I am fiddling with my phone, trying to get the map to recenter while riding with one hand, which causes me to momentarily swerve into the lane to my right. Immediately behind me, Tucker sees a bus almost clip me.

“Look out, Shaun!”

“Damn, that was close,” I respond as a sweat bead rolls from my forehead into my left eye.

The close call reminds me that I’m not wearing any of my usual protective gear; riding boots, knee and shin pads, elbow pads, chest protector, and Cordura pants and jacket all on my crated Triumph in Miami. I joke to myself that I might as well be riding in sneakers, shorts, and a tank top. At least I have my helmet.

We somehow manage to stay together as we navigate the same neighborhoods from the night before, spilling single file onto the eight-lane heading north. The dry 67 degree day feels more like 90 with the intensity of the high-altitude sun and heat radiating from the pavement and black diesel exhaust belching from the buses and trucks around us. Scooters, buses, trucks, cars, and motorcycles everywhere — more two-wheeled vehicles than cars. I can’t imagine choosing a car in this country.

Motorcycles slip between lanes of traffic like it’s normal. I’m not convinced it’s safe. Catch a mirror with your handlebars, and you will go down and maybe under. My singular concentration is on not being run over by a huge truck.

Aaron chimes in with a suggestion, “We should split lanes.”

“You already are, I see you six cars ahead,” I reply.

“I’m not too comfortable with that,” Tucker says. I’m not sure I am either.

Aaron is the most experienced city rider in the group. He lives in Salt Lake and has owned motorcycles for commuting to work. He knows how to navigate a stop-and-go freeway. Evan too. But not Tucker or me.

“I’m thinking we should — right now we aren’t making five miles an hour. At this pace we won’t make it out of the city before dark,” I say, exaggerating.

“Alright, let’s split lanes,” I hear Tucker say, riding on my rear fender.

I check my mirror and use my left signal as I pull onto the white line between the crowded lanes. I shift from first to second and accelerate, passing between a row of cars and a large tractor-trailer, then a bus, and more cars. I see Evan in my rearview mirror, right behind Tucker. Aaron is now out of sight ahead of us. My shoulders tighten, and I grip the bars like my life depends on them, choking the blood from my forearms. On one hand, the intensity is exhilarating, on the other, I’m wondering what the fuck I’m doing out here.

It takes an hour to travel the 10 miles to the edge of Bogotá. Despite the thinning traffic, my nerves are frayed and I keep thinking, “Get me off this road.” We ride north another thirty minutes to a major intersection where the route splits — this is where the day tips one way or the other. I feel disoriented. My internal compass had been calibrated for moving south, toward Tierra del Fuego. Momentum, just not forward.

Out of nowhere, I remember that I had forgotten to call Betty this morning, my riding concentration broken. I’ll have to wait until we get to Florián.

I see the split on the map on my phone. Small roads, dirt, and fun. Or the main road, trucks, and traffic. Both dangerous, but in completely different ways.

Over the intercom, I say, “We might not make it to Florián before dark if we take the smaller road. I don’t really want to ride in the dark.”

Aaron answers immediately, “Let’s take the route I made; we can make it.” Riding in the dark concerns him less.

“I’m totally down for that,” Tucker backs him without hesitation. “I want out of this traffic.”

The lack of an intercom keeps Evan out of the discussion and decision-making process.

I don’t oppose the plan, especially since I feel like we’ve pushed our luck with the dense traffic enough for one day. I repeat the concern about daylight, “we have only three hours of light left,” and don’t push back further.

* * *

Bogotá is located on a high, dry, flat plateau, the Sabana de Bogotá (Bogotá Savanna), that averages 8,400 feet in elevation, sitting between the Cordillera Central (Central Range) to the west and the Cordillera Oriental (Eastern Range) to the east. The route we are now on will take us over two small passes, one that tops out at 10,000 feet and the other at 10,500 feet, before dropping to 3,000 feet into a valley. There, we will ascend to the other side, to Florián, which sits at an elevation of 5,700 feet.

The ascent from the plateau passes over a mountain dotted with small farms and houses. The road quickly narrows from paved two-lane to cobblestone one lane to dirt. The barbed wire fences come right up to the road, no margin. Again, I ride faster on the dirt, leaving everyone except Aaron behind. Herders move their livestock down the roads, rotating from pasture to pasture. I lead for a while, following the green route we all loaded onto our smartphones back at Jorge’s garage. The road gets progressively steeper. Eventually, I miss a turn by a hundred yards, and our procession stops.

“Did you see the turn?” I ask over the intercom as I see Aaron ride up behind me.

“No, but it’s gotta be there,” he replies.

We turn our bikes around on the steep path and head back the other way. We catch Tucker and Evan before they reach the turn we missed, saving them from a U-turn on the steep rocky road. Aaron now leads on the now smaller road. The summit is not really a summit; it’s just the highest point of this part of the route where the road peeks around a ridge that continues up out of sight. The view into the Bogotá Plateau and east to the high peaks of the Cordillera Oriental is spectacular. The valley activity below is completely obscured by the day’s thick smog.

We descend the ridge, cross a small valley, and begin ascending the second, 10,500-foot ridge. Here it is more rural. Farms, but fewer of them. We ascend a dirt road through a forest where the air begins to cool and condense into a cool mist. The damp road is slick, and I can feel the rental KTM’s tires and traction control take over as I go up the steeper switchbacks. Peeking over the summit, Aaron and I decide to stop to wait for the others.

Looking north, the Cordillera Central is now in view; it appears as a series of velvety green, knife-edged ridges. Here, the air is clear, and I can see the bottom of the valley a mile and a half below. Small, irregularly shaped farms cling to the hillsides and the valley floor. A major, paved road winds through the bottom. Clouds are below us.

I’m chilled and dig into my luggage to find my insulated flannel shirt, the thickest layer I have with me. Tucker and Evan arrive, and they do the same. We each grab a snack and drink some water before starting the descent. The 16-mile descent winds down switchbacks that repeat every few hundred yards on loose, steep gravel. Each rutted switchback turns sharply toward the exposure below, then back again. The edge of the road is jagged from erosion and landslides. There is no room for error here; I ride standing and alert

The ABS system on the KTM is a lifesaver, preventing the front wheel from washing out in every turn. About a third of the way down, I stop to wait for the others. Aaron is close behind as usual, Tucker and Evan are several minutes back. I take the opportunity to remove my flannel and restow it while we wait, the humid heat now causing me to sweat. Aaron does the same.

I check my watch. It’s 6:15. The group eventually takes an hour to descend the valley, including stops and waiting. At this pace, I realize that there will be no way to make it the remaining 20 miles to Florián before dark. Rule one: don’t ride after dark. We will be breaking it on day one.

Aaron and I take turns setting the pace out front on the rough dirt road, stopping every 20 minutes or so to wait for the others. The road here winds up through the rainforest. About halfway up, we encounter a wide stream that flows across the road, the first of two. I stop to inspect it before crossing, not knowing how deep or swift the water is. Aaron rides up behind me.

“How’s it look?” he asks.

“Not bad, maybe 18 inches deep, slow moving,” I say.

He doesn’t reply, or stop, and rides through the stream and up the steep, slick exit on the other side. I follow, trying to hold my feet high to avoid getting my boots and jeans wet. Aaron waves me on up the hill and waits to be sure that Evan and Tucker ford the stream safely. No incidents.

Dark falls fast as expected. We pass a few people walking on the primitive road in the dark. I imagine they are heading home from working in the fields.

Chickens and occasional goats scatter as we approach. All living things are heading in for the night. I stick my boot out twice to avoid being bitten by the dogs that bark and chase us with intent. Smells of onions cooking waft from the dimly lit shanties as we pass, a contrast to the peaty smells emanating from the rainforest between settlements.

A chicken on the side of the road decides to fly directly in front of my headlight. “Did I hit that chicken?” I ask Aaron, now behind me, over the intercom.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Good thing, I bet that’s a tough one to settle up with its owner.”

He laughs.

I don’t feel safe stopping, unsure about the people we see walking sporadically in the dark. Not necessarily bad people, just unfamiliar. We pass another line of three or four dwellings, ride a quarter mile, then stop again to wait for our friends. Once we see Tucker and Evan’s headlights, we start again before they reach us to keep the momentum and spacing.

“Why don’t you lead for a while?” I tell Aaron. I give him a 30-second head start to let the dust settle. When I get close to him, dust in the dead air fills my headlight and almost completely dims it. I can’t see the drop-offs into the jungle below, but I know they are there. I stay focused on the narrow band of light in front and Aaron’s taillight when I can see it.

No one talks.

Florián is dark when we approach. Aaron and I stop at the edge of town to wait for Tucker, who has booked one of the two hotels in town for the night. He leads us into town. The few halogen streetlights are spaced so far apart that most streets remain unlit. The town is run-down, well past its heyday.

* * *

Florián clings to the edge of a gorge, six to eight blocks of cobblestone, cinder-block structures, and concrete. The hotel is easy to miss. We overshoot it by a couple of blocks and end up on the other side of town from where we entered. We circle back down the steep street and ride slowly so we don’t miss the hotel.

Tucker sees the hotel, front door wide open, and stops. I check my rearview and make a U-turn. The others copy the move, so our bikes face uphill. We roll them backward diagonally into the curb to prevent them from rolling backward. Tucker dismounts, removes his helmet, and walks past a little barefoot kid running out as he enters the rundown inn. The rest of us wait outside until he returns.

“The good news, we each have our own room. The bad news, the place is a shit hole,” he announces. “I really fucked this up. There must be a nicer place here.”

“Dude, no worries,” I say. “None of us is here for the lodging experience,” thinking this type of lodging would likely become a norm on our trip.

Aaron pipes in, “This place will be fine.”

“Is there a place to park our bikes that is secure?” Evan asks.

“The owner said it’s down the hill, a block away; he will lead us there after we unpack,” Tucker replies.

We unstrap our bags and head into the cramped hotel. A blast of frying fish smell and onions hits me as I enter the reception area. Inside, children sit on a bed watching football, the owner’s family. Oil and heat hang in the dense, still air.

The owner takes our passports and fills out the usual forms, and returns them. It’s fast and efficient. Then he leads us up a steep, narrow flight of stairs to a dark hallway that opens onto the back of the building. He shows each of us to our rooms, mine is the last one on the right with a screenless, open window overlooking the pig pen and chicken coop below. Beyond is a steep cascade of houses stepping into the dark jungle below—corrugated metal roofs, blue tarps stretched where walls should be. The smells mix and drift in.

The room is barely larger than the bed. Muggy. The mattress sags, half bed, half hammock. Still better than sleeping on the roadside without camping gear.

The three-foot-by-six-foot private bathroom is worse. The toilet, which blocks the entry to the shower stall, is jammed so close to the wall that there’s no way to sit—only to squat with your head against the wall. Bare wires poke through a hole in the ceiling, wrap around the shower head, and snake down to a lightbulb hooked to the ceiling. I study it longer than necessary. Electrocution feels plausible.

Once settled, the owner leads us down the block with our bikes to a “secure” place to park for the night. He stops at a corrugated metal building that appears to be a livestock stall. He unlocks the metal gate and points us in. It smells of horse manure and urine. One by one, we manage to wedge the four KTMs side by side. We can only exit by climbing over them; when we are done, there is no room left in the stall. He replaces the padlock and walks us back to the hotel. He points out two small cafes on the way back, both still open.

* * *

Back at the hotel, we agree to meet in twenty minutes to head out for dinner. I head up to my room, undress, then remember that I need to touch base with Betty. I call her and get voicemail. Then I text, “just tried calling. We made it to our hotel for the night. Call when you get this. Love you!” The interaction with my phone makes me miss her.

Stepping around the toilet, I reach in to turn the shower on, only to find cold water here. I use the ketchup-style pack of soap to wash my hair and sweaty body. I’m careful not to splash water above my head, knowing that the bare wires a few inches above my head are probably not grounded or connected to a breaker. I dry off, put on a clean T-shirt and underwear, and then the sweaty, dusty pants I had ridden in all day.

Everyone shows up as planned in front of the hotel, and we head back around the corner to one of the cafés we had passed before. The halogen-lit establishment has four tables, each with four plastic yard chairs. There is a couple having dinner at one, the rest are empty. Yells and cheers of kids playing football across the street in the brightly lit arena filter in.

We scope the menu: pan-fried trout, fried chicken, potatoes, and beer. “Cuatro cervezas, por favor,” Tucker orders a round.

“Y aguas, por favor,” Evan continues.

The cold beer tastes amazing, and within a few sips, the edge of the day begins to dissolve. Aaron checks his WhatsApp messages. Nothing from Veronica.

“She’s ghosting us,” Evan proclaims with accusation.

“I’ll text her now,” Aaron says.

Within a minute, she responds, “Your bikes are still tied up in U.S. Customs; our forwarder there is doing everything they can to get them through. We hope they come this week.”

“This week!” I exclaim. “What the fuck, this week? She can’t be serious.”

We lament our bikes and manage to change topics. Our order arrives, and as expected, everything on the plate is deep-fried. This is probably a good thing given the number of flies I see buzzing around. We devour it within minutes, then decide to settle up rather than have another round of beers in this place with the flies.

We are still hyped up from the day’s ride and decide to check out a local bar a few blocks up the hill instead of going to bed. The tavern’s windows and doors are open at both ends to encourage airflow. Several rough-looking characters hunch at the bar, drinking and smoking sour-smelling cigarettes; ragged clothes, tattooed, and worn from work. I’m glad I’m with three other guys, even though none of us remotely blend in.

We order a round of beers and find a small, worn table near the front door, hoping for a draft of fresh air. Instead, we get more cigarette smoke from outside where two men are talking on the mostly deserted sidewalk. Tucker has brought a deck of cards, and we play his favorite game, Screw Your Neighbor. The mood lightens. The day has exhausted us, but we are finally riding in the Andes.

We walk back to the hotel around 10:30.

“Meet downstairs at 7:00 for breakfast?” Aaron asks. We all confirm, before heading up the stairs to our rooms for the night. I check my messages one last time before turning out the light, nothing from Betty.

I love this song… pop country and all! Lambert absolutely captures the momentum and rhythm of the “roaming town to town” exploration we were looking for. Our motorcycles were trapped somewhere in a U.S. Customs warehouse 1,500 miles away. We had no idea if or when they might show up, so we took immediate action to build momentum.

“I wanna go somewhere where nobody knows / I wanna know somewhere where nobody goes”

...and we did! We didn’t hesitate; we rented bikes and hit the road. We weren’t even going south toward our destination 7,000 miles away. We knew we’d have to circle back to Bogotá the second word came through. But for us those days, the not-knowing didn’t matter.

“There’s something ‘bout the way I feel when the wheels go round and round and round”

We didn’t even have our proper riding gear, it didn’t matter our wheels were going round on some kick ass, Austrian-made KTM 890s that Aaron had found.

“Highway vagabonds. Living like hippies. Moving right along to the next big city”

Lambert’s vagabonds never have to go back; they don’t even need direction. We did. That’s the difference, and it’s also what made every day of the loop Tucker devised worth savoring.

Chapter 6 of Honest Miles drops on Sunday.

I have a checklist of things that need to happen before heading south: confirm dates and addresses with the shipper who will get our bikes to Miami, fix the Triumph’s cruise control issue, mount a fresh set of tires, and change the oil.

I load the Tiger the way I will be riding it — panniers packed, an old leave-behind duffel with my riding gear and boots strapped to the rack, and snacks in the tank bag, everything in its place. The only things I will carry on the plane are my helmet and my dry-bag top duffel.

The cruise control issue is electronic, not something I can easily diagnose at home. A short call with a technician in Idaho Falls leads me to believe that the rear traction control sensor (TCS) is malfunctioning. This could be an expensive repair that requires the diagnostic analyzer, which only the dealers have; thankfully, it is covered by warranty. I put the loaded bike on my truck and drive it the 90 miles to the dealership. There, I tell the shop manager about the LatAm trip and that a transport will pick up the bike in four days to take it to Miami. He assures me they can resolve the sensor issue by then.

I walk past the service desk into the shop, past the signs that always read “EMPLOYEES ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT”. I want to be sure nothing gets lost in translation between the Manager and the person who will be doing the work. The repair and the timeframe are critical. In the shop, I find the tech behind a row of broken bikes waiting to be fixed, he’s wrenching on a dirt bike sitting on a lift.

“Hi, I’m Shaun. We talked on the phone a couple of days ago.” I put my hand out, and he wipes his greasy hand on an equally greasy red shop rag before shaking mine.

“Tim, nice to meet you,” he replies. “Is the Tiger yours?” He asks.

“Yep, taking it to South America.”

“Cool, would love to do that someday,” he responds.

“Can you help me unload the bike?” I ask.

Tim hits the red button that lifts the large service bay door. It’s raining outside, cold.

“Back it up to the loading dock,” he says, not wanting to roll the 500-pound machine off the 4-foot tailgate. I am relieved the dock is there.

“I know you will need to remove everything from the bike to get to the TCS. I just want to be sure we get everything put back on before the transport picks it up in four days,” I explain. I hand him the top duffel with my riding gear in it, “When you’re done, can you strap this to the top rack?” I hand him two old ratchet straps from the bed of my truck, “Use these.”

“None of that should be an issue,” he replies. “I’ll put all the luggage over in that corner so it doesn’t get mixed up,” he points to an empty corner next to the restroom, the only space in the whole shop that isn’t presently occupied.

“Thanks, man.” Now that he’s met me, I feel like he will prioritize the repair and the repack.

My gut still says this is risky. I have no choice but to ignore it.

A week and a half before Thanksgiving, the transport picks up the Tiger from the dealer. In the process, he texts me several photos and a short video to show me that all my gear has been reloaded onto the bike and that everything is intact. I respond with a thumbs-up emoji. He then heads south to Salt Lake to meet Aaron and pick up the brand-new Yamaha Tenere’700 he will be riding, untested.

Tucker has found a used, low-mileage KTM 790 Adventure R at a dealer in Miami who would prep the bike with new tires and an oil change, then deliver it to the airport to be crated along with the other bikes, also untested. Evan had traded his BMW 1250 for a Ducati Desert X 900 several weeks before and had broken it in. He was accompanying it from Virginia to Miami on the Amtrak Auto Train, tested. Aaron and my bikes arrive a couple of days ahead of Evan and his bike.

When Evan arrives at the shipper’s warehouse, he snaps some photos of our bikes next to his and texts them to us with a note, “This place seems legit, lots going on here.”

Now, all the bikes and our gear will sit in the freight forwarder’s warehouse for a full week before Thanksgiving. Plenty of time for emptying fuel tanks, crating the bikes individually, and clearing U.S. customs.

* * *

I coordinate with Veronica to have our bikes delivered on the Monday after Thanksgiving. She made it clear that we needed to be there when the bikes arrived to receive them at customs. She assures us that there shouldn’t be a problem coordinating our arrival with the bikes’ arrival from Miami. Her people would walk us through customs and help uncrate the bikes. Something she says she facilitates every day.

I create a WhatsApp group called “Bike Shipping” that includes our crew and Veronica so that we can all be on the same page. “Bikes are crated, waiting for U.S. customs,” she assures us with a note on Friday.

Tucker, Aaron, and Evan fly to Bogotá on Friday to check it out for a couple of days before our bikes arrive. I can’t join them since I am still in Bozeman visiting my family for the holiday.

My 7:00 A.M. Sunday flight to Bogotá starts in Jackson, with a four-hour layover in Houston. Evan sends a message in the Bike Shipping group: “Veronica, any updates on the bikes?” No response, all day. I’m not worried — the bikes should be through customs by now and sitting on a wide-body plane ready for takeoff to Bogotá.

The passengers are a mix of businesspeople and tourists. No wi-fi on this flight. I watch a movie on the seatback screen, then nap for a couple of hours, head bobbing. We land at 10:00 P.M., right on time. I turn my phone on while we taxi to the terminal. A flurry of WhatsApp notifications pings my screen the second my phone hits the cellular network.

The first one I see is from Tucker. “Aaron found us some bikes we can rent while we wait for our bikes.” My stomach sinks knowing what I will read next, in reverse chronology, an unraveling.

I open the chain between Veronica and our group. “I do not know when they will get here,” her last message. I know what has happened, and I decide to skip the whole chain.

I call Tucker. “What’s going on?”

“Sounds like our bikes aren’t going to be here tomorrow,” he answers.

“Any idea on an ETA?”

“Veronica thinks they will get here in the next day or two, she won’t commit. Aaron found us some bikes to rent while we are waiting,” repeating what I already knew.

“That’s great, how much are they?” I ask.

“$150 a day.”

“Not bad, I think that’s a good idea,” knowing that it’s more than any of us wants to pay.

“Evan is in, and so am I. I’ve already started mapping a route that allows us to see most of what I think is interesting in Central Colombia,” he says.

“Excellent, let’s do it,” I say hesitantly, knowing that the plan he and I had discussed is now just his.

I deplane and start walking toward the immigration passport checkpoint in the dimly lit airport, earbuds in. I can see that the maze leading to the booths where the immigration officials sit is nearly full.

“We are out at dinner right now. Come to the hotel, and we will meet you there,” he says.

“I gotta go, an officer is telling me to put my phone away. Send me the GPX routes, I’ll look at them on my cab ride.”

The core piece of this plan is to do a loop North and West of Bogotá that never puts us further than a day’s ride away, so we can return to the city as soon as we get word that our motorcycles have been shipped from the U.S. This plan is way better than sitting around Bogotá killing time waiting indefinitely for an unreliable plan to materialize.

The rental bikes solved part of the problem of gaining forward motion, but I felt naked. One of my main concerns is not having my riding gear with me. My boots, riding pants, jacket, protective pads, and gloves were all strapped to my bike, supposedly sitting in a customs warehouse in Miami. I can live with everything else for a few days, but my riding gear is all designed for protection.

It takes about an hour of standing in line to get through immigration. Before exiting the terminal, I go to an ATM to withdraw 80,000 pesos, about the same as $200 U.S. Dollars. I stand close to the machine to conceal the withdrawal, the whole time turning my head, making sure not to get mugged from behind.

It’s warmer than I expected when I exit the 8,300-foot-elevation airport. I am immediately accosted by several drivers hustling for a fare in broken English. I walk directly past them to the taxi stand without making eye contact. The line is about five people long. I count back the queue of taxis and see that mine will be a beat-up Renault compact. The driver arrives, opens the trunk, and reaches toward me to retrieve my duffel and helmet. I retract, opting to keep my belongings in the back seat for security. The tired rear seat engulfs me as I jump aboard and close the door. A seat spring pokes me. The air is sour. I can smell the remnants of garlic and onion odors from the driver’s dinner. The Translate app on my phone helps me communicate the hotel’s address to the driver. I roll the window down so I can breathe. Then I enter the hotel address into Google Maps on my phone, which gives me a sense of security as I follow the progress.

Shortly after 11:00, the taxi exits the airport onto the dimly lit eight-lane highway into the city. The traffic is immediately stop-and-go. Scooters and motorcycles buzz past my open window as the car traffic inches along. Although he doesn’t know I’m tracking our route, the driver follows the blue line on my maps app exactly, inching the taxi in the stuttering flow of late-night traffic into the city. Eventually, we enter downtown Bogotá and hit a stoplight. Beggars panhandle between the stopped cars, and prostitutes loiter at the curb. I roll up my window and double-check my door lock.

Tucker’s texted instructions are for me to text the hotel manager when I arrive so she can meet me on the street and unlock the security gate protecting the boutique hotel. I text the hotel, and on cue, the receptionist greets me on the nearly dark sidewalk. The young woman offers to take my duffel into the hotel. I decline the offer, preferring to keep it.

After checking in, I throw my things in my room. The hotel is nice, small, and clean, with a boutique vibe I enjoy. I head to the kitchen, where an array of fruit and pastry snacks is laid out for late-arriving guests. I hear the guys returning from dinner, bantering. They find me in the kitchen, we hang out and drink a beer while we discuss the plan for tomorrow.

The mood is light, given our circumstances, and Evan seems to be fitting in well with Tucker and Aaron. I’m relieved.

“Tucker, great find on the hotel!” I say, giving him a bear hug when he walks in.

“Thanks, man,” he replies, “so psyched you’re finally here!”

We talk about the customs delay and what it means for the trip, though none of us have any concrete information about when our bikes might arrive. A day, two, or five, we have no idea.

“Aaron, good job on finding some rentals,” I say.

“I went and checked them out today, they’re excellent bikes,” he replies.

“I think we are getting the run around from Veronica,” Evan says, slightly off-topic. “She has no idea what’s going on, and I feel like she is stalling.”

“Come on, I’m sure this kind of shit happens all the time,” I say. “The research I did on her, reading the Reddit posts on the Internet, was all positive.”

Tucker had gone to his room and returned. “Evan and I went to the flea market today,” he hands me a molded plastic figurine of the motorcycle cop from the Terminator movie. “This is Moto-Man, he’s yours to mount on your bike.”

“Did you guys get one too?” I ask.

“We each got something different,” he replied.

“That’s awesome! Thanks for thinking about me.”

Tucker and Evan were also donning fresh haircuts, another activity to pass the time on a Sunday in Bogotá.

“I bought a couple of pairs of hiking boots for riding, since I knew that ours were both packed with our bikes,” Aaron said. “A pair of 10’s and a pair of 11’s, I can wear either size; you decide which ones you want.”

I am relieved that Aaron recognized the need, and it felt good that he thought about it enough to buy a pair for me.

“What about you guys?” I ask, looking at Tucker and Evan.

“We each brought our gear with us,” Evan said. “But, I don’t have my helmet, it’s with the Ducati.”

“The guy at the rental place has some rental helmets he can rent,” Aaron informs us.

At about 1:00 we decide to wrap up our conversation and head to bed, agreeing to meet in the dining room at 8:00 for breakfast.

* * *

I’m there an hour early, mostly because I couldn’t sleep and was looking for a cup of coffee. A few people filter in and take seats at the closely spaced tables. Eventually, Aaron wanders in.

Still no new information from Veronica. We discuss our options: wait another day in Bogotá for our bikes to arrive, or rent the bikes he has located and go exploring.

“I’ve done some mapping on Gaia to make it interesting,” Aaron replies.

“Shoot me the tracks, I’d love to have a look,” I say.

The waitress, who is also the cook, stops by our table. I order two huevos fritos y jamón (fried eggs and ham) and a glass of orange juice.

“Mornin’ guys,” Tucker says, arriving a few minutes past 8:00. Then Evan.

“Mornin’,” Aaron and I reply to each.

“I slept like shit,” Evan says, “couldn’t shut the shades enough to block out the halogen lights.”

“Same here,” I reply. “Aaron and I are bouncing some ideas, I’d love your thoughts.”

“We can either spend another day in Bogotá to see if the bikes show up, or we can do the loop Tucker concocted, or something like it,” Aaron says.

“Do you think the bikes will get here tomorrow?” asks Tucker, directing the question at me.

“I hope so, but have no idea. You know what I know,” I reply.

“I vote for doing a loop,” Evan pipes in.

“I’ve already been here two days and want to ride,” Tucker votes.

“Excellent, we have a plan!” I say. “When can you nail down the bikes, Aaron?”

“I’ll text Jorge now to see when he can meet us,” he answers.

“We just need to be able to get back here as soon as our bikes are on the way,” Evan says.

“I agree. Let’s keep the loop to within a day’s ride of Bogotá,” I suggest.

“Do you think we are getting ripped off?” Evan asks, referring to Veronica.

“I don’t think so. This is her business,” Aaron replies.

“I think the problem is not in her control, U.S. Customs, the Thanksgiving holiday backlog, you know?” I reply, trying to address Evan’s agitation.

Veronica finally replies to the texts Aaron and I have sent her. No new news to report, the bikes are still waiting in the Miami queue. Veronica is quickly becoming an unpopular messenger of non-news.

I start a conversation with a young American couple to change the topic and find out they have been traveling in Colombia on their honeymoon. They suggest a few things to check out, most of which are on Tucker’s list. Aaron is having a separate conversation with a guy who is a racecar driver in Bogotá for a promotional event with his sponsor. The pace is relaxed, knowing that we can’t really get going until we hear back from Jorge.

* * *

Finally, at 9:00, Jorge replies to Aaron and agrees to meet us at his office ten blocks away at 10:00. After another cup of coffee, we head back to our rooms to pack up. We check out and call two taxis to take us with our bags to Jorge’s office.

The rental office is on the tenth floor of a 15-story building. The security guard at the ground-floor reception immediately recognizes us from our gear and appearance that we are here to rent motorcycles. He buzzes us in, then calls Jorge’s office. After a few words, he waves us to the cramped elevator, two at a time.

We find Jorge and his assistant crammed into a 10-foot-by-15-foot office with boxes of paperwork, helmets, and other random motorcycle gear stacked in corners; the door open, a small fan circulating stale air. After spending an hour filling out paperwork, paying up front for a two-day (optimistic) rental, and finding an ill-fitting helmet for Evan, Jorge takes us to the parking garage in the basement, where he assigns our motorcycles.

Aaron, Tucker, and I probe Jorge on the best way to our first destination in Latin America, a place called Florián. One route takes us out of the city, then onto a smaller road that eventually turns to dirt. His suggested route, the one Google Maps plotted, keeps us on pavement until the last 10 miles of the leg, about 3-4 hours. He has no estimate for how long it will take to get there on the more challenging route — I guess 5-6 hours. I know which one the group will pick without asking.

We spend the next hour in the dank, dimly lit parking garage two levels down. We strap our duffel bags to the luggage racks. I leave most of what I have in my top duffel since it’s waterproof and quick to unstrap at the end of a riding day. We use the generic phone mounts on the bikes to affix our smartphones to the handlebars for navigation. I see Aaron using zip ties to attach his dragon figurine to his left mirror.

“Can I steal one of those?” I ask. I spend more time messing with how to affix Moto Man to my bike than I do getting everything else ready.

Tucker, Aaron, and I manage to get our Cardo intercom systems working after several tries. Evan doesn’t have his since it’s attached to his helmet, which is crated with his Ducati.

I swap the running shoes I wore here with the cheap Chinese-branded hiking boots Aaron had given me. The flat insoles and stiff imitation Cordura uppers make the boots feel awkward on my feet. Lifesavers, but just barely more protection than the running shoes I arrived in.

While I wait for the others to finish packing and gear up, I take the elevator to the ground floor to get a signal so I can check in with Veronica one last time before we leave Bogotá. I try her, using WhatsApp voice. No answer, so I settle for another text, “any update?” I head back down. Everyone seems ready.

We finally head out; it is about 1:00 in the afternoon. Our excitement level and optimism are high. I’m hungry, but I don’t want to slow the forward progress down by suggesting lunch. Let’s just go.

“Watch out as you exit the garage, the turns are tight,” Jorge warns about the two tight turns up the ramp to the street. I go first. He’s right — the turns are very tight, steep, and slow, making it difficult to balance my bike as I ascend in the dark. Encountering a car coming in the opposite direction would pose a serious challenge.

The automatic gate senses my arrival, but not soon enough for it to be open when I arrive. I stop on the steep ramp and put my feet down to steady the bike while holding the front brake. Only the tips of my toes touch the somewhat slick concrete. The front tire can’t find traction, and the bike slowly begins to slide backward. I slip the clutch to hold us in place until the door opens wide. Halfway up, the light through the opening slams into my dilated eyes and blinds me. I’m afraid of tipping over here, before beginning anything. My toenails clench the inside of the cheap boots as I hold my breath. Meanwhile, I hear two bikes coming up behind me, then a third. I can’t tell who is who. I stay focused; if I tip over, they might also. I can’t cause more delay.

Gate almost up, eyes adjusted, I pull out onto the sidewalk. I wait for the others to assemble in the street. “Everyone ready?” I ask over the intercom.

“Check,” Tucker says.

“Yep,” from Aaron.

Evan can’t hear. I look at him and hold my thumb up. He nods. We are off!

Cocker doesn’t sing this song as a happy melody; rather, he puts soulful, deep vulnerability and insecurity out front. He slugs his way through it.

“What do you do when things go wrong?” Lennon and McCartney ask. “Lend me your ears, and I’ll sing you a song.”

The plan I’d spent months building was blown apart before even setting foot on the continent. Our motorcycles were stuck in a customs warehouse in Miami, along with most of our gear. The planning and control were gone before I touched the ground.

Tucker had already rebuilt the route by the time I cleared immigration. Aaron had found near-new KTM 890 Adventure bikes to rent while we waited for ours to show up. They even thought to buy me a pair of hiking boots to ride in.

What happens when the shit hits the fan on a plan you’ve architected, letting down those who followed you into the mess? Your real friends step up and move it forward without judgment, without criticism.

“Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends / Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends”

We didn’t get there because of my plan. I didn’t know it then, but we got there because of them.

Chapter 5 of Honest Miles drops on Sunday.