Motorcycle to Panama
`
USA
October 1965
I don’t remember how the idea of
riding a motorcycle to the Panama Canal arose,
but probably from looking a map. I’ve
always had a fascination with studying maps, more than just using them to find
my way somewhere, and they’ve led me on many long trips, hitchhiking overland from Europe to India and through central and south Africa, and a couple of bike rides in northern Europe and southern Africa.
Winter was coming, and I wanted to go as far south from Canada as possible by road. I knew that there was no road all the way toSouth America , but I would go to the end of what was
there.
Francis-Barnett 250cc 2-stroke.
Norway 1962
1958 Matchless 500cc single.
Swaziland 1964
Winter was coming, and I wanted to go as far south from Canada as possible by road. I knew that there was no road all the way to
The Japanese
motorcycles were just coming onto the market (1965), and not proven yet, so I
chose the best available – BMW from Germany.
Of course they cost less in the USA than in Canada so I rode the ‘Grey
Dog’ (Greyhound bus) to Portland, Oregon where I picked up my new 250cc BMW
(Cost $850 in those days…) I chose the
R27 because it was the lightest, as I figured there might be lots of bad roads,
and there sure were in those days……
Checking out the BMW near Yosemite. Early winter coming….
Packing for such a long trip on a
motorcycle is a real hassle. I couldn’t
travel as light as I would like to – have to carry everything to live for 6
months in all conditions, so it means carrying both cold weather and hot
weather clothing as well as rain wear, tools, spares, camping gear, etc., etc.
– too much stuff. But I found some
really good rubberized pannier bags in an army disposal store and they were
excellent, and able to keep the weight low and forward of the rear axle.
Finally hit the road and straight
away ran into heavy rain in the northern California
The smog in Los Angeles was so
bad in those days that it hurt my eyes while riding.
So kept going, right on down to Mexico
Mexico
Heaps of American tourists
crossed that border every day, but most stayed near the border, and were only
there for the cheap shopping, cheap booze and the cheap women. Soon the road was empty and it was grand to
be motoring along in the warm air, headed south all the time. Already out into the desert country, and it
felt great to be free again, with the open road ahead.
What a great feeling of excitement, anticipation and freedom,
to be motoring along an empty desert highway,
headed for unknown adventures!!!
And the adventures did start
pretty soon…. I stopped in one small
town for lunch, and noticed that no one else was sitting in the same
street-side café, but people kept coming by and staring in. Finally I found out that earlier that morning
a man had been shot dead at one the other tables, and they had only just
finished mopping up the blood. But not
to worry, it wasn’t random violence, it was a paid killing, for revenge on a
crooked business deal that the guy had done.
For one thousand pesos ($80) a hired pistolero had settled the score – I
should imagine that any other businessmen in town thinking about doing a dirty
deal might now reconsider – very cost effective justice compared to our legal
system. Maybe we should try it here…. At least shoot the lawyers for a start….. (Cheap shot I know, but common sentiment...)
A bit farther south I stopped at
a river to wash my clothes, and met three expatriate Americans living on an old
ranch nearby. There’s quite a few of
such Americans living south of the border, some on the run from the law, but
more usually on the run from the tax department or a wife…. One thing you never do is ask these guys
where they came from, or anything about their backgrounds. One of these guys was in a tomato growing
venture with a local Mexican, another was very taciturn and secretive about his
comings and goings (probably dishonest), and the other was a grizzled old gold
and turquoise miner. This last fellow
always carried a big six-shooter in the front of his belt, and another small
derringer in his boot, and claimed that he had used them to kill when gold
mining up in the Mexican hills in the past.
He was a miserable mongrel of a bastard, and bragged about all the young
Mexican school girls he’d bought or raped. One day he was proud to show us the skin off
his elbows, from raping a school girl on concrete while her mother cried and
pleaded….. One night when he’d been
drinking a lot of local moonshine he turned on me and pointed that big old
six-shooter at my face and said if I didn’t shave my beard by morning he’d blow
my head off! And when you’re looking
right down the bore of a gun like that, held by a drunken madman, it does make
the hair on the back of your neck stand right up…. I was ten feet away and sitting down, so no
way I could move on him right then, but later in the night after they all
passed-out I made my move. First I
rolled my motorbike quietly away down the lane, and got it all set up for a
quick getaway. Then I slipped in to
where he was sleeping, still in his chair fully clothed, and carefully slid
that big heavy gun out from his belt. He
stirred once but didn’t wake up so I didn’t have to bash him with the club I
had in the other hand. I was very
tempted to bust in his dirty skull anyhow, but that would have made a ruckus
and then maybe I wouldn’t get away. The bike started straight away and was
really quiet, so I don’t think anyone heard me go. Guns like that were very highly prized in
Mexico, but I didn’t want to get caught dealing with it, so as I crossed the
bridge over the river I threw it into the deep water and kept going all night
and all the next day to get as far away as possible. The loss of that big heavy gun would be a
real blow to him; it was polished smooth from carrying for so many years, and probably
the only thing he really loved. But it
served him right for threatening me with it…..
While trying to get enough
distance from that dangerous old bastard, I had to ride all day in cold rain
through the mountains, and got so thoroughly wet and chilled to the bone that I
damn near died of pneumonia – spent days in a cheap hotel in Guadalajara coughing
my lungs out and just trying to survive.
I recovered just enough to be
able to walk around Guadalajara on Christmas Eve. Everyone was out on the streets that night,
with lots of conspicuous consumption, and big, flashy, expensive but useless,
gifts being flaunted by all those kids whose parents could afford it. While hoards of the very poor children were
out as well, begging for pennies, with nothing to show at all. I bought a whole lot of candy and handed it
out. Of course that didn’t really help
their situation, but at least the kids got a thrill for a couple of
minutes…. But the rich weren’t
spreading their pennies around at all, just focused on showing off to each
other. That image made it a sad and
depressing Christmas for me….. The disparity, and callous disregard, was enough
to see why the poor were sometimes tempted by revolution……
Christmas festivities in Guadalajara.
My beard was a problem in Mexico
those days with more than just that old bastard farther back. This was the time
of Castro’s power in Cuba, so Mexicans used to point at me and say, “Castro”
and “Communista?”, not a good image to carry around. So, when a couple of days later I nearly ran
over a good razor lying in the middle of the road, I took it as an omen, so
picked it up and shaved the beard off.
Now I missed the whistle of the wind through my whiskers while sailing
along on that smooth, quiet bike.
This was 50 yrs ago, so much has changed in Mexico now.
Ingenious mechanics kept these old machines running,
and probably with no new parts.
and probably with no new parts.
Hard working people…..
‘Mexican Jeeps’
Hard and slow work….
Planting.
Threshing corn.
A local rodeo in Mexico.
The main highways in Mexico were
mostly really good, with little traffic.
Except for sometimes coming around a corner and finding a ‘Mexican
handbrake’ (big rock) in the middle of the road and a pool of oil where someone
had changed a gearbox on a truck right there.
But cities like Mexico City were
something else – I’m still amazed that I survived unscathed. Hoards of traffic - big trucks, small trucks,
cars, taxis, horse and carts – all of them impatient and invincible, and no
such concept as lanes or any sense of order.
If I left a safe space behind the vehicle in front, then someone would
squeeze in there. There was always someone right close on my back and
overtaking on all sides, and it was not unusual to suddenly come on a
slow-moving horse cart in the midst of this.
If I’d got knocked off my bike I’d have been run over many times and be
as ‘flat as a cat’ before the traffic got stopped; maybe it wouldn’t even
bother to stop…. It was terrifying until
I found the secret – go faster than everyone else! Then all I had to do was dodge any thing in
front of me, and since I was going the fastest, no one was overtaking so I
didn’t have to try to watch behind when I swerved. It worked really well, and with a bike I
could dodge through the spaces between other vehicles. It sure was hair-raising, with always the
possibility of nowhere to dodge to and a
horrendous crash, but I figured it was still better than being run down from
behind…… As I write this, 50 years
later, I’ve just been flying an ultralight aircraft all over the place, which
many would consider dangerous, but it’s nothing compared to those days in Mexico
City – no way would I take such chances these days!
The Metropolitan Cathedral, Mexico City.
But the bike wasn’t running real
well. It was making lots of carbon, and
I’d had to pull the head and clean the valves a couple of times already. I took the head to a small machine shop to
have the valves and seats trued up, but he didn’t fit the exhaust valve in the
machine properly so the grinder took a big chunk out of it….. He was very embarrassed and apologetic cause
that was a big disaster for me…. In
Mexico in those days new spares weren’t usually available so they had to
improvise. His own motorcycle had a
modified piston from a mower or something and valves from something else
altogether. So he dug out a big box of
odd valves and started hunting through them to see if he could find one that he
could modify to fit…. But then I found
out that good old BMW had a dealer there, with spare parts, so I went to
them. They found that the cylinder had
been bored out of round by that shop in California, and that’s why it never
sealed properly…. They didn’t have an
over-size piston so couldn’t do a re-bore, so just did a new hone and new rings
and valves. Then I rode it hard to seat
those new rings, and it worked this time…
I found another sort of road when
I tried to cut across the mountains to Veracruz. The main highway went a long way round, but
the map showed a dotted line that might be a shortcut - it seemed worth a
try. As I got higher and higher into the
mountains the road got narrower and rougher, until it was just a two wheel
track, with big washouts to manoeuvre around. This was not really a trail bike,
but excellent suspension and good low revs torque crawled through….. Finally it ended in a little village, with
only a horse track beyond. By the time I
got to the village, it was just about dark.
I was going to camp out, but the locals insisted that I shouldn’t, and
vacated a room in someone’s house for me – “banditos” they said. So I took their word, and had fine
hospitality. Then I had to ride all the
way back down that track to get on the main road again.
The house at the end of the road, where I got such excellent
hospitality.
I remember another fine new road
along the beach of the Gulf of Mexico . The texture looked unusual so I stopped for a
closer look. It was topped with crushed
seashell mixed with the bitumen. These
sharp little shells made for excellent traction I guess, but it would have been
like landing on a vegetable grater if I’d had a fall on the bike….
I particularly liked the city of
Merida in the Yucatan. This is the
homeland of the old Maya civilization.
There are spectacular ruins all around, and the present descendants
still have some of their unique customs.
They are very quiet and serious people who don’t ever make a fuss about
anything.
In Merida I met another of those
expat Americans on the shady side of the law, and ended up staying with him and
another couple of shady Gringos in a big house owned by Mario, a local Mexican
gangster. The ‘godfather’ was very
hospitable, and enjoyed having a ‘gang’ of Gringos and local hangers-ons
around. Every couple of days we would
all have to troop down to the local steam bath with him, and take over the
place for a couple of hours, just like the movies of Al Capone days. I think the old fellow was mostly image and
bullshit, but a couple of those Gringos were shady characters involved mostly
in robbing Mayan tombs and smuggling artefacts.
This was before the big drug trade.
One of the Americans was driving
an old yellow American school bus to British Honduras where he hoped to sell it
for a profit, and suggested that I put my motorcycle in the back to save riding
a pretty bad road. I think the road
would have been more comfortable on the bike than in that bus. Before I left, Mario gave me a letter in
great secrecy, to be hand-delivered to a friend of his in British
Honduras. When we arrived at the border
crossing, the Mexican customs immediately took us into custody and straight to
a compound where they had an oxy-torch all ready to cut open the floor of the
bus. They’d had a tip-off that we were
running some sort of contraband! While we were in custody with no guards
around, I remembered that I still had this letter in my pocket. I opened it and it was most strange – some of
it was a form of coded double-talk, but some of the rest was openly
incriminating of another smuggler in that trade. It looked very much like a set-up to get this
other character. I didn’t want to be
involved at all so burned it right away before they searched me and found
it...... Luckily the bolt holes that
used to hold the seats in the bus were open right through so it was obvious
there was no double floor, and they didn’t cut up the bus, so after they had
searched everything they let us go. I
was really glad to be back on my own bike and get away from that lot!
Belize
Entering British Honduras.
The water-front was a real magnet
for all sorts of wild characters – traders, speculators, prospectors, and of
course smugglers.
One of the unique characters
there was an American, living on a really rotten dump of an old yacht. It was so bad that it could never go to sea
again, but he regularly advertised in American papers for “Female crew to cruise the Caribbean on
a romantic old yacht. Share expenses, send photo.” Apparently he got lots
of replies, and sorted through them, selecting the best one and sending the
rest a note that there’d been a delay and he’d let them know as soon as the
cruise was ready to go. The first one
would come down and move in with him. Of
course she had to pay all expenses, and he would also try to fleece her for all
he could before she realised that they were never going anywhere, and headed
back home again. At least he gave them a
good time while they were there, as he was a real party animal and got them
into parties they’ll remember forever.
As soon as he could see that one was about to leave he’d send off a note
to the next one on the list and it would all start again – there’s all sorts of
ways to make a living……
What a contrast to the Mennonites
who’ve settled here as well. They’re
very conservative and proper, still wearing their traditional old-world
fashions, and keeping to their own tight community. They’re hard-working farmers, and supply all
of the fresh produce in the markets.
Typical house on stumps in Belize.
‘Casualty Department’ and ‘Mortuary Lane’
I also met a young German fellow,
who’d been living in Canada for many years, saving up and gathering tools to
build a yacht down there, because of the supply of Honduras Mahogany, an
excellent boat-building timber. I was
giving him a hand to scout around and find out the business opportunities, and
kept getting told to go and see the Prime Minister! Now this wasn’t going to be any big industry,
just him and maybe a helper or two, but that didn’t matter they said. Then it was pointed out that the total
population of the whole country is only 120,000, so the Prime Minister is just
another local, and so he was. Turns out
that the best quality mahogany is really hard to get there because it’s reserved
for the export market, and everything else like screws and fittings have to be
imported, so it wasn’t such a great place to build a boat after all. But I heard years later that he stayed on and
shacked-up with a local girl and became another of those expat whites who ‘go
native’ and settle there – I think it would suit him really well.
In those days (1966) there were
magnificent Mayan ruins that were unpatrolled, so it was exciting to camp in
there on my own, and try to imagine what it was like when it was a thriving
centre of civilization. But there was
lots of evident damage caused by robbers looking for artefacts…..
I couldn’t go by road into
Guatemala, because the border was closed due to some rebel activity, so had to
find another way out.
Crossing a river by ferry.
So I rode as far south as I could
get, and then put the bike on the deck of a little fishing boat and sailed over
to Puerto Barrios in Guatemala. I don't have a photo of the bike on the foredeck of that little boat but it was a tight fit, kind of balanced on there....... Sure glad the bike wasn't any heavier.....
Guatemala
Guatemala has some spectacular
scenery, with lots of volcanoes, some of them smoking. I climbed one of those smoking cones with a
couple of travellers that I met in town.
It wasn’t a difficult climb, just a hard slog, but worth it. Spectacular scenery, and a thrilling feeling,
being right at the site of such powerful geological activity.
Pacaya
volcano, Guatamala.
One of the really fascinating
places in Guatemala is Chichicastenango.
It’s way back in the hills, and every month they have a big native
market there. These are the descendants
of the Maya, and have the same quiet, self-assured demeanor.
Some photos of Chichicastenango.
The
Indians come from far round, mostly by foot over the ranges and through the
valleys,
carrying enormous loads of pottery, leading pigs,
and whatever.
Big load, small man.
There’s a magnificent old
cathedral overlooking the market square, where the white-robed priests hold
mass inside. The Indians go and do the mass and then go out on the steps and
venerate their ancient Mayan gods by dancing, burning copal (incense) and
lighting firecrackers – sometimes there’s a cloud of incense in the air and a
din of crackers. The priests obviously don’t
like it, but it’s good to see natives who can still hold onto their old beliefs.
Then they pack up all their goods
and trek back over the mountains to their villages again.
I really admire those people……
In Guatemala City I found a really
excellent pension (low cost hotel). It
looked like nothing from the street, but inside was a beautiful, tiled
courtyard, with balconied rooms all round.
Most of the patrons were Guatemalans from outlying districts, mostly
ranchers, and were all gentle and friendly.
We all ate at one big table, and it was a real family atmosphere, with
lots of talk. One day an elderly
Canadian arrived. He’d been on the
shuttle bus from the airport and saw the ‘Pension’ sign outside and asked to
get off there, but everyone else on the bus was telling him that a tourist
couldn’t stay in such a place, and he should go to one of the big hotels. But he persisted, and arrived with his bags
in this place – it turned out that this was his first experience ever in a
foreign country! He was a talkative,
friendly character, so fit right in at the table, and was rewarded by his
persistence to get out of the ‘tourist’ track.
He was a retired teacher, but now in second childhood, and had been
reading a book about how to travel on the cheap (there was no Lonely Planet
guidebook in those days), and this was
his first trip. So he was fascinated
with my travel experience, and I tried to help him all I could. I led him all round town – not the tourist
sites, but the places that I find interesting, like the local markets, and the
small mechanical shops, and local bus
depots where country people come to the city.
He was absolutely fascinated by
the street where all the brothels were located, and I wonder if he might have
found his way back there later.... There
was an election coming up, with a fair bit of nervousness that the opposition
might attempt a revolution, so lots of armed troops standing around. This wouldn’t be any danger for foreigners,
as long as you just stayed out of the way and didn’t get involved. But one day at the big table the old fellow
asked a local black English speaker at the table if he thought there was going
to be trouble. The local fellow gave big
wide grin and said, “I hope so.” – turned out he was an opposition
supporter. This really scared the old
fellow, and I had to help him get a ticket out of the country as soon as
possible, so I sent him to Belize . He had a ball there, and continued his
travels. He later wrote me about
multiple trips in Africa , always travelling
like a young backpacker, and considered me to be a hero for introducing him to
such travel.
There was a large vacant lot in
Guatemala City where I’d already picked up a couple of fragments of obsidian
(the black volcanic glass that was used for making knives long ago). Now a machine had dug a drainage trench
across it, so I dug through the dirt and found lots of broken obsidian
knives. It was quite a thrill, though
probably illegal, to be excavating these archaeological ‘treasures’.
Lake Atitlan, Guatamala.
More volcanoes in Guatamala.
This bike turned out to be really
ideal for this ride. It was light enough to handle really well on gravel, and
heavy enough with excellent suspension, to absorb the jolts of the rough roads.
The European spring seat and the Californian foam saddle made for a luxury
ride. I only met one other rider on the whole trip, and he was on a light 305
Honda enduro, and his kidneys were suffering from the harsh ride. He had a ride
on mine and envied the luxury feel….
Those massively strong Earles
forks saved my bacon when I hit a huge Alsation dog that ran out in front of me
when I was at speed on a good highway. He was as solid as a pig so it was a
really heavy impact as I hit him right behind the shoulder. He rolled
underneath and the bike jumped over him.
The bike landed with just a bit of a wobble so I kept going at speed, no
point stopping and encountering a confrontation. If that had been conventional
telescoping forks they would have folded with that impact and probably dumped me on my
face…..
In one long day I rode through
three countries – El Salvador, Honduras, and into Nicaragua. The windshield on my bike had been smashed in
a fall in Belize, so the scorching hot dry wind mummified my face into a stiff
mask and cracked my lips such that it even hurt to drink a beer …. Then on through Nicaragua which is also
pretty dismal and hot and flat in the western part.
Costa
Rica
The geography is also a
refreshing change. The capital San Jose is up in the
mountains, so is cool and fresh, with enough rain to keep everything green –
it’s like perpetual spring time. Lots of
beautiful scenery all round, with volcanoes, rainforest and neat plantations. I could easily live there….
The road south soon got into some
rough, remote mountains, and climbed to 11,450 ft altitude. They are named Cerro del Muerte (Mountains of
Death), and I couldn’t help thinking about that morbid name as I battled a very
rough, loose gravel road through cold rain and fog – maybe just as well that I
couldn’t see what was off the edge of the road!
Later, down on the coast at the
tiny settlement of Golfito, I met another expat American. This one was an ex-marine, who had lost a leg
in Korea . He was living there like a king on his
American pension. He’d been a gold
dredger on the nearby Ossa Peninsula, but found it easier to be a trader,
bringing out basic supplies in a river boat, to trade to the Indians for pigs
which he shipped to San Jose for a huge profit.
Now he had a small store in town, and was starting a chicken farm,
feeding them on dried fish that the locals would net for him. A real bush entrepreneur. I was tempted to buy a used portable gold
dredge that he had for sale, but it wouldn’t have been workable without a
couple of partners, and even then pretty questionable. When it comes to gold, especially in remote
locations away from the rule of law, there are always thieves and rogues
around, so even if you do find some, they’re liable to thieve it from you.
Panama
Lots of bad roads for a motorbike
in northern Panama – loose, rocky gravel for miles and miles and miles, with
only occasional large cattle ranches.
I still vividly remember skidding
on some loose gravel and falling in the middle of the road, with a big truck
bearing down and also skidding on the gravel while trying to brake. The gravel was on a smooth, hard base so it
was like marbles on a dance floor, so slippery that I kept falling as I tried
to lift the bike. Just managed to drag
the bike out of the way as the truck went skidding past in a cloud of
dust….. But finally got to the Panama
Canal Zone, with fine highways and all
facilities –
what a contrast.
I’ve always been a bit fascinated
by the Panama Canal,
so it was really exciting to see the engineering work, and big
ships traversing the land.
In those days there were lots of
passenger ships carrying migrants from Europe to Australia through the canal,
and I was hoping to get a cheap ride on one of these. But it wasn’t to be – of course the migrants
never missed their ships, so the cheap berths were all full, and the only
berths vacant were very expensive first class.
I didn’t have enough money left for that….
The road doesn’t go all the way
to South America, the missing portion is called the Darien Gap, but I tried to
go as far as I could. I don’t remember
how far along it was, but I came to a wide river. It didn’t look all that deep so I just rode
into it – not a good idea, should always wade in to be sure. Turned out this one was deeper than I’d
figured, and pretty soon I was floundering along with the water up to the air
cleaner and surging over it. The bike
was really struggling, but kept going to the other bank. There I talked to some locals who were on horseback,
and they told me that there was a deeper river ahead, and this one was rising
due to lots of rain. So I decided it was
wise to go back right now while there was someone around in case the bike
stalled and I needed help to get it out.
This time I hit a couple of even deeper holes where the bike seemed to
dive it up to the handle bars, but amazingly kept running. It grunted and heaved itself just out of the
water, then stalled – really lucky.
Then I had to camp there and drain the water out of the critical parts
and dry it out before heading back north.....
and dry it out before heading back north.....
6000 miles
Now that I couldn’t get any
farther south, and couldn’t go to Australia, the holiday was over, and I was
headed back north in earnest. I was
getting low on money and it was springtime coming in Canada , so work would be opening up
there, so rode and rode and rode. Back
through Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras,
El Salvador, Guatamala, Mexico and USA to the Canadian border – 6000 miles in
the month of April, 1966. And that was
only a 250cc bike, but a brave one…..
The R27 had a battery-powered points ignition, so when the battery gave up and wouldn't hold much charge overnight, it wouldn't start. In those days, parts like that battery weren't to be found in country areas of Mexico. So for the last couple of mornings I would pull the spark plug and close the gap to just a few thou. That would give enough of a spark to start the engine and run it long enough to warm up and put a bit of charge into the battery, but wouldn't run it at speed, so then had to pull the plug and readjust the gap before heading onto the road. Worked every time, until I got to Texas and could get a new battery.
The R27 had a battery-powered points ignition, so when the battery gave up and wouldn't hold much charge overnight, it wouldn't start. In those days, parts like that battery weren't to be found in country areas of Mexico. So for the last couple of mornings I would pull the spark plug and close the gap to just a few thou. That would give enough of a spark to start the engine and run it long enough to warm up and put a bit of charge into the battery, but wouldn't run it at speed, so then had to pull the plug and readjust the gap before heading onto the road. Worked every time, until I got to Texas and could get a new battery.
Through Texas , and Louisiana , up the Mississippi
River through Tennessee ,
Kentucky , and
Virginia to Washington DC New York City
– what a contrast to the deserts of Mexico just a few days ago! Then through more continuous cities through
Boston and finally into the mountains of New England.
Now this is getting pretty far
north, and April is only the start of spring here. There weren’t any leaves on the trees yet,
and it was getting very cold – lots of stops for hot coffee. I can remember one stop when I was so cold
that it was like rigour mortis, and I couldn’t bend my arms enough to lift the
cup to my lips…. There I met an old,
grizzled, Harley rider who gave me a tip – go to a laundromat, strip off all
clothing possible, and put it in the drier for awhile. Ten minutes later when it’s all hot and
fluffed up, put it back on, with the waterproof riding suit over top and a hot
coffee inside, and you’re wonderfully warm and toasty for another hundred miles
or so.
Finally ran into lots of snow,
and getting rapidly worse. Tried to find
a budget hotel, but only very expensive ones in that upmarket town. In desperation headed out of town into the
blizzard – not a real smart move, and I don’t know what I was hoping to find,
but soon came to a big construction area where they were making a huge new
parking lot for a shopping center. In
the middle of this area I could see an old house that hadn’t been demolished
yet. By now the snow storm was really
thick, so that I could ride up to the house with no one seeing me. I rode the bike inside through the back door
and disappeared. Inside was a grand old
empty house, complete with a fireplace!
I hiked over to the supermarket and got lots of food and some wine, then
settled in there for the duration of the blizzard. I lit a fire in the fireplace with scrap wood
and broken furniture, and had a really comfortable couple of days in there. I even did an oil change on the bike in
there.
When the blizzard cleared I had
to do a fast dash to the Canadian border, because my registration and
insurance would expire on the last day of April.
I just made it, only to find that they wouldn’t let me into Canada
without paying a heap of customs duty on the bike! So I decided to ride south again to the
decent-sized city of Pattsburgh where I could sell the bike. By now the registration was actually expired, so I was
really lucky when a random police check stopped a bike in front of me, and was
busy with him, while I rode past.... whew!
So I arrived back in Canada on a
train and started looking for work.
Found a job with a mineral prospecting
crew, and was soon slogging through the Canadian muskeg with a cloud of biting
black flies and mosquitoes around my head…..
What a change from the last few
months......
So the long bike ride was
definitely over – wouldn’t have missed it for anything!
