Chapter 5: A Little Help From My Friends

We plan to meet in Bogotá on the Sunday after Thanksgiving. This gives us two weeks to retrieve our bikes, explore central Colombia, and finish the leg in Quito. Plenty of time for me to get back for a Board meeting and for all of us to close out the year. Tucker and I have refined, but not fully reconciled, the route and the places we will visit.

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.

Aaron, Me & Moto Man, Evan, and Tucker in front of the rental office.

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!