The damage done

Well I woke up, that’s a good sign. I can move and everything, this is all very encouraging. Anxious to discover my limitations I try and sort my bike out; hanging parts are relocated, re fastened and reinforced, a shattered lens is tapped into a mirror stalk, reflecting more images than I have memories; lids are perched on bent panniers. And today bungees have greater reasonability’s.

I have perfected the overland high kick. It’s an essential manoeuvre to mount the bike. Tank bags and top box leave a small space for a skinny arse to fit in and no room to wriggle.
Agility, momentum and balance are required to propel myself into the pilot’s seat. I don’t seem to have any of those right now, just determination and necessity. They turn out to be an adequate alternative.

Gingerly, that’s the style of riding now. I have shell shock reactions. The speed is slow, the confidence gone and the fear is rife. I find myself throttle down every time a car comes the other way, it’s a knee jerk, knee trembling reaction of self preservation. But my knee won’t jerk, it won’t even bend, it sticks out, resting on the highway peg like a joisting pole.
Of course now I am wearing all my safety clothing, horse bolted, door locked.

It doesn’t help my dexterity but it covers my vulnerability a bit. I don’t really have a target today, other than stay up right, the accident replays in my head, over and over like an unexpected dumping, heart not broken but battle scared all the same. What could I have done to prevent it? What can I do to prevent it happing again? A crow scarer explodes down a side street, explosions and fireworks are common place here. But now I break instinctively, was that my tyre exploding?
I think I'm glad I'm riding alone, no one to push or pull me beyond my seriously reduced limitations.

I stop at an auto parts shop to replace broken bulbs, blown on impact.
‘Where you going?’ some interested locals in a pick-up ask
‘Veracruz’
‘Be careful man there are drug dealers there; or maybe that’s what you’re looking for’
God, now even the Mexicans are giving me warnings, just because 35 naked bodies of a drug cartel were dumped in the road on a major intersection a few months ago, in a display of power and intimidation, suddenly it’s considered unsafe to go there. The only body on the road that scares me is my own.

Two days of timid riding get me to a familiar city to see some familiar faces. I'm going to be a needy guest. But I'm in the right company. A plan is hatched over breakfast, calls are made and before the bike is striped of luggage the first of many fixers has arrived to view the damage. Plastic is procured to fix the screen, and then off we go in a pick-up. The first 4 wheeled vehicle I've been in for 3 months, I get new tyres, mirrors, and my panniers are dropped off at a car body place.

At the end of a weekend of good food good alcohol and good company, the bike is looking and running better than it did before the accident. And the panniers, they are perfect. It was done so efficiently and precisely. If only my body had repaired with such speed.
Monday morning I pack the bike as the rain pours, the humidity escalates and the mozzies hover. There’s no urgency other than I'm now on a mission to get to Denver. No more site seeing, no more diversions, just a destination.

By the time I'm ready to leave only puddles are left and within half an hour the road and day and hot. This paranoia is ridicules I've only been riding half an hour it feels like my tyre is flat again, I stop to check, it is. My new rear Pirelli is on the rim. So now in hot sun, no shade, I strip off my cloths and the panniers again to repair it.

The nearby puddle is deep enough to submerse the tube but I can’t find the hole so I just replace the tube with a spare I have, it is also punctured but I know where the hole is and repair it before I fit it.

I have a 5 day window of good weather to get to Denver. My direct road north is taking me through some areas I've been warned about, there is a very strong military presence, patrols of pick-up trucks with guns mounted above the cabs and heavily armoured solders, vigilantly wilding there automatic weapons, I don’t feel unsafe. The thing with war zones and places of conflict whether it be an oppressive regime, infighting drug cartels or invasion is that life carries on, people still need to eat, so trucks deliver, shops are frequented and fruit sellers still sell their wares at the side of the road. I'm sure it’s a very different scene at night. But for now it’s just normality with an ominous presents of the army. No one is expecting me or waiting for me. I don’t dither but I have to stop for food and fuel. And I see no evidence of any trouble at all. I suppose you have to know what to look for and where to look.

In Veracruz I was shown a house that was literally sprayed with bullets. It was in a good neighbourhood, now the windows are bordered up but that doesn’t hide the gunshot damage which is as dense as a heavy hail storm. It was planed and specific; no one is going to waste their bullets on a limping overlander.

After two days I'm on Friendship Bridge, the sat nav springs into detailed action and I sit in a 4 lane queue with air temperature of 110 degrees and slowly push my bike forward to be processed. But it’s not Mexican immigration, when I get to the front I'm at US customs and I've missed my chance to get my temporary vehicle importation fee refunded and it’s quite a significant amount. After a half hearted look in my panniers a little chat about the English music scene and the obligatory scaremongering I’m free to enter Texas.
‘Any trouble’
No none at all, the stories aren’t true you know, everyone was kind, friendly and hospitable’
‘Yeah tell that to the guy who was here yesterday, he was kidnapped’
‘Kidnapped? Well not with too many restraints if he was allowed to cross back home’
Is the scaremongering a compulsory part of the immigration process? I mean I'm coming from the country now, I'm experienced, and informed, you are on the ignorant side of the fence. Stop telling me how dangerous Mexico is. It’s bloody not.
I'm wet with sweat, thanks to all my stupid black safety clothing on. I have one thing I want to do, get a room. Actually two get a room and shower, no three things I want to eat too.
I want to look at a menu, recognise every word and order just what I want. So as pink clouds illuminate scruffy palms I sit in an open air restaurant and eat a ridiculously large meal surrounded by ridiculously large people, with ridiculously loud conversation, none of which have any substance at all.

My room is cheap but still the price of 2 days Mexican budget but it’s sumptuous, clean and the bed is so soft that my bruised and swollen body feels like its floating.
Over a polystyrene cup of coffee and under a cool cloudy morning sky I decide I want my money back, it’s a tough decision. One of my least favourite aspects of overland travel is boarders and my most hated is US immigration, but I did both yesterday and as I ride south again I realized I am going to do both again today, I pay my toll to go over the amigo bridge and I'm back in Mexico, I hadn’t had my passport stamped on leaving so I that is my fist little hurdle, they didn’t seem to have missed me.
‘Where did you spend the night last night?’ I wasn’t asked
‘Oh I went and slept in American, very comfy bed you know’
I should have got myself some breakfast whilst in Mexico but I rode onto the vehicle import place and quickly and efficiently got processed. Right back to America then, the beggars on the bridge recognise me and we exchange a few words. The queue is as long as yesterday but I know which lane moves quickest now because it splits into 2 at the end, it’s cool and comfortable today.

The comfort ends at the immigration booth.
‘When were you last in the US?’
‘About an hour ago’
‘Why wasn’t your passport stamped?’
‘Don’t know’ ask your inept colleague
‘Where is your form you present along with your pre approved electronic visa waiver programme authorization?’
There is no form that’s why it’s called ESTA, it’s electronic.
‘You need a form sir’
No I don’t, you’re as incompetent as the other shift, can’t we talk about Supertramp and Roger Waters like I did yesterday?
No apparently not, I have to be accompanied to the processing building,
‘Walk on my left sir’
Really it’s that strict? Do you really think I'm going to pull your gun from you holster and shot you with it? If you’re so afraid of guns perhaps you shouldn’t carry one, that’s why I don’t carry one, they can so easily end up in the wrong hands.
3 hours to get processed, it’s wrong; I didn’t tell them obviously, I'm in on the wrong visa, idiots. But more than that, I was here yesterday under the radar. I could have stayed indefinably in the US no one knew I was here, and I could just go back to Mexico which I was never stamped out of and come into the US again like I’d not been here, ho hum, I really wanted my $400 back though. When I go back to my bike I have a little crowd of customs men gathered round we exchange a few words a prelude to the compulsory warning, ‘have any trouble?’
‘No none what’s so ever, Mexico is harmless’
‘You must have the luck of the Irish’
And that little sentence says so much. Paranoid, scaremongering, irresponsible, ignorant and afraid, and on top of that they still don’t know my bloody nationality.

Ok 1200 miles to go on smooth roads with sign posts and no speed bumps. I have to keep reminding myself to obey the signs, laws are enforced here. There is a sign I'm sure it’s a contradiction or maybe I'm just being pedantic. ‘Warning signs must be obeyed - Texas state law’ it says, well it’s not a warning then is it? It’s an order.
with my right leg leading, stuck out on the peg and my scabs peeling, I do the highest mileage days of the journey.

In San Antonio I see a sign for ‘The Alamo’ so I divert off, ride a few blocks , stop, take a look, and mentally check that site off my list of world sites I've seen. Then I’m spat back out onto a highway of 5 lanes in rush hour. Its really requires quite a lot of concentration. I'm out of practice with large quantities of fast moving traffic in multiple lanes.

When the metropolis dies down back into farm land, all the land both sides of the highway is fenced, regardless of what inhospitable terrain is beyond it. Fly camping is significantly harder and more dangerous here. Fenced in the name of fear and protection of territory terrified of trespassing. I dare not fly camp, they all have guns, it’s an isolating quality, its self generating, it’s hard to decide if they are fencing in their fear and ignorance or keeping knowledge and enlighten out.
However with no potholes or other unseen obstruction its safe to ride out the last of the light and with a very good comprehension of the language I get a camping spot in an RV /caravan park, it’s the price of a good room in Mexico but I do have wifi in my tent, and I'm even offered a tent heater for the night, free of charge, but she looked like she might snore so I just politely said goodnight.

Bloody hell it was cold in the morning, down by the river the cold air lingers, steam comes off the water, beautiful it may be but it’s not exactly a the cosy entry into a long day on the road.

It’s a gradual night time decline of body warmth, combined with hunger and self imposed dehydration to avoid getting out of the tent into the freezing night.
I all depends on your basis of comparison but I'm beginning to think this is a bit hard core. 8 days ago I came off my bike, since then I have ridden through tropics, through rain, through humidity, fixed punctures at the road side, ridden through drug cartel territory, through the US boarder twice, along crowded impatient city freeway rush hours, camped in frigid conditions and now I'm up and off to continue my 2300 mile return trip.

Texas is massive, I'm really not sure why they made it so big but it can’t be ignored. It’s just about stimulating enough to keep me interested. Distances are big, but there are slow variations, a landscape of contradiction when the oil wells mix with wind farms.

Now distance markers have changed from kilometres to miles everything takes a little longer to get to, but the secret to progress is momentum not speed. And as long as stops are planned, for the most efficient use of time I can ride through my little window in the weather without extremes. I know its January, I know what season it is, I just keep forgetting, when I see the random white rocks on the north side of buildings in the evening light, it dawns on me that I have now ridden to where snow lies on the ground in an air temperature too cool to melt it away.
I should stop in this town but for the last hour I have watched the sky to my left promises a spectral sunset and now I'm going to ride west into it.

It delivers in full and even when the rest of the sky had eventually given in to night the burning western embers of the spectacular display refuse to be extinguished.

I suppose I’ll get a room tonight, in fact I get 2 cus my noisy neighbours won’t shut up or show the slightest bit of consideration. So using my native linguistic skills I request and relocate to a different room. Where I continue not to sleep. May be its excitement of the last leg, or the pain in the first one, maybe its overtiredness, but I wait impatiently for dawn; it’s so late coming in this time zone boarder town. 7.40am and I still can’t read my tyre pressure gauge, 8am and hyper from caffeine I find myself judging the timing of the traffic lights to co ordinate it with the donning of the helmet and my departure, it’s safe to say I chomping a bit.

Not to be out done by yesterday’s end of daylight display, the dawn is equally spectacularly in a difference and incomparable way. A low sun undermines a dark heavy sky that makes the blackness shine and then something happens that I'm not sure I should share, not just because the site might be beyond the limits of my written word, not to mention my camera but also because it was a moment in time that seemed to be just for me and left me in awe.
There was a flock of perhaps 70 white birds flying in an agitated display, a frustrated formation, against the ominous sky. Pinpointed by a searchlight sun, they moved as if they had no more substance than feathers delicately tied together and being blown by a strong wind. A systematic motion but with an uncoordinated grace, they came towards me at 45 degrees slowed enough to distract but too fast to even attempt to photograph. It would be futile anyway. One of Mother Nature’s entrancing moments in time. Witnessed by one and then gone.
That was followed shortly after by the disappearance of the sun and with it the promise of any warmth to the day disappeared too.

I stopped for breakfast. Ignored instinct, into a large 1800’s dining room of a ‘historic hotel’ it’s not heated, other diners are complaining and the solitary waitress has the grace and competence of a hung over teenager, which I'm pretty sure she is, the food is slow, cold, greasy and raw. Annoyed at myself for eating it, accepting it without complaint and paying for it, I stood outside emptying my panniers to find the lead to plug in my heated vest, the vest has been redundant the whole trip and it occurs to me I have never seen the lead. So it becomes a waistcoat, nothing more.

It’s too early to lose my momentum but I do along with my stomach contents at every available rest stop as the raw potatoes slices marinated in cold oil and served with the chill of an inefficient establishment demand a premature exit. Public toilets, cold concrete, multiple layers, chilled, painful, awkward and un cooperating limbs, combined with a cramping tummy. All this with the knowledge that everything I own of value is out of site beyond this unlockable and graffiti covered door. The greasy food no doubt the cause although it had the graced to assist with the evacuation.

And finally the 200 mile homerun interstate to the high snow covered plains of central Colorado.

The winds are strong and gusting, I ride at a 60degree angle. At last, after 2000 miles reducing the width of my highway wide chicken strips, at least on the right side.
The highway warning signs say ‘wind advisory for high profile vehicles’ well I have a blog and a book, do they mean me? I'm not sure the book sails will blow me away, but it’s the book that’s sending me home.
The bike is strong and responsive, it seems to like this cold air and altitude, and I think it will be staying in Colorado, that’s what it’s telling me.
We got on ok, we had a nice little 10,000 mile ride but I think we will be going our separate ways, no hard feelings we just know each other well enough now that we know what’s best for each other. There may be a mutual appriciation but we never really bonded.
My eyes and desires are drawn towards KTM’s, after all isn’t it all about new experiences?

Oh, it's a hard road (especially when you hit it)

So I've got 3 days to do a 2 day ride, I assume I have 3 days, this was never really the overland adventure biking sequel, more accurately, just a tour, now a return, a total cop out, fun and familiar. Yes, I can hype the stats, 3 months on the road 8000 miles, but all I've been doing is riding round one country.

Today is super easy, I leave beautiful Campeche its tasteful discretion was most appealing, clean, quiet, understated and modestly adhering to its world heritage site status.

As I pack the bike a passing older gentleman gives me a look of gusto, strength, envy, yes I know, is anybody with their clothes on doing anything more enviable than I am right now?
My journey takes me along the turquoise ocean and white crystal sands of fishing villages, and then drifts inland into some hills and delicate twisties, I haven’t lean for a while this is fun.

I left the town with something I needed, a destination, dates and directions, I now have a date to be in Denver a date to be home a date for the book release. There is little to concern me, and as I ride this joyous road I consider the hospitality that waits for me in Veracruz, the friends, with my alcohol of choice (free and available) plus my favourite DVDs that my host who, with his limitless hospitality has arranged for me. I smile at the prospect and think about stopping to send him text. But when I do stop it’s to take a few photos under palms by calm inviting seas inhabited by lazy pelicans.

But I use the wrong light setting so that will have to be resigned to memory; it’s an easy ride, no traffic, right temperature, stimulating scenery and I speak into my voice recorder as I ride to relate the feeling, in hope of capturing it in my diary later.

But the afternoon brings a new and less favourable mood. The wind gets up the sea turns choppy and brown, the towns more industrial, an uncharacteristically unfriendly police check and extravagant tolls. I can’t seem to find a place for lunch, I pass Subways and other western food places but I'm on the coast, I want fish.

It’s hard to make myself stop, but its 3pm now, I'm hungry and agitated, the feel good feeling gone, along with the scenery and the quiet and variable road.
I stop where trucks are parked, I get the stare as I walk in, but that’s fine, I'm used to that. I order fish soup, everyone else is eating it, making a meal of it, slurping at the shrimp, crab and fish filled bowl, mopping up the liquid with warm tortillas. I have high hopes and help myself to a drink from the fridge; I keep my eyes on my map and look at a possible destination for tonight in my guide book. It’s disappointing, all swampy marsh land and mozzie infested. I’ll just camp at dusk I suppose. My food comes, chicken with chilli sauce, how the hell did that happen? I'm frustrated at my lack of understandable Spanish, I know what I wanted and what I ordered, why am I looking at chicken and chilli. If I look up, eyes are on me, other tables are getting large grilled fish on a plate with fresh vegetables. Bollocks. It’s an altogether miserable experience. But my tummy is full and I'm good to go again, one driver speaks to me, he too has a bike, that’s pretty much the extent of it.

I go back to my bike and head off, the sun has begun to change its light, I’m not ready to look for a camping place yet but the afternoon light is evident. I come to the inevitable speed bumps that the trucks and taxies take so slowly. I use the opportunity to overtake and wave a hand at the diner I spoke to as I pass his multiple axles bumping over the concrete humps in the road.
80kms, 50mph that’s all I'm doing, in an attempt to decrease my horrific fuel consumption and because I have time on my side.
It’s a fast flat road with an active hard shoulder for the slower travellers amongst us to use, rickshaws, bicycles, mopeds and failed adventurers veer over to its safety when bigger and faster appear in our mirrors. I know the score I've been here long enough now.
I have a little weave, my tyre in a groove no doubt; I don’t think I even break, not at first. But it’s not a weave its complete loss of control.

When I hear traffic reports on the radio, ‘the driver lost control of his vehicle’ I think ‘what shit’. You have a steering wheel or bars less than an arm’s length away, what’s to lose? In 30 years of riding experience I think I have quite good control, the bike is a part of me. But it was suddenly possessed; it veers into the lane of oncoming traffic. It won’t lean, it won’t steer. The car I was heading towards swerved violently into my lane to avoid me, but my bike grabs and goes back into my lane. I'm probably braking now.

I don’t know where it’s going, I don’t have control. This is it then, if he’s going as slow as me it will still be 100mph impact. I can’t control my bike, it’s all over the place, and then it’s down, hard, and so am I, the first thing that hits the road is my head, I roll and roll.
I'm on the wrong side of the road, I'm lying on my back, I just lay there. It’s one of those rare occasions when the bike is not my main concern. I'm burning I'm bleeding, am I broken? I lift my head, I don’t want to see what I'm seeing and put it back down. I'm not sure what I notice first.

My bike had flipped the panniers exploded, the contents across the road. My front tyre is off the rim. Is it safe to take off my helmet? What’s left of me? I take off my helmet its badly scratched, gauged from impact with the road. The traffic has stopped, people are all around. Lights are flashing, people are waving at traffic. I try to get up. I'm shaking, the biggest adrenalin rush I've ever had. What works, what’s broken what’s missing? Ouch, my shoulder, my knee, my inner thigh, my arm, my elbow but it all moves, it’s all connected; the pain most defiantly is still coming from those parts.

The driver in the car that was behind is an English translator. The trucker I spoke to is there too. They gather my positions off the road. The marmite and protein bars. All the things that are no longer neatly and methodically packed. I'm vulnerable, they are picking up my bike, I'm sitting up now, I point at the side stand, no it’s the wrong angel, I get up use my stall to wedge under the bike. I think I want to lie back down. I think I want to take control. The tyre is twisted off the rim and the tube or something is jammed under the break calliper, the aluminium rim has a worn flat spot. I was riding on the front rim with the brake locked on, I turn the ignition off.

Before much else happens I call my friend in Veracruz, in case whatever is keeping me going stops. I need someone I know to know where I am what happened. Now I am describing what happened and the ‘what if’s’ begin to dawn on me, what if the oncoming car wasn’t paying attention, what if it was a truck? I hand the phone to the other driver; I look at myself, I standing in the road, stopped traffic and bike debris all around. I pull down my combats right there, I reveal blood and gauged skin, grazed and abrade from the road, my padded and protective jacket is not scuffed but my elbows and shoulders are, how come? Nothing is broken just burnt and bleeding and the adrenalin pumps again. I'm shaking, I thought that was it, I thought I was dead for sure. Why didn’t I hit that car?

I think of less lucky friends I've had, no longer here, and with that thought what ever was holding me up lets go, I drop in a crouch to the ground and hold myself up with my hands on the road. I thought I was dead, I thought it was over right there on the road, from a stunning mornings ride to my demise, only my comments in my voice recorder as to a clue to my final thoughts.

Now I'm freaking out. The driver of the car behind who saw it all is named Arjumand he sits me down; he says he is going to perform riki on me. He tells me to place my hands on my legs out in front of me.
‘Breath in, hold it, breath out, 10 years has passed since this day’. His phone rings he’s distracted, actually I’m sitting on something prickly, I'm distracted. I get up; I’m hyper, tow truck, Red Cross, ambulance, where will I stay? My stuff is in piles at the side of the road. Is monklet ok? He is protected by the bark bashers, scratched and bent.

The screen is broken and hanging, the panniers totally bent out of shape. Both of them the bike must have flipped. Let’s get it on the centre stand. I look at the tyre and tube, twisted around the rim, I realize how lucky I am and the adrenalin pumps again. I’m now in a state of hyper manic.

All the places I've been, all the things I've done, I'm all alone, and I'm desperate, I'm vulnerable, but I'm surrounded by Samaritans I'm trying to gain control. Logic, lateral thinking, combined with fear, relief and distress all fight for prominence.
I get out my folder of most important things, passport, insurance, vehicle documents, credit card, my Mexican insurance has expired, I know that, I've been here to long, it doesn’t matter, its only me, I have medical insurance. But I lose interest in my documentation. I decide I need to dress my wombs, my first aid kit is laying on the road, I pull out dressings, swabs, gauze, and bandages, I open packages, no I can’t do this either. The tyre, let’s do the tyre. We take off the front wheel, yes I'm bleeding and I'm burning but I can do mechanics.
People are leaving now the traffic has resumed and passing too close, too fast. I'm pulled by the arm from the road, as a bus over takes a truck at my side. I didn’t even notice, I'm death proof now.

The valve has separated from the tube, is that the cause of the accident of a product of it?
But its ok I have a spare tube, I go get it out my other pannier, but come back with my waterproof over boots, that’s not a good sign, what’s my head doing? I go back and concentrate harder and find the tube. They are struggling with the tyre. And my single leaver.
‘Got any ideas?’ yes, I'm shaking and bleeding, I look at it, it’s fighting its self, rapped round the wheel, and surely it’s no good any more. Let’s release the pressure here. We get the tyre off the rim.

I still have my fingerless gloves on, they are not scuffed, my hands never touched the road. I was flung head first off my bike, all these years I have always said , gloves before helmet, we instinctively put out our hands to save us, and I never got a chance, head first into the road.
I'm thinking straighter now, getting my pump, putting air in the virgin tube before we put it on the wheel, seating the tyre in the sunken rim for more flexible leverage, getting my washing up liquid from a pile by my food to ease the tyre back on the rim. And it pops back on. Then an ambulance arrives,
‘Did you call one?’
‘No’
They were just passing, decided to stop, 3 paramedics get out, one checks me for concussion, and he looks at my pupils.
‘What day is it?’
‘Martes’
Blank look, I'm pretty sure Martes means Tuesday, I confirm in English ‘Tuesday’
He thinks about it ‘Oh yes it is’
I laugh; I punch his shoulder, ‘don’t fuck with me’
‘What country are you in?’
‘Mexico’ why don’t you understand Spanish?
‘Are you ok?’
‘I think so’
I go into the sweaty humid ambulance; my wombs are dressed whilst one of them wants my name for his clip board. Here I’ll write it, but my hands are shaking,
‘It’s over there on the ground in the blue folder’
Through tinted windows I watch 3 people go through my most precious passions. With trust, with honour, with compassion.

‘Thanks for stopping’, I'm filled with gratitude, I shake everyone’s hand, ‘thanks for your time, thanks for stopping, should you be somewhere?’ Apparently not.
My karma credits are being used, but the bank is paying on demand. An ambulance was just passing?
A translator was behind me? The trucker has a compressor on board?
Ok, now I'm bandaged, I think for free, the tyre now has air in, police have stopped, I supervise putting the wheel back on, the Speedo drive located, the disk between the pads.
I'm the only one with the strength to tighten the nut tight enough to a line the holes in the axel to take the split pin, adrenalin enhanced, I feel no pain, and I’m not sure how I will ever get this undone again. I hold a screwdriver to the rim and spin the wheel, it’s true, the police look on, I even pump the front break, and I’m so in control of this phase of the event.
I stick my bike together with duct tape and cable ties, lose parts are bungeed to distorted panniers. My number is taken, emails swapped. I thought that was it, my end, the bikes end the journeys end, but I live to ride another day, in fact I live to ride today.

It’s explained to me that the trucker is going to follow me to the next town to check I'm ok.
I would rather just take the time, to look over my bike, to assess the damage, to locate things properly, I'm not sure I'm ready to get back on the horse just yet, but it’s getting dark, I get on, I start it.
I ride and for 20kms, I have a bloody great Kenworth up my arse, pushing me faster than I care to go. My leg hurts, I get into town and stop to wave him good bye as he takes the bypass, and I stop at the first mozzie infested motel. Check in and get a call immediately it’s my friend in Veracruz, I tell him the story.
‘You got back on and rode it?’
‘Yeah, I'm a hard core mother fucker, mother fucker!’
I think there may still be some adrenalin left in me
‘We’ll put everything right when you get here, you'll need new tyres’
Yeah I suppose I will, I was hoping to squeeze 10,000 miles out of them, limp back to Denver, well I've got the limp, I want to squeeze more than 46 years out of my life, I guess I’ll replace the rubber.

I get a text from Arjumand, still concerned, still compassionate. He has a brother in the States, who knows no one there, he hopes he finds help like I got if he needs it.
Several things are dawning on me. My awareness at where I am and what I'm doing, how I'm not immortal, what good people the Mexicans are , I knew that already, it’s been the theme of the journey, how if I had to hit a road I would chose the same one again.
I get in the shower, find more damage,

I lie on the bed and take my special pink pills that I save for best, falling 20foot off a ladder, vasectomies, and bike accidents, this is best. I turn on the TV, Mission Impossible 2 the stunt bike chase scene, Tom Cruise, helmetless and in a wheelie, stoppie, donut, burnout gun fight, yeah whatever.

I close my eyes and get to live another day.
I don’t know the cause, I didn’t get to check the inside of the tyre, did the valve just separate? How can you possibly take precautions for such an event? Ride at 20mph? Not ride at all? I’ve leaned it so hard I've scraped pegs, on tight blind corners on mountain sheer drop roads, its fun, it’s the best fun, I can’t think about separating valves or bursting tyres when I do that, but I will be, at least for a while.
What do I believe in? Who do I prey to? Who do I thank? I simply believe when it’s your time, it’s your time. Nothing you can do about that. Just appreciate your time. I'm staying in better hotels now and eating steak; life’s too short to save.
I once saw a bumper sticker it said ‘who dies with the most toys wins’
I disagree, who dies with the most appreciation wins. It’s not about what you own and keep, it’s about recognizing what you don’t own and won’t have forever.

Road to Ruins

There was this thing on the internet, it said how I could refit the spring in my camera, step by step instructions on dismantling it into a hundred losable little parts, bugger that, I think that’s pushing my Swiss army knife beyond its limits.

Then as a casual after thought it says ‘of course if you don’t mind doing the light metering and focusing manually you can just glue the sub-mirror to the main mirror. So with a safety pin applicator, some instant gasket, a steady hand, lots of hope, little faith, and nothing much to lose I stuck the mirrors together. And what do ya know? I only bloody worked. Whoopee, let’s go see some more sites.
Time for some hard core culture. Man those Mayans built some cool stuff. I'm not going to go into the history, construction, and the time periods, the reasons the rulers and the rituals. If you want names places and dates you’re on the wrong site, this is just the instant gratification of the visuals. Cus wow they are really big, really old and really cool. And I think frustration would be the leading sensation if I didn’t have a device to capture it all with.
Ok I'm going to drop some names just for location purposes, but before I hit the road to ruins I stayed in the boarder town for 4 days in the end, making decisions and all that, and not for the first time this trip I feel like I'm leaving a family when I leave this little hotel, they give me their personal phone number in case of emergency, I can check out anytime I like but I can never leave completely, I always feel like I left a little bit of me behind. You just don’t get that at a travel lodge.
So after the heart retching departure I am soon faced with the army check point again, ‘you said you were going to Guatemala, how come your still here?’ But he’s friendly, shakes my hand like an old friend and probably for the first time logs reason for return through check point as ‘broken camera’.
So first I rode to Calakmul this is a remote setting in the jungle, (the bonus of having a bike, remote becomes accessible) with undefined lines that divide Guatemala with Mexico, and in fact due south is Tikal, the World famous ruins in Guatemala. What do ya mean you’ve never heard of ‘em? Well you have now.
I got there late, the little man on the gate explained it was a 40km ride and they close at dusk, all in Spanish and I totally understood. I thought for a minute, I can do this, he took my bike details, (clean, overloaded and cool looking) and off I went on a single track jungle road. I don’t want to imagine what lurks in the undergrowth and the things that crossed my path were big, cat like and fast. (Big for a pussy cat but not ‘big cat’ lion type size) I pay my £2 and in I walk, and walk and walk, I would have taken off my too hot, too heavy, too uncomfortable, and too big for me Alpinestar bike boots if I had known the distance. Carrying a jacket and heavy tank bag with me it was not a pleasant stroll but a sweaty rush to see something before the sun set. Rushing past ruins in the hope of more spectacular sites. I was not disappointed, a pyramid, in fact a plaza of pyramids, and not many people. I don’t need to climb em, I'm happy to just look.
‘If you climb any, climb this one’ said some one else’s guide, ‘Really?’ ok then, being still nimble, agile and able (unless faced with a Himalayan mountain range) I climbed up the big steps with an envious speed. Oh right, a view of course, that makes sense. Toucans, monkeys and monuments poke their heads out of the dense jungle and the sun bows its head to the coming night. Oh look, over there is another massive pyramid, with a kissing couple on top, how beautifully romantic, now sit the fuck down your ruining my picture, light and focus I can do manually, removing your prolonged embrace from the pinnacle of this pyramid I can’t do. I can only wait for their magical moment to pass.

I can’t wait any longer, I go the other pyramid. Actually I usually find in these places I would rather sit at a lesser site in tranquil solitude and contemplate and appreciate than go for the star attraction and agitate and frustrate. However who was left, has gone home now so I wander over and climb to the top; actually it was better viewed from afar. But I'm here now and so are Roberto and Gloria, still in there loving embrace, they are young, clean and beautiful, to my mature, road hardened and weathered look, but they are keen to spread the love, taking photos of me, with their camera, with my camera, then can I take one with their camera? Then with mine. When every possible combination has been captured from every angle, hang on a minute why didn’t I get to hug Gloria?

Email addresses are swapped and now in utter darkness and with sore and blistered feet I decide to canter down, back to the forest floor to find my way out. Roberto calls after me. Please wait for us; we don’t know the way, well hurry up then. And as the monkeys screech and the jaguars and pumas lie in silent stealth we chat in ‘Spinlish’ as we trot along the path by the light of the moon and his blackberry.

The attendants have gone home; with the bleep of a remote control, doors open and my friends are gone too. And I'm left alone with just the noises of jungle night life contemplating the possibility of spending the night on top of a pyramid. (They are not totally pointy, it wouldn’t be too uncomfortable) But what of the wild life? And my taken details? I think I’ll just say goodnight to the temples. I ride the featureless road with care and spotlights on full, I don’t ride at night; it’s a big ‘never’ on the list of things I try to avoid whilst biking. But I fitted these spotlights for just such an occasion, when a never becomes a necessity. And it’s actually a ride of no significance, apart from the cat type things, and I day (or night) dream my way back to the barrier. The old man is waiting with his headlight, to tick me off and check me off his clip board. When he calms down I ask if I can camp here. I can, thank god for tents that don’t need tent pegs. I set up in the corner of the car park and have a wonderful free night’s sleep, looking at my gorgeous bike outside my fly screen, outstanding in the moonlight.

I take a photo on 30 second shutter speed, not enough light was let in to the picture but plenty of mozzies were let in the tent.

Well that today’s stupid action, I can go to bed now.

Next day to Tulum. The ruins on the cliffs, the perfect turquoise sea beneath.
I sneak into these from the beach. Through the undergrowth and into the hordes. God I hate this, luckily the hordes have inadvertently bought about an option for those who think outside the rope. I duck under to a cordoned off area and sit on a cliff unseen but with a perfect view.

Right place right time. There is a stunning sunset and as the obedient multitude take they loud babblings back into their air conditioned buses, I’m left with a solitary silent sunset and an overwhelming feeling of contentment.

I think I’m meant to wander this planet alone if I'm to find lasting happiness. Company is great but has limited appeal. My own simulating selfish companionship has been most invigorating lately. I sometimes leaves me wondering, sometimes wanting but consistently reassures me the only company that I continually go back to is singularly my own.
But I'm happy to share the photos with you.


Next morning before it gets light I walk the beach again and get a sunrise to myself, then walk the grounds before the crowds ruin them, blatantly exposing my infiltration, and no one is there to see it or remove me. Smug, gratified and rewarded for my dawn escapades, I see my neighbour from the next hut at a beach restaurant and we have breakfast together.

‘Where am I going? Where have I been? Way am I going back? What did you do?’ the answer to every question is ‘the book’ I wish I could talk about something else. If I try to avoid the questions I sound like I'm being deliberately evasive and conjuring up intrigue. I'm not. I can’t tell a lie and I can’t change the subject. The book, all roads of conversation lead to the book.


Onto the next ruin Ek-Balam, over rated and disappointing, there’s restoration and then there is replication and I'm not sure what they are doing here. A plaster of Paris serpent, palm view-obscuring thatch? I walk around the base trying to see the point but this pyramid is as far as I can see, pointless.

Now I'm on the real tourist trail, where the Cancun holiday herds pull themselves away from their sun loungers, all inclusive meals and alcohol to do the Mayan tour. The locals are in tourist rip off mode, the beggars are rife and the friendly hospitality of the rest of Mexico has been replaced by the international greed and resentment that can be found at any major tourist attraction. I'm sure it’s perfectible acceptable if that’s your holiday outing but it’s not mine. That’s why there are early mornings and dusky evenings so I can visit whilst the less demanding and more sociable are in transit, in bed or in the bar.

I'm saving the best till last, Chichen Itza. A new 7th wonder of the world. That one everybody has heard of. I have low expectations but it can’t be ignored. So having found a hotel I can camp in.

I go in for my afternoon experience. The car park isn’t free; that’s a sign right there, extract money before you even get in. But I can’t get in. I can’t even buy a ticket. It’s between sessions, the day visit and the evening sound and light show. So I go to try to get my car park money back but that’s not going to happen either. Bastads!

I spend the evening with 3 fellow camper’s brother, sister and sister’s husband. They feed me and 5 hours disappear, in travel tales and the inevitable book promotion. They have a familiar dynamic due to their relationship with each other. Their ‘in jokes’ don’t exclude just endear. But I think due to their closeness I will only sell one book, it will be shared around.

In the morning I try again, (ruin viewing, not book selling) I blatantly park my bike the free side of the car park barrier, ‘say something, Senor car park ticket master, I dare you!’
I wait for the general admission ticket Nazis to decide to open up their shutters, cowardly, provocatively 15 minutes late behind their safety glass displaying their inaccurate exchange rates. Hurry up; don’t you know anything about morning light, photographic opportunity, light temperature, Kelvin’s and manual light metering? They have got resentment running rife before we even enter. A French woman has kicked off and is physically shaking with frustration, later I see her run past a pyramid to get the shot she wanted a quarter of an hour ago. Once in, I however am pleasantly surprised.

This is wonderful, maybe the 7th most wonderful thing in the world. It’s still empty, I find a quiet shady spot and gaze, and I really feel something. 5 years ago you could climb it, spend the night, but even now it still has magnificence beyond the barriers and the ‘ball park’ is equally staggering.

I'm impressed. And I'm out of there before the buses arrive, although there are still the inevitable spastics who insist on clapping their hands in the presents of any large structure, not in an act of appreciation but because they have never head an echo before. Do you really think the Mayans on top of their design and astronomy skills, when calculating the construction and positioning so as to project images of serpents heads at the equinox, actually decide a little bonus would be that it returns the sound of a clapped hand too? Fuckin idiots, shut up and just look can’t you?

Ok then, one more, I have just heard about Uxmal.

Why hadn’t I heard of this place before? It’s so vast and unvisited and now I really have inadvertently saved the best till last.

I wild Camp because I spent to long there and I'm not going to make it anywhere significant before dark.
I impatiently wait for dawn, ten hours sleep is enough. I'm in Campeche at 8am, how early can you check into a hotel? 8am apparently.
There’s no fatigue, the early hour, the cobbled streets and empty cool Sunday sensation,

it’s just a pleasure to ride round the criss-cross of brightly coloured terraces, looking for accommodation that meets my needs, (hot water and wifi) this place is like Lego land for grown-ups.

Another spectacular site waits, enhanced by another stunning sunset.

I can see I have aligned with the planets, everything is working out now, everything is enjoyable, there is appreciation and wonder, happiness and that illusive contentment that usually lasts as long as uncanny luck remains with me. It’s the slowest U turn; the country won’t stop wowing me.

It would be rude to turn my back on it now. What would I be doing if I hadn’t got my camera to work? Describing, that’s what, if a picture speaks a thousand words then spell check would take longer than usual.

It's a sign, is it a sign?

If I were looking for a sign, if I were, then they all point in one very clear direction and it’s not south.

In order of occurrence and not necessary in order of annoyance. And I have to admit, generally self-inflicted although certainly not intestinally the following could be seen as signs.
I scratched the lens of my Oakley’s.
A designer sunglasses necessity have been a quarter century addiction of mine, each pair usually lasting long enough and providing enough pleasure to justify the cost. But weather scratched in a Viet cong tunnel or lost in a festival mosh frenzy, the disappointment and sadness is equal to that of the death of a pet, well a pet fish maybe, no disrespect to the recently departed family cat, although kittens are a lot cheaper than a new polarized lens.

So this first disaster happened when a drinking session passed from the afternoon into evening and eventually darkness. Now, drunken instincts should never be ignored. I could see I didn’t need my shades anymore and decided finding my glasses case was going to be too tricky and time consuming so the safety of my motorcycle top box would be good enough for the night. Locked away, safe from thief, or sitting on and most importantly no longer on top of my stupid head. That would have been fine, but for an impulsive emergency trip on the dirt road round the lake (which could have easily been walked) to get some more beer. With my concentration on other things, namely beer and balance (which although not talents necessarily associated with each other, are skills I can pull off better than beer and keeping my big mouth shut) 12 cold beers were placed in my top box and bounced all the way back to the camp ground on top of my super cool shades, which were now as captive and as venerable as a quadriplegic in a cage fight. Bollocks.
That was a bloody expensive drink. Not noticed until the next morning when I couldn’t clean off this particular obscurity from my vision.

Other things on lenses that obscure vision, my SLR that needed cleaning. So I went to the right shop (camera), bought the right stuff (lens cleaning fluid), sat in the right place (draft and dust free) in the right light (sun) to perform the simple procedure, but somehow managed to dislocate a tiny spring. No more quality controlled shots, a Canon specialist in a big town told me via a translator, that, in technical terms and that with all the information, tools, experience and technology available the diagnosis is basically, it’s fucked. And charged me for the privilege.

To continue, and this isn’t really a sign just a nagging loss, my toe ring of 14 years, custom made in a tiny Indian silversmiths workshop slipped off my foot in the pounding surf of the Pacific. I don’t expect much sympathy on that one. But a loss it remains. Sometimes the ocean wants a little gift for the pleasure of rolling around in its surf, it was suggested to me. Yeah? Next time, eat my shorts.
Too many condensation sunsets, I decided to move on.

The bike starts cutting out at over 4000rpm, blocked air filter? I stop and clean it but don’t get another chance to go that fast as it’s nearly dark now and the New Year throngs are crawling into town ahead of me, taking the last of the inflated priced hotel rooms.
One of my two least favourite aspects of motorcycle travel is getting into a new town in the dark, tired from a long ride, hot and looking out for, traffic, pedestrians, obstructions, cops, potholes, speed bumps, one way signs and on top of that, looking up high for a hotel sign. The other thing being the travelling through a tiny village turning every head not in the least bit inconspicuous and every turned head knows what I’m about to find out, 'he’ll be back, it’s a dead end’ and once again I’m faced with the stares only now with humiliation behind my bandanna.

So predictably the hotels are exorbitant and there has been nowhere to camp on route and now it’s dark and late, I opt for the cheapest I can find and the most expensive to date, it’s a cell,

cockroach infested, noisy and horrid, a fan that clicks and a control that buzzes but at least my bike is safe outside my door, undercover of the canopy. I check the chain oiler situation so as not to leave a black slippery puddle where I parked it. There is oil but it’s not coming from the chain oiler its coming from the engine. Bollocks.

Next morning after a sleepless night I strip off all I need to, to see the engine, rocker cover seepage, phew, that’s not a trip stopper. Loosen, retighten, back together, shower, hair wash put on bike cloths walk out from my canopy into sunlight to view the map; just as the cleaner on the floor above decides to sweep upstairs pile of dead cockroaches and general debris over the edge onto my shiny, wet, cleared with expensive product, hair.

6 miles to the next stop and it’s seeped again, no, engine breather is not blocked, so why is it doing this all of a sudden? Take it all apart again and this time remove rocker cover, reseal with instant gasket and reassemble, somehow loosing, despite my frightening methodical way, an 8mm socket, not as distressful as the toe ring unless that is its inside the engine somehow.
Being alcohol free, and more in need of spirituality than sprit. I conceived with a clear mind a devious and deceitful plan. I’d sneak into the Mayan ruins after dark to see in the New Year alone, under the stars, distant and peaceful, but for the howling monkeys and all the other things I don’t know about. So I unpacked my pack of clothing, and loaded it with mozzie net and remaining photographic equipment, poncho for stealth and bandana for effect. I crept off down the road to ruin sweating with the excitement and the humidity of dense jungle. I’d already spotted the hole in the fence I was going to crawl under like a 90’s Glastonbury festival goer. But first I had to pass the police, who I figured, would be participating in some New Years Eve festivities and my dark shadowy figure would be more likely smelt that seen. A gust of wind blew from nowhere, leaves tumbled down over me, they bought moisture, the leaves stopped falling but ithe moisture continued. It got heavier, it was rain, rain? In a rain forest? surely not. Time for a decision.
Should I stay or should I go? An almost daily dilemma in my life lately. Ancient ruins not being known for their weather proofing, I decided to turn around and dived into my tent of scattered cloths as the rain fell with waterfall magnitude. I tried to take off some of my sweaty, wet, rain soaked garments, but wait, the bike and tent need attention, so back out I go and place some strategic tent pegs into the already saturated ground and covered electrical components, monklet wont malfunction from a saturation, I had to have priorities, then back into my tent, now wet with sweat, exertion, and the tropical storm. I try to gather up stuff so nothing is up against the tent walls; I make a space and lay down, the hard rain drops like ball bearings, batter, not pitter-patter the sagging roof. It’s deafening, but thankfully not penetrating, my shoes are in the canopy outside the fly screen, the floor of which is now mud and under an inch of water.
My body loses its glow; the heat has not gone though and there is no air due to closed vents. I lay, it’s all I can do, periodically I turn on my head light to look for seepage but I seem to be ok. Sleep then I suppose; and neither the New Year nor the storm infiltrate my night, they just pass by.

At 6am I get up to try again, no point in sneaking in, it’s free on Sundays and national holidays today being both I expect to get paid for the experience. But I'm not a Mexican and I have to pay just like they don’t, should they come to see the great museums of my country’s capital city. I'm turned away back to the coach loads queuing at the ticket office. I go, out of principle through the hole I spotted yesterday

and pass through new streams

and cobwebs, clamber up slippery embankments, through moist foliage up into the grounds, all to save £2.50 and to keep my principles and sense of adventure intact.

I view sunbeams and shadows before the hordes infest the structures like ants over bread, (an analogy I have recent experience with) weather the free viewing public would have bitten me too if I had tried to remove them is still unknown. I wished I’d have tried harder last night.

Where was I? Oh yes signs
So the parting of ways, a new plan, a New Year and new feeling, contentment, at last. With a shortened itinerary and what to me looks like a good compromise, some new territory, new sites but a destination closer and closely resembling the departure point. I stop in a typical boarder town for one last Mexican afternoon. Not being sure if this insignificant crossing to Guatemala will even be open on this national holiday, even on weekdays its only open 9 till 5. I get a room by a mighty country dividing river and when awareness that all things are good and it’s a moment to capture, being Billy-no-mates I had to put my compact camera on self timer to record the occasion. I turned around to sit back in my chair and grin at the camera which wasn’t there, simultaneously noticing its absents with the sound of it crashing to the concrete one floor below the balcony it was balanced on. No more cameras left. Just as I was about to cross into Guatemala for some sites of bigger more dramatic and no doubt even more crowded ancient Mayan ruins.

Undeterred by events but not oblivious to their possible significance, I spent a night where rain pounded on the balcony of photographic doom, but safe inside my room on my corrugated mattress I was unbothered buy the fear of penetration, although, I did spot a wet patch on the ceiling. The following morning is cloudy, then rainy, then very rainy, then torrential. I'm not meant to cross that boarder am I? No one spends a second night in this town, no gringo comes and stays, I do.

Getting money out of an ATM has been a kind or Russian roulette in Mexico. They have HSBC branches here but they don’t accept my card, the world’s local bank is quite selective to who is actually a local. I pass a Mexican bank that regularly refuses to despatch money to me, but has the kind of ATM’s that don’t completely swallow your card only lick it, so there is never a risk or losing it inside its impenetrable depths, there’s an equally small chance of actually getting money out either. But this time it obliged. It’s a sign, look at all this currency I have that isn’t Guatemalan.

Where shall I go tomorrow?

I saw some signs whilst out walking today I’ll look up the place names I read on the map and maybe I’ll go that way tomorrow; if the signs are right.
I recently read in a fellow rider’s blog something about us all being animals and having instincts that should not be ignored. Instincts like alcohol can be the excuse for a lot of behaviours that often defy logic. I have instincts; they helped me navigate my way through Mongolia. I'm not afraid of Guatemala any more than I'm afraid of hangovers but perhaps the sensible finger of sobriety is pointing me in a different direction.
I love Mexico and I've only seen a fraction of what’s in the big fat guide book I don’t have a guide book for Guatemala just a piece of paper with some destinations and routes I scribbled down. That’s a sticker I'm not going to get, actually that 2501 stickers I'm not going to get. Because I'm supposed to pick up a load of stickers promoting my book and website in Guatemala City, 3 month bike trip, ‘where did you go?’ only Mexico, it’s a long story, but not one I can write about.