Serendipity: A Chile Motorcycle Adventure

[MotoNews]

Published in: Rides

I heard a metallic pop. The seat shifted back, and the handlebars moved forward a bit. Believing my KTM 640 was coming apart, I stopped dead in my tracks.

As I looked around at the desolate scenery flanking the Carretera Austral, I thought about Augusto Pinochet’s soldiers, many of whom lost their lives in the 1970s during the ten years it took to construct the 1,300-kilometer dirt and gravel track through Chile’s southern reaches.

I briefly considered the possibility that I might be joining them.

The chassis on my KTM 640 splits open in the center to provide easier access to the mechanical guts, and it’s held together by two heavy bolts. Removing the seat and poking around, it was clear that somewhere behind, one of those bolts vibrated out. The metallic pop was the remaining bolt, which sheared off under the stress of unrelenting beatings from the road.

My plan was to hide the bike in some thick green brush just off-track, stash my gear, and walk the dirt road in search of a cabin. An occupant might have a bolt or two they’d be willing to sell. Standing there, feeling a little helpless, a backcountry van driven by a young Austrian couple rolled up, offering help.

As fortune would have it, their fully-equipped adventure rig was packed with tools, including a battery-powered drill, which was necessary to drill out the hole that still held the remnants of the sheared bolt. Most incredibly, the Austrians had a tool box filled with a wide selection of spare bolts. 

Two bolts, in fact, which fit my chassis like a factory part. Only ‘‘KTM’’ stamped on each bolt could have made that situation more unbelievable.

What are the odds of finding bolts in a place so isolated and lonely? Serendipity, defined as making desirable discoveries by accident, seems to be on my side.

Pinochet might not have thought it at the time, but his men were building a veritable playground for future adventure riders. On top of the scenery, here I have the sensation that I am riding near the very end of the world.

The stars at night are more than I ever imagined one could see, simply because the only neighbors are vast, unoccupied spaces—the south Atlantic and the South Pacific, and of course, the giant ice sheet of Antarctica. The nearest city, with its imposing lights, is days away. Services are scarce. People, too.

It takes 1,300 kilometers to cover a distance of only about 800 kilometers as the crow flies; at a consistent cruising speed I cover only a few hundred kilometers in eight hard hours on the road.

Towering peaks and glaciers shift in and out of focus as I swerve to avoid ruts, loose gravel, the occasional passing truck, and some darting critters I could not name. Once in a while, a cluster of wooden shacks appears and disappears before my brain can even register the desire for a hot shower.

As it is when riding just about anywhere on Earth, things are happening on the bike. But the romance is elevated when you’re near the end of the world. At the immediate level, like a computer’s operating system, my mind is constantly managing the controls and reading the road surface for hazards.

As if in a meditation, the processes within the mind are totally aware. When something enters the picture which requires a step-up from meditation, be that a glacier-topped volcano cone, or a road washout big enough to swallow a bike, the step-up happens.

That’s not what makes the riding interesting, though. While the mind is occupied with these operating functions, in that internal space the stream of thought is so eloquent; there exists an uncommon clarity, inspired, in part, by the idea that I’m a world away. Here, in that space within the mind, the steps to achieve all the love and success one would desire seem so evident.

When the riding stops, I’m back to being me. Just a guy who doesn’t really know where he’s going. Just a guy who isn’t much of a rider. Just a guy, in some ways, who’s thrown in the towel and thrown his fate to the machine-like gears of passing time.

With a start, I realize I’ve reached the Pacific Ocean. And I know, with a clarity as crisp as the midnight light from a zillion Patagonian stars, that I made the right decision when I turned down that job offer last fall.

I could be in a posh office sitting around a conference table with guys wearing Docker’s slacks. Instead, at a tiny store in front of a sinking sun, I picked up a blonde Escudo in a liter-size bottle to pair with the pasta I’ll be cooking over my camp stove.

Next morning, braking ahead of another curve, down-shifting, then powering out, sucking up dust from the occasional passing truck, my mind was moving between the women I’d left and the women I’d lost. Religion, its absurdities and its practicalities. Banks and bankers.

Still beaming from yesterday’s run-in with the Austrians and their bolts, I was shifting up, or down, I don’t recall, when the clutch lever went limp and floppy. Nothing to do except apply the brakes to a full stop, and let the engine stall out.

Looking it over, the aluminum lever gave out where the little plastic plunger, just up from the lever’s hinge, does its pivot and pushes in to activate the hydraulic point. Who packs a spare lever? The next few days were looking like a lot of chugging along in first gear.

Temuco, Chile—at least 1,500 kilometers further north—is the next likely location where a lever might be on offer, or at least, a fixed address where I could put one on order.

Curious to know what happens if I just kick the shifter up to second gear, while rolling, I gave it a pop, and voilà, it worked. Then, a rough pop up to third. I figured out that my KTM, being born of racing machines, doesn’t really require the clutch.

The thought that I was stuck in first gear gave way to the realization that I could shift, sort of, with a little finesse on the shifter and throttle. In novice style, I was managing with the new shifting technique.

When I stopped at a wide turnout for a bladder-break, serendipity showed up again. A rider appeared on a workmanlike KLR 650. After a hearty handshake and an agreement to speak English, I found that Christian Hessing was packing a solution. Out from his saddlebags came a roll of high-tensile wire and an epoxy he called “liquid metal.”

There in the cool air, in view of a teal-colored, glacier-fed river, the German used his Leatherman tool to tightly wire the clutch lever onto the pivoting actuator. We re-installed the re-built lever, and it worked like new. Enough to go another few thousand kilometers, at least. Better yet, another friend I wasn’t searching for found me when I needed him most.

Christian and I would spend several days riding together. An accomplished mountain guide in the Swiss Alps, Christian knew motorcycles like Stradivari knew violins. Fluent in four languages, degrees in engineering and geography, mountaineer extraordinaire, he even completed the original course of Paris-Dakar and had years of Africa experience in his quiver. Married once, father of two, he always displayed the perfect mix of bravery and discretion on the road.

Not long after our first meeting, I was following Christian’s lead when I quickly pulled over for a 30-second adjustment to my cargo. Tightening a strap, I looked up and there he was, straight away, asking if all was okay. I made a mental note: Loyalty. Henceforth, I watched out for him, because he was watching out for me.

Admittedly, one time I wasn’t watching Christian well enough, because I was caught out gawking at the Patagonian panorama. I rear-ended him, fairly hard. My bike sustained some front fender damage. After a quick inspection, thankfully, his bike was unscathed. Any other guy (myself included) would have given the stink-eye.

Christian, always on an even keel, probably wouldn’t have minded if I’d trashed his bike. In fact, he would have taken some Teutonic pleasure in another resourceful roadside repair.

The adventurers I meet on the road… be them riders, backpackers, or hitch-hikers, all have commonalities. They are bright, curious, intensely independent and self-reliant, and there is almost always a history of athleticism. Some are a little tormented by one event or another from the past.

Outwardly, they are all looking for adventure, but the truth is, ‘‘adventure’’ seems far too simple. Through their wandering, all seem to be actively searching for a greater understanding of the mix of fate and free will. They are testing their intellect and physique against the capricious nature of the world itself. They never speak it specifically, but it seems they’re all out here looking to experience serendipity.

For most of my earlier life, I set big objectives and drove like a force on nature. I fought the current. The results were mixed, at best. Down here, somehow, some way, serendipity arrives. Before my epic journeys though the Americas began two years ago, I didn’t get much of what I wanted.

Perhaps that’s why I took off in the first place. Here, I’m not sure I know what I want, but everything I need shows up right on schedule. The gears of Latin America seem to crank out results just on time. Latin America delivers.

The day was getting long and the road north had deep brush on both sides. Christian and I could not find a good place to pull out, set up, and sleep unseen.

Scanning as we cruised, I spotted a narrow, high culvert. Backing in, we concealed the bikes from sight. Just behind: a flat spot to throw our bedrolls, with a knockout view of the Pacific Ocean. Little islands resting in front of an orange sky.

Luxury is normally thought to mean fine cars, big homes, or a flashy wristwatch. For me, luxury means I am free from those traps, and free to let my body and mind wander without limits.

If I could be thought of as greedy, it is only for experiences. I will die one day, and the library of thoughts and images stored in my mind are the only things I might hope to take with me. Consciously I tried to feel every place I’ve ever discovered, simultaneously.

My human mind is too simple. That serendipity could only be reserved for the gods.

---

An Idaho native, Ted Kunz’s early life included a lot of low-paying jobs.  Later, he earned a degree from NYU, followed by more than a decade in institutional finance based in New York, Hong Kong, Dallas, Boise, and Amsterdam.  He preferred the low-paying jobs.  Now, he follows his front wheel to places where adventures unfold.  For the past five years, Ted has spent his summers in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and the other three seasons criss-crossing the rugged backroads of the entirety of the Americas.  He can be reached most any time at ted_kunz@yahoo.com.

Read more ...

View the full article