This blog's for ME

Almost 25 years old, asking my parents if I can sleep in their bed with them. I had thought I was going to be the 25th Prime Minister of Canada. Things had changed. 10 years later, I was still a scared little boy. The time had come to slap myself awake. One Saturday morning, November 19th, 2009, I declared to the world I would be riding my 10 year-old motorcycle from Vancouver, BC Canada to Rio de Janeiro, Brasil, and back.

The official departure was August 28th, 2010. A group of well-wishers saw me off at 8:03 am.

I arrived in Rio de Janeiro around 6 pm March 1st, 2011.

My return to Vancouver came on July 5th, 2011 about 2:00 pm.

Drug & alcohol abuse, ADD, social anxiety, health, chronic pain, night terrors.

So many concerns. But I am far more interested in this question: Do I have the capacity to make this trip despite all my shortcomings?

My mission: To inspire myself to face my fears, enlighten myself on how all living things can peacefully co-exist, enjoy every moment, and see the world as plentiful and generous.

Go ahead. Call me crazy. Call me anything you like.

I'm out to save my world.


Questions, comments, concerns, threats? Contact me:

Mulege Maelstrom

This area was devastated by a major hurricane just 2 years ago. I'm relating to a symbol of the hurricane, and how this trip has been about walking into the eye of the storm. Just chatting with my cousin Shelley, and mentioned to her how she is on a journey herself, with children, and grandchildren, and a family. The only difference is that everyday on the road I've endeavoured to listen to the new opportunities that come up in front of me, and to follow them regardless of my fear, or uncertainty. With the rigamarole of daily family life, it is necessary in my opinion to build routine. To resist is to tempt chaos. One does not need to ride a motorcycle from Canada to Brazil to discover one-self, but there are certainly more chances to break that routine. To break the routine, you must shed your skin, and release yourself from the human necessity to stay organized, planned, and safe.

A 3 km ride east of town through a 3 year road construction project was for one simple goal: have the first jump in the ocean since the middle of August. The beach was full of rocks and seashells with some deep sand but I jumped up and down to get the heavy bike up on top of it. Stripped down to my skivvies with not a soul watching, then floated in the salt-laden Sea of Cortes, a comforting 86 degree wash up. The aches in my back were soothed as my body floated effortlessly in the water, and despite the salt wash the wounds on my feet also. Staying longer than my monkey mind would allow, I elect to come back to the bike and find a suitable campsite to beat the sunset. A grey haired fellow on a quad spots me, and I put my head down instinctively to avoid eye contact. I'm thinking he's a local come to tell me to get the hell off the beach. Martine. What a character.

I confront the fear by being unusually open and friendly, my usual defence. He responds in kind, and offers an awesome beach site to camp. I follow him on the road, and lose him a couple times. He comes up behind me out of nowhere and says "you need to get groceries?" "No, I'm fine, no worries" I respond. "Well, you were supposed to turn back there!" he says, with a not so subtle hint of 'why didn't you know that?' "Ok!" We go past his house, and back through a space in the fence, down closer to sea level. The road is rocky; this Yamaha V-star is built for cruising, not 4x4ing. We come down into the flats, and out onto some slick. I'm down, burning my leg with gasoline pouring out of the tank. Marty comes back, meanwhile I'm pulling a thick piece of brush impaled in my right hip. Everything has to come off, as it's too heavy and with no purchase for my bare feet to hold, I'm thinking disaster. Marty offers 'AAA'. I laugh. Fortunately the edge of the road is solid, and I put my back into it with Marty's assistance. We get it up, and Marty profusely apologizes for forgetting about the rainstorms 2 nights ago. It was such a rarity, he didn't even think about it, especially since the quad is much more versatile.

After a preparatory session, I head up a steep, rocky hill sans any baggage generously taken by Marty. A spot is found, and quickly abandoned as he motions me to come further. A trail of gloves meet me, and I'm judging him now; he had been drinking. "No," I think, "I can make this work". Safely on dry ground now, I look over the bike, and myself. Tires caked in mud, blood dripping out of thigh, and mud up to my knees. I'm exhausted. Marty tells me he'll give me time to get set up, while he goes into town to stock up with beer.

I come back into town without much fanfare, and am offered steak shish-kabobs and a warm bed for the night by the neighbours, and despite my wants elect to decline the offer but tell them I'll come over for a visit later. Marty's house is next, and a wild dog looking thing is waving it's tail, with two cute kittens lifting up theirs. Marty's rough and tough exterior is softened with charm and a silver tongue, and he yells at me to get in the house and to not be scared of it. We sit down and chat. Revolutionary Road is on the TV, and I try to tell him it's not really an appropriate movie to watch when you're visiting, but he continues on. After being a sniper in the Vietnam War, he has taken those sharpshooter skills into an entirely different world: seducing young tender women. (Over 21 as per Marty)

He told me of a time he was down at the cock fights some time ago, flirting with the local chiquitas when the head of the local cartel spots him and motions him over with a wave of the hand. Marty had unknowingly assisted him and his partner's broken down Jeep sometime before with a battery problem. The cartel boss' appreciation was soon to reap benefits, as he was on the way that day to make a bank deposit with a million dollars in a couple suitcases. Back to the fights: Marty (Martine) sits on the right hand side of the boss, with the hand of a demi-god blessing his arrival. Everyone is holding up their bets in anticipation of a winner, until 4 police walk in, and the money goes under their butts. The police look over to the boss, who puts his right arm around Marty for a moment, then takes it off. Marty's previous police problems were instantly a memory. Every time since, he's met with warm hellos and greetings whenever the policia are driving by.

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