I RECENTLY STUDIED SPANISH AND
lived with a family on Lake Atitlan in Gua- temala. With a duffle bag full of donated art supplies, I also taught an art class. One day I ventured off on a rented, beat-up and poorly maintained 2009 Honda Toronado to attempt to ride some muddy dirt roads that I thought existed. I hoped there would be bridges over the jungle rivers I needed to cross. I carried a bit of food, water purifica- tion tablets and extra clothes with me in case I needed to bivouac by the side of the road; I was uncertain whether or not there would be a hotel in the next town at the end of the day. On the first day out, the rain was light and intermittent,
leaving behind multi-
hued emerald fields that glowed when the sun broke through the clouds. Along the roadside were bright yellow flowers and purple morning glories blooming in the fog. Some pendulous, large red trumpet- shaped flowers looked like the tips of their petals had been dipped in pale yellow paint. The cornfields, the lifeblood of the Mayans, on the steep hillsides had turned to a golden brown, waiting to be harvested. Riding uphill out of the beautiful colonial
town of Antigua on El Toro, the gentle driz- zle on my face shield meant nothing to me, so I delayed putting on my raingear until another rider stopped under a large tree in front of me. By then I was thoroughly soaked, not realizing that it would take my shoes four days to dry in this humid cli- mate. Nor did I know that this rain, which caused only two deaths, would be a rain that people would talk about, as it was unusual to have such heavy flooding so late in the rainy season. Because I was on a dual-purpose motor-
cycle, it seemed appropriate to take a short- cut to the town of Coban. My shortcut would take off about 50 kilometers but increase the time from less than five hours to, as I later found out, two days. It wasn’t the rains that slowed me down, it was the combination of very tight turns along with unpredictable road conditions, including manhole cover-sized potholes six inches deep that could bend the front rim. The worst part however, was the heavy gray fog that would only allow me to see two or three yellow stripes on the road in front of me as I climbed higher into the lush cloud forest. All the while, of course, I was trying to catch a glimpse of the giant deep green
My Honda Toronado.
leaves or the huge purple clusters of flowers on plants that I had never seen before. Despite his flaws, the little Toronado—
which I’d taken to calling El Toro Poderoso, or the powerful bull—was a wonderful way to travel
through the countryside. The
worn-out tires, especially the rear one, had cracks in the tread that threatened to split open. Days later, I found out the air pres- sure was less than half of what it should be. I carried no spare tubes or patches. The sus- pension had worn out years ago, leaving behind a slow springy sensation that reduced traction. Its rear brake was margin- ally better than dragging my feet. I never once got the back tire to lock up, even on loose gravel. The front brake lever was almost completely broken off, which forced me to squeeze it as hard as I could to con- vince the bike to eventually slow down. However, as the roads were wet, sometimes the front tire locked up and slide sideways, threatening to quickly drop me onto the road and possibly into an oncoming dump truck—or worse, off the road down into my final resting place. The chain was dry, sticky and made a popping sound at low speeds. I often thought it might break and leave me stranded. A few times, I actually thought of turning around and abandoning the whole idea of riding alone and unsupported on muddy roads through unknown country. Later I thought, "If you’re afraid, then don’t ever get off of the front porch. Stay home, live with (a false sense of) security. Live to
be old. That’s not my style at all. If I break down
and get stuck somewhere, I’ll figure it out. I’ve been stuck and broken down before and will probably get stuck and broken down again. No sense in worrying about something that MIGHT happen. What will probably happen is something that I didn’t even think of, and after that happens, I’ll figure out what to do. The foggy shortcut that I chose was like a
country lane between two minor roads. It only appeared on a few maps and took me on some very curvy and hilly roads. I could rarely ride faster than 35 miles an hour. However, even at that speed, I could pass just about everything else on the road – heavy overloaded buses, dump trucks spewing thick black smoke, quite a few motorcycles and most cars. This was a lot of fun for a while, climbing higher and higher into the cloud forest. Eventually the fog became thicker and the rains grew heavy, creating severely reduced visibility.
It
became dangerous. After about ten min- utes of water trickling down into my crotch, the journey began to lose its allure. With the toes of my left foot squishing the rain- water now trapped in my shoe, I reluctantly decided to stop at the next big town. Rarely do I ever turn around, but this
time I did to commiserate with a fellow rider waiting out the torrential rains. I’m not sure why it began raining so hard again. This town was built on a hillside, and some
June 2016 BMW OWNERS NEWS 79
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