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The freezing rain had been replaced with a heavy, wet snow which enveloped the landscape of Ushuaia, Argentina. Mountains looming above the city were now but a wash of white and my wife, Kristen, and I were quickly soaked as we raced to load our bike. The guests of the hostel watched us through foggy windows. With a ferry to catch in the next four days and miles of gravel road ahead of us, we had no choice but to brave the weather before the city was snowed in. After we paid the stunned manager, who simply could not comprehend why anyone would ride a motorcycle in such miserable weather, Kristen stayed inside to grab a few precious moments of warmth while I went outside to do one last equipment check.
On May 17, 2011, Kristen’s brother and best friend, Ryan, passed away unexpectedly at the age of 32 and was a tremendous for both of us. Kristen had never known a world without him and over the course of our seven-year marriage, he and I had become like blood brothers. In the wake of tragedy, worlds shattered and it was clear the way we had been living our lives was now broken. There was no going back to our old sense of what was “normal.”
Even amidst the chaos of mourning, there was no doubt that a significant change was necessary. With the wounds still fresh, we promised each other that from this point forward we would live intentionally and never simply watch life pass us by. Even more urgently, Kristen now felt as if she needed to live for both herself and her brother. And so, only a month after Ryan’s death we chose adventure.
Over the course of the next six weeks we flipped our world upside down. We sold the majority of our belongings (cars, furniture, etc.) and moved the important things (musical equipment, motorcycles, etc.) into a storage unit and the dark corners of our parents’ houses. We then put our lovely home up for sale on a weak housing market and hoped for the best. And before we knew it, we were free to move forward into the future unhindered by the burdens of the possessions that had accumulated us over the years.
After originally getting into motorcycles five years ago, I quickly became enamored with sidecars. I have always loved how utilitarian and functional they are for long distance travel. They provide an amazing amount of storage for gear, stability in rough conditions, and they give Kristen a perfect platform from which to photograph without the obstruction of my sizeable head.
After riding a Ural Gear Up from Texas to the Arctic Circle in 2008, we were absolutely hooked. We both knew that we wanted to see the world from the unique perspective of a motorcycle and sidecar. With those memories in mind and with a frighteningly small amount of discussion, we purchased a brand new 2011 BMW R1200 GSA, complete with panniers, top box, heated grips, enduro ESA and fog lights. We then contacted Claude Stanley from C. Stanley Motorsports and began discussing our ideas for a custom sidecar build. It didn’t take long to realize that his shop was the perfect choice to turn our designs into reality. A month and a half later, on October of 2011, we rode away on our BMW sidecar rig towards the unknown.
Six months and many miles later we were crashing our way south along Argentina’s Ruta 40. Although portions of the road are currently being transformed from irregular gravel and sand to smooth pavement, the terrain is still as rugged as ever. The great Andes Mountains rise menacingly from the west while intense gusts of wind sweep violently across the plains towards the Atlantic Ocean. It was a common occurrence to have our bike nearly blown off of the road one moment only to find the wind ushering us along in peace in the next. As we snaked our way across Patagonia on Ruta 40 and Chile’s Carretera Austral, we were whisked past impenetrable mountains, glacial-blue lakes and rivers, dancing grasslands and harsh volcanic wastelands. In this part of the world, traffic is nearly non-existent and towns are few and far between. It is unpredictable, beautiful, vast and lonely. And it was in this emptiness that we not only encountered the adventure that we had been craving, but also the healing that only the silence and grandeur of such a wilderness as Patagonia could provide.
A motorcycle helmet is quite a place to confront sorrow. There is nowhere to run from your thoughts, no distraction to hide your memories. There is just the road, the whistle of the wind, the hum of the engine and time. Perhaps subconsciously we both knew that we would never truly be able to come face-to-face with Ryan’s death in any other way. Over the months that have passed since we left our home in Texas, we have become familiar with the pang of grief that so often has crept into our helmets, but the vastness of Patagonia seemed to multiply these moments. It was not uncommon for me to look over at Kristen to see tears streaking down her face, nor was it unusual for us to stop at a particularly beautiful location and simply sit in silence, hand-in-hand, our minds struggling to lock into the present as a melancholy melody swept past in the breeze.
We spent almost two months in Patagonia and I feel that our memories will always have a hint of sadness. That is just the nature of living through a period of mourning. Everything, no matter the place or the people or the experience, is touched by the memory of what was lost. What was and is still important for us, however, is that despite the lingering grief, we intentionally chose to respond by striving for joy. After Ryan died and we began discussing how we would change our lives with what we wanted to see and do, it was clear that the common theme was the need for beauty. Subconsciously, after experiencing such sadness we knew we needed to surround ourselves with jaw-dropping, undeniable, extreme beauty. I don’t believe I have been or will ever be in a place that is as magnificent as the far south of Chile and Argentina. Perhaps that is why we were drawn to Patagonia.
After riding thousands of miles through a variety of tough conditions, through mountains, deserts, the rain, wind and snow, the soft words of the old man in Ushuaia were such a gift. They struck me in the chest with such force that I doubt that I will ever forget the glint of knowing in his eye… it was as if he and I were sharing a secret. As we continue to travel and find ourselves distracted by inconveniences and delays, as our hearts ache for our families and friends back home in Texas, and as the inevitable mechanical issues raise frustration, I can only hope that his words will come to mind and we will remember that this time was given to us for the purpose of healing. It is a gift to have the chance to mourn through travel and we intend to make the most of it.
For the first twenty-five years of my life I did not understand the allure of motorcycles. Even when I was younger and much dumber than I am now (although I haven’t progressed all that much), I could not comprehend why anyone would spend their time and money on a vehicle that was not only open to the elements, lacked the ability to carry more than one passenger, but was dangerous as well! As I took my first ride on a 1974 Honda CB400F, with the wind whipping my face, the feel of the road beneath me, and intense fragrances overwhelming my senses, I knew I had just stumbled upon a lifelong obsession. After buying my first bike with a sidecar, I fell even more in love as it inevitably intrigued strangers and was a fantastic icebreaker into conversations that we would have never had otherwise. But, it wasn’t until I left the comfort of the United States on a motorcycle that I truly understood how special this form of travel could be.
Neither Kristen nor I are new to international travel. We lived on an island on the Caribbean of Bonaire for several months, and Kristen has worked for a handful of NGOs as a photographer in Rwanda, Uganda and a few countries in South America in the past. But, those experiences have felt extremely insulated compared to our travels by motorcycle and sidecar. In general, traveling internationally is a great way to induce vulnerability. The language barrier and the unknown customs open you up to the mercy of a location. But adding a motorcycle and the uniqueness of a sidecar (especially uncommon in South America) have resulted in an intensely rewarding experience for both of us.
As I sit here now, with the year anniversary of Ryan’s death looming, I am struck by the atrocity of such a loss. Even after an entire year, we still forget that he truly is no longer alive and are crushed once again when reality sets in. The nature of traveling by motorcycle has paired with our mourning in such a perfect way. The excitement of new experiences battles depression; the extreme visual stimulation confronts the desire to only look inward: the sidecar continually draws fascinated strangers to defy the yearning for isolation. Looking back, we could have never known just how ideal our plans would become. And as we look forward, with nothing but a clean slate and ideas of further world travel filling our dreams, we are full of anticipation for the adventure to come.
