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Jaguar Cart
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Skyhammer Atari Jaguar Cart New In the Box! NIB |  |
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US $79.95 | 28d 14h 57m |
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ATARI JAGUAR GAME HOVERSTRIKE HOVER STRIKE CART NEW | |
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US $13.95 | 18d 6h 55m |
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NEW JAGUAR E-Type XK XKR XK8 CABRIO HARD TOP STAND CARRIER CART FREE COVER WHITE | |
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US $149.99 | 21d 11h 44m |
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Protector SE Atari Jaguar Cart New In the Box! NIB | |
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US $74.95 | 10d 15h 52m |
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Raiden Jaguar cart New in Box Atari 5E(NTSC and PAL) | |
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US $49.95 | 28d 14h 57m |
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Total Carnage Atari Jaguar Cart New In the Box! NIB | |
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US $89.95 | 16d 13h 31m |
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Soccer Kid Atari Jaguar Cart New In the Box! NIB | |
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US $74.95 | 28d 14h 57m |
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ezgo club car CUSTOM NFL JAGUARS FALCONS PANTHERS SAINTS PATRIOTS GOLF CART BODY | |
US $749.99 | 27d 20h 14m |
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Trevor McFur in the Crescent Galaxy (Jaguar, 1993) cart only. | |
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US $14.95 | 27d 10h 4m |
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Tempest 2000 (Jaguar, 1994) cart only. | |
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US $24.95 | 27d 9h 52m |
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Raiden (Jaguar) cart only. | |
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US $19.95 | 27d 9h 47m |
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Doom (Jaguar, 1994) cart only. | |
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US $24.95 | 27d 9h 37m |
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New Wilson Golf NFL Jacksonville Jaguars Cart Bag | |
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US $109.95 | 25d 13h 47m |
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00 01 02 03 JAGUAR S TYPE AUDIO EQUIPMENT TRUNK MOUNTED 6 CD CHANGER WITH CART | |
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US $100.00 | 25d 5h 46m |
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FlipOut! (Jaguar) cart only. | |
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US $14.95 | 24d 11h 58m |
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Attack of the Mutant Penguins (Jaguar) cart only. | |
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US $17.95 | 24d 10h 34m |
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Atari Jaguar CD System VERY XLNT unit +5 COMPLETE GAMES & Memory Track save cart | |
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US $324.95 | 23d 16h 45m |
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NEW JAGUAR E-Type XK XKR XK8 CABRIO HARD TOP STAND CARRIER CART FREE COVER BLACK | |
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US $149.99 | 2d 16h 6m |
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Hyperforce Atari Jaguar Cart New In the Box! NIB New | |
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US $74.95 | 16d 13h 31m |
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Evolution: Dino Dudes (Jaguar) cart only. | |
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US $19.95 | 15d 11h 39m |
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Cybermorph (Jaguar) cart only. | |
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US $15.95 | 15d 11h 39m |
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Kasumi Ninja (Jaguar) cart only. | |
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US $15.95 | 15d 11h 39m |
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Bubsy in Fractured Fairy Tales (Jaguar, 1994) cart only. | |
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US $15.95 | 15d 11h 39m |
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Kasumi Ninja - Atari Jaguar - Cart Only. | |
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US $14.95 | 12d 11h 50m |
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NFL Jacksonville Jaguars Medalist Cart Team Golf Bag | |
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US $229.95 | 10d 10h 52m |
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Jaguar Driver Photo Robinson Redman Haywood Camel GT Indy CART Racing Auto IRL | |
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US $12.95 | 8d 10h |
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Authentic NFL Jacksonville Jaguars Team Golf Medalist Cart Bag + Bonus | |
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US $229.95 | 2d 18h 42m |
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6' Beach Golf Cart Umbrella JACKSONVILLE JAGUARS | |
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US $19.95 | 28d 9h 2m |
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NFL Jacksonville Jaguars Wilson Cart Golf Bag SHIP FREE | |
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US $134.99 | 6d 18h 6m |
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alien vs predator atari jaguar iron soldier wolfenstein 3d game cart no boxes | |
1 Bid | US $.99 | 6d 8h 19m |
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Boss BV9155B In-Dash Double-DIN 4.5-Inch DVD/MP3/CD Widescreen Receiver with USB, SD Card, Bluetooth and Front Panel AUX Input (Detachable Front Panel) List Price: $369.00 Sale Price: Too low to display  |
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The Boss Audio BV9155B is a double-DIN multimedia receiver offering Bluetooth connectivity and playback of DVDs, CDs and plenty more, including digital MP3/MP4/WMA files. This receiver features touchscreen navigation on its brilliant 4.5-inch widescreen display, a convenient front-panel auxiliary input, a USB port, and SD Card slot. With 80 Watts through four channels, it offers plenty of power, but front/rear and sub preamp outputs offer room for further growth. A double-din multimedia receiver with a 4.5-inch widescreen touch display. Click to enlarge. Front panel USB and auxiliary input, and SD Card slot. Full-featured remote included. Bluetooth-Enabled Pair with your mobile phone for hands-free calling and other Bluetooth features. 4.5-Inch Touchscreen The BV9155B features a detachable front panel with an 4.5-inch widescreen display. Touchscreen controls make navigation a breeze, and the brilliant monitor features a 1440 x 234 resolution and 600 NIT brightness--your video will look great. Enjoy Your Media The BV9155B will play back your DVDs/SDVDs, SVCDs/VCDs, CDs, CD-R/Ws, and WMA/MP4/MP3 files. The ESP anti-skip mechanism ensures your music or video isn't interrupted by any bumps in the road, and playback features such as a mute function, intro scan, and last position memory are all included. When listening to digital files, enjoy full ID3 tag display of artist/track info. Dial in the sound with separate bass and treble EQ controls, along with balance/fader. USB and SD Connectivity The BV9155B features a USB port and SD Card jack, so you can instantly switch out USB thumb drives or SD cards with a fresh batch of MP3 tunes/podcasts/etc. AM/FM Radio Enjoy your favorite radio programming with the PLL-synthesized tuner, featuring 30 station presets for instant access to your preferred stations, and switchable USA/Europe radio frequencies. Auxiliary Input The convenient front-panel auxiliary input (3.5mm mini jack) is a great way to enjoy audio from external devices such as iPods or MP3 players. Power and Expandability The BV9155B provides 80 Watts through four channels to start, and if you'd like to expand your system, use the front/rear and subwoofer preamp outputs to add external amplifiers. Rear View Camera Input Add a rear view camera for safety and convenience when your vehicle is in reverse. Remote Included A wireless remote control is included for convenient control of the system. What's in the Box BV9155B Receiver, Wireless Remote, Mounting Hardware, User's Manual BOSS AUDIO BV9155B 4.5" IN-DASH TOUCHSCREEN DVD/MP3/CD RECEIVER WITH USB & BLUETOOTH CONNECTIVITY |
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JVC KT-SR1000 Sirius Satellite Radio Receiver List Price: $182.99 Sale Price: $33.75 |
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N/A JVC's PDA-styled KT-SR1000 Sirius satellite radio receiver brings a wealth of music and news programming to your car and/or home audio system in a plug-and-play device that's as easy to use as it is to transport. The receiver offers accessible buttons and a large, bright LCD with multiple options for enhancing legibility. Artist names and song titles are presented in large type to enhance safety by minimizing distractions. Use of the receiver requires activation of a subscription to Sirius Satellite Radio ($12.95 per month or a one-time fee of $499.99). You'll also need a car or home docking apparatus, sold separately. The KT-SR1000 lets you enter a desired channel/stream number directly, or you can search for programming by scrolling through a list of channels or even a list of currently playing artists. For one-touch access, you can set up to 30 stream preferences, or presets, with the option to lock or unlock a given function. For example, you can store a list of preferred categories and stations without fear of alteration until you decide it's time for a change. Memory Capture stores 30 favorite songs in the form of PDTs (Program Definition Text, with artist name and song title), and, when activated, the unit's S-Seek feature will search all incoming streams for those songs. Time-based functions include an alarm, a sleep timer, and program alert, which switches the KT-SR1000 to a preprogrammed stream at a selected time. The KT-SR1000 features a 132 x 65-pixel dot-matrix FSTN LCD with separate controls for brightness and contrast. The KT-SR1000 must be used with one of the following adapter kits: JVC KS-K6003 home kit JVC KS-K6002 vehicle kit (with wireless FM transmitter) JVC KS-K6001 vehicle kit (without wireless FM transmitter) Sirius satellite radio is a subscription service that provides more than 100 channels of digital programming, from music to news, talk, and sports. It is available only in the lower 48 states--not available in Alaska, Hawaii, or U.S. territories. What's in the Box Sirius receiver, a remote control, remote batteries, and a user's manual. |
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Kenwood KDC-MP342U WMA/MP3 CD Receiver with Satellite/HD Radio/Bluetooth Ready Front Panel USB/AUX Input List Price: $160.00 |
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Kenwood's KDC-MP342U delivers playback of your CDs and CD-Rs, MP3/WMA/AAC files from disc or via the unit's front USB port, AM/FM radio, and two versatile pre-amp outputs for system expansion. Add additional Kenwood devices for Bluetooth or satellite/HD radio. A great replacement for your stock stereo. Click to enlarge. Detachable Faceplate Deter theft with the detachable faceplate, which features a 14 segment FL display and lets you turn Scrolling on or off. The rotary encoder provides easy, intuitive operation and the blue key illumination with dimmer function looks great in any vehicle. CD and WMA/MP3/AAC Playback Play your favorite CDs and CD-Rs, or enjoy your favorite WMA/MP3/AAC digital files burned to CD or on a USB device plugged into the KDC-MP342U's front USB slot. Enjoy hours of music and ID-3 tag display for artist and title info. iPod 1-wire Connection If you own an iPod, simply connect it to a Kenwood CD receiver via the USB cable that comes with the iPod. Better yet, use the optional KCA-iP100 1-wire iPod Interface Cable for crystal clear digital audio playback. You'll supply power to your iPod as well as charge it while you enjoy your music. Includes IR remote. Click to enlarge. Bluetooth-ready: add the optional KCA-BT200 to enjoy hands-free phone operation or to listen to audio stored on Bluetooth devices. FM/AM Tuner When you feel like letting someone else control the programming, switch to the radio. Features 18 FM and six AM presets for your convenience. Room to Grow The KDC-MP342U features two 2V pre-amp outputs for system expansion. These are switchable between front/rear/sub settings, with a subwoofer level and adjustable low pass filter, so you have a few options for setting up your system. Remote Control Let your passengers control the music from the back seat with the included remote. Front USB/AUX Connection The DPX503 features a USB and AUX connector up front that makes connecting a USB mass-storage device easier than ever. For the auxiliary input, input sensitivity correction adjusts volume or input level depending on the characteristics of the input source. Front USB and AUX connectors for quick and easy access. Supreme When a music file is compressed, some frequencies signals are lost, particularly if it is encoded using a low bit rate. The Supreme technology is a Kenwood-original audio compensation technology that compensates for this loss and reproduces music in a more natural form, thereby making it possible to play music recorded using low bit rates (64k to 96k) in an audio-quality equivalent to music recorded using a higher bit rate (equivalent to 128k). Enjoy a natural, rich sound, even with lower compression ratios. Bluetooth Ready Add the optional KCA-BT200 to enjoy hands-free operation of the KDC-MP342U, allowing you to keep your hands on the steering wheel allowing you better concentration on your driving. Advanced Bluetooth technology provides wireless connection and operation of Bluetooth-enabled devices, such as mobile phones and even phones that can stream music via A2DP. HD and Satellite Radio Ready The KDC-MP342U allows you to enjoy SIRIUS (requires CA-SR20V cable + Sirius Tuner) or XM (requires Audiovox CNP2000UC and CPKEN1) radio in your vehicle. Enjoy a multitude of channels featuring music, news, talk shows, sports, and traffic information with CD quality sound. You also can add an HD Radio tuner. When you connect an HD radio tuner, features of the unit are disabled and changed to HD Radio tuner features. What's in the Box Kenwood KDC-MP342U, wireless remote (batteries included), sleeve, trim ring, wiring harness, installation tools, installation manual, operation manual, warranty card. Used item. shows signs of install and use no major scratches, face is an 8 on a scale of 10. Comes with main unit and power harness only, no other accessories or manuals included. |
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Road Rat Motors Racing Kart Suit - Black/White 2 Extra Small Sale Price: $115.00 |
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If you are looking for a great quality kart suit Road Rat Motors has a suit for you. We have these suits available in red, blue, and black. They come with pockets on each side of the pants and have a zipper that goes the full length. For easy entry and exit of the suit, we have included elastic wrist and feet cuffs for all suits as well. Road Rat Motors is the leader in affordable kart parts and gear. |
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Road Rat Motors Racing Kart Gloves - Red Large Sale Price: $32.99 |
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If you are looking for a great quality pair of gloves Road Rat Motors has a pair for you. We have these gloves available in red, blue, and black. These light weight gloves are of high quality and has a strap around the wrist for adjustments. Road Rat Motors is the leader in affordable kart parts and gear. |
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Optima Batteries 8010-044 6V RedTop Starting Battery List Price: $146.99 Sale Price: $124.17 |
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RedTop Battery UNBOXED Group 6V Cold Crank Amps 800 Crank Amps 1000 Reserve Capacity 100 Ampere Hour 50 Top Terminal L-10 in. W-3 9/16 in. H-8 1/8 in. |
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Gourmet Health Recipes: For Life Extension and Vital, Healthy Living to 120! List Price: $8.95 Sale Price: $8.94 |
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1,000 delicious, easy, healthy recipes for super health and high energy. |
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Troy Aikman Football Sale Price: $5.11 |
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Game Only |
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NFL Cart Golf Bag (14 Way Dividers) |
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NFL Arizona Cardinals Cart Golf Bag (14 Way Dividers) |
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NFL Bling Z Tool Divot Repair Tool List Price: $19.99 |
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Don't let divots ruin your time on the links. Fix them with this NFL® Bling tool from McArthur Sports®. It features a polished metal construction and includes a removable ball marker. |
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NFL Insulated Cart Cooler with Wheeled Trolley |
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This NFL Cart Cooler features a polyester micro-fiber soft exterior construction, with an insulated 25-quart foil interior, plus a removable heat-sealed, water-resistant PVC liner that holds up to 15 quarts or 37 standard size beverage cans. This removable cooler sits on a sturdy, lightweight folding trolley complete with extra wide wheels and a stability bar to keep the tote upright when not rolling. The cooler has a generous storage pocket on each side and a large zippered opening for easy accessibility, providing a convenient, effortless way to tote your goodies around in style. An adjustable split-level comfort-grip handle provides two handle heights for added comfort. This versatile insulated cart cooler has your favorite team's digital print logo, will handle up to 77 pounds and is perfect for picnics, trips to the beach or park, grocery shopping or a stroll through the farmers market. |
Chasing adventure via motorcycle in Latin America
On the pampas the horizons seem to flee. The llamas are golden, the clouds impossibly white. We let the bikes run. Suddenly, the view changes. The lead bike rises above the line of the horizon, a rider flails through the air 10 feet above the ground. This is not good. Jeff has gone off the road at 70 mph. Katie goes into paramedic mode, calming Jeff, running her hands up his spine, probing, checking ribs, legs, arms. The fall has ripped his touring jacket from shoulder to waist, peeling the back protector to reveal the We-Build-Bridges T-shirt. He is scuffed, but within moments is giggling, flashing the “I Can’t Believe I’m Still Alive” grin that is his default expression.
Ryan pulls the bike up and starts collecting the bits scattered across the desert. The luggage is destroyed. The right handlebar is bent almost to the tank. Mirrors, turn signals, front fender snapped off in a microsecond. Both wheel rims have dents. Incredibly, it still runs. He puts the parts that still work back on the bike, takes it for a test ride. It will last another 7,000 miles. Our motto: We Will Make This Work.
Jeff tells what happened. A small bird had hopped into his path. The next thing he knew he was off the road, launched into a culvert. “I thought, wow. I’m Superman. Oh look, there’s the bike. Oh look, there’s the bird…” In a field strewn with jagged boulders, he had landed on sand.
THE BEGINNING
The trip came up long before I was ready. A phone call, an invitation to tag along with a group of BMW riders embarking on a five-week, 8,000-mile journey from Peru to Virginia. I would document the ride, a fundraising effort for a group that builds footbridges in remote areas of the world. I’d been thinking about a long ride, something open-ended, without support vehicles, the experience of being totally “out there.” This seemed to fit the bill. A third of the distance around the world with complete strangers. I had a brand-new BMW F 800 GS and it was thirsty. If there was a point of no return, I crossed it before I hung up the phone.
First, the riders. Ken Hodge is an insurance benefits specialist and member in good standing of the Newport News Rotary Club. He discovered motorcycles late in life, when he bought a bike, rode it across country in 48 hours, then began to dream of a bigger adventure, something for a good cause.
He recruited his daughter Katie (a fire department paramedic), his stepson Ryan (a mechanic and dirt-bike rider) and Ryan’s best friend Jeff. I’m impressed by their preparations. They ride old BMW R 1150s and F 650 singles. Ryan had spent a year renewing the bikes, poking about the inner recesses, memorizing the shop manuals for each machine. They would bring enough tools and parts to handle almost every emergency.
INTO THE ANDES
We stop at Nazca to view the ancient figures scratched in the rocky desert. From the top of a tower we can see a figure with raised hands. Just to the north, the Pan-American Highway bisects the figure of a lizard, decapitating the creature. Bound by the tight focus of brass transit levels, the surveyors who laid out the road were not even aware of the sacred relics, discovered when aerial flight became common.
I realize that we are as blinded by focus, by concentration as the surveyors were by their instrument. The trip will be a series of images, sidelong glances, captured at speed.
Descendants of the people who built the Inca trail, Peruvian builders know their stuff. But it’s the tracery, the managed flow of momentum, that has our respect. The road ascends ancient seabeds, hills covered with talus, fractured dry ridges with cornices sculpted by landslides. Midday, we find ourselves on a high pampas inhabited by thousands of vicuña and alpaca. In the distance, our first sight of snowcapped peaks. There are stone corrals on nearby slopes, one-room huts. In the middle of this giant nowhere, a lone shepherd walking on the side of the hill.
We discover that the distances on maps are those of the condor. We travel incredibly twisted roads that sometimes take a hundred turns (and several miles) to get from one ridge to the next. The map indicates towns, but to our dis-may not all have gas stations. We buy gas in a small outpost from a woman who ladles it out of a bucket with a coffee pot, then pours it through a plastic, woven kitchen funnel into our tanks. The whole town watches. We push on into the descending night. We make it to the next set of lights, 20 or so buildings on two streets, find a hotel, and park our bikes in an enclosed backyard with dogs, chickens, dead birds, plastic bottles and an animal hide tanning on the wall. Instead of the usual exit signs, the restaurant in our hotel has green arrows that say “ESCAPE.” It is not a criticism of the food. The forces that drive the Andes skyward have been known to demolish whole towns.
The next morning we fire up the bikes, and ascend into the Andes on a perfect road. We are fluid, going through hairpins, double hairpins, squared-off turns—climbing the flank of a single 4,700-meter peak. I can think of only one word: delicious. We move through mist and low-hanging clouds, with shafts of sunlight slanting into rainbows. The valleys below are green and fertile, a mix of old Inca terracing and more modern farms. Slender eucalyptus trees line the road, providing shade for huts with red tile roofs. A girl tends a flock of goats (identified with colorful ribbons) on a green meadow, book in hand. At one point I think the clouds above have parted to reveal patches of blue, but when I look up I see that it is snow-covered rock, another 3,000 or 4,000 feet of mountain. On a turnoff near the top of the peak we find a dozen or so tiny shrines, little churches decorated with flowers and ribbons and photographs of loved ones. The site of a bus plunge. On a hillside across the valley paragliders work the thermals, the canopies looking like bright-colored eyebrows, or ostentatious angels.
We share the road with vicuña, alpaca, llama, sheep, goats, dogs, roosters, pigs, horses and cows. On a narrow lane near Abancay, a bull tries to gore me as I pass, charging and making a hooking motion with its horns. One night after the sunset, I round a corner and a beautiful roan stallion wheels in the light from our bikes, filling the lane with wide eyes and flashing hoofs, inches from my head. I realize that riding sweep poses a risk. The novelty of our passing bikes wears off, and the local wildlife has time to react.
Entering Cusco, Ryan asks directions, a girl directs us onto a narrow cobblestone street, slick with rain, as steep as a bobsled run. The rocks are turned on their side, like teeth. The knobbies have no traction whatsoever. The people on the sidewalks frantically wave their hands, indicating that the road gets steeper. I touch my brake and the bike goes down, pinning my leg against the curb, a quarter of an inch shy of a fracture. The bike behind me goes down. It is harrowing. The locals help us lift the bikes, get them turned uphill.
A police escort leads us to a hotel that lets us store the motorcycles in the lobby. Without bothering to shower, we make our way to the Norton Rats Bar on the northeast corner of the central plaza. The owner, an American expatriate, once piloted a Norton to the tip of the continent. The walls are lined with photos from the trip. Above the bar are mounted heads, the four past American presidents, with their best known soundbites: I am not a crook. I did not inhale. I do not recall. We will find WMD in Iraq. We sip beers, trade stories, trying to reassemble the past few days. The dead battery. The punctured radiator. The roadside repairs. The incredible rush of unrelenting beauty.
Three days of desert north of Lima generate a few details. The total absence of life, the three colors of sand. Young boys pedaling tricycle ice cream carts in the middle of nowhere. We enter a <I>zona de nimbleras</I>, but instead of fog we find a 60-mph crosswind that sends a layer of grit skittering across the road like a special effect in a Steven Spielberg movie. Two lanes narrow to one covered by blowing sand, thick enough to swallow the front tire, deep enough that a road grader prepares to clear the drifting sands.
We decide to try a secondary route through the hills. We turn onto a dirt road and everything changes. We pass through villages alive with people, dogs, tiny three-wheel taxis fashioned from old motorcycles. Kids on motorscooters ride past, snapping pictures with their cell phones. The road throws split-finger fastballs at the bash plate that clang as loud and adamant as the sound of an aluminum bat. We slosh our way through gravel, gray dust on everything, parts falling off, teeth rattling. Oh yes, this is what we wanted.
ECUADOR
In Macara, we sit on the sidewalk near a minor town square, eating pork cooked by a rotund woman in a yellow dress. Her daughter brings us three beers (giant) at a time, and keeps the empties in a milk crate for accounting later. Boys on motorbikes cruise the quiet streets, the lucky ones with girls on the back. Across the square, girls sit on benches. Jeff experiences a cultural revelation, that South American girls have breasts, and wear tight pants…and “Hey, I think she likes me.”
Our dinner companion is David McCollum, an American expatriate that Ryan had met on ADVrider.com. He tells us stories about riding the Ecuadoran Andes, and gives us tips on handling roadblocks. “Act Stupid. Do not try to communicate in Spanish. Say ‘No fumar Espanol’ (I don’t smoke Spanish). If all else fails, have Katie cry.” Er, Katie does not do “cry.” The next day he leads us into the Ecuadoran Andes.
Impressions: Razor-sharp ridges. Lumpy, conical outcroppings. Monasteries on top of hills. Slopes so steep they will never be worked by machine. A couple standing above dark earth, the man holding a wooden hoe, the woman a bag of seeds. A woman on horseback, black and red cape, a whip coiled in one hand. Trees. Cloud. Mist. The feel of a Japanese block print, the ones that suggest the road goes to infinity.
I had introduced the group to a family tradition. When we travel, we end each day by recounting high point, low point and funny bone. After this day, I will add “Pucker moments.” Trucks hurtle out of the fog, running without lights, signaled only by the ghostly wave pushed before. They appear in our lane without warning or reason. We go through construction sites where the road narrows to one lane that offers no escape route. One side seems hideously close to the new concrete, studded with rebar fangs. The other side is precipice. Pucker moments? Take your pick. Sometimes it’s the surface, a half mile of muddy bobsled run, of loose gravel, of gushing water, the bike handling like a loose bowel. Twice, we round a corner and find no road, the surface having caved in, sucked away by underground torrents. Katie’s moment comes when a cow, with no footing, scrambles into the path of her bike. For Jeff, it is passing a truck that suddenly swerves to avoid a pothole, the trailer swinging toward him like a baseball bat.
We spend two days in Cuenca, a 500-year-old city surrounded by mountains. Ken phones ahead and discovers that the ship that was to have taken us and the bikes from Ecuador to Panama doesn’t exist (had we had drugs or been illegal aliens, no problem, but there are no accommodations for <I>turistas</I> with motorcycles). We ask David for help. While we ride to Quito, he will work the phones. He finds a contact, a guy known for getting things done when no one else can. We meet up with this air freight magician at The Turtle’s Head, a biker bar in Quito. At midnight.
The next morning we ride our bikes to the military section of the airport, then into a refrigerated warehouse. The steel floor is covered with embedded ball bearings, across which slide steel palettes. For the next three hours we wrestle with tiedowns. A skinny man dressed entirely in black oversees the operation, taking pictures of the bikes with a digital camera, making sure batteries are disconnected, tires are deflated. Drug-sniffing dogs poke their noses into every recess.
Then, just like that, our bikes are gone, on their way to Panama in the belly of an airplane.
CENTRAL AMERICA
Central American countries are the size of postage stamps. You can cross them in a day and a half, only to spend a half day at customs and immigration. Ken had prepared Xerox copies of all our documents (passports, licenses, titles, registration, VIN numbers) and had them notarized. As he works with the official in the air-conditioned office, we sit in 100-degree heat and watch ants carry grains of dirt from beneath the ground. We will become used to the demands for more copies, the freelance currency traders waving bills in front of our faces, the young hustlers willing to facilitate the process, the food vendors waiting for starvation to overcome caution about local cuisine.
Before embarking on this trip, I’d read State Department travel advisories. The section on Peru warned that five Americans had died from liposuction in Lima. OK, was that consensual liposuction, or were there gangs of thugs wielding vacuum cleaners with sharp pointy attachments? Virtually every entry on Central American countries warned about fake checkpoints, bandits in uniform, soldiers in the middle of nowhere.
Along the roadside are signs with a blood-red eye and the warning <I>vigilantes</I>. We round a corner to find two soldiers walking patrol, miles from the nearest town. They ask for paperwork. A surge of adrenaline turns my mouth to cotton. David, our friend in Ecuador had given us good advice: Act stupid. Smile. We seem to have a natural talent for that. <I>No fumar Espanol</I>. After inspecting our paperwork, they wave us on. In the next few weeks we will be stopped repeatedly, sniffed by dogs, x-rayed, wanded with devices that look like carving knives with car antennas where the blade should be. At border crossings, guys in jumpsuits and facemasks spray our bikes with liquids designed to kill stowaway bugs too lazy to cross borders under their own power. There are soldiers at every gas station, armed attendants at convenience stores and restaurants, guys with shotguns on Pepsi trucks. We are aware of poverty, a culture of criminal opportunity. The night air can strip your bike naked, if you don’t find a hotel with secure parking.
These countries are linked by soil to the United States, and our culture has rattled its way through. Central America is a motorbike culture. Whole families whiz by, perched on narrow seats, wearing helmets with missing visors. In Panama City we run into a group of Harley riders. The bikes have exhausts the size of howitzers, the horns blare a soundtrack of special effects. They surround us, and ask if we want to join their regular weekend burger run. We follow them to an exclusive country club just beyond the Mira Flores locks on the Panama Canal. They send us off with directions to a bed-and-breakfast up the coast. I fall asleep that night in a hammock, a bottle of beer still clutched in my hand, the blades of a fan whirring softly overhead.
Central America has a different feel than Peru and Ecuador, a different gravity. We move through verdant countryside at a speed that would be natural in Virginia or Colorado or California. The vegetation looks like fireworks, only green. Here clusters of one plant have taken over a hillside. There a different species explodes. A slow war.
We have been in the saddle for three weeks. Nothing can break our pace. We abandon the Pan-American Highway and find roads that make it seem like you have two flat tires, ones that seem like you’re riding on an oil spill. There are narrow, one-vehicle-at-a-time bridges of mismatched narrow-gauge rails, or on lesser roads, steel plates tossed across rotting timbers. The terrain is a geological mash-up, without the power of the Andes, but enough unexpected elevation change and tight corners to make for an interesting ride. Towns announce themselves with speed bumps and potholes that can swallow bikes whole. I see road signs unique to the country, silhouettes of odd animals. A snake crossing. A jaguar crossing. In Costa Rica we hit a 30-mile stretch of gravel road, and the world becomes dust. The bikes come alive. We romp, skitter, wander, trusting the gyroscope. I try to read the strange shadows that appear in the dust—bicyclists, ATVs, huge trucks with no lights—not always accurately. There are breaks in the dust cloud when I see fields filled with white cattle and at their feet white egrets. The sky tinges pink with light from a setting sun. A feeling almost like peace.
We spend a night in Arsenal, a destination resort for adrenaline junkies with discretionary income. Posters advertise canopy walks, zipline rides through the rain forest, the chance to rappel down waterfalls, night hikes to lava flows, kayaking, canoeing. We ignore the offers, saddle up and ride into the rain forest. A group of meercats swarms down an embankment onto the road. Monkeys cavort in the trees overhead. A tourist zips by on a steel cable casting a shadow on the road, a blur of color in the sky. It looks like someone was hanging laundry and forgot to take his or her clothes off.
Nicaragua has its own feel. We ride past volcanoes so large they make their own weather, the crowns hidden beneath wide-brimmed clouds. Don Quixote in his barber bowl hat. The streets are clogged with horsedrawn buggies. We find a hotel near the town square. Across the street from the hotel is a shop offering galactic Internet. The traditional culture is slowly losing ground to bandwidth. Relay towers compete with church steeples, billboards for cell service block oversized statues of saints on nearby hilltops.
We visit a bridge, built by Ken’s organization, in a remote area of Honduras. At the turnoff from the main road I think we are entering a drainage ditch. Indeed, during the rainy season the road is impassable, the clay surface too slick for traction. Now, the bikes tackle a road gouged by erosion, working their way around rocks exposed by the force of water. This is by far the most technical riding of the trip.
The 40-mile road will take five hours to cross. The clawmark gullies pull Ken’s bike out from under him; Katie rides into a ditch and smashes her bike’s windscreen. Even Ryan has trouble. The river, when we reach it, is intimidating. I take pictures of the bikes as they come through, pushing a bow wave over front wheels, jouncing up the rocks on the other side. If a trip can be reduced to 1?250th of a second, a single moment seared in memory, these pictures would be it.
We cross into Guatemala, and spend the night with Hemingway impersonators and Jimmy Buffet wannabes in Rio Dulce. The hotel has a wonderful tacky feeling. The overhead fan showers sparks. The power goes off at regular intervals, as does the water. If you want a shower, step outside. We spend a long day riding through rain. The water destroys one of my cameras, turning the LCD into an aquarium. Hey, I have enough pictures.
ALMOST THERE
At the first town over the Mexican border, we stop for directions on a crowded street. A truck sideswipes my bike, snags a sidecase, and drags me down. I’m unhurt, but the windscreen and instrument panel lie in fragments. The police, when they arrive, are the opposite of helpful. We collect the broken bits, duct tape everything in sight, and fire it up. We are unstoppable. We ride on, but the mood of the ride changes and the calendar beckons. Katie, Ryan and Jeff have to be back by a certain date, or they lose their jobs.
The ride becomes time vs. distance, a push that blurs most of Mexico, and a final border crossing into the United States.
We hurtle across long roads, nursing bikes that are showing signs of wear. Ken’s bike is missing a sidestand. Ryan’s helmet a visor. Katie treats her BMW’s busted windscreen like a badge of honor, but still, a 75-mph headwind is exhausting. Jeff’s bike has chewed the rear sprocket to nubbins, the chain is beginning to slip. It will wind up in a U-Haul 100 miles from home.
Five weeks after departing, we see the lights of Newport News. As they enter the city, Ken, Ryan and Katie spread across the road, side by side, arms raised. The long ride is over.
About the Author
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