Mind you, I’ve got my mates at the show, Jon and Terry at Hawg Haven, my mate Steve Cain, Alistair Mcfarlane at MCI tours…these are people  I have known for years, and good people too. What is fantastic though are the riders who come and see me year on year and buy my stuff -  thanks lads and ladies, appreciate it…anyway, must dash, got to sell a few more books..until next time.

What is it about time, that when sandwiched between points of familiarity, it obliterates everything in between. It happens on any holiday…the expectation of the journey, the excitement of the start followed by the theatre of events that seems to take forever, until suddenly, you are sitting at home wondering likewise if you had ever gone away.

We are creatures of habit and animals of routine. We like to know what is expected of us. Practically we go to work and come home to our partners and children. At the weekend most of us get on our bikes and go for a ride. This is all fine and is the way of life for nearly all of us, until, once again, suddenly, you get an idea you want to do more.

It’s that big journey, isn’t it? It’s the one every rider has always wanted to do. Problem is your whole life has to be stripped away, the routine ripped apart like old floorboards. Your life has to be seen in the context of restoration. Remembering what it was like to live life on the edge.

The bike has to be prepared, paperwork processed and all the goodbyes to friends. No one starting a journey has a real idea what’s going to happen next. Then you are off on your bike, alone, with your partner or your mate and invisible to everyone you have left behind. It’s a great journey; you see great those plains and vast oceans and the highest mountains in the world. You cross deserts unimaginably big, and bit by bit, you succeed in making them seem small. There are jungles so pungent with fresh smells and decay you can hardly breathe, and salt flats so dry you choke on the dust. The roads seem to go on forever. And then….you are where you started.

Back home I like uncertainty. I sit in my office and watch the clouds scuttle by. I like the way every day is a surprise. Of course surprises are not always pleasant. Much of my home life is spent dealing with business shaking dilemmas that are highly stressful, but every new thing that happens, good or bad, pricks me into feeling alive.

Out there I am oblivious to home. Back home I am oblivious to where I’ve just been.

Am I glad to be at the end of the journey? That depends. For most would be world riders such a journey would be a one-off and unforgettable ride. It would be a story told to children and grandchildren until it became a Fisherman’s Tale (such stories take on a warm and unbelievable quality). It’s a tale that deserves to be told by everyone who rides their bike. For me, it is a journey that was crammed into a long summer. It is a tale that started out from the Hein Gericke store in Stockwell on a cloudy April day and finished in Wales in the autumn. The day I got back I had a party, it was my turn to look after my children, the visit to the supermarket, sorting out the bills….suddenly the book is out, ‘Parallel World,’ and this helps me conclude.

Conclusions…
ONE: Panama looked nice and so did Costa Rica. Nicaragua was cool whilst Guatemala looked like Honduras, and El Salvador was recovering from a devastating war. More specifically at the end of this journey I see a mixture of things that are jumbled up in my mind. I see beautiful people hidden behind blackened windows, and also people whose skin is stained by diesel, hands darkened by oily rags, teeth yellowed by tobacco and eyes full of promises that remain unfulfilled.
TWO: Violence, nothing. Not even a scowl.
THREE: Gangsters, yes, if you include shoe-shine men and boys under 10 who insist on selling you something you don’t want.
FOUR: Colombian drug barons? Unfortunately no one was malevolently interesting. No stories of decapitation in the jungle. No shallow graves. No desperados.
FIVE: Other bikers? Yes, five: Erik from Carlos Paz, Jorge from Lima, Helmet from Germany and Simon and Lisa in America.
SIX: Tequila on the beach with a cool chick as a temporary pillion …well, yes actually, and no, I didn’t get the Tequila!
SEVEN: Learnt anything? Err, I’ll have to think about this one. I know there are more butterflies in Guatemala than where I live in Wales but who would care? Yet, essential characteristics of some of my encounters are imprinted onto my brain like genetic code. Gyro who sat next to me, his arms the size of my thighs and his neck as broad as my chest; “You keep smiling son,” he said to me, “and keep your head down, don’t upset anyone and look as if you know your way around!” And he was right, I am fine.
EIGHT: Dangerous? Perhaps, but only over-indulging hamburgers! Waist–hip ratio is directly related to the risk of developing diabetes and the increase in Body Mass Index is also linked to my increased risk of developing cardiovascular disease.
NINE: And the end? Mexico and the United States of America! But now I have stopped. At the end I sat on a train to Newtown. The final leg of my journey was destined to finish with a bus-replacement service to Machynlleth on behalf of Arriva. I cannot bear to take an hour to cover a distance I can ride in 20 minutes. Life is too short to address time with such impudence. I also feel a sense of confusion. This journey ran out of time. It conflicted with my duties as a father so that I didn’t ride to Alaska. It is a perfect kind of irony that after riding the hardest sections of a very tough route, the easy itinerary, on excellent roads, in safe countries, remained untouched. 41 countries, 35 000 miles, five months, a slight revision on the early ideal of what I set out to do. Yet, my sons and daughter called for me. For many weeks and, yes, months, they had become invisible in my thoughts, forgotten almost, because how can you do something like this when people you love hang on to your heart?

Nick Sanders
Machynlleth
November 2008

You can see Nick at the The Carole Nash NEC Bike Show 2008 | 28th November to 7th December. 

I started riding at 5am and finished at 11pm. The spray was so thick I could only see the red lights of the trucks. For a while I thought that this was too tricky but slowly adjusted to the conditions and carried on.

I need to get to the Port of Newark by noon (Friday) to get the bike through customs and on board a boat bound for Southampton and catch my flight to London arriving 6.40am Saturday. It would be pretty thick of me to miss my own party!

Buenos Aires is one of the most charming cities in the world. Named Fair Winds by Pedro de Mendoza in honour of the Virgin of Santa Maria del Buen Aire, the Virgin of Candlemas, protector of sailors and seafarers as faraway as Seville and Cadiz, this federalised city has the feel of a great city.

I walk along the glamour of Recoleta, past gallerias and bookshops. Streets of small shops with the flavour of what they sell drift onto the sidewalk. Each shop takes on the character of what it sells. Tobacconists are full of sweet aromas and chocolate shops announce themselves with the scent of cocoa. Bon bons gift wrapped in ribbon sit on glass shelves saying ‘buy me’ in a squeaky voice. Antique shops stand austerely. Across the way headstones can be seen peeking over the cemetery wall made famous as the resting place of Maria Eva Duarte de Perón - Evita. The same woman who as the wife of Juan Domingo Perón, a charismatic military man of modest origins, once said with a fierce brand of nationalism and cult of the leader, that ‘shadows cannot see themselves in the mirror of the sun’.

In Recoleta, the necropolis features great monuments of dirty white marble and stained granite, guarded by a cosmos of stone angels and statues of the Virgin Mary. Evita’s vault is one of polished black granite marked only with a small plaque and laced at her gate with a pile of bouquets. Avenues of cypress and yew trees absorb the sounds of the city and it is quiet and peaceful and yes, there are the shadows and there is the sun.

One of the big projects of the journey continues to be the transportation of the motorbike. The process is the same at every airport but how it’s done is different each time. Indian customs present a face full of smiles and nodding heads but behind the scenes big bribes smooth the process. Customs officials look resplendant in their crisply pressed white uniforms, but the reality is that all of their hands are trapped in the till. The incomprehensibility of Thailand translates into a process that is actually efficient and friendly whereas Singapore presented the paperwork poorly, causing more delay. Here, as the bike waits for due process to be completed, ushered quickly I hoped through Argentine customs, it is beautiful to wander quietly without the sound of the engine rattling through my blood and bones.

In city centre barrios, the simplicity of the Rioplatense baroque style of architecture is evident through the works of Italian architects, unsurprisingly considering the massive and influential migration of workers from Italy in the 1920’s. Writing my notes off the Avenida de Mayo in the Café Tortoni, Buenos Aires most famous café, I am surrounded by pure elegance. Inspired by fin de siècle coffee houses, hardwoods of mahogany and oak, panel the walls and in the back, the humidor is empty except when I stand in front of the full length mirrors and imagine there is someone to talk to. The wood of the walls meet with the rich wallpaper embossed with gold and green and this joins the ceiling with corners of intricate architrave. The ceiling is held up by a line of deep red painted columns and in the corner by the clock, velvet curtains cover what could easily be a small stage. The way Buenos Aireans lounge in their chairs gives the impression they had all the time in the world. Inside the solidly wooden interiour, small marble topped tables were packed tightly. A father shared lunch with his daughter, someone read a paper whilst I had a coffee to the sound of a guitar being strummed.

I somehow feel so much more at home here than Australia. In making a comparison it’s easier to say what a place is not than what it is, but if Australia lacked a depth of sophisticated history, then Buenos Aires had it in heaps. It is this presence that this city didn’t seem to need to work at. This essential charm is the sign of a city made interesting by a revolution in thought and the way people were, without having to try.

I turn out of my lodgings on Viamonte and then left onto the wide expanse of 9 de Julio. There are seven lanes in each direction separated by a central reservation down which you can walk. It is a public holiday so the bike will remain in customs until the next day. After walking down three blocks I take the Avenida de Mayo and find the Café Tortoni. The glamorous entrance is like a small theatre door and a man in evening wear counts people in as people in their turn, leave.

On San Martin, Hotel Orly and Café Orleans give an impression of the Paris, Buenos Aires so aspires to be, yet as a city, she feels so more human. If Paris is a wedding cake, and Sydney an expensive muffin, then Buenos Aires is a pavlova, tough on the surface but succulent once you get to know her. There is nothing I dislike about this delicious city. She runs at a pace, which is never too fast, but quick enough to be interesting. By the Falklands War Memorial the Plaza San Martin is a verdant reminder of how cities with parks somehow seem more relaxed. Past the Palacio de San Martin and the glass Chancelleria on the corner, Arenales was lined with even more antique stores and art galleries, each corner engulfed with old fashioned cafes serving people who made time for lunch, sandwiches and tartas.

Black taxis with yellow tops - the same colour scheme as in Mumbai - circle constantly for fares. Men in suites walk hurriedly, those wearing rucksacks are more leisurely and old people gracefully link arms.

This expedition has been plagued with slow flight changes; 5 days Cape Town to Mumbai, 4 days Calcutta to Bangkok, 5 days Singapore to Perth and 5 days Sydney to Buenos Aires, totalling 19 days so far. Yet to go is Bogotá to Panama whilst the last flight home doesn’t count. The freighting is done with reasonable efficiency but the complication of adding security procedures to the vagaries of customs officials, missed flight schedules and public holidays, it is perhaps lucky I am here at all.

I am writing this book now, as the journey unfolds. By the time there is some conclusion in the United States of America, the manuscript must have its final reading, the design pinned down to please. I am tired. I sit in cafes and find I’m sitting upright in my chair and nod off. I work late, get up early and rush around on a motorcycle all day. I have ridden in high winds and monsoon, in tropical temperatures and pockets of air that could cook food.

The next day I call the freighters and they have found the bike. It will out within 24 hours so allowing me to journey north. There is too much snow in the very southern latitudes and the last time I was there I fell off and broke my ankle, only still to have to ride to Alaska. In Buenos Aires temperatures are 8 degrees and the wind is stiff and strong. I’ll have to buy a sweater.

Although the entry of the bike through customs was delayed because the Airway Bill document was addressed to the freight handler instead of myself, the people at the office in Avenida Peru on the junction with Belgrano are warm and kind. That afternoon the bike is released and later that night I meet Alina, a biker, a Tango dancer and a charming young woman who suggests we all meet up in her hometown of Carlos Paz near Cordoba. It is days ride north and there, she will introduce me to Erik Thompson, a man who has ridden a Jawa 350 extensively around South America. Erik had very little money and of course no on-the-road support, but he just went and is one of the most refreshing world bikers I have met. He is uncomplicated, gets the job done, is inspirational in his own way and capable of articulating his thoughts in a clear and concise way.

My new friends in Carlos Pas make me so welcome I do not want to leave. So used am I to my own solitary company, in a diluted kind of way it has become hard to understand what it is to lose something I don’t often have. Company, any chance to spend some time in one place is now so rare as not to exist. This journey, my life, is a succession of quick movements that obliterates any sense of social continuity. All I have is my bike. In this way, so often the desire to stay fights hard with the need to move. Staying is what gives a journey more completeness and in this way, moving is only made beautiful when there is also time to stay.

Sometime you have to let go to see if something is worth holding onto. Calm contemplative time is only part of the balance and surely has to partner the rumba of something quicker. Travelling can be compared to eating a good meal, well worth the effort to find, but all the better to rest and assimilate the food once it’s been eaten. Today I have indigestion. I have eaten too much travel; had my fill of moving, but still I move on.

Two days later, and while the sun was still high, I fall upon the small village of Tilcara and ride slowly up a narrow poorly paved street to park beside a café which has an air of familiarity. Gentle music drifts from a well-designed interiour with walls of colour and indigenous textures suggesting calmness. Down the street, school children, all dressed in crisply pressed white shirts and blouses, empty from their classrooms to make their way home. Over the way a small market square is full of traders selling hats and brightly coloured woven goods. Beside me an old man sits. We speak and he introduces himself as Rodolfo. He says he is a poet. Unable to sit I stand uncomfortable with this early finish to an otherwise productive day. The indigestion is in my head. Rodolfo suggests a place to stay and after a coffee I ride up this narrow street to the base of a mountainside burnt brown by the heat of a summer that occasionally extends into the fall.

Tomorrow I’ll be half way across America and the day after in Newark loading the bike onto a ship bound for Southampton and the day after that at a party in Wales with 100 people who I have never met and children I haven’t seen for 5 months. Life doesn’t get any weirder, hey but I still got my bike, right?

The book is coming along, we are on page 192.

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After checking into a safe but poor hotel I got on the road this morning and was approached by two bad lads in a pick-up. Knew instantly they were after me so made a run for it and they tries to pull me of my bike but missed - silly chucks - but as I sped off a lorry overtook me and scraped my side. I survived by reacting very quickly.

On the road now to the northern frontier with Quatamala then Mexico through the night to the USA. I must say I am looking forward to getting the US, it’ll be an easy run to Toronto. Job nearly done. Book looking fantastic.

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I have a strong cold but its not getting onto my chest. Otherwise feel fine. Bike performing brilliantly and tyres about to hit the 12 000 mile point - 36 000 miles or thereabouts so far I think. Pick more tyres up in Memphis next Monday.

So much could go wrong with a project like this it is extraordinary how the small things can trip you up - a dog, a bad bit of road, a puncture at the wrong time. I’ve pushed the envelope quite far on this project, would have been easy not to have made it. But with a bit of careful navigation and a bit of mechanical management, we might be ok.

The weather here is like an oven. It is baking hot and humid. The traffic benign, people are cool. No bandits. I leave at 5am tomorrow to enter Costa Rica and also Honduras, Nicaragua and Guatamala. I need to be in Mexico within 30 hours to make my flight in Toronto for the 16th Sep. I’m rushing because we have a 300 page book getting close to deadline and I have to be home to sort things out. Also, my children are pining and I would be a poor adventurer and dad if I stayed away a moment more than was necessary. All you dads out there will understand.

But, the journey has not yet ended. We have much to do.

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That night I am in a small hotel in Riobamba and the next day the ride from Riobamba to Guachala, by the equator, is splendid. Instead of suffering a road surface in which you can grow vegetables, the four-lane highway to Quito pulverises my time problem and keeps the project on schedule. The traffic is not fast and the pattern of driving easily deciphered. Ecuadorean motorists are quite polite, conservative even and move over to let me pass.

The weather is cool and there is no sun. I pass Quito quickly and on the Panamericano Norte head for Colombia. Short of Cayambe there is a text on my phone and a problem with the design of this book needs to be addressed. In Cayambe I look for a hotel with internet access but there are none. Someone suggests the Hacienda Guayacha back down the Panamericano and past the Mitel del Mundo (middle of the world).

The equator is a kilometre before the turn off for the Hacienda.

I am eating filet mignon con champignons by an open fire in the dining room of Hacienda Guachala. Legend states that when someone asked for something and was not given what he wanted, would insist and argue, “I am not asked for Guachalá.” Guachalá is famous for being one of the most important farms in Ecuador. Here I sit, a wide field away from the trucks and their steaming radiators and their belching exhausts. It’s not all bad!

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Right now 200kms 250kms from Quito on Andean roads. Just come out of freezing cloud but in the sunshine now.

Click here to see all the latest images or check out Nick’s latest video’s

Click here to see all the latest images or check out Nick’s latest video’s