In The Shade Of The Tall Rocks

Days 45-47 – Tijuana, Baja California, Mexico to Bahia de los Angeles – 9,278 km

‘Bean, I’ve really made a mess of your birthday!’ I said.

         She was sitting on a rock in the small shade made from the taller rocks and the low afternoon sun. She had gone down twice today already – both times in sandy patches – and there was still at least 20 more hard kilometers of rock-strew dirt road before we would reconnect with Carretera 1. The first time she had gone down was about 15 km in from where the tarmac ended at Puertecitos and where we had camped at Gonzaga the night before.

I was riding up ahead and she was riding slowly and carefully behind me until I next glanced in my rearview mirror and saw her pinned under her bike. I pulled off to the side carefully so that we wouldn’t have two downed riders and then I hurried back to where she was. When I got there she had freed herself from under the bike and was walking to meet me.

‘Are you ok?’ I said when I reached her.

‘I think a rock bruised my thigh but it’s ok,’ she said. ‘What about my bike?’

Moxie Thumper was splayed completely on her side and with the weight of the side cases and the top-heavy weight of the large duffle across the seat, we struggled to right her during our first two attempts. As we worked, a rider on a light, unloaded KTM pulled alongside and helped us to get the bike right side up. The rider was gone, blazing down the dirt road, just as soon as we thanked him. Reviewing the bike, I found that one of the brackets on the right pannier was broken and this made the case unsteady on the rack but we didn’t worry about it because we had dealt with this after Jess’s first fall back in Utah at Capital Reef National Park.

         ‘Don’t bother with it now,’ she said a little disheartened from the fall but still mostly in good spirits. ‘I’ll probably just fall and break it again.’

         After that fall she had continued on cautiously for another 8 km or so until she hit another sandy patch that got the better of her and she went down again, this time on the left side. This time there was no rider who magically appeared to help us but we used our legs more than our arms and we got Moxie back on her two wheels and kickstand. This time the left pannier had been damaged. The force of the fall had knocked the internal slider off its track so that the expanded cased hand crushed down to a retracted position. As I opened the case and began to replace the slider onto its track, a four-wheel ATV racer sped by at high speed and kicked up an enormous cloud of dust.

‘The Baja 1000 race begins next week so you might see some of them with their support vehicles practicing the course,’ the English-speaking man who owned the petrol station near Gonzaga had explained earlier that morning. ‘They are tearing up the middle of the road but you should be fine if you stay to the sides.’

I easily popped the slider of the plastic side case back onto its track and, despite the new scratches, the pannier was as good as ever before. But now with this second fall and still some 40 km or more to cover at what was proving a snail’s pace, Jess’s was beginning to look defeated.

‘The next time you see a truck I want to put my bike in the back until we get to the tarmac,’ she said.

I rode her bike out of the sandy patch and up a sandy rise past where I had parked my bike and until where the ground was firmer. There she remounted and we continued to press forward. Both of us were running road tires, which made the many sandy patches extremely difficult so that we were both quite stumped by it. I had several very close calls but managed to keep Penelope upright through each of them and kept both of us from dumping into the sand.

I rode ahead at between 20 and 30 km/h and Jess trudged slowly behind in first gear at about half that speed or less. For her, the slow speed made the distance interminable, while for me it was the short burst of forward progress followed by the waiting for her to catch up and worrying that she not go down again. We had left the coast after the first few kilometers and now we were riding inland through the heat and rocky, sandy wastes of the Parque Natural Del Desierto Central De Baja California.

About 20 km in the road undulated into alternating dips and rises. Now and then a truck or an ATV racer would scream past us and we would shut our helmet visors and hold our breaths until our lungs would burst and the dust began to settle. We took breaks at intervals of 10-15 kilometers and it was at one of these breaks about 40 km in that Jessica sat on the rock in the shade of the tall rocks and the low afternoon sun.

‘Greg, this water is terrible,’ she said. ‘From now on I’m buying bottled water!’

I had been insistent that the least we could do to lessen our carbon footprint on this trip was to avoid buying bottled water. Instead we had brought a SteriPen, which emits UV light from a bulb that is dipped into the water to kill any pathogens. I had used it previously while backpacking and when living in Africa. It works quite well for its intended purpose but it does nothing to improve the taste and we were only now discovering just how horrendously potable drinking water can taste.

‘That’s fine, Bean. We tried but you’re right – this water tastes truly awful,’ I said after reluctantly swigging a dry mouthful.

She was silent for a time and I sat quietly beside her.

‘This is not what I wanted for my birthday,’ she said suddenly.

‘I know, Bean. I really made a mess of it,’ I said.

‘When we get to Cabo I want to stay in a nice place,’ she said defiantly.

‘Sure, Bean,’ I said. ‘We’ll stay in a nice resorty place and we’ll get you a nice massage.’

Since we had sorted our vehicle permit issue three days before in Tijuana, we had traveled south down to Ensenada where we left Carretera 1 and began to traverse the peninsula on the 3. We covered about half of this distance that day and then halted for the night in Valle de la Trinidad where we stayed at a cute little hotel and ate excellent tacos at the neighboring restaurant. In the morning I went running through the dirt roads of the town and then out amongst the lanes along the farms. This began a ritual of morning runs lasting between 30 and 45 minutes that have given me a wonderful way to see a bit of where we are and keep myself in form.

That day we covered the rest of the distance across the peninsula until we reached Carretera 5, which we took it south to San Felipe. San Felipe is a pleasant seaside town that looks all set to host several cruise ships of tourists but is only missing the tourists. Here we sat on a bench on the boardwalk and ate a snack while we talked to a couple who had traveled down two up on a Harley.

From San Felipe we followed the highway south, stopping only for fish tacos at a restaurant beside the highway, shortly before the tarmac ended at Puertecitos. It was late in the afternoon when we stopped for lunch and the owner of the restaurant suggested a nice place for camping at Gonzaga, just a few off tarmac kilometers past Puertecitos. The short stretch of off road was an exhilarating way to end a fine day of riding and our second since resolving the issue with our vehicle permits. At Gonzaga we paid 150 pesos – about USD 15 – for a palapa, which is little more than a hut roof held up by a large central pole. We pulled our bikes under one side of the palapa and pitched our tent opposite them under the roof. It was high tide and the sound of the waves was very soothing and we were the only people to be seen for at least a couple kilometers.

‘Happy birthday eve, Bean,’ I said. ‘I feel very bad that I don’t have a big surprise gift for you but it has been nearly impossible to get away from you long enough to search out something!’

‘It’s fine and this is a wonderful place to spend my birthday eve,’ she said.

That night we walked the couple kilometers inland beside the airstrip to the general store and taco stand beside the dirt road that continued from where the highway had ended. We bought a bottle of red Chilean wine and when that was finished we drank Mexican beers until we were rather well lit. Then we ate tacos to fill our stomachs and drank more beer to wash it down. Jess practiced her Spanish and local men came from the road and stopped for dinner and then went and some stayed a while to watch television in the courtyard. It was a very late eight o’clock when we staggered back along the airstrip a couple kilometers and then another kilometer up the beach to our camp.

‘I’m so cold that I have tunnel vision and I’m not even paying attention for coyotes,’ I said as we walked because we had seen what we thought was a pack of three coyotes earlier on our walk to the general store.

‘Greg, I don’t want to be eaten on my birthday,’ she said.

We fell asleep to the sound of the waves and the breeze against the reed roofs of the palapas. In the morning I laid the solar camp shower in the sun and then I went for a run along the airstrip. When I came back, I hung the solar shower from a nail on the palapa and Jess took the first shower. Although there were no other people to be seen, we were showering in the open so Jess modestly wore her bikini. But I was not so modest and I thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of standing naked under the trickle of water that remained in the shower bag when it was my turn. 

‘I didn’t even condition my hair,’ she said when she realized that she had left me so little of the four liters that had been in the polyurethane bag before her shower.

We scrounged another half liter or so from our water bottles and Jess held the spigot so that we could conserve every last drop as I soaped and mostly rinsed off before the water ran out.

After showering and packing up our bikes, we stopped at the roadside general store to fill our bottles from the tap and then sterilize the water with the UV pen. By then it was around 10 o’clock and we took to the dirt road that our map showed would reach Carretera 1 after about 60 kilometers.

‘Are you sure you want to do the off road?’ I asked before we set off and then again several more times before we were too far in to turn back.

‘We’re not going all the way back to San Felipe and then to Ensenada just to come back down again!’ Jess said.

Then after a pause she said, ‘We’ll see if I’m still saying this a few kilometers in.’

A few kilometers further on after we had drunk the foul tasting water and rested in the shade of the tall rocks and the low afternoon sun, we reached Coco’s Corner. Coco is an old Mexican with no legs and a few words of English mixed into his sentences. He seems to spend most of his time strapped onto an ATV, which he uses to get around. His – Coco’s – Corner is a flat expanse that is like a junkyard of old vehicles and other sundry odds and ends. Here they sell cold beer, sodas, and water to those who pass through and want a rest and cold drink.

‘Ask him how the road is up ahead,’ Jess said as she rested slumped on a plastic chair and drank from a glass Coca Cola bottle.

‘Quedan 20 kilometros but la terrecería no es like antes. It’s más duro,’ Coco said in his mix of Spanish and English. ‘There remains 20 kilometers but it’s not dirt like before. It’s more difficult.’

I began to explain what he said to Jess but she had understood him.

‘Is the road sandy?’ she asked.

‘No, son big piedras and boulders,’ he said. ‘El camino rises y baja por las mountains.’

‘The rocks are better than the sand,’ Jess said.

‘Bastante peligroso, señorita,’ Coco said in a very serious tone. ‘Quite dangerous, young lady.’

After we finished our drinks, I bought two more cold waters to go and we struck back out onto the road. It was as Coco had said. The road was not sandy but it quickly began to rise and dip and wind through the dry desert hill country. Rocks and broken boulders were strewn across the road so that, not only did you have to avoid the loose stuff, but you also had to navigate the biggest and sharpest of those boulders or you might puncture a tire or take a nasty fall. Also, through most of it’s meandering through the hills, the road seemed to cling precariously to the slopes so that missing a turn or going down on the wrong side could mean a steep tumble.

Jess continued to plod along slowly but steadily and without any further mishaps. Seeing fewer sandy patches, I worried less about her safety, except on those particularly precipitous turns where even her good, cautious riding might not be enough. Also, now I worried less about her resilience because she had the experience and success of covering more than 40 km. I knew that if she was going to give up it would have been in the very beginning. Now, despite the treacherous final kilometers, I knew that the road would have to defeat her to stop her because she would keep going so long as the bike and the daylight held out.

We covered the final 20 km more quickly and adeptly than we had the first 20 and at least I was beginning to very much enjoy the experience of riding off tarmac and using my motorcycle for what it was made for. After the mountains, the land flattened and the road straightened and a few kilometers later almost without realizing it we were suddenly off the dirt and back onto the tarmac. At the junction we pulled off where there was a llantera, tire repair shop, and we used the portable electric pump to re-inflate our tires after we had spent the day on low pressure tires for better stability off the tarmac.

Now the off road adventure was over but it was late in the afternoon and the sun was already near setting. With our tires re-inflated for the tarmac and our chains greased to clean off the dust and gravel, we considered our options. The owner of the petrol station in Gonzaga had told us there were few towns and possibly no hotels for a good distance Guerrero Negro and at Coco’s Corner a local traveler had suggested that Bahia de los Angeles was a good place to spend the night back on the gulf side of the peninsula.

We decided to strike out for Bahia and, despite the dust in our eyes and the deep exhaustion in our bones, we hit the highway with speed and purpose. The sun set before we reached the junction where the highway branched towards Bahia. From here it was 66 km of good tarmac as the twilight was overtaken by darkness. When we arrived in Bahia it was the fullness of night but the village streets were quiet and it was a short time before we had traversed the town and settled on an overpriced hotel to spend the night.

‘Happy birthday, Bean,’ I said as we lay in bed collapsed from fatigue.

There was no answer. She was fast asleep.

I Was Fine When The Bombs Were Going Off

Days 42-44 – Los Angeles, California, USA to Tijuana, Baja California, Mexico - 8,586 km

Tijuana street scene

‘No se puede otorgar más de un permiso por persona,’ the customs official explained simply and politely in Spanish. ‘More than one import permit cannot be issued per person.’

         ‘Pero usted sí puede otorgar el otro permiso de vehícuo a ella como lleva una carta de autorización de mi, el propietario titular, y la carta es certificada por notario,’ I replied. ‘But you can issue the other vehicle permit to her as she carries an authorization letter from me, the titular owner, and the letter is certified by a notary.’

         ‘What relationship does she have to you?’ he asked.

‘She is my partner,’ I said.

‘Then if you are married it is fine,’ he said. ‘I will only need to see the marriage certificate.’

‘No, we are not married,’ I said.

‘Oh, then it cannot be done,’ he said. ‘You see you must have a legal relationship to grant authorization of the vehicle for temporary importation purposes.’

‘Perhaps there is some additional fee that we can pay to circumvent this regulation?’ I asked hopefully.

‘No, there is none,’ the customs official replied matter-of-factly.

I stood before his desk a moment longer waiting to see if he might yield to the attempted bribery or to compassion or to the annoyance of my hovering before his desk. He sat there tranquilly and returned my gaze until I realized that we were out of options and we left the small customs office. We sat down on a step outside the office and ate a snack from our tank bags while we discussed our situation and sorted our various papers and photocopies into some kind of order.

‘So you can’t import your bike because it’s registered to my name and we’re not married, and I can’t import more than one bike at a time,’ I said.

‘I understood that,’ Jess said. ‘And without the permit we can go throughout Baja with no problems but we won’t be able to take the ferry to the mainland.’

‘Yeah, or to take it out of the country when we want to cross into Belize,’ I added.

We believed we had thoroughly investigated the possibility of registering the motorcycle in Jess’s name back when we bought it but dismissed the idea because she does not have a residence permit.

‘So we have to get married,’ she said and I tried to decipher if her smile was more from shock or excitement.

Jess and panda at San Diego Zoo

We had crossed the border into Tijuana earlier that morning after staying the previous night at my cousin Jamie’s condo in San Diego. The border crossing was easy and then we had followed the signs that pointed to the customs office where you could obtain a ‘Permiso de Importación Temporal de Vehículo’ or Temporary Vehicle Importation Permit. Here we had swiftly gotten our tourist visas, which, like the vehicle permits, we only need for travel outside of Baja California, but at the customs office we were informed that the vehicle permits were no longer being issued from this location.

‘Sigues las senales hacia el aeropuerto y por allí pregunta por Garita de Otay,’ the customs official said. ‘Follow the signs towards the airport and around there ask for Garita de Otay.’

We followed the signs but the maze of over- and underpasses quickly got the better of me and in the end I paid a taxi to lead us there.

‘Conducza despacio por favor,’ I said to the taxi driver. ‘Drive slowly please.’

Then to Jessica I said, ‘Stay on my six so I don’t lose you in the traffic.’

‘I will,’ she said but after a few turns and stoplights several cars had cut between us. I began slowing so not to lose her but as I slowed several cars cut between the taxi and me. Eventually Jess caught back up and then together we caught up to the taxi and we three stayed in tight formation until he pulled over and pointed me towards a small office at the end of a dusty dirt road beside the Otay border crossing.

‘Aquí está el Banjercito de Otay donde pagas el permiso de vehículo,’ he said. ‘Here is the Banjercito de Otay where you obtain the vehicle permit.’

We pulled up and parked our bikes beside the office.

‘What happened to staying on my six?’ I said to Jess.

She made a sheepish grin and then she said, ‘I took a moment shifting gears out of first and all of a sudden all these cars had jumped in front of me!’

After sorting our gear and withdrawing our documents from inside the panniers we had gone into the Banjercito office, which is the bank of the armed forces, to obtain our vehicle permits. When the official saw that both motorcycles were registered in my name, he directed us to the customs office, which was one office down, to see what might be done.

‘So we have to get married,’ Jess said as the conclusion to our review of the situation.

‘You’re so calm and relaxed in these situations,’ I said. ‘I’m feeling all nervous and anxious and actually quite depressed by this.’

‘You wanted an adventure,’ she said, ‘and anyway we’ll find a way through or around this obstacle. It might just delay us a little.’

After some further discussion we decided to find a hotel in Tijuana and from there to further research our options by internet – in particular to research what documentation would be needed to get married in Baja California.

With our documents back in our side cases, we started off back towards Tijuana center where we had previously seen signs for the hotel district. But our excitement for the day was not over because with one wrong turn we were suddenly stopped in the traffic of cars trying to cross into the United States and there were no exits.

‘Fuck! This is my fault,’ I said over the drumming of our engines as we waited in the traffic. ‘The sign said San Diego but I thought there would be another exit or two towards downtown. I didn’t realize how close we were to the border.’

We inched forward over 20 minutes or so with many of those in cars urging us to split lanes to get to the front of the lines faster. Eventually, I saw a break in the short wall that separated those leaving Mexico from those just entering. I pointed it out to Jessica and she cocked her head quizzically as if to ask, ‘Can we really do that?’ I nodded an affirmative to the question I assumed she was asking and we cut through the space and sped off back into Mexico.

It was another 20 minutes or so into the city center and then a series of aimless turns until we found a very modest hotel with secure parking. After unloading the bikes and confirming the presence of a working Wi-Fi signal, we walked in the direction suggested by the desk clerk and found a small, outdoor taco restaurant.

‘They’re really good,’ Jess said as she shoveled what remained of the second taco into her open mouth. ‘I like that you can put the salsas and everything on yourself.’

‘I can’t tell you how relieved this makes me,’ I said.

‘Why?’ she said.

‘Because this is the cheapest and most common food for the next few months and I was concerned that, if you didn’t like it, it would be all chichi restaurants for us.’

She frowned and said, ‘I’m not that difficult.’

‘You’re the pickiest eater ever,’ I said.

‘I just don’t like when they put sauces on things,’ she said.

‘Uh-huh.’

We spent most of that evening on our respective computers searching the Internet for information about temporary vehicle importation and about getting married in Mexico. We even called several resorts and wedding planners in Cabo San Lucas for information about prices, scheduling, and what documents are needed. We discovered that the only thing we needed that we did not have with us was our birth certificates.

‘My mom thinks she has a certified copy of mine but otherwise she can get one for me tomorrow,’ I said after ending the phone call with my mother.

‘I only have the short form at home so I would need to get the long form,’ Jess explained. ‘Then it needs to be certified by the Ministry and then legalized by the Mexican Embassy in Ottawa.’

She searched and read on further and then added, ‘I could have the long form expedited to my mother and that will cost $75. Then she could overnight it to the broker who will get it certified for $175 in two days and then legalized for $150 in five days and then they overnight it back to my mother and she overnights it to us in Cabo.’

‘That’s going to take at least three weeks if all goes perfectly and then it’s close to $1000 with all the overnight fees and then even the cheapest wedding planner, blood test, and marriage license in Cabo is going to be at least $500,’ I said in complete despair.

We also tried calling the immigration lawyer whom we had spoken to some months earlier about obtaining residency for Jess if we decided to stay in the States after the motorcycle trip. We wanted to know how marrying in Mexico or in San Diego and then leaving the country might prejudice our chances for residency after the trip. We didn’t get through to the lawyer but the online message forums made clear that US Immigration would not let Jess back in on a tourist visa if they discovered that she was my spouse and we would have to file for her residency from abroad.

Then later in the evening I had an idea and I even began examining the vehicle registration document from the DMV.

‘You know, this is printed in two colors and it has no particular stamp or watermark on the paper,’ I said. ‘Could it really be so difficult to scan it, swap out my name for yours, and then print a new copy?’

A discussion with my sister decided that it would be easy enough for her to do in Photoshop if she were provided with a good enough scan.

‘Do they verify the registration of the bike when they issue the permit?’ Jess asked rhetorically because she knew I hadn’t the answer to that.

‘Can they really have access to the DMV database?’ I asked rhetorically in reply and this launched another half-hour of Internet searches and skimming through message board postings.

That night I slept very poorly because the situation was unresolved and we were without a clear, viable way forward. When I woke early in the morning I couldn’t remember why we had been so convinced about the futility of registering the motorcycle in Jessica’s name.

‘The dealership couldn’t do it because I didn’t have proof of address,’ she said when I asked her about it as soon as her eyes opened that morning.

‘Ok, but now you have proof of address from the joint bank account we opened,’ I said, sitting upright with the computer on my lap.

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Your mom sent me an SMS this morning asking the same thing.’

‘I’m reading postings about all the Canadian snow birds that come down during the winter and they buy a car in the States because it’s cheaper than bringing one down with them. The snow birds aren’t proper residents any more than you are so how is it different if you use my mother’s place as your address?’

She shrugged and with little more discussion we decided to cross back into San Diego and give it a shot. Our hotel was very close to the border so after a few turns we were back in the stop-and-go traffic of cars trying to enter the United States.

‘Will there be any problem for me crossing back because I don’t have residency or an onward ticket?’ Jess said over the idling of our engines.

We decided that, if they asked, our story was that we were going back to Africa in a few weeks and we had only wanted to get a quick taste of Mexico before ending our motorcycle trip. This time we slowly worked our way between the cars, despite the width that the side cases added to the bikes, and soon we had passed through immigration without any trouble or need for a story.

After crossing the border it was less than 20 minutes and we were at the California DMV office just off the Otay Mesa Freeway. Another 45 minutes and we had completed the transfer of title and Jessica held the new vehicle registration document in her hand.

‘I’m emotionally wrecked from the last two days,’ I admitted when we were back at our bikes outside the DMV with Jess’s new vehicle registration safely filed with her other pertinent documents.

‘Yes, love, you really fell apart for a while there,’ she said.

‘I know I did,’ I said. ‘It’s so shameful! To think that I was the Security Focal Point for like 20 NGOs in South Sudan when they started shelling the town.’

‘I’m sure you were much better then, love,’ she said.

‘I was much better,’ I said. ‘And I was fine when the bombs were going off all around us in Iraq. But the lack of a vehicle permit threatens to end the trip and I totally despaired!’

We had lunch and then we crossed back into Mexico and very quickly found our way to the Banjercito office where they issue the vehicle permits. The official smiled when he recognized us from the day before and within 20 minutes we had paid our temporary deposits and were issued each with a separate vehicle importation permit.

‘Aren’t you relieved you don’t have to marry me, love,’ Jess said when we left the Banjercito office with our permits in hand.

‘Yes, Bean, I dodged a bullet, didn’t I?’ I said.

We stayed that night at the same modest hotel near the border as we had the previous night only this time I felt much more relaxed and I slept very well and soundly. The next morning we packed our bikes with a renewed sense of excitement and we followed the free highway south out of Tijuana and away from the border.

On The Lookout For Bright Eyes

Days 28-41 – Las Vegas, NV, USA to Los Angeles, CA – 8,134 km

‘I’m going bad in my stomach,’ I said. ‘I’m going bad very quickly.’

         ‘It was your idea to come here,’ she said.

         ‘I know but that was before my stomach went bad,’ I said.

         ‘Ok, love, do you want to turn back,’ she said.

         ‘No, I want to keep going,’ I said, ‘but just know that my stomach is going bad and it’s paining me to keep going.’

Jess on The Strip

         We were walking north past Caesar’s Palace on Las Vegas Boulevard. It was a Sunday but that didn’t matter because it was nighttime and The Strip was dressed to the nines and packed with tourists. We had arrived in Vegas that afternoon after departing Mesquite just as quickly as we could be packed up and out of the miserable motel room where we had stayed the night. After about 50 kilometers on the I-15, we branched onto Highway 169 and took it through the Lake Mead National Recreation Area. This was a beautiful desert road that gentle meanders through the hills that surround the country’s largest reservoir. The weather was cool but sunny and there were plenty of motorcycles out, which kept us constantly waving the biker’s salute.

         When we reached Las Vegas, we grabbed a quick view of the casinos along E Flamingo Rd before we reached Silver Sevens Hotel & Casino. We had picked Silver Sevens the night before because it offered a three-star room for less than we were paying for our scumbag motel room in Mesquite and because it was close enough for us to leave the bikes and walk to The Strip at night.

         After checking in, we went down to the casino because we had a few hours before we were scheduled to meet up with Megan and Marshall whom I had met on my first motorcycle trip and who had so generously let us stay in their condo when arrived in Seattle three weeks before. When we were leaving after four wonderful days at their condo, I had called Marshall to thank him and review the checkout procedure.

‘It’s my pleasure. We’re glad you enjoyed it,’ he said. ‘Just water the plant by the window if it needs it. We’ll be in Vegas during the week of the 20^th. Let’s meet up if it fits your itinerary. You can stay with us at our friend Ben’s place when you’re here.’

It turned out that October 20 fit perfectly with our itinerary but we gratefully declined the offer of accommodation because we decided we wanted to ‘do Vegas’ even if that only meant a stroll up and down The Strip.

In the casino, Jess stretched $5 over more than half an hour on the penny slots and I tripled three dollars on quarter video poker only to watch her give it all back trying to fill in straights.

‘The thing of it is I’ve never gained enough comfort at the blackjack table to be able to enjoy the thrill from it,’ I said as we drank a beer and she squandered my video poker winnings. ‘And, besides,’ I went on, ‘I can only enjoy it if I am prepared to lose the money. That way it’s like I’m paying for the entertainment like if it was a movie or the batting cages or something. Right now, the thought of losing a hundred bucks at the tables is that it’s a day or two knocked off the end of our trip.’

‘Yes, love, I’m with you,’ she said without raising her eyes from the screen. ‘Now is it better to hold the pair or go with the four that are all the same suit?’

In the evening we walked up the street to Höfbrauhaus, which Jess had earlier that afternoon decided would be our dinner destination.’

‘Did you see? They’re doing an Oktoberfest with a band. Tell Megan and Marshall we want to go there!’ Jess said through her riding helmet when we pulled alongside at a stoplight.

Dinner with Megan and Marshall was a highlight of the trip for me. There was some catching up and getting to know each other better and plenty of great talk about motorcycle traveling. We also met their friend Ben whom they had gotten to know when they all lived in Thailand.

An evening of Oktoberfest at the Höfbrauhaus

‘Ben will stick around as long as he can,’ Megan explained. ‘He has a date tonight.’

‘A late dinner?’ I asked.

‘Drinks,’ he said, ‘It’s a second date and dinner is to much commitment.’

We ordered German sausage dishes, which were shoveled into our faces almost upon their arrival at the table, and then we talked – mostly with Marshall and Ben – while we poured beer into our overstuffed bellies.

‘I’ve just had to accept that my days of participating in an adult conversation are over for a few years,’ Megan said when she returned to the table after chasing down their daughter Coco at the big fountain.

Jess and a burro

‘It was a really great feeling for me seeing them,’ I said to Jess as we left the Höfbrauhaus after dinner and began walking towards The Strip. ‘I was so impressed and envious of them doing their motorcycle trip together and now I’m where they were and it feels every bit as good as I imagined it would. I’m ready to go south now.’

I said this as we walked shortly before my stomach went bad and then I didn’t say too much more after that except occasionally to make sure that Jess was still aware of the troubles I was having with my stomach.

Jess at Zabriskie Point in Death Valley

The next day Megan, Marshall, Coco, and Ben went rock climbing in Red Rock Canyon and Jess and I crossed Death Valley. There were only a few viewpoints that I was interested to see and no hiking trails that I felt compelled to follow. Maybe it was because I had gotten my fill for a while from the five national parks over three days in Utah or maybe after the evening with Megan and Marshall my thoughts had turned to the Latin America leg of the trip.

If my thoughts had escaped from the present, riding always has a wonderful way of keeping me planted in the moment and traversing Death Valley was no exception. Jess and I moved through the national park at our own paces as we had decided we would do after our blow up in Utah. She first went on ahead when I lingered at Dante’s View then I caught up briefly at Zabriskie Point and finally we reconnected later at Furnace Creek.

Jess rides Highway 190 in Death Valley

Late afternoon was creeping into evening as we stopped along highway 190 near the west entrance to the park to add layers of clothing and shovel down a granola bar and an orange. It was nighttime as we left the park, riding slowly and cautiously and on the lookout for bright eyes that would denote wildlife in the road. We spent that night in Olancha where the 190 meets Highway 395. The next day it was south on the 395 into Los Angeles for 10 days of rest, refit, and, as it happened, dental work, before continuing on south into Mexico.

Nothing But Tarmac And Sky

Days 22-27 – Mackay, ID, USA to Mesquite, NV – 6,497 km

It was much worse than it looks - honestly!

It started out as a manicured dirt road when it left the tarmac parking lot at the end of the scenic drive. As I rode along, I felt the small pebbles kick out from under my surefooted tires and heard the metallic resounds as they struck the aluminum skid plate that shields the underside of the engine block. Even as it descended deeper into the canyon, the road meandered through dips and rises and sudden hairpin turns. Arriving at the pinnacle of each rise – which is simultaneously my most and least favorite – I felt the breathless anticipation just before the next stretch of road was revealed to me.

Several kilometers in, the ride become complicated by intermittently rocky and rippling sandy patches where flash flooding had worn away the hard, dry earth and had strewn the rocky debris. Gaining the next rise, my heart went into my stomach as I saw that the road was a very sudden dip into a sharp, sandy turn. I downshifted to control my speed while keeping my rpms up and I felt my grip tense even as I told myself to stay loose and relaxed. Coming out of the dip and into the turn, I felt my front tire slip both ways beneath me, which made me instinctively grip tighter, but I managed to control the rear tire through the turn by shifting my body weight.

Maybe you should have left this road alone, I thought, but then I rebuked myself for thinking it because this is exactly what I had bought this kind of motorbike for. You’re just running the wrong tires for the sandy shit, I decided, and, besides, it doesn’t make it easier that you’re loaded down like a pack mule.

At this thought, I pulled over for a drink of water and a photograph, and, after removing a few layers of clothing, I remounted and was back on the trail. It turned out that I had pulled over only about a kilometer from the end of the road where there was a sandy parking lot and a trail that led deeper into the canyon. I steered towards a paved area that was connected to the small bridge over the wash and dismounted the bike.

it’s a damn good thing she didn’t follow you into this or she’d sure give you hell for it, I thought as I removed my riding gloves and unthreaded my helmet strap. Turning back as I did this, I was shocked to see Jessica pull up behind me covered in dust but otherwise smiling through her helmet.

‘What are you doing here?’ I said in complete surprise.

She smiled because she was proud of herself despite her inherent modesty and then she said, ‘I really didn’t like that sand!’

            ‘You didn’t go down though?’ I said.

She shook her head and then she said, ‘But I still have to make it back.’

Over the last several days of riding the countryside had changed very dramatically. After the forested mountains of Bitterroot National Forest, the land gradually became drier and the vegetation was sparser. After Mackay, we made a quick visit to Craters of the Moon National Monument, which we were mostly able to see from the highway but was closed for deeper exploration as a result of the government shutdown. After returning the way we came for a short stretch on the 93, we took Highway 26 to Blackfoot and then the I-15 south past Pocatello. After a little less than a hundred kilometers on the interstate, we leaped at the chance to deviate onto Highway 91 in the direction of Preston and from there across the border into Utah. We spent that night in downtown Salt Lake City and stayed there the next day for a rest.

Entering Arches National Park

            After Salt Lake City we had a several days of beautiful riding and new challenges as a couple. We took the interstate south and then we transferred to Highway 6 at Spanish Fork. The 6 gradually meandered southeast through dry canyons and the temperature improved as we came out of the elevation. That night we stayed in Moab, which is a bustling tourist town because it is the starting point for day excursions into Arches and Canyonlands National Parks.

            The next morning we tackled both – Arches in the morning and Canyonlands in the afternoon. The scenery through the parks was beautiful and the temperature was warm enough that we shed layers and opened the vents in our riding suits. The strange thing is, this combination of beautiful weather and scenery indirectly lead to our first big fight of the trip.

Sometimes you feel like your flying

Throughout the day I neurotically pulled us over at one turnoff after another to take in the view and occasionally to follow a short trail for a closer look at one of the highlights. Jess enjoyed the riding but she was less enthusiastic about the frequent stopping and even less so about the short hikes – and particularly doing so in the heavy riding gear. I appreciated the effort she made to participate in the hiking because she knows I love it but, to my mind, it was overshadowed by the evident lack of enthusiasm. To her mind, she was making a major effort, doing what she didn’t much enjoy, and I was only nagging at her to hurry along and to get into it. After the two national parks, the resentment had gradually heated to a boil on both sides but we were not quite able or ready to put or fingers on exactly what was individually angering us. That night in Green River went by without much exchange of words and, going to bed unresolved, we both awoke spoiling for a fight.

Scruffy Greg at Canyonlands

            ‘I almost wrote you a text message that said “I’ll see you in Vegas” when you left me in the morning,’ Jess said later that morning after a long ride had given us each the time we needed to brood over it and make sense of what we were angry about.

            ‘I told you I was going just up the road to look for the sunglasses that I lost last night,’ I said and then after a pause, ‘but I did wonder if you would still be there when I pulled back into the motel parking lot.’

Stylish Jess at Canyonlands

            What we resolved that morning at a rest stop along Highway 24 was that it was ok to go through certain stretches like national parks at our paces and then to meet up at a designated location afterwards. In the past this had not been an option because Jess had not felt comfortable enough with the riding to strike out on her own and so we had been unavoidably tethered 24-7. Now, either due to time and practice or to her impatience at my snail’s pace through the national park doubleheader, she decided she was perfectly comfortable to go off on her own whenever I was enticed by a hiking trail.

Jess opens it up on Highway 12

            By late morning we were feeling much better with each other when we reached Capitol Reef National Park. Remembering our talk about taking things at our own pace, I signaled to Jess and then I pull ahead and stretch out my engine. After taking a few sharp turns at speed, I glanced at my rearview mirror and discovered that she was keeping equal pace with me. Damn, I thought, I haven’t much longer to be Top Dog if this keeps up. At the end of the 15-km scenic road into the national park we reached the parking lot beside where the tarmac ended and the graded dirt road continued into the gorge.

            ‘You’re riding like a devil, Bean!’ I said to Jess over the idle of our engine when she pulled alongside me in the parking lot (Bean is my nickname for her because she is tall and gracefully lanky like a beanstalk)

            ‘I’m a bit nauseas from the turns and the up and downs,’ she said.

            ‘Ok, you rest here and I’ll go do the dirt road and come back,’ I said.

            She nodded and that’s when I had started off down what had looked to be a nicely manicured dirt road.

After a brief stroll into the gorge, we return to the bikes and got ready to tackle the same dirt road back out to the tarmac. Jess started off first and I followed a few minutes behind after changing my helmet camera battery. After a few minutes of riding, I caught up to her as she seemed to be momentarily stopped alongside a white SUV. I thought it was strange that I had caught up with her so quickly, especially when I saw how quickly she bolted off after what seemed to have been only a pause alongside the other vehicle. Back at the parking lot beside the tarmac road, she explained what the pause had been about.

Jess rides off tarmac

            ‘I saw that there was a deep sandy patch on my side of the road. I wanted to go to the other side where it was less sandy but I saw the SUV was coming so I tried to stop to let them pass and I went right over in the sand,’ she said.

            ‘You mean you went down?’ I asked.

            She had a big smile on her face as she nodded.

            ‘The man saw it and came right out of the car to help. He said, “Yeah we know a lot about sand!’ He tried to pull the bike up while I pushed it but we couldn’t get it. Then his wife came out and said, “He’s got a bad back. Let me help,” and she helped pull on his side. At first we still couldn’t get it and I told them, “It’s ok. My boyfriend’s just a few minutes behind and he’ll help me when he gets here,’ but eventually the three of us got it back up.’

            ‘I’m so glad you’re alright,’ I said after she finished telling her story, ‘and I’m so glad you were the first to go down on the trip.’

            She smiled sheepishly.

            ‘There were several times that I thought I might take a spill but the only thing that kept me upright was the will not to be the first to go down,’ I said. ‘Now that you have gone down, I can stop pussyfooting through the off-road sections. Now I feel like I have license to go down without any shame. You’re ok though, right?’

            ‘Yeah, it was a soft fall in the sand but I think my pannier knocked loose,’ she said.

            ‘Damn, and the way you got right back on and bolted off like nothing ever happened,’ I said still marveling at her as I began to review her bike.

‘Actually, at first I couldn’t get the engine started and I kept trying and look for what was wrong until I finally realized that I was still in first gear from when I went down. Then, after I got it started, I immediately stall because I still had to get through the sand patch. After the sand I hurried off to so that the people in the SUV wouldn’t see if I went down again!’ she said.

‘Oh, bean, I’m definitely not going to be Top Dog here for long,’ I said.

            As we continued to discuss Jess’s fall and remark on each of the challenges of our first, difficult dirt road of the trip, I found that a screw was missing from the pannier rack and that the rack had been bent so that the pannier no long sat snuggly upon it. I replaced the screw with one from my bag of sundries and we found a stick to occupy the space in the bracket where the pannier fastens to the rack.

            ‘It was only this morning that I was really miserable and now I’m quite giddy with joy,’ I said as we laid a few strips of duct tape as an additional security for the pannier on the low side of the fall.

Greg in Capitol Reef National Park

            ‘Yes, love, it’s because you’re doing just what you love now,’ she said.

            I was and, as we replaced our riding gear and drove off to return to the main highway, I thought about how quickly your mood can swing on a trip like this.

‘It’s an emotional rollercoaster,’ I said mockingly to myself inside my helmet as I concluded the thought and pressed the button to resume my audiobook.

            We stopped for lunch at the small town of Torrey, which sits at the junction between the 24 and the 12. Here we met a middle aged man and his wife on a BMW R1200GS who had separated from their group after a difficult previous day of muddy off-road riding and we met a Quebecois who had ridden down on his Kawasaki and was destined for California. This provided us ample interaction because we are both thoroughly introverts at heart, but we enjoyed the biker babble and talking about the road before remounting to tackle Highway 12.

Jess rides into the sky on Highway 12

            Departing from Torrey, the 12 gained elevation rather quickly and the temperature dropped so that before long we were seeing patches of snow on the hillsides along the highway. For 100 incredible and at moments even breathtaking kilometers, the 12 weaved through the mountains and canyons before we reached the town of Escalante where it felt more like we were making a landing rather than pulling in for the night.

            ‘Did you see the part where the highway dropped down on both sides and there was no railing and nothing but tarmac and sky?’ Jess said as soon as her helmet was removed and the audiobook piping in over her earphones was switched off.

            ‘Absolutely incredible!’ I said. ‘I really gave myself a scare because I sped way up to get you in the pictures and then I realized how narrow and winding and unbound the road was.’

We spent that night in Escalante and the next morning we visited the hardware store to come up with a more permanent fix to Jess's bent pannier rack.
'The place where the canyon narrows to only the width of the highway and you can only see sky around you - we call that the Hogsback,' the hardware store clerk explained. 'Not long ago a woman stopped her car in the middle to take pictures. She left it in neutral and forgot to engage the parking brake and it rolled right off the edge.'

The hoodoos at Bryce Canyon

After setting a metal rod bought from the hardware store to reinforce the pannier rack, we set off for another long, grueling day that took us through Bryce Canyon and Zion National Parks and then out of Utah, across the tip of Arizona, and finally to a stop in Mesquite, Nevada late in the afternoon. In Mesquite we discovered that the hotel-casinos that offered the cheap rooms were all booked because it was a Saturday night and, not wanting to spend too much, we settled on a miserable, dumpy motel, which left both of us a bit down after another phenomenal day of beautiful weather, scenery, and riding.

‘It’s an emotional rollercoaster,’ I said to myself in a tone that was less mocking this time as we unloaded the gear from our bikes.

‘Yes, love, it certainly is,’ Jess replied as she carried her bags into the motel room.