The Road Ends

Chacala Mexico, May 30

The azure waters lap against my skin as I stand waist deep in the surf. The small Mexican beach is surrounded by emerald green hills dotted with brightly painted houses, looking like vibrant flowers against a bouquet of green. The beach curves for a quarter mile on either side of me, the white sand glistens under the tropical sun. As the surf crashes behind and warm breezes gently buffet the palm trees I am filled with a feeling of grief.

Outside Catazaja Mexico, May 21

The sweat is pouring down my body. My hands are so sweaty that as I handle the documents handed to me by the SAT officer I leave them damp.

“We are going to take your motorcycles.”

We have been stopped at the junction of two highways in Southern Mexico by the Servicio de Administración Tributaria (imagine the IRS with machine guns). Half a dozen officers stand around in crisp white shirts and blue slacks filling out a mountain of paperwork to confiscate our bikes. Soldiers stand in the background with machine guns. I watch as other cars pass through the check stop.

“We are going to take your motorcycles.”

I make eye contact with Than. The look in his eyes reflect my own thoughts. “This can’t be happening.” Again I ask if there is a bribe we can pay. Roberto, the only one of the half dozen officers to speak english looks at Nathaniel and I and says in his heavily accented english

“We are going to take your motorcycles.”

Palenque Mexico, May 24

I am mad. Pissing mad. I stand in our crappy hotel room, holding the cellphone, resisting the urge to hurl it against one of the garishly orange painted walls. Our trip is over. Best case scenario we may get them back in 1-2 years and have to pay a fine. Worst case, the Mexican government will require us to pay the total price of the bikes which they have estimated at $9600 apiece (we paid $2500) plus a hefty fine for illegally importing a foreign vehicle. I swear loudly. It doesn't help. The injustice of it all seems overwhelming. Than and I have never put so much of ourselves into anything. Not school, sports or relationships. We have poured our time, money, resources, hopes and dreams into this trip. Now it is all over on the fifth day.

Mayan Ruins, near Palenque Mexico, May 23

The massive stone ruins rise above the shamrock green grass under the brutal equatorial sun. The air is still and heavy, matching our hearts as we move lethargically between pyramids and palaces. We try to summon some joy or wonder but instead make some black humored jokes. Gallows humor is the only thing that can make us smile. At another time the ruins of Palenque would be remembered with wonder for the rest of our lives. Instead we will always remember the solemnity, hanging like the humid, suffocating air, over the ruins.

Palenque Mexico, May 24

The heat in Palenque is a stifling, wet blanket. It reduces even the easiest of physical tasks to monumental trials to overcome. I understand now why afternoon siestas are a necessity in this part of the road. Nathaniel and I sit under the shade of a few trees on the edge of the turf soccer field. We suck on plastic bags filled with sweet, acidic hibiscus juice. For the first time since our motorcycles were taken I had forgotten. As we had played futball in the brutal heat of the afternoon, I had completely forgotten that our trip lay in ruins, that our dreams were as dead as Mayan kings in their tombs. That brief moment was the first of many over the next week. I would forget, for a few minutes or even hours and then the reality would come crashing back down.

Outside Catazaja Mexico, May 21

I park my bike, recently christened Rosa, next to Than’s. The SAT’s warehouse is large, full of foreign vehicles, gathering dust. It doesn’t look like any have left recently. I place the bike in neutral with my left foot, then shifting the weight fully onto my right leg I flip down the kickstand. I rock the bike back to center as it comes to rest. The same motion that I have done hundreds of times and thought I would do for thousands more. I pause for a second. My left leg resting on the ground, my right leg on the footpeg. I stroke the gas tank. I don’t know if I will ever see my bike again. I don’t know why this is happening. I don’t know and I don’t understand. I take my hand off Rosa and remove the key from the ignition. I walk away. I glance back at my stead, my Pegasus, my faithful Silver, my intrepid Shadowfax. I turn away, and walk out the door alone. -JF

Saturday, May 21 - Police check station in nowhere Mexico

We were sitting at the intersection of two main highways. To the right was Palenque, our destination that night, and to left was a gas station. We decided to swing into the station and fill up before driving the last 30 kilometers to Palenque. Turns out it was a one way highway which meant that in order to get to Palenque from the gas station we had to go around the loop. Unfortunately the loop took us through the SAT check station. As we pull in Jake looks back from his bike with a confused look. We’re both wondering what a highly sophisticated facility like that was doing in the middle of nowhere. Turns out that it’s a common drug/illegal goods route. A main highway coming from Guatemala meets a main highway coming from the northern coast. Anyway, it was there and so were we. All the vehicles in front of us were being waved through with hardly a passing glance. We both hoped that we would be as well. But seeing our foreign plates they stopped us and asked to see paperwork. Paperwork that we didn’t have, but I don’t want to get into those details.

It quickly became apparent that we were in hot water. We tried communicating with the officers for about 15 minutes with little success. Our Spanish is terrible and their English may have been worse. If we’re ordering food or asking for directions we do alright, but a complicated conversation about official documents and Mexican law was out of the question. Finally officer Roberto arrived, and he spoke our language. He filled us in on what was happening and informed us very matter-of-factly:  “We are going to take your motorcycles.” We must have stood out in the suffocating heat for an hour trying work out a solution, but there was none to be had. It was very surreal. Roberto made it very clear what would be done with our motorcycles, but was unclear on what would be done with us. There were a couple moments where I was worried we would be spending the night in a Mexican jail.

They told us to drive the motorcycles behind their police pickup and follow them across the compound to the platform. Just before we got on the bikes Roberto walks up to me and says “Don’t try to drive away”. I laughed. Really? There were officers with weapons all around the compound as well as military personnel roaming around with machine guns. Fleeing would have been lunacy. I reassured him there would be no problem and we proceeded to the processing area. 2 ½ hours later we found ourselves on the curb loading all our possessions into a crummy little cab and driving towards Palenque. -NW

Before the Road Ended: Our first 4 1/2 days in Mexico

Northern Mexico, May 17

On first glance, there appear to be no rules driving in Mexico. However, as you go, you realize that there are rules, but they are different and not posted. For instance, the speed limits are less than suggestions and  turn signals in Mexico are used far more broadly than in the States. They are used to indicate that a vehicle wants to pass, that a semi is in the process of passing and sometimes that it is safe to pass. The physical setup of the highways are different here as well. Unless it is a divided highway, the roads are the width of three lanes. The yellow line is in the center and then, where in the US where the solid white lines would be are dashed white lines and a large, half lanes wide, shoulder. Cars are expected to drive one set of wheelsover the dashed line, thus leaving the center of the road free for passing. Out there in the middle is a free for all and if you want to pass you have to bring your big boy game.  -JF

Mountain pass just south of Cuidad Victoria in northern Mexico

Mexico City, May 19

The people of Central and South America are a diverse group.

While in the States, historically, a strict racial line kept races separate, south the many varied races mixed far more. What this means today is that Mexico is a huge palette of colors. There are Mexicans that could pass as whites and Mexicans that are nearly as dark as Africans. The vast majority though are clearly descended from the native populations. But the advertisement is not geared toward them. The pictures of women on the front of magazines are white, the mannequins in the stores clearly have anglo features, and even the foam mascot suit I saw today was designed to look like a white person. In a country anglos are so few that Nathaniel and I tell each other if we see one almost every advertisement features people of anglo ancestry. -JF

Restaurant we ate in the second day in Mexico

Mexico City, May 19

Bucket list check. Thursday afternoon Jake and i noticed a soccer game in progress in the park across the street from where we were staying. We walked over and watched for a while before asking to join. They were playing two-and-out. Whoever scores 2 goals first stays in and a new team comes on for the losers. Jacob and I joined one of the teams on the sideline. Just watching for a few minutes it was apparent that one of the teams was superior to the rest. The level of play was pretty competitive and the field was dirt. Our team lost to the good team 2 or 3 times in a row. The other players on our team seemed a bit hesitant to pass to us since we were a couple gringos from the USA. Finally one of our amigos passed it to me in the center, I dribbled the first defender, pushed the ball up close to the second, and fired a low left-footed drive into the bottom corner. A couple minutes later one of our teammates scored a second.

We were surprised by some of the differences in mexican pickup soccer. They don’t celebrate, and there doesn’t seem to be much comradery. Nonetheless, it was a great time and one of our favorite experiences thus far. -NW

Mexico has the best food

Central Mexico, May 20

I love driving in this country. It is how Nathaniel and I have always wanted to drive. A strange mixture of cautious and reckless, driving takes more skill and demands more from the drivers themselves. Here, there is more room to improvise. Is traffic to slow? Pass on the shoulder. Driving here both Nathaniel and I drive differently than we did in the states. You have to. You cannot be too cautious, you have to follow the flow of traffic. Plus, it’s fun. Are we too reckless? I am 25, single and I say no. Would my answer change if I was married, or 10 years older? Probably, but then, I never would have gone on this trip if I was. -JF

Our favorite chief in Mexico, notice the trowel he uses

Cosamaloapan, May 21

The air is hot and heavy as we enter the cathedral. Last night there were thousands of people in the town plaza for the fair but this morning there are only a faithful few in mass. They are sequestered off in a small side chamber. Nathaniel and I sit conspicuously on one of the main benches outside the room, very much aware of our skin color and protestantism. The priest is leading the small group in a prayer, each members dutifully reciting along. I can see farther up in the church around the great dome, four painted statues resting in each corner. San Juan, San Mateo, San Lucas and San Marcos. The congregation begins to sing and I marvel at the beauty of their voices rising into the echoing chambers above. Sweat trickles down my as the priest brings the wine and wafers for communion. He stands at the front and offers the wine dipped wafer to each member, placing it in their mouths. The small side room separated from the main chamber by a beautiful wrought iron gate. I begin to see this gate as a metaphor for the Catholic church. Beautiful to see, man made and a self imposed barrier between man and God. As the priest ends the service with what I think is the Hail Mary and Nathaniel and I rise to leave, I am profoundly thankful have been raised protestant. I am thankful that Jesus is my savior, my prophet, my king and now, more acutely aware, my priest. -JF

Out the Door and on the Road: First Steps

We have been busy this last year. Between school, ultimate, church, friendships, family, jobs and this trip we have very busy indeed. We have pressed our noses to grindstones, burnt candles at both ends, gone the extra miles and pulled our weight and more. Like a man trudging through a thick forest. His head bent in exhaustion, the path ahead obscured by task tress. Rooted in responsibility, nurtured by obligation and weaned on necessity they grow thickly and conceal the path ahead. In this trip we hope to have a moment to catch our breaths and take a panoramic view of our lives. To orientate ourselves once more before God. We are eternal creatures and  have lost that perspective.  -JF

Bozeman, May 8

We leave our house in Bozeman with all the pomp and circumstance of a weekend trip. “Do we remember everything?” As it turns out, no. “Are you ready to go?” Than asks me as I adjust my gloves. We are off. Two blocks later we stop for gas and to check the tire pressure. It takes me several seconds to find the proper inflation pressure on the tire’s side. Ok, now we are ready. We drive for 2 hours to Billings where we spend the night. Our trip is starting slowly. Easing into the frigid waters of international travel and self reliance. Or more aptly, perceived self reliance.  -JF

One of my favorite things about going on this trip is people’s reaction. Specifically, the first things people recommend we should bring or ask us if we have packed. The thing they consider indispensable to our survival and safety. Or perhaps just the first thing that comes to mind.

• “Will you have a cellphone?”
• “Do you have good waterproof boots?”
• “What about diarrhea medication?”
• ”Are you taking a gun?”
• “Have you thought about chaffing?”
• “You’re bring bug spray, right?”

Well, yes, sort of, not yet, what!? should we? and no. Than and I have talked that there are a hundred things we need to bring and another hundred we could bring, but in the end they would only weigh us down.  -JF

Southern Wyoming, May 9

Than sits on the wet gravel beside his bike, loosening the rear axle bolt. I hunker behind his bike trying to stay out of the wind and looking for our 12mm wrench. We are parked on a pull off somewhere before Cheyenne in the 70 mile gasless gap in southern Wyoming. A few minutes before, in the midst of the rainstorm with wind strong enough that we barely could stay on the road, Than’s chain slipped. Now, in the wind and the gale-force wind, we shiver, because all our layers are on the bottom of our panniers since we didn’t think we would need them until Argentina. Than tightens his chain, then mine, since it is loose as well. I look up as we collect the tools. I hear bird song. The storm has passed. The sun is shining, blanketing everything in golden light. We are standing on a slight rise and the entire vibrant green prairie spreads out before us. The towering storm clouds are on one side, being pushed further east while the sun trails towards the horizon in shining benevolence. As we start our bikes back up and set out I can’t help but grinning from ear to ear at God’s creation.

When you first buy a motorcycle and hit the open road you discover a few things. First you experience the freedom of being totally exposed to the elements. It’s pretty exhilarating to cruise along a small country highway or drive through an afternoon thunderstorm. There are no walls to block all the wind and no roof to protect you from the rain. There is no A/C, no heater, and no radio to play with. It’s just you and the road, and a whole lot of time to think.

Another thing that you’ll soon realize is that you’ve just joined a brotherhood. Just by owning a motorcycle you’ve earned the respect of thousands of bikers. When one rider passes by another there is a silent recognition of this respect. It’s expected that you extend your left arm out in the customary handwave. I go back and forth between thinking this brotherhood is totally awesome and other times thinking it’s absolutely ridiculous. The fact that someone thinks differently of you because you own a motorcycle is frankly hilarious. On the other hand, it’s super fun to connect with other people out enjoying the road from the seat of a bike.

 -NW

Colorado, May 12

The front tire glides over the pavement in the darkening twilight. The asphalt still holds the heat from the day and the air as it rushes past cools pleasantly, not yet chilled enough to be brisk. The road is enclosed on each side by green hills and craggy cliffs, following the twists and turns of the river. For 11 miles the roads, each curve flows into the next. For those 11 miles we reach something approaching serenity as the bikes lap up the turns.  -JF

Texas, May 14We got our butts kicked today. If today was a fight, we got knocked down by the first punch. Then we stood up again, got bludgeoned for a few rounds and K.O.-ed. We needed to ride 600 miles between Midland and McAllen Texas. We woke at 5 and left the house at 5:30 stopped at a gas station and then promptly got lost. We couldn’t figure out how to get out of town. We ended up in some dirty suburb getting chased by dog. So, back to the gas station we went to buy a map. Then it rained, not a pleasant light rain, but a torrential downpour. After that, nothing went according to plan. We were late, lost, sopping wet and with the bikes in need of repair we stopped in San Antonio for the night, nearly 250 miles from where we planned. But that is what this trip is all about. Than and I learned in Africa that nothing goes according to plan. So, we'll roll with the punches and keep getting up. If you can't be smart, be tough.

Beginnings (or Adventures in Terrifying Highway Travel)

Every story has a beginning. Sometimes you can be in the midst of a story before you even realize it started. Sometimes stories start years in advance, like a seed planted. Sometimes stories move so slowly that you don’t even notice them happening until they are over and there is a tree, giving shade. Sometimes you know though, you know this is a beginning. This moment, this decision, this is the beginning of something.

Often there are more then one beginning. When the idea first entered your head, when you first said it out loud, when you first decided to do it. In that way, maybe they aren't beginnings but instead forks in the road. The roads begin and end but the journey, as whole, is the sum of them all.

A few weekends ago was the beginning of something. Nathaniel and I took our bikes out for our first, fully loaded, long distance ride. Friday afternoon, we loaded up all our gear, cloths, tools, spare parts, medicine, camping gear and personal items. We divided up the gear and packed it into our panniers, pelican cases and tank bags. We planned to ride to Billings for the weekend. 140 miles one-way.

The bikes fully loaded for the first time, can’t help but feel like we have forgotten somethings.

Riding on the highway is a whole new experience. Our bikes comfortably cruise at 65 although we tried to maintain a more reasonable 70-75 range. Which, when the speed limit in Montana is 80 means semi trucks pass you. Which is terrifying. Semis create huge areas of turbulence behind them that feels as though someone is sitting on the front of your motorcycle and slapping you repeatedly in the face. So here are Nathaniel and I, already a little uncomfortable traveling this fast, with a pretty heavy cross wind so that you are leaning into the wind to go straight, struggling to maintain your composure and then you check your mirrors and see a semi bearing down on you like a great white whale of biblical proportions. The five steps to being passed by a semi on a motorcycle, as told by a first time highway rider, are as follows.

Step One: Fear, tastes unpleasant. You wonder why in the world you thought this would be a good idea. “Buy a motorcycle” they said, “It’ll be fun you” they said.

Step Two: Anticipation, as the semi pulls into the left lane behind you and creeps up to pass, you get a few seconds to anticipate terrible thing to come. Whoever said anticipation is the purest form of pleasure is a sick man.

Step Three: The Passing, as the semi roars past you like an apocalyptic freight train taking your courage and bowel control away from you. Powerful waves of chaotic, turbulent air buffet you about. The feeling, I imagine, is similar to a cork in a hurricane.

Step Four: The Eye of the Storm, as the semi passes you completely you are sucked into the area of low pressure directly behind. With reduced wind resistance you instantly speed up. Great for gas mileage but to stay in this bosom of comfort would require staying within 30 feet of the back of the semi, which is a bit like having a tiger by the tail. Fun, in a terrifying sort of way.

Step Five: Slapping Time, as the semi pulls away you enter the wake of the semi. Here the wind buffets you about in a distinct fashion. It feels as though a man wearing pillows on his hand is hitting you about as hard as he can, alternating from one side of your head to the other. The rhythm is quick strong to begin with although as the semi pulls away the strength and speed both reduce.

Repeat until you toughen up.  

Nathaniel messing with our poor-man’s cruise control which worked about as well as using deli mustard to paint your walls yellow. Technically your walls are yellow-ish but the color is uneven and the smell makes you light headed

Than with his radio taped to his face. I think he’s excited.

Than with his family. Just arrived in Laurel MT after 2 hours on the highway.

What Did Your Family Teach You?

My grandparents, Florene and Quentin Nordyke

What did your family teach you? They teach you what to value, what is precious in this world. Some families teach that new cars are important. Some teach that going to college is important. Some teach that pursuing your dreams are important or that eating healthy is important. Our families- parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents -all shape our lives and teach us what to value by what they spend their time and money on. All their little decisions and actions add up over a childhood. Today I want to talk about what my grandparents taught me.

I grew up 1000 miles away from my grandparents. They lived in Salem, Oregon while I grew up in Billings, Montana. They never let that distance keep them from teaching their Friesen grandchildren. Every summer they rented a house on the Oregon coast for them and their kids and grandparents. Every year, for a week we spend time together. Playing on the beach, reading, watching movies, eating meals together. We went crabbing, visited museums, prayed and lived together. Every year, they spent their money and their time, not on cruises, but on their family.

Growing up, my grandparents would pay each grandchild for every piece of scripture we memorized and recited to them at the beach house. God’s word was so important to them that they were willing to bribe us to memorize it. So every summer turned into a rigorous mental workout so we could collect as much booty as possible every August. I don’t remember what I bought, but I do remember which scriptures I memorized.

I don’t know much about my grandparents. Because we lived so far apart the time we did spend together was limited. Also, for much of the time I was a child, who are notoriously self-centered and unaware of the world. Despite this, my grandparents used their time wisely. They planted few seeds, but diligently toiled and those seeds grew up and became some of the roots of my life.

My grandparents taught me that service is important. They taught me how to grow old with dignity and love. They taught me about love and forgiveness and never being too old to not understand how God is working. They taught me how to be vulnerable. I have seen both my grandparents brought to tears by the love of God. They taught me what it means to be a Godly man and what a Godly woman looks like.

I want to thank my grandparents. They have given me so much, so much that I can never repay them. I started this blog post to thank them for their financial gift, which is the basis for this trip south, but I guess that in some ways, it is the least of the gifts they have given me.

Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa.

We Would Be Kings!

We needed motorcycles. Without them we would be backpackers, the slaves to train and bus schedules, always needing to walk between our real destination and where mass transit ends. We would have been peasants, but with motorcycles we would be kings! Charting our own destiny, cruising our way through the Americas. Immune to overcrowded buses, delayed trains and bureaucratic schedules. Rising when we desire, stopping as the mood strikes us and helping to impress lovely latin beauties. We needed alluring motorcycles.

We needed tough motorcycles. We need bikes to carry us from small garage to the the end of the world. Over dirt roads, muddy roads, roads with big potholes, deep potholes, roads made entirely of potholes. Wet roads and dry roads. Empty, desolate roads and roads full of angry, swerving drivers. The motorcycles have to be many things and can also not be many things. They have to be robust, comfortable and durable. They have to be small enough that one could could pick them up if (when) we drop them. They can not be soley road bikes, or too expensive that they would catch the roving eyes of thieves.  Nor could they have too many fancy electrical gadgets that would break. Like goldilocks we had to find two that were juuust right. We needed specific motorcycles.

We did not need pretty motorcycles. We didn’t need a Pegasus or a Silver or a Shawdowfax. We need a cowpony. A motorcycle to carry us where we want to go - and bring us back again. We need a "flop-eared, ewe-necked, cat-hipped roan that looks like it should have died weeks ago but has iron rods for bones and nitroglycerin for blood and can go from here to doomsday with nothing more than mouthfuls of snow for water and tufts of winter-cured bunch-grass snatched between drifts for food." * We needed motorcycles.

And we have them. The single biggest expense of our trip and the “ring” that means this thing is going to actually happen. Two Kawasaki KLR 650s. Dual sport bikes for paved and unpaved roads, each with a single-cylinder, carbureted, water-cooled engine. Bikes renowned for their toughness and simplicity. A 2006 red bike with 16,000 miles faded to a rosy pink. And an older 1999 blue bike with 13,000 miles that looks and runs like it did in 2001. Red and Blue. Two bikes, for two boys, to carry us until the road ends.

*Stubby Pringle’s Christmas by Jack Shaefer. Best Christmas story since the original.

Lets Do This Thang.......

Soooo, yeah?? Although i'm not totally on board with the whole marriage metaphor, I do agree with what Jake has said. We work well together and we enjoy each other's company. Since we started hanging out at college in Billings a few years ago our friendship has been a great one. The standout element has been consistency. You know when your friend is like "man, we should totally climb that mountain sometime" ....... aaaand it never really happens. Jake and I climb that mountain. We make stuff happen. We make time, even if its not right away.

So when Jake approached me about this trip a few years ago, I thought "yeah, we could actually pull this off." Like he mentioned, we work well together. I tend to wing things a bit, but Jake is a planner. This trip requires careful and complete planning. He's not afraid of what he doesn't know. Life is about learning and Jake loves to learn. That's gonna be important on this trip. There is a lot to learn beforehand and along the way in order to make this journey safe, enjoyable, and successful.

Beyond just working well together, we have great fun. Whether its playing college ultimate frisbee or a late night discussion, we always find something in common. Being able to enjoy the adventure and insanity with a friend will make the trip that much richer. It takes a specific kind of personality to want to do this trip, much less complete it. "hawcub" (jacob) possesses the knowledge, desire, and courage needed. This may be due to his long, flowing mane, or maybe his solid upbringing, either way, he's got it and we're going to South America. Wut. Wut.

Stayed tuned to hear about the purchase of our motorcycles. We are currently working on procuring 2 Kawasaki dual sport bikes. The stoke level is off the charts.