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:


I had a feeling I was going to run into some troubles eventually with my passport, considering I had travelled over 700 km into Mexico without ever showing it.  I had moments of panic, with thoughts of a surrendered passport, be forced to return al the way to Tijuana, or some serious talking to; oh, that desert took it's toll on my state of mind.  I was already running against the wind, with the sun now officially down, and darkness the word of the day.  I pull up to the 'Oficina de Migracion', as noone seemed to be outside.  I was doubly confused after driving through a military zone, and unsure of whether I'd be met with policia, militaria, or a customs officer.  Sooner than expected, a man comes out, and in Spanish says that the office is closed, and that it wouldn't be open until 8:30 am.  I'm crushed.  I could see the lights of Guererro Negro in the distance, and there didn't seem to be any affordable accomodations within sight.  I turn around dejectedly and more than a little nervous about my upcoming sleep outside on the side of the road.  Back through the military installation, I spot some cars on the right hand side of the road, and assume they are people in the same predicament.  I start feeling somewhat better, and considerably less alone.  A restaurant further up seems open with it's 'Abierto' sign in the window, but it's awfully dark.  I ask the young man who pops his head out of the small, yellow &blue framed Corona-coloured kitchen window wall if it is indeed open, and he says it is.  Besides myself the restaurant was empty, save for a couple finishing up their meal.

The gentleman pipes in fairly quickly.  "You from Canada?"  in perfect English.  I tell them all about my trip, and the recent goings-on.  He offers to accompany me to the border after our meals, so I can at least get into town.  He tells me about his $1/2 million place in Cabo San Lucas, and how he's been unable to visit Canada due to some problems with U.S. immigration.  I didn't want to know, but I started getting a bit suspicious although I felt I was in no place to be picky about my associates.  I order a massive plate of shrimp with garlic & butter, which was accompanied with a big wicker basket of Mexican nacho chips and HOT HOT HOT salsa.  My 2nd beer staved off the heat below uncomfortable.  I buy a beer for my new friend's partner, who declines my offer of a Corona but offers her preference for Pacifico.  I was just so relieved to feel ok again I would have bought her a new car at that point.  As we're leaving, the young kitchen worker starts whispering to his female counterpart something, and I'm hoping it's about helping me somehow.  Neither of them spoke any English, so it was a hard go.  I pull out my dictionary, and we come to an understanding:  there is a campground somewhere near, and I'm welcome to stay there.   I follow him out of the restaurant over to the store, which is open as well.  A nice-looking older woman with jet-black hair tied back and glasses is behind the counter.  The young kitchen worker asks something to her in Spanish, and she answers to me in English.  "Yes, you can camp here.  It's $3 a night."  That was Lupita.  Since our lives have so haphazardly joined for a moment, things have been full of promise.  

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