GOING SOUTH
by Brian Halton

Christ, was never so happy to see someone in my life. Drudge thought it was just under 100 degrees farenheit.  And with the heat coming off of his huge Ford engine In just the few hours he was in that area he looked like he was going to lose his mind.  I mean the mountains had all these small brush fires going on them and the air smelled of fire and was hazy and incredibly hot. Incredibly hot. Just kept drinking water and stopping at juice stands for liquados made of bananas and coconut milk that was cold.  Tasted like mother´s milk.

Wondered what happened to Halton? He’s on an extended tour to Honduras. If he ever makes it there...here’s the story

Drudge runs a motorcycle rental in Antigua and goes through tires at quite a clip. And these Distancias, mounted in SF, clearly had some life left in them after four thousand highway miles. Good tires, Avon Distancias...
Soon, the bike was ready and after bidding my farewells, I pointed the old girl towards the ruins of Tikal in Guatemala´s northern jungle region, not far from the Belize border.
So far. So good.
Made it to the river called Rio Dulce first day and dug in. Next morning after a furious tropical downpour I rolled north and was quite close to the park, staying at the tiny island village of Flores.
Flores is about twice the size of the Panhandle of Golden Gate park. Connected to the mainland by a bridge.Has a population of about twelve hundred and twenty nine hotels on it.
I should mention that the weather to this point was simply splendid. A breeze most days with temperatures in the high 70s.
I entered Tikal park by eight am and noted the animal warning signs telling me to watch out for jaguars.
After changing my clothes in the sanitario and jamming everything, including the yellow Nolan into my Givi bags, I put the GS on its centerstand and strode towards the jungle ruins.
I should mention that I expected the jungles of Guatemala to be much like the jungles of Vietnam, which I became intimately familiar with very long ago. But no.
This jungle is made up of a vast variety of tall deciduous hardwoods, including mahogany; many lose their leaves each year.
Tikal was magnificent. Everything I had heard about the place was true and then some. But soon I was rolling south at five with plans to go east at the tiny intersection called Rio Hondo the following morning. Honduras, here I come.
About an hour on the road towards the Honduran border I began to sense that I heard a pulsing sound coming from beneath me. Not a good sound but kind of a throbbing, crunchy sound. And it wasn’t fallen leaves.
The rolling bare mountains always frighten me a bit and now with this awful metallic grinding noise coming from the rear axle, I grew tense. Plese old girl, please not here...
At the top of a long mountain grade I suddenly spied civilization, in the form of a big shopping mall. Now campers, Guatemala is a really poor country and shopping malls are rare indeed. Many things are difficult to find in small Guatemalan villages. Gin for instance.
So I pulled in and parked among the other bikes and walked into the shade nearby, pulling off my helmet.
That´s when the security guard caught my attention and pointed to the ¨agua¨ he saw coating my rear tire. I turned to see the ägua¨ and felt sick to my stomach.
Agua has never been that shiny. Ever.  I sighed a long sigh, shook my head and thanked him. Then I turned and
went into the mall where I bought two jugs of Gibson´s London Dry for one hundred and ninety quetzales. Came out into the searing heat, started the bike and limped towards town.
Now the thing that the mall told me was that I was about to break down in a town, city really, of considerable size. That´s good. It could have been back on that scorched mountain range I just rolled through.

Also, I reasoned, malls as posh as this one meant the town of Chiquimula (Chickee Moolah) would be big. Which it was as I would so intimately learn. County seat in fact. Which meant that it would have deeper access to goods and services. And motorcycle dealers. With the rear end making dreadful sounds I pulled up near the service bay, pulled off my helmet and immediately ducked inside because now it was 85 degrees. And the air smelled of fire and was yellow, ugly and hard to see through...
As is so often been my experience down here, the helpful nature of the people always surfaces and the mechanic and the boss both came out of the shop immediately. They saw the new rear distancia gleaming like a licorice stick and asked me to put the bike on its centerstand. As soon as I did the mechanic had the rear wheel off and quickly pointed out the problem.
Inside the channels of the rear hub, the silver ball bearings looked like bad dentistry indeed. Pieces falling out, metal flux inside the hub. The bearings were toast, at least half of them badly chewed up.
¨Tenemos problemas, amigo¨, they said. ¨Claro.¨ I replied and started to strip out of my leathers before succumbing to heat stroke.
Now what took place over the next seven and one half days in Chiquimula I have decided to skip writing about.
That´s because it wasn´t pretty. That I unraveled there in that savage heat can´t be denied. That I, in time, completely lost confidence in myself and the motorcycle is also blatantly and embarrassingly clear.
I felt like I was in a witness protection plan. My cell, my motel room. My ball and chain, a 1993 bumblebee GS that had become a metal sculpture. A sixteen year old motorcycle ridden by a sixty four year old grandpa.
I became well known at the mall in Chiquimula. It was the only place that was air-conditioned and each day that we remained in that town, the two of us. The dead GS in the Honda shop, rear wheel still off. Its pilot, the bald, old grandpa reading and drinking coffee for hours. Trying to think what to do next. Would I have to leave the bike there because of lack of parts and take the chicken bus into Guatemala City and fly home?
And all the while the heat outside grew more and more severe. If you had not done what you needed to do by ten thirty, you were toast for the rest of the day. It was so hot all you could do was go back to your air conditioned room and lie still. Truly scary after the fifth day. But it was on that fifth day, while in the mall that I had the wit to email David Drudge and tell him of my predicament and see if by any chance he could make the four and one half hour drive to rescue me.
That was Friday morning and when I returned to the internet cafe and saw his reply to the affirmative later that afternoon I felt like I had been paroled!
The machine was pulled from the fire of those mountains on Sunday, the eight day of my residence in Chiquimula.
It has now had its rear end attended to and the valves adjusted. We even put Motul in it which is quite pricey here. It has never sounded this good, not even when it was new.
And Mr Magoo?

 Well he is better too, now that he is in Antigua and enrolled in a Spanish class at last. But he still wonders how heat could have broken him so completely and is, as we speak, examing closely his credentials and frankly his capability to continue on as a sixty-four year old, self styled world traveler.