Page 2 of 3: speed_ride2

But even though I’m focused on the road, I know Mexico can be dangerous, with 40,000 people killed by drug gangs in the last four years. Even the driver for my client tour was kidnapped by bandits at high speed and held overnight at gunpoint. But instead of worrying, I push on.

A short distance from the Mexican and Guatemalan border, an army vehicle stops me; six soldiers search my bike and go over my paperwork. Without saying anything, they search the open pannier while their leader asks me if I am carrying drugs or guns, asking if I have drugs in my pocket, did I know that there are men around here with guns and masks and that it is dangerous to be here? But they don’t cause any trouble for me, and I ride on to the border.                                                                   

By Honduras I check the oil and set off again. Some riders spend their time in the saddle worrying about every little noise their machine makes, but I never had any reservations about the Tenere. I just didn’t know of what it was capable of. It is taut, like a piano string. It is a thoroughbred of a bike dressed in quiet clothing.

I ride across Colombia, Ecuador and Peru almost effortlessly. As the countries changes, so do the risks—there is danger of kidnapping in the south of Colombia, or a slide on the oil on the roundabouts. Ecuador is calm but traffic has quadrupled in Peru. Construction has increased and there has been a rise in banditry in the north. I cross Lima at night, ready to drop the clutch in case I get jumped at the traffic lights.

Along with dangers from bandits and kidnappers, fatigue catches up again. In the Atacama Desert, there are momentary lapses of reason and actual periods where I am no longer conscious as I ride, but when I start to veer off the road I somehow awake.

I cross the Andes, then ride across Patagonia, enjoying the last embers of warm days. Sleeping on the tank in truck stops I get a little rest, but not enough. Still, I am an adventurer. This is what I do. With the first part of my journey completed, I am eight hours ahead of Dick Fish’s record until I hit a major snag.

With only 297 kilometers to go, I miss the 10 p.m. close of the Argentine border at San Sebastian. This is a heartbreaking turn of events; Tierra del Fuego is so close, but everything feels lost. The border does not re-open until 9 a.m. the next day. I lose my advantage, and trail in behind Fish’s record-setting pace, not ahead. Still, to achieve my goal, I must plan to take these things into account.

As I cross the snowy Pass de Garibaldi, my luck begins to run out, riding alone through white-out conditions at midnight. My Conti Trail Attack tyres cope well with the conditions but several times I slide off. Eventually, my foot gets trapped under the bike, breaking a bone,and I end up face-down on the ground. The snow continues to fall on top of me and starts to freeze as I shake with the cold. After a few minutes I wiggle out and slowly lift the bike to carry on. At 4 a.m. I arrive in Ushuaia, and at the police post I record a time of 21 days and 19 hours, Skaging with fatigue, I find a hotel and sleep. After riding the Americas seven times on my motorcycling life, and once by bicycle, possibly more than anyone alive, this journey has hurt the most. I hurt so much it’s difficult to describe.

Northward…

After resting, it’s time to prepare for the return journey. A back street motorcycle shop examines my motorcycle but tell me it needs little maintenance. They fit snow tires with studs and I leave for the journey northward.

The Pass de Garibaldi, scene of the previous night’s near-disaster, is still covered in six inches of snow, but the studs on my tires hold firm. What took five hours traveling south is done in half the time. I ride northward night and day, helped on by my warm Touratech Campanero suit.

On my journey south through the Andes it was the end of summer and the mountains were warm, but on the way back, the summit of this mighty range is a frozen waste. There’s ice everywhere, and freezing wind. The cold cuts through my hands. My body is warm but my lips are blue. Everywhere is white, silent, alone.