The Arsenal II

Except for that hammock, each item has come in handy and if it´s waterproof, it has been critical. The longest day of travel thus far has been stacked up, knocked down, and tallying some 240 miles . . . about Canada to Oregon. It followed the pattern, one we call ¨The Standard¨. (¨Wanna pull a Standard today?¨) Start in a city. Hoard food. Leave. Find a river. Eat, camp there. The sturdy river was suitable enough with flat flashflood-susceptible banks and just few enough people. Andy ¨I was born to kill fish¨ Lemberg was wishing for a pole, or at best a net, anything to trump the other fishermen howling over their catch writhing in plastic grocery bags. The same day he gets his pole, I´ll land a harmonica to fully recreate a whitewashed Twain tale once and for all. Anyway. Dinner had concluded, the tent was staked, and a night of sleeping on sand (more relaxing than it sounds) next to the sound of water (more relaxing than I can always remember) was brutally interrupted by the upheaval of thunder and bleach flashbulbs of lightning. The sound of water is only soothing in a riverflow, not a downpour clattering off a tent. We´re a pair of Nor´westerns conceived among drizzle -- heck, proud of it! This was like nothing we had ever been in. Relentless gusts of wind and water crippled the tent into leaning over like a table with two legs kicked out. The whole sordid affair might have blown back to Kansas right then. Instead, we got up, dusted off the windblown sand, rigged some oatmeal, rolled smoothly into Cordoba and (guidebook be praised) right into the first all-you-eat buffet. I thought about how to strategically attack such an opportunity for many hours beforehand, like avoiding potatoes and concentrating the early plates on seafood. It was a phenomenal quality. Here, in the Land of Steak, there was a man, very serious with his work, who´s sole job is to roast as much steak as anyone wants. Afterwards, and I´ll be honest here, I wasn´t okay. I staggered back to a bed and, after the prior night´s torrent, into a coma. There was little breakfast the next morning.

Rubber Hooves

As Andy's Uncle Norm once wrote, himself an experienced motorcycle man: ¨(Everyone else) may as well be watching the Travel Channel.¨ Riding a motorcycle for the inexperienced (me) takes a squinting concentration. It takes all four limbs to crank the throttle, press the brakes, toggle the signals, and shift the gears -- to say nothing of keeping your head on straight to steer the thing past a truck. Given time, the whole process soon melts down to a liquid parallel of your instinct with this loud machine and the road. In short, I got the hang of it. Andy had it already. But, still, none of that excavates into the trove of senses being redlined: You discover a smooth crease among the Bolivian gravel, everything ceases from the washboard chattering to a smooth glide. Someone´s cooking with a wood fire, you smell the wood smolder. A semi-truck grinds by going the opposite way, there´s a flicker of calm air right before -- hold on tight! -- the trailing storm presses your chest lifting your body up. But the sounds. Oh the sounds, those are my most prized, bar none. The sounds are one of two types; neither are ever, ever quiet. On an open straightaway, two twin bikes side by side drifting in and out of twin speeds . . . harmonize. A combustible chorus at 55 mph.

And the other sound? Just wind. The hefty breeze of wind. There´s a particular, lone silence to having only a gale of wind to keep you company. Perpetually smothering your ears, it´s not long before your mind starts off on it´s own into some deep reaches. The closest cousin to this effect, I think, is sailing or listening to the air on a blustery day. When you hear the wind equally in both ears, you know you´re faced straight into it; headed up, as sailors say. Like that, only all day and borne on the back of rubber hooves. . . . And all that, even still, doesn´t quite compare to being able to pull over anywhere whenever to fry up some tasty sausages.

The Arsenal

CORDOBA, ARGENTINA -- We´re right in the middle of Argentina´s second biggest city and, believe me, with Cordoba´s seven (count ´em seven) universities, it ripples with a welcome young energy. It´s a suitable time as any to rattle off an itemized list of what all I´ve been toting across all these latitudes: -Shirts (4) -Wool Socks (3) -Pants (2) -Motor Oil (1 qt.) -First-Aid, Toothbrush, etc. -Patch Kit, Spare Tubes, Air Pump -English-Spanish Dictionary, Maps -Rope -Camp Stove, Pot, Pan -Plate, Cup, Fork -Knife -Tent -Sleeping Bag -Flashlight -Water Filter ...and a nylon hammock. I´m fiercely determined to carve into the meat of a coconut while swinging in the Atlantic breeze -- that coconut coming from the very palms I've lashed the hammock between. Go ahead, call me a dreamer. I dare you. The hammock will hang.