Our route was intentionally planned out very crudely. We took out a paper map of Mexico and literally drew a line across it along some roads that looked interesting, making sure to pass through the cities we wanted to visit. Of these there were only a couple at the start: San Miguel de Allende where Diana’s family lives and Mexico City, where I visited last Summer, but due to a surprise visit from the ghost of Montezuma, was unable to explore the pre-Aztec Teotihuacan city ruins just outside the city. Soon, by research in Lonely Planet (still a useful guide in spite of the internet) and word of mouth we added to our short list Guadalajara, Oaxaca City, the ruins of Campeche, Morelia and a handful of others. We estimated that we could ride 200-250 miles a day and planned our stops accordingly. We have since decided that we prefer to plan fewer miles and give ourselves more time to stop to eat, take selfies, and explore while still allowing enough time to arrive at our destination before dark. Sometimes it doesn’t quite work out as planned. Between Nayarit and San Miguel de Allende, we ate only gas station peanuts and Snickers bars for lunch, so pressed were we for time. The weather has been amazing in these winter months, dry air and moderate temperatures, but the short days have limited our riding considerably. We decided from the beginning not to ride at night. Everyone we have spoken to has agreed with that decision. The bandits come out at night, as do the cows, goats and sheep, and the potholes don’t go anywhere. Though there are highways that are safe and secure, even on those my enjoyment decreases rapidly with the setting sun.
Read moreLa Salud: Staying Healthy on the Road
I hope you’ll forgive the certified food-handler’s geek in me as I recount how swiftly and efficiently one pork-kebab stand in Coyoacan met the demands of their immense nightly crowd, and how each crew member handled raw meat, cooked food, sliced fruit, and cash payments. Without even a bottle of hand-sanitizer in sight. Did I partake of the kebabs? Sure did. Was I conflicted? You bet.
Read moreTravel Is Not the Cure
What exactly are we doing out here? I’ve seen probably a dozen cathedrals now and town squares and ocean front promenades. All of them unique, many beautiful, some decrepit. We’ve weaved through hairpin turns in the mountains on the way to missions and villages, bounced over topes and washboard dirt roads, swerved around potholes and semi trucks. Crossed hundreds of bridges and tunnels. We’ve eaten many tacos from the largest al pastor spits you can imagine. We’ve seen the landscape change again and again, wet to dry to wet to dry, mountains to flatlands to mountains.
Read moreThe View from the Rear
Nathan and the friends we’ve met on our journey have wanted to know how I spend all that time alone with the thoughts bouncing around in my helmet. In truth, I only get bored when we’re riding on toll roads, and I mostly love our connection to the environment as we ride. Without the shelter and security of an enclosed vehicle, we are especially vulnerable, but I find that within that vulnerability, we have a unique opportunity to exercise mindfulness.
Read moreThe Way and the Wayfarers
On a motorcycle you are free. Free to leave when you want. Free to go where you want. Free of time tables. Free of luggage bins. Free of pat-downs. Free of crowds. Free even, at times, of roads. But you aren’t free of your motorcycle and you aren’t free of yourself. These two remain. They aren't neat and tide like a time table and they aren't as definitive as a boarding pass. They respond to questions with more questions and demand a great deal of faith. You can't be certain how far you can go because you and your bike have never gone there. Lacking answers, you listen with all your senses and try to feel what your bike feels. You rub the oil in your fingers, you put your ear to the cylinder, you place your hand on the tire. You try to read the signs. You try to read yourself. This is your timetable though the lines are faint.
Read moreOur Baja in a Nutshell
We crossed in Tecate, were baptized in sand at Campo Papa Fernandez, pushed our off-road limits at the gap in Highway 5, broke down and were redeemed at Bahia Concepcion, rode the waves at Los Cerritos, and bid farewell at La Paz. In total, we spent a month on the Baja California peninsula. We experienced a wealth of desert and coastal beauty. Some great roads and some bad ones. We chose to avoid most of the most popular destinations, forgoing Tijuana, Rosarito for the more remote route South along uncompleted Highway 5 and skipped Cabo San Lucas in search of less adulterated sands.
Read moreOf Santos and Sinners
I forget distance out here in the desert. Phone reception can disappear completely between towns. A single paved highway connects a spiderweb of sand roads connecting innumerable pueblas. Many don’t appear on maps. But there are people and houses and minimarkets nonetheless. I forget that the distance we’ve traveled from town to wilderness would not even have taken us from San Francisco to Sacramento. Each turn creates new worlds from nothingness, erasing my sense of space. Out here among the cacti and sunbleached bovine bones, it feels we have traversed centuries.
Read more“¿De Donde Vienen? ¿A Donde Van?”
Where did you come from? Where are you going?
They’re the questions we’re asked at every military checkpoint in Baja. The armed militia men behold our dusty, hulking machine and our matching, early-nineties era getup as we reply and then wave us on our way.
My purposes in traveling are fairly singular. They don't have much to do with motorcycles, or with being a bad-ass female, or with compiling “Top Ten Things To Do” lists for the Internet. When asked about what I hope to get out of this journey, I see that this trip began fulfilling its purpose the moment I left home. The moment I left that old fish boat floating in Richardson Bay, the marina gate shrieking shut behind me, I gave myself over to joy. True, I left my job for this joy; left behind the only semblance of a fulfilling career I’ve ever had, and let’s not forget—I’ll be thirty next month. Why would I leave now?
In the months preceding our departure, I considered the kinds of details I might choose to share in the accounts of my travels. I knew I would have no hesitation in recording such afternoons as those that Nathan and I spent in Mulegé. We camped on the beach at Santispak for three-and-a-half days, eating local dates and raw clams with a squeeze of lime and reading and watching small, transparent fish nip at our ankles in the clear shallows of the Sea of Cortez. Once, while day was still breaking, we sat on a stone outside our tent eating homemade chicken tamales, bought from one of the tamale-guys making his daily rounds among the beach campers, and looked out at the mirror surface of the sea. No wind or waves yet, just the ripples that fell away from the dark dorsal and back of a dolphin, which had just then decided to join us for breakfast.
Such moments feel like they have been plucked out of the cosmos for us. They are the kinds of moments our friends wished for us in their farewells and for which we carry our loved ones, living and lost, in our hearts. And all this, on this seaside morning, afforded to us by the loss of some stupid steering head cap nut which had wiggled loose from the bike at some unknown time and without which we dared not continue until we found a replacement.
It is with the same desire to write generously that I am compelled to share our hardships and frustrations. But to what degree? Perhaps I am the only one to bat an eye at this. Perhaps not. It’s a question I face as a writer as well as as a living, breathing person—a person who sometimes looks okay in photos, but who sometimes does not, and who is ultimately as susceptible to intestinal parasites as my poor, very susceptible traveling companion. It is a question we all face, in the age of social media, especially, but also in the innate and universal desire to compile a sort of autobiography, for both public and personal consumption. What lies behind the images of ourselves that we hope others will see, and why is it important that certain blemishes and bumps remain hidden? It seems to me that the jingling of all those little and loud alarm bells in our psyches are the exact occasions on which we ought to turn the beams of our compassion and gentleness on ourselves and chance revealing a bit more.
In all honesty, I worried about how the people I love would receive the news of my travel plans. I shouldered more guilt about the anxiety my departure would cause my family than they will ever know. And I had more or less resigned myself to this by the time I left; that it would be okay if they never quite “got it”. And it will be ok—however varied their griefs are, in which I play the primary agent, I know they will be proud of me for this one day.
I left because I want to get better at telling stories. I want to grow in patience for the times when my voice falters and I lose my train of thought. I want to know the freedom to speak in the terms of my choosing. I haven’t felt free because human experience is vast; because I have long struggled to find myself at the center of my own life; because my attention and feeling have always been magnetized to the person of nearest proximity; because the task of finding language authentic to a particular experience is hard.
But I know that healing awaits me in the practice of storytelling. And that the telling is one more step forward in the recovery of my voice. And that this healing is worth all the trouble.
Some people know and some people don’t know that I lived privately with Bulimia for the better part of the last decade. In fact, the very week that we crossed our first border, I brought to a close my third year of recovery. I celebrate and I continue to recover. It seems to me, as I drain the last of my delicious black coffee in a Mexican hipster cafe, that there is no better way to honor my freedom from that terrifying darkness than to shine some light into it. In the fullest possession of myself that I’ve known, I throw my fear of the cliché to the wind and call my experience of Bulimia “darkness” and I call my recovery “light”. It is pure joy knowing that the light of no one else’s creation but my own could illuminate that darkness.
This is where I’ve come from. I rightfully carry my past with me, and as we rest here in La Paz, reflection is welcome and easy. At its core, my eating disorder was the desire to escape. My body, my vessel for perception and participation, pushed into the pain and distress of the act of purging could briefly quiet whatever occupied my mind that I felt did not belong there. And the stillness that took the place of noisy, intrusive machinations over past painful experiences—even for just the fleeting, devastatingly brief moments that Bulimia allows—felt real and true. It’s what made it so hard to commit to recovery.
I work now to trust my vessel’s integrity. I work to find myself worthy enough to hold and pour out the intricate fluidity of experience. We all must. And while the difficulty of knowing how to be present is just a part of my history, it is the only history I have. And it’s important to speak of it, for it contains the lesson that to be present for pain is also to remain present for delight. It is a lesson without end.
So, when people ask me why I’m skivving off to Latin America with the man I love, I can only offer “love of self”. That’s the all and everything. And if I manage to bring something measurable to those who need measurements, fine. But I will be busy receiving the gifts—tripe tacos and sand pits and coffeehouses and mountains and delicious afternoons doing nothing—offered to me by this world that would turn without me, regardless.
Missing Pieces
Somewhere in the sands of Baja, between Mulege in the South and San Luis Gonzaga in the North, there is a very special nut waiting to be found. We have been in La Paz for over a week now, waiting for a replacement to arrive.
Read moreNotes on the Other California
The ocotillo, spindly succulents like Buddha’s Hands, or the tentacles of an upside-down squid, are everywhere; now, in Baja Sur, they are still covered in tiny green leaves. Ocotillo. The name knocks and trills in my mouth; I like to think that they were named by the birds. Likewise, the unlikely white, conical trunk of the Cirio named perhaps after the spaces between dry, hollow winds.
Read moreDesviacion
On Wednesday, we entered Mexico at Tecate just east of Tijuana. We drove right across the border and, realizing that we were in Mexico, turned around to try to find the customs office. If you are just bringing a vehicle into Baja, you don’t need any special permits, but since we are planning to ferry into the mainland at La Paz, we wanted to go ahead have everything in order. Everyone was very nice and patient as we wandered around. There were no lines anywhere.
We immediately rode East across the peninsula to avoid the madness of Tijuana and Ensenada. Federal Highway 2D, cutting back and forth through the mountains was magnificent. We then continued south on Highway 5 along the Sea of Cortez. Our first stop was San Felipe, a small beach town apparently popular with winter birds. It was quiet and there seemed to be as many Americans as Mexicans in town. After we checked into our Airbnb we took a stroll down the Malecon beach promenade, and ordered a gigantic platter of ceviche (the waitress warned us it was too much, but I persisted) and a couple cervezas. We had made it into Mexico. Our trip had finally begun.
After staying a couple nights, we continued as far as the 5 hugged the coast and picked for our destination Campo Papa Fernandez. The two mile long dirt road to the camp quickly turned to sand. Until then, I had no experience riding in sand, let alone with a passenger and fully loaded with luggage. I tried to take it slow. Things were going fine until we hit a deep spot of sand. The front tire dipped to the left and then harder to the right. I couldn't correct it and the bike spun ninety degrees and we flopped over. We weren’t hurt, so I switched off the fuel, took a couple pictures and together we lifted the bike up.
It struck me that falling off a bike isn’t a very far fall at all. Almost as soon as you realize the bike is going down, the fall is over.
I was pretty confident I could have avoided the fall if we had been standing on the pegs, as you should do when riding off-road. So we continued, standing. I navigated a few rough patches and was feeling pretty good. We must have hit another deep spot though, because before I knew it the bike was down and Diana was on top of me. The camp was within sight, and Diana’s foot was starting to hurt from the first fall, so we decided to just walk the bike the rest of the way.
The camp appeared to be a loose collection of shacks, broken down buses and RVs nestled on the shores of a beautiful bay. The proprietor was surprised to see us and concerned about our falls along the road. We asked about camping and he pointed to a steep rocky hill. “El otro lado.” On the other side. I wasn’t excited about climbing a hill at that moment, but it looked alright. Diana walked behind me in case I dropped the bike again.
As we set up camp, we felt like we had struck gold. It was everything we had hoped for, quiet, secluded, and picturesque. There were even pit toilets, though somewhat dilapidated. A family in as Subaru were the only other people on the beach.
The next day, we continued south. We were feeling good and glad to be back on tarmac after our brief stint on the sand. Just a few miles down the road however, the way was blocked and a large orange sign read “Desviacion.” I assumed, correctly, that meant “Detour” and followed where it pointed, down off the highway to a rutted, gravelly path that only scarcely resembled a road. We had no choice but to continue.
Several miles later, my lifetime off-roading time now doubled, we came across some Mexicans with ATVs. Breathing hard, I asked how much further this continued.
“One mile, then you go up on a bridge. The road there is so good.”
The road there is so good.
I was energized by the thought of soon being back on solid tarmac. We found the bridge we was talking about, but the path up to it was daunting. It was short, but deeply rutted, sandy, and probably the steepest slope I’ve ever climbed (which in the grand scheme of hill climbing, isn’t saying much). I was confident and, compelled by the thought of sweet sweet pavement, we began the assent. We climbed slowly upward. I little too slowly in fact. About three quarters of the way up, the bike stalled. I grabbed the front brake, but began sliding backward on the loose sand. Without any momentum, I couldn’t hold the bike up and we tipped and fell softly into the hillside.
It was a tricky spot to lift the bike, and would have been easy to accidentally tip it over on the other side, but together we managed to do it. I mounted the bike, and Diana stacked some large rocks behind my rear tire for traction. She would walk the rest of the way up. I gunned the bike to a start as I let off the brake, it lurched forward, digging into the sand, I let off the gas slightly to get more traction and then gave it some more gas to get over a bump. From there it was easy and I made it to the top. But there was no tarmac. There was just more dirt road as far as I could see.
It’s all relative I guess.
On the bright side, it did more closely resemble a road and it did not appear to be as rocky, but who knew how long that would last. We had seen no signs since the desviacion began. We had no service on our phones. And, though we had maps, none of them had this road marked. The road would fork and merge, begin to fade and then reappear. There was even one short patch of brand new, smooth pavement sandwiched between dirt roads. Occasionally, a 4x4 vehicle or a gaggle of dirtbikers would race past us. They appeared to be going somewhere. We came across some abandoned road working vehicles. So someone is working on this road, I thought. One dirt mover was operating in the distance, a young man was hanging out of the window. He whistled. I stopped. He waved. I nodded.
All around us, infinitely in all directions, was rugged, undisturbed, desert beauty. But I did not have the mental space to notice it, all of my energy was exhausted in focusing completely and simultaneously on the road ahead and the rocks directly in front of my tire.
We met one man out there in the depths of the desert. His abode was listed on the single road sign we saw, Coco’s Corner. We stopped to rest. Several other vehicles were stopped as well. A couple men were under the hood of a small SUV. A barbed wire fence was decorated with thousands of sun-faded cans of Tecate and Pacifico. A sign hung in the air, also constructed out of beer cans, Coco’s Corner. There was a small flat-roofed structure with women’s underwear pinned to its outer wall. A couple of truck camper shells sat in the sand.
I was not sure what to think of the place. Why did it exist out here so far from everything? The door to the building was open, so we walked inside. Every inch of the walls were covered with photographs, every inch of the ceiling strung with women’s panties. A very small bed with threadbare blankets huddled in the corner. On the far wall was a counter and window like at a shop, and behind it an old man sat holding a hammer, preoccupied with some piece of machinery he held in his hand. A couple of other people stood inside and he seemed to be helping them with something. He appeared to be Coco. This appeared to be his corner.
He appeared to be Coco. This appeared to be his corner.
He made no indication that he noticed our entry, but continued talking in an aggressive, gravelly voice with the other couple. He rolled around to the doorway by the counter. He rolled because he was in a wheelchair, and he was in a wheelchair, it soon became obvious, because he was missing his legs below his knees. He rolled directly up to me. His face was like a bulldog’s focused on its prey. I was stunned. He barked something at me in Spanish, but I could not make out a word. I stood there dumbly. We wanted to know how much further it was to Highway 1, Diana said in Spanish.
“Veinte kilometros,” he replied but it gets much worse from here. It sounded like a threat, or a challenge. “¿A donde vas?”
La Paz, Diana responded. He had not taken his eyes off me. Sí, La Paz, I repeated. He laughed hoarsely, “mañana,” he said as he turned his back to us. “Mañana.”
There were so many things I wanted to ask him. What was he doing out here? Was he all alone? Was that a picture of him crossing Baja on a motorcycle in 1954? But it seemed that our audience with this desert king was finished and it was time for us to leave his small kingdom.
Slowly we plodded onward, but the road was not as bad as he had led us to believe. It was just bad. I had deflated the pressure in my tires to ride better off-road and this made a huge difference. We still had plenty of daylight left and we just needed to get to the highway where we would find some towns and a place to stay for the night. The road continued to offer up new and surprising challenges. The worst was a stretch of a few hundred meters that was being prepared to be tarred over. Large, fist-sized rocks evenly covered the entire surface. The tires bounced and rolled irregularly over them. To the left and the right, the road fell off ten or so feet to the desert below. I feared falling here, but if I slowed down, the bike got harder to control. I tried to maintain the minimum speed I needed to keep control. When it came to an end, I was relieved to return to dirt.
A couple hours after leaving Coco’s Corner I saw, gliding across the horizon, the silhouettes of semi-trucks. That was the first sign that we were approaching the highway. Soon we arrived at the pavement. There was no merger or anything. The dirt of Highway 5 simply butted up, unceremoniously, with the pavement of Highway 1. I re-inflated my tires, and we took off, seeming to glide across the glassy smooth asphalt.
We stopped in the small town of Rosarito for the night. This morning I woke up feeling stiff from the five hours of off-road riding and ill from dinner so we have decided to postpone our departure one more night and rest up.
Jim
Meanwhile my bike was naked, stripped of the tank, the seat, and the bags, and floating three inches above the floor, suspended by rope from the rafters in a warehouse in Inglewood, Los Angeles. It was already after midnight.
Read moreI Could Ride 500 Miles
So we’ve made it to Los Angeles. Actually, we’ve been here for four days now. We were not intending to stay so long.
Read moreHow Do You Feel?
I’ve tried so hard not to leave before we’ve left. I’ve tried to stay present, to hold space, to really be with people in the way that has proved so integral to my practice. I’ve imagined how steadily, how sure-footedly I would navigate my last few weeks in Sausalito… how open-hearted and emotionally-available and excited to share my adventures. Oh, and the freedom! Ha. My imaginings proved far from reality.
Read moreA Little Shakedown
We took our first fully loaded (almost) shakedown ride this weekend. It was just a quick 70 mile ride up to Lake Berryessa in Napa, but it felt good to see how the bike handles with a passenger and luggage. We also got to test out some of our camping gear. Overall I was very satisfied. My favorite new gadget are the rokstraps. It may just be a heavy duty bungee, clip, and strap, but it's a game changer when you are strapping your bags down.
Charlie rode with us on his r80gs build to remind me how far I have to go on the badass-scale. I love how his bike looks with the tall forks and extended swing arm. It's a lean beast of a machine.
He also brought his torque wrench so I could tighten down my oil pan bolts. I changed my oil pan gasket last week and tightened the bolts by hand. Unfortunately, I discovered that almost half of the bolts are stripped. The oil pan is functional but leaks a little now. I ordered an m6 timesert kit to repair it next week.
I wish we could go on a few more of these little jaunts, but we will be pretty busy between now and October 15.
Key learnings:
The GPS battery is almost worthless—it lasted maybe 30 min.
Diana needs a little practice mounting the fully loaded bike.
It is not convenient to store our headlamps in the cooking pots.
Facing the Immensity
I began to tell a few people about our motorcycle trip about two years ago. For a couple years before that, I kept my two-wheeled dream almost entirely to myself, secretly stowing away plans, but unwilling to commit even to the act of description. I think I was afraid of both an incredulous response and an interrogation for which I was unprepared. Surprisingly, and perhaps due to good fortune, people rarely respond in the way I feared. My friends are enthusiastic and a little envious, my family is hesitant, but supportive, and my coworkers are excited for me, if not a little sad. The more people you tell something to, the more real it becomes, until it feels inevitable and you are caught up in a force quite beyond your will. There is power in that transference of will.
Now, less than two months from our intended departure, I am beginning to feel the pressure of what we intend to undertake. I feel as if a wave is gathering above me, lifting and propelling me forward, and now I must stand and ride where the wave will take me, or crash beneath it. There is no escape from it now. I am already in the wave. From time to time, I awake early in the morning panicked about the future, feeling suddenly the impossible immensity of everything at once. I feel engulfed in a cloud formed of every border crossing, breakdown, language barrier, illness, confusion, bandit, pothole, and rickety bridge. In this fog, I wonder what I am doing, what compelled me to think that we could take on something so immense. My heart rate increases as I stare at the twilit wall, suddenly wide awake.
I try to remind myself that while the fearful cloud is not real, it is natural to feel panicked before a great unknown. The overwhelming feeling will pass. The future can never be faced in its entirety. It is simply too immense—even when life seems mundane and predictable. One must, in order to continue living, have faith that tomorrow will be provided for, by whatever means. This is a sort of self-deception, but it is useful self-deception. It is a deception in which we all participate daily because the unknowable is paralyzing.
Before we begin
There is still a lot to get done. That has become my mantra this summer. But we are slowly checking things off the list and adding things and checking them off and adding things... Nonetheless, it is important to take some time off and reflect now and then. I've been spending so much time projecting and planning recently, that it is easy to neglect what is going on right around me. Take, for instance, this woman, who has spent three years with me now, two of which living on a little wooden boat, and who still thinks it's a good idea to take off on a 25,000 mile motorcycle trip together. So before we begin I would just like to say ‘Diana, thank you for listening to my crazy ideas, and being patient with me, and finding my lost things, and telling me when I smell bad, and pulling splinters out of my fingernails. I hope you still like me after a few thousand miles.’