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.

We Go No Further

RIO DE JANEIRO -- Success. We're here. The motorbike has hung up its wheels in retirement. The most trying day was saved for last, too, with all signs pointing to danger. Walking in heavy rain the night before, I saw two motorcycles, one man more similar to myself and one Scooter Babe more similar to Andy, lose their balance, fall, and skid to a cruel halt. There was no blood or fractures but the lasting lesson was an obvious omen: They're two motorcyclists, we're two motorcyclists -- hmm, better watch it. All along, it's been a pair of rules etched deeply in stone: We stay off the roads at night; we don't ride in the rain. The chance at a Friday night in Rio sanded that stone clean. The final day left me short 100 miles from Rio with only a slight drizzle to spar with, the very type I have infinite patience for. The road had really degraded at this point. I kid. That's some jungle we ambled down. (I saw a Toucan. He was not making cereal.) The last week has been riding through a paradise. That paradise did not stretch to Rio. That concluded with Poseidon finally getting his revenge for me shouting his name in vain that one time. Then, just as the rain begins to pick up with only 15 miles to go through favellas, an ambulance wails by the opposite side of the highway. Then another one. Then 23 more. They kept coming, their catcall whine preceding the flashing lights, until I lost count. Something ugly had transpired and to this moment I don't care to know what it was. I kid you not, by the time we found a garage even willing to shack up a pair of bikes, which took a fair amount of time, the weather had turned into a tropical deluge torrenting from a dank, evil raincloud. Mom would be really disappointed right about now, I thought. The mindset by now was one of a gloomy pessimism: Be careful. No, even more careful than that. We've made it too far. Drenched, dripping, and finally out of the saddle, I was close to towering over the motorcycle Ali-over-Liston shouting, "There! Are you happy?! You fought and fought but I won!" Now it's a done deal. We're here. We go no further. And if I could implant a lasting image, it would be of me riding a motorcycle. Me riding a motorcycle across South America with billowing scarf and funny pilot goggles. Wait, me riding a motorcycle of questionable reliability across South America with scarf, goggles, and rickety sidecar. And in that sidecar is a plump pink pig named Peaches. She too has a billowing scarf and funny goggles; she also has a sour countenance, like a girlfriend taken on an awful date. Yeah. Me and Peaches. That one will do just fine.

A Dash of This, That, and the Other

This, that, and the other: Now that, ladies and gentlemen, was one phenomenal day.

Lo, We Came Upon São Paulo

PARATAY, BRAZIL -- Then drove right through it, right through one of the biggest, most violent cities around, right through the dank underbelly of Brazil's teeming megapolis. It couldn't have been smoother either. Right in the midst of a raggedy seven-laner, we ask Scooter Guy (grizzled stranger; age, name and whereabouts all unknown) where São Paulo keeps its swiftest escape. This time, we want nothing doing with his town. He plotted the route out with more courtesy and hand gestures than steering a scooter along a raggedy seven-lane highway suggests. And as a clincher, he silently wove well ahead. Peculiar. We come upon the proper exit only to find he had stopped inside the striped triangle between the exit ramp and thruway, just to check that we got it right. Who thinks to do that? He nodded his approval and remerged into traffic. That gesture speaks volumes to Brazil. These small courtesies have checkered everyday life. The nefarious violence and danger seems to set root within the major cities; in the rural between, nothing but placid. After pushing hard to put São in the rearview, we could see the sallow doggedness in each others faces. Too much. Much too much. Yet worthwhile. Pushing hard yesterday means today mingles with leaning back in the chair to prop up the feet in the deep repose of relaxation. So since blowing through São so fast the signs spun (zooooom ... fweee), we've slowed our clip considerably, taking time to stop, wander down virulent jungle paths into the very antithesis of wheelchair accessible. In doing so, we have stumbled upon another gem, right into an absolute masterpiece adorned with the breed of friendship that's saddening to leave. All of today was spent hopping off tall cliffs, hollering off mossy ropeswings, all into clear indescribable rivers. Indeed, worthwhile. Movies and pictures to come. Promise.

I Present to You --

Iguazu Falls. Second only in size to Africa's Victoria Falls: Out of jungle, the earth opened into a deep chasm letting an entire river disappear into chimneys of steam. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen before.