Bike(s)
A tale of two motorcycles
A left NY on a motorcycle (Suzuki DR-Z) I had spent months stripping down and purpose-building for the trip ahead. For the first chapter of my trip, the bike was perfect: a custom tank gave it a massive range, the seat was comfortable, and the engine made enough power to make the un-avoidable, straight stretches of road in the U.S. manageable. But then something happened...
In Nicaragua, I spent a winter harvest working on a remote coffee farm in the north. Each weekend, I did short runs into the nearest town - about 45 minutes away by motorcycle. Here, winding through the dense forest along the border of Honduras, nearly 15,000km into my trip, I fell in love with riding, again. But it wasn't on my own bike: it was with the farm's old 150cc Chinese dirt bike.
I had never smiled so much when riding before. I was obsessed with the machine's lightness, it's ability to flick around tight corners and between rocks. It was slow, but so fun. And more than anything: I loved riding with minimal gear and minimal worries about damage to the bike. Just me and the machine and the road. No heavy items weighing me down or expensive gear to think about. I started to dream about doing my trip again, but like this.
When my time on the farm was coming to an end, I faced a difficult decision. The next border south, with Costa Rica, had remained locked-shut after 12-consecutive months of extensions to the closure. At the time, all evidence suggested that they were going to continue these streak for another year.
After some previously "un-ideal" run-ins with the Honduras border patrol, I was unable to return to the north. And so I was left with a decision: to continue waiting in Nicaragua, or to continue the journey without my beloved bike. As simple as is sounds, this choice tore me apart and marked a divide behind the (fictional) "story" of the trip I have once dreamed of: riding continuously from NY to Argentina, with the much more realistic, and uncertain, trip that was to come.
Ultimately, with winter approaching, I found an ex-pat in Nicaragua who was willing to buy the bike off of me: leaving me with enough cash to escape Nicaragua for Colombia, and to revisit my new dream of riding lighter. And when I arrived in Colombia, I did just that.
In Medellin, I visited a number of dealerships before deciding on a new Suzuki DR-200. It was exactly what I had wanted since Nicaragua: light and simple. Buying new in Colombia was extremely affordable and made the registration process as a foreigner simple. Not to mention: having a Colombian-plated bike meant I could escape the time-restrictions of Temporary Import Permits that are required on foreign bikes. And so, "Poderosita" was born.
Suzuki DR-200
The bike that I purchased in Colombia. It is the most mechanically-simple motorcycle I have ever seen. Extremely slow, but extremely light and reliable.
Suzuki DRZ-400
The bike that I left NY with. Heavy and tall, but with tons of range and plenty of power to blast down long stretches of highway.
"La Poderosita"
There's a certain kind of Zen that only comes from riding long distances with a single-cylinder, carbureted engine. Old cylinder, one spark plug, one carburetor. The choice of a bike was refined throughout my adventure, but the desirable qualities are the same: light, simple, and reliable.
Yes, it is slow. Extremely slow. But isn't that the point anyway? If I wanted to get somewhere faraway fast, I wouldn't be riding a motorcycle to begin with. I have already ridden enough big, fast street bikes for one lifetime, and that just isn't the point here.
Gear / Storage
I don't have much to say about gear other than that I have much less of it than when I started. Taking the advice of other moto travelers before leaving, I packed about half the gear that I was originally planning. Now, I have about half of that.
Long-distance motorcycle travel is a great teacher of an old irony: old gear that has been around for some time is much more valuable than that which is new and untested. Old gear that has been through a storm or two without failure becomes more precious than it was when you bought it because you know you can trust it. Good first appearances count for less than they ever did, and real virtue – which comes from an ability to separate what merely looks good from what lasts - is what counts.
The original pack, taken the day before leaving NY.