Chapter 6: Highway Vagabond

Before leaving the sidewalk where we are staged in the shade next to the parking garage, we do one final check to ensure everyone has both 100-mile routes pulled up on their phones. The probability of being separated is high, and we all need to know where we are headed. We start our bikes and leave the entrance to the parking garage behind on the quiet side street before turning onto the Avenida Carrera 15, the main drag running through the city.

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

Me, at the top of the pass, wearing everything I had brought, a single duffel, and a rental KTM.

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.

Secure hotel parking for the night, the hotel owner looks on while Tucker fiddles with something.

* * *

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.