Down and Out in Comodoro Rivadavia

Hola Quique!

We introduced ourselves as friends of Jim, as if it wasn't obvious from the identical bikes and gear. Enthusiastically he welcomed us and took a listen to our bikes. David and Alex received a "doesn't sound too bad, you should be alright." Gary didn't. Quique shook his head and said one word - "bearings" (of course Alex had to translate). The funny little smile on Quique's face confused Gary, but the look of dismay on David's told the whole story.

In truth, Quique wasn't positive. But of all the things it could be, none were good things to be happening in the engine. He told us to come back in the afternoon when he would have the time to open up the engine case and have a look inside. At the moment, he was busy repairing the rear shock on a BMW Paris-Dakar driven by an Italian also on his way to Ushuaia. We drove away to el centro to eat some breakfast and deal with the bad news.

A minor good fortune smiled upon us as we pulled up at the curb outside a restaurant. Just upstairs was the office for Satel-Sur, a local internet provider. David went up immediately to work a deal, leaving Gary and Alex to think up wild solutions to the new problem. Quique thought that it could take up to a week to fix Gary's bike, a completely unacceptable delay, so the obvious answer was for Gary to leave his bike to be fixed and double up with someone on their bike for the remaining 750 miles to Ushaia. Argh! Only 750 miles to go and now this.

Out of fierce pride and determination to finish the trip as he had started, Gary urged the others to leave him behind. He'd make it to Ushuaia on his own like Jim and Jay had. But in a selfless offer of solidarity, both David and Alex said if it came to that, they would wait as well. Ultimately, we knew we'd have to reserve our decision until Quique properly looked in the bike. We spent the rest of the morning and afternoon thinking morose thoughts as Ushuaia got further and further away. Even when David let him win at pool, Gary couldn't be brought from his depression.

Pablo and Alex

A friendly young man stopped by to chat as we sat drinking coffee after coffee wishing it were something a bit stronger. Pablo, in town from Buenos Aires visiting his brother, a big bike enthusiast, invited us over to his house for lunch. Beneath many motorcross trophies, we dined on a very humble meal of rice and pastries cooked by Pablo himself - simple but lovingly prepared. He told us his mother owned a restaurant on the far side of the pampas in a little town called Esquiel, and if we (or Gary) ever made it there, we should be sure to stop in and say hola. One day he hoped to own a little hoteleria there for travellers such as ourselves.

Finally the time came to return to Motoport. Quique had the bike's engine case, both sides, completely split, parts laid out carefully on the hydraulic lift. The bearings seemed fine and Gary jumped for joy. But, and a big but, that only meant the problem was deeper inside, possibly the piston or crankshaft. Only by removing the engine completely from the frame and opening it up would Quique know which, and doing that would take a couple days in itself.

Big meeting with Quique and the boys. How bad was the problem? How long till the bike just wouldn't make it any further? Could it make it to Ushuaia? And if so, could it make it back somewhere to be fixed? Quique couldn't give any specific answers, but he thought the bike would be okay for another couple thousand kilometers. If not, it could always be trucked back up. Still the best and safest thing was to fix it right then and there. Good idea, unless you're the Riding to the Moon team on a mission.

It was getting late and Quique wanted to close up shop and go home. Gary's bike would lay open on the operating table until at least tomorrow, whereupon we would inform Quique of our decision. There was nothing to do but go out and drink heavily. We downed a bottle of wine at a funky little art-house coffeeshop/bar, then crossed the street for a few fingers more.

Soon things didn´t seem all that bad. As Alex philosophized, look at the ¨problems¨ we have to deal with. How unreal is the whole situation and how incredible at the same time: 750 miles from the literal end of the road, having driven our motorcycles over 13,000 miles to get there! And so now we have a little engine trouble. It´s not like the bank is foreclosing on our house. Thanks, Alex. We can always count on your for putting things in perspective.

An informal party of teenagers attracted our attention back at the campgrounds. Well it isn't like we could help being attracted, their music was blaringly loud so we stayed up for a while longer hanging out. The night was unusually warm and so were we. The tent remained in its drybag and we rolled our sleeping bags out on the ground, hoped it wouldn´t rain in the night, and fell asleep.

Quique listened carefully to our plan, nodding here, shaking his head there, always with that cute little smile on his face. We were going to risk Gary´s bike getting worse or breaking down altogether and head south as soon as possible to Ushuaia.

If Gary decided to continue travelling on his own up the interior of Argentina along the base of the Andes, which he had always planned, he would cut back to the coast when things started to get worse for his bike, or truck it back if need be. Quique would fix it in Comodoro Rivadavia, whereupon Gary would continue on to Santiago and further. In the back of his mind, Gary knew that he was going to try to seriously push his luck and keep going up the Andes all the way to Santiago and fix the bike there.

Quique and his two trusty mechanics reassembled Gary´s bike, but the main gasket seal, now completely gone from so many invasions, didn´t hold and oil leaked out the bottom. A new one had to be custom made, which took a while, then the water pump (oh god, say it´s not so) went for the THIRD time. With Quique dividing his time between his regular customers and the Italian itching to get back on the road, Gary´s bike still wasn´t totally done by the end of the day. Even the battery was now completely and inexplicably dead.

Quique was amazed how much abuse these bikes had taken and were still roadworthy - a back-handed compliment to the KLR´s? As Gary´s bike continued to offer up all sorts of weird problems, Quique´s wry sense of humor kicked into higher and higher gear. ¨Cabeza de tortuga¨ he quickly adopted from Alex´s vernacular, dubbing Gary and his bike the turtle team. If he wasn´t such a nice guy and great mechanic, Gary might have decked him. In many ways, Quique reminded everyone of Marcelo back in La Paz, from his physical appearance and voice to his love of the name we called each other - Pesca.

David spent most of the day in town at Satel-Sur doing the computer thing. The connection was very fast, though not too constant. The day before had gone so well with these folks and they were so jazzed about the benefit aspect of the journey that before they would allow David to get to work he had to sit a while and share a mate with them. During this chat he learn that one of the owners' brother died of lung cancer (Cancer, of course, is not just in the USA, it is all over the world in many forms.) He wanted to help knock it out too. He quit smoking when his brother died.

Folks reading this, please don't wait till someone you know dies of cancer or heart disease to curtail your tobacco use. Seeing people with their throats half cut out is no fun. Being one in this condition is worse. Don't let it be you.

A couple of young fans

As David began editing the photos and text and uploading them, a couple friendly girls, friends with the newsstand lady across the street, came to visit and see what these crazy bikers were up too. Their inquisition was extraordinary and intelligent for their age, like they had been accustomed to interviewing total strangers. Barbara Walters, eat your heart out.

Satel Sur closed so David went downstairs to the quiet cafe to continue his work. Within minutes the place was jammed with fumigating soccer fanatics. The game was on the big screen TV, Argentina and Uruguay. Not much of a match, but the way these Argentinians hoot and holler makes the Superbowl look like a little-league game. The streets even became grandstands with locals stopping at storefronts bedecked with TV sets in the windows.

We were pretty bummed at the end of the day that we were still in town. We´d made the best of it, but our goal of getting to Ushuaia on the 14th now looked impossible. Quique promised to have Gary´s bike ready to roll by noon tomorrow, giving us the opportunity to still put in a full day of riding. Barring breakdowns, we´d make Ushuaia on the 15th.

For the second night in a row, Gary´s bike was left lonely and inert up on the operating table; even the battery was yanked out, slowly charging in the corner. At least she wasn´t all alone, the Italian´s Beemer still sat shockless off to the side. Together, they could tell tales of woe and wonder about their many adventures. They could share stories about their wonderful owners and reminisce about how they were treated with such care and respect. Not!

As for the humans, we dragged our tired machines of blood and muscle out to the campgrounds one last time. Wasn´t anyone going to invite us into their house already? This night made the 6th night in a row camping out for David and Gary and one less for Alex. The tent and sleeping bags were beginning to get a bit ripe, but in a sick way, we enjoyed cramming our three stinky bodies into a tent rated for three but better for two; being on the road for so long was seriously affecting our sense of hygiene and social mores (scratch, scratch). God help us when we get back to the United States.

Miles - 0