm sleeping quarters to find all the beds filled with heaving lumps. Some are snoring; a real fat lump still has his glasses on and a tattered map lying across his chest.
"It like 5 a.m. Just keep and eye on me, I don't want to die."
Now I am up.
"What the hell?! Let's go to the hospital, I mean, what if you do start dying!"
"I think someone slipped me something, I am seeing double and am sooo tired all of a sudden. I puked most of my last drink up, but I want you to keep an eye on me so, so."
"So you don't die.shit!...Fine."
He leans over and tries to reinsert my earplugs in my nostrils then pulls himself up onto the top bunk. Within seconds I hear the boozy snore of a man that will be sleeping until noon. I pull my legs out of bed, roll a cigarette in the common room and listen to the night doorman snoring on the couch out in the hostel lobby. In two hours Juan Carlos and Mike, our new friends and on/off travel partners through Patagonia will be stopping by on the way out of Ushuaia. We were all supposed to catch the first ferry off Tierra Del Fuego, but it doesn't appear my team will be ready for liftoff come 7 am.
10 am I check on Jim. He is still alive. I wonder if he was drugged by some evil Ushuaian looking to clean him out, or did he hit the sips too hard? I have never seen him wobbling around like he was last night, and he does know better than to wake me up at 5 am without coffee as a peace offering, so I deduce that he was served skunked whiskey at the bar.lots of it. I am all packed from the night before so I take the downtime to read a bit and chat it up with some of the other travelers in the hostel.
"So where are you two crazy motorcyclists headed now?"
"Well, we are making our way south to the tip of South America, Ushuaia."
"Yeah.well, you are here."
I laugh at myself for spouting the canned line I have been reissuing for the past 4.5 months. I guess I better come up with another one soon.
"Heading north now, Buenos Aires, maybe Rio.maybe further."
Soon we are back on the road out of Tierra Del Fuego, moving slowly, cautiously through the valleys, past the crystal blue lakes and durable Patagonian groves. The sun is setting as the crew begins to direct the line of trucks onto the ferry; we are a bit nervous that we will not be able to get aboard as the deck begins to fill. We break ranks and ride up to the front of the cue and manage to slip in between a truck full of sheep and the retractable gate of the ferry door. We are pressed in tight, no room to dismount so we put the bike stands down, pull our jackets over our heads and try to catch a couple of minutes of sleep. I count sheep as there are about 5,000 of them crammed into the perforated 18 wheeler cargo hold directly to my left. Little mouths with grey-brown teeth poke out the holes sucking in the diesel that stifles those of us in the rear quarters. Some of the sheep are already dead. They all look scared and in shock. I offer a hand full of peanuts to one of the little white furry mugs but it pulls back into its cage and stares at me defiantly through a hole. I plop a few nuts in just in case he gets hungry, I am sure they have a long way to go before the reach the end of their journey. Suerte!
Within the hour the ferry is grinding into the sloped concrete dock of the mainland and the crew makes quick to dispatch the cargo. We are the last ones off, but manage to pass all the trucks within a mile or so. It is almost dark, we are hungry and tired and Jim blows his front tire and comes to a thumping stop on the side of the road. 4 more hours to Rio Gallego and our hotel for the night. Without much talk we tie the front of the bike to a tree, remove the tire, pry rubber from rim, squeeze in new oily tube, fill her with air and remount within 10 minutes and roll out. We have become very quick with the tools of the adventure. What might have taken me all day to fix before the trip can now be `made to work' in virtually no time.
The next morning we run into Mike just outside of Rio Gallego eating lunch at a gas station. He got separated from Juan Carlos at the ferry crossing and is now traveling alone. He looks at my riding gear and rightly guesses that I hit the same mega-puddle as he did coming off the isthmus of the island. Indeed it was am abnormally wide and deep puddle, but what made it even more menacing was that as the water began to drip off my windscreen, visor and jacket it left a thick gooey substance like frog eggs or snot. It had since dried and just white and brown stains remain. I continue to tell myself it was just frog eggs and not something more.disgusting.
Mike met a few other riders on the ferry a few hours ahead of the one we caught and was told about a moto party about 1,000 clicks north in Las Herras so he woke early that next morning to make a grand entrance. We decided in the gas station over steaks that we would make a big push and join the festivities, maybe arrive the next afternoon. Now we are three. Riding the interminably long Ruta 3 north that connects the entire eastern coast of Argentina to Buenos Aires.
Mike's 2003 Kawasaki KLR is a beast, very popular with overland travelers due to ease of maintenance, durability and power, but his is very sick. Apparently he did not treat his air filter properly while making the salt water crossing of the Gran Salar so his engine sucked in a ton of dirt and all but destroyed his valves, rings and possibly his pistols and sleeves. All this causes his ride to suddenly loose power, run very lean on gas and burn a quart of oil every 500 miles. We are moving slower than ever now. Generally, when you are trying to cover hundreds and hundreds of miles of flat, straight highway in a short period of time it is much easier when you don't take breaks or rest stops except for when gassing up or catching a bite to eat. Now however we are riding an average of 40 mph and are stopping every 50 kph to let Mike's bike cool down and to monitor his oil consumption.
"Me hates it my precious, me hateses the long and boooring roads."
"I tell you, I thought I had my life all figured out, but after 2 days of this road I feel more at odds with the universe than ever. This sucks."
"Let's cut it short today and hit the penguins at Punto Tombo.will be a nice break."
"I am going to pick one up."
"I am going to punt one."
"I am taking one with me; attach him to my front fender."
Every break by the side of the road our commentary degenerates further. The road is taking its toll.
"I just tried to jerk-off on the bike.I think it is impossible."
"I am gonna sell the bike and never ride again when I get home."
"I KNOW it is possible to jerk it while riding."
The sun fades away much earlier than we are used to this far north. By 8 pm we are riding off into the dusty terrain over and around craggy low-growth to set up camp. We broke open a few box wines over a huge fire than called it a night early so as to be the first at the penguin sanctuary in the morning; hopefully before the buses full of tourists arrived. That night I slept under the stars while Mike pitched his tent just in case it began to rain.
"Holy shit, there is a scorpion under my tent!.He was shiny, black and scary looking.a lot like Darth Vader."
I pull the drawstrings on my sleeping bag so tight that just my mouth and nose are exposed for breathing. I don't think I slept as the sun was up and we were pulling into the Punto Tombo penguin sanctuary before I even rolled 10 feet off the mat of clothes I laid out under my sleeping bag. Usually, I can be found about 50 feet from the camp, or 10 inches from the smoldering fire.
Jim and I had visited other penguin breeding grounds and parks on this trip and we were pretty skeptical about the possibilities to actually get close to them, but as we pulled into a sandy spot at the end of a rocky road and parked we began to hear the screams of our winged, flightless friends. Shortly they were on us. Curious little creatures in black and white began to waddle out of the crab grass and surround us. They would walk over to the bikes, try to crawl under them, fall over and waddle away. We followed a little path through the tall grass past a few watchful males right into the center of the mating grounds.
If we moved slowly they would not become alarmed, allowing us to creep in even closer. Mike made the first attempt. With knees in the dirt and his riding gloves strapped on loosely like a falcon-handler he went for the capture.
"Got the camera ready.this one is my friend."
Slowly he leans into the nervous lil guy and makes the quick snatch. The little black head does a full 180 degree turn and begins to peck at the gloves. Mike gets spooked and drops the 30 pound fatty and begins to hop around like a little kid that exploded a firecracker in hand. We all give it a shot and land a beauty before the tourists and their guides begin to arrive. Time to go. We are but 5 hours of boring tarmac away from the motorcycle gathering so we make tracks with huge, devilish smiles to keep our spirits out of the dumps.
Arriving at the gates of the moto-party we are issued little numbered stickers for admission, and are waved in free of charge due to the impressive distance we traveled to be at the party. We are their guests and they treated us as such.
Riding past the stalls selling switchblades, doo-rags, sweetcakes, brassknuckles and homemade booze, we began to build an entourage.
All the children in the park started to run over and barrage us with the standard questions. I would answer them-
"Estados Unidos.New York.1100cc.5 months.Yes I have heard of George Bush, etc"
Moving slowly through the push of children touching Franky all over; including the muffler and heads (OUCH!) I find the spot where we are to pitch a tent for the weekend. The smoke signals from every BBQ pit in the compound read that the Argentineans are readying themselves for a full on meat fest. They love to cook over an open flam, they do it very well. Before long we have been invited to join 5 different groups of moto-enthusiasts for dinner, we drink a bit with them all, but return to our area to eat with a bunch of guys that rode up from Ushuaia a day ahead of us.
As dusk begins to fall the music starts. It is very loud, but does not even compete with the roars of engines that continue to file into the camp grounds. The party is beginning to heat up. People are good and drunk on wine and stuffed with bife de chorizo, no better time to start the motorcycle races! I predicted that people would die when I heard there was going to be time trials held under flood lights in the adjacent field; most of the people were not racers, and none of them were clear headed. Luckily however the organizers were holding `slowest time' races. 100 meter track, the winner is the last to cross the finish line without putting his foot down. An interesting, if not safer alternative to drunken rally. Jim enters the field with deflated tires and quickly slips to the back of the pack. He is moving very slowly standing on pegs, jerking his front tire back and forth trying to stay upright without actually giving the bike any gas propulsion. 10 feet from the finish line to go and he is the only remaining rider, but, he begins to show off with thumbs up, etc and he looses his snail-crawl momentum and goes down. Disqualified.
The night festivities continue until the morning hours with children still tearing around the campground on little 50cc bikes. Some of them have long since run out of gas, but now they have other children just pushing them around.the party will go on past sun up, and then beyond that. Falling asleep in my dust covered tent I hear an announcement over the loud speaker.
"Xavier Rozas.Xavier Rozas.please get your ass up to the main stage to receive your award!"
I have not the slightest idea why Jim would be on the main stage calling my name, or what I might have won an award for, but I am very tired so I drift off. Yeah, your innocent when you sleep.
The next morning I am up by 10 am wandering around the seemingly abandoned fields. The fires still burn in the pits, plates of carved off grizzle remain on all the tables, wine bottles, and forgotten packs of cigarettes. I down some warm Coke, smoke a butt and fire up the bike to ride into town for some breakfast and coffee. When I return the vendors are busy setting up their stands and Mike and Jim are sitting at a picnic table trying to recall the events of the evening before.
"She dropped the cartilage salad on my lap ordered another then drank all my beer."
"I have never pulled a wheelie while going up stairs before, man we were a menace."
"Where the hell did you go Javi, you missed the biker chicks!?"
"I went to the gym to work out..."
"HEHAhhhaaa."
That night I met the biker chicks and the gang that claims ownership of them and we all got along splendidly. It is difficult to be a menacing biker outlaw when you ride a 250cc tooler with a Harley emblem screwed to its fairing with wood screws, but they gave it a good go nonetheless. Live, ride hard, die- I understand these guys, but decline the offer to ride off with them back to their town for some good ol' fashion hell raising when the festivities conclude. We are off first thing in the morning for Mar Del Plata, the Argentinean equivalent to Palm Beach, not an Argentinean jail.
Loading up the bikes in the morning I am approached by a camera crew that asks to interview me for the Speed Channel, a cable syndicated show that will run in 15 Spanish speaking countries. I agree to the interview and tell them about Call To Fire and Gear-Up and thank all the wonderful people we have met while on the road.I am a sucker for a little self-promotion. I conclude the taping and saddle up to make the coast before the midday catches and cooks us. We have a full days ride before we shed our gear for swim trunks and frosty cocktails on the beach.
Back on the infamous Ruta 3, Jim is practicing his standing-on-seat, bare bottom moon trick, Mike is hunched over his bike listening to the engine as it slowly implodes and I am singing classic rock songs in a baby voice to entertain myself. We ride on, heading north now, Buenos Aires, maybe Rio.maybe further.
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 12:55 PM
