First notes from the road

So I'm cruising along at about 50 km/hr in loose sand, getting air off those sandy whoops on the way back from Mike's Sky Rancho in Baja California, Mexico, and my friend Gord is just behind me. Then the donkeys jump in front of me...

I should probably back up a bit.

As of this note I've been traveling south from Victoria, BC, Canada, for about 40 days having entered the United States on September 11th, 2007. Much happened before the donkeys, much more has happened after, and much more is going to happen as I try to keep the rubber side down and money in the bank as I ride through Central and South America, Africa, Europe, and Russia and Central Asia. I'm going to be taking my time writing these notes and there are several reasons for that:

1. I want the time to build a reasonably coherent and enjoyable true tale of my humble travels;

2. I don't want to be leashed to the computer on a tight "deadline" when there is no need to be; and,

3. There may be times when I don't want people knowing what I am up to in real time.

So, reader (or readers? Maybe more than just my mother is reading this?) please understand that although these notes are true, they can be up-to-the-minute or they can be time-late by several weeks. Like this one! Enjoy!

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Travel in to the United States on 9/11 really was of little concern, for the grandest part, but it was still with a bit of trepidation we three riders, Michelle on her Sherpa, Gord on his Dakar, and me on the 'ole 650 GS, went through US Customs in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada, and boarded the Coho Ferry bound for the US at Port Angeles, Washington. Other than getting little sleep due to the many last minute details, and having to renew my insurance the morning of departure, things were going smoothly and our only big task ahead of us was whether or not we wanted to go RIGHT off the ferry, or LEFT. It's the simple things about traveling that can make it so enjoyable!

We headed right, towards the famed coasts of Washington and Oregon and spent the next few days getting used to life on the road, getting used to each other, and all the other little trials that that means. Although I don't think a day went by in that first bit where something didn't go a little pear-shaped: on our first morning away from home somebody's bike wouldn't start (mine) and we had to do some troubleshooting that consumed a good portion of our early morning start. Then a day or so later, somebody (me) ended up breaking his gas cap with the gas pump nozzle. Whilst attempting a repair of the gas cap somebody (me) caused further, irrepairable damage to the nuts mounted in the ABS plastic of the gas tank. And so on.

Yet of course it is through these adversities that we find the unexpected good parts of traveling, such as oyster shooters in Oregon with the old-time Harley biker at the locals bar, Chinese food to knock your socks off in the middle of nowhere, and the most amazing Irish Coffee in the world, strangely in San Francisco. Although if you ever get a chance to climb up that hill on Lombard Street in San Francisco, the "crookedest street in the world" and you need to stop, perhaps it is better to try to not stop on one of the million oil patches, if you can avoid it (NOT me). And spin your rear tire, lift your front, and dump the bike. Just sayin'...(Gord!)

After far too much time for our "schedule" and more beautiful, foggy, oceanside twisties than I can care to count, we three crossed the border in to Mexico with zero fanfare, zero customs, and zero hassle. The date was the 16th of September, a Mexican Independence Day, and no one was working the border. And in our excitement at being in Mexico, and perhaps partly due to the unconscious insecurity we felt because we weren't able to buy insurance as everything was closed, we promptly and accidentally got back in to that massive, one-way, high-walled, 2 hour long line up of cars headed in to San Diego.