OzSTOC
General Category => General Discussion => Topic started by: Biggles on March 11, 2024, 11:56:00 PM
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I began posting excerpts from the books I own on September 29, 2012.
In the intervening eleven and a half years there have been some folks join us who may not have seen the series. I'm re-posting the first book's quotations- a real classic by Ted Simon who is one of the trailblazers of the Adventure riding genre. The revived interest for me was caused by my having recently finished reading another book which I'll add after the 30 Jupiter's Travels excerpts. I've just begun a 700+ page saga (which weighs 1.25kg!) co-authored by an Australian rider. FWIW, I have scanned in 2538 excerpts, all but 9 of which you can find in the forum if you look hard enough.
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The idea of traveling round the world had come to me one day in March that year, out of the blue. It came not as a vague thought or wish but as a fully formed conviction. The moment it struck me I knew it would be done and how I would do it. Why I thought immediately of a motorcycle I cannot say. I did not have a motorcycle, even a licence to ride one, yet it was obvious from the start that that was the way to go, and that I could solve the problems involved.
The worst problems were the silly ones, like finding a bike to take the driving test on. I resorted to shameless begging and deceit to borrow the small bike I needed. There was a particularly thrilling occasion when I turned up at the Yamaha factory on the outskirts of London to take a small 125-CC trail bike out "on test." I had my L plates hidden in my pocket, but first I had to get out of the factory gates looking as though I knew how the gears worked. Those were the first and some of the hardest yards, I ever rode; now it can be told.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 17
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Thanks for bringing this back 👍
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I carried out my first-ever major motorcycle overhaul in Alexandria. I found a cavernous garage near Ramilies Station, haggled bitterly over five piastres for the right to work there, and then received many times that amount back in tea, cigarettes, snacks and true friendship from the poor men who struggled to earn a livelihood in that place.
I took two days to do a job that might be done in two or three hours, but every move was fraught with danger. I dared not make a mistake. Already I knew that there would be no chance at all of getting spare parts in Egypt. Both pistons, I found, were deformed by heat, and I had only one spare piston with me (a piece of nonsense which inspired more waves of telepathic profanity to burn the ears of Meriden [UK Triumph company]). The pistons had seized their rings, and I put back the less distorted one after sculpting the slots with a razor blade. It seemed the only thing to do. I prayed that I was right. I had no real idea about what had caused the overheating after only four thousand miles, and felt rather gloomy about it.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 66
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"Yes, yes, yes," they scream and, in a flurry of brown limbs, they fight with the Triumph up a gangplank, over a rail into a narrow gangway, through hatches, over sills and bollards, four hundred pounds of metal dragging, sliding, flying and dropping among roars and curses and pleas for divine aid, while I follow, helpless and resigned. Finally the bike is poised over the water between the two boats. The outstretched arms can only hold it, but they cannot move it, and it is supported, incredibly, by the foot brake pedal, which is caught on the ship's rail. Muscles are weakening. The pedal is bending and will soon slip, and my journey will end in the fathomless silt of Mother Nile. At this last moment, a rope descends miraculously from the sky dangling a hook, and the day is saved.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 73
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"Yes, yes, yes," they scream and, in a flurry of brown limbs, they fight with the Triumph up a gangplank, over a rail into a narrow gangway, through hatches, over sills and bollards, four hundred pounds of metal dragging, sliding, flying and dropping among roars and curses and pleas for divine aid, while I follow, helpless and resigned. Finally the bike is poised over the water between the two boats. The outstretched arms can only hold it, but they cannot move it, and it is supported, incredibly, by the foot brake pedal, which is caught on the ship's rail. Muscles are weakening. The pedal is bending and will soon slip, and my journey will end in the fathomless silt of Mother Nile. At this last moment, a rope descends miraculously from the sky dangling a hook, and the day is saved.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 73
Could have spoiled his day, big time!
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Thanks for these posts. Although I have read this book a couple of times it is still a good read to have again.
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It was plainly impossible to move the bike, so I began to unload it. I noticed immediately that my water bag was empty, the plastic perforated, the contents drained away. Well at least l had a litre of distilled water. With all the luggage off I glanced in the gas tank. Had it been possible at this stage to shock me, I would have been shocked. There was only a puddle of gasoline left, hardly a gallon. My fuel consumption was twice what it should have been, and when I thought about it, that was perfectly natural. Grinding along in second gear over a loose surface in such heat, it is what you would expect. Only I, of course, had not expected it.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 82
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Scooping the sand out by hand took half an hour, but I managed to make a lane back to the firmer ground. There was a bit of brush growing on the dunes, and I paved my lane with twigs. Then, inch by inch, I was able to haul the bike back to where I wanted it. Again I had lost a lot of sweat, and I got the water bottle out. It was warm to the touch. I put it to my lips, and then spat vigorously on the ground, mustering as much of my own good saliva as I could. The bottle contained acid.
Battery acid.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 82
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Ahhh…..familiarity :beer
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If falling were a competitive sporting event, I would be a champion. Sometimes, on deeply rutted tracks like the one between Gedaref and Metema, it was impossible to avoid a fall.
(Getting it up again) was an exhausting exercise because I could not lift the bike without unpacking everything first.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 92
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I have had one more soft fall, but each jerk on the wheel pulls the muscle in my left shoulder and prevents it from healing. I feel no hunger, no thirst. I am absolutely wrapped up in this extraordinary experience, in the unremitting effort, in the marvellous fact that I am succeeding, that it is at all possible, that my worst fears are not just unrealized but contradicted. The bike, for all its load, is manageable. I seem to have, after all, the strength and stamina to get by, and my reserves seem to grow the more I draw upon them.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 95
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Why you? Why were you chosen to ride through the desert while other men are going home from the office?
Chosen? I thought I chose myself. Were Odysseus and Jason, Columbus and Magellan chosen?
That is a very exalted company you have summoned up there. What have you got in common with Odysseus, for God's sake?
Well, we're all just acting out other people's fantasies, aren't we? Maybe we're not much good for anything else.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 96
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The road to Gedaref is worse. Much worse. Worse than anything I imagined. At times, in fact, I believe it is impossible, and consider giving up. The corrugations are monstrous.
Six-inch ridges, two feet apart, all the way with monotonous, shattering regularity. Everything on the bike that can move does so. Every bone in every socket of my body rattles. Not even the most ingenious fairground proprietor could devise a more uncomfortable ride. I feel certain it must break the bike. I try riding very slowly, and it is worse than ever. Only at fifty miles an hour does the bike begin to fly over ridges, levelling out the vibration a little, but it is terribly risky. Between the ridges is much loose sand. Here and there are sudden hazards. The chances of falling are great, and I am afraid of serious damage to the bike.
Yet I feel I must fly, because I don't think the machine will survive eighty miles of this otherwise. It is hair-raising and then it becomes impossible again. The road swings to the west and the sun burns out my vision. I realize I must stop and make camp.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 100
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Why don't the tires tear to shreds under all this punishment? Why no punctures? I think a puncture might finish me, I'm so beat. Why doesn't the Triumph just die? Unlike me, it has no need to go on. It protests and chatters. On one steep climb it even fainted, but after a rest it went to work again. I hate to think what havoc is being wrought inside those cylinders.
We have such a long way to go.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 102
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It is clear that the bike can barely cope with the combination of load, work and heat. The road is scarred and ripped to rubble. It's like following the track of some stumbling monster of destruction. Halfway up a particularly hard climb, I lose momentum and the bike simply dies on me. I don't know what's happened, what to do. I wait awhile and kick it over. It starts and revs up fine in neutral, but when I engage the clutch it dies on me again. I am quite near the top of the hill, and I unload the heaviest boxes and carry them up myself. Then I ride the bike up, and load again. The plugs and timing are O.K. What else can I do but cross my fingers, and try to keep up momentum.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 106
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The best trick in my repertoire was provided by a company called Schrader in Birmingham. They made a valve with a long tube which I could screw into the engine instead of a spark plug. As long as you had at least two cylinders, you could run the engine on one and the other piston would pump up your tire. So I was able to pump up my tube, and it seemed all right.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 129
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Clever, although a modern engine would probably throw an error 😄
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....a company called Schrader in Birmingham....made a valve....
We all have a couple of those on our motorbikes.
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....a company called Schrader in Birmingham....made a valve....
We all have a couple of those on our motorbikes.
In the tyres' valve mechanism- just a different application at a smaller scale.
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I waved to him and he stopped beside me.
"Can you help me, I wonder..." I said.
"Absolutely," he said. "Most definitely. I see you are having trouble, isn't it. A spot of bother."
" Well, my tire's flat..." and I went on to explain.
"I will introduce you to Mr. Paul Kiviu," he burst out enthusiastically. "Definitely he is the very man of the moment. He is manager BP station Kibwezi Junction and he is my friend."
Mercifully the road was level at that point. As I pushed the loaded bike along on its flat tire, Pius bobbed around me like a butterfly, calling encouragement, imploring me to believe that my troubles would soon be over. His good nature was irresistible and I began to believe him. In any case I was happy that something was happening and I was in touch with people. At the time it seemed to me that what I wanted was to have my problem solved quickly and to get on my way. I had a boat to catch in Cape Town and the journey was still the main thing. What happened on the way, who I met, all that was incidental. I had not quite realized that the interruptions were the journey.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 130
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In the tyres' valve mechanism- just a different aplication at a smaller scale.
Yes, but I suppose they work in opposite directions.
I didn't know (or at least that I recall) of the Schrader valve until I had my bicycle shop (back in the 90's). As kids, we referred to them as American valves.
Bloody septics, think they invented everything.
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My confidence in the Triumph has gone beyond surprise and gratitude. I now rely on it without question, and it seems past all coincidence that on this last day, the unseen fate working itself out in the cylinder barrel should manifest itself. It is not I who am looking for significance in these events. The significance declares itself unaided. Just beyond Trichardt, in the morning, the power suddenly falters and I hear, unmistakably, the sound of loose metal tinkling somewhere; but where? Although the power picks up again, I stop to look. The chain is very loose. Could it have been skipping the sprockets? I tighten the chain and drive on. Power fails rapidly and after about smell of burning. Is it the clutch? It seems to have seized, because even in neutral it won't move.
Two friendly Afrikaners in the postal service stop their car to supervise, and their presence irritates me and stops me thinking. I remove the chain case to look at the clutch, a good half hour's work. Nothing wrong, and then my folly hits me. I tightened the chain and forgot to adjust the brake. I've been riding with the rear brake on for four miles, and the shoes have seized on the drum. Apart from anything else, that is not the best way to treat a failing engine. I put everything together again and set off, but the engine noise is now very unhealthy. A loud metallic hammering from the cylinder barrel. A push rod? A valve? I'm so near Jo'burg, the temptation to struggle on is great. At Pietersburg I stop at a garage.
The engine oil has vanished.
"That's a bad noise there, hey!" says the white mechanic, and calls his foreman over.
"Can I go on like that?"
"As long as it's not too far. You'll use a lot of oil."
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 169
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I spend two days at Naboomspruit working on the engine. The crankcase is full of broken metal. The con rod is scarred, the sump filter in pieces, the scavenge pipe knocked off centre. The sleeve of the bad cylinder is corrugated. I have kept the old piston from Alexandria, and put it back thinking it might get me as far as Jo'burg. With everything washed out and reassembled, the engine runs, but no oil returns from the crankcase.
The second day I spend on the lubrication system, picking pieces out of the oil pump. On Sunday, in bright sunshine, I set off again, for twenty blissful miles before all hell breaks loose. The knocking and rattling is now really terrible. I decide that I must have another look, and by the roadside I take the barrel off again and do some more work on the piston and put it back again. By now I am really adept and it takes me four hours.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels pp 169-170
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Joe's Motorcycles on Market Street, as agents for Meriden, took the engine to pieces again and sent me off with a rebored barrel, two new pistons, a new con rod, main bearings, valves, idler gear and other bits and pieces. The broken metal had penetrated everywhere and again I was struck by the force of the coincidence that all this havoc had been wrought virtually within sight of Johannesburg. I was very susceptible to "messages" and wondered whether someone was trying to tell me something, like, for example, "I'll get you there, but don't count on it."
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 171
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Calling at a gas station is an event, particularly on a motorcycle with a foreign number plate. In southern Africa everyone plays the number-plate game. You can tell instantly where each one comes from; C for Cape Province, J for Johannesburg, and so on. My plate begins with an X, a mystery all the deeper because some pump attendants belong to the Xhosa tribe. Peeling off damp layers of nylon and leather, unstrapping the tank bag to get to the filler cap, fighting to get at the money under my waterproof trousers which are shaped like a clown's, chest high with elastic braces, I wait for the ritual conversation to begin.
"Where does this plate come from, baas?" asks the man.
"From England."
A sharp intake of breath, exhaled with a howl of ecstasy. "From England? Is it? What a long one! The baas is coming on a boat?"
"No," I reply nonchalantly, knowing the lines by heart, relishing them rather. "On this. Overland."
Another gasp, followed by one or even two whoops of joy. The face is a perfect show of incredulity and admiration.
"On this one? No! Uh! I can't. You come on this one? Oh! It is too big."
I am learning, as I make my way through my first continent, that it is remarkably easy to do things, and much more frightening to contemplate them.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 176
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The great freeways sweep me on past Stellenbosch and Belleville towards the ocean, into the suburbs of Cape Town, winding me down effortlessly and without error as though on an automatic flight path to the heart of the old city and setting me down in the plaza beside the ocean. My joy is almost hysterical as I park the bike, walk slowly over the paving towards a cafe table and sit down. I have just ridden that motorcycle 12,245 miles from London, and absolutely nobody here, watching me, knows it. As I think about it I have a sudden and quite extraordinary flash, something I never had before and am never able to recapture again. I see the whole of Africa in one single vision, as though illuminated by lightning. And that's it. I've done it. I'm at peace.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels pp 180-181
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Mourning becomes electrics*. Among the dunes and bushes of a camp site at La Plata, south of Buenos Aires, I searched for an electrical fault. I never found it, but when I put everything together again, furious and frustrated, the fault disappeared. Not an uncommon experience.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 267
*Allusion to Eugene O'Neill 1931 play and subsequent movie "Mourning Becomes Electra".
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So far, on my journey I had learned scrupulously to resist travelling as though to a destination. My entire philosophy depended on making the journey for its own sake, and rooting out expectations about the future. Travelling in this way, day by day, hour by hour, trying always to be aware of what was present and to hand, was what made the experience so richly rewarding. To travel with one's mind on some future event is is futile and debilitating.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 307
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I was particularly interested in Pete because he had just ridden a three-cylinder Kawasaki on almost the same route from Rio to Panama as I had taken.
"Remember that bridge coming into Ecuador?" he asked.
There was only one bridge he could have meant. It was built like a railroad track, but with planks instead of rails to take the wheels of cars. The sleepers were set about eighteen inches apart, and there was nothing between them but air, and only river beneath. It might not have been so bad if the planks had not kept changing direction, so that it was impossible to build up any momentum. I had fallen halfway across and was lucky not to have gone through into the river. Bob and Annie had also fallen on their Norton.
"Sure I do," I said. "I fell on it." He howled, and grabbed my hand.
"Me too, pal. Which way did you fall?"
"Into the middle."
"Jesus. I only fell against the side. Boy, that was some ride. I'm really glad I met you pal."
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 309
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The bike is tired also, but that is only a figure of speech. I do not credit the bike with feelings. If it has a heart and soul of its own I have never found them. People I meet are often disappointed that the bike does not even have a name. They often suggest names ("The Bug" is top favorite) but none of them seem to do anything for the bike or for me. For me it remains a machine, and every attempt to turn it into something else strikes me as forced and silly.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 314
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Suddenly I realize that I have wandered into the middle of the road, and look up to find a huge truck bearing down on me out of the rainstorm. It is far too late for me to react, and it is entirely by chance that the truck misses me, by a hair's breadth. As I realize what I did, how close I came to being literally wiped out, obliterated, I feel that fearful rush of heat and cold sweat that makes the heart nearly burst, and feel immensely grateful for the warning while wishing I knew to whom to be grateful. A God would come in useful at times like that.
I can count only two other times when I came so close to an end. I must be really tired at the back of my skull. I must be careful. I must never let that happen again.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 315
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By the time l got to Mexico City one cylinder was smoking just as it had in Alexandria, but this time I was better prepared. I had two spare pistons with me, both oversize so that I could rebore if necessary. Was it necessary with only three thousand miles to go? This time though, a friendly Triumph agent was there with all the equipment and the will to help. It seemed silly not to take advantage. Friends of Bruno put me up; Mr. Cojuc, the agent, did the rebore; I put it together again in his workshop, if for no other reason than the close contact this gave me with Mexican workers made the experience worthwhile.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 316
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The coast road north of Sydney is called the Pacific for 650 miles until it gets to Brisbane. Then it becomes the Bruce Highway. Another five hundred miles north is Rockhampton, right on the Tropic of Capricorn. I crossed the tropic (for the sixth time on my journey) four days before Christmas and headed on for Mackay.
Since Brisbane the arid summer of the south had been giving way slowly to the tropical rainy season of Queensland. In the southern droughts the cattle died of thirst. In the north they drowned and floated away on the floods. Australia runs to extremes.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 341
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If the Nullarbor was not an ordeal, it was perhaps a last straw. Bouncing over it was too much for the spokes of the rear wheel. After all they had been through in two and a half years. I had been warned. In Melbourne and again in Adelaide I had replaced broken spokes, and I checked them every time I stopped for the day. At Eucla, where the dirt ended and the highway began they were still in order. The smooth tar enticed me to greater speed. After five hundred miles, just before Norseman, I noticed a growing vibration through the steering head. I stopped in the absolute nick of time.
Only four of the twenty spokes on one side of the wheel were left, and the rim was a terrible twisted shape. A few seconds more and it would certainly have collapsed. I shuddered to think of the mangled mess that that would have left. As it was, I spent one of the nastiest hours of the journey rebuilding the wheel in a twilight plagued by squadrons of vicious mosquitoes.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 363-4
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The journey continued, as it always had, with this close inter-weaving of action and reflection. I ate, slept, cursed, smiled, rode, stopped for gas, argued, bargained, wrote and took pictures. I made friends with some Germans, and some English, and some Indians. I learned about mushrooms, potatoes, cabbages, golden nematodes, Indian farmers and elephants.
The thread connecting these random events was The Journey. For me it had a separate meaning and existence; it was the warp on which the experiences of each successive day were laid. For three years I had been weaving this single tapestry. I could still recall where I had been and slept and what I had done on every single day of travelling since The Journey began. There was an intensity and a luminosity about my life during those years which sometimes shocked me.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 406
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And why else should I find myself now having my future told to me at a Rajput wedding?
"You are Jupiter," he said. Of all the gods in the pantheon, Jupiter is the one I fancy most. A lovely name, Jupiter, like cream and honey in the mouth. And a sense of great distance and closeness at the same time. He was a rainmaker, and I have definitely made my share of rain. I rained all over the Southern Hemisphere in unprecedented quantities. Then he was famous for his thunder, which is appropriate too for a god on a motorcycle, and (if it's fair to mix him up a bit with Zeus) then I like the idea of appearing in all those disguises. I have been changing my shape quite often as well. All in all I would quite like to be Jupiter, if it is not too late...
"You are Jupiter," he said, and for a flash I was, "but for seven years you have been having conflict with Mars." Of course. It was a misunderstanding. He was talking about the planet.
"This troubling influence will go on for two more years." His grip on my hand remained firm and convincing, and I did not resist. I wanted it to be important.
"During these two years, you will have two accidents. They will not be major accidents, but they will not be minor either." Really, I thought, that's stretching my credulity a bit. I hardly need a fortuneteller to predict accidents, with ten thousand miles still to ride. But he did say two. Not major? Not minor?
"After this period, when you are no longer influenced by Mars, it will be well. You will have great success and happiness."
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 421-2
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I was carrying rice from Iran, raisins and dried mulberries from Afghanistan, tea from Assam, curry spices from Calcutta, stock cubes from Greece, halva from Turkey and some soya sauce from Penang.
In a polythene screw-top bottle bought from a shop in Kathmandu was the rest of the sesame-seed oil I had bought in Boddhgaya. The rice and raisins were in plastic boxes from Guatemala. My teapot was bought at Victoria Falls, and my enamel plates were made in China and inherited from Bruno at La Plata. A small box of henna leave leaves from Sudan, a vial of rose water from Peshawar and some silver ornaments from Ootacamund were all tucked into a Burmese lacquered bowl. This in turn sat inside a Russian samovar from Kabul. The tent and sleeping bag were original from London, but the bag had been refilled with down in San Francisco. I had a blanket from Peru and a hammock from Brazil. I was still wearing Lulu's silver necklace and an elephant-hair bracelet from Kenya. The Australian fishing rod was where the sword from Cairo had once sat, and an umbrella from Thailand replaced the one I had lost in Argentina.
By far the most valuable of all my things was a Kashmiri carpet, a lovely thing smothered in birds and animals to a Shiraz design, but it would have been hard to say which of my possessions was the most precious.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 443
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(It was predicted Ted Simon would have an accident, "not major, not minor". He rode 60,000 around the world and it didn't happen. Then...)
In the South of France near Avignon, I came to a crossing. There were no traffic lights, and I was on the minor road. I stopped the bike completely and looked up and down the major road. I saw no traffic, and set out to cross it. I could hardly have been doing five miles an hour when I saw myself within yards of a big van coming straight for me very fast. It should have hit me side-on and I would undoubtedly have been killed if it had, but I braked and the driver didn't, and so his van was just past my front wheel when I hit it. The bike was torn away from underneath me, and the front end was smashed beyond repair. I fell on the tarmac with all the bones in my body shaken in their sockets, but otherwise unharmed.
The worst was having to face that I could look directly at a speeding van and not see it. My confidence was more shattered even than the bike. After all that I had done, with all the care I was taking, I could not explain how I could ride blindly into such a disaster. If ever an accident qualified as "not major and not minor" that was it.
Ted Simon Jupiter's Travels p 446
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Everything went wrong immediately.
I accidentally started in second gear, which meant that my bike began to chug forward without the much-needed stability of smoothly rotating tires. Not realizing this, I gave my bike more gas, and it lunged forward- but standing on the foot pegs as I was, this abrupt spurt of speed threw me off balance, and as I fell backwards, my grip on the handlebars pulled the throttle open even more. The net effect of standing up on my pegs, pulling back on my handlebars while riding up a steep hill at speed was that there was almost no weight on the front tire- and consequently I couldn't steer.
In these desperate moments of motorcycling, you have a split-second decision to make: jump from the bike and save yourself or try to ride it out, gambling that your abilities can save you and the bike. Unless you are about to ride off a cliff or into a cement wall, everyone chooses the second option.
The Great Pan American Motorcycle Expedition Jesse & Jessica Eyer p3
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For anyone who didn't realise, yesterday's post is the first of a new series from a book you haven't seen before.
Within 20 minutes, the man was back and the pedal, looking brand new— was re-installed. The total cost? $12 US. We thanked them profusely, hopped on our bikes and rode back out onto the main road. Moments later Jessica said "Something's wrong! My bike has no power!" With a groan, we started to pull over, fully prepared for a new motorcycle disaster. Then Jessica exclaimed, "Ah-ha! They installed the pedal upside down. I was shifting into the wrong gear." From neutral, you normally shift down for first and then up for the rest of the gears. The idea is that, if you're screeching to a stop and your left foot is madly shifting down, you'll eventually end up in first, not neutral— and be able to roar away if you need to. With her pedal installed upside down, Jessica now had to shift up for first and down for the rest of her gears— just like a racing bike. Within 10 minutes she grew accustomed to the new shifting style and never looked back.
The Great Pan American Motorcycle Expedition Jesse & Jessica Eyer pp46-7
(I personally can't imaging how the selector pedal could have been installed in this way except by having it at your heel rather than toe.)
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We met up with Kerman and Jann several hours later. To our surprise, they also met the two KLR-riding Aussies, Adrian and Tim, and invited them out as well. Adrian and Tim knew of several other adventure riders in town, who, it turned out, knew several others and so on. In the end, 14 of us ate dinner together that night, all of us on the same crazy motorcycle trip from various parts of North America to Argentina. It was an astounding coincidence that, after seeing no other bikers for so long, we all encountered each other that night in Antigua; none of us actually arranged to meet there. The group was filled with the best kind of riders: friendly, interesting, from all walks of life and filled with stories of adventure and good advice for riding.
Tim and Adrian, the Aussies, had begun in LA where Adrian had been working for several years. They were friends from high school who always wanted to do a crazy adventure together. Adrian was an engineer with amazing technical insight into almost any motorcycle-related problem. Tim was a pharmacist, and like Jessica and I, had only been riding for about a year, but was utterly fearless when it came to tackling dodgy Latin American roads. We'd team up with Tim and Adrian later on in our trip, but we didn't know that yet...
The Great Pan American Motorcycle Expedition Jesse & Jessica Eyer pp83-4
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The plan was to cross the Panama border that day and make it as far as David, the closest city on the Panama side, so we grudgingly pulled on our wet jackets and ventured back out into the damp, thick soup that hung over the world.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, we began to descend and started to notice small changes that hinted at lower altitudes and warmer air, although everything was still dripping with water. Just as I stopped shivering, Jesse gave out a yell of surprise and slammed on his brakes. I skidded to a stop beside him and we looked out on the strangest sight we'd ever seen. Standing just off the road was an old Mexican airliner, parked in the middle of a jungle clearing with no indication as to how it got there. With mist swirling around its fuselage, the jungle foliage encroaching, and a few locals sitting idly in the open doorways, it was a bizarre sight.
Eventually we broke free of the clouds and headed for the Coastal Road, a 70 km stretch of the Pan American that, compared to the roads we had been riding on for the past month, looked like a super highway. We felt like we were hurtling down the highway at neck-break speeds, but in reality, we were only going 110km/h. After spending over a month at less than 60km/h the speed made me feel giddy.
The Great Pan American Motorcycle Expedition Jesse & Jessica Eyer pp130-1
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The Ecuadorian crossing was a breeze. While Jessica handled the paperwork, I dutifully watched the bikes, ate watermelon and chatted with a collection of locals and adventure bikers who were passing through. There was an old Irish gentleman, well into his 70's, riding a 1972 Goldwing two-up with his considerably younger Thai wife. There was an American riding a BMW GS Adventure with his enormously fat Argentinean friend on an equally expansive 2011 Goldwing. They were carrying an obscene amount of luggage— in addition to a spare front and rear tire, each of them had a second helmet, 3 spare visors, 2 sets of motorcycle jackets and over 20 litres of gasoline in jerry cans.
"You gotta be prepared!" the American exclaimed. "I'd never been south of the border, so I figured there might be nowhere to buy spare parts or equipment. Better to be self-sufficient than sorry, am I right?" I was sorely tempted to ask him if he still thought Latin America was the Third World wasteland he'd imagined. One major lesson we took away from our motorcycle trip was the benefits to traveling light. When you're on a motorcycle with minimal luggage, it allows the bike to be lighter and more maneuverable. If something breaks along the way, it can usually be picked up in any major city. When traveling without motorcycles, packing light enables you to simply bring a carry-on onto aircraft and just makes the entire travel experience that much easier and more pleasant. Packing light does require a bit of skill, experience and often specialized, multi-purpose equipment, but it's a great travel philosophy to adopt.
The Great Pan American Motorcycle Expedition Jesse & Jessica Eyer pp169-70
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Troy, the taller of the two, had apparently grown weary of his life of first-world luxury in Vancouver, and on a whim, had decided to ride southward on his old, beat-up Kawasaki KLR one winter's day. He'd ended up meeting Nate— who was currently sporting two black eyes— in Mexico, just in time for Nathan to have a magnificent motorcycle wreck during a Day of the Dead celebration in a small pueblo. Nate had badly broken his collarbone, so after storing the mangled motorcycle in the 4th story apartment of a friendly local (first things first, right?), they had rushed to the hospital. Rather than arrange for a medivac back to Canada, Nate had opted for on-the-spot surgery, whereupon a doctor with an electric drill had re-assembled his collarbone with a few screws and a strip of barely sanitized metal. The scars Nathan showed us were a mass of lumpy, discolored flesh. They had subsequently found out that particular hospital had one of the highest rates of patient mortality in all of Mexico. Later, in Colombia, Nate and Troy had gone out on the town to party with some locals (something we had carefully avoided) and had ended up drugged, beaten up and robbed— hence Nathan's two black eyes.
The Great Pan American Motorcycle Expedition Jesse & Jessica Eyer p188
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From Nazca we headed directly into the Andes towards Cusco, the ancient capital of the Incas which they had dubbed "the navel of the world". The route was long and winding— it took us two full days of riding— but it proved to be some of the most spectacular motorcycling of the entire trip. The road was fabulously paved and, within the first two hours, it wound up from the coastal desert to an arid, starkly beautiful tableland. We passed a towering white mountain of sand: Cerro Blanco, the world tallest sand dune at 1176 meters. Initially the air was warm and pleasant and we rode in our mesh jackets with just t-shirts underneath. The temperature dropped as the road continued upwards and the dry landscape eventually gave way to the altiplano, the grassy, high altitude plain that crowns the Andes. Further up we wound, eventually topping out at a breathless 4600 meters (15,000 ft), the highest point we would ride our motorcycles on the entire trip. The air had a funny, crystal clear light to it, and we had the impression we were motorcycling on the roof of the world. And it was cold.
The Great Pan American Motorcycle Expedition Jesse & Jessica Eyer p205
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The road to Valparaiso was fantastic: great pavement, winding twists and turns and, most importantly, reasonable speed limits. One of the things we appreciated the most about riding in Chile was the fact that their speed limits were realistic maximum safe speeds for each type of road. We never sped in Chile; it actually felt unsafe to go much faster than the speed limit. They even had provisions for bad weather and heavy traffic. Coming from Canada where, at the slightest complaint from an individual, road speeds are changed arbitrarily and without any consideration to the type of road it may be, it was refreshing to see that the Chileans had put some thought behind their traffic laws. Their chevron system was pure genius. Three successive chevrons are painted at intervals in each lane. If you can see all three chevrons (i.e. traffic is light and/or visibility is good), you can go the posted speed limit. If only two chevrons are visible, it is assumed that traffic has become dense or the weather/darkness has reduced the visibility, and therefore you are required to drive slower; and if only one is visible at a time, slower still. I wondered why Canadians didn't implement the same type of system.
The Great Pan American Motorcycle Expedition Jesse & Jessica Eyer pp244-5
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Headlights in my rearview mirror alerted me that someone was about to pass. Despite the hazard it posed to us, I couldn't really blame them: we were crawling along at about 40 km/h and weaving around as if we were drunk. I warned Jessica, and then, to my horror, I realized that it was a tour bus. As it drew abreast of me, it acted as a windbreak and in a split second the stabilizing force of the gale on my left vanished. I had been leaning at such a hard angle that the motorcycle abruptly turned to the left as if I was leaning through a corner. I jerked the bike upright just in time, narrowly avoiding a collision with the bus. And then, just as quickly, the bus was past me and the wind returned at full force, slamming me back across the road to the right.
"Brace yourself!" | shouted to Jessica and then I watched helplessly as she repeated the perilous maneuver I had just survived.
"This is insane!" Jessica cried. "How much further do we have to the gas station?"
I glanced down at my odometer— and realized a new problem had entered the fray. The wind was hitting us from ahead and to the left, and the extra wind resistance was killing our mileage. I watched in disbelief as my fuel gauge dropped by l/6th and then minutes later dropped again. We were only about 15 minutes into the ordeal and had ridden less than 40 km into our 110 km journey from the crossroads to the gas station, and already I was down to l/6th of a tank left. Seconds later, Jessica confirmed the problem.
"Jess, my fuel warning light just switched on."
That meant that, under normal circumstances, we had a remaining range of about 70-80 km. Under the current conditions— I didn't want to hazard a guess. Running out of gas in this wind would be a disaster since, without our forward momentum to keep the bikes upright, we would be blown over the moment we stopped.
The Great Pan American Motorcycle Expedition Jesse & Jessica Eyer p262
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They survived.
You want more, you gotta buy the book! ;-*