Stop Smoking Harley Street

In the pampas horizons appear to be leaking. Llamas are golden, incredibly white clouds. We left the bike race. Suddenly, the view changes. Higher lead bike above the horizon line, a rider flails in the air 10 feet above the ground. This is not good. Jeff left the road at 70 mph. Katie goes into paramedic Jeff soothing, moving his hands behind his back, probing, check the ribs, legs, arms. The fall tore his jacket walking shoulder to the waist, peeling back the guard to open the We-Build-Bridges T-shirt. It is broken, but at times is laugh, flashing "I Can not Believe I'm Still Alive" smile that is his default expression.

Ryan pulls the bike and begins to pick up the pieces scattered across the desert. The luggage is destroyed. The right handlebar was bent almost to the tank. Mirrors, turn signals, front fender, broke in a microsecond. Both rims have dents. Incredibly, he still runs. It puts the parts that still work on the bike, he takes a test ride. It will last another 7,000 miles. Our motto: We will do this work.

Jeff tells what happened. A little bird had jumped on his way. The next thing he knew he was off the road, went into a culvert. "I thought, wow. I'm Superman. Oh look, there is the bike. Oh look, there is the bird ... "In a field littered with jagged rocks, he had landed on the sand.

BEGINNING

The trip was long before I was ready. A phone call, an invitation to tag with a group of riders embark on a BMW five weeks, the 8,000 mile journey from Peru to Virginia. I document the race, a fundraising effort for a group that builds bridges in the remote areas of the world. I thought for a long journey, something open, no support vehicles, the experience of being totally "out there." This seems to be the case. One third of the distance around the world with complete strangers. I had a brand new BMW F 800 GS and he was thirsty. If there was a point of no return, I met him before I hang up the phone.

First, the riders. Ken Hodge is a specialist insurance benefits and a member in good standing of the Rotary Club of Newport News. He discovered the cycles at the end of life, when he bought a bicycle, he rode across the country in 48 hours, then began to dream of a great adventure, something for a good cause.

He recruited his daughter (Katie a fire department paramedic), his step-son (Ryan mechanic and racer dirt bike) and Jeff Ryan, the best friend. I am impressed by the preparations. They ride old BMW 1150 R & F 650 singles. Ryan had spent a year to renew the bike, poking inside the folds, memory repair manuals for each machine. They bring enough tools and parts for virtually all cases of emergency.

In the Andes

We stop in Nazca to see ancient figures scraped into the rocky desert. From the top of a tower, we can see a figure with hands raised. Just north, the Pan American Highway cuts a lizard's face, decapitating the creature. Bound by the development of tight brass flow levels, the surveyors who laid on the road are not even aware of the sacred relics, discovered in aerial flight became common.

I realize that we are blinded by the accent, the concentration that the inspectors have been through their instrument. The trip will be a series of images, glances, caught by speed.

The descendants of people who built the Inca Trail, Peruvian manufacturers know their stuff. But it is interlaced, managed the flow of momentum, which has all our respect. The road climbs ancient seabed, hills covered slope, fracture dry ridges with ridges carved by landslides. At noon, we are on a high pampas inhabited by thousands of vicua±a and alpaca. In the distance, our first sight of snow.