The Road to Home

NOTE: I don't really feel like reposting photos or videos, so if you're interested in that here is the link. Do not worry, it is a public album so you don't need an account.
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.835480887688.2181741.24701237&type=1&l=8d5b26fb2d
Also, in the description of some of the photos, there is a link to some of the riding videos.

My life was about to take a change of course. I had failed in my restaurant venture in Tampa. I had to make a decision on where I should head from there. After much debate, and weighing all the factors, going back to Quito (Ecuador) was the best option. But having lived in Florida the past ten years, that choice was a bit bitter to accept. I needed something to help click on that restart button in life. I then decided that flying would be too mundane. I thought of making it into a road trip, but taking a car would be just vulgar. I then thought of a motorcycle, and soon after, I was contaminated with the idea. This was back in January 2012.
The problem was that I didn’t have a motorcycle, or knew anything about them, and there was that minor detail that I didn’t know how to ride a bike. Regardless, I started looking for a motorcycle for under $3000 - my budget for it.

By March I found my bike, a 1979 Kawasaki KZ1000E1 on Ebay. I took a course to get my bike license... I was well on the way for a journey that would take me from Tampa, FL to Denver, CO, then onto San Francisco, CA, down to Mexico DF, Mexico, and all the way to San Jose, Costa Rica.

Before I continue onto describing my bike I want to let you know that this article is in no means a good source for travelling information or anything else. I am merely sharing my experience and expressing my opinions. As such, please do not take any part of what I write personally (Guatemala).

The KZ1000 Shaft is a four cylinder, one 1000cc bike. In its heydays it produced 93 hp and it had a top speed of 135 mph. The E1 model was particularly different because it was built with tubeless tires, a shaft drive, and thick axle forks - this all meant less maintenance and better ability to cover longer distance abuse. Within the family tree of bikes, this model is the one that would give birth to the super sports bikes and sport touring bikes. But no matter how you put it, it was a thirty two year old bike.

When the bike was loaded with all my garbage, it weighed approximately 320 kg (705 pounds). I weight 68 kg (150 pounds), meaning I was dealing with a lot of machine especially since the bike’s center of gravity was so high up. A Harley Davidson can weigh more than 320 kg with just the bike alone, but due to this center of gravity, my bike felt much heavier. When the bike was leaning too far to the left when parked (the foot peg lies on the rest on all bikes), I would have to mount the bike almost running towards it just to get enough momentum to get it standing straight.

Anyways, I didn’t really put much time into preparation for this trip. I put all my efforts into finishing my book, and after that I was busy sorting out ten years worth of stuff. The remaining last days I had, I spent them hanging out with my friends. As far as preparation for my travels: I sent the bike to a shop to get all the fluids checked and any other mechanical issues it may have; I got some maps - no gps; got some spares; and made sure my bags would be securely tied to my motorcycle. I didn’t do much research on the border crossings for each country; hell, I didn’t even have a route set, only specific stops. I simply had set a date when I should leave and that was that.

United States of America

My lack of preparation would show on the first day of my trip. Well, I didn’t leave on time. I took too long getting the bike ready - I woke up late that day. By the time I was done saying goodbye to everyone I could, it was almost nine o’clock at night. A friend gifted me his extra riding jacket, and thank fuck for that. I was about to get on this endless road without the better gear.

I was late, I had to make it to Locust Grove, GA -an hour south of Atlanta. My friend was waiting for me. To make things more fun, it had started raining right before I hit the I-75 to Atlanta. No problem, first time I would test out my rain gear. I hit the ramp north onto the highway off from Fletcher Ave, and I was off; no more home for me for a while.

There are a couple of things that the KZ1000 was known for: it used to have electrical problems - I had to replace the alternator stator and regulator as soon as I bought the bike; the bike was not the best in handling compared to its competition; and lastly, the chassis of the bike was not designed to handle a 1000 cc engine - the vibration on the bike can be brutal at high RPMs, and with extended riding that vibration can turn exhausting.

Since I was late, I thought I should hit the 80 mph average  so that I would make it in good time - meaning I’d sometimes go faster than 90 mph at times. Within thirty minutes, the vibration on the engine was taking a toll on my feet. In retrospective, that was quite strange, since I was used to doing that while cruising around the city. A stiff throttle handle bar wasn’t helping either. The recent tropical storm had allowed water to get into some parts of the bike. One of them being the throttle cable. Damn thing was so stiff that first night (because I didn’t think of stopping and shooting some WD40) I was forced to slow down and go 50 mph.
I remember the first stop I made after the first two hours of riding. When I got out, my legs felt rubbery. My hands were shaking, and my right wrist was getting sore. I was exhausted. I had ridden the first 140 miles of my 10k+ ride. That night I had 300 more miles to go, and I was already done.

Oh bother, I just had to muscle through the next six hours to make it to my destination. At one point before entering Georgia, I looked up. I saw the stars, and it was terrifying. It made me realize I was alone in the dark, completely exposed to the environment, with only my bike to hold on to. It was awesome. I gotta say though, the landscape on the  I-75 route in Georgia really sucks. As soon as I crossed the border from Florida; I was bombarded with countless of ads for lodging and fast food joints. Throughout my journey, this was the only place with such an extended ride of billboard after billboard of ads.

I finally made it to my friend’s place after getting lost outside of the highway exit. I stayed there an extra day just to hang out with him. I had not seen the guy in six years - in fact, most of the people I would meet while on this trip I had not seen for quite some time.  I was already tired, and my shoulder was starting to hurt.

My next stop was in Birmingham, AL to visit another friend. I got lost twice. I wanted to avoid passing through Atlanta out of fear of traffic, so I had decided to take the backroads. Somehow I managed to find the I-20 west. I got lost the second time inside of Birmingham. I managed to find my friend’s place right before a flash storm. Yes, I already regretted the decision not to take a GPS with me. I would have stayed there longer, but I had come to realize that I had to cover some more ground that night if I wanted to make it to Denver, CO by friday (I got to Alabama on a tuesday). That same night, I took off once again, and by 2am I made my way into West Memphis, Arkansas.

I covered another 420+ miles on my second day of riding. There is something about this kind of adventure motorcycle riding that you need to know. When you set about on this kind of journey, you need to pace yourself, something I was not doing. After a while, your body starts getting fatigued. The next day I covered even more miles, not smart.

I left West Memphis at around 11 am. By the time I arrived near Colby, Kansas it was around 9am; I was starting to swerve into the roadside. That day I had covered almost 900 miles. Why in the blue of all hells did I travel such a ridiculous amount of distance in one leg? Simple, I wanted to see how far I could push myself. That, and I had gotten lost. It was already night time. I was in Tulsa, Oklahoma when the road that led to the I-35 was blocked. When I took the detour, I found myself heading north instead of west. It didn’t bother me, I had to go north anyways. I trusted by brilliant navigating skills, and I chose to take another highway to hit into the interstate. Somewhere along the road, I read the signs wrong. I ended up riding through a trailer park town, and then into some farm-field roads. Fucking scary. It was the first time I almost ran over hares. It was so dark I could not see past the headlights - mind you, the lights on my bike are not as good as you would have in a car. In the end, I rode almost in a circle because of that detour. I was scared, and I was running low on gas. Somehow I managed to get onto the I-35 after riding through some very small towns (in the south of Kansas). The kind of places you see when you see scary movies.

It is said that riding on a bike is four times more demanding than in a car. Mentally, you have to pay much more attention to your surroundings. Your body is completely exposed to the environment, so you’re constantly battling the wind. Even the noise of the wind and the engine tire you out. There is little room for adjusting your body as you ride through. All these things add up, especially when you put many hours into the equation.

I’ll put myself as an example. I do not claim to have much skills for anything. But if I was to pick, I’d say I have the ability to drive for hours better than the average. Some years prior I had made a road trip to New York City by myself. I went as far up to Boston, MA. On the way back to Tampa, I decided to make it in one go. I did not stop except to put gas and take a piss. It was a 1300+ mile trip that took me 22 hours - I got pulled over for a speeding ticket in South Carolina. Like I said, I did not make any unnecessary stops. I ate in the car. And by the time I was done, I wasn’t delirious. Contrast with that day in the bike. I made countless of stops. I did not cover as much ground. I was in complete pain when I finished, and by the end, I was putting myself at risk to getting myself into an accident.

I set off to Denver, CO early morning the next day - i stayed in that hotel for about 20 hours. Boy, did I not want to leave that room. I was headed to a mechanic shop specializing in old bikes like mine to get the maintenance it needed (i.e. oil, tires).

This is where travelling on a bike cannot be bested. No, I am not talking about maintenance. It is that same feeling of being exposed to the world - where one mistake can lead to death - that while scary, it is just beautiful. The way the landscape hits all of your senses can only be experienced by being there. I took pictures and videos throughout my journey, but none of that can make justice to the actual moment of feeling the wind hitting all of your body. So much beauty, but that was also the problem. I was experiencing all of these alien places, and I could enjoy it all, but I could not share it with anyone. That is one of the biggest drawbacks of travelling solo. Those who know me, know that I love, crave, being alone, but even for me the solitude was getting too much.

During my visit to this mechanic shop in Denver, two mexican technicians told me that if I was going to California, when I headed to Mexico, I should do it through the Baja California. I could then take a ferry to the continental side. This way, I could avoid the more dangerous roads, and the horrible heat of Death Valley. Also, they let me know that my bike required me to put a liter of oil every 600 miles because of the constant leak (it was an old bike).

That same day I headed to Estes Park, CO; one hour north of Denver. This is where my 10 year high school reunion was taking place. Estes Park for those that do not know, is a beautiful place, and one of those areas where bikers love to go to because the carving road is just too beautiful. But I did not care about the landscape really. I had been looking forward to seeing the faces of people I had not seen the past 10 years. It was awesome, but it was just too short. We stayed there from friday noon, and left sunday early afternoon, lame.

Seeing the people I had spent my high school years with once again was quite a trip. It felt like travelling back in time. Some would agree with me that the feeling of the class as a whole did not change one bit. Except that some of the classmates had kids, and most turned slightly more alcoholic.

I left that sunday afternoon. It was freaking raining, and at some point the side wind was making me ride at an angle -normal stuff. Also, I would later find out that I made some of my old classmates get lost with me when I took the wrong turn, and they decided to follow me. They seem to have forgotten that I am Asian.
That night I didn’t ride far, it was quite cold. I ended up in Glenwood Springs, CO. I didn’t know they had hot springs there. No, I did not go bathe there. Just being alone was quite discouraging for me to partake in activities other than riding and lodging. I guess I am not too much of an adventurer. Gotta say, the ride through the Glenwood Canyon was just incredible. I’d go back to ride that area again if I could.

I took off the next day at around 11 am. I rode through the whole day without much trouble following the I-70W. The landscape in Utah was just breathtaking. There is something about riding through deserts that has a mesmerizing charm to it. As dusk as nearing, I reached Delta, Utah which is located at the easternmost point of highway US-50. I could have stayed there, I should have. But as I checked the map, the border to Nevada was 70 miles away; just an hour.

The US-50 hwy is known as the loneliest highway in the United States. With good reason, each town on this road is 70 miles apart, there isn’t a single population or gas station in between. The road crosses through the Nevada desert, and it goes over the Rockies to altitudes as high as 10,000 feet. It is one of those roads that represent a driving/riding utopia due to the eternal straight roads and the sharp twists, and you barely ever see any other vehicles. The landscape of salt flats make it quite a unique place to be. Just that, I didn’t get to enjoy it because I ended up riding it at night!

It took me nearly two hours to get to the border with Nevada. I arrived at a gas station with a motel attached to it. I should have stayed there, but I checked my map and I saw that the next town was some 40 miles away. When I arrived to Ely, Nevada it was close to 10 pm Pacific time - meaning I had been 12 hours out on the road already. Some 15 lodging places were fully booked. I was forced to ride it out to the next town. That one was dead, and so was the next one. It was close to 4 am when I found myself starting to enter into hypothermia. I had to constantly stop to let my body get back on temperature. The wind chill was devastating. At some points I felt once again that I was riding into the side. I almost ran over coyotes, hares, mice, toads, and even an eagle.

I found a street lamp ahead - there are no street lights on the US-50 outside of towns. I decided to stop there no matter what. It turned out to be a convenience store lying in the middle of nowhere. I got on the deck, used my boots as a pillow, and decided to snooze off.

I woke up an hour and a half later, at 6am. Drowsy, I set back on the road only to stop a little later to let my body get some heat from the sun, and took another nap. I was swirving. Soon after, I set back on my journey. This time I was stopped by my own bike. The front breaks decided to fully lock on me - an existing issue that I'll address shortly. While I was trying to figure out what to do, a gentleman on a Harley stopped to help me. He was on his way to work at some military area. He tried to help, but there was not much to do. Lucky me, the brakes loosened up enough for me to keep going. That same gentleman told me I should hit a bike shop in Fallon, NV which was not too far away. That day ended with me getting into a hotel in Reno at around 1 pm.

Ok, the front brakes on my bike had been a recurring nightmare throughout my journey. Before I set on the trip, every now and then the front brakes would be locked. I didn't think much of it since all I had to do was move the bike back and forth, sometimes I had to make the bike bounce. It was not easy for me to tell at the time that it would become such a big issue. The first time I had this problem was on my way to Denver. I was speeding through the I-70 when my back started to lose power. I thought it was because of the altiture. It happened again soon after I left the mechanic shop on my way to Estes Park where my bike decided to stall in the middle of the highway with massive traffic all around me. Again, I thought it was the altiture. It was not until Fallon, NV where it was brought up to me that somebody messed up with the fluids, at least that was the theory. I took my bike to a shop in Los Angeles, CA. There they told me that the problem was the master cylinder. What happened was that the fluid was allowed into the brake calipers, but since the damn cylinder was a mess, it would not allow any back, causing to let pressure build up on my brakes. Well, after that last visit to that shop,  I didn't have problems with my brakes locking up anymore. Instead, I had a new one. The rubber thing (diaphragm) that covered the master cylinder container was old, so it didn't offer a proper seal anymore. From there on, until the end of my journey, I would be riding with a leaking front brake.

Anyways, I continued on with my journey. Not a whole lot to say about California really. I stayed in San Francisco for a couple of days, I would then head to Los Angeles where I would try to make my final preparations. I looked around for some spares, but no avail. It's one of those handicaps for riding an old bike, everything would have to be purchased online. Then I headed to San Diego.
Mexico

Crossing the border with Mexico was not hard at all. I just went from the I-5 to the border. I felt some weight on my chest though  - on the emotional sense. Whenever you want to feel cultural differences, cross the US and Mexican border. You will feel the change immediately. As soon as you pass the border patrol, you are immersed in this cultural shock that is Tijuana. All of a sudden, cars start getting on your lane without warning. Everything is written in spanish, there were military checks, and you know you just left your own comfort zone.

Anywho, I made my way south to La Paz, Baja California Sur, Mexico. I would soon find out that the way I crossed into Mexico was done ilegally. It was my third day in Baja. Although I was enjoying the incredible views and the amazing road, the pain in the back of my shoulder was getting a lot more attention. I arrived at a port town on the gulf side of the peninsula called Santa Rosalia. I saw that they had a ferry service towards the continental side. I found out that there was room for me, so I bought a ticket.

Everything was fine until the customs agent came to check my stuff. He asked me for my tourist card and the permit for my bike. I was stunned. I had no idea what he was talking about. Well, it just so happens that when I was at the border I should have reported myself at immigration and customs. Well, this customs agent was willing to help me. He would let me go on the ferry without permit as long as I reported myself on the other side, but he required me to at least have my passport cleared. Though it was a sunday, he called the immigration people (yes, customs and immigration tend to be separate). Here comes in this drunk guy with bloodshut eyes slurring his words. This guy calls his captain. I get to speak with them and they said they'd help me, but that they would be charging me 1500 pesos (roughly 130 usd). I just agreed, I had been waiting for this ferry the whole day, and I just wanted to rest.

I went back to where my bike was, the customs agent asked me how everything went. I didn't think much and I told the guy I had paid 1500 pesos. Well, the agent wasn't happy about that. So he decides to make a call, who happened to be the same captain that was 'helping' me. Long story short, the captain decides to take my little tourist card away. He said the next day I would have to go through the proper process. I tried explaining that I didn't give a shit, and that I just wanted to get through, he didn't give a damn at that point. So in the end, the customs agent who was so willing to help ended up screwing me over (I had told him to let it be). Ah well, since I didn't want to deal with the same immigration people I decided to just keep going south, to La Paz.

I wasn't feeling calm that night at all after the events happened. I kept thinking this immigration guy was going to screw me over since he had copies of my documents. It was 8:30 pm. I decided I should just rush to La Paz, by morning time I would make it to the ferry so I could get out of the peninsular leg.
Now, I don't really care much for taking pictures - I personally prefer to take mementos with me. But since my friends had requested me to do so, I decided I should. I was going downhill when I saw the moon lighting up the ocean on this small bay that had a tiny mount of land in the middle. The way the light was hitting the clouds, and seeing how everything was rather bright for night time I decided I should stop to take a picture. I saw a resting area next to the road. I tried getting in, but I went in a little too fast. The ground was made up of sand and large loose stones. I tried keeping under control while slowing down, but it was just too much. I ended up dropping the bike.

Unlike other times I had this kind of incident; this time the bike was lying completely sideways (the tires were not touching the ground). On top of that I had the added weight of all my luggage. Also, gas was dripping.  I tried lifting the bike a couple of times without getting burnt by the engine, but to no avail. I was starting to lose wind. I then grabbed on to the handlebars, and somehow I got the wheels touching the loose sand. I then managed to get it back up. I do not know how. Oh, the picture... it came out too dark.
I kept going, and by 2am I was tired. I tried to take a nap on this long bridge with good clearance on the emergency roadside. I thought it was the best spot since it would keep me away from ground threats, like snakes.  I lay there for an hour and a half and I could not get to sleep so I decided to keep pushing. Two kilometers away from where I laid down there was a military post. They asked what in the hell I was doing.
4:30am and now I was really feeling it. I got to a gas station in Villa Insurgentes. I pumped some gas, and asked the guy if I could rest on a bench, he said yes. I passed out until 6am when the convenience store opened, and the lights hit my eyes.

I kept going, this time I was taking more rest stops. At one point I decided to make a stop. The ground seemed fine, but it turned out to be all sand. I tried revving my ass out of there, but to no avail. I got stuck. My KZ was definitely not made to run anywhere outside of tarmac.

Luckily, there was a truck driver that was getting into the highway. He came to me, and he offered his help without me asking. He pushed me out, and I was good to go once again...

Well, I got to La Paz ferry station, which was quite far from the city. They sent me back to immigration. There I had to go through the paper work, and to make it short, I did not get the tourist card until the next day. I was so done by then, I just didn't give a damn.

I got lucky once again. The ferry to Mazatlan was fully booked, so I had resigned to taking the other ferry to Motolobampo, but the latter represented more ground that I'd have to cover. The lady at the counter though, said that there was room for me on the ferry to Mazatlan if I left on thursday. So, I just decided to chill in La Paz for a couple of days where I ate the most delicious tamale ever for just 11 pesos (about 0.8 usd).
I have to mention, before I left on that ferry boat, I decided to take a ride to the Pacific side of the peninsula. La Paz is pretty and all, but there wasn't much for me to do. The beach there is dead calm; which is nice, but I prefer it when there are waves. The reason why I mention this side trip is because I got stuck once again, twice.

There were no paved roads towards the beach on the pacific side, instead I had to get in some sandy roads where my back tire would keep slipping. It was at one point when I stopped to ask how I could get to the beach. He said "turn left when you exit the complex, and then another left." Well, I took that first left a little too early, and I found myself on a rain trap, just that this one was made out sand.

I saw what could have been an exit, but it was a bit too steep. I thought that if I revved hard enough I could make it. Wrong.

I looked around in the fucking heat for some help. The area that I was in had a bunch of foreigners, but nobody seemed to have a rope. Then this gentleman said he'd help. After a number of tries, he got be out of the place I was stuck in, but I was still inside that rain trap. I rode around and saw what could have been an exit. Wrong again.

I am getting exhausted from the heat at this point. The guy who had initially helped me was gone. I saw another guy walking my way, and he offered to help. Every attempt he made - I had to sit down for a moment - failed, but he kept at it. Then the first guy who helped me came back and saw me in a predicament once again. He called out his neighbor that was passing by, and they got me out, at last.

I couldn't do much to show my appreciation. All I could do is take the helping guy number two to his house. There, he offered me some water, let me rest, and I was out of there.

Before I went back to La Paz though, I did make sure I got to lay on the beach for a moment; took a picture; and got in the water. I didn't swim for more than five minutes though, I had to get back.
If you haven't got in a ferry, you should. It's a unique experience. The one I was in could hold well over thirty trailer trucks, so it was massive. And there I was with my tiny motorcycle. The loading process was definitely not fun. It took almost the whole day where I was trying to get some shadow away from the blazing sun, but a one of a kind experience for most.  Once again, it was a pity I was alone.

Once I arrived to the Mazatlan port I was off. It took me two days to get to Mexico City where my aunt lives. The bigger shocker for me here was the toll fees in the Mexico highways. There were none in the Baja California area, but the continental side is different. I paid more in tolls than I spent on gas. I think I ended up paying more than 200 usd in toll fees by the time I left the country.

I spent the next eleven days in Mexico City with my extended family, getting to know how their lives are there. I also found myself debating about ending the trip there. My shoulder was killing me, the bike was starting to give me more problems - when I arrived to Mexico City my front brakes decided to be absent; not fun in traffic, and I just didn't see the point anymore. I had nothing to prove to anyone. I loved riding the bike through all these places I had never been to thus far. But I never really liked travelling, and I knew that from the get go.

Really, I prefer to stay in one place, and as long as the internet is good, I'm home. I really disliked the daily process of tying my luggage on my back to later on take it off once again to stay at a hotel. So why  commit to a journey like this? Just cause, to see if I could. I always wanted to make a journey like this, but I didn't really care if I never did it. I just don't have that adventurer spirit in me. I mean, I hate people. But maybe it was just the fact that it was a solo trip. I needed to clear my head from Tampa and the things that I was leaving behind on this new stage in life, so it all tied in perfectly. Besides, I just love riding.
At some point I was about to make my decision to take a plane home from Mexico; a friend (Derek) gave me some words via Facebook. He said, and I paraphrase the quote he picked, "you never know what's behind the horizon unless you go there". That bastard, he was right. I had to make an extra push. I had to make it to my final predetermined pitstop in Costa Rica, and I had to find out about crossing the borders in Central America.

Leaving Mexico DF was... Fuck! That's the best way to describe the traffic of that massive city. My damn left hand was hurting fifteen minutes rollling in that traffic. Getting lost didn't help either.

Once I left the populated area though, I was reminded why I was in this trip in the first place. Because I love riding. That alone was reason enough for me to keep going. The empty road and the bike, nothing else comes closer to representing true freedom (except for good sex of course). Riding on an empty road didn't last for long though. Traffic caught up with me.

I had left the Mexico City a bit late, so I decided to ride some during the night to cover some ground. At some point passing Puebla, towards Cordoba I found myself riding along trailer trucks on a windy road down hill. The smell of burnt break pads invaded my nostrils on every turn. I then saw that a cloud was touching the ground ahead. I was about to ride through some thick fog. So, here I am, riding along some speeding trucks (they were going between 60-70 mph) going downhill with sharp turns through some fog on a two lane highway fearing for my life at every instance. It was awesome. What an amazing experience really, this is what riding is all about.

It took me two more days to reach to the border with Guatemala. Not much else really happened, except that I nearly killed myself at one point. 70% or more of the braking power in a bike comes from the front brakes; as I had told you before, my front brakes were not working all that well at this point. Sometimes in Mexico, speed bumps show up out of nowhere without any warning. It had just finished raining, and I was going up a hill. When the hill started to go down, a damn massive road bump appeared in front of me. I pressed on the clutch, and I slammed on both my front and back brakes - just like they taught me in riding school. The back tire started to move to my right. Soon after I found myself going downhill almost completely sideways. At that moment, all I could think of is that I should brace myself, that I was about to kiss the tarmac.

For those who don't know: when your front brake makes you lose control, you let go of the brake in order to stabilize; when it comes to the back brakes, you hold that shit and ride it out unless you want the bike to whip you and send you on an overflip.

Somehow my timing was perfect. No, I wasn't thinking exactly what to do, just that I should try falling behind the bike to avoid severe injury. The bike straightened up and I went over the bump no problem. No skills here, just an act of God.

Guatemala

The tramitters on the crossing into Guatemala pulled a sweet con on me. They stole $300 from me, those assholes. I would have to go to the beginning for you to understand how this happened - and know that I know everything could have been avoided with just one thing: preparation.

Night riding through some road work was getting tiring so I decided to stop at Zenatepec in , Mexico. I started late close to 11am because I couldn't seem to fall asleep the night before. It was a miserable start with heavy rain and mud. So I would have wet socks for the whole day. I had about 350 kms to go until the border, so that would be in a little less than four hours. Since I am so brilliant; I took the wrong turn (beautiful carving road though), and I lost an entire hour.

As I approached closer to the border, I was starting to feel some racist comments coming my way; something new in Mexico. By around 3:30 I made my way to the border patrol of Ciudad Hidalgo; the first time I ever felt threatened during my whole trip was being in that city - maybe it was just the nerves. The border crossing is very simple in theory. First you go to the customs place of the country you're leaving, then you go to immigration. You then cross the border, go to the immigration office of the country you are entering, and then you go to customs of that same country. If you're not crossing with a vehicle all you have to do is go to immigration A and then to immigration B, and it is very fast. When you have a vehicle though, it takes forever. Sometimes you have to deal with fumigation, and/or insurance. Then there are the countless of photocopy requirements which are not offered in these offices - why can't they just use scanners?
In Mexico there is this thing called 'Banjercito' which like the cashier for the customs department. The problem is that this damn cashier place for this border crossing was 60 kms back. I didn't know I had passed it three towns away! So, I had to go back, and by then traffic really picked up. By the time I got to this Banjercito it was nearly 5pm.

I asked the guy if there was another bordering town closer to where I was. He told me to go to El Carmen going through here would save me around 40 minutes I thought, and I would not have to deal with Ciudad Hidalgo. In retrospective, Hidalgo could have been much better since the area was not crowded with money hungry vultures that call themselves tramitters or money exchangers. Oh yes, when I asked people in Mexico where I could change coin, they told me to just go to the border.

So I get to El Carmen, and it is now a little past 6 pm, and the sky is getting dark. When all of a sudden ten people come to me; way too close for comfort. They tell me that I need to go to the immigration office first, and that they'd watch my bike. When I come out, there they are. Now on to business. Some were money exchanges, and given that I needed some Quetzals I just made some change - I also got scammed there - I didn't look online before because I thought I'd change the money at some bank. Then there are the tramitters.

It was this one guy, rather short with curly hair and styled as a mullet (reminiscing of 'Pedro el Escamoso'). He [and every other tramitter] shows me his tramitter badge. I guess it is a legal position, but without control, what is the point. At first glance, this prick didn't give the feeling of being honest, but I thought I was judging with prejudice, so I decided to roll with him.

We cross the border, now I'm in Guatemala. As soon as I cross the bridge; this sea of little shits comes to gather around me. They were calling me chinese and asking me for money. To increase the stress, more tramitters come out to harass me. I then came to realize that I was the only fool crossing that border at that time, alone, and with a motorcycle. It was now dark, and the border posts seemed to be closing.

Here comes the Mullet's apprentice; this young thief. He is the one that would act as the main guide for the
sweet con. He guides me to the immigration office. I pay 10 Quezal (4 USD). Then I need to deal with the customs part, and now I need a photocopies of my things - you may think that just carrying a number of copies of your documents would suffice, but in truth, every border asks for a different number, and some demand a copy of the immigration stamp you get at the border.

The main guide takes me to various shops to get these copies, but none is open. This is where I lowered my defenses, partly not by much choice. The guide asks me to give him my documents (passport and all) so that he can make copies. I was reluctant at first, but then they kept reminding me that the place was closing, and that if I didn't hurry I may not make it.

Mr. Mullet here starts talking to me, we converse. It should have been red alert when he told me he had been doing this for 15 years. I should have known he knew everything much better than I. He knew I was from the States (license place), that I was tired, and that my own nerves gave away my lack of knowledge. He knew that to enter Mexico with my bike I had to pay $50 plus at least a $200 deposit.  I thought the fact that I spoke Spanish well, I'd be in much less danger to get robbed. I was wrong. It was more like a handicap, since they could lie to me better. Anyways, the main guide comes back with photocopies. He says he is going to rush on his own to save time, all the accomplices try to convince me that way. ALWAYS be present at the offices yourself to highly reduce risk of getting scammed; otherwise what happened to me will happen to you.

The main thief asks me if I wanted a national or an international permit for my bike. Prices were at $40 and $180 accordingly. The international permit would get me all the way through to Costa Rica with one pay thanks to the Central American community. Well, the international permit does not exist. There I was dancing at the tune of the snakes. I had no clue.

The song did break when another tramitter comes back asking me for $80 more. Something to do with some fucking stamp, and some more inspections; a bag of lies. But it was too late now, they had all my shit. So yes, they stole $300. I didn't really see the change back since I paid in $100 bills, and they had excuses. Oh, how much did the real vehicle permit cost? $20.

 I felt sick to my stomach when I realized I got conned the way I did. I felt I was going to puke, and I wanted to stop the trip right there. That night at the hotel I got on my US phone and called a friend. I was feeling completely alone. After a long chat and vent I felt better -that is until I realized it had been 100 minutes of venting. Fuck those thieves.

The next day I just wanted to get the fuck out of there. I left early that morning, and crossed into El Salvador.

I got lost as I was crossing through Escuintla. I was nervous since I ended in a neighborhood with very bad roads. I asked one guy on a bike, and he even escorted me out - party because that was his route, but still - he even made sure that I was on the right path. Yes, though that was a tangible reminder; I know very well that you can't judge a country or an entire culture out of the experience with some assholes. But understand that everyone is an embassador of their own people. Tourists put themselves at the mercy of strangers so that they can learn about someone else's world. When I was younger I would hear stories of tourists getting scammed here in Ecuador, and I thought they were moronic. How narrowminded of an idea. Truth is, these brave people [not including me] venture out to unknown lands out of love.  Why should anyone reply to that with hateful acts like theft. In the end that is what you remember, and my report on Guatemala is mostly about me getting scammed.

El Salvador

I cursed off the whole profession of being a tramitter during my Guatemala section. I mean, those assholes are real scum. But hey, I don't judge, people have to make a living. Tramitters are sometimes needed, especially for large trucks with large paperwork. And not every tramitter is a twat - most of them are, but not all of them.

That same morning I got up in Guatemala was the same morning I decided I'd leave that country. I was at the border by 12:30pm. By the time I got there I was now ready for war. I had my asshole face on, ready to cuss off people and get into a fight. Well, this is the one time that I met someone who off the bat was not going to thief from me, but even then I had to keep reserved. He kept claiming he was a christian, and even when I offered a smoke he refused. The best part about him he never asked for an amount on the tip - everyone else after this crossing would be asking for money. I gave him $20; which is good enough. I would have given him more, had I not lost $300 the night before.

One thing though, about these government institutions. What is it with them and lunch time? Whenever the clock hits the time, everybody and I mean everybody who's working decides to vanish - I later heard it's the same with hospitals. They don't give one fuck. Come on, at least just one person; take a turn or something. Have some damn consideration.

Anyways, I kept driving through El Salvador, scared shitless because I was told this was the most dangerous country in Central America. Truth be told, the only reason why someone would feel scared about being in these places is because you have no idea how that world works like. No need to be scared, just be cautious.
I had planeed a route that would get me through the country without crossing San Salvador and the city's traffic. Get a map. I entered Salvador through the bordering city of La Hachadura. I turned right, and then left towards playas de La Libertad (the CA-2). And it is here where I found the greatest surprise throughout my entire trip. It was the most beautiful riding road in all my journey. If anyone passes through El Salvador, they should not miss this stretch of perfect tarmac. But since this is Central America, I doubt this road is always this pleasant. Take into consideration that the road seemed to have recently gone through repairs, and that day was a sunday afternoon.

It was a blissful two hours of oceanside cliff roads. The landscape was that of paradise ocean waves that were interrupted by trees and uphills. There were  sharp turns where I had to lean my bike to its limits (when the foot pegs hit the floor). The only downfall was having to reduce speed each time I passed through a small population. Then there were the occasional straight portions that was not contaminated by dumbass speed bumps. Normally during my rides, I would take some riding video footage whenever I found a place to be of interest. This time I didn't. I decided to get selfish and enjoy it all by myself. It was just that good.
On a side note, I was hoping to see a pretty girl here and there while on the roadside. That never happened. I got the opposite instead. I would be riding through small towns and what I mostly saw was a gathering of sausages just hanging there - probably drinking beer and playing swords with each other. It was one of the lowlights.

After that paradise road, nightfall came. It was time for me to get a room. Since everything got so dark I ended up taking a wrong turn, and I ended up going backwards to the capital city, San Salvador. Sigh, that detour made me lose close to 5 hours in total.

Honduras

There is not much to be said about Honduras. It's not cause I spent a short time, but my passing through there was just uneventful.

I stayed at a hotel soon after entering the country since it was very dark and a storm was about to fall. The next day I rode out I saw the rain had done its damage. There were some massive potholes all over the road. Trucks in front of me would be swirving on both lanes of the highway in order to avoid the holes. It was just that bad.

I was a little bit concerned with the words the hotel clerk had told me. She said I would be needing extra cash since cops out there were always wanting to squeeze money out of people. Those cops look at any details on the tourists in order to charge a 'fee'. Well, I did get stopped by a couple of cops the next day. They were checking out my documents and my bike.

Ok, I thought that the biggest advantage of me carrying my bike was that it would at least blend in with  the general motorcycle population in Latin America. Compared to the new bikes of today with sharp lines and bright colors, my bike looked opaque with its lack of chrome and black paint. I was wrong. Most bikes south of the US are the standard type like mine, with the engine exposed. The vast majority does not exceed 250cc in size with no more than two cylinders. Well, mine was a 1000cc with four cylinders. To call more attention to myself, my bike had the exhaust modifyed so that it would be naturally louder. People in central america just love motorcycles, so they were quick to notice me. Some thought I had the newest model in bikes, and everybody thought my bike could speed like a bullet.

So here are these cops. I told them my bike was old and obnoxiously heavy, and that it was not faster than a midsized car. I always liked to emphasize that my bike had many mechanical problems at it was so that they would not think I was loaded in money (I also liked tell peoplet I got robbed in Guatemala for that reason). They gave me my papers back, and right before they let me go, they asked me for money. I said I didn't have any with me, and they just let me go. That was a first.

Nicaragua

Crossing borders was annoying as hell. I spent nearly $200 on crossing all five central american borders, I was using tramitters at every boder so that it could speed things a bit. Without them and the change of coin, it did not feel as though I was in a different country every since I was in Guatemala. In all these four countries there were cattle, horses, chickens, and dogs just roaming about in the highway.

Hell, everything was expensive in these areas, I thought gas would go down the more south I went, but it was quite the opposite. In Costa Rica was the most expensive with the gallon of 92 octane cost $5.40 compared to $4 in the US.

Nothing eventful during my crossing through this country either. My original plan was to ride all the way to Ecuador when I had first started this trip, but I came to realize that it was not worth it. Fixing costs would exceed $1000. Shipping the bike to cross the Panama-Colombia Darien Gap would cost me another $1000. More than that, Ecuador's policies could prohibit me from being able to naturalize the bike as Ecuadorian.
Knowing this in the back of my head, I tried enjoying the ride as much as I could before it came to an end.

Costa Rica

I was dreading crossing the border once again. I knew I was close when I saw a mile-long caravan of stopped trucks. There were no tramitters in sight just yet (yes, they are as far back as a mile from the bordering offices). I then saw two big 650ccs enduro bikes passing me by. I then noticed their luggage. I knew they were just travelers just like me.

They were two Americans from California. They were on their way to Tierra del Fuego, and they had been on the road for three months at the point of crossing. I invited them to stop by my place if they passed by here.

The three of us went on to do our paperwork for the border crossing. I noticed that tramitters knew that since we were in a group; we were not going to use of their services. Almost zero harassment. Though the whole process took three hours once again; this time I didn't feel as threatened. It is so much better travelling with company.

I parted ways with my temporal companions two hours after since our routes were different.

I landed in San Jose later on that night after having some trouble with the roads. This was it for my travels.
I left the bike inside an 'almacen fiscal' - a customs area where import stuff has to pass through - so that my friend could do whatever he wanted with it. I could not sell it since it would have taken me weeks to do so.
If anyone is disappointed with not having the bike all the way home, that's me. I miss my KZ1000 so much; she was a bitch at times, but she was loyal.

Finishing

I had another plan after leaving the bike in Costa Rica. I had planned to go to Panama in a bus; then take a boat to cross the Darien Gap; and cross Colombia. Instead, I decided to take a plane. Yeah, I almost lost the flight since there was an issue with my purchased ticket. The plane stopped in Panama City, which brought memories of its own.

Reason for my decision was that I had made it all the way down. There was not much left to go. I now had nothing to prove to anyone - even myself. I could have taken the long way home, but that was another scenic route. Surely it is beautiful (I saw pictures), but since I was not sharing it with anyone I didn't see the point. I preferred to rush home and see my sister before she left to college.

It was fun, and I have no regrets -except that I left my bike behind. I am not sure how this trip has changed me if it has changed me at all. I left Tampa on a Sunday, July 8, and I made it home on august 27. According to my odometer, I made 7,865 miles - which is much shorter than what I thought I covered.