The end to 4 days, which felt like a lifetime...

Adventures in Glacier: Parts IV-V

Part IV: The Big Mistake

After a sleepless night spent in fear for your life, one is not in a position to make wise decisions about anything.

I knew the weather was going to be bad for a couple of days, and though I did not yet do everything I wanted in Glacier, I decided I needed to take off and sleep in a bed – alone, sans 1000lb beasts.
I called my guardian angels in Lethbridge, Alberta and got the go ahead to spend another night in the warmth of their company.

I knew I had a wet ride ahead so I decided to take a nap with Sarah under the single patch of blue sky in Glacier. An hour later the patch had closed; the clouds seemed to be moving in from the east, the interior of the park. At the time I thought nothing of this fallacy. So I packed up my bike and, against the suggestion of my GPS and the campground host, turned west to leave the park.

That one turn, that one moment when I could have double checked the time and distance of the road I was going to take…

I did not want to go east because that meant crossing the Rockies over a road potentially clogged with slow driving tourists, and over Logan pass on the continental divide (elevation 6646 ft.) which would potentially mean snow. And for some reason, which I cannot to this day explain, I thought that if I first went west, then north, I would not have to cross the Rockies when I went back east to Lethbridge!!! I thought there was some magical flat area in the middle of the range between Glacier Park and Height of the Rockies Park in Alberta!! This thought, along with my decision to first go west, was based on a vague recollection of a map I had seen some days earlier which I thought showed the road going just slightly west before turning north and then back east.

All of these assumptions would have been extinguished had I taken a moment, just a single moment, and checked a map or my GPS. That one moment would have saved my traversing the razor thin ridge between life and death which was my nighttime, freezing and soaked, crossing of the Rockies.
As it turned out, the route I had chosen would take 270 miles over the course of 6 hours, instead of the 130 miles over 4 hours it would have taken otherwise.
So I made my turn west (remember that my destination is north-east), and decided to ignore my GPS’s pleas for me to make a u-turn as soon as possible. But I was sure, with no actual confirmation, that my way was quicker and free of snow. Within 20 minutes I was driving through a wall of rain, at just a few degrees shy of turning to hail. For a while I had to keep my left hand over my face to keep the “rain drops” from busting out my teeth.

When the rain let up for a few minutes I was able to fully see (not grasp) the magnitude of my mistake. The western sky was a solid charcoal wall past which no mountain or forest was visible. The rest of the sky put on a full display of the beauty of clouds in all their shapes and styles, but I could not contemplate them for the imminent storm about to engulf me and the Rockies. To my great dismay the eastern sky, over the road I should have taken, showed no evidence of snow or even a downpour the likes of which I just crossed.

I continued west and north and began to feel the cold that would be my companion for the rest of the ride. At this point it would still be faster to turn around, but I felt committed to my mistake and used the possibility of snow over the pass and the fact I just passed a massive downpour to justify my continuing on the wrong path.

This was the first compounding of my initial mistake.



Part V: Dancing With Death
During the next two hours, as the sun continued to set behind the dark mass that followed me on my trail, and my body began to freeze, I cursed the atrociousness of my decision.

By the time I was half way through the Rockies, which I initially thought I would not have to cross, my feet were soaked and frozen, my body shivered non-stop and my hands shook harder and harder with every passing mile. By that point, every hotel I passed should have been my last stop for the night. But I saw the Moe’s house (my destination) as my salvation and my tunnel vision kept narrowing upon it, making it impossible to stop.

When I started getting small waves of warmth and seeing things along the road that were not there, I realized I needed to pull over because hypothermia was setting in.
I pulled into a 7-11 somewhere along the Crowsnest pass. I staggered inside and managed to get to the bathroom to run hot water over my hands. I was delirious with cold, my bloodshot eyes sought the coffee pot. As I stood by the glass enclosed trays of chicken laying under heat lamps I could not help but press my face against the warm glass.

Coffee in hand, body shivering, face against the bubble of warmth, I began to cry. The enormity of my mistake overcame me and I could not hold back the tears. Almost 10 years of riding and I was still capable of such stupidity! Not only should I have checked the route before leaving, I should have stopped at a hotel long ago.

The tears, sadly, did not make me cross the road to the motel located across from the 7-11. Instead, my tunnel vision tightened further and I began preparing for the road.
I found some small hand warmers that I put in my boots, along with a ski mask, and some gloves that were slightly less wet than the ones I had on. The two kids and woman running the 7-11 were very kind to me. They put my gloves and mask under the heat lamps and gave me a piece of chicken to chase the 5 Advil and 2 muscle relaxers I needed to take in order to continue down the wrong path.

A few minutes later I was back on the steed and for the first 20 seconds felt good and could feel the warmth of the facemask. But that feeling fled as quickly as it was painstakingly found. By now I was engulfed in darkness and could only see clearly about 10ft or so in front of me. It did not help that every passing car lit up the little droplets of water on my glasses rendering me blind for a few seconds – every half minute. If there were a few cars in succession, I could only pray that I would stay on the road. And pray I did! I invoked the Great Mothers mercy; I begged only that she not let any animals in my path. The cold I would somehow bear, but there would be no chance for me if a big horn sheep, deer or moose were to wander in front of my steed.

I tried taking off my glasses so that I would not ride blind half the time, but the rain would hit me right in the eye-balls, and I was forced to replace the shades. And so I had no choice (or so I thought) but to ride on, half blind, freezing, shaking and thinking every shadow or dark patch on the road was a beast running in front of me (hallucinations I continue to have to this day).

I still had more than 100 miles to go – my speed kept shifting from 50mph to 80mph, depending on the amount of fear I had at the moment regarding the unknown darkness.
80 miles – I’m praying; every two minutes I prayed, again and again: I can handle the cold, just don’t let an animal come in my way.
60 miles – I’m getting colder and colder and am starting to shake more violently; I’m less and less sure of my ability to handle the cold.
40 miles – I see lights in the distance, a town, if I can only reach that town…
30 miles – The tears are coming back; why did I put myself through this?! I could have stopped, I could have checked the map, I could have been warm…
20 miles – I’m shaking and delirious and can see nothing but the Moe’s house…
10 miles – I can die at any moment – either an animal, or a car I can’t react to quick enough, or running into something because I’m blind half the time…
5 miles – So close, within Lethbridge city limits, so close, don’t let me die now, it can still happen, it can happen within 20 feet of the house…
The garage… the door opening… inside… off the bike… staggering into the basement… must untie boots, unzip jacket, unbuckle belt, slide of shirt and underwear… Garret staring in amazement: “oh my god, oh dude, holy shit, oh my god, bro…”… must warm up – shower! WARM UP!… hot, wet, not cold, warmer and warmer and warmer… dry off, breathing stabilizing, shins and feet still cold… bed, covers, more covers, a bowl, darkness…

For any of you crazy cats whom I may meet on the road, here is what I have for you:

I return to the land from which I began my journey... on the opposite side of the continent

The Great North-West
I can’t think of a better way to leave Canada than on the ferry from Sydney, on Vancouver Island, to Anacortes, WA. The heavily laden behemoth slowly tugs through the very heart of the San Juan Islands, passing countless changing currents of the Puget Sound, and finally revealing the great, snow-capped, peak of Mt. Baker.
It was nice to have the opportunity to reflect on the difficulties I had faced, the wonderful people I had met, and the breathtaking things I had seen over the last 5000 miles. What could be more conducive to reflection than the rhythmic rumble of the engines; the cool salty breeze on the deck; the jumping fish, porpoises and whales, in denim colored water; bright, white sailboats lazily rising and falling with the swells; countless islands – inhabited or deserted, thickly covered with evergreens; and of course the majesty of the lonely mountain in the distance.
Though sore and tired, I was never the less excited to mount my steed when we landed in Anacortes. Down highway 20, 536 and interstate 5, on the northern outskirts of Seattle, live Jay and Dionne – fellow bikers, artists and hikers whom I met in Jasper national park in Alberta. This would be the first of many reunions I would have as I slowly made my way around the states and down to Mexico. I was looking forward to some rest, good food, great company, and provocative, politically charged, art.
After a few restful days, and nibbling on the grape vines in Jay’s backyard, I returned the call of the road and headed south to the Olympic peninsula. Fortunately the disgusting traffic of Interstate 5 beheld me for only an hour, before I could cut across on HWY 16, over the Tacoma Narrows, and enter the peninsula. I followed the coast north, switched to HWY 3 and then HWY 104 over the Hood Canal Floating Bridge and finally connected to the famous Route 101 (El Camino Real). The road took me north around the peninsula, past towns with multiple churches on every block, Olympic National Park, and finally turned south along the Pacific coast.

Where 101 hugs the coast, it is difficult to ride: all progress becomes retarded by views of the endless sea, fog covered cliffs, and moss laden coastal high plain. Thankfully, El Camino Real veers often inland, which allowed me to coast, hugging the curvy road, for countless miles without ever feeling the boredom of a straightaway. I spent a couple of dreamy nights on the coast before taking a sharp turn east, toward Corvallis, OR, on the inspirationally curvy HWY 34 (out of Waldport). Through mostly secondary and tertiary forest, 34 winds eastward with curves so tight you forget to breathe for what seems to be miles. Every once in a while a giant truck and trailer stacked with trees will ask to share this tiny road, and in those moments you simply pray there is no leaf to slip upon, no stray rock to make you tumble under any of the 18 wheels flying a few feet past your face. The Magna sits pretty high for a cruiser, but with all my gear, and wont to take curves at 200% recommended speed limit, sparks were flying and adrenaline was pumping for most of the 65 miles from coast to town.
In Corvallis I found refuge with the family of a good friend from New York. Their home was like a dream: with gardens, fountains, blackberry bushes, bee hives, and an absolute feeling of isolation from the world. It’s hard leaving a place you wish was your own home, but, as usual, I could stay for only a few days before returning that ceaseless call of the blacktop. Now that my wheels were pointing east, that feeling of urgency intensified as I saw every day bringing me closer to my mother’s home, and the end of the first stage of my journey.
Out of Corvallis I took HWY 20, through the Cascades and onto Bend for a reunion with Sarah. Our Adventures in Glacier bonded us for life, so I was eager to share some brews, and some mountain views, with her again. Bend, OR is one of those magical places replete with local breweries made delicious by mountain springs, views of those mountains, and easy access to them, but without all the crazy weather of mountains. I again spent just a few days in a place I would like to have remained for a long time.
I took HWY 97 out of Bend, which took me through the heart of Oregon Trail country, where settlers came 200 years ago with the thought of finding new, and rich, soil, but which in fact turned about to be a dry pocket in an otherwise fertile area. Regardless of the frightening and desolate expanses of dry tall grasses, I managed to find the best raspberry pie I’ve ever had on one of the few Main streets I passed before hitting the Columbia River Gorge.
Interstate 84, where it runs along the Columbia River, is one of the few exceptions to the general ugliness of interstates. Here, it curves with the river and offers spectacular views of what was once, before the extensive damming, one of the mightiest rivers in the world. I rode along, tossed to and fro by the powerful gusts of the river, and equally powerful ones from passing semis, until HWY 730, which brought me back into Washington State and quickly connected me to HWY 12. This magical road begins from the Columbia River Gorge, skirts the Snake River, passes Walla Walla wine country, traverses the magical expanse of the Palouse in the Colombia Basin, and continues through Idaho with stretches of 100 miles without a straightaway! This road is by far one of my favorites in the country, and one of the best motorcycle roads I have ever been on.

Highway 12 dropped me off in Missoula after 2 days, with a stop in Walla Walla, of excellent riding. The constant changes of scenery, from rolling hills (formed by the breaking of an ice dam during the Ice Age), to river valleys where you can visit campsites left by Lewis and Clark, to magnificent waterfalls, mountains, and enormous stretches of forest, left me in absolute awe. Arriving in Missoula, which is situated in the Rocky Mountain foothills, was no reprieve from the magnificence which kept bringing America the Beautiful into my mind. But it was here, after 8000 miles of mechanically smooth riding, that I encountered my first trouble with the Magna. And it all started with a burger…

Greetings Friends!
I just wanted to give an update as to my location:
San Juan, Costa Rica!

Next stop: Panama to find a boat to take me to Colombia (hopefully for less than $1000!!)

USA: The Ride - Part II

Adventures in Mechanics

After riding hundreds of miles without repose or nourishment, one is want to be quite ravenous when pulling into a Sonic Drive-Thru. I was in such a state, and was so busy contemplating whether I would order fries or tots, that I neglected to turn off my steed – which dutifully drained my battery.

This happens every so often, and the solution is simple: push the bike to a trot, jump on, kick her into second gear, cough, choke, jerk… and you’re off! However, as I had 200lbs of gear on the bike, I was in for quite a workout and test of balance. Usually once you get the bike going the alternator will recharge the battery, but for some reason my alternator decided to take a vacation, so a jump-start was how I had to start… every time.

A few days later I found myself alone, in the middle of a huge prairie – The National Bison Range in Montana. The cool of the mountains from my morning ride had turned to a blaring late summer heat in the vast golden expanse of the range. All was fun and sweat, until a fateful moment when I heard the clanking of a chain and felt the loss of forward velocity.

I quickly engage both brakes and sat breathless for a moment trying to figure out what the hell just happened. I looked over my shoulder toward where my chain should have been snuggly resting on my sprockets, only to find it dangling like a wilted flower. Suddenly the grandeur of the mountains, and the breathtaking expanse of the range, were but shadows in the light of this small catastrophe. If I let go of the brakes the bike will likely roll down the hill and go tumbling into a herd of horned beasts; if I shut it off I will have to kick start it up a hill (not possible); and yet I couldn’t sit there in the hopes of being discovered, as I was utterly alone.

I put out the kick stand and prayed that the friction would be enough to keep the bike from rolling back. As I laid down beneath the four pipes blasting their heat and exhaust in my face, I contemplated what would happen if the bike were to fall over onto my face. Within a minute I started to feel a little sick and light headed. I was trying to reach around the pipes in order to hook the chain onto a few sprockets, but those pipes stood guard against my efforts with a thousand degree heat that instantly and permanently brands skin upon contact. I tried desperately not to think about being in a place full of rattle snakes, spiders and bison, none of which I could hear because of the pipes.
But calm is always the order of the day when on a motorcycle or in the wilderness, so I very calmly, with only occasional exclamations, and prayers that the bike wont slip and burn my face off, wriggled the chain onto one sprocket tooth at a time. I could only attach 3 links as the rest of the sprocket was inaccessible.

I climbed back on the bike which had so graciously not gone rolling down the hill, said another quick prayer, and curse for the mechanic who did not adjust my chain, put her in gear and slowly, very very slowly, rolled back on the throttle. I started rolling back slowly, then a little forward, about half a foot, before the chain fell off again.

My racing heart, and neglected breathing made it very difficult to stay calm. Did I really have to do that all again? Will the steed stay upright again as I try to re-hook the chain? Will I have to walk God knows how many miles for help?
With all the to do, I completely forgot to remove the, what felt like a thousand, layers of clothing I was wearing, and was drenched with sweat. Still dizzy from the pipes, more dizzy from the heat and dehydration, I climbed off to do it all again.

10 years of venturing into mountains, wilderness, the open road, and streets of New York, have ingrained the necessary calm that allowed me to get under the bike again. You only truly fail when you stop trying.

As I remounted and rode over that hill, through the rest of the range, and to the nearest shop to replace my battery and alternator, the overwhelming beauty of the West re-emerged from the shadows of memory, and I was again overcome with gratitude for being able to do what I am doing and continue my journey.

USA: The Ride - Part III

Last Leg

Leaving Missoula meant entering again the ungraspable vastness of the Great Plains, and prairies, of the central part of the continent. Those very winds which forced me to lean, as though making a giant turn, for 250 miles stretches of Canada, returned as I traversed eastern Montana, Wyoming and the Badlands of South Dakota.



I stuck to HWY 12 out of Missoula, made a quick connection onto 212 which brought me into Rapid City. The mind numbing ride was relieved by a visit to Mount Rushmore, which is worth every mile you drive to get there. It’s hard to explain the sensation of gazing upon a mountainside carved by human hands. Looking at a Michelangelo or Donatello is one thing – they are statues you can behold and contemplate within a graspable parameter of confined space. But an entire mountain is something different altogether. And that it displays the visages of our nation’s greatest presidents – true men of honor, true statesmen - is enough for a grown, bearded, periodically bathed, man to choke up and need to walk away from his friends for a moment.



Mount Rushmore and the adjacent Badlands were the end of the first leg of my journey. For the rest of the ride to Minneapolis I decided to take I-90 so as to avoid the flooding up north, and to more quickly pass the monotonous landscape.

The bike, however, was not done with me. Just 100 miles from my mother’s house, my headlight blew out. As sure as Minnesotan’s love fishing, I was pulled over by a state trooper, who, along with the ticket, gave me directions to the nearest Wal-Mart. It was already dark and the store about to close, but as I was lucky enough to have a fellow rider stop to help me on the side of the highway, so I was to make it before closing time. That very same kind soul helped me install the light, and gave me good company for the ride to the Twin Cities.



I arrived in Eagan, MN late on the night of the 10th of October – 2 months and 9500 miles after leaving New York, and 2 days before my 29th birthday. I gave my mother a hug, ate a bowl of soup, and passed on my old bed, in my old room, and slept a long, long while – knowing this was only the beginning.

Entering Panama, country #10, on monday!
The boat leaves on saturday for Colombia...

USA: The Ride -Part IV

A New Bike

After completing the first stage of my journey – New York to Minnesota, via 9500 miles of Canada and the US – I decided to visit my father in Israel for a few months. I am a writer after all, and he had a lot of material I need for one of the historical fiction novels I’m working on. Having sold my Magna, when I returned to the states four months later, I found myself in a difficult position: find a motorcycle without a form of transportation, in one of 48 states, get there somehow with all of my stuff, and have the bike actually be worth buying.

A friend of mine was getting married in Oregon, so I was at least in a part of the country where dual-sports rule. And sure enough I found a beautiful KLR in Washington State. I hitched a ride from Corvallis to Kennewick, and spent the night at Mitch’s house (the guy who sold me the bike). This was my first time meeting someone from the ADVrider.com community, and it was enough to feel that I had come home.

I chose the Kawasaki KLR 650 (2005) because, frankly, it was the cheapest dual-sport I could find, and it was easy to lower (it came with a lower seat too!), both things being vital for me. Since my method of financing this journey was to sell everything I owned, I was not left with a lot of cash to buy, and subsequently repair, fancy bikes. I also did not like the idea of computers on my motorcycle, which, if malfunctioned, would stall an otherwise perfectly working machine. The KLR, mainly because of its affordability and the fact that they made the same bike from 1987-2007, is a very popular motorcycle across the Americas and has a club or community in almost every country from here to Argentina. For someone who has been mostly a city rider for 10 years, it was important to be able to find others who were more experienced, and mechanically inclined, to help me learn this new type of bike. The problem with living in large cities and riding cruisers is that there is always a shop to do things for you. This sad fact, and my own lack of initiative, meant that I didn’t even know how to change the oil on my KLR. So it was not without a great deal of trepidation that I mounted her for the first time, and, though incredibly uncomfortable on this completely foreign ride, made the decision to buy it on the spot.



The next day, I christened her Georgia, tied my little backpack to the luggage rack, and began the long ride back to Corvallis. On that very first day, I decided to try out some of the off-roading skills I had seen on a video which Mitch had shown me the night before. You can guess how long it took before I was thrown over the windshield, while Georgia was left straddling a fallen fir tree.

For most of the ride, on or off road, I was engulfed in doubt. Riding straight up, not being able to plant both feet flat on the ground at a stop, the single (compared to 4 on the magna) cylinder, the longer handlebar… it was just so different from the cruisers I knew. I started thinking about all the gear I would have to mount on this beast, how high it would be, how much less control I would have… But there was nothing I could do, I was committed and would have to stop being a pussy.

I got back to Corvallis, packed my backpack and duffel, stuffed the leather saddle bags, and began the long ride down the Oregon and California coasts. With every passing mile I became more and more comfortable, and less and less scared. The 101 wound its way along the coast, past beautiful, isolated homes with wine country valleys behind them and the ocean outside their front doors. The mists and fogs framed the jagged rocks, floating like islands along the coast, and crept up the cliffs and mountains of the coastal range. So often it felt like riding through a fairy tale. And then at once I entered the redwood forests. There are few places on this planet as humbling as the redwood reserves in northern California. These giants are so tall that you cannot see their entire trunk standing at the base. They are so massive that even after a wildfire ravages them and hollows out their core, they continue to stand tall. Say what you will about the damage roads and cars cause, there are few stretches of road in the world more brilliant than the 101 as it passes through these forests. I would, in fact, argue that stretches of road like this are what bring so many people to the side of environmental conservation. Our ability to witness first hand, in an accessible manner, at least a fraction of our nature’s bounty, is more impactful than a thousand speeches, photographs or videos of these places as presented in classrooms.

Eventually the 101 brought me to the Golden Gate Bridge and America’s second greatest city: San Francisco. A full blown metropolis, with museums, opera and ballet companies, brilliant poets and musicians, massive industry… which sits at the foot of 2 mountain ranges, the Pacific ocean, forests, and wine country – all of which are within a 2 hour drive from the city center.

I spent a pleasant time visiting friends and getting good advice. I had not really considered sponsorship before, particularly because I wanted to see whether I could even do something like this, but now on my second steed and confident of my ability to boldly go where few have gone before, I began looking into getting sponsored. The parents of a good friend in Irvine graciously offered their home as a base, so I left the dream that is San Francisco for my pre-South American-assault base camp in southern California.

Tijeras, Panama.... with Panavalk from our own Horizons!!!

USA: The Ride - Part V

Unexpected Journeys

I have made the drive from San Francisco to Los Angeles at least 4 times along the PCH (HWY 1 – Pacific Coast Highway), and yet I never cease to be amazed by it. Though it is not what it once was, with traffic being a constant burden on what is otherwise an excellent driving road, it still threatens to send you flying over a cliff as your attention is constantly drawn from the road to the spectacular pacific coast. Though less rugged looking than the Oregon coast, in reality it is no less stark and awesome. Gnarled Cyprus line the way, shaped flat and forced to lean inland by the constant wind, their leaves spread in a wide brim to take advantage of brief moments of sun when the ever-present fog disperses. The cliffs are jagged, steep and high, yet the crash of the ocean is only a shutting off of the motor away. And though the hum of passing cars is always in your ears when you pull over to gaze over the distant horizon, there are a few (and hard to find) spots where you can pull over, walk down the hill a few seconds, and become completely engulfed in the wind and waves, sitting hundreds of feet above the ocean, completely unaware that there is any mechanical world at all. I know of such a spot, and it is the reason I never make it anywhere on time when traveling the PCH.





Monterrey, Big Sur and Santa Barbara flew by. Their seafood, museums, parks and mansions, blurred by the rain, obscured by the fog, and overshadowed by the road itself. I stopped in L.A to meet some other travelers, and continue looking for sponsors. With only a few days rest after traversing almost 2000 miles in a couple of weeks, two friends from Minnesota flew in, rented a couple of hogs, and took off with me up to Yosemite, via HWY 395, back into Monterey, and down the coast yet again. I road more in 3 weeks than most people do in a year, but I could not complain as every mile made me more comfortable on Georgia, and the rewards of Yosemite and the PCH are worth every sore I had on my ass.







10 days later I found myself in Malibu, at a wine tasting room along the PCH. My friends had returned to their jobs, lives and fiancées, so I was alone yet again, but this did not last long. “Tree” was working at the wine tasting room, and it was all of two seconds after walking in that we had become friends. One conversation lead to another and another, until someone mentioned Burning Man. I had always wanted to go, but thought tickets were unavailable, and did not know how to go about getting there with all of my stuff. As fast as we had brought it up Tree invited me to join him and his friends in their camp and trailer. It was so kind of him, and I still had no ticket, but was confident that I could find one on Craigslist (as per Tree’s suggestion). The next day I got online, found a ticket, had it fedexed to me, went back to the tasting room, gave Tree a hug, moved all of my stuff to his tiny one bedroom apartment (in which another friend was already crashing), and a few days later found myself riding shotgun in a Ford F-350, with 6 people and a huge trailer on our way to Burning Man. My dream became reality in a single week, with not a day to spare before the start of the festival.

What happened at the burn I will relate some day. It is sufficient to say that I found absolute joy there. When a person is surrounded by 50,000 people who accept him for who he is, and do not judge him, that person will feel true freedom – and it is then that they are able to feel pure joy. We lived a lifetime in those 8 days, from birth to death, and it was the happiest lifetime I could have imagined. Though it cost me money I did not have, and set me back almost 3 weeks, going was one of the best decisions I have ever made.





We came with 6 people, we returned with 7. On the last day, just hours before leaving, Tree’s and Jadee’s eyes met. They stood there just looking at each other in silence for what seemed like eternity, then spoke in whispers for hours. She did not even bother looking for her things or the people with whom she came, she just got in our truck and began her new life. Though she eventually had to go back to Australia, it did not take long for Tree to follow her, bring her back, and marry her 6 months later. I almost feel like I was present at the birth of a star.

Gearing Up

It was the four of us now who shared Tree’s tiny apartment when we returned to L.A. But I was not destined to continue sharing in their happiness, as I had a bike to equip, and a journey to continue. I finally made it to my base in Irvine, from which I managed to secure 4 sponsors. 3 weeks later I came back to L.A where I had found 2 shops who would sponsor my tune ups and installation of the panniers, gas tank, chain and sprockets….

In L.A I had found yet another kindred spirit with whom I stayed for 3 weeks while gearing up. In those stressful final moments of leaving the known world, I felt the comfort of home while staying with Olga. The craziness of receiving packages, installation, calling and writing to more sponsors, was all softened by pleasant nightly chats, tennis games, shared stories and great food.

Georgia was now fully equipped. She went from a skinny little dual-sport to a formidable beast. The small leather saddle bags where replaced by 9” panniers; the 6 gallon tank with a 10 gallon tank; shocks, chain, bolts… everything upgraded. And thanks to Happy-Trail.com and Burbank Kawasaki it only cost me an arm. All I had left to do was the doohickey and tires, and I was going to save that for my final stop in the U.S – San Diego. That was the plan. I was all ready to go. All bags packed, all bike work finished, I had just picked her up from the shop, was on my way to Olga’s for my last night, when I suddenly felt the full impact of 3 people’s procrastination.



Breaking Down – The Doohickey

If you just bought a KLR and it has not had the “doohickey” replaced – the first place you need to go is to your mechanic, or your garage, and replace it. Don’t say “screw it” and go to the movies first, don’t say “I can’t afford it”, the truth is you can’t afford not to.

The genius from whom I bought the bike did not do it, and the genius from whom he bought the bike did not do it. This is fine – the doohickey may not break for thousands of miles, even hard riding, but then again, it can break as you are leaving the dealer’s lot. I am not going to go into what the doohickey is because all of that is available online, but I will tell you what may happen if it breaks.

There are many possible scenarios, but of course I found myself face to face with the worst.

I was smart enough to buy a replacement from Happy-Trail, I was even smart enough to make an appointment with a mechanic in San Diego (my last stop in the states). But I was not smart enough to have the mechanics installing the gas tank and doing a tune-up in Los Angeles change it for me. I spent a long time looking for shops to sponsor me and managed to get a little from a few shops, but not the doohickey. So I figured I would try again in San Diego and if it came to naught I would have them do it at my expense. My last night in L.A, I picked up my bike from the shop and was going to where I was staying to pack my stuff for the next morning departure to San Diego. I had already spent more than a year traveling in the states and Canada and could not wait to get across the border where life would be a lot cheaper. As I was exiting the freeway, the engine suddenly shut off. Thankfully I was able to coast to the bottom and onto a sidewalk. I tried to start the engine but got only a weird rattle in response.

I was furious! I had just left the mechanics, they seemed to give me a good deal on all the work they had done, and now it seems as though, through a mistake or maliciously, they have damaged my bike. But I was wrong. What happened was the doohickey snapped in half and sent the spring around the timing chain and into the cylinder shaft, damaging at least two valves.

What normally costs $30 if you do it yourself, or $110 if you go to a shop, ended up costing me $650 and 7 extra days of staying in the country. By the way, $650 was what they charged me, the actual cost was around $1000. I had to replace two valves, the seals, the doohickey and the cam chain just in case there was damage to it.

So, as I said, don’t go to the movies, go to your garage and get it done.

Just so you know what $650 means to me: almost a month and a half on the road. This includes fuel, food, museums, camping, …



Final Breath

Between Burning man, equipping the bike, and repairing it, my wallet was a lot lighter than I would have hoped when entering Mexico. I spent almost 3 months in California, which put me about 2 months behind “schedule”.

I have been travelling my entire life, but for some reason I saw the crossing into Mexico as a significant step in my life and journey, and it was not without fear that I departed my cousin’s house in Sand Diego and pointed Georgia southward. I was 16 when I took my first solo trip, and have been alone and far from home many times since then. But this time I felt even more alone, more vulnerable with my entire life strapped to the back of a motorcycle, about to enter not only a foreign country, but a foreign culture and tongue. Europe, Israel, the Caribbean, Eastern Europe – none of them ever felt foreign, they never felt otherworldly. I knew Mexico was immense and special, and it brought a fear I was ashamed to admit.

Thankfully fear has never stopped me from doing anything, so to the border I went, breathed my last breath of “free” air, and took my first breath of truly Free air in Tijuana.

Setting sail to Colombia!

This will be our home for the next few days:

Finally the dream has come true: I am in Cartagena, Colombia!
Country #11, Continent #2

Concluding North America

I set out to find myself and my place in the world. I set out to quench the wanderlust instilled in me when I was torn from the life I knew and loved and relocated to a country where I would feel out of place for 23 years. The message I have carried is that of peace and understanding, of the joy of motorcycling and the importance of seeing the world and the abounding natural wonders. 12,000 miles over the North American continent has brought my message to many, but what’s more important is the messages I received from others.

Though I would not trade a moment of the hours spent beneath turbulent skies, surrounded by towering mountains, with songs of majestic lakes and rivers, in awe of endless oceans and prairies and forests, it was the people who made the foundations of my journey and they who have given me the vision for its continuation.

What I knew was true of Russians, I have discovered is also true of many others. I remember growing up in a place where every meal was not a given, where grocery stores were more empty than full. And yet I never recall not being offered food and drink whenever visiting a home, whether friend or distant acquaintance. The less people had the more adamantly they would offer. Like desert peoples not letting you leave without a cup of tea or coffee. This was something about which I thought little in the states. Being on the road, meeting people, staying in countless homes, I rediscovered this truth: the less you have, or at some point had, the more likely are you to welcome someone into your home, rather than just let them stay. There are exceptions to this, but they are only exceptions. Time and again these individuals and families helped restore my waning faith in humanity and America. Time and again they infused me with the strength to go on. In this Christian nation I have rarely met true Christians, but crossing North America brought me in contact with people who could teach the priests, preachers, popes and reverends a thing or two about what it means to follow in the footsteps of Jesus. For an atheist who is sickened by the thought of religion, these people helped to restore my faith in the good that spirituality can bring.



North America was the try-out, the testing ground for my will, skills, desire and fortitude. Could I face myself through the hours of solitude, could I reflect on and appreciate the natural wonders of the diverse expanses of two of the three biggest countries in the world? Could I find the people and have the patience and wisdom to listen to them? Could I overcome the many weaknesses of my nature which so often subdue me into a functionless entity, devoid of purpose or benefit?

I wish the answer to all of the above were a resounding yes. I did survive the road, mechanical failures, nature’s guardians of her diminishing wilderness, and even myself. Though bruised and far from victorious in every battle, I did emerge from my wanderings the better for them. Regardless of my failures I believe my successes were great enough to justify my continuing on this journey.

If I can suffer the hardships of cirmcumnavigational travel by motorcycle, if I can endure with hope and positivity the challenges that will lay before me, if I can survive the trials of the unknown and the dangerous knowns, and then return and share the world with those who are afraid, or for whom circumstances have not allowed, to fly free, then it will have been worth it and the scars will not have been for naught, and the world will be a better place for the knowledge of those wiser than I that I will disseminate throughout.

I am eternally grateful to those who have supported me thus far. You are too numerous to list, and too humble to desire me to do so. But you know who you are, and so again I say thank you.

Finally in Medellin, Colombia!!

Here I hope to stay for a while - work, catch up on writing, dance the nights away with beautiful women, and do some of the amazing rides near by!