STROUDSBURG PA: APRIL 7
A third giant arrives at 1O am. The boss giant has sent him to fix my bike.
Has he much experience of bikes?
Never had one. Too dangerous. However machines are machines. Patience and logic are the only requirements.
He squats on the sidewalk and studies the bike a while, planning his moves. He dismounts a cover, removes the broken link and a further link from the chain, refastens the chain with a removable link.
Fifteen minutes and the bike is ready.
I am in his debt – and in debt to the boss giant for his kindness.
The boss is a type I recognize and admire from earlier travels through Africa, the Mid-east and the Indian sub-continent: a type of US expatriate. You find them in the oil fields and in engineering, agriculture and construction. They possess great energy and are immensely competent in diverse fields. Decision doesn't scare them. They act where we Brits would set up a committee to come to an indecision. And they treat all men as equals – race and religion not withstanding. Perhaps this lack of prejudice drives them abroad. They are uncomfortable back home. Home is too small.
Both the boss giant and Don Weempe are typical of the breed: Joe (my host in Granada) is another - good men in every sense...
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
AHEAD OF THE GAME
STROUDSBURG PA: APRIL 7
I sit in the lobby of the Stroudsburg motel, eat breakfast and read the paper. The paper is dated Monday, April 7. I check my watch: Monday, April 9. I have gained two days on the rest of the world. Better give them back...
I sit in the lobby of the Stroudsburg motel, eat breakfast and read the paper. The paper is dated Monday, April 7. I check my watch: Monday, April 9. I have gained two days on the rest of the world. Better give them back...
CLARITY OF THOUGHT
STROUDSBURG PA: APRIL 8
The boss curses himself for not thinking clearly. I have less than 200 miles to ride. A new chain is unnecessary. Easy to repair the old. For sure, one of his men on the job will have a spare chain link in his toolbox. The boss will have a mechanic come by in the morning - around 10 am.
The boss curses himself for not thinking clearly. I have less than 200 miles to ride. A new chain is unnecessary. Easy to repair the old. For sure, one of his men on the job will have a spare chain link in his toolbox. The boss will have a mechanic come by in the morning - around 10 am.
PREJUDICE
STROUDSBURG PA: APRIL 8
The boss and I wait in the truck while the sidekick buys fishhooks.
The boss says, “Never met a Mexican who wasn't polite and a worker...”
The boss is from New York.
The sidekick is from South Carolina.
This is the easy explanation of the difference in attitude.
However, my friend Don, a Dallas Good 'Ol Boy,would agree with the boss. All the workers in Don's construction business are Latinos.
The boss and I wait in the truck while the sidekick buys fishhooks.
The boss says, “Never met a Mexican who wasn't polite and a worker...”
The boss is from New York.
The sidekick is from South Carolina.
This is the easy explanation of the difference in attitude.
However, my friend Don, a Dallas Good 'Ol Boy,would agree with the boss. All the workers in Don's construction business are Latinos.
MEXICANS ARE RUDE
STROUDSBURG PA: APRIL 8
Jack at the gas station is stringy of body and of beard. He has wrecked teeth and a wrecked Honda 750. I am welcome to the chain. The chain is way too big. Wal-Mart is the next stop. Work at the power station requires a multitude of keys. The boss wants the keys hung on fish hooks on a board in the works office. The sidekick drives. And he talks of Boilermakers and how he is one of a dying breed. Modern kids won't get their hands dirty.
Mexicans?
Mexicans are rude. They pretend that they don't speak English.
Jack at the gas station is stringy of body and of beard. He has wrecked teeth and a wrecked Honda 750. I am welcome to the chain. The chain is way too big. Wal-Mart is the next stop. Work at the power station requires a multitude of keys. The boss wants the keys hung on fish hooks on a board in the works office. The sidekick drives. And he talks of Boilermakers and how he is one of a dying breed. Modern kids won't get their hands dirty.
Mexicans?
Mexicans are rude. They pretend that they don't speak English.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
HOEING
STROUDSBURG PA: APRIL 8
Giants require regular sustenance. We eat before hunting for gas-station Jack - eat as in mountains. One waitress is fun. The other is wary of giants - the sidekick is flirtatious. He has undergone multiple divorces. Born in South Carolina, he has a home on the beach.
Boss giant is a bachelor and owns homes in Queens and in up-state New York twenty miles from my daughter's home. We can't get my bike fixed, he suggests I take the bus and he will drop the bike off at Anya's at the end of the month.
They ask where I live. I tell them Herefordshire, that we have a small cottage but a large garden.
The sidekick adds a further mountain of fries to his plate and asks if I do much hoeing.
He and the boss are keen on hoeing.
I say that my wife prohibits hoeing, that hoeing is bad for my back.
I have surprised the hell out of him. He orders mammoth wedges of pie, flirts with the waitress.
The waitress giggles and flounces off. To the boss he says, “Remember those two hoes we met up with in Charlotte?”
Giants require regular sustenance. We eat before hunting for gas-station Jack - eat as in mountains. One waitress is fun. The other is wary of giants - the sidekick is flirtatious. He has undergone multiple divorces. Born in South Carolina, he has a home on the beach.
Boss giant is a bachelor and owns homes in Queens and in up-state New York twenty miles from my daughter's home. We can't get my bike fixed, he suggests I take the bus and he will drop the bike off at Anya's at the end of the month.
They ask where I live. I tell them Herefordshire, that we have a small cottage but a large garden.
The sidekick adds a further mountain of fries to his plate and asks if I do much hoeing.
He and the boss are keen on hoeing.
I say that my wife prohibits hoeing, that hoeing is bad for my back.
I have surprised the hell out of him. He orders mammoth wedges of pie, flirts with the waitress.
The waitress giggles and flounces off. To the boss he says, “Remember those two hoes we met up with in Charlotte?”
BLITZKRAIG
STROUDSBURG, PA: APRIL 8
We are in a dinner. The dinner has a bar and a dozen check-cloth tables. The giants have been in Stroudsburg a week and have integrated with the bar crowd. The crowd is male designer stubble. Dress code is check shirts or sweat shirts, jeans and baseball caps We are hunting the bike shop owner's home number. I plead that tomorrow would be fine. The giants are unstoppable. They are on a mission (imagine a two-man blitzkraig).
None of the bar crowd has the number. One of them suggests Jack has a Honda in pieces back of the gas station – Jack, you know, guy with a stringy beard?
Jack doesn't work at the gas station. He got fired.
Yeah, but he hangs out there in the evening. The bike's in the back.
I doubt that the bike would be a 125. Bikers in the States ride BIG.
I am being negative.
Negativity never stopped a Blitzkraig...
We are in a dinner. The dinner has a bar and a dozen check-cloth tables. The giants have been in Stroudsburg a week and have integrated with the bar crowd. The crowd is male designer stubble. Dress code is check shirts or sweat shirts, jeans and baseball caps We are hunting the bike shop owner's home number. I plead that tomorrow would be fine. The giants are unstoppable. They are on a mission (imagine a two-man blitzkraig).
None of the bar crowd has the number. One of them suggests Jack has a Honda in pieces back of the gas station – Jack, you know, guy with a stringy beard?
Jack doesn't work at the gas station. He got fired.
Yeah, but he hangs out there in the evening. The bike's in the back.
I doubt that the bike would be a 125. Bikers in the States ride BIG.
I am being negative.
Negativity never stopped a Blitzkraig...
Sunday, August 10, 2008
HEAVY COMPANY
STROUDSBURG PA: APRIL 8
The boss directs his sidekick round the block to a small, brick-built bike shop. A notice on the door proclaims the shop closed.
I am a Brit and a Blimp. Elderly Brit Blimps don't hammer on shop doors on a Sunday evening.
Boilermakers do.
Trail bikes crouch behind the shop window. The door quakes in its frame. The frame leaks cement at the edges.
I dread a burglar alarm, cops, jail...
BOILERMAKERS
STROUDSBURG PA: APRIL 8
A second giant, equally muscled and vast of belly, waits outside at the wheel of a grey four-by-four pick-up truck. I am thrust onto the center seat. My two companions are members of the Boilermakers Union. They are boilermakers from infancy – maybe even in the womb. Years have faded the Union badges tattooed on their massive biceps. They are refurbishing a power station. The first giant is the boss. The second is responsible for health and safety. The sidekick tells me pay is good – that it needs to be: Boilermakers don't survive into old age. Asbestos kills them. The power station here is packed with asbestos that needs removing. The giants have a work gang of forty men.
A second giant, equally muscled and vast of belly, waits outside at the wheel of a grey four-by-four pick-up truck. I am thrust onto the center seat. My two companions are members of the Boilermakers Union. They are boilermakers from infancy – maybe even in the womb. Years have faded the Union badges tattooed on their massive biceps. They are refurbishing a power station. The first giant is the boss. The second is responsible for health and safety. The sidekick tells me pay is good – that it needs to be: Boilermakers don't survive into old age. Asbestos kills them. The power station here is packed with asbestos that needs removing. The giants have a work gang of forty men.
IN THE PAWS OF A GIANT
STROUDSBURG PA: APRIL 8
I am inspected by the giant.
“You look depressed,” he says. “The type of depression that goes with needing crutches and owning a small bike with a broken chain...”
I plead guilty to the ownership and admit the depression.
The giant extends a massive hand, hefts me to my feet. “Let's get it fixed.”
I remark timidly that bike shops close on Sundays.
“We'll open them...”
I am inspected by the giant.
“You look depressed,” he says. “The type of depression that goes with needing crutches and owning a small bike with a broken chain...”
I plead guilty to the ownership and admit the depression.
The giant extends a massive hand, hefts me to my feet. “Let's get it fixed.”
I remark timidly that bike shops close on Sundays.
“We'll open them...”
GIANT
STROUDSBURG PA: APRIL 8
I sit in the motel lobby and drool at the lush scents of curry seeping from the owners' quarters. A giant enters, giant in height, giant in shoulders, giant in belly - late fifties and losing his hair - stained jeans, stained sweat shirt, scuffed work boots. He leans against the reception counter. The counter quivers. So does the receptionist.
I sit in the motel lobby and drool at the lush scents of curry seeping from the owners' quarters. A giant enters, giant in height, giant in shoulders, giant in belly - late fifties and losing his hair - stained jeans, stained sweat shirt, scuffed work boots. He leans against the reception counter. The counter quivers. So does the receptionist.
MOTELS A GUJARAT MONOPOLY?
STROUDSBURG PA: APRIL 8
Gujaratis run the Stroudsburg motel. The portly Receptionist was born in Gujarat. He attended art school in England before emigrating to the United Sates. He paints in his free time. His work is traditional Hindu religious. He shows me a painting of a Goddess in profile on a black background, lots of gold leaf and gold dots.
Why did he move to the US?
In England, he worked for the couple who own the motel. They moved to the United States.
The wife is British Gujarati, a university graduate. Does she enjoy the US?
Opportunities are greater - the motel business. Work hard for a few years and you are financially established.
Gujaratis run the Stroudsburg motel. The portly Receptionist was born in Gujarat. He attended art school in England before emigrating to the United Sates. He paints in his free time. His work is traditional Hindu religious. He shows me a painting of a Goddess in profile on a black background, lots of gold leaf and gold dots.
Why did he move to the US?
In England, he worked for the couple who own the motel. They moved to the United States.
The wife is British Gujarati, a university graduate. Does she enjoy the US?
Opportunities are greater - the motel business. Work hard for a few years and you are financially established.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
GRATITUDE
STROUDSBURG PA: APRIL 8
We hitch the trailer to the Honda, collect the bike. Stroudsburg is a fifteen minute drive. I attempt to give thanks, ask for an address.
“It's nothing,” my savior tells me. A nothing miracle of generosity! And so typical of my few weeks in the United States...
I set out on this journey through the Americas in 2006 from Providence, Rhode Island, the home of my ex and her son, Jed. I traveled south by train to Dallas and Don and Jane Weempe and adventured with the Boys with Bikes and was saved from disaster in Amarillo by the Angel of the Bourbon Street Cafe. Now, riding north in 2008 I was saved first by the wicked Muslim at the Texas gas station on my way to Galveston to enjoy the company and hospitality of Terry and Ed, Carol and Peter. I have been pampered in North Carolina by Jim and Liz and aided by Mike Townsend at the Long View Cycle shop. Now I ride towards my daughter and her partner in Duchess County, New York. Encountering such kindness, such generosity, why dare I be so critical of the United States? Why do I feel more at home, more secure, in Hispanic America?
We hitch the trailer to the Honda, collect the bike. Stroudsburg is a fifteen minute drive. I attempt to give thanks, ask for an address.
“It's nothing,” my savior tells me. A nothing miracle of generosity! And so typical of my few weeks in the United States...
I set out on this journey through the Americas in 2006 from Providence, Rhode Island, the home of my ex and her son, Jed. I traveled south by train to Dallas and Don and Jane Weempe and adventured with the Boys with Bikes and was saved from disaster in Amarillo by the Angel of the Bourbon Street Cafe. Now, riding north in 2008 I was saved first by the wicked Muslim at the Texas gas station on my way to Galveston to enjoy the company and hospitality of Terry and Ed, Carol and Peter. I have been pampered in North Carolina by Jim and Liz and aided by Mike Townsend at the Long View Cycle shop. Now I ride towards my daughter and her partner in Duchess County, New York. Encountering such kindness, such generosity, why dare I be so critical of the United States? Why do I feel more at home, more secure, in Hispanic America?
CITY FOLK
ROUTE 209: APRIL 8
I park the bike behind the church. The young man in the Honda opens the passenger door. The rear is loaded with waders and rods and fishing tackle.
He asks where I come from.
“You rode that far on that small bike...” He shakes his head in semi-disbelief. Then, “There's no sense leaving the bike out here. I have a trailer at the house...”
We drive through semi-suburban pinewoods country. His home is on a rise, dark-stained cedar, white window frames, perfectly maintained. Azaleas and rhododendrons are in bud. His parents live near by. So do his in-laws. He works for the electricity company, maintenance on high-wire pylons. He and his wife have a first baby. They were at church this morning. His wife gave him the afternoon off to go fishing.
City folk are moving into the neighborhood, building weekend and holiday homes. City folk complain if he keeps a pig or his chickens crow. We have the same problem back home. An ancient yew tree has been massacred on our lane. Neighboring women complained that the tree cut their light. The tree was there before they bought their cottages. It was there before they were born.
I park the bike behind the church. The young man in the Honda opens the passenger door. The rear is loaded with waders and rods and fishing tackle.
He asks where I come from.
“You rode that far on that small bike...” He shakes his head in semi-disbelief. Then, “There's no sense leaving the bike out here. I have a trailer at the house...”
We drive through semi-suburban pinewoods country. His home is on a rise, dark-stained cedar, white window frames, perfectly maintained. Azaleas and rhododendrons are in bud. His parents live near by. So do his in-laws. He works for the electricity company, maintenance on high-wire pylons. He and his wife have a first baby. They were at church this morning. His wife gave him the afternoon off to go fishing.
City folk are moving into the neighborhood, building weekend and holiday homes. City folk complain if he keeps a pig or his chickens crow. We have the same problem back home. An ancient yew tree has been massacred on our lane. Neighboring women complained that the tree cut their light. The tree was there before they bought their cottages. It was there before they were born.
MIRACLE
ROUTE 209: APRIL 8
The chain has snapped. I pry the chain free, drape it over the crutches and push the bike fifty meters to a side turn. Do I push the bike onward until I find a village? Or do I wait in hope of a miracle? The miracle appears in the guise of a red Honda 4x4 driven by a typically friendly young man with short hair and dressed in standard GAP. Sunday and bike shops are closed. He suggests I park the bike a hundred meters down the road behind a church. The bike will be safe. He will drive me to a motel in Stroudsburg.
I imagine, as I push the bike, attempting to push a Harley or Gold Wing.
No way...I would collapse.
The chain has snapped. I pry the chain free, drape it over the crutches and push the bike fifty meters to a side turn. Do I push the bike onward until I find a village? Or do I wait in hope of a miracle? The miracle appears in the guise of a red Honda 4x4 driven by a typically friendly young man with short hair and dressed in standard GAP. Sunday and bike shops are closed. He suggests I park the bike a hundred meters down the road behind a church. The bike will be safe. He will drive me to a motel in Stroudsburg.
I imagine, as I push the bike, attempting to push a Harley or Gold Wing.
No way...I would collapse.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
SO CLOSE, YET SO FAR
ROUTE 209: APRIL 8
Route 209 joins the main highway south of Stroudsburg. Sunday hasn't kept truck drivers off the road. I open the throttle to max in hope of not being run down. Full throttle on the flat is around 100 KPH. A machine gun fires a burst under my backside. The chain has snapped. The chain will entangle the wheel spokes. The wheel will collapse. I'll be catapulted onto the road. I'll have two seconds watching a truck's tyres before I get squashed. Totally squashed. Smeared. Except the bike comes quietly to a halt at the road edge.
I sit a while before dismounting.
The sun shines. I breathe carefully and inhale the scent of pine woods bordering the highway. Trucks thunder by.
What am I going to do? I am seriously short of funds. So close, yet so far...
Route 209 joins the main highway south of Stroudsburg. Sunday hasn't kept truck drivers off the road. I open the throttle to max in hope of not being run down. Full throttle on the flat is around 100 KPH. A machine gun fires a burst under my backside. The chain has snapped. The chain will entangle the wheel spokes. The wheel will collapse. I'll be catapulted onto the road. I'll have two seconds watching a truck's tyres before I get squashed. Totally squashed. Smeared. Except the bike comes quietly to a halt at the road edge.
I sit a while before dismounting.
The sun shines. I breathe carefully and inhale the scent of pine woods bordering the highway. Trucks thunder by.
What am I going to do? I am seriously short of funds. So close, yet so far...
DEFINITELY WEIRD
ROUTE 209: APRIL 8
Midday, the sky clears. The country grows more open, bigger fields bordered by good woodland, wealthier. Polished automobiles pack the parking lot of a roadside diner. The diner is low and light and new and built to last half of a short life time. I finger-comb my hair before entering and struggle out of a wet bomber jacket. Sunday lunch and tables are full. Uniformity in dress is obligatory. GAP or Old Navy is the choice in male tailoring. A smiling waitress with good teeth seats me at the counter and asks, “How are we today?”
Cold and hungry.
In England waiting is obligatory.
This is the US and coffee comes by instant magic.
I cup the mug in cold fingers. I must look a little weird. Too fat for a scarecrow, but, yes, a little weird: three short sleeve jerseys over one long-sleeved jersey, all tucked inside two pairs of outsize rain-proof pants yanked half way up my chest, two sets of broad suspenders visible, red and grey.
What is he? A pessimist? Maybe. But weird, definitely weird.
Country Brits would show their suspicions. Here bland faces hide any curiosity. Or maybe I'm invisible.
Oh, to be back in Hispanic America. South of the border I'd be in conversation, answering questions.
Fish and chips is England's national dish. In my youth the chippy wrapped your dinner in newspaper. Now it comes wrapped in off-white recycled. The smell of sweat, malt vinegar and stale oil is the same. So is the thick, grease-soggy batter and greasy-soggy potatoes. US fish and fries may be equally designed to halt longevity. However the batter and fries are crisp, the servings are immense and I prefer the odour of chemical air freshener.
I doubt that I can reach my daughter's today. So one more night in a motel. One more night and the journey is done. From the start I expected to give up somewhere along the road - admit that I was an old fool, that the journey was too tough. All in all, I am well content.
Midday, the sky clears. The country grows more open, bigger fields bordered by good woodland, wealthier. Polished automobiles pack the parking lot of a roadside diner. The diner is low and light and new and built to last half of a short life time. I finger-comb my hair before entering and struggle out of a wet bomber jacket. Sunday lunch and tables are full. Uniformity in dress is obligatory. GAP or Old Navy is the choice in male tailoring. A smiling waitress with good teeth seats me at the counter and asks, “How are we today?”
Cold and hungry.
In England waiting is obligatory.
This is the US and coffee comes by instant magic.
I cup the mug in cold fingers. I must look a little weird. Too fat for a scarecrow, but, yes, a little weird: three short sleeve jerseys over one long-sleeved jersey, all tucked inside two pairs of outsize rain-proof pants yanked half way up my chest, two sets of broad suspenders visible, red and grey.
What is he? A pessimist? Maybe. But weird, definitely weird.
Country Brits would show their suspicions. Here bland faces hide any curiosity. Or maybe I'm invisible.
Oh, to be back in Hispanic America. South of the border I'd be in conversation, answering questions.
Fish and chips is England's national dish. In my youth the chippy wrapped your dinner in newspaper. Now it comes wrapped in off-white recycled. The smell of sweat, malt vinegar and stale oil is the same. So is the thick, grease-soggy batter and greasy-soggy potatoes. US fish and fries may be equally designed to halt longevity. However the batter and fries are crisp, the servings are immense and I prefer the odour of chemical air freshener.
I doubt that I can reach my daughter's today. So one more night in a motel. One more night and the journey is done. From the start I expected to give up somewhere along the road - admit that I was an old fool, that the journey was too tough. All in all, I am well content.
Monday, August 04, 2008
BITTER? YES, INDEED...
PENNSYLVANIA VALLEYS: APRIL 8
I ride beneath a low gray sky. A thin drizzle falls. Broken-backed trailer-homes hide in dripping birch woods. The mining and mill towns are imprisoned in narrow valleys: Tremont, Minersville, Port Carbon, New Philadelphia. Battered pick-ups are a fashion statement - abandoned automobiles and soon-to-be abandoned automobiles. Shop windows are boarded up. For Sale notices thrive on small red-brick and clapboard houses. Sullen teenagers cultivate a tobacco habit. Health Warnings? What has life on offer?
So were the Scottish Borders of the Thatcher Government in the 1980s, mills shut, mines closed, a lost generation of kids on street corners. Bitter? Yes, indeed...Though Senator McCain claims that bitterness is un-American.
Tories in Scotland ceased to exist.
What future have the Republicans?
What future do I have?
For bikers, this is unfriendly weather. Oh for a little Global Warming...
I ride beneath a low gray sky. A thin drizzle falls. Broken-backed trailer-homes hide in dripping birch woods. The mining and mill towns are imprisoned in narrow valleys: Tremont, Minersville, Port Carbon, New Philadelphia. Battered pick-ups are a fashion statement - abandoned automobiles and soon-to-be abandoned automobiles. Shop windows are boarded up. For Sale notices thrive on small red-brick and clapboard houses. Sullen teenagers cultivate a tobacco habit. Health Warnings? What has life on offer?
So were the Scottish Borders of the Thatcher Government in the 1980s, mills shut, mines closed, a lost generation of kids on street corners. Bitter? Yes, indeed...Though Senator McCain claims that bitterness is un-American.
Tories in Scotland ceased to exist.
What future have the Republicans?
What future do I have?
For bikers, this is unfriendly weather. Oh for a little Global Warming...
Saturday, August 02, 2008
KIND COPS AND MANIACAL TRUCK DRIVERS
PENNSYLVANIA: APRIL 8
Forgive me for writing further of danger and truck drivers. My friends in Dallas judged my journey mad or suicidal. They warned of Mexican drivers, of crooked cops and crooked border officials. Mexicans in Veracruz added bandits to their warnings. So I progressed, country to country, each peopled by homicidal truck drivers, vicious terrorists and equally murderous bandits. Chance acquaintances expressed amazement at my survival.
I encountered only kindness.
On occasion, arrogance made me resent the kindness...As with cops in Peru.
I crossed the desert in Peru in a sandstorm. Cops stopped me every twenty kilometres.
“Hey, grandfather, are you okay?”
They were nurse-maiding me.
Me! A survivor of ambushes in the Ogaden, of Russian gunships in Afghanistan.
I felt belittled.
I stopped for lunch at a truck and coach halt and chatted half an hour with the waitresses. Two cops ate at a table against the far wall. They departed. I asked for my bill. The cops had paid. This Blog is my Thank you to the Peruvian police.
And yet, there is a downside.
All drivers in Venezuela are insane.
Most truck drivers in Argentina are bully boys.
Bikers, avoid Venezuela. In Argentina, ride with care.
Forgive me for writing further of danger and truck drivers. My friends in Dallas judged my journey mad or suicidal. They warned of Mexican drivers, of crooked cops and crooked border officials. Mexicans in Veracruz added bandits to their warnings. So I progressed, country to country, each peopled by homicidal truck drivers, vicious terrorists and equally murderous bandits. Chance acquaintances expressed amazement at my survival.
I encountered only kindness.
On occasion, arrogance made me resent the kindness...As with cops in Peru.
I crossed the desert in Peru in a sandstorm. Cops stopped me every twenty kilometres.
“Hey, grandfather, are you okay?”
They were nurse-maiding me.
Me! A survivor of ambushes in the Ogaden, of Russian gunships in Afghanistan.
I felt belittled.
I stopped for lunch at a truck and coach halt and chatted half an hour with the waitresses. Two cops ate at a table against the far wall. They departed. I asked for my bill. The cops had paid. This Blog is my Thank you to the Peruvian police.
And yet, there is a downside.
All drivers in Venezuela are insane.
Most truck drivers in Argentina are bully boys.
Bikers, avoid Venezuela. In Argentina, ride with care.
PAN-AMERICAN HIGHWAY IS A STEEPLECHASE
PENNSYLVANNIA: APRIL 8
A massive trailer truck smashed me from the rear in Tierra del Fuego. The accident has left me wary. I fancy myself an expert on truck drivers. Mexicans are the most humane. See a small bike on the road and Mexican truck drivers pull wide. They salute on the klaxon, wave. Peruvians and the drivers of Ecuador are equally friendly. Meet them and they say Hi with a flash of headlights. I write here of drivers away from the Pan-American Highway. The Pan-American is a high-speed steeplechase track. National borders are the obstacles. Trucks queue for hours, sometimes days. Frustration seeds hostility. Keep your distance...
A massive trailer truck smashed me from the rear in Tierra del Fuego. The accident has left me wary. I fancy myself an expert on truck drivers. Mexicans are the most humane. See a small bike on the road and Mexican truck drivers pull wide. They salute on the klaxon, wave. Peruvians and the drivers of Ecuador are equally friendly. Meet them and they say Hi with a flash of headlights. I write here of drivers away from the Pan-American Highway. The Pan-American is a high-speed steeplechase track. National borders are the obstacles. Trucks queue for hours, sometimes days. Frustration seeds hostility. Keep your distance...
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