A few eyes turn your way when sprinting at top speed through an airport. The effect is compounded when the terminal track star is wearing giant motorcycle boots and a white power-ranger-esque armored jacket. Such was the scene as I bolted from gate D17 to back to gate A11 in the Dallas airport knowing that my wallet holding all of my bank cards and drivers license had been left on my connecting fight which was about to leave the gate. I slammed into to the counter of gate A11 with beads of sweat running down my temples and was greeted by a thinly mustached attendant who dismissively informed me that the plane had just left for Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Fantastic. I turned around and accelerated back up to top speed hoping to get back to D17 in time to catch my flight bound for London. I made it with 6 minutes to spare – just enough time to give my contact information and a heartfelt plea to the airline attendant to have someone in Jackson Hole find my wallet and forward it on to me. I got on the plane bound for London, with no money. If you’ve ever tried to get bank cards replaced in a foreign country you’ll appreciate my concern, as it’s not so easy or quick. I’ve never tried to drive a motorcycle around in a foreign country without a driver’s license, but I imagine that could also create problems. Being the last person to board the plane, I got the front emergency exit seat, with plenty of legroom so that I could worry in comfort all the way across the Atlantic.

Massive screw-ups on my part aside, leaving home is hard this time because there’s a lot to leave behind. There is the usual anxiety of quitting a job, giving up a place to live, and all of the familiarity and feeling of security that come with those things. Not knowing exactly where I’m headed or what comes next doesn’t really bother me because that’s part of the point of leaving in the first place. It’s an antidote to the mental atrophy that can be inspired by daily routine. What does give me pause is leaving the people and work that I care about behind. It crept up on me, finding how much I valued the relationships in my life and feeling like I was doing something useful every day that people relied on, not to mention earning enough money to buy anything I could really want or need. I live in a beautiful place and I’ve been really happy. New marriages and new babies seem to spring up every other week amongst my close friends and family. All of this feels like a good phase of life to be moving into, but I’ve never been able to put away some daydreams, and finally the daydreams won out over everything else. I didn’t have this problem when I became a vagabonding surfer 15 years ago. Life was transient, relationships and jobs came and went in fluid fashion, which suited me just fine.



Even with life taking on slightly more complexity now at 37 than it did at 22, I’m still a minimalist at heart. All of my possessions still fit into my truck. I was surprised how easily they all fit, given that 6 surfboards occupy most of the space under the camper shell. Furniture evaporated on the lawn next to a sign marked FREE, the same way it came into my life. I’ve lived as though I may need to pick up and go at a moments notice. I think that I’ve just always just liked feeling as though that were the case. As I sit in my comfy seat bound for London, waves of excitement are mixed with the need to keep reminding myself that motoring around the world for a while looking for waves to ride is what I really want to do, even if it feels a bit different now having moved out of the realm of daydream and become my new daily routine, bumps and all.

__________________
bugsonmyboard.org
two wheeled wave hunting dispatches

Thank you for letting us travel with you

Safe travels and a good time!

Surfy

__________________
About Overlanding, Travelogues, Equipment
Trans-Africa over the west coast

The hard bit is done,will follow your journey with interest.regards Noel

thanks for the support guys - so far so good...

__________________
bugsonmyboard.org
two wheeled wave hunting dispatches

When you’re a novice motorcycle mechanic there is this subdued feeling of mild panic that happens when you push the magic button and your bike won’t fire up. When you’re somewhere far from any kind of help, like a lonely shipyard in the southeast of England, with no friends, online moto gurus, or even bike manual available, you can’t help but let the question creep in: what if I can’t get it started? But you put that feeling away because this is just the sort of thing that you’ve been tinkering with your bike for ages to the chagrin of your girlfriend. You know the diagnostic steps, just stop pressing the starter button in desperation, get the tools out and get to it. Once in motion, a calm ensues that comes with working methodically on something familiar with your hands. After checking for fuel flow and vacuum problems I removed the carburetor and started disassembling hoping that the problem was a clogged pilot jet. I didn’t drain the float bowl before I shipped the bike off and when the gas that collects there evaporates, the additives left behind can clog the tiny little holes of the jets. Sure enough, after poking a single copper wire strand through the pilot jet and reassembling, she fired right up and I let out a holler across the docks. I was ready to leave some gloomy days in the UK behind me.



Beneath the English Channel I went…


Since I’d unintentionally sent my wallet on a trip to Jackson Hole, Wyoming I was down to my last dime of cash and eagerly awaiting our reunion. The airline folks found my wallet right in my seat and my girlfriend Jamie got on the phone and convinced them to send it FedEx it directly to London for me. She’s an adventure angel. I got a good lesson in London train routes finding the FedEx office, accidentally ended up at Buckingham Palace, but before long I was back in the money.






I spent 3 days burning across France from Calais to Bayonne. My body managed to transform the mild cold that I left with into an acute bronchitis during transit from California and I had been hacking away and barely sleeping ever since. Progress was slow and I pretty much barely left the motorway and avoided talking to anyone when possible. My voice was gone from coughing, my French is terrible, and I felt so awful that I just couldn’t be bothered to do much more that ape critical information or just whisper in English. French people think that a very dirty power-ranger looking guy whispering at them in English is weird. They were all very nice about it though. Campgrounds were just 5 bucks or I just found a nice patch of dirt to myself somewhere. In my fragile state with little appetite I virtually hopped from one McDonald’s to another for fries and free wireless access. I hate to say it, but I am loving it.




Crossing into Spain the landscape immediately became lush and hilly and the sun was low casting golden light on the green slopes crossed with fence lines and dotted with sheep. This was the Basque Country and the scene reflected my lightening mood as I rode south climbing one hill after another as the sun seemed to hang low in the sky for hours longer than it should have.





In Madrid I met my good friend Cristina who revealed to me the secrets of the historic neighborhood of Lavapies. Navigating the streets of Madrid was a bit of madness, but fortunately you can park a motorbike anywhere on the sidewalk. When I spotted Cristina standing on the side of the road in the middle of a monstrous 4 lane roundabout I simply hopped out of the maelstrom up onto the curb, jumped off, and gave her a hug. Walking in Lavapies, we toured an old tobacco factory that had been turned into a ‘squat’ where the community had built a place for artists to show their work, grow organic vegetables, make their own soap, build bicycles, and all sorts of other creative things.




From Madrid I motored south and approaching the city of Granada things began to feel distinctly more Mediterranean. I rode past endless hills covered with olive trees to meet my friend Maria who had been my housemate in Santa Cruz while working as a researcher in the Marine Sciences department of UC Santa Cruz. Maria’s house in the country surrounded by orchards was a welcome reprieve from long days on the motorway and busy cities. We ate from her garden, laid in hammocks, and enjoyed the calm of the place.



We spent an afternoon in the city of Granada climbing the ancient streets and enjoying canas and tapas. Granada is one of the most beautiful cities in Spain and you can spend the whole day just moving from one street side café to another.


>





The next stop is Gibraltar to make the crossing on the ferry to Tangier. I seem to have managed plenty of trouble not even having left Europe yet so I can’t wait to see what Morocco brings.

__________________
bugsonmyboard.org
two wheeled wave hunting dispatches

Mouthwatering......

Hi There,

well that was a pretty rapid transit of some of Europe!

Let's hope that the rest of the journey allows you to experience more of the journey.

Regards

Reggie

Morocco seems to have a way of slowing things down... ;-)

__________________
bugsonmyboard.org
two wheeled wave hunting dispatches

I hope that you explored the amazing roads around Southern Spain before blasting into Morocco!

Hi Garnaro, I think you would like to take a look Legzira beach is about 70 km south Tiznit riding the coast road, spectacular beach and good waves, I'll be following your progress in Morocco.
enjoy¡¡

Cheers

Esteban

Hi,

One would think that no one else would have undertaken a trip like that, but here is what you could be up to when you're crossing Cameroon in the wet season :-)



Happy trails!

Gee

__________________
Travels with Thimba
eBOOK!

Thanks for the tip, I didn't know about anything south of Tiznit, so I'll have a look..

__________________
bugsonmyboard.org
two wheeled wave hunting dispatches

something to look forward to. what month was this?

The Land Rover ruled it!

__________________
bugsonmyboard.org
two wheeled wave hunting dispatches

In Granada, I’d met up with a British rider named Jonathan who accompanied me to Algeciras where we boarded the ferry to cross the strait of Gibraltar for our first steps onto African soil that night. Jonathan is riding the most kitted out overland bike I've ever seen: a brand new KTM 690 Super Enduro with a full fairing, 3 auxiliary tanks, custom made stainless steel crash bars and back rack, bash plate that holds a plastic tank with a spare 2 liters of oil, custom made gps and Go-Pro camera mounts and plenty of other fancy bits. He made most of the custom stuff himself, making it a one-of a kind bike. The thing literally looks like you could run the Dakar Rally on it. And win. The KTM generates 66 horsepower and weighs less than my DR650 which supposedly makes 43 horsepower measured at the crank. The price for all of this performance is the added complexity of a highly tuned engine, fuel pump, fuel injection system, and liquid cooling system, all of which are potential failure points on a long journey. However, with all of those extra horses, he flogs me at any race away from an intersection or up a twisty grade.



Arrival in Tangier took some time, as there were things to do and forms to fill out that no one actually tells you about, but can cause problems and you progress through the arrival and customs proceedures. By the time we started moving, the sun was setting but we were excited to be finally in Africa and keen to make some miles south. Since we knew that we’d need to be in Rabat as early as possible in the morning to get to the Mauritanian embassy to procure our visas, and with no better options in mind, we just kept riding well after night fell.


Upon entering Rabat, we were reminded that we’d landed on a different continent where the rules of the road were substantially different or absent entirely. On an uphill curve we were surprised by an explosion of sparks coming down the other side of the roadway as a small motorbike that had lost traction was now careening down the road horizontally with the rider close behind looking like he was doing a backstroke to catch up with the bike. Fair warning. We put our game faces on.

The next morning we managed to get our Mauritanian visas without much trouble other than our pathetic attempts to translate the forms which were only in French and Arabic. Navigating the city streets became more natural after a couple of days. Its as if the city traffic is a living organism to which we are foreign bodies. Our job is to find our niche in this system, to learn to flow towards path of least resistance without reacting to dangerous things constantly happening around us. While it takes time to see, there is some kindness in all of this chaos, with people doing lots of things that seem very rude in a very polite way. While motorists' apparent degree of faith in the will of Allah is unnerving for a western rider, it gets easier easier when you realize that while Moroccan drivers don’t seem to mind a close calls all the time, no one wants anyone to get hurt. After all, we were surrounded by all walks of Moroccans deftly navigating the same tumultuous scene on mopeds in sandals with no helmets. The preferred approach for the family of thee on a single moped seemed to be to wedge the kid facing backwards between the two parents with little breathing opportunity for the munchkin leaving little arms and legs protruding from either side of a loving mom and dad moped sandwich.





At the Mauritanian embassy we met another British rider, Will, who like Jonathan and I intended to ride the entire west coast down to Cape Town. He was at the opposite end of the performance spectrum from Jonathan, riding a Suzuki 125cc with old canvas army bags as panniers. He was severely underpowered when fully loaded which necessitated staying off any motorways while in Europe. Amongst our company of riders, we represented the range of performance and technology for overland bikes with my DR650 falling in between their two extremes.



The three of us pitched a camp at the beachfront north of Casablanca for a few days talking about gear and chatting with other overland travelers moving this way and that. The dining room consisted of a stack of our spare tires with my surfboard laid across the top as a table.



Some of he travelers we met piloted these big Mercedes Unimog trucks that looked like fully self-contained desert battle cruisers. The consensus amongst the Unimog folks seemed to be that I wasn’t taking this crossing the Sahara business seriously enough. They would exclaim, “For God's sake, you’ve got a bloody surfboard attached to your bike!”. I usually just asked where theirs was. Of all things, to be caught in the middle of the Sahara Desert without your surfboard!






There were some mapped surf spots just near our camp and I set out to have a sniff of what was in the water. Though the blue water and rocky headlands looked inviting, these are early days for the surf season here and there just wasn’t much swell moving through.




Jonathan, having nearly already burned through a rear tire, collected a new set in Casablanca that had been transported down by other travelers in a Land Rover from Europe. With his already overloaded bike and the new set of tires strapped to the top, the load now nearly overpowered his side stand so that he would have to park his bike ever so gingerly whenever we stopped to keep it upright.



Jonathan and I rode south to Marrakech to collect his Carnet du Passage en Duane (temporary import document for the bike) and meet up with some other riders who had been there for some time already dealing with some debacle in receiving the documents. We stayed in the heart of the walled center portion of the city called the Medina, navigating the labyrinth of narrow streets. We visited the Souk, the local daily marketplace, to take in the sights, sounds, and smells of the place. The Souk is filled with people bustling about their daily business, hawking wares or food, haggling, arguing, or shepherding their families along through it all. In the Medina, you feel the soul and light of the place in the very corridors through which you walk.

__________________
bugsonmyboard.org
two wheeled wave hunting dispatches

Hi,

Haven't been able to find out which month, but judging from the muddy conditions it's probably July-August.

And yes, three hurrays for the Land Rover

Have fun!

Gee

__________________
Travels with Thimba
eBOOK!