October 31, 2015

I knew early this morning that today was going to be a challenge. I could feel my entire body aching and my throat was sore. Flu-like symptoms had me a bit worried, but I needed to move. I slowly crawled out of bed and forced myself to pack. I figured if I felt worse by around 10am I would reconsider.

By 11am I was still under the weather, but decided I was doing well enough to head out. I said goodbye to my friends at Colombia Paragliding and hit the road south, down Highway 45 past San Gil and on to new landscapes. Somewhere near San Jose de Pare I passed a motorcycle accessory store and decided to see if I could find a spare inner tube to replace the one I had donated a couple of weeks ago to the guy in need on the side of the road. And thus began my day of Spanish lessons.

In case anyone is interested, here’s a quick rundown on some Spanish terms and differences between Spanish in Mexico and Spanish in Colombia, and how to buy an inner tube (it can’t be that hard, can it?):

First, an inner tube is called a “neumatico”. Not “tubo”. Tubo means “pipe”. “Tubo de aire” means air pipe, which confuses the poor girl at the parts counter to no end, and she wants to know if I want to buy a spare exhaust pipe, or a spare intake boot.

Next, you don’t buy inner tubes at motorcycle dealers, or motorcycle accessory stores. Even the ones that sell tires, like this guy today. Nope…you can buy a new tire from him, but if you want a new inner tube, you have to drive another 20 minutes out of town to the guy that fixes truck flats on the side of the road. In Mexico, these roadside flat-fixers are called “vulcanizadores” or “vulkas”. As you travel further south into Central America, those signs get replaced with ones that say “Pinchazos”, which literally means “prick” or “puncture”. Once you get to South America, at least in Colombia, they are called “montellantas”, which means “tire mounter”.

Also, just fyi, Mexican Spanish doesn’t always work in South America. My Guatemalan Spanish teacher warned me about this, but of course he couldn’t tell me everything. Some very basic things, like “Buenos dias” and “Buenas tardes” simply become “Buenas” here. “Adios” is not used. Here you pronounce goodbye “Ciao”. Yep. Just like in Italy. “Parking” or “Park” (as in your car or moto) is “Estacionaminto” or “Estacionarse” in Mexico. Here it’s simply “Parqueo”.

So by the time I got to the montellanta, I had all the words I needed, and was able to quickly buy a spare rear tube and continue on.

Further south at Barbosa I turned off onto Highway 62, and the scenery began to get even better. Not that it had been bad. Highway 45 is a two lane twisty road through the hills for the most part, but 62 headed towards Arcabuco runs through a beautiful valley of indescribably green lush grass meadows and trees and a very Colorado-like feel.

At Arcabuco I turned off onto a smaller road for the last fifteen miles to Villa de Leyva, as it started to rain. The road started out nicely paved without any paint markings, just wide enough for two cars to pass each other. Slowly, it deteriorated into gravel and “residual pavement” (a nicer way of saying it was once paved but now is mostly potholes). Eventually just outside of Villa de Leyva it turned back to nice pavement and skirted through some beautiful homes and scenery.

Villa de Leyva sits in a semi-desert valley that, sticking with the Colorado references, reminds me of Gunnison or that area.

 

 

There is something about this town that has a good feel to it. It’s a tourist destination, but in a (Colorado reference again) Crested Butte sort of way. Not “cute” like Crested Butte but a similar laid-back, everybody-on-mountain-bikes-on-the-weekend sort of feel. At just over 7,000 feet elevation the weather is cool at night. The town itself is very colonial, with many sixteenth century buildings, and has maintained its’ colonial feel. It is about a three and a half hour drive from Bogota, so there is a lot of weekend Colombiano tourism here, and I suspect many of the nice, upscale homes on the outskirts are either Bogota residents or Bogota retirees. I could definitely relax and retire here. 

Outside of town is the Terracota House. Looks something like a Smurf house, and is a big tourist draw. In addition to the odd architecture itself, are some of the same artist’s light fixtures, door panels, etc.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the way back into town, I got stuck in traffic on the cobblestones and thought I was going to fry my clutch. When I finally got to the front near the town square, I saw what was slowing traffic:

Tomorrow I am headed down to lower elevations and higher temperatures again.

Hasta luego.

 

November 2, 2015

Today started off like many others. That is, my GPS tried to lead me in the wrong direction.

It seemed no matter how many waypoints I typed in near Puerto Boyaca, the Garmin was determined to take me the way that it thought best. Which was basically the non-scenic, boring way. Much quicker, yes, but not the way I wanted to go.

I had seen a road on Google Maps between Villa de Leyva and Puerto Boyaca that was a bit more direct, but also a lot more jagged looking on the map. That’s the way I wanted to go. So before Garmin could lead me too far out of Villa de Leyva in the less scenic direction, I stopped and inserted some more waypoints closer to where I currently was sitting.

That worked.

I often use places I’ve been and am familiar with as reference points for comparison. Today started out as Colorado high mountain meadows and valleys. Then it began to look like the hills in middle and eastern Tennessee. Then it reminded me of the Lake District in England. Then I ran out of reference points. The only thing keeping my jaw from dropping any further was my helmet strap. I’ve never been anywhere before like this. Rolling hills. Deep deep green grasses. All of it looking manicured as if I was riding for fifty miles through an extreme Griffith Park. It almost seemed like the entire hills were manicured. I imagine it’s somewhat like I’ve seen in photos of New Zealand. But different of course. No matter how many photos I took, it would never come close to describing the beauty of this road and the countryside. And the crisp cool air, at times riding into the clouds, just added to the fantastic feeling of this road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Up and over one mountain, down to the valley below and across then immediately up again.

And about here is where two things happened. First, my camera died, then my phone. So the photos basically stopped. And here is also where the pavement ends. There are lots of new concrete bridges, none of them open. Much of the rest is slick, slimy black mud. And waterfalls. A hundred of them. Some small, some substantial.

I pulled the GoPro out and shot about 45 minutes of some great one-lane dirt and gravel road along the edge of the mountain. I need to get in the habit of using the GoPro more, because these roads are indescribable. And there’s that old saying about a picture being worth a thousand words…

Tonight I find that my laptop doesn’t have enough space to edit the GoPro videos. So I’ll work on that over the next few days and see if I can figure out a way to do it. Meanwhile I guess a thousand words will have to suffice.

 

 

 

November 3, 2015

Another fantastic day of riding. This country just keeps teasing me with incredible roads and breathtaking scenery. I had so much fun riding today that I forgot to take any photos. Well, okay, I took one.

I left La Dorada this morning and rode south past Honda, which looks nothing like a town named after a motorcycle by the way. Apparently its’ claim to fame is that it was at the end of the navigable part of the Rio Magdalena in the early days, thus it was the port town.

At Honda I turned west on Highway 50. I really had no idea what to expect, but it looked a little squiggly on the map so it must be a good motorcycle road. That would be a monstrous understatement. If yesterday’s ride was the most scenic of the entire trip so far, today’s ride was far and away the most fun. I literally found myself laughing in my helmet.

Early on, before really climbing much but already in the twisties, I caught a glimpse of a super-moto styled bike in my rear view mirror. Unlike others who just wanted to see the weird “over-loaded” XT250 with Texas plates, this guy stayed right on my tail and seemed to be flowing with me in the corners. So I picked up the pace a bit, and he stayed right there. We rode like this — at the edge of good sense — for several miles, until I finally decided it would be wise to back off. When I did, the other rider pulled alongside, gave me a thumbs-up, and rode on. I stayed with him for a while, then slowed again. I could tell from his body position that he was an accomplished rider, and he was the first local I had encountered wearing high-end roadracing boots.

The road continued to climb and the temperature was getting noticeably cooler. Like in the 50s. Then the clouds settled on the mountain and I found myself in thick cloud fog, and quickly getting colder yet. Visibility dropped to about 20 meters. I turned my heated grips up to 100 percent, which helped, but the levers felt icy. I could see tire tracks in the wet pavement, and it almost looked like a dusting of snow. As I came around a bend a couple of miles before the summit, the super-moto guy was on the side of the road putting on his rainsuit for warmth. He caught up to me a few minutes later and motioned that he was going to stop for a drink at the summit, so I followed him.

He didn’t speak a word of English, so it was a great opportunity to struggle with my Spanish. We talked about the highway, the places I’d been and where I was going, and my bike. He bought me an aguadepanela con queso, which is basically hot apple cider with a large piece of goat cheese that you slice off and put in the cider until the cheese changes consistency, then you scoop it out and eat it. We both sat there shivering, trying to warm up with the cider.

At one point he asked what I did for a living and I told him. He said that he rode (or had ridden) a Yamaha 660 for work, and I asked what kind of job. He pulled out his National Police badge. I had to laugh. We had been racing up the mountain, passing in no-passing zones, probably staying at twice the speed limit or above. He definitely knows how to walk the line between work and fun. I was glad that my first encounter with a Colombian cop was chasing each other up a mountain.

 

We left the restaurant at the summit and again raced down the mountain. The sun broke out and it began to warm up quickly. By the time we reached Manizales it was warm again, and I couldn’t quit smiling. I was back in traffic now and as motorcycle traffic does in Colombia, young guys on bikes and scooters were passing slow-moving cars and trucks on the left and right. With my wide stance, I tend to be a bit more cautious.

As I was riding in a large group of motorcycles, I saw five or six pull out to pass a flatbed 18-wheeler just ahead of the car in front of me. There was too much oncoming traffic, including a bus, and there was no way I was going. The “passing lane” (hint: there wasn’t one; this was the oncoming traffic’s lane on a double yellow striped section of road) got very narrow as the bus passed in the other direction, and one guy moved over to the right slightly, directly into the young guy next to him, which pushed the young guy into the left rear wheel of the flatbed. In an instant I saw the kid’s bike jerk up and sideways as the truck tire grabbed it and spit it out. Somehow, amazingly, the kid stayed upright (his feet were flying), but the resultant jerk back to the right upon landing threw his body into the left rear corner of the truck. I watched his shoulder go under the rear corner of the bed and his helmet slap the upper side of the bed. Through little or no skill of his own, he managed to ride it out and eventually pulled over to the shoulder, one broken mirror and a lot of black rubber later.

I’m thankful that he wasn’t seriously hurt, and that he didn’t go down in front of the car. There were many more motorcycles beside and behind him, and the carnage could have been tremendous.

I had originally intended to spend the night in Manizales, but it was barely noon, so I kept going. Next intended stop: Palmira, outside of Cali. When I got to Palmira, I found that the city is much larger than I had expected, and the hotel where I had intended to stay was right downtown on a pedestrian-only street. So there was no way to safely park the bike. In light of this I continued on south with no plan. I figured I would find a hotel before dark somewhere before Popayan, or else I would find a safe place to pitch the tent.

As I rode through the town of Santander de Quilichao, I spotted a brand new hotel. I spun around and pulled in. The desk manager was extremely nice, and showed me where to park my bike out of sight of the street and in view of the front desk. The place is so new that I’m fairly certain I am the first person to stay in this room. Very nice, clean, new, with ceiling fan and a nice shower for $11 a night.

After the last two days of stellar riding, Colombia is firmly at the top of my list of the countries I’ve been through so far on this trip. The scenery is fantastic, the people are the friendliest and the food is great. Sorry Mexico, you have been bumped to Number Two.

Today was a long day, and in doing so I inadvertently cut a couple of days off of my Colombia schedule. Looks like Ecuador by the weekend…

November 5, 2015

Highway 25 south of Cali goes through a couple of severe climate changes. Near Cali the landscape is dominated by sugar cane fields. Several times along the road I passed orange warning signs: “Cruce de Trena de Cana” (Cane Train Crossing). If you can imagine a huge container trailer that looks like a shipping container on steroids — twice as high at least with an open top — and giant off-road tractor tires. Now imagine five or six of these linked together and being pulled by an 18-wheeler tractor truck. The whole thing is probably 200 feet long.

Beyond Cali I dropped in elevation considerably, and lost the lush foliage, replaced by low scrub and cactus. Still very green in many places, but definitely semi-arid desert. For a while I rode along a ridge above a large river, and couldn’t help thinking how much it looked like Big Bend in Texas.

I was almost convinced that this is what the rest of Colombia and Ecuador (and points south) were going to look like, when suddenly I began climbing again and the scenery returned to taller trees and more plants.

I had intended to stop just north of Pasto but had trouble finding the hostel where I wanted to stay. After three attempts, I decided I had enough daylight left to head a little further south. And while I am rather stubborn, I am slowly learning that I have to stop earlier. Once souh of Pasto, there is very little if any places to stay until Ipiales.

The sun set a half hour before I reached Ipiales. It was high elevation, and cold. I had the heated grips on high for probably an hour, and was too stubborn to stop in the dark and zip up the vents of my jacket, so I was shivering. I had a hotel in mind near Ipiales, but after 30 minutes of searching unsuccessfully I gave up on that one too. At this point it was full dark and I was wandering an unknown city and cold. I eventually went back near where I came into town and pulled into the Hotel Metropol to ask if they knew where I might find a hotel with secure parking for my motorcycle. By pure luck, the had a gated parking lot. A room with private bath and TV at this funky old hotel came out to $6.90  a night. I ended up having dinner in the hotel restaurant as well: a roasted chicken leg, rice, beans, plantains, and salad for $1.38. The hotel is clean and secure and I recommend it, with the caveat that it can be a bit loud until around 10pm due to the fact that the entire hotel is terrazo floors, so sounds really echo.

You may be wondering how someone can ride all the way through Colombia and manage to miss the three largest and most popular tourist destinations: Bogota, Medellin, and Cali. Well, I’m not a big-city guy. I’m sure there are amazing things to be seen there, and perhaps some day I will return to see them (I will definitely return to Colombia). But the traffic in these cities and the lack of secure parking for my fully loaded bike keeps me away. I’d rather see the mountains, the small towns, and the rural people.

The next morning I learned two things right away: first, my little 250 cannot maintain a positive charging rate with the heated grips at 100%, the GPS and the phone charger all running simultaneously for more than an hour. The battery was nearly flat. I was able to push it off, and about three blocks later I learned how close I was to running out of gas the night before, when I ran out of gas. Of course I had my spare can on the back rack, so it was just a matter of filling up and heading to the gas station a half mile away.

First stop this morning: the Santuario de Las Lajas. This incredible cathedral is built in a canyon, and rises 330 feet high.

 

 

 

 

At the sanctuary I met six people on three bikes with Mexico registration. Turns out they were three couples from Austria, Ireland and Australia who all work with the same organization in Mexico. The Austrian couple was moving to Bolivia, so they all decided to ride to Bolivia together. I met them again not long after at the Ecuador border crossing.

Ecuador is country number ten for me on this trip. The border crossing between Colombia and Ecuador was the easiest since Mexico. No “helpers” hounding me; just a guy that changed my Colombian pesos to US dollars (the national currency of Ecuador) and offered without expectation of pay to show me where immigration and aduana were located. Aside from having to stand in line for a while due to the large number of people crossing the border, it couldn’t have been easier on the Colombian side or the Ecuadorian side. I was able to park the bike within sight of each office and even had an elderly gentleman offer to watch it on the Ecuadorian side, for which I gave him a couple of dollars.

As soon as I left the border it began to rain and again got cold. This time I stopped and zipped up my vents and turned the heated grips all the way up, remembering to shut them off ten minutes or so before arriving at my destination.

It was a short ride to Ibarra where I am camped for at least one night and probably two. I spent the afternoon changing out the rear brake pads, and adjusting, cleaning and lubing the chain (first time this trip that I have had to adjust the little 428 chain; lack of horsepower has treated it well). I will need to replace the front brake pads soon but I have a fork seal leaking on that side and I don’t have the tools to change it, so will have to get the seal changed or borrow some tools in the next few days.

November 7, 2015

I had planned to head for Quito this morning. With the help of the local Yamaha dealer here in Ibarra, I was able to locate a fork seal at one of the dealers in Quito, and was planning to be there early this morning in hopes of getting it replaced. Unfortunately it began raining last night and has not really stopped since. I’m not opposed to riding in the rain, but I hate to tear down my camp and pack a wet tent away, along with a wet bike cover, if I don’t have to. (By the way, it’s really just the rain fly of the tent and the footprint that are wet; the tent itself is nice and dry and I’ve spent the last 20 hours or so in it, nice and cozy, reading my Kindle and working on my laptop). I’m really in no hurry at this point, so I’ll wait out the rain for a day or two.

Yesterday I rode into Ibarra and up to Laguna de Cuicoche, a mountain lake at just over 10,000 feet elevation. Starkly beautiful is the only description I can think of. It is a park, but I was the only one there.

 

On the way through Ibarra, I happened across a Yamaha dealer so I dropped in to see about buying a fork seal. They didn’t have one, but were happy to track one down for me in Quito. They had two XT250s on the showroom floor identical to mine. When I pointed out that I was riding the same bike around the world, they were suddenly surprised, quizzical, and excited. Lots of questions about the bike (no English — I am actually really enjoying attempting to converse only in Spanish), how it has performed, speed, comfort, etc.

My campsite is literally across the street from the Ibarra Autodromo, a beautiful roadrace course. My tent is about 100 feet from the outside of Turn One. I’ve been yearning to ride around the track, but haven’t found a way to do that yet. The last couple of mornings before the rain, people used the track as a walking course for exercise, and in the evenings bicyclists and rollerbladers use the track.

Just behind the trees in the middle of the photo above is a motocross track. Yesterday I could hear a couple of guys there, one on a four stroke and one on a two stroke.

I’m glad that the campsite has good wifi, since I don’t have much else to do while it rains. Looking forward to the ride to the equator (I’m just an hour or so away), then on to Quito, hopefully tomorrow.

November 8, 2015

My niece, who is a sailor, along with a few other people have been asking if I plan to perform a ritual when I cross the equator. Not being a sailor myself, and not having served on a ship, I had to look up the ceremony that is performed on ships as they cross the equator with first-timers aboard.

Today was my day, and although I still have no idea what the Overlander’s equivalent of the Crossing the Line ceremony may be, I am happy just to say I am no longer a Pollywog and am now officially a Shellback, or whatever the land-based version might be. And thankfully it didn’t require me to dress in drag or any other hazing.

It stopped raining last night and this morning dawned clear and beautiful. After giving my tent and bike cover some time in the sun to dry, I packed up, had a delicious breakfast at Finca Sommerwind, and said goodbye to Patricia and Hans.

Heading south on the PanAmerican Highway, I passed through several toll plazas. Unlike in Colombia, where there is a separate and free lane at the toll plazas for motos, in Ecuador motorcycles are required to pay a toll of 20 cents. I really wished it was 25 cents, because I started the day with ten quarters in my jacket pocket so I could easily pay the tolls, and at the end of the day I had more coins than when I started. Apparently there is no such coin as a nickel in Ecuador. You hand the toll operator a quarter and you get five pennies in return. Ugh. After the first couple, I quit waiting for change. I already have about five pounds of various foreign currency in my tankbag that I can’t exchange because nobody wants coins at the exchange places.

About 7 kilometers south of Cayambe is the Quitsato monument for the Equator. Across the street is a concrete globe in a park, which is not on the equator. La Mitad del Mundo (The Middle of the World) is Ecuador’s official tourism equator monument, and at nearly 100 feet tall, it is impressive. Unfortunately, it was erected on a site marked by a French expedition in 1736, and they missed by a good ways. All of these were placed before GPS, and I guess it was easier to fool people then (I think they were both honest mistakes at the time), but apparently the tour buses continue to take the hordes to La Mitad, even though it isn’t on the equator.

It’s easier these days to confirm whether you’re at the equator or not, since even most smart phones will tell you GPS coordinates. I stopped at the sundial marker on the side of the highway and asked the guy at the gate if in fact this was really the equator. he not only assured me it was (and I confirmed it with my GPS), but he pointed out the “Fake Equator Museum” next door, where they have interesting information on the various scams that people fall for at the equator. (The Fake Equator Museum is actually the restrooms for this site, but it’s a great second use of the building….and you get to watch the water swirl counterclockwise in the toilets too!)

 

The guy at the monument gave a 15 minute presentation in good English that explained how the pre-Inca civilizations understood the techniques of charting celestial movement for agricultural purposes, and the many sites that have been discovered in Ecuador from pre-Inca times that confirm their use of these sun-tracking methods. His presentation also focused on how we have been teaching geography wrong and all maps are drawn wrong; north should not be “up”. North should be to the left, and the equatorial line should run top to bottom on all maps. The organization promoting this, Quitsato, makes an interesting argument promoting this theory. Although at first I felt like I was in a Flat Earth Society presentation.

After taking the obligatory photo at 0.0000 latitude, I continued south to Quito. I got lucky, and arrived into this very large city just after the rain had stopped, and on a Sunday so traffic was not a problem. I found a hostel with a one-car garage that was willing to let me store my bike there for a couple of nights. The downside is that it is four to five times the price of every other night I’ve spent in last week. Okay, that sounds extreme, but I’ve only been paying $5 a night to camp and $7 for a hotel room. But I need to visit the local Yamaha dealer tomorrow so I will be here a couple of nights. After that, it’s back to sleeping cheap.

November 10, 2015

Quito is a big city. It has a population of over 2.6 million, and a bustle and energy that can be felt just walking around. Of course walking around Quito is quite a challenge itself. The city sits on several large hillsides, so many of the streets, including the one my hostel is on, look and feel like San Francisco. Which if it was at sea level, like San Francisco, would just be a minor workout. But no, Quito sits at 9,300 feet elevation, so hiking back up to the hostel, and elsewhere, is exhausting. I’ve been at altitude long enough now that I’m not feeling altitude sickness, but I am short of breath.

Yesterday I dropped the bike off at the Yamaha dealer on the north side of Quito to have the fork seal replaced. This morning I decided to take a walk to the Basilica del Voto Nacional, about a mile away.

 

 

 

 

 

Constructed between 1892 and 1909, but never completely finished, this is a beautiful cathedral to be sure. Apparently local legend says that when the cathedral is finished, the world will end.

As impressive as it is, I actually came here for the adventure. You see, for two dollars you can climb to the top of the tower for an incredible view of Quito. This is well worth the two bucks, and something you will never get to experience in the United States, for obvious liability reasons. There is no guide or anyone else with you; you are on your own, on the outside of a building over 100 feet in the air. And they let kids over the age of five do this, with an adult of course. No ropes, no harnesses. Nada. Personal responsibility. I love it.

You start by climbing ten flights of stairs (there’s an elevator at the other end of the building, but that seemed like it would take some of the spirit away). Then you walk across this creaking catwalk across the top of the cathedral, and up a ladder to the outside of the building.

Then you climb this ladder/stair on the outside of the tower.

 

 

It is indeed a beautiful view from up here.

I took a slightly different route back to the hostel, and ran across some more quirky stuff that is right up my alley…

 

On my way to pick up the bike. Will stay here one more night, then head south a bit more.

November 12, 2015

Leaving Quito, I decided to take the “Long Way Round” (sorry for the pun) and head east, then south through Tena to Puyo before turning back west to get to Baños. It’s about four times longer this way, but it’s also a road or two that I didn’t want to miss. And besides, I’m going to ride most of the way back towards Quito on the other road tomorrow anyway.

Climbing out of Quito, the road very quickly starts a climb that is much steeper than it appears. I could only manage about 40 kmh (about 24mph) for a good portion of the climb due to the steepness and the elevation of just over 12,000 feet.

 

This highway heads into Amazon country, and once past the highest (and coldest!) point it descends into lush Amazonian forest and jungle.

I lost count of the number of amazing waterfalls early on. It seemed like there was another every half mile or so, and in Baños they have the Ruta de Cascadas, or Waterfall Route that people primarily tour on rented bicycles.

 

In Baños, I stayed at the Magic Stone B&B, which I have to say is not only the nicest place I’ve stayed on this trip, but the hosts, Danish couple Ove and Aase are incredible. They’ve lived in Baños for a long time and are a wealth of knowledge, very welcoming, and they make a great breakfast too!

After checking in, I decided, at Aase’s suggestion, to cross the San Francisco bridge and climb the mountain to the towers at the top for a view of Baños from high above.

 

 

 

 

As I started to turn around at the top of the mountain, something caught my eye in a pasture that extended to the edge.

 

 

Coincidentally, one of the things I came to Baños to see was “Casa del Arbol” (the Treehouse), but this isn’t it. It just happens to be another treehouse. Apparently people here like their treehouses.

Here’s Casa del Arbol. I rode there this morning. If you could zoom in on the photo above far enough, you might be able to see Casa del Arbol on the mountain to the far right. Famous not so much for the treehouse, but for the swing attached to the tree.

 

 

 

After leaving Casa del Arbol, I went a little further east to La Cascada El Pailon del Diablo, or the Devil’s Cauldron waterfall.

 

There are four or five long tunnels between Baños and Rio Verde where Cascada El Pailon del Diablo is located. The tunnels have only been around for twenty years or less. The original road went around the outside edge of the mountain, and was one lane wide and paved with pavers and cobblestone. That road still exists, and if you pay attention, you can turn off before the tunnels and take the old road around the mountain, which is much more interesting.

Baños itself is very much a tourist destination. There is so much natural beauty in this area and outdoor activities, that the city has managed to recreate itself as an adventure tourism hub. This of course is good and bad, as I’m not a fan of hanging out in a town full of tourists. Fortunately the Magic Stone is on a hillside above the town, yet only a five minute walk into town for dinner.

 

 

As I write this the clouds have cleared and I am sitting on my front porch watching Volcan Tungurahua belch ash. It’s been doing this for years now.

 

 

 

Tomorrow I am off to get a better view of more active volcanoes.

Hasta Luego.

November 13, 2015

This morning I said goodbye to Ove and Aase, the owners of Magic Stone B&B. I feel like I made new life-long friends in the two days I was there, and I definitely feel that I will see them again in the future, though probably in a different town.

I headed west and then north, back towards Quito, but at Latacunga I turned west again and headed toward Zumbahua. The climb up to Zumbahua was windy, drizzling, and about 42°F at 13,000 feet elevation. Most of today was spent between 10,000 and 13,000 feet.

 

 

 

 

Not long after leaving Sigchos on my last leg headed back to Latacunga, I met Ian Willcox on his KTM. He’s from Scotland, but started in Australia and arrived in Bogota, Colombia about a month ago. He has a tremendous blog/website. He’s also headed south with a similar time frame, so chances are good I’ll run into him again somewhere down the road.

I planned to stay in Latacunga because I had heard of this incredible festival called Mama Negra, that (supposedly) takes place on the second Saturday in November. I guess somebody counted wrong this year, because after I checked into the hostel I found out the festival was last weekend. Doh. Oh well. The “other” attraction here, Cotopaxi, is closed due to the recent eruption. So I’ll likely head south again in a day or so.

November 15, 2015

I left Latacunga (elevation 9300 feet) and immediately noticed something was wrong with the bike. I was headed for the Visitor Center at Chimborazo Volcano. The visitor center is at an elevation of between 14,000 and 15,000 feet, so I was concerned about whether or not I was going to make it. At just over 9,000 feet my bike would only run 40 mph on flat ground, and around 27 mph while climbing up the road towards the volcano. I was determined to make it to the visitor center, where I had decided I would set up camp early and start working on the bike.

As I rode along I made a mental checklist of what I wanted to check:

• Cam timing (it really felt like the chain had jumped a tooth since it was still smooth just lacked power)
• Valve clearances
• Fuel quality (I had been buying “Extra” which is the equivalent of regular unleaded instead of “Super”)
• Air filter
• Air leaks
• Error codes in the fuel injection system (none were showing but I would run through the checks anyway)
• Spark plug (unlikely but it needed to be changed anyway)
• Spark arrester (I’ve never had to actually clean one of these on a modern 4-stroke, but it’s included in the Periodic Maintenance in the Owner’s Manual, so I figured I might as well check it….maybe the lower grade fuel was contributing to carbon buildup)

I was having to ride with the throttle all the way open most of the time, though if I forced it harder, I could get just a little more acceleration out of it. (This should have been a clue.) The closer I got to 14,000 feet, the more I was convinced that the problem wasn’t related to a fuel/air mixture issue, as it didn’t get worse with altitude; the bike ran the same at 14,000 feet as it did at 9,000 feet. I was convinced it was a mechanical issue.

When I pulled into the visitor center, it was very cold, the wind was howling, and there was nothing to hide behind to work on the bike or to set up the tent.

 

 

 

So I decided since the bike wasn’t running any worse I would head back down the mountain and find a hotel in the next town and work on the bike there. As I was riding down the mountain (much easier than up with only about 9hp on tap), I happened to look down at the heated grip on the throttle side and noticed that the wires running from the grip were touching the throttle housing. Apparently in all of the heat cycles from using the grip heaters, the glue had melted, the grip had rotated, and then it had re-glued itself in a position that caused the wires to bind on the throttle housing, not allowing the throttle to turn all the way. Doh. Never overlook the simplest of things. I had thought at one point that maybe the throttle valve wasn’t opening all the way, but I was going to check throttle cable free play, cable stretch, Throtlle Position Sensor adjustment, etc.

I stopped and forced the grip forward into its’ original position, and power was instantly restored. Phew. And embarrassing.

I rode for the next three hours in drizzle, in the clouds at 10,000 feet, with visibility at less than 100 feet. And since I had the grip heaters turned on, I had to forcefully grip the throttle to keep the grip from slipping. Tomorrow I’ll search for more Super Glue (that’s right….Super Glue. That’s what the grip manufacturer supplies with the heated grips, as regular grip glue is rubber cement and would melt when the grips were turned on. Just like these did, with Super Glue on them).

So, in keeping track of bike problems I’ve had in the first 15,000 kilometers of this trip:

1. Blown aftermarket headlight bulb
2. Leaking fork seal (aftermarket suspension work done prior to departure may have contributed)
3. Loose aftermarket throttle grip

That makes me 3 for 3 on problems NOT related to the original motorcycle. And ZERO problems related to the original motorcycle.

Funny story #2 from today: When I met Ian on the mountain a few days ago (see “Quilotoa Loop” post) I gave him a card for the Magic Stone B&B in Baños where I had stayed. That night I posted the photo of Ian from our meeting. Yesterday, Ian pulled up to the Magic Stone, and the owners greeted him as if they had been expecting him. They had read my post, and recognized him from the photo. It’s a small world, but nice to feel like you’re being welcomed home in a foreign country.