It's A Secret
Post date: Jan 16, 2011 4:52:50 PM
It’s A Secret
She just has to have all the attention, doesn’t she? Of the 8 months I’ve been travelling, my bike has been down and out for probably 25% of the time. Pass me a pill, por favor.
My fixed bike died 60 miles down the road. It simply popped and died. The scenario was almost identical to the problem that put her in the shop a couple days prior, except this time I was relieved to find that I still had power. Maybe my 14 amp battery, the original, actually is necessary to prevent surge-induced death. The 12 amper couldn’t cut it.
Maybe there’s a reason why I was connected to a gas blower/sucker. Like a good little monkey I hopped off my bike, twisted and turned and tapped the hoses and carb. I popped one loose and gave a blow into the carb and I felt a distinct pffft like something pushing through. The bike started right up. “Okay,” I thought, “let’s see if it’s a fluke.”
That thought evolved into, “Hmmm, well, it’s manageable” the second time it happened, 20 miles down the road. Same scenario- pop, die, wiggle, whistle, wait and I’m back on the road in 5 minutes. Then it was 10 miles down the road. I did the math. I had 900 miles between myself and Sao Paolo. At a rate of 10 miles per death, that’s 90 wiggle, whistle, waits, and no guarantee that the problem will not grow into an undefeatable monster. With a great grudge I turned around and moved to Cuiaba, but then 10 miles back in that direction I thought, “No guts, no glory. I’ve already established the pattern and it seems repairable, if highly uncomfortable. I can handle discomfort.” I turned around again and waved for the 3rd time at the undoubtedly confused and amused road construction traffic conductors.
80 miles I went without interruption. ???
After all my discussions with travelers and locals of various nationalities, after all my thinking and opening to other possibilities, I’ve developed paranoia of my own mind. I think Vicky had the greatest impact in this regard as our conversations often centered around the power of belief. So, here I am riding the motorcycle that is/isn’t in ridable condition, with the great universal forces of good and evil, positive and negative waging war over the land of Gary. “The bike is fine! There was just a clump in the fuel and the fuel cleaner I added in Cuiaba is slowly breaking it down. I will make it to Sao Paolo without another failure!” Then, “The blasted gas-drinking cross-eyed mechanic doesn’t know left from right. He destroyed my carburetor and I will be stranded on the side of the road, have to pay another $178 for a tow to town, and go through the same process all over again in order to achieve identical results.” “No. Don’t think that way or else your mind will MAKE it happen!” “Oh, you’re just a thought. The bike will do what it will regardless of my superstition.” The voice of reason… “Relax. You’ve already overcome this, that, and the cousin of this’ that. You’ll survive. You’ll fix what you can and pay for what you can’t.” I continued like this for the near entirety of the ride, nervous about the mechanics, speculating as to the causes, and completely blotting out the beautiful countryside passing me by.
It died a couple more times, and by nightfall, I’d put 200 miles and the cities of Cuiaba and Rondonopolis behind me. I was in the middle of soybean country. Cropfields stretching as far as the eye can see, like the vegetable seas of Nebraska, and this little mental gringo on a beat up motorcycle sputtering his way through it all like a fart that won’t end. The bike popped at dusk. 5 miles later, she popped again. I stood there, waiting for the bike to start, which was not starting, and debated pushing further through the night or camping behind this conveniently placed stand of trees dividing the highway from the fields.
I erred on the side of caution, rolling her down the hill with surprising confidence that all will be fine in the morning. Note that confidence leaves room for doubt. As if to remind me of my humanity, my decisions, interests, drives, or what have you are usually a percentage yes/percentage no. The human wants many things at every given moment. Sometimes it’s 50% for this, 35% for that, and 15% for that, but we always do that which we want to do most at the moment. How we arrive at those decisions is a mystery. Maybe it’s destiny. Maybe it’s free will. Maybe it’s a cross of divine intervention and individual choice.
So many moths. Just ridiculous. I was swarmed, literally, by moths. They were in my hair, trying to go up my nose, down my shirt- everywhere. Made it a little tough to pitch the tent. I walked away from the campsite, looking around, and there moths on the bean plants and grass, but only here and there, not concentrated at a density of 10/square foot! I don’t know what it was about my body, my tent, and my bike, but those guys LOVED me and my stuff. “Hey guys! Party on Gary over by the ditch where the trees block the morning sun! Some great stink over there!”
Despite my greatest efforts, I still had 10 of the buggers buzzing around inside my tent after zipping up just as the rain started to fall. My tent hissed with the fluttering wings and legs of moths doing moth stuff on the outer tarp. There were hundreds of little silhouettes between me and the light of the moon.
It was muggy. I stripped down and pushed all my damp gear to the outer edges of the tent. It’s times like those I’m glad I brought my 2 person tent instead of buying a body-sized-only bivy. I laid down on my inflatable mat and was out in minutes.
“Rain, rain, go away, come back another day…” Holy crap. I was dumped on! I estimate 6 inches of rain, based on the cooking pot I set outside over half way through the night, after the rain subsided some. I was wet. The jacket, pants, and sleeping bag protected me some by absorbing much of the water that leaked through, but I still had to cover myself with a wet, silk sheet. And you know, I actually slept okay covered in grit, moth dust, and water. I was reluctant to get up after the sun rose in spite of the puddles in my tent.
The bike started. The sun was beautiful and shining. The moths had gone to sleep or something. I let out a laugh of victory like a Viking. I set back out on the road.
Pop, fizzle, fizz, my bike had other ideas, which she so vividly expressed 5 miles down the road. Hmm, okay, not the best start to the day after all. Another 10 miles, same thing. I pulled over to a rundown mechanic shop set up on a trucker’s stop, and the two old men I thought worked there looked at me without an ounce of interest. Some young guy came though and directed me to an “oficina de moto” (motorcycle repair shop) in Sonora, 10 miles back up the road. There at the Honda shop, the best looking shop in town, they helped me by saying, “Sucks to be you. Go to Rondonopolis.” I passed that city already, 85 miles back. At first, I flat out refused. They called the Kawasaki shop there, explained the problem, and they prepared for my arrival. I am so lucky to have women on this planet. They are by far the most patient with me, and patience is necessary when the person must speak their language word-by-word in order for me to understand.
I made it to the shop soaked but WITHOUT a single hiccup. THAT is the humor life shines on me. I took it as just another good piece of evidence to add to the pattern of symptoms. The mechanics were nice and met me at a gas station where I had to stop to ask for directions. The worker there called them and the mechanics came and picked me up. That’s service.
It was quickly diagnosed as a carburetor problem. Dismantled the system, which I’ve learned inside and out by this point, and the mechanic showed me the dirty, clogged air inlet to the vacuum piston. The o-ring was dirty and soft, which he said was a problem and likely cause of my problems because it probably wasn’t sufficiently displacing the diaphragm to allow for air to enter the system. He cleaned that inlet and replaced the o-ring. He also replaced my spark plug with an ACTUAL NGK because the one I’d bought from Manaus and installed before Cuiaba was a counterfeit! He also replaced the hose from the tank to the carb, the same hose the Bogota mechanic had replaced with a supposedly better one. The mechanic said that part of the problem may be caused by the Brazilian gasoline, which is rich with alcohol. He said there was little difference between the super-additive- gasoline I was using and the regular, but he seemed in favor of the premium. The motorcycle stilled popped when started, but it ran. The test drove went fine. He said it was popping only because it was receiving lots of gasoline, which he said my bike needed. So, Bogota tells me I need “less gas, more air.” The Cuiaba guy says, “more gas, less air.” Then Rondonopolis says the same. I guess the difference is a combo of the altitude and the quality of gas differences between the countries.
The owner, Loiola, a giftedly kind man, treated me to lunch and let me spend the night in his spare bedroom around the corner from the shop. I even had internet! I spoke with Vicky and Tim, which was nice, and got a good night’s sleep.
I was prepared for more failures because I just wasn’t convinced by the mechanic that it was ready. In the pouring morning rain I set out at a good time of before 8am… in the wrong direction. I put a solid 70 miles behind me before the rising mountains finally convinced me that I wasn’t in soybean country. I stopped and asked, and not only was I not on any highway that would take me to Sao Paolo, but I would have to return all the way to Rondonopolis to get back on the right highway. I could not believe it. I was supposed to go “left, right, left,” which I did, but I was WAY OFF. I didn’t see the signs because of the rain, and I wrongly assumed I was on the right highway.
Still, I put 600 miles behind me that day! Bike fixed! That’s the most I’ve covered in 8 months, since I left the U.S. But, only 460 of that actually brought me closer to Sao Paolo. No problem; I was halfway there. I was dumped on by rain 90% of the time, but I’ve become nearly immune to it. I just put the gear on and accept being wet and uncomfortable. I still plow forth at 70mph like a golden, racing lunatic passing semis on no-passing-allowed turns, completely blind due to the spray of semi-flung water. I chuckle without a skip of a heartbeat as approaching cars zip at the last moment to the edge of the road to avoid a head-on.
I camped through a dry night at a truck stop. Next day, through soy bean fields, neatly rowed tree farms, and cow pastures I roared along and was reminded of the many ways one can sit and hold a throttle to reduce tension in the wrists, lower back, and butt. Beautiful country that reminded me of the heartland of America. This is the Pantanal. I saw some of the most emblematic birds of South America- three pairs of turquoise and gold macaws and a black feathered/golden-orange beaked toucan! My spirit leapt with each encounter. These birds glide along with this indescribable air of timelessness. Maybe it’s the romanticism I feel in their presence, or maybe these birds really own a wildness that utters pure antiquity. I despaired at the thought of the loss of their habitat. I also thought of Toucan Sam and Froot Loops. I like Froot Loops, but they were better when I was a kid. Same with Lucky Charms.
Crossing a river from the state of Mato Grosso to the state of Sao Paolo was like crossing the border to the U.S. There were signs! Speed limits, distances to cities, signs I don’t understand but are also found in the U.S…. And there were horticultured, mowed lawns! It was surreal. I paid $15 in tolls, but a speed limit of 75 MPH! was worth it. I arrived to Sao Paolo after an unintentional detour through some small towns in some other reality, and I actually navigated my way to Michelli’s family’s apartment with only a couple wrong turns. And I was here by nightfall. Once again, someone to give me a bed, a meal, and a shower. My list of debts is endless.
Sao Paolo, the most industrious, developed city of Brazil, on the coast of the Atlantic Ocean. I was rewarded for my efforts when I saw my best buddy Chad and his beautiful fiancé, Michelli, come to greet me at the gate to the apartment. It was at that moment I realized how far I’d come in 8.5 months.