October 17, 2015

It’s a few minutes after 8am when I hear someone call “Patricio” from the kitchen. Is someone calling me? “Patricio!” she says louder. I walk out of my room, and sure enough, Mom is calling me to the breakfast table with a big smile. My breakfast is ready and she doesn’t want it to get cold. The Colombian warmth is still catching me by surprise.

At breakfast I meet yet another Swiss traveler who has been here for six weeks, learning to paraglide. She says she had no intent to do this, but circumstances fell into place, and she has fallen in love with the sport. Now she is struggling with the reality that her visa will expire next month and she must return home. I suppose there are worse places to return to than Switzerland if your first love is paragliding.

I’ve been looking forward to today’s ride for quite a while. There is a back road from Giron, on the edge of Bucaramanga, along the mountains through Zapatoca and eventually down across the Rio Suarez then back up and into Barichara. The whole thing is only about 120 kilometers, and it should take about 4 hours. Last night I looked at Google Maps, and at my Maps With Me app, and I found that the road in front of the hostel is a shortcut across to the road to Zapatoca. So I don’t have to go back down the mountain and through Bucaramanga to Giron.

I head further up the hill to Ruitoque and beyond. The road turns to dirt. Then it gets narrow. It passes through a small village, down a hill, and along a farm, where it dead ends into someone’s house. I check the GPS. It says turn around. Huh, no kidding. I check Maps With Me. It says the road continues through the guy’s house. I think I’ll skip that attempt.

Having started a bit late, I decide to head back down the mountain and just follow Highway 45A south towards San Gil. Chicamocha National Park and Canyon are on this road, and are supposed to be worth the stop. About 10 miles further south I spot a sign that says “Chicamocha Mirador” pointing up a road to the right. I turn off and start climbing. It’s a good road, and fun. In about eight miles I’m at what seems to be the top, but I haven’t seen the Mirador yet. I keep going. For fun I put Zapatoca back in the GPS. Incredibly, it says this road goes there. Okay, here’s my second shortcut attempt.

 

Twenty miles in, I arrive at Los Santos, a very small village in the canyon. And the end of the road. Again, both GPS and Maps With Me are now telling me to turn around and go back. Like I have a choice?? At this point I decide to just head back to the highway and stick to it all the way to San Gil and then head to Barichara. I will try again in a day or two to find the elusive back road. (Of course, had I started in Giron, like I was supposed to, I’m sure it wouldn’t be elusive.)

Highway 45A isn’t a bad road itself. The scenery is beautiful for much of the ride, and the road is twisty and climbs through the mountains. Aside from having to pass a number of large trucks that are straining to climb the hills, it’s a relaxing ride.

At one point as I’m running along at my usual 50mph (80kph), a car in front of me kicks up a black plastic bag. It flies towards me, and in an odd moment, it hooks on the GoPro mount on top of my helmet. Suddenly my head is attached to an open parachute at 50mph. It takes several seconds struggling with the bag to get it untangled from atop my helmet. That’s a new experience. Shortly after, I get stung by another wasp, in the same spot as a few weeks ago (on my collarbone). It stings, but it’s the annoyance of knowing it’s going to itch for several days that really bugs me. I suppose the wasps and unintentional helmet parachutes just add to the adventure. At least that’s my take on it.

 

I finally arrive at Barichara mid-afternoon. It’s hard to describe the feel of this town; both beautiful and somewhat creepy at the same time. It’s Saturday afternoon and the town feels deserted. The wide stone streets are laid out in a perfect square pattern, and the entire town is painted entirely white, with a bit of green and a few blue doors here and there.

 

 

 

 

I’m staying at the Tinto Hostel, which came with good recommendations from other travelers. I’m not as impressed, but overall for the price it’s nice enough. And as always, it has secure parking.

October 18, 2015

This morning I’m determined to ride to Zapatoca from Barichara. On Google Maps and Maps.Me I can see the road, even though both of those and my Garmin GPS tell me the only way there is back through Bucaramanga on the highway. I know better, and I will find the road.

After breakfast in town, I walk to the edge of town and find the road heading out towards the valley and Galan. This is my first leg.

I return to the hostel, suit up and ride out of town. About 10 kilometers down a beautiful small paved road I am in Guane, just as church is letting out. It’s a very quaint tiny village, but it’s once again at the end of the road.

Backtracking a few kilometers, I find an unmarked dirt road. Maps.Me says this is it. A few kilometers later and I can see the bridge over the river below me. At least I know I can get to Galan now, and if I can get to Galan, I can get to Zapatoca.

 

 

 

The dirt road is a bit rough in places, but overall it’s a great ride. The views of the canyon are huge. I pass through Galan and La Fuente, each about eight blocks square (standard Colonial layout) with the entrance in the southeast corner and the exit in the northwest corner, forcing me to ride through town, typically around the town square in the center of the village.

 

 

After La Fuente, it’s about another 20 kilometers to Zapatoca, where I stop for lunch and refuel before heading back. I am relieved that I was finally able to find this road, and glad that I didn’t miss it. The scenery is worth every minute and every rock on the road. This would be a perfect off-road excursion for a BMW or my Super Tenere, and I wouldn’t hesitate to do this route two-up on a big bike, as long as it isn’t raining. There are definitely places on the road that would be extremely slick if it was raining. That said, it rained last night in Barichara, and the road was in good shape this morning.

Heading back, as I round a corner in the middle of nowhere there is a guy standing next to his motorcycle, and two national police officers on another bike next to him. He looks like he’s having bike problems, so I turn around to ask if I can help. The second officer positions his large rifle as if I’m a threat. In my mind, I’m thinking “Come on, I’m clearly a foreign tourist. Nobody here wears this alien stuff.”

When I ask if he needs help, he points to the piece of inner tube sticking out of his rear tire. I quickly determine that he has ridden with the rear tire flat long enough that it has torn the valve stem from the tube. I pull out my tools and begin to remove his rear wheel. The police decide that I have things under control and they leave.

Two more guys ride up on a scooter. They are clearly friends of the guy with the flat tire. With the wheel off the bike, I use my tire irons to remove the tire and tube, and pull a new tube from my pannier. At this point the three of them are looking at me like I just landed here from Mars, and I can understand. When was the last time one of them had a flat, and some guy from the U.S. rolled up, produced the correct size inner tube, and installed it while they watched? Likely never.

New tube installed, I use my air compressor to inflate the tire and reinstall the wheel. Good to go in about 20 minutes. During this time, the poor guy has tried to help a few times, but mostly they’ve been discussing how much this is going to cost him. So when he asks and all I say is “Buen viaje” (good travels), he is a bit stunned.

I figure karma is a good thing, and I can’t help but think about the story he will tell at the bar for the next week or so about this American guy that just showed up out of the blue and fixed his flat for free. Colombia and its’ people have been good to me. A little payback was in order.

October 22, 2015

I’ve been in the same place for several days now, but I haven’t posted anything and haven’t turned the tracker on, so I started getting emails asking if I was alright. So I figured I’d better post something.

First off, yes, I’m fine. On my “to do” list when I started planning this trip was to learn to paraglide in Colombia or Peru. I decided on Colombia Paragliding in Bucaramanga. They have a hostel right next door to the fly site, so it’s quick and easy. Well, quick anyway.

After two days of lessons and another tandem flight with an instructor, I did three solo flights today. It’s important to note that there is no “bunny hill” here; your first take off is off a hill into the air and the ground drops away quickly until you are about 800 feet above the ground. The conditions here are very predictable, and each morning is very calm, followed by stronger (intermediate level) winds from about 11am until mid to late afternoon, when it calms down again.

 

I’m exhausted from the first two days of fighting with the wing while on the ground, but the practice is obviously necessary. I’ll be here for another week before I head south. I’ll try to post a couple of more times as I progress, and I have Sunday off from school so I plan to go exploring….maybe find the road from this side (Giron) to Zapatoca after all.

October 28, 2015

Just a quick update: I am still in Bucaramanga, Colombia attending paragliding school, known as parapente here. It’s also affectionately referred to as “Para-Waiting”, as in all geared up and waiting for the right wind conditions to launch.

The conditions here at Las Aguilas are very predictable: no wind in the morning, clear skies, with heat slowly building, creating cumulus clouds and thermals by mid to late morning, which makes for good flying for a beginner like me. With the lift created by the thermals, I can launch from the site, which is about 800 feet above the landing zone, and climb another 800 feet or so. Without the thermals, on my early morning flights, I do what Colombianos call “piano”. I think it has to do with the sound a piano makes when you drag your finger from the highest to the lowest notes. That’s the sound of going straight from the launch site down to the landing site; about a five to minute ride at best unless I catch a little updraft off the hills.

It’s too windy for a beginner like me to fly from about 11am to around 4:30pm, so much of my day is spent either studying or “kiting” — flying the wing on the ground and learning to handle it better. Then the wind dies down again and I (hopefully) get to fly again just before sunset.

As of this morning, I have ten solo flights. I’m hoping to do another ten to fifteen over the next few days, which is possible but wind conditions will dictate. I am longing for the road, and ready to travel, but need to complete this course first.

So stay tuned. I promise to be blogging from the road again by next Tuesday at the latest.

October 30, 2015

After nine days or so of paragliding school, I have to make a tough decision. My right shoulder is aching and I’m losing strength in my right arm when I raise it above 90 degrees. This is the same shoulder I had rotator cuff surgery on about 4 years ago. I really don’t want to stop flying, but I also don’t want to cause damage that will prevent me from riding.

So after 13 solo flights, including thermaling to cloudbase and ridge soaring, I have decided to stop. The rotator cuff is talking loudly and while I can mask the pain with medication, I’m afraid of continuing the damage. It’s time to listen to the rotator cuff. As always, when things are good and there is no pain, I ignore the opportunities to work out and strengthen my shoulder. When things get worse, I regret not being in better shape.

Suprisingly, l didn’t expect shoulder problems. I expected knee or ankle problems from hard landings. Although I had a few less than desirable harder landings, I had no problems with my legs. I think the shoulder probably would have fared better if I had realized in the first couple of days what I was doing wrong with my upper body during launching, fighting the wing instead of finessing it. My instructor tried to explain it, but it just didn’t sink in until too late.

Regardless, I had a great time at a great location learning to fly a paraglider. It’s something I definitely want to continue in the future, but I will be better prepared with my shoulder before taking it up again.

My current plan is to depart here tomorrow and head south. It will be tough to leave The Nest hostel at Colombia Paragliding. This place is very comfortable, with an incredible full breakfast (and an even bigger and better optional lunch), and you can sit on the porch and watch the paragliders all day.

I still have another week of exploring Colombia before entering Ecuador, which is obviously not enough time, but there are a number of great sites I want to see here.

Adelante!

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.