My journey, for the time being, is at an unexpected end. I am back home with my friends and my family, sans KLR and motorcycle gear, but with an added appreciation for the land of plenty. The facts are simple, but as always, the real story is in the details.
Around three weeks ago, at the same time that I was settling into Cartagena, Colombia after my 5 days at sea, my good friend Noah had a wicked dirtbike accident in California, and ended up in the hospital for some rather serious injuries. I received an email late at night from Noah’s Mom (mom2) letting me know what happened. He had been riding on a dirt trail with a friend, had a nasty moment after a small jump, and flew 20 feet into a 12 foot dry creek bed. He snapped his clavicle, fully broke six ribs, and punctured a lung, but with some determination and the help of his friend Mike, he managed to crawl out of the creek and get to the nearest hospital.
That night, I barely slept a wink. I was kept awake with both a deep concern for my friend, but also with dark thoughts of serious accidents in the sparsely populated South American continent. I imagined what would happen to me if I received similar injuries now that I was traveling alone. My conclusions were grim; I would be in serious danger, and would have no immediate backup to help me in the event of an accident in some isolated mountain range. I imagined how my family might feel if I were both hurt and isolated. It was a long night. Sleep finally came when I arrived at my decision. It was obvious the more I thought about it. Traveling solo had lost its appeal, the day-to-day grind was wearing on me, and the anxiety I was feeling was palpable. The only good choice in my mind was to return, and to do so quickly.
The next morning, my convictions were even more firm. By 10 AM, I had purchased a flight from Cartagena to San Francisco, leaving at 10 pm that evening, with a stop in Bogota and a stop in San Salvador. My relief was intense, knowing that I would be able to visit my buddy in person soon. I managed to get him on the phone once, and when I did I was even more glad of my choice. His punctured lung meant that he was getting one word out every few seconds, and his spirits were very low. It was pretty heartbreaking. I decided not to tell him that I would be putting the trip on hold.
So, in the course of half a day, I went from expecting to travel for another five months to having twelve hours left in which to enjoy the beautiful city of Cartegena, and to figure out what I would do with my bike. I opted for a bit of sightseeing first.
Cartagena’s old town is the place to see. It’s surrounded by a stone wall built late after the Spanish arrival/invasion. A series of pirate attacks convinced the settlers to protect their valuable coastal city. It still stands, although I’m not sure if it’s been renovated over the years.
The police were still out in force, as Obama would be arriving within the week. Every corner had a cop, and in the more public spaces, strong displays of power were set up. Riot police were in full gear, and the swat trucks were deployed. I’m fairly sure the cannons are no longer viable enforcement tools though…
I spent a few hours just walking around the old town, trying to soak as much in as I could. There’s something really appealing about the ordered chaos of Latin America. The music, the construction, the heat, and the madness all mix together to make it feel incredibly alive. The afternoon was bittersweet, but I knew that it would not be the last time I would explore these streets.
The time came when I could no longer put off the rest of the work. I had a motorcycle in Colombia, and I needed to take care of it in just a few hours. My first thought was to just leave it parked at the hostel. There was an unused locked space where they let me park it, and it seemed like a perfect spot to ditch the bike for a few weeks.
Ultimately though, I just didn’t feel right about leaving it there. Someone would eventually have to deal with it if I didn’t come back, and without all my papers they would be in a bureaucratic nightmare. I didn’t have enough time to find a buyer and sell it, so I thought about maybe giving it away to some lucky Colombian. I had an itch inside me that was urging me to do this at the end of my journey anyways, to try and find some worthy citizen that could make good use of a decked out adventure bike, but I had imagined having more time to do so.
So with what little time I had, I did my best. I started thinking of places or businesses that could use a KLR. A few days earlier, I had eaten at the most amazing pizza restaurant I’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting. It was set in the back of a community cultural center. To get to the restaurant, you have to walk through an art gallery and then a dance studio. You emerge in a garden patio, lit with white christmas tree lights. The bartender was a dressed as a mime, the flat crust pizza was light and delicious, and at one point during the meal, a guy climbed onto the roof and started playing interpretive saxophone. A very cool experience, but what I remembered was the little sign saying that the cultural center gives mechanics classes every week. What better toy to tinker with than a KLR? I decided to re-visit the center and see if I could give away a motorcycle.
I met a young artist at the front door, who seemed to be the only one around at 2 pm. I explained my situation and my intentions, and after a few minutes he grasped what I was saying. Confusion turned to excitement and astonishment, followed shortly by suspicion. Why was I giving it away so fast? He was wary of the gringo saying he had to get rid of the bike before his flight out of the country in 8 hours. We went through all my papers in detail, but even that wasn’t enough to convince him that he wasn’t inheriting… what, a free motorcycle? I didn’t understand, but played along. He even brought in a few policeman off the street to witness the exchange, and they in turn interrogated me thoroughly. Finally, all parties were convinced that I was on the up and up, and we went to a local internet cafe to write up a contract. I was adamant that the terms of the gift were that he allow the cultural center to use the bike as they could, but I’m not entirely sure that he would follow through on that end. I had no choice, and he seemed like a good guy, so hopefully he shares the wealth. We both signed and thumb-printed the document, and finally I signed over the title to an ecstatic Colombian, Carlos Mario Funez.
He got most of my gear, including the boxes with my tools and spare parts. I just had no way to carry all that stuff back on a plane. I gave him a bit of background info on the bike, just tips on all the little quirks and oddities, but it was a bit of “in one ear, out the other”. His excitement was just too much to listen to sense, and on his inaugural lap around the street, he dropped Big Red (aka, Thriller) while trying to turn it around. It could have something to do with his height (about six inches shorter than me) and because a 650 cc bike is unheard of in Colombia. It’s quite tall and heavy; hopefully he gets used to it. He told me that he intends to drive all over Colombia for inspiration for his art, and hopefully he sends me some pictures.
I took a few last wistful glances at my trusty and reliable companion for 5 months, and walked away without looking back. I grabbed my remaining belongings and headed for the airport. I had a large traveling backpack filled with my clothes, a smaller bag for my laptop and electronic stuff, and my camera bag.
The cab ride to the airport was surreal. It felt enclosed and cramped, and I was already missing the freedom of the bike. Even short jaunts across a city are more enjoyable on a bike.
The second you step into an airport, that familiar fog of travel closes around you. Your only inputs are the airport cafes and shops, and you immediately lose touch with the rest of the country around you. It’s a stifling and frustrating way to travel. Airports in Colombia are much like airports in the US. They’re purgatory, a place to wait in neither comfort nor misery for the chance to teleport to a new place that seems to have no physical connection to the place you left. The planes themselves are otherworldly; a steady hum accompanies small glances of tiny cities and mountains through the windows, and an occasional fog drifts out of the vents.
Traveling by air is massively convenient, but oddly disorienting. You have no sense for the country you arrive in or pass through. In Bogota, the temperature had dropped 20 degrees relative to Cartagena. I would have loved to experience that gradual change as you climb through the mountains, and I may yet in the future, but for now, my only experience of Bogota is the friendly musicians I met on the train between terminals. They did me the favor of waking me up at two in the morning to catch my next flight.
For once, a quick McDonalds meal was actually comforting. They do a good breakfast, I’ll give them that.
There was a seven hour layover for my flight from Bogota to San Salvador, so I did what Canadians are known for. I waited politely.
My arrival in San Salvador was bizarre. I recalled riding through El Salvador and skirting San Salvador to the south a few months ago, but when I was sitting in that airport waiting for the next flight to San Francisco, I was completely disconnected from where I was. On the bike, I could smell and see the country drifting past, driving through small coastal towns and watching the sun set over the ocean. In the airport, I ate at Subway and sat in a leather chair for six hours.
24 hours after I left Cartagena, I arrived in San Francisco. Rather impressive, considering that the other direction took five and a half months. But like they say, it’s about the journey, not the destination. My first night back I had the pleasure of staying at my dad’s house, a beautiful place in the hills on the coast of California. We stayed up late drinking cognac, reminiscing and relieved that I was back home safe.
In the morning, I started checking things off my “back home” list. A cup of tea, nice crispy bacon, and fried eggs on fried toast were first.
After that, I headed south once again, but this time in a rental car. Noah was in the general hospital at Salinas, about two hours south. I’ve done the ride down highway one a number of times, and even though this time was from a different perspective – behind a dashboard – it was equally as stunning. California is a truly beautiful place, and up there with any of the sights we’ve seen on our adventure.
As I approached Salinas, I got both excited and content. I had made the right choice; I was sure of that. I was back home in a beautiful place on the ocean, about to see my best friend and hopefully lift his spirits.
He was on quite a bit of morphine when I walked in, but he was still lucid enough to say “aren’t you supposed to be in Colombia?!” He was ecstatic.
It was tough watching all the pain he was in. He had a tube in his chest for the collapsed lung, and every movement was agony due to the broken ribs. It didn’t stop him from giving every detail about the crash though, and our friend Mike showed up later in the afternoon to show us the GoPro footage. Mike was with Noah at the time, and got him from the trail to the hospital, basically saving his life.
The crash itself was terrifying to watch. It was a trail I had ridden many times before, just a converted fire-road next to a creek with a few whoops and jumps. Noah’s camera was chest mounted, and captured everything.
They were setting a good pace, but after one of the jumps, Noah’s suspension acted unpredictably and he lost a bit of control. The road curved right, but the bike was too unsettled to make the corner, and he went flying over the edge into a 12 foot ravine filled with rocks.
The rest of the footage is really hard to watch, as it takes him about 30 seconds to start breathing again, and after that, the noises he makes turn your stomach. He eventually realized that to be seen by anyone looking for him, he would have to get out of the creek bed. He crawled out of the ravine with one good arm, a punctured lung, and six broken ribs.
Kind of a badass. After that, Mike drove him out of the woods on the back of the bike that he pulled out of the ravine. Then, they made the drive to Salinas in Mike’s truck, where the doctors almost missed the punctured lung. After the UT scan they realized his labored breathing wasn’t just dramatic, and they put the tube in his chest. I was glad to be there finally.
The first few days in the hospital were pretty rough for him, and on the third day the physical therapist had him up and walking around. Getting in and out of bed took about 10 minutes just due to the pain. If anything makes you consider your riding style and motorcycles in general, it’s watching a good friend of yours go through something like this.
On day four, they released him from the hospital. Our buddy Paul, who was our motorcycle escort on day one of the trip, came down to Salinas to celebrate Noah’s freedom. Noah’s friend Teddy from back in Michigan also came down for the homecoming.
So, we’re back on the coast, soaking up as much sun and relaxation as we can. Stu (my dad) and Amanda have been gracious enough to give us a room at their place until Noah is healed up and we move on to the next step. I got the chance to look through the few things I kept in my dad’s garage, and finally was reunited with my dream bike, my old Ducati Sport 1000s. Riding a KLR for 6 months does not prepare you for anything like this. It’s fast, really fast. It’s nice to have that x-ray picture in the back of my mind though while I’m blasting down the coast.
San Francisco itself is awesome. The first weekend we were back was April 20th, which of course is kind of a big deal in San Francisco. We hung out in Dolores Park for the afternoon, dodging smoke clouds and cotton candy vendors.
Noah is doing much better, and actually just got out of surgery last Tuesday. He’s the proud owner of a new titanium plate and four titanium screws. I can’t wait to see the new x-ray. I’ll be hanging around helping out until he feels better, and enjoying my unemployment in the meantime.
In my last post, I wrote about new roads, and how excited I was to ride them. They have the power to make you forget about everything that happened on the old road, and all your problems seem to fade away as long as you’re going forward, exploring something new. Well, this last bit felt like a step back at first, but like anything else, it’s how you look at it. I’ve driven down highway one multiple times, but each time has been different. This last time was something special, because I realized that now instead of just the one path south, I’ve got any number of roads open to me, and all I have to do is pick.
I plan to return to South America and continue the adventure, but for now I’ll be embarking on another one. As they say, hasta luego. Until next time.
