Earthlings Through The Eyes Of A Wandering Biker
strikingviking
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Introduction
In November of 2001, while on 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, at 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 captures, I continued 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 discovered that recovery would be more difficult than anticipated, and although I was back in Palm Springs, it was still a long road home. During late evenings and early mornings of teeth grinding turmoil, I eventually concluded that 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.”
In November of 2001, while on 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, at 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 captures, I continued 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 discovered that recovery would be more difficult than anticipated, and although I was back in Palm Springs, it was still a long road home. During late evenings and early mornings of teeth grinding turmoil, I eventually concluded that 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.”
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Adventuring must be in my Norwegian blood. As a foolishly bold kid anxious to accept dares, life was always more interesting if challenging the norms. But eating worms, jumping off of roofs or being the first to test out new rope swings was unsettling behavior for 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 the age of twelve, my father suggested constructing a homebuilt, mini-scooter using an old lawnmower engine. The freedom and power of a motorized bike was like a match to gasoline for a troubled young rebel growing up in the Sixties. A lifetime lust for adventure had been ignited. Yet yielding to authority was the program for more obedient classmates and I found myself breaking the rules no matter the consequence. Fiercely independent and anti-authority, a constant rejection of the status quo 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. I did--handlebars.
Infected with motorcycle fever, sprawling California back-roads merely stimulated craving for more. After watching the movie Easy Rider and reading Jack Kerouac’s novel 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 for 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 twenty, a 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 that the next time would certainly be an extended stay, and an impending cycle of violence was sure to be my demise. During a chance conversation with an unlikely source, a local Kung Fu master insisted that following specific, strict disciplines of the Martial Arts was the only method to disrupt my patterns of senseless aggression and harness a wild spirit. With goals of competition in the ring, I became a fulltime student training six hours a day, six days a week for six years. Apprehensive over surrendering my role as a sworn outlaw, still, in 1979, I cautiously retired from The Club. Afterwards, re¬directing my scattered energies into Karate, Judo and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu became the pressure-relief valve for a life more conducive to freedom. From winning National Championships to backpacking Asia, I squeezed in short motorcycle journeys in between. But they were never long enough and like most motorcyclists, I had tantalizing visions of one day canceling tomorrow to simply keep riding. But with life’s varying complications, someday, was in danger of becoming never. With a growing awareness that life does eventually end, I finally declared that October 1, of 2001 my fate would be officially tossed to the wind. And those winds immediately turned 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 finally freed, supporters from home sent new equipment affording a second chance to complete my goal by continuing the 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 while 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 overbearing weight of the Colombian ordeal, I would use it as a springboard to the next level with a journey into the evolving, landscape of humanity. Yet even though I was now more experienced, this was far easier said than done.
From California, there were no airfreight links into Siberia, so after flying to Tokyo, I traversed 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 begins 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 they 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 happens in between.
It took a lifetime of hope but 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 quick 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 solidify sincerity 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—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 Word, I never felt more secure.
Although born in California, I grew up traditional Norwegian—long lost relatives still live above the Artic Circle, near Tromso in Northern Norway. Viking blood pumping through my veins has consistently propelled me toward foreign lands and bizarre circumstances, but the physical conditioning and awareness honed from twenty-five years of Martial Arts provides an edge. Still, the most effective weapon when traveling is always a big stupid smile and obvious gratitude merely to be there.
Sometimes serious problems sneak in from nowhere, but we just have to roll with the punches, literally. That was confirmed in Colombia. Confining my travels to the Developing World; ahead lays the fluctuating challenges of a lifetime. There were US State Department travel warnings about every country on my list, including allies. Wandering strange lands alone is seldom comfortable but it’s always rewarding as every experience carries a lesson, even if painful. True adventurers admit, we feel more alive when straddling the edge pegging the danger meter. But the merit of our passion is growth and a motorcyclist’s addiction intensifies while leaning through the next curve of a spiraling mountain road.
And 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’ll just apply the same principals to this beckoning odyssey. Adventuring is a great spiritual exercise. One thing for certain, we never give up.
At my going away party in a Palm Springs biker bar, an old friend, David Christian, handed me a 3x3 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, this adventure was dedicated to Phillip and his photo was tucked in my jacket where he’d be protected from the sandstorms of faraway deserts, the wilds of Siberia and the driving rains of the tropics but still enjoy the show.
With zero knowledge of photography, i purchased a Sony 828 five megapixel camera and just tried to remember keeping the sun behind me as I pointed and shot my way around the planet. Keeping it strapped to my chest and ready to fire, I was able to capture thousands of faces that I can never forget. National Geographic Channel made a docu-drama about my first book about being taken prisoner by Colombian rebels and subsequently, even though the quality is mediocre at best, purchased eighteen out of seven thousand photos to choose from.
Because I was so struck by the multitudes of cultures and people who cared for me over several years, mostly images of human faces will be posted. This is a photo essay of us. Upon returning to US soil, when asked "What was the hardest part of the journey?"
The answer was quick, "Saying good bye to those whom cared for me sharing their last crumbs of food--and realizing that I would never see them again."
When asked if I had any regrets, the answer was "Yes, I wish that I would have stayed one more day, everywhere."
This stuff remember me an amazing movie: Long Way Round, with two bikers who was riding from London to New York via Russia. Dreaming about...
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Morelia, Michoacan, Mexico. It's a significant event when girls turn fifteen.
Indigenous people of Chiapas, Mexico
Children's dancing festival in Granada, Nicaragua
San Salvador, El Salvador
An interview with CBS News, 48 Hours in Ecuador after released from the rebels
This insect larvae had grown inside my shoulder after a botfly laid its egg in my flesh while I was chained to a tree as a guest of the ELN.
The village doctor pulling it out.
Machu Picchu, Peru
Campesinos protest government regulations by closing city exits and high mountain roads.
But after a brief confrontation/explanation, we became friends and I was the only person allowed to pass.
Just starting to snow
Getting chillier...
After having a flat tire and nearly out of fuel in the boondocks, these folks rescued me off of snow stormy mountain, bringing me to the nearest city.
My helpers at the Peruvian/Bolivian border
La Paz, Bolivia
A high altitude crisscrossing of the Andes off pavement had it's complications.
The Bolivian Altiplano at 16,000 feet
Planar de Salar The Salt Plains at 14,000 feet
Dining on llama meat with locals in their cave
I am amazed, inspired, and touched by what I've read and seen so far. I've subscribed to this thread and I'll check in on it often, but could you also post information on your book when it comes out? I feel like I've read a teaser excerpt and I can't wait to get my hands on the whole story.
Thank you for sharing this with us!
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Equine Photography in Maryland - Dressage, Eventing, Hunters, Jumpers
Thanks for sharing. Looks like an incredible journey!
Lee
looking forward for more
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We need sometimes to escape into open solitudes, into aimlessness, into the moral holiday of running some pure hazard, in order to sharpen the edge of life,to taste hardship, and to be compelled to work desperately for a moment no matter what.
- George Santayana, "The philosophy of travel"
What started out as a necessary response to an ugly event in Colombia, my ultimate act of defiance became a fascinating journey into the landscape of humanity. Inching my way around the planet allowed me to witness and record the footprints of history etched upon the faces of those whom I shared moments with or sometimes days. The simple truth is that I fell in love with several thousand people who bear little physical resemblance to myself while we share the same yearnings of peace and freedom. EARTH RIDE was the ultimate opportunity to explore alien cultures and to marvel at our similarities while celebrating our differences.
From there, it was a quick sail across the Sea of Japan to Vladivostok, on the edge of the Russian Far East. But first I had to deal with this Customs Inspector
Then connect with the local boys
And local girls...
Whoops, here are some better examples.
Like everywhere in the world, it was those with the least who shared the most. Mornings after late-evening meals, many a humble, friendly Russian offered me their last crumbs of bread and chunks of ultra-fatty pork--but still, they furiously rejected attempts at stuffing bills of rubles into their heavily calloused hands. Slapping their chests with powerful arms declaring, "Hospitality comes from the heart!"
Russians at roadside meal-stops would often offer small gifts and sign currency bills as souvenirs. And of course the vodka flowed like water into a startling display of alcoholism. Knowing that I would soon meet them on the road somwhere, it was unnerving watching truck drivers suck down several one-liter bottles over breakfast.
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His first book is a great read, for those just finding this story. I highly recommend it
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The last outpost at Mandal Gobi before entering the Gobi Desert.
It's a tough life in the Gobi where winter winds thunder in at forty below zero. To survive, all must share.
The last road into the Gobi
Only two SUVs appeared on the road today, one passing, the other oncoming, both with enthusiastic occupants leaning out windows waving. Vast herds of goats and camels roam the empty plain, scattering at my approach. This is where wanderers seek to be, where emptiness fills the soul. Enveloped by thousands of square miles of gently sloping desert, devoid of civilization, my only companion is the barren Gobi. Swallowed by the desolation of a billion years and giddy with newfound freedom, I am awed by the thundering silence while vanishing into the glory of obscurity.
Although the pink parched soil is coated in sharp-edged stones and small clumps of desert grasses, it’s level enough to ride across. Like circular domains, white felt Gers of distant Mongolian nomads sprout like mushroom patches on the skyline.
Waving herdsmen dressed in blue hand-woven clothing coax me to stop, but each visit requires an explanation in sign language and accepting gulps of foul tasting fermented mare’s milk. After a few fake sips, I pass out raisins and slip back into nothingness.
Not much out there, or so I thought, When dozing off to sleep with nothing alive visible on the horizon in any direction, the blackened overhead dome of the August midnight sky became a dazzling symphony of shooting stars crissscrossing in simultaneous arcs. A mile up from sea level, absent the pollution of burned hydrocarbons and blazing lights of civilization, the cosmic illumination of a thousand distant suns was powerful enough to permit reading a book.
It is in the Buddhist karma of the Mongolian nomads to care for a stranger so every morning, outside of my tent someone left an offering of dried yoghurt.
Although I seldom saw them during the day, early evenings, sometimes curious nomads would visit my camp where we would swap samples of my dried fruit for their dried meats.
Some of the more progressive nomads rode late-model Russian motorcycles
While others carried on more ancient traditions
Involuntary Wandering (Lost)
August 15, 2004
The Gobi Desert
The two major manufactures of GPS units each sell a CD with downloadable data revealing the main roads of the world. Assuming they used the same sources, it seemed logical that mine would display the same information as Brand X. It didn’t. Primary roads in Mongolia are merely frequently used tire tracks over dirt that became roads. There are thousands of these throughout the country with countless forks constantly dividing them into separate directions. Brand X marks a few of these routes, mine does not. Although mine is an easier unit to operate, except for the black triangle indicating my position near the border with China, for identifying roads it was useless in the Gobi.
Asking for directions has little value either. If the nomads understand questions, they just point to a series of tracks and say, “That one.” It makes no difference which I select, a mile down the road, it forks into several other tracks making gradual enough changes so that by the time the compass registers I am moving in the wrong direction, it’s hard to remember how to return to the original fork.
Fortunately, a friend provided specific GPS coordinates for important landmarks in the Gobi. Since the terrain is flat with no fences, theoretically, it should be possible to ride in a straight line to the intended destination. If there were no washes, sand dunes or low mountain ranges, that would have worked. And getting lost in the desert is common. Even with one eye on the GPS and the other on the horizon, it’s easy to become disorientated enough to question if the GPS is malfunctioning.
On a lightweight bike with knobby tires, sand dunes are fun—with street tires on a four hundred pound motorcycle lugging two hundred pounds of extra gear, it’s a tiring battle. Three hours of spinning through soft sand dunes leads back to where I started--except, now there are no nomads to consult, only numerous herds of foul smelling camels that hopefully belong to somebody. Maybe following their tracks will lead to humans who can point to the right direction. Anything is better than this.
Two hours later the animal tracks scattered but there was a wash at the base of a small mountain range emptying into an alluvial plain. Loose gravel of the widening bed was firmer to ride than rolling dunes but according to the GPS, the wash was leading opposite of the proper direction. It was hard to recall how long it had been since the low-fuel light blinked on, indicating two gallons left. That should last one hundred twenty miles, but it’s unknown if there is somewhere to buy fuel even if finding a main road. Supplies are adequate--a dozen protein bars, canned sardines and three, two-liter, plastic water bottles wrapped in socks. Still, the jarring has broken two of the bottles leaving one full container and an aluminum saddlebag holding the other two. At least they are still drinkable.
Between a hand drawn map provided by one of the nomads and the GPS, it appears that I’ll eventually hit a main road that’s supposed to be recognized by tilting old telephone poles without wires.
Even so, there is still another twenty miles of spinning across the desert. At this point, my own judgment’s in question and since sunset is two hours away, it’s best to setup camp and tackle the situation in the morning with a clearer head. I often seek remote locations to venture, wondering if there is ever enough distance from civilization. Today there was. Wrangling to sleep with concerns over punctured tires and running out of fuel, the Gobi remains unchanged in the morning. Unzipping the tent reveals a half dozen camels sniffing around about to dine on my gear. But before they can discover the taste of canvas and protein bars, I shoo them away.
It’s time for a new plan. The best solution is to program the waypoint into the GPS from my current position and then add an estimated one approximately to where the main road ought to be, based on the nomad’s map. It should be easy to follow the thick black line drawn on the screen. Seven arduous hours later, slightly north of the programmed waypoint, tiny vertical lines appear where a blue sky meets a pink desert. This is not the home stretch but merely where the contest begins. The orange low-fuel light is a steady reminder that the game has plenty of twists ahead.
Realizing that it can be several hours without seeing another vehicle, it’s better to wait for someone to flag over for confirmation that this is the appropriate road. Halfway through a can of sardines and stale bread, I am suddenly aware of a presence at my side. Looking down to the left, I am startled to see a four-year old girl staring up holding an aluminum pale and porcelain bowl. Scanning the surrounding terrain reveals no sign of nomads or their Gers and it’s impossible to determine from where she came.
“Sain ban noo.” I say. Hello. Her smudgy face is frozen in an emotionless gaze upward at the Martian that someone in her family has sent her to assist. Because of a deep Buddhist belief in Karma, it’s in the nature of the nomads to feed and care for strangers. This is a training mission.
Glen, it's great to have you here and to revisit some of those photos and stories! My copy of 2-Wheels Through Terror is looking a bit worn from several reads by me and many mates.
Did I miss the release of the new book? Can't find a "buy" button on the website.
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Thanks for asking. A few months ago, I signed away rights-to-life-story for a feature film to be shot in 2009. Worldflix has just this week hired a screenwriter and director but the powers that be have been delaying the release of my new book to possibly time it with the movie. Stay tuned though as I'll announce that date soon.
I am supposed to do two more documentaries with Nat Geo, one on EARTH RIDE and then other with a film crew following me across China. The devil though, is in the details and so far we cannot come to terms on how to proceed. They have their ideas which are great for television and I have mine which are far more authentic but difficult to develop alone.
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Russian motorcyclists, using their national Internet chatrooms, pass the word across Siberia that a lone American is attempting to cross their nation on the Trans-Siberian Highway. Not knowing my exact arrival time, often teams of local boys were waiting on the outskirts of city limits, prepared to escort a wandering brother back to their clubhouses.
And Russian women, curious as to the means and methods of an alien vagabond...
Keep posting wonderful photos of the journey
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Gracias amigo. Did this show air on Pakistan national TV or via satellite from the US or Europe. It's my understanding that Nat Geo is going to translate it into Spanish also.