One More Day Everywhere: Crossing 50 Borders on the Road to Global Understanding

ONE MORE DAY

EVERYWHERE

Crossing 50 Borders on the Road to Global Understanding

GLEN HEGGSTAD

ECW Press

Dedicated to those who will change the world

Zoë and Scout

Introduction

In November 2001, while on a motorcycle ride from California to the tip of South America, capture by a Colombian terrorist army was not what I had in mind. Yet on one quiet, sunny afternoon, on a remote Andean highway, there wasn’t a choice. Marched at gunpoint into the mountains outside of Medellín, after that moment I knew that life would never be the same. During five grueling weeks as an involuntary guest of the National Liberation Army, they eventually broke my spirit with head games and torture. When I was finally freed in a Christmas prisoner exchange with the Colombian government, as an ultimate act of defiance against my captors, I continued to pursue my original goal of riding to the tip of South America and back. But once returning to California, after one too many restless nights, I realized that recovery from that incident would be more difficult than anticipated, and although I was back in Palm Springs, it was still a long road home. After late evenings and early mornings of teeth-grinding turmoil, I eventually concluded the only way to restore my psychological health and dignity was to continue what I had been doing — riding motorcycles to exotic lands. My silent mantra illuminating the path to positive thought became Living well is the best revenge. But since I had already tackled South America, the new goal would become traversing the entire globe, alone on a motorcycle. At first, friends and family still shaken by my Colombian ordeal couldn’t accept what I needed to do, reminding me of the current headlines highlighting increasing international terrorism and an impatient world furious with American foreign policy.

But for me, still reeling from a firsthand experience of human madness, there was no other way to contend with such a festering wound of personal doubt and deepening emptiness. I needed to find out what was really out there and hopefully confirm a suspicion that humanity was not inherently evil.

Yet in a post-9/11 climate of fear, Western societies were growing increasingly alarmed with news of more terrorist plots. Jerked from a slumbering state of denial, on September 11, 2001, the United States of America had been savagely attacked with its own technology and more was promised. From bombings to kidnappings, evidence of constant threats in a volatile world was blasting across our TV screens. Terrorists wanted citizens to feel helpless and cringe in fear. When we hide at home, they win. In a frightening overreaction, would America ultimately strangle under its own self-imposed security? Unable to defeat the U.S. militarily, could Osama bin Laden and others like him win the most strategic battle, unwittingly aided by our own political masters?

As a nervous U.S. Congress inched toward smothering the Constitution, would an Orwellian prophecy become a reality? With a proliferation of street corner surveillance cameras and an abuse of wiretapping regulations, lawmakers, worried about appearing unpatriotic, were looking the other way. And Americans were beginning to accept the concept of Big Brother protecting us. After all, who would vote against bills cleverly labeled The Patriot Act and Homeland Security? Yet while struggling from paycheck to paycheck, Americans were either confronted with tales of terror or droned into complacency with celebrity gossip and reality TV. The lack of truthful, relevant information was numbing.

For me the decision was simple and final: I had to clear my head with a journey into the real world, the developing world, and examine that world through the eyes of those who lived there. For Westerners abroad during the most uncertain political climate in recent history, traveling the earth alone was more than an adventurous challenge; it was a direct message to terrorists wherever they lurked: We are not afraid. But more important, we refuse to hate.

On a 52,000-mile odyssey exclusively through developing nations across five continents, I stumbled upon a startling realization. We, the American people, have been deceived. Nearly every preconceived notion about the world fed to us by our national media was proved false. Meeting the people of planet earth face to face as a lone traveler becomes an opportunity to discover firsthand that we are all the same — and sometimes even related. Eventually, a truth surfaces: while governments may not get along, people do.

From lopsided Middle East horror stories to rumors of ruthless Russians, one by one, foolish myths were dispelled as poverty-stricken strangers invited this wandering motorcyclist into their wooden shacks, offering their last crumbs of bread. But riding the earth alone wasn’t easy and plenty went wrong, contending with daily challenges of harsh weather, difficult terrain and explosive geopolitical events. Despite a year of planning, at times, given the steady changes in circumstance and necessity to take chances, I was nearly sucked over the edge. Enduring hypothermia while riding mud roads through Siberian tornadoes led to the blissful solitude of the Mongolian Plains, with an electrifying jolt into adventure and humanity. In a Munich hospital, my congested kidneys nearing failure, I wondered if there wasn’t a safer way for a man to restore himself? Later, a reckless mid-winter crossing of eastern Turkey’s frozen Anatolian Plateau nearly stalled the journey until spring.

Sitting cross-legged in a Syrian Bedouin’s tent silently sipping tea while American fighter jets patrolled the skies over nearby Iraq, I pondered — Who would have thought my odyssey would lead to this? While traveling Egypt, eluding mandatory military escorts, my journey through the ancient Nile Valley was peaceful, with throngs of young Arabs gathering to shake my hand. A sunrise climb of Mount Sinai took my breath away, the same as it must have for Moses when he accepted the Ten Commandments. And later that night, with distant gazes into the dancing campfire, a nomadic Bedouin chieftain described life while previously under Israeli occupation as Paradise.

After being granted a special-entry permit from the commander of Israeli Defense Forces, on election day in Gaza, I was cornered by Palestinian thugs from Hamas and the question arose — were my feet too close to the flames? Stranded in the Sadar District of Karachi while terrorists blew up mosques and hunted Westerners, fate was tempted once more when I flipped a coin to decide my next destination — India or Afghanistan?

On the Nepali border, coughing up black soot in a dollar-a-night flophouse, I was anxious to ride into the sporadic violence of civil disorder to escape the madness of Indian roadways. Brought to my knees while visiting the Killing Fields of Cambodia, it took the innocent smiles of bashful natives to eventually revive a wobbling faith in humanity. Weary from a year of tumultuous travel, the steamy massage parlors of Bangkok provided sensuous mid-journey relief before heading south to Indonesia, where the wilds of Borneo set my imagination ablaze while I established a world’s record as the first person to circle the island on two wheels. But once in Sumatra I found that nothing could prepare me for the horrors of tsunami-ravaged Banda Aceh. Saving the best for last, it was the soft humility and alien ferocity of Africa that finally fulfilled a dream that began during my turbulent youth.

Prologue

Adventuring must be in my Norwegian blood. As a foolishly bold kid anxious to accept dares, life was always more interesting when challenging the norms. But eating worms, jumping off roofs or being the first to test out new rope swings was unsettling behavior for my hand-wringing parents. After spending more time in detention than studying and wearing down wood on the principal’s bench, counselors were summoned. Standard warnings and punishments had no effect. To my mother’s horror, at age 12, my father suggested constructing a homebuilt, mini-scooter using an old lawn mower engine. The freedom and power of a motorized bike was like a match to gasoline for a troubled young rebel growing up in the ’60s. A lifetime lust for adventure had been ignited. Fiercely independent and anti-authority, I was constantly rejecting the status quo, and that made me feel more alive. In high school, while others were elected most likely to succeed, my teachers often remarked that I would surely spend life behind bars, and I did — handlebars.

Infected with motorcycle fever, sprawling California back roads merely made me crave more. After watching Easy Rider and reading Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, barriers were shattered on a tumultuous highway that never ends. In that 1960s drug-crazed era, outlaw motorcyclists became unlikely counterculture heroes and represented the ultimate symbol of resisting authority. Huge and hairy, these modern barbarians on gleaming choppers turned obsession into reality with an insolent assault on societal norms. At the age of 20, my predicted destiny was fulfilled when I became the youngest member of the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club and later the sergeant-at-arms of the San Bernardino chapter.

During a short stint in jail, a long, painful view down the road convinced me the next time I arrived here it would be for an extended stay. A chance conversation with an unlikely source, a local kung fu master, made me believe that following specific, strict disciplines of the martial arts was the only way to disrupt my patterns of senseless aggression and harness my wild spirit. With goals of competing in the ring, I became a full-time student, training six hours a day, six days a week for six years. While I worried about surrendering my role as a sworn outlaw, in 1979 I cautiously retired from the club. Redirecting my scattered energies into karate, judo and Brazilian jujitsu became the pressure-relief valve for a life more conducive to freedom. In between winning national championships and backpacking through Asia, I squeezed in short motorcycle journeys. But they were never long enough, and, like most motorcyclists, I had tantalizing visions of some day canceling tomorrow to simply keep riding. But with life’s complications, someday was in danger of becoming never. With a growing awareness that life does eventually end, I finally decided that as of October 1, 2001, my fate would be officially tossed to the wind. And those winds immediately turned into a hurricane.

A few weeks past the 9/11 attacks, my dream ride to the tip of South America was interrupted by capture in Colombia by violent rebels fighting the government. When I was finally freed, supporters from home sent new equipment, giving me a second chance to complete my ride to Argentina and back. Gringo-hating Marxist terrorists had used torture and starvation to break my spirit, but, in the end, setting a new goal was the only solution. Resisting all forms of negative emotion was my most potent weapon; publicly vowing to finish riding the world became a silent middle finger to former tormentors. It’s true — what doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger. Instead of collapsing under the weight of my Colombian ordeal, I used it as a springboard to the next level, with a journey into the evolving landscape of humanity. Yet even though I was now a more experienced rider, this was far easier said than done.

From California, there were no airfreight links into Siberia, so after flying to Tokyo, I crossed Japan to the western coast for a three-day sail to the once forbidden reaches of the former Soviet Union. On July 16, 2004, the lifelong goal of riding the world quietly began near the North Korean border in Vladivostok, Russia.

The Russians, security minded as ever, made it complicated to enter the Motherland with a motorcycle and wander. Officials were concerned about spies, misfits or journalists who might report what the government preferred to keep secret. Organized tours are welcome, but overland travelers are forced to fill out lengthy visa applications supplemented by fictitious business proposals before being considered. The process was a hassle, expensive and risky because anyone in the chain of command could change their minds on a whim. My itinerary was purposely vague. Destinations were to be determined by weather or at fateful forks in the road. Let’s call this a ride from California to Africa by way of Siberia, with photographs and stories of what happened in between.

It took a lifetime of hope and a solid year to plan for this adventure. Mr. Murphy constantly intervened with problems of logistics and legalities. Every issue required follow-up letters and phone calls just to be told no. A glowing laptop screen became the staging ground for research and preparation. Friends and relatives finally quit mumbling, Gee Glen, are you sure of what you’re doing? They’ve resigned to the fact that they are now part of the lunacy and are warily watching the show. The plan was to have nothing to worry about or look back at, so to strengthen my resolve and properly cast my fate to the wind, I sold all of my earthly possessions, including a coveted mountain ranch. Whatever remained was given away. It was the ultimate state to be in — homeless on the road. What was important for survival, I crammed into a set of Jesse aluminum saddlebags bolted on the sides of a 650cc BMW motorcycle on loan from local dealers. Still, on the verge of plunging into the merry chaos of the developing world, I never felt more secure.

Although born in California, I grew up a traditional Norwegian — long lost relatives still live above the Arctic Circle, near Tromso in northern Norway. Viking blood pumping through my veins has constantly propelled me toward foreign lands and bizarre circumstances, but the physical conditioning and awareness honed from 25 years of martial arts often provides an edge. Still, the most effective weapon when traveling has been a big, stupid smile and an obvious gratitude merely to be there.

Sometimes serious problems arrive from nowhere, but we just have to roll with the punches, literally. There were U.S. State Department travel warnings about every country on my list, including some considered allies. Wandering strange lands alone is seldom comfortable but it’s always rewarding, as every experience carries a lesson, even when it’s a painful one. True adventurers admit we feel more alive when straddling the edge. But the measure of our passion is growth, and a motorcyclist’s addiction intensifies while leaning through the next curve of a spiraling mountain road.

That’s why it’s called adventure travel — shit happens. Experiences on the road range from toe-curling ecstasy to sphincter-puckering fear while sampling the perils and pleasures on the two-wheeled path to nirvana. Yet that’s the purpose of such journeys; if the challenge was easy, it wouldn’t be worth the effort. In martial arts, we establish our goals and twist the perseverance dial according to what gets in the way, so I just applied the same principles to my beckoning odyssey. Adventuring is a great spiritual exercise. One thing for certain, you never give up.

At my going away party in a Palm Springs biker bar, an old friend, David Christian, handed me a three-by-three-inch, yellowed photograph of a smiling young child. He told me with misty eyes, Here is my little brother and since he never got to go anywhere, please take him with you. This was confusing until David left and I read the writing on the back, Phillip Dean Christian 1948–1951. With that thought in mind, my adventure was dedicated to Phillip, and his photo was tucked in my jacket, where he could be protected from the sandstorms of faraway deserts, the wilds of Siberia and the driving rains of the tropics but still enjoy the show.

THE ROUTE

Leaving Home

July 4, 2004

Los Angeles, California

Up until now, it’s been just planning and setbacks. But in 12 hours, the reality of roaming a planet full of dreams begins by disconnecting from the relative ease and familiarity of California and taking an anxious step into the unknown. To maximize the experience it’s necessary to depart from the comfort zone for as long as tolerable, and who knows how long this experience will last or what will happen at home in my absence. But even if I wanted to, there’s no turning back now.

There are so many questions and issues to ponder, both personal and global. Given the rate science advances, where will technology be when I return? In a multiyear absence from loved ones, interpersonal relationships are sure to change. Traveling alone on a motorcycle involves a certain vulnerability — from physical health to personal safety. In the event of a medical crisis, would I be subject to the developing world’s blood supply? And what about the war on terror, or the one in Iraq? Will I encounter chanting mobs of churning masses angry with my government?

In this intensifying political climate, people constantly warn me that it’s foolish to ride the earth alone, but passion conquers common sense — wanderers wander because they have to. Yet omens abound. There were many good excuses to postpone — the need to promote my new book with media interviews and book signings. The second of two surgical procedures had failed, leaving one last stone the diameter of a dime in my kidney and two thin plastic tubes shoved into my body to allow ailing organs to function until another procedure could be scheduled. At least my urologist, using ultrasonic waves, had pulverized the other four. But these foreign objects left in my bladder rubbed against urinary nerves, making it feel like I constantly had to pee.

I spent the final three weeks in California, visiting doctor’s offices, hospital rooms and CAT-scan labs. Marching in smiling with chest out, I left with drooping shoulders. A line had to be drawn somewhere — no more needles, pills or tests.

Hardest of all: parting kisses with Jodie. With her seductive balance of beauty and brilliance, she was the woman of my dreams. But because of my self-centered determination, her contagious happiness and delicate laughter have turned to mangled sorrow. For the last year, in the throes of committed love, we both buried the inevitable parting as something too far away to imagine. Just halfway through her medical degree and restricted by an overprotective, conservative and religious family, Jodie was torn between her loyalty for me and inescapable cultural constraints. Realizing this could be the last time we’d ever be together was a thought we tried to deny with unrealistic pledges to meet next year in India. Her last words socked me into twisted guilt, “Please, Glen, tell me one more time why you’re throwing all this away. Moments later, a final farewell embrace in an airport hotel parking lot permanently ripped two hearts in half. While staring deeply one last time into her trusting chestnut eyes, I could see only a flaming bridge behind me as I selfishly sabotaged what could have been lifelong happiness. Will she remember our life together with pleasant recollections or regret our losing love affair? At times wanderlust is a curse.

Even my departure is awkward — an around-the-world motorcycle ride that begins by flying on a jet to Japan? For a mission so well planned, I am already a month behind schedule, needing to beat seasonal turbulence of monsoon rains, frozen mountain passes and fiery desert heat. July is the warmest time of year to navigate Siberia, but there will be winter snows in November crossing into Iran from Turkey’s rugged Anatolian Plateau. That’s if the Iranian government grants me a transit visa. Because of an unpopular foreign policy and the seemingly endless war in Iraq, Americans are suspect in the Middle East for now, but who knows, maybe peace will break out by then.

To cross some international borders with a private vehicle, a special legal document is required to guarantee the vehicle will not be sold there to circumvent local import tariffs. For a fee backed by a credit card, the Canadian Automobile Association (CAA) issues a carnet de passage that guarantees, if the vehicle is not exported on time, they are responsible for taxes owed. When forwarding this motorcycle-passport, the CAA included a warning list of countries to avoid because of civil unrest, human rights violations, or imminent evacuation of U.S. citizens. Most of those on the list are ones I want to visit or at least will need to cross. But my optimistic belief is that people will differentiate between citizens and governments. I am betting my life on that.

The odds favor disaster on a journey this long, but the most relentless threat is traffic. Poorly maintained roads, if they even exist, are plagued with unskilled hordes of kamikaze drivers convinced that size does matter, and two-wheeled vehicles don’t. ABS brakes, a bright yellow helmet and a shiny red riding suit help balance the scales. The word reliability takes on new meaning, knowing that mechanical failure during a mountain snowstorm or running out of fuel in a remote desert carry dire consequences.

Selecting the ultimate motorized companion involved a series of careful tradeoffs. American built, powerful Harley-Davidsons are too bulky and heavy, so the critical decision came down to proven Japanese performance and dependability versus German engineering for better handling. For its endurance record, both in on- and off-road riding, BMW’s dual-sport 650 Dakar reigned supreme. My judo students, Jimmy, Paul and Donal, were also the dedicated team of mechanics who spent a hundred shop hours prepping the two-wheeled Blue Beast. Half the bike had to be disassembled to install Touratech long-range gas tanks and off-road suspension, but now there is a 700-mile fuel range and proper maneuverability for an overloaded motorcycle. Every upgrade counts, from wider foot pegs for stand-up riding in rough terrain to powerful auxiliary driving lights for when I’m caught out after dark. Modified electronics will accommodate an electrically heated vest, GPS and Jimmy’s secret security gear.

Nothing works the first time. Just changing the handlebars and installing risers for better reach meant hours of machine work to make aftermarket aluminum hand-guards fit. You can’t take a ride this long without going down — the bike and the rider must be able to contend with varying degrees of impact. In most regions ahead, there are no motorcycle repair shops or medical trauma centers serviced by emergency helicopters. One of the downsides to traveling alone is that I am on my own during a crisis. There is no margin for error.

My equipment is new, but road-testing was limited to scenarios I could only imagine from studying National Geographic photographs — there are bound to be failures. My padded riding suit is made with space-age plastic fabrics that glow in the dark and melt slower during high-speed slides across asphalt. Knee, elbow and spinal areas have built-in shock-absorbing rubber pads for crash-related collisions. The problem is that it’s uncomfortable to wear in warm temperatures, but I’ve made a promise to myself not to ride without it, even when crossing deserts.

THE FAR EAST

Home to Japan

July 5, 2004

Over the Pacific

At 30,000 feet, it is hard to doze inside a humming aluminum missile hurtling across the sky at an even 550 miles per hour. As cheap plastic headphones blare along with a synchronized overhead video, flight attendants pass out Japanese newspapers. Although the Asian dancers lack rhythm, they attempt American musical ghetto talk in comical accents while awkwardly mimicking street-gangster hand gestures. I wonder what their conservative family elders think about these popular Western antics that conflict with their ancient belief in restrained and disciplined behavior.

On the horizon, Mount Fuji slowly protrudes like a massive cone-shaped sentinel guarding an elongated, overcrowded island. Japan is my spiritual home. For 25 years, I’ve studied martial arts refined by devout Japanese masters who wrote the rules centuries ago. Their images tumble within my consciousness as distant gongs reverberate with recollections of harsh discipline and spiritual awakening. I am one with the Japanese. Their methods and creeds ring true. Bushido, the code of the samurai — the Ways of the Warrior — are laws of integrity and discipline as well as respect for nature. In love or war, it’s total focus on the task at hand. There is no gray area; either you have honor or you don’t. Emotionless years of training through blood and sweat are tributes to the sensei. Nothing less is expected.

Flashbacks of polished wooden floors as tight as the surface of a drum appear. The only sounds then were pivoting feet squeaking while bodies gracefully spun through the air upside down, slamming onto mats of straw. Judo, karate and jujitsu are studies of redirected force — techniques that become a way of living. Intricate ballets of battle honed through hand-to-hand combat, broken bones and torn cartilage all form our disciplined dance of life. The martial arts command my spirit; there is no other way.

In a few hours, I’ll roll across the surface of this gentle land for a pilgrimage into my past. I feel welcome here. Whether they like you or not, the Japanese are always polite. If lost, travelers don’t need to ask for directions. While you’re bumbling around deciphering maps, someone wanting to practice English invariably comes to the rescue, pointing the way. Fellow bikers are even more accommodating. Interesting news travels fast. Internet-savvy Japanese world riders heard reports of an invading American wanderer, and, even before my arriving in Tokyo, they had emailed me an invitation to a weekend outing. They are waiting to tempt me with countryside cruising and bottles of sinus-clearing sake.

Japanese friends who had also ridden motorcycles around the world

The Vikings Arrive

July 10, 2004

Tokyo, Japan

After a long, annoying wait at airport immigration, clearing myself and the motorcycle was simple. Having paid a customs broker 50 bucks to handle the complex importation procedure, my only job was to uncrate the Blue Beast and reinstall the windshield and front wheel. Within two hours, I was navigating a sophisticated maze of modern concrete roadways toward a particular hotel in downtown Tokyo. Despite driving after dark on the opposite side of the road and with few signs in English, I rendezvoused with my cousin Kjell from Norway who arrived on business the same day. We both feel better having said goodbye face-to-face.

My first call home to Jodie temporarily relieves an aching loneliness that is certain to grow worse. Her sweet voice pours like honey through the phone as we reassure each other that our planned reunion in India is only eight months away. Soothed but not convinced, I know that every mile deeper into this journey will push me emotionally farther away from this woman I love. Keeping busy by looking forward makes me forget about the burning bridge.

This afternoon, I’ll meet with Japanese bikers for a weekend of camping and sightseeing. After many phone calls, I manage to obtain a transit reservation on a boat leaving for Russia this Friday from the other side of the island. Vladivostok, Siberia, is a mere two-day sail but a civilization away, and I twitch under the anticipation of actually beginning this adventure. Lounging in a modern hotel with TV and running water has, so far, made this journey seem awkward. I can’t stop thinking of what lies ahead.

Temperatures have been a hundred degrees with high humidity all week, a test of my pledge to wear the heavy-duty riding suit. All my equipment checked out, but the rear mono-shock required adjustments to balance the excessive load I was carrying. Still, that was not enough, so I dumped 10 pounds of extra supplies that weren’t worth hauling at the cost of stability. To keep weight low, the spare drive chain fits perfectly between the engine bottom and skid plate. Since traffic is the biggest safety threat in foreign lands, better bike handling is critical, but practice begins in the most organized city on earth.

The streets and walkways of Tokyo morph into scenes out of science fiction. Surrealistic streams of short, black-haired men dressed in identical business suits clutching brown leather briefcases file from tall, faceless concrete buildings and underground tunnels with slender, ivory-skinned women clad in tight-fitting dark slacks sprinkled in as reminders of how they reproduce. Every act is prearranged with Japanese logic. Japan is a spotless, pragmatic island where everything makes sense. There’re no used cars, old clothes or people dressed out of fashion. Supermarket fruit is the ideal color, never under- or overripe. With no apparent time for relaxation, there is purpose in every step of the people’s overstressed lives. Business dominates, and the Japanese communicate so fanatically that there are now signs in subway cars ordering people not to use cell phones. Never mind — those sitting are busy on their laptops.

Japanese live for planning and discipline — theirs is an orderly, near crimeless society in which, at least superficially, they respect everyone. Enter foreigners — gaijin, the barbarians. Many wealthy Japanese businessmen will not socialize with inferior gaijin and there are signs posted at upscale nightclub entrances — Japanese Only. Being born here will not make you Japanese either, not even if you’re Asian. Recently, a 60-year-old former Japanese man had his citizenship revoked by the courts after his father, a Korean, admitted to fathering him with a Japanese woman.

Gaijin

July 11, 2004

Atsugi, Japan

After riding in circles exiting the labyrinth of high-tech Tokyo, I was an hour late for my meeting at a designated entrance to the Toumei Expressway. I’d guessed that reaching the toll plaza 40 miles outside Tokyo by 3:00 p.m. was a long shot. Fellow world riders would surely be waiting for their blundering American counterpart. As in Mexico, expressways here are expensive but convenient and hard to get lost on. Destinations are noted in English below Japanese characters, so if you’re paying attention it’s easy to determine where you are.

After I apologized for being late, my host assured me it was No ploblem, and we rode into miles of steaming gridlock to pick up Kiki’s wife and her bike and head for the campground. Once past rows of soaring futuristic skyscrapers, the countryside blooms into mountains of rich pine forests and meandering mountain streams. A narrow, swirling asphalt road flows through still villages of blue-tile-roofed houses shaped with traditional upturned corners. Finely crafted wooden structures architecturally designed with nature in mind blend into hillsides and stunning green meadows. The marvel of Asia never falters.

A dozen globe-riding veterans gathered at this crystal clear river for a weekend of camaraderie and inspirational tale-swapping. The first question: So Glen-San, do you miss your ranch? A respectful signal that they had done their homework and read my website journals. Most of them speak some English, but I recall only a few phrases in Japanese. Since we’d all toured Latin America, our common tongue was Spanish. Around a smoky campfire, we sampled dried fruits, salted fish and sizzling, sweet chicken teriyaki sticks. As the sake flowed, late-night conversations drifted between languages, punctuated by Ah so! There is little to say that we don’t already feel — a kinship of adventurers born to follow our spirits.

Close to midnight the sake bites hard and, combined with jet lag, I fade early before my mild spins turn to wild spins. Yet my energetic hosts ramble until dawn, mixing beer and Japanese whiskey with wild tales of their common passion — motorcycling.

At sunrise the anxious crew is awake and planning the day. Ah Glen-San, you like-a see Mount Fuji and take mineral bath? We musta go wery soon. While trying to appear ready for anything, I stumble toward the cement-block bathroom with an aching head and strained neck muscles after passing out and using my boots as a pillow. Once outside Tokyo there are few foreigners and only Japanese is understood. Bleary-eyed in a bulky nylon riding suit and towering above curious black-headed natives, they peek out from vans and trailers gawking as though a Martian has landed in their orderly midst. A startled audience hears me bellow, Koh neechy wah! (Good day!) with a failed attempt to conceal a belch. The unruly barbarian has arrived.

Snags

July 13, 2004

Outside Tokyo, Japan

After only a week on the road, my first casualty is a broken kickstand. For increased ground clearance, this motorcycle was designed without a center stand, a handy tool for raising the bike to change tires and lube the chain. Normally it’s easy to tilt the bike over onto the kickstand high enough to sweep a rock underneath and then pull it upright to balance the rear wheel off the ground. It’s a simple move on lighter bikes, but with 200 pounds of extra equipment and fuel, today the hollow support tube buckled.

A loud crack before the kickstand bent in half afforded the split-second needed to catch the bike before it tipped over. Now what? Even simple problems in Japan are community affairs that require lengthy discussion considering all options. After leaning the motorcycle against a tree, a conference begins, prompting the first of several long winded telephone calls. After the third, I ask, So what did they say? The answer: Wrong number.

Hours of conversation with BMW representatives reveals the best solution is to order a new kickstand from a local dealer. This means a two-day wait for something that takes five minutes to install. Yet such delays can be part of the adventure, and once we find a decent hotel my companions depart for home, leaving me to sort out communications. Whomever I ask insists that there are no Internet cafes outside major cities, but the motorcycle shop owner lets me use his computer to check email and upload a website journal. After nine days in Japan, I am finally alone.

After showering and donning a button-down shirt, I peer into a 10-seater sushi bar. At 8:00 p.m., it’s packed with a raucous crowd, but the beer-guzzling diners call to come in anyway, they will make room for an alien. Gaijin is welcome for entertainment. In an attempt to be casual, I nod with a smile, mumbling Kon bon wah. (Good evening.) Curious looks erupt into broad grins and friendly laughter as the interrogation begins. They know as much English as I do Japanese, but while I pantomime the story of my adventure, their jabbering amazement subsides into solemn appreciation. Japanese respect ambition.

Next comes the ritual of exchange of business cards — a serious moment in Japan. They don’t take them to quickly stuff in their pocket, that would be rude. Instead, cards are accepted with both hands as a sign of respect and then studied. After discovering I teach Japanese martial arts, they offer enthusiastic applause as though I am expected to demonstrate. Without ordering, the chef produces a sushi plate reserved for guests of honor. He maka special for Gren Sensei. Later the owner, with both hands, presents a gift wrapped in rice paper — a porcelain cup with painted pictures of different sushi. It should last a day bouncing inside the aluminum saddlebags, but I accept it with both hands and a bow.

Getting Naked

July 14, 2004

Kanazawa, Japan

On weekends, on the backcountry roads of Japan, motorcycles outnumber cars, spinning through the curves of narrow lanes that slice across gentle farmland. Sporadic squalls have little effect as motorists continue puttering across narrow wooden bridges that only allow one yielding vehicle at a time. This is two-wheeled heaven. Outside cities, the mountains are too steep to build houses or roads, so much of this island remains pristine wilderness. But determined drivers are able to reach distant destinations quickly if they’re willing to spend the money. Tokyo toll roads can deliver a fast-moving rider anywhere on the island in one long day. Hotels, although more expensive than in Latin America, offer great services. Internet costs five dollars an hour, most hotels provide free DSL you can access if you have your own laptop, television and air-conditioning. In the mornings, they offer opulent buffet breakfasts simply called Viking. Space is scarce in Japan so rooms are low-ceilinged cubicles with barely enough room to step by my bags, and most doorways require stooping to pass.

Japanese are the ultimate gadget freaks, with the edge on everyone. Their latest technology will not reach the outside world for another year while it’s test-marketed here. Rejuvenating electronic foot massagers deliver divine bliss, while automated toilets shoot warm streams of water wherever desired. Bathroom mirrors contain heating elements at face level so after showering there is always a clear spot. For those wanting to see naked girls, there are pay-per-view dirty movies with subservient Japanese babes being violated by well-endowed, burly black men.

Red-light districts awaken at sundown with flashing pictures of what goes on behind thick-curtained, black velvet entrances. Doormen in shiny black business suits with slicked-back hair utter warnings behind mirrored sunglasses — no gaijin allowed. Working in front of nightclubs, tall, blue-eyed Eastern European blondes in long sparkling gowns turn their backs as I approach. These slender young beauties can’t risk conversation with gaijin because disapproving Japanese clients will think they also service white men.

Japanese politeness is accented with an air of understandable superiority. In this nearly crime-free country, there is no need to watch your back or guard your belongings. I’ve seen only one cop since arriving. Everyone is civil and tolerant whether they like you or not, while they adhere to similar philosophy without betraying emotion. They are famously honest, with a penchant for curiosity, and I have the constant feeling that in this society so well planned, nothing can go wrong. Could the world learn from Japanese culture?

Yesterday, my biker friends took me to a Japanese bathhouse where stone pools of naturally heated spring water relieve aching bodies with inner-earth mystic powers. The polished wooden building was divided into two tiled rooms, male and female, as bathing is done without clothes. But a nagging question reverberated: Why am I dipping into steaming pools of water with naked men when right next door there are steaming pools of naked women?

Last Days in Japan

July 15, 2004

Kanazawa, Japan

While en route to the ferryboat seaport, an overnight visit in Kanazawa becomes a step through history, into feudal Japan, when martial arts were developed as tools of war. Wandering ancient temples rekindles a familiar spirit similar to modern traditional dojos, where training is a dedicated religious affair. The serenity of orchestrated hand-to-hand combat pervades the cool morning air like an imposing mist, commanding respect. Pausing in the silence of meticulously manicured gardens, you feel the presence of masters other warriors wrote books about. Did Musashi engage opponents on this hallowed ground? Were these mystical courtyards early classrooms of Kano or Funakashi? But even lost in my imagination, all thoughts eventually drift to Russia.

In 24 hours, an aging converted passenger ship destined for Siberia will steam from the port city of Fushiki to deliver me towards my elusive vision.

A One-Way Ticket to Siberia

July 16, 2004

M/V RUS on the Sea of Japan

If a journey of a thousand miles begins with a first step, what’s considered the first step? Since life is a continuous journey, maybe it began at 16 when I read Jack Kerouac’s novel On the Road. Afterwards, so overwhelmed with images of purposeful wandering, I immediately stuck out my thumb, hitchhiking from California to New Orleans. Or was it at the age of 10 when an aging uncle took me out of school a semester early for a trip to Norway to discover my roots? Forty years and 50 countries later, arriving in the east Siberian seaport of Vladivostok, I stand on the threshold of another major step.

The ship was my first encounter with Russians on their turf. It’s different meeting them in their own environment rather than through televised images or otherwise distorted reports.