It opens at the close.
802 Days of Adventure. 65,000 miles (and change). 16 Countries.
A cold breeze stirs me awake. My mind is torn from a dream - the same, recurring haze haunting my nightly dozes for weeks now.
I’m falling, or more accurately, we are falling. The bike slides out from under me, just like in Mexico and again in Peru. But instead of the kind locals coming to our aid, something dark lurks in the golden grasses that extend off for an eternity. I can’t clarify much beyond the lurking darkness in the wind-blown landscape. I’m in Argentina. The winds rush past me after tearing up and over the Andes before rocketing down, sometimes 20,000 feet, before draining and crawling across the narrowing end of the continent like floodwaters.
I’m awake. I reach for my phone - an automatic, unconscious act these days.
7:04am
November 21st, 2023
I glance out the window to my left and see a plain scene. Condensation drips down the glass like sliders on an audio mixer: one drop at level 3, another at level 9.
The grayness strikes me the most; gray rocks on the beach down below, a sky so gray it’s nearly white, grey brick on the baseboards of Motohostal Fin del Mundo in Río Grande, the motorcycle hostel at the “end of the world.” I arrived yesterday after a 240-mile ride from Rio Gallegos - one of a few industrial jungles sprouting from the barren Argentinian plains. I crossed two borders - one out of Argentina and one back in.
I’m moving fast - I have been since leaving Lima just a few weeks earlier. Why? Why all of a sudden, after two years and 65,000 miles? Before leaving Texas in October 2022, I lived one-year-a-nomad on a jaunt across the US - crossing my “homeland” on two wheels for the first time. Since crossing into Mexico, I’ve been moving southward for a year in a meandering, lazy push, sometimes only a hundred miles at a time. Yet, after Lima, the fumes in my soul, like the fumes in my gas tank, were running dry. In a word: exhaustion. I’m tired and ready to go home, wherever that may be. Maybe Texas to live with Larry, maybe California to bask in the good scenery and good riding weather alongside Dad.
I’m just done. I’m tired of feeling like my life on the road has become a chore. Tired of working on the bike. Tired of worrying that it’s going to give up on me at the final hour, something I imagine often - a piston heaving itself through the engine block. I’m approaching 100,000 miles on my iron chariot. I see and feel its age: subtle losses in acceleration, vibrations that are outside the norm, a cracked windshield held together with contact cement and fork tines, bumps, bruises, and scars.
I throw my legs off the bed and stretch, the hem of my thermal undershirt exposing a pale stomach. It’s cold, but the radiator to my left throws off a warm respite. Glancing around the dark dorm room, I can see signs of life - light breaking through the gaps between bed frame and privacy curtains, dusty and worn slippers, a foot dangling over the edge of the top bunk.
“Today’s the day.” I think to myself. It’s the day I reach the end of the road.
I get dressed in a flurry - three layers on bottom, four layers on top. It’s cold here at the end of the world. I slip on my boots; the Red Wings I purchased over a year ago off a clearance rack in Reno, Nevada. I think of how these boots touched down in 15 countries. The soles are worn down and no longer give traction. The toe box on the left foot is shredded from my crash in Mexico, not to mention thousands, perhaps millions of gears shifted.
Silvana is milling around the kitchen when I finally emerge for the day. I hear her unleash a rapid shower of Spanish to a man sitting at the table near the door. She’s a small woman with dark black hair and tell-tale valleys on her cheeks.
“Buenas Dias Mike! Como estas?” She greets me, smiling and energized. The clock on the wall reads 7:28am.
“Estoy bien, Silvana. Voy a Ushuaia ahorita, y voy a regresar en la noche!” I replied. My Spanish still sits around an 8-year-old level: good enough to communicate. Suddenly, I’m back in Texas at the Jewish diner with my dad. He’s saying:
Remember, this is your best friend: lo siento, necesito hablarme MUY despacio, y como yo tengo OCHO años.
Translation: I’m sorry, but I need you to speak to me VERY slowly, like I’m 8-years-old.
“How wonderful!” She says in Spanish, and continues, “Here, I forgot to give you this last night. It’s a gift we give to all riders who stay with us.”
She produces a certificate, and on it reads (in Spanish):
Certificate of Honor:
For having crossed the 54th parallel south, entrance to Antarctica and the South Pole, arriving at the city of Río Grande, door to the End of the World.
The end of the world.
Silvana follows me out to the bike after I wrestle it from the garage. I have to pay mind to the other bikes - ten in total, all plated from Brazil, Colombia, or Uruguay. I’m the lone North American.
The bike is light - most of my clothes and miscellaneous things sit on my dorm bed. The only thing I think to bring with me that morning is my closet: a bright yellow duffel bag from The North Face. Next to the jacket on my back, that bag is the only other item to have been with me every day on my journey south. I couldn’t leave it behind at the final stretch. I throw a leg over the saddle and kick the engine over. A smile draws across my face - a moment of gratitude for yet another ignition without struggle.
“I’ll see you later!” I say to Silvana as she circles the bike, phone in hand while she takes a video.
She waves me off, and it’s the beginning of the end.
I ride south along Ruta 3 as a light rain rolls in. The road hugs the east coast of South America - the transition from land to sea. Grey, flopping waves lap against the rocky beach on my left while golden grasses fight a losing battle against the wind on my right. If not for the milestone at the end of this ride, I might be bored of the scenery. I’m anxious - constantly worried that the engine is going to give out on me at the 11th hour.
The air is bitterly cold - a knife carving up my hands. The $2.00 fabric gloves do little to stem the pain. I think, for the millionth time, “I need to start wearing real gloves.” Eventually, I pull over on the side of the road, and dismount with the engine still running. I use what I’ve come to call the warmers - the exhaust feeding out of my tailpipes - to warm my fingers. It’s a delicate dance; one second my fingers burn from the cold, and the next they’re burning from the fumes. The velcro straps on my jacket sleeves, weak and useless, hang open, allowing fumes to run up my arms and down my chest. I’m warm. Off in the distance, a bicyclist works hard at breaking camp near the treeline, and I realize he’s at a campground. Argentina is kind to campers; every puebla from Salta to Ushuaia has a small, family-run campground. The outdoor spirit knows no limits here.
A distance marker outside the “Moto Hostal Fin Del Mundo in Río Grande - just a few short hours north of Ushuaia!
I stop for coffee and gas at a YPF, Argentina’s brand of state-owned petrol station, in the small town of Tolhuin - the only bit of civilization between Río Grande and Ushuaia. A 15-minute stop becomes an hour. I can’t place why, but I’m finding it harder and harder to get back on the bike; it’s feeling like a chore.
Eventually, I start moving again. The rain is coming down harder, and the wind stings my cheeks through my helmet. The face shield flew off somewhere in Bolivia after dozens of drops, bumps, and bruises since buying it in Medellin. I usually hide behind my windshield as to not lose an eye from road debris.
Rising from the flatlands near Lago Fagnano, the air thins, causing me and the bike to run rich. The engine roars at a lower octave when I downshift into fifth. My sixth gear is nearly useless on the uphill stretches. Snow engulfs the surrounding peaks that have forced themselves skyward forming the Regíon Cordillerana.
I pass a sign marking Paso Garibaldi -1500ft. Coming around a corner, from behind the building atop the mountain pass, the valley below opens up into a spectacular vista and is gone again as the road begins to fall. My speedometer climbs slowly.
45mph. 55mph. 65…
For 45 minutes, nature and civilization begin a slow-dance, one where the trees and rocky slopes begin to give way to resorts and vacation homes. I’m close - nearly there. The clean air gains the faintest harshness; nearly imperceptible changes in the particulate matter. It’s the first sign of the end. My heart races faster. Semi-trucks and passenger cars begin passing the other way, only noticeable based on how solitary the previous three hours were.
I round a corner, and that’s it. I’m there.
Two pillars rise from the roadside to create a portal: two massive stone monoliths topped with a Gothic crown. Wood paneling frames simple, white typeface. The Argentinian flag lays still, spare the gentlest of flaps during a passing breeze. The white letters read the word I’ve been chasing for two years:
USHUAIA
And like a dam breaking, I feel joy for the first time in weeks; the first time since leaving Bolivia. The depression of knowing my time on the road was ending, the anxiety of waiting for my bike to die, the sadness of being away from Lisa - the beautiful Dutch woman I fell in love with in Colombia, the numbness of watching my credit card bills climb higher and higher in the pursuit of this dream: it all went away. Instead, the joy of my accomplishments shines through, and I’m feeling alive again. I scream to myself in my helmet and then break into brilliant laughter. The sun peaks through the clouds above in spite of the snow falling around me, and light breaks through the mending scars in my soul.
I did it. I fucking did it. Two years, two months, and 11 days to the end of the world.
Author’s Note:
For the longest time, I’ve wondered about how I would be able to tell the story of my two years on the road. Frankly, I still do. After all, it’s been nearly ten months since reaching Ushuaia in November 2023. I’m working full-time again. I’m writing a book about my journey. I’m planning the next steps. I’m STILL digesting the magnitude of what I accomplished (with and without help from a new therapist.) When I sat down to write this blog post, an image flashed in my mind of Harry Potter, standing in the forest, looking down at the Golden Snitch.
It opens at the close.
I constantly tried to discern what my trip meant; what I was supposed to learn and what I was supposed to take away from it all. It wasn’t until being off the road long enough to realize that it needed to END before I could really begin the learning. I’m happy to say I know more now than I knew then. I know more every day.