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.

Your Memory In Segments

Day 18-21 – Kelowna, BC, Canada to Mackay, ID, USA – 4,981 km

If you have ever undertaken a trip like ours – one that spans many days and a range of country – you will have experienced how the route takes shape in your memory in segments rather than a flow. Maybe this is simply you recognizing the Universe’s ordered narrative, or maybe it is just a byproduct of your mind trying to sort disjointed pieces into an organized catalogue. Either way, I have found each segment is marked in my memory by some particular place or situation or person. There would be nothing extraordinary about this except that on reflection I often find that what marks the memory doesn’t seem particularly memorable for any reason except that it is what stands out in my memory. I don’t know why I think of this now except that, among the many miles of tarmac meandering among rivers and through colorful, autumn countryside, reflecting on this latest segment draws to mind a friendly man, two dogs, and a wagon wheel.

We arrived at Kelowna in the early evening after a long, pleasant stretch along the two-lane road that runs the west side of Okanagan Lake. The principle Highway 97, which runs a similar north-south line only a short ways to the east beside Lake Kalamalka, takes on most of the commuter traffic, while our road traced a mostly quiet, meandering course along the lakeshore. About halfway down the narrow, snaking Okanagan Lake, we crossed William R. Bennett Bridge into Kelowna. The small city is picturesquely nestled between the lakeshore and the surrounding hill country. On these hills are many of the vineyards that make Kelowna the Napa of British Columbia.

Merging onto the bridge, we connected with a rider evidently on his way home from an afternoon jaunt. He was on a BMW R1200GS, which is like the big brother to our smaller BMW enduros. Whenever I see someone on one of these bikes, my first instinct is still to ease back on the throttle in a momentary act of deference. But then, this time, I remembered that we are the ones with the foreign plates and luggage-loaded bikes and thousands of kilometers on our odometers. This made me feel every bit the equal of this rider even though he was on the bigger motorcycle, and, returning his wave, I enjoyed thinking of him as our escort into town.

It was too late for wine tasting when we arrived in Kelowna and, waking the next morning still eager to press on, it resulted that our experience of the British Columbia wine country was visual rather than viticultural. We spent that next day winding south through the mountains on the 33 until eventually we reached the junction with Highway 3 just a few kilometers from the US border. Here we went east and followed the 3 as it snakes among the Rockies in long, isolated stretched punctuated by an occasional town nestled beautifully in a valley by a river. This was how we passed Grand Forks, Castlegar, and Salmo until we finally came to halt for the night in Creston. Creston was another town nestled in a valley among the mountains beside a river and surrounded by farms and fruit orchards. It was a beautiful town and in some ways it seemed the embodiment of everything beautiful that we had seen in British Columbia. In this way, it was an ideal place for our last overnight before crossing back into the United States and beginning the long sweep southward.

The next morning at the border, Jess was first to advance to the booth to speak with the immigration official. I watched as she put her bike into neutral, pressed the engine kill switch, and removed her riding gloves. She handed her documents to the official inside the booth and waited. Then after a pause I watched her head and her hands move in animated fashion as, I assumed, she began to explain our travel situation. This went on for several minutes and I began to grow nervous because we had read a lot about U.S. immigration officials who did not like foreigners entering without an onward or return ticket. Eventually the official returned her documents, waved her through, and I pulled forward.

‘Ok, let’s see if your story matches hers,’ the border official said with a terse smile that was polite but certainly not friendly.

        After crossing the border we were in Idaho riding southeast and skipping from Route 1 to Highway 95 and then to Highway 2 until we had slipped across the northeast corner of Idaho and into Montana. Some half hour from the state line we stopped in Libby, Montana for a warm drink and a mid morning snack. I chose the place and it was quickly evident that I chose poorly because it was very cold and I had brought us to a halt at a drive-through café. But we were stopped and cold and plenty ready for a break, so after some grumbling we sat down at a picnic bench and rested outside in the cold, drinking hot chocolate and eating apple muffin tops.

       ‘Not now,’ Jess said disapprovingly when she saw me holding the camera. ‘It’s cold and you stopped us at a drive-through when we’re on motorcycles! This is why people think I’m always unhappy in the videos – you always film at the wrong times!’

       After Libby, we continued weaving southeast on Highway 2, slowing only for a stretch where the road seemed to give way beneath us. It was an area of roadwork where the tarmac was being repaved and the gravel was piled deep so that it was rather like riding through sand. This was our first slog through gravel on the trip and it was good to feel that my bike was mostly surefooted even though we were running road tires that are entirely unsuited for anything but tarmac. Jess skimmed ably through the gravel, occasionally extending her legs to either side when she felt unsteady, but mostly sitting upright and focusing her eyes far ahead to follow a good line.

       At Kalispell we merged onto Highway 93 south and then we crossed the Flathead River and continued south on the 35 along the east shore of Flathead Lake. Below the lake we reconnected with Highway 93 and continued until we reached Missoula at the junction of the 93 and the I-90. The next day, after a brief tour through Missoula’s historic downtown, we continued on the 93 as it follows the upstream course of the Bitterroot River. Most of the morning it was a lackluster slog because the highway follows a straight course through a valley between two sections of the Bitterroot National Forest. But shortly before the junction with the 43, the highway enters the mountain country of the national forest and winds along the Lewis and Clark Trail.

In the middle of this lovely, meandering stretch of highway just across the state line into Idaho, we took a break, which, in retrospect, might have been the paragon for all the rest stops we had taken during the trek through cold weather country. We pulled over at a gravelly turnoff overlooking the river and I dismounted. After I removed my gloves, helmet, and earphones, I turned to see that Jessica had dismounted but hadn’t removed any of her riding gear.

‘It’s too much hassle to take the helmet on and off and then replace the earphones and tuck the balaclava and the sunglasses and all that,’ she explained when I asked why she hadn’t made herself more comfortable.

‘Ok, but you know this is a rest stop and we’re gonna stay a while, right?’

‘Sure, love, I’m fine and we’ll rest a while,’ she said. ‘But really it’s too cold even to take off my gloves.’

I stood gazing down at the river, snacking on a granola bar, as I searched for the distinctive form of a trout.

‘I think this is the river from the Robert Redford movie, except it took place downstream near Missoula,’ I said without breaking my scan of the river.

After a few minutes I heard a rustling and then a crunching coming from behind me. I turned around to see Jessica working a granola bar out of its wrapper with her hands still in her riding gloves. Then I watched somewhat in awe as she raised the pieces of granola to where the raised visor allowed access to her face inside the helmet. She brought the granola close to her face at around her nose and then dropped it in small pieces between her face and the helmet and caught it – mostly – in her mouth.

‘I don’t know what’s funnier,’ I said after watching her carry out several rounds of this bizarre feeding process, ‘that you can’t be bothered to remove your helmet to eat or that you’ve concocted such a precise, intricate way to shovel food into your face without taking the helmet off.’

‘It’s cold and I’m hungry,’ she said dismissing my laughter with a sharp hand gesture, ‘and my way is working just fine!’

‘You know you have crumbs all over the cheek pads of your helmet, right?’ I said.

As she was finishing her granola bar, I set off walking into the bushes.

‘Where are you going?’ she called out after me.

‘To pee,’ I said.

‘No,’ she said.

‘What no?’ I said.

‘No, don’t pee,’ she said.

‘Why not? It doesn’t matter if someone sees me,’ I said.

‘No, you’re not allowed,’ she said.

‘Why not?’ I said.

‘Because I have to pee too,’ she said.

‘I’ll get the toilet paper out of my pannier,’ I said, starting back toward my bike.

‘No, it’s too cold to do it here,’ she said.

‘Ok, well then I’m going to go,’ I said.

‘No, just wait and we’ll both go when we get to the next town,’ she said.

‘Wait, so because you won’t go pee, I can’t go either?’ I said.

‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said.

‘So, we have to be miserable and uncomfortable not peeing together?’ I said.

‘It’s the only fair way,’ she said.

       After relieving my bladder, we were back on the highway and continuing through the mountains and then back into a valley and then into another meandering stretch through the mountains. In the afternoon we began ascending until suddenly we were surrounded by snow and the temperature reading on my display indicated that the temperature was near freezing. Here we reached Willow Creek Summit where the highway exceeds 2,100 meters in elevation and passes near Borah Peak, which is Idaho’s highest mountain. After the summit we descended out of the extreme cold but by the time we reached the small town of Mackay about 50 kilometers south we were chilled to the bone, hungry, and completely exhausted.

       Mackay ran the length of just a few blocks along the highway and, when we reached the end of the town and looked out on another long stretch of tarmac through the fading daylight, we doubled back and pulled into the Wagon Wheel Motel. Two enthusiastic dog greeted us at the motel office and, excited by this, Jess knelt down to be smothered in slobbery kisses. The man who owned the motel with his wife chatted amiably as we completed the registration and payment. He was very friendly without being overbearing and I would have liked to continue talking with him because he struck me as someone you wanted to ask about themselves and how they came to be where they were. But be were just too cold, hungry, and exhausted to hang about for a chat. So we took the room key, quickly unloaded our luggage from the bikes, and then scurried over to the only restaurant in town that stayed open on a Sunday evening.