Chapter 2: Begin the Begin
Hatching the LatAm 5,000
In late 2022 I called my buddy Todd, the only high school friend I’ve steadily stayed in touch with.
“Hey Shaun, how’s it goin’?” He answered.
“It’s going well. How are you?”
We caught up the way we always did. Work successes and troubles, kids getting older. Us getting older.
Then we talked about our latest motorcycle riding adventures. I told him about the Copper Canyon trip earlier that year with Tucker, Doug, Rob, and me.; We rode KTM 690s through Sinaloa and Chihuahua. Cartel country.
At the top of an 8,600-foot pass on the Sinaloa border, armed men stepped out of the brush and blocked the road. Ten at least, more on the slope above. M-16s, AK-47s, and one leader with a missing hand who used the stump to slap his rifle while he interrogated us.
I pulled off my helmet so they could see my face. “No habla español,” (you don’t speak Spanish). The gang leader slapped his rifle again and repeated his questions in a language I did not understand.
When ordered, Doug refused to remove his helmet.
“It hurts my ears to take it off,” I heard him say on the intercom, more concerned about his ear pain than the AK-47 pointed at his face. It was too small a size and had been crushing his ears for hours. They didn’t understand, and wouldn’t have cared anyway.
A kid, maybe twelve, leaned over and said something to the leader. They all started laughing. The tension broke. They waved us through.
Tucker pulled up just as we were being released. The leader stopped and interrogated him, though I couldn’t hear his intercom. I saw him shrug before they waved him through.
We rode on. Scared shitless, but alive.
Todd’s riding adventures had been more frequent but less intense than mine. Weekend backroad rides in the Colorado Rockies. Short, but challenging. We both wanted more.
“I’ve been looking into Ecuador for a riding trip,” he said.
“Ecuador, what made you think of that?”
“I’ve read that it’s a good place to rent bikes and it’s pretty safe to travel.”
“I’d be into exploring it.”
A former Golden Gloves boxer and bodybuilder, Todd was the kind of friend I could always rely on. Steady and honest. Not afraid to tell me that I was full of shit even when I thought I was right.
Like me he had ridden dirt bikes as a kid, just for fun, in the outback of Wyoming. No marked trails, no maps, no rules. He also loved my father as much as I did, like a brother.
Three days later, he texted me a link to a rental shop in Quito. KTMs, BMWs, Suzuki DRs, and a Triumph, ranging from $110-150/day to rent. The same shop offered guided tours, but we knew this was not what we were after. We were confident in our riding, mechanical, and navigation abilities.
All of our trips had been self-guided, and we saw no reason why this would be any different. The rental shop helped us put together a loop that would never put us further than a day’s drive from Quito.
I reached out to my usual riding crew, Tucker, John Doug, Rob and Aaron. I included a new friend, Joe from D.C., whom I had met at a recent business conference in Barcelona. They all said they were interested; we just needed to set the dates.
We locked the trip for late February. Doug, Joe, Aaron, Todd, and me.
Todd did all the coordination with the rental shop. They outlined a rough itinerary, gave us some GPS routes, and made some initial hotel reservations.
If you are reading this and wondering, “Where’s the context?” you may have missed the prior chapters. Go to Anymajordude.co to read everything that came before! I hope you enjoy it - Shaun.
* * *
Everyone arrived in Quito the night before we were supposed to check in to pick up our bikes at the rental shop. Aaron and I wasted an hour trying to get everyone’s helmet intercoms to connect; in the end, only his, mine, and Doug’s could communicate. Joe and Todd were on their own.
We changed into our riding gear, stashed our luggage at the rental shop, loaded our belongings into the panniers on the bikes, and headed out, two KTMs, two Suzuki DRs, and a Triumph Tiger 900. Aaron led the way out of town, weaving through the narrow colonial streets.
At the first stoplight, I forgot to shift from third to first and stalled the engine. I struggled to start the bike while Aaron and Todd sped past. The honking was immediate as three lanes of traffic wove past my stalled bike in the intersection. I was flustered and embarrassed, but the moment reminded me to take my time and learn gradually.
The 790 was the first big bike I had ridden, and now I was in the congested chaos of Quito traffic, trying to manhandle it. Within a half hour of leaving the rental shop, my arm pump was beginning to affect my braking and clutching. I needed to relax.
We approached the outskirts of town and took a hard turn west off the main highway onto a steep one-lane road that climbed us out of the city. I was challenged to find the right gear, lean, and speed at each curve. When the traction was good, I felt like the tires could catch and flip me on my side. When it was slick, I felt like the bike would slide from beneath me. There was no way I could keep pace with Aaron, Todd, or Joe. And Doug, with no road riding experience, outpaced me.
The tightness in my forearms from overgripping affected every input to the bike. I was late in each turn, missing the apex and going wide on almost every switchback. When we entered the cloud forest and started to descend, I could feel the hard tires slipping on the wet pavement. I was puckered.
On dirt, later in the trip, everything relaxed. Hard hits on rocks, sliding in loose gravel, and slithering through ruts put me right at home. I could ride a full gear higher on the dirt sections than I could on the paved. Completely the opposite of most riders, and certainly everyone else in our group.
* * *
By the time we reached Polylepis Lodge at 12,900 feet on the third evening of the trip, Todd was gone. On the outskirts of Cotacachi earlier that day, he had taken a paved curve with a sandy layer too fast and slid out. Doug, following too closely, barely missed him and also went down. Out of nowhere, a vacant cab pulled up and stopped. We put them both in it and sent them to the local hospital while Aaron, Joe, and I picked up the two DRs and shuttled them into town.
At the hospital, Doug learned the X-ray machine hadn’t worked in months. Todd probably had cracked ribs and maybe internal injuries, but there was no way to find out here. Later that day, Todd and his rental DR were loaded into a recovery truck and headed back to Quito.
Doug refused to surrender. He rode the rest of the day on an ankle the size of a grapefruit.
After dinner, we grabbed cocktails and headed to the volcanic geothermal baths in the spa. Steam rose off the water. The fog pressed against the walls outside. We sat in the heat, one man short.
“Fantastic day,” Doug said with no irony.
“I agree. Wish Todd was here,” I replied.
“This is incredible,” Joe added.
I was silent for a while.
“I’ve got an idea,” I said. “What if we shipped some bikes down here and rode South America? A couple of years. Fly home between legs, come back when we have time.”
“Sounds interesting,” Joe said. “Could be into that. How would it work?”
“Keep it flexible,” I continued. “Try to stay together, but ride on our own if the timing for everyone doesn’t match up.”
“Excellent idea,” Doug said.
“I’m game to figure it out,” Aaron replied.
A current of excitement ran through me as I finished my beer.
That night, lying in bed, I used Google Maps to see how far it would be to ride from Bogotá to Ushuaia. 5,904 miles. About 30 days, averaging 200 miles a day. The LatAm 5,000 was born.
The idea did not feel audacious or too big; selling it to Betty did. She was worried that my riding was a form of “escapism”. She wanted me home. Home, pursuing career aspirations. Home, by her side when she needed me. Home alone, even while she was off on multi-week business trips. Home inside, in winter, without the motivation to go skiing, something I had grown bored of.
Maybe I rounded the miles down because I naively assumed it would be an easier sell as a 5,000-mile trip. I could somehow manage to cover 5,000 miles with less impact than 5,900 miles. Nobody would notice I was gone if it were only 5,000 miles.
Before fading to sleep, a text pinged on my phone. Todd was back in Denver at the ER. Just a few cracked ribs.
* * *
At breakfast, Aaron announced that he needed to get home right away to negotiate a business partner issue back in Salt Lake. Now our crew was down to 60%. A solid crew, but not the one we started with.
Aaron offered to let me finish the trip on the near-new rental Triumph he had been riding. Before he left, we swapped bikes. I knelt next to the Tiger as I topped off its tire pressure and watched Aaron descend from the parking lot.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like the 790, it just felt tired and loose. Aside from the 78,952 hard rental miles logged on its odometer, much of what held it together had come undone. Tight, precise Austrian engineering had given way to rough miles and maintenance neglect. Inexperienced renters crashing it on the often slick Ecuadorian roads. Riding it felt cruel.
The Tiger seemed fresh, more exotic, and ready to charge.
Two llamas grazing nearby in the parking lot watched as I strapped my gear to the Tiger’s rack, then swung my leg over. The cold, damp fog slipped through the trees and numbed my hands. I turned the bars and shifted the bike’s weight from its sidestand.
I took some time familiarizing myself with the dash and controls. Even before firing it up, the bike felt balanced beneath me. Planted. Comfortable.
I pushed the button. The triple roared to life smoothly. I let it warm up while I helped Doug and Joe finish loading their gear.
We headed down the steep dirt road away from the lodge. The first tap of the front brake on the loose surface confirmed the bike’s precision and balance. It stayed straight and settled automatically after each big hit, manners intact. On the pavement, it lit up. The suspension was newer and the frame geometry tighter than the KTM — I immediately felt more secure on the twenty miles of paved, twisty road to where our off-road day would begin.
As I got to know the Tiger on the rutted two-track, my confidence with the throttle improved. I began to trust the bike sooner than I had on other unfamiliar machines. The flow came faster and lasted. The arm pump never returned.
That afternoon, the final climb to Piman Lodge went from single-lane pavement to dirt about halfway up. Rounding a tight switchback, I was too aggressive on the throttle and spun out, dumping the bike onto its side on the dry, moon-dust surface. Joe was 60 seconds behind, intentionally spacing to allow the dust to settle. When he got to me, I was already on my feet, unscathed. He helped me right the 500-pound machine.
The three of us finished the day next to the pool with cold beers in hand.
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What a great recount of incredible days. You are really onto something.
Loving the way you are writing about your insights and your struggle. Looking forward to the nest chapter.