Too hot to trot!

Before leaving Ensanada I had to find where to pay my tourist tax for Mexico, it could be more hassle than it's worth to be stopped and not have it. It would certainly involve a fine, and I don't know if I'd have to return to Ensanada to get one then. Better get it sorted, then I've no cause for concern. As It happens, I got fined anyway, for not getting said tax at the land crossing; a whole $5. Cheapskates, you'd have thought they could make it a decent fine, that wasn't even enough to piss me off. Not even the fact I was made to go to the other end of town, at least I got directions to the bank, so I could use the ATM. So, temper intact, I left the sprawling metropolis and headed south.

A dead simple route this time, follow Mex 1 south; with a few detours and lots of desperate tears. I took one detour to the coast, following a signpost declaring camping at a beach. Actually it ended with the name “Del mer”, which I thought meant over, or of, the sea. The other detour was a much longer one, taking me 100km off the road to the Parc Nationale San Pedro Martin (recommended by the tourist office).

Boy is it hot, or what? No gloves, jacket open and still sweating at 60+mph. I had to leave my visor open to stop my face and lips getting fried through the perspex. Only an hour of riding brought me to a stop, I just had to get a cool drink and sit in the shade. This is hotter than California, in fact hotter than I can remember being on a bike before. Being nearer the sea seemed a good idea; hence the first detour, a forty mile round trip to a glitzy tourist pad on top the cliff, with no sign of sand or beach. Of course anyone who knows me will also know there is virtually no chance I would stay at such a place, so around I turned and set off for Mex 1 again. I didn't mind really, one road is as good as another, it's still riding!

Actually, the riding has not been able to take my mind off troubling thoughts, every ounce of my being has been screaming for me to turn around and return to Ojai. My greatest desire to be amongst those I know, respect and trust, again a strong pull to return home. I found it impossible to imagine completing this journey, no way do I feel like being alone anymore. The feelings from my night in Ensanada have taken root and multiplied. How I have kept riding south I do not know, uncontrollable tears accompanied me most of Thursday. I've called out for Cai, almost pleaded for the strength to make a decision, let alone to continue. I can only express my deepest thanks to those I spoke to on the phone, whose words consoled me, allowed me to bolster my reserves, and keep heading south. Whether it's only for one more day I can not say, the important thing being I do what I feel is right for me. I still feel unable to continue long term, alone. I know I am alone in the purest sense where ever I am, but i do not want to be isolated, desperate to seek out anyone I can speak to, any other travellers to linger around, to ease my pain and loneliness.

After a night sleeping out in the open I did meet another traveller, another who felt lonely, who delighted in the thought of some company. This, at least, will give me a chance to settle into this new culture, maybe to pick up a bit more Spanish. It hasn't made me feel more like continuing after we go our own separate ways, but it delays having to decide way or the other. It gives me a couple of weeks, if I don't settle in that time, if I still cry out for friends I will return to Ojai, if not home. David is a reasonable guy, an old Aussie, well travelled but had enough of travelling solo, after his six months alone I can understand that.

Now we're back north, 150 miles or so south of Ensanada, at San Vicente; we're staying at a contact David had. A guy Larry who runs off-road bike tours of the Baja Peninsula, him and the others have a great time running these bike rides. If you turn up at their place they'll do a days riding, if you want picking up it'll have to be a few days package. It sounds hard work, definitely not for the faint hearted. Maybe worth contacting, if you're simply passing by, or want a serious adventure for a few days, no harm in taking a look at their site and giving them a ring.

Mexico or bust....

Sunday morning found me hung-over from the fall party at Alasdair and Lauren’s. Not too bad though, I took painkillers before suffering too much. The main feeling was not being very with it to play croquet; I buggered up every shot I took just about. My game did improve a bit towards the end, after having a couple of beers. Last night I pretty much drank continuously, didn’t feel so pissed though, which continues to be the case really. I can be drinking and it doesn’t seem to get me staggering, or being incoherent. I did find myself being morose when Susan, jonny’s girlfriend, wanted to talk about Cai and offer support if I ever need it. Different views of people reflect how they are, obviously; the view that we can’t deal with this trauma alone is a dodgey one. Eventually it must be us, ourselves, who actually deal with such emotional turmoil. I’m not saying support and guidance has no place in this, a shoulder to cry on, an attentive ear, a caring hug, they all have their benefits and they ease the pain and loneliness. It’s not solving anything though, it doesn’t exorcise the demons. OK, having someone there to hold you, while you let the tears flow, can be nice. It can also make you feel weaker within yourself, uncomfortable with your dependence on others to help you through. And no, I do not think people should be pushed aside, I don’t think isolation is the whole answer either. For me isolation could easily lead to a deep inversion of my emotions and sentiments, I need people I am comfortable enough with, to express my grief.

I do need to be able to talk, but this doesn’t always need to be a close friend, or even a person I know. Talking about Cai can be enough, the person doesn’t have to know he’s dead, enthusing about his virtues is therapy anyway. Relating memories of our lives together, letting the world know how special my son was is a wonderful therapy; it needn’t be a sorrowful one either. More and more I find myself talking about him to people, without telling them he died, or merely mentioning that fact without elaborating. It can feel strange acting as if Cai isn’t here, as if he doesn’t exist, chatting as if I didn’t have a care in the world. The simple fact is though, he isn’t here, but accepting that and acting accordingly hurts! I know I’ve got to get on with doing things, without constant thoughts of Cai, too many thoughts become unbearable. Frequent tears do nothing to improve life, I wonder how much of the grief is self perpetuating, how much more it hurts to retell of the pain; does it still have a lot of meaning or is it just becoming a vicious circle. I know that isn’t the case, fortunately, so I can discard that notion immediately. I also know I shouldn’t feel guilty about getting on with life, enjoying myself; it’s so important to start acting as if I am alone. Fuck it, I am, whether I like it or not! So I shouldn’t feel crap by acting that way, let’s hope putting it into words will help that sink in.

On the subject of the bike, I dropped it wheeling backwards on Saturday. My foot slipped in the gravel and down we went, bloody embarrassing! There was a definite positive side to it though, it was so easy to pick up. Despite it falling over down slope, the boxes made it a doddle, there was so much to grab hold of, wherever you wanted! Under motion the balance is exceptional, no hesitation leaning over, right over! Fully laden tonight I gave it a decent trial, I couldn’t tell any difference than the boxes empty. The tight bends on the mountain roads were a breeze, I gently lay the bike right down and throttled nicely out of every bend; getting lower and faster with each one. All I can say is there is nigh perfect distribution of weight, and no shifting of luggage no matter how hard I try to crank it round bends. What can I say but, BBBBBBBBBrrrrrrilllllllllliaaaaaaaaantt? I got enough food to last a few days and chose a nice rich coffee to use in my new, unbreakable, cafetiere. Aren’t I the bloody luxury biker now, eh?

Tuesday’s route was fairly straight forward, route 150 from Upper Ojai to Santa Paula, then interstate 126 onto the 118. I used this as a shortcut through the edge of Oxenard, onto the Interstate 101, which took me to LA and the Interstate 405. A slight detour was made into Thousand Oaks, to the Kawasaki dealer, for my leaner pilot jet. Another detour was made before leaving the 405, I managed to buy a spare visor from another parts supplier, one of the few who sell Vox helmets. Once clear of LA I joined Interstate 5 heading south. This would have taken me all the way to Tijuana, but I didn't want to use this border crossing, it’s very busy and difficult to find all the places to pay tourist tax and import tax. Tacate is supposed to be much less hassle, so I took the 125 to highway 94, which goes straight down to Tacate.

Not long after clearing greater LA the sky became heavy with smoke, almost blocking out the moon. It was really dense and got thicker quickly. It was so surreal, thick smoke making it dark and spooky, ash highlighted in my headlight and as it got darker the glow of fires could be seen behind the hills. By the time I got near Spring Valley signs declared Highway 94 closed, bollocks! What the frigging hell am I going to do, apart from going via Tijuana, which I really didn’t want to do. I stopped at a retail park; the fires were in full view on the hillside, only a few miles ahead of me. I hadn’t realised the extent or seriousness of the wildfires, the car park was full of RV’s and campers of people who’d been evacuated. It appeared more like a community outing, people with chairs in their pickups watching the progress of the fires. They were jostling for good views for photos, and the flaming hillside did look fairly impressive, I couldn’t be arsed to get out the camera. More importantly, I was desperate to find a way around the fires. Finding out highway 8 had been re-opened was all I needed, motorcycles had only just had a restriction lifted, the wind had dropped so was deemed passable. OK, it was passable, because I got along it! But great care was vital and it had to be done at slow speed. If I went any faster than 55mph the stability was risky, below 50mph and I didn’t have enough speed to make a straight line against the wind. There was no foretelling which direction the next gust would come from, nor how strong it would be. I rode for an hour, then chatted to a couple of border guards, who told me the 94 east end, to circle round the blockages, was in fact closed also. Holy shit, what choice do I have left? Take a breather and give myself time to calm down, and consider my options.

I’d already overshot the S1, the short cut to the east end of the 94, but there I sat at the intersection of Interstate 8 and route 94, only half an hour from Tecate. I woke early and getting ready was quick and simple, on the road by 9.30. As there was no road block at the end of the 94 I thought it was a good start. It didn’t last more than about twenty miles, up popped a sign, “road closed”, bollocks! There wasn’t a police blockade so I decided to ask how far I could get, hoping to reach Tecate and cross the border. At first it was disappointing, only two miles along the road there was a road block; luckily I meet two local guys. Their first question was, “what sort of bike are your riding, is it a street bike?” Once we established my bike’s type, and basic layout, they came to the point. Simple, continue to the road block, turn left and go along to the end of the tarmac. Continue on the dirt track until reaching the border fence, turn right and just follow the fence all the way to Tacate border crossing. Wow, what a treasure; what a great chance meeting. How lovely it was to come along to the police road block, indicate left and just turn off, not even giving them a chance to say a word or signal for me to stop.
It turned out to be a reasonable track, not too loose, and not too much gravel. There was a constant presence of sand, some sections were very steep with rocky outcrops, and there were some really steep downhill sections; they made me ride with the utmost caution. Having passed a couple of border patrols I didn’t think there was a problem, the third one stopped me and asked where I was going. It posed no problem for him; he wished me luck and let me on my way. I was only a few miles away from Tacate. And then who should come along, Mr Officious! Twenty question time ensued, he wasn’t impressed, and claimed the border was closed. Well, I really didn’t believe him, so assured him plenty of people had seen me and said it was fine to be using the track. He wasn’t going to believe me, I just said clearly I’d have to ride back out from Tacate, after he stated very clearly there was nowhere to stay at the border. Well he let me go anyway, and as he drove off the other one had come along. I couldn’t believe it, he told me to find a hole in the barrier and go through. And I’d only just turned around when Mr O came back, shit! Then along came the helpful one, is this going to get complicated or what? Actually no, a note was taken of my name etc, Mr O turned round and just advised me to get across the border anyway I could. Well fuck it then, off I go, next stop Mexico!

Oh, how I wish it had been that easy! Whilst trying to find a suitable place a Mexican border guard saw me riding along the barrier and started watching me. No way was I going to risk Mexican jail, which I felt sure would happen if I was picked up by them. So on to Tacate, which was closed, and involved a check on my credentials. It wasn’t actually any problem and the guys were friendly enough, they were actually apologetic about having to check my ID, along with being perplexed at my attempts to get to the border.

Despite the 94 being closed, I had to use it to get away from the border; the eastern route was used as the other way went up into Jamul, which is the worst area of the wildfires. On the way back to Interstate 8 I had to go right past a fire front. No, it wasn’t a large one; in fact it looked very insignificant. It was pleasant to be stopped to talk to a cop, he was a real KLR fan, he wished me well and bade me farewell. But what a bore, I had to ride up to the 8, all the way back to San Diago and then down to the border, I didn’t go to the Tijuana crossing though. There is a truck crossing about five miles east of it which I went through instead, I didn’t stop at all which worries me. I don’t have an import document and I haven’t paid tourist tax. Maybe I can try and get these tomorrow, I’m sure someone said at one time I could get these in Ensanada. I’ll have to see tomorrow, I passed the tourist information kiosk so I’ll find it in the morning and sort out what I need.

The end of really surprised me; an awful panic attack gripped me once I stopped in Ensanada. I felt desperate to turn around and go straight back to Ojai, ETS was needed in a double dose. All I could think was what the hell am I doing, how could I possibly manage this trip, how can I cope with being alone. I felt so cut off, by language alone. That’s what induced the fear, the anxiety attack! Oh fuck, I felt so alone, consumed with a desperate need to talk or be with someone; someone I knew and could trust. It was so hard not to break down completely, I felt so strongly like bursting into tears; I made do with a couple of tears rolling down my cheek.

Reflections!

My mind is in tatters at present! Guilt ridden, grief struck and scared. Anything I think of about Cai has really upset me, too many times memories have consisted of negative aspects of our relationship. An example is Cai’s habit of kicking glasses across the floor; the memory included how annoying I found it, the guilt trip he had about it for so long, caused by my frequent displeasure. Christ, that was so hard to handle, I felt so shit about myself, I wouldn’t let anyone else treat him like that. What the hell gave me the right to make him feel such a useless twat? It was the same concerning his short term memory problem; at least it got recognised as a genuine affliction, an aspect of his dyslexia. It used to drive me nuts though, no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't’t detach myself from it, so often I made him feel crap about forgetting things, reducing his self esteem. I am so glad this was all realised before it was too late; that the last three years have been spent trying really hard to redress problems between us. I’ve never put so much into a relationship, never reaped so much reward either. And I guess that is what I must be truly grateful for, we got there, we were tackling it between us; by and large we succeeded, forged an amazing friendship and an awfully strong father and son bond, which will be for life, and beyond.

Of course, the lesson here is to live the life you can look back on without cause for guilt or regret. As parents none of us want to imagine the death of our children, such thoughts are pushed from our minds, too terrible to bear. For me losing Cai has caused me to analyse our relationship closer, let me help you put it into perspective. If you care for your kid, every loss of temper is a knife in the heart, when reflected upon. All those times you pissed them off, or put them down,every method used that detracted from their happy disposition in life; all of these will come back and haunt you. The only answer is to have a relationship of nurture, equality and understanding. Maybe then, if the unimaginable happened, you could grieve without guilt, and cherish all memories of your precious child.

You know, it doesn’t really matter where I go or what I do, I’ll still feel lonely! However awesome the region is I travel through, I’ll feel sad that Cai isn’t there to share it with me. What I see and do are the things we wanted to see and do together, we’ll never be able to now. So many times I’ve had thoughts of how nice it would be to be able to tell Cai of this journey, as if he were at home waiting for my return. Is it any surprise to find constantly moving easier on my head space? I can cry as I ride, always have a lot to focus on; keeping my mind off the negative aspects. Problem now becomes, “when am I going to deal with these aspects?” From my stay at Al’s place it’s become obvious, if I allow myself the time and space, the guilt etc can come out and get dealt with. So, is it in my best interests to keep on the move, and avoid dealing with the negative crap. In the long run it can’t be, I’m not the sort of person who can ignore issues once I’m aware of them. Neither can I deal with it without head space; so a compromise has to be made. I need to give myself time to chill and deal with my innermost feelings: not force myself endlessly on. A bit of both is what's needed, moderation in all we do eh? That's a new one for me!

Only a couple of weeks ago my mind seemed set to go home, at least for Christmas. Now I don’t think I can handle being back there again, partly due to the memories of Cai; more so for having to deal with the people there. That sounds awful, it’s no disrespect to family or friends, nor any others. I just don’t want to face people about Cai’s death, despite their good intentions it feels uncomfortable and awkward meeting people and knowing what to say, how to respond to their sincerity. And that is why being here was so much more appealing after the funeral! I think a lot, for many people in North Wales, but I find it real hard to relate to them about Cai. That is no fault of theirs, no blame on anyone really; just the way I feel, which should be important to me. I’ve still not got any answers, don’t wanna be alone, don’t really want to face being home without Cai or something reasonable to do.

I don’t think posing naked for a living will suffice anymore. Being comfortable with your own nakedness is symbolic,for me it represents how comfortable you are exposing your hidden depths. Being totally present, unabashed, naked, it's like exposing your soul, stripping away the layers of pretense. I always feel positive being open about the crap actions of my life, at least it shows self awareness, progression. Very little I've done in life do I feel ashamed about, this includes the undesirable actions, of which there are many! Better to be aware and understand why I've behaved certain ways, then I empower myself to change the undesirable. Of course this is easier said than done, such changes can take years to complete, patience is needed, and determination.

So, three weeks and many changes to the bike, I'm itching to go but can't get everything sorted out, ordering things and them not being sent. Even people telling me to go and pick them up myself, from their bloody supplier. I got so frustrated today, couldn't sort out much at all. On the bright side, I didn't lose my rag, I stayed calm, accepting a situation that I couldn't alter. OK, so it involves hassle I had planned around, trouble is it involves relying other people, and their reliability is something you can't control. The bike looks the business now, the panniers and top box are beautiful, really well made and expertly fitted. I've given the bike a good road test, part freeway and part thrashing round the local mountain roads. Everything is well balanced, ground clearance is fine despite 9" of aluminium box jutting out the sides. The design is brilliant, the outside edges are angled for better cornering,two sturdy locks each box and totally sealed from the weather. Perfect!! And yes, you can see Wales and GB stickers plastered on the bike! Isn't that better than people in Latin America thinking I'm from the States? Of course it is!

R & R In the California wilderness

After being in Ojai for two weeks I've come to a stand still, no blog, no writing in my journal and no riding the bike, except down the shops. In this time I admit, I've done little to write about. There hasn't been any exciting roads to thrash along, no awesome scenery to slow me down, my grief has taken a back seat and I've relaxed into obscurity. Actually, not quite! While it may be true about the lack of riding and writing; it certainly isn't about no scenery! Last weekend I went hiking with Alasdair and Lauren into the lower Sespe wilderness area, accompanied by their son Iain and a couple of friends.

We were only away for a few days. There was a three hour hike in, with full packs, on Friday. You could call it lucky, the hike in was mainly down hill; I'd call it unpleasant, having to think of the hard climb out all weekend. But I didn't, and we actually made better time on the way out than coming in. My legs ached after the hike in, first morning was stiff city central, the second not a lot better, and the next saw me walking very stiff legged; not the best situation when you're in a hurry to get to the loo. But it was only when first getting up, after a few stretches and a walk around there was no problem. I really thought there would be the morning after we got back, hell no! Jelly legs, from the walk out, stiffened up right enough, it went in no time and I felt so relieved. Nothing remained to hinder my service and upgrades to the bike.

Staying at a base camp made things much easier, needing nothing else than something warm to snuggle into for the cold nights, all our supplies and a desire for peace. Base turned out to be a lovely sandy beach, near a deep swimming pool. I expected the water to be really warm, like it had been before heading north. I was not so lucky, it was cold and took me a day of going in to get used to it. On the last day, acclimatised, I started to enjoy some of the higher or dodgier jumps/dives. Didn't get round to the big ones I had earmarked, leaving time came up unexpectedly and I didn't want to walk in soaking shorts. A bit of a bummer, but I need to trust to Al's experience of the area, and follow his itinerary. It worked fine Saturday, we made it to Devils gate, a lot further than they've managed for quite some time.

Meals were basic, with plenty available, which we all shared carrying, for the hike in. Getting out was easier for weight, stuff your face full of all remaining food and there's nowt left to carry. Mind you, I made the mistake of taking too large a day pack Saturday, I ended up carrying rather more than desired for the long day's hike. The sandstone along the gorge was lovely looking, but loose as Britney Spears. definitely not worth climbing on; much too dodgy! Once we'd started, Al's ulterior motive became clear, uprooting Tamarisk, a non-native that easily becomes dominant over the natives; sounds like white settlers to me. Mmmm, maybe that's the way to rid the world of many of its problems, rip out the non-natives and make room for the native species to flourish in peace. Staying on the topic of the environment I'm not sure how I feel about such actions. There must be an argument for allowing species to flourish where they can, hasn't nature always balanced itself out in the end? Mankind has a weird hypocrisy, surely if something arrives in a place naturally let it live. Of course I know its not that simple, many alien species devastate an area, ousting well established native species; but isn't this the way of nature? Are we not playing god by deciding what will, and what won't, be allowed to survive in any particular place? Tricky question, and one I'm not qualified to answer! Don't we all like to maintain what we percieve as beautiful in it's natural state? Just not in relationships, eh?

One of the big differences the last couple of weeks has shown is having time to look at the bigger picture of my life. Despite plenty of soul searching questions, whilst on the bike, they can always be noted and put to the side. There's always more important things to focus on! When kicking your heels, with little to do, the mind wanders/wonders, and there's no ignoring it. As a person dear to my thoughts informed me, maybe I just need to peak over the edge into that viod, start seeing what's there for me. All the time I'm travelling I can keep my mind on that, not seeing what life might hold for me now. That is the tendancy for me, to ride, mile after mile, day after day, the travelling being the dominant purpose, only dealing with the grief as it comes, not daring to face the future. I'm very good at the travelling, deal with all eventualities in a no mess, confident manner. Its not what I want in my heart though, I don't want to be an eternal wanderer, alone, to keep moving being the only purpose in life. People hold me in awe, for my ability to travel, to deal with the unexpected, to be out there doing it. I don't know how they see it like that, I'd rather feel able to hold down a caring relationship, for there to be enough there to negate the alternative, to wander the world alone. In many ways, travelling could be seen as the bane in my life. Its imposed a very heavy cost, not one I'd have chosen if given the choice. But that's all hind sight, best acknowledged, remembered, but left behind.

How better to jolt yourself out of a rut than a bit of retail therapy! I love shopping, give me money and I'll spend it; unfortunately it wasn't on clothes this time. Not so unfortunate though, I spent it on upgrades for the bike. Sensible ones too, nothing purely cosmetic, although it will look very different when finished. After talking a lot of people it really is apparent, the biggest hassle in South America is theft. Travelling alone now makes this even more of a risk, never feeling comfortable leaving my bike anywhere, not being able to pop in any store, toilet etc without risking my stuff being slit open, cut off, or any other means of skulduggery. Of course with two people it would have been easier, one could look after both our stuff, while the other was away. So now I've ordered a set of aluminium hard luggage, two side cases and a top box. Its so much cheaper than what there is available in Europe, I'm even getting it epoxy coated for a better look and more durability. My tank bag assemblage has taken a sever beating as well, which it won't get over, so that's had to go too, Hein Gericke will refund me when I get home. To replace it I've got a pacsafe tank bag, this has wire mesh built in so it can't be cut open or off the bike. Shame it hasn't the small panniers the Hein Gericke one did, but I should still have at least the same package space. And so I become a type of motorcyclist I havent been for ages, no longer to chuck it over and strap it on, more like shoestring touring. A change is as good as a rest too, it takes away loads of anxiety in this case. So with a freer mind, I set off for Latin America, speaking hardly any Spanish, and not giving a damn!

On the performance side I wanted to improve the low end response; better pick up from low revs and easy adjustability of the air mixture. So After market parts were the only answer; a new exhaust (Supatrapp), improved flow air fliter (re-usable), and I drilled out the factory sealed air screw and put in a 'T'handle mixture screw, for really easy adjustment. This is important when hitting high altitudes, I won't have to mess around with a screw driver, a quick twist one way going up, a twist the other way coming down. I've also bought a disc lock with an alarm, for a bit of bike security. Apart from spares, thats about all I've bought, very restrained of me, eh? Oh, I forgot about the laptop! After so much time and effort spent in libraries through out the USA and Canada, I decided to invest in one to save hand writing a personal journal as well as this blog. Of course, this wouldn't have been possible had I not got hard luggage. It all makes perfect sense to me, upgrades to fuel and air are done already and work a treat, better, crisper low end acceleration and more raucous exhaust noise; just my sort of bike!

Ain't that Grand?

From my dismal experience of Tuba City it was a pleasure to get away, heading further west on the 160 for another ten miles. Route 89 provided a link to route 64, which followed the Grand Canyon east along the southern rim, then on down to Williams. And there the real manic, non-stop slog started! I rode hours along Interstate 40, halfway across Arizona and then the width of California. Every two hundred miles or so I'd stop, refuel the bike, have a drink, some food and a cigarette myself, then off again for another two hour jaunt. Mile crunching, only way to get them covered when you really want to. After the Grand Canyon I just wanted to get to Alasdair and Lauren's house, to be able to flop down, knowing tomorrow I won't repack the bike, neither will I even unpack tonight. Knowing where I'll be, that I won't be going anywhere tomorrow, that I can sleep as long as I like. Sounds like luxury to me! However bad the LA driving is, it was not going to detract from the pleasure of getting back to Ojai. And it was bad, as it always is, mental drivers with no thought for anyone else on the road. Thank god, I only skirted around the edges of the city, taking alternatives than using all the interstate connections. It only took me about 10 hrs riding to get back from Grand Canyon, I think its about 700-750 miles.

On the way to the Grand Canyon winds the Little Colorado River Gorge. LITTLE, pretty damned deep, if you ask me. Couldn't get close enough to see the bottom, the sides were prime, climb time. Not that anyone's allowed to indulge in such wanton pursuits, its protected reservation land. There could well be an arguement here for opening up more land, for the pursuit of happiness. So the climbing fraternity aren't deprived of further feats of prowess. I mean, isn't it about time there were new awesome endeavours to conquer, more rock to smear with chalk, amidst accusatons of degrading the rock by doing so. We need more places that are beyond the reach of reasonable medical aidwhere only the strong and foolhardy go, where rock gods can strut their stuff, expectant of a hero's welcome. There's always some lesser mortal, easliy impressed, to bow down, and lick their arses! But I digress!


The top picture is of the "Little" gorge, and yes, compared with it's big brother, its ain't so big. I wouldn't like to try jumping it mind you! It shows itself for miles, on and off, snaking along the desert floor. All the time I followed its course I was above it, never being privileged to enter the gorge and marvel at the multi-layered, sheer walls. So tempting; all the tracks wound alongside, but never got closer than a mile or so. Foolish I may be, but lazy with it; I was not about to walk a couple of miles, not in scorching desert sun, and bike gear!

Before getting my first glimpse of the king of Canyons the crowds put me off, but I didn't allow it to detract form the phenomenon. Not even the large number of Germans, thrashing Harleys up and down the car park for photos, were going to put me off. Once viewing over the rim I realised nothing could overcome the amazement, the sheer mind blowing immensity of it. Still I doubted this gargantua of nature, expecting it to be same, same, all along. No way! Each time I travelled along a bit and stopped my mouth was agape, A short walk round the rim continued to expose features not apparent, until that second, where do you even start to try and capture this by photography? And no, clicking furiously would do you no good what so ever. Surprisingly I was frugal with my snapping, me and the camera were way outclassed. A brave attempt was made to highlight the tiniest fraction of its awe, some longer views and some individual formations.

Going back to Tuba City! The ride in and the time there felt very strange to me. The Navajo have a widespread area for a reservaion, its an amazing jumble of exceptionally beautiful desert views. But "desert" is the operative word, no good to graze, no worthwhile agriculture; the only money coming in seems to be from tourism, and government handouts. There is a big cultural difference, as with many native americans, I felt it smacked of ingnorance, from a white man's point of view of course! My first stop was Kayenta, at a fuel station. I thought there must be something wrong with me, kept acknowledging people, only for them to ignore it. Actually made a point of saying hi to a few people, no response at all. I must admit, there isn't much reason for native americans to acknowledge a white interloper to their reservation. Its not as if, as a race, we've done them any favours.I found it a real shame though, so when a "local" did stop to talk I was delighted. We passed flippant, pointless, questions and answers between us , it wasn't in danger of becoming the most profound of conversations, then he asked if I could give him some money. Oh, dear! What a let down, so I do only represent a dollar sign. After all the miles, thousands of people and scenes I've passed and felt in touch with, it comes down to, "hey bud, spare some change". Is that really all there is to link older, more lasting cultures, to ours? Can I only ever be a money symbol to so many people? The women I meet working in service industries, like cafes and hotels, were friendly and efficient, those on the street and other customers made not attempt to exchange words, smiles or friendship. It made me feel like a worthless piece of shite! Someone I spoke to suggested verbal communication is not so important in the Navajo culture; the return of a family member, absent for some time, isn't likey to be greeted back into the house with a verbal dietribe, few words would be spoken until family members had got used to the "feel" of each other again.

Along the road, to and from the GC, can be seen many signs advertising Indian crafts, its common to see signs declaring, "friendly Indians". Obviously these are the ones who realise, to practice common aspects of our culture can be beneficial for them, even if it is only to get some money from the rich white man. I prefer putting it down to cultural differences, It allows me a more constructive world view, and stops me feeling a worthless shit. The truth rings true in both views, and won't the world be a better place to if we all hold the more enlightened view?

Colorado and the Anasazi.

A nice and early start, tainted only by the onset of a hangover. It didn't really start until after visiting the cliff dwellings, grogginess was the only initial set back. Strong coffee and magnificent views were enough to delay the pounding headache, which persisted for the whole afternoon's riding. I came to the Mesa Verde for the Anasazi cliff dwellings; the cliffs, canyons and views alone were worth while. Climbing up to the top of the Mesa was awesome, the horizon stretched as far as the eye could see, viewed from so high it gave a god like over view of the world. The formation of sandstone was excellent, a slow, steady climb had to be made to absorb all the surrounding beauty, despite the yearning for a thrilling, boot scraping ride over pristine tarmac and round sweet sweeping bends.

It would be wrong to conclude I'm a speed freak, very wrong! Its not speed alone; there is something about leaning the bike over, right over, and accelerating out of a bend. It is thrilling, but not pure adrenalin; its smooth, graceful, Tai Chi as opposed to kick boxing, meditation as opposed to masturbation. It can be very exhilerating at higher speed, but the goal is poetry in motion, beauty within the beast. But the devil in me does take over, at times, when I'm going to overtake everything I come across on the road, drive my bike to its extremes and push my personal limits till its scarey.

I followed the 160 from Durango, across to Cortez and, after my tour of Mesa Verde, continued on that route to Tuba City, where I pitched my tent in a hotel car park, wierdest place yet. Also the first time I've had anything go missing on this trip, god'damn tea leafs! All I done was to leave a top out on a picnic table while I went to the bog, came back, packed my stuff, and only later realised it was gone. Such a shame, it was one of my designer tops, so I'll just have to go out and buy another nice one to make up for it. I assumed I'd already packed it, another lesson to be learnt! In Latin America everything is at constant risk of vanishing, including my bike.

The Mesa top was so good for long range views, even better for the depth and frill of leaning over the cliff tops. Its amazing to think the original inhabitants used only toe and finger holds to climb up and down these cliffs, every day they'd climb out, to hunt and farm the mesa tops. They certainly get my respect, now-a-days there's no access for climbing, what a damn shame! The workmen in the picture lowered down off a mechanical boom. There was only a water pipe left, drooping down off the cliff top to provide a water supply for their work. I did think to switch it off, to see them get hoisted back up, deciding they'd only radio and get someone else to switch it back on I curtailed my immature impulse and carried on enjoying things in a more constructive way.

It is strange the wierd thoughts that come to mind unbidden, people tend to keep them to themselves, for obvious reasons. However, they shouldn't crucify themselves for dark, negative thoughts. They are only thoughts, acknowledging them can open deeper parts of your mind, recognise what's there and strengthen yourself, never to become that dark creature we are all capable of being. I was surprised today at the thought of how easy it would be to steer my bike over the edge of the road and plummet hundreds of feet to the canyon floor. More surprised at having such a thought, actually no; I made an observation, not an intention. It was recognising suicide could be that easy, and dramatic, beautiful, but most of all destructive. How could a person do this to those who treasure them? In my mind at the time, how much damage would such an act do to the historic treasure I was visiting? The thought of free fall past all the cliff dwellings was strangely, appealing; if I were inclined to wasting my life in such a way, which I ain't, so forget the comments on that one folks.

Riding away from Mesa Verde took me into desert, and it stayed that way for days. Lots of people complain about Arizona, "...just continuous desert, boring, uninspiring, monotonous.." screw them! Take some time, have a closer look at the variety of sandstone there is. Colours vary from light, light beige, through yellowy orange, bright red ochre, to dark mud brown. And the different shapes, wow, jagged peaks standing alone on the desert floor, bluff topped slopes spreading for miles along the horizon and weird swirls/worls looking like a kids attempts at mud pies. I couldn't keep my eyes on the road, there was so much to look at, just as well the roads are extremely straight. But bored? Never!

There's been an increasing tendancy not to hang around the last few days, on open and straight roads I've been blasting along at 80-85 mph, wazzing past all and sundry. In some way trying to outrun, or work off, a growing frustration. I've been making myself stop to take photo's, when the impetus is to ride hell for leather and get to the next place, as quick as possible. Being plagued by, "whys and what ifs" over Cai's death have been the driving force here. I know he was doing what he most wanted to do at the time, but what if I never rode bikes? What if I never went adventuring? Why did I not pick up the bikes in a pick-up truck, like planned? Why did we set off straight down a bloody great freeway? A thought directed at Cai marvelled at what a good choice we'd made to buy new KLR650's, then I was consumed with guilt, his death seemed to be attributed to a fault in his bike! Why wasn't I on the red bike? And on, and on..... This may well be an amazing experience doing this trip, but the cost is not worth it, Please can I go home and have my son back?