By the Numbers: The Rundown

Inifinity: Inside jokes crafted, swapped, and retooled by two old friends. These got really weird. Like calling the guidebook the Oracle. Or amassing gangs of stray animals and telling them to go fetch other gangmembers to help implement our turbulent revolution, one comprised of stealing the morning paper to incite a news blackout. And terror in the hearts of scrapbookers.

Or joking how Linda, Andy's six-foot mother, has an amazing array of basketball skills, but becoming really specific with it. "Right, I understand that her windmill still brings the thunder and her footwork in the post is good -- good, not great -- all I'm saying is that if she wants to remain viable later in her career, she needs to develop her midrange jumper. Like Jordan." One million: Lessons learned, like mending, some Portuguese, simple motorcycle maintenance, drafting technique; but only a couple learned the hard way.

5559.6: Distance covered in miles (8967.8 km).

1945: The first four digits of my license plate.

630: Cost of motorcycle, in US dollars.

332: Most miles in a day.

125: Size of engine, in cubic centimeters. This is the smallest possible motor able to do what it needed to.

70: Length of trip in days from bookend to bookend. Precisely 10 weeks meant easy managing Week 1, Week 2, etc.

66: Top speed, in mph.

50ish: Miles per gallon.

30: Strength of sunscreen, in SPF.

24: How old I said I was.

23.2: Hours it will take to fly from Rio de Janeiro to Seattle.

21: How old I actually am.

15: Total nights spent camping, or about 1.5 times a week.

11: Largest number of days between these dispatches. Ironically, Santiago where I had been in the interim, got hit with an earthquake. The family was unenthusiastic in my lapse. Perhaps this three post flurry can reconcile that. Eight: Most consecutive nights camping. Seven: Hmmm, seven . . . lucky seven.

Six: Amount of weight gained, in pounds, after eating like a fat cat embezzler. Not too bad, really.

Five: Countries visited.

Three: Time zones crossed. Number of guages I had on my bike; Gas, Tachometer, and Speedometer. By the end, only the speedometer (the least crucial one, at that), functioned. The tach spun in a hilarious circle. The gas guage ... that I won't get into.

Two: Plenty of these. Two days, both long rainy ones, when I wasn´t having fun. I also covered my left hand in superglue twice. But it's most important to note the two lives irrevocably changed for the better.

One: Close call. I saw the whole scenario play out. We were riding through Uruguay at a modest pace, Andy in front and I following closer than usual, when one of the ropes lashing down both his bag and fishing pole to the bike broke -- snapped clean. A large backpack hits the pavement, ropes went flaring, and the new graphite fishing pole locked crookedly between the chain and rear tire. The tire locks and Andy autographs fifty feet of road via squealing tire tread in a dreadful slide crosswise. I run over the backpack and, terrified, careen past to a safe stop off the road. I will forever be amazed that he was able to muscle his diagonal slide safely onto the shoulder without falling. The fishing pole, which was a real beaut, was destroyed -- Andy was not. This was the day after Thanksgiving. (He later got a net.)

Zero: Regrets. Not a one.