Patch Biker Motorcycle

January 23, 2010 by  
Filed under Die Cutting Machines and Supplies

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Where are all my patches and pins go on my motorcycle jacket?

Is there a standard for where I put all my patches and pins in my motorcycle jacket or anywhere I want?

Most of my old jacket is covered in years worth of pins Ride, Hell is probably bulletproof. So to answer your question, no. Put them where they are located.

Chasing motorbike adventure in Latin America

In the lowlands of the horizon seem to escape. The flames are gold, white clouds impossible. We left the bike race. Suddenly, the vision changes. The lead cyclist increases above the horizon, the rider whips in the air 10 feet above the ground. This not good. Jeff left the road at 70 mph. Katie enters a paramedic Jeff calmly runs his hand along his spine, investigation, Control ribs, legs, arms. The fall tore the jacket Tower shoulder to the waist, peel the protector We reveal-Build-Bridge T-shirt. It is scratched, but at times she laughed, pointing to the "I Can not Believe I'm Still Alive" smile which is expressed by default.

Ryan pulls the bike and began collecting coins scattered throughout the desert. The baggage is destroyed. The right handlebar was bent almost to the tank. Mirrors, turn signals, front fender off in a microsecond. Both tires are bumps. Incredibly, it still works. It is the parties who continue to work on bike, takes a walk test. Its duration will be another 7,000 miles. Our motto: We will do this work.

Jeff tells him what happened. A little bird had jumped on his way. The next thing he knew he was off the road, fell into a sewer. "I thought, wow. Mrs Superman. Oh, look, there's the bike. Oh, look, it is the bird ... "In a field of irregular stones, which landed in the sand.

THE HOUSE

The trip was long before I'm ready. A phone call, an invitation to the label, with a group of BMW riders embark in a five week, 8000 mile trip from Peru to Virginia. I document the trip, an effort to raise funds for a group that builds bridges for pedestrians in remote areas of the world. He had been planning a long trip, as open, no support vehicles, the experience of being totally "there outside ". This seemed to fit the bill. One third of the distance around the world with total strangers. I had a brand new BMW F 800 GS and thirst. If There was a point of no return, I met him before hanging up.

Firstly, the riders. Ken Hodge is a specialist insurance benefits and a full member of the Newport News Rotary Club. It was later discovered on the motorcycle life, when he bought a bicycle, riding through the country within 48 hours, then began to dream of a greater adventure, something for a good cause.

He recruited his daughter Katie (an operation Rescue Service Fire), her step-son Ryan (Mechanic and dirt-bike) and best friend Ryan, Jeff. I am impressed with their preparations. Montan Old BMW R 1150 and F 650 individuals. Ryan had spent a year of renovation are motorcycles, probing depths, to memorize the workshop manual for each machine. They provide enough tools and parts to meet almost any emergency.

IN THE ANDES

We stop in Nazca to see ancient figures carved into the rocky desert. From the tower you can see a figure with raised arms. Just north, Highway Pan divides the figure of a lizard, decapitating the creature. Bound by the strict approach to bronze traffic levels, experts have not made the road are not even aware of the sacred relics discovered when the flight became draft.

I realize that we are so blinded by the approach, the concentration of inspectors were intended for his instrument. The trip will be a series of images, looks, captured at high speed.

The descendants of people who built the road Inca Peru manufacturers know what they do. But it is interlaced, managed flow of momentum, which has all our respect. The road is old seabed slope covered hills, ridges dry fracture, carved cornices landslides. Noon we are at a high pampas inhabited by thousands of vicuña and alpaca. In the distance, our first sight of snow peaks. There are stone walls on slopes near a village of huts. In the middle of this giant of nothingness, a pastor alone on the side of the hill.

We found that distances on maps are those of condors. We traveled very tortuous paths may take hundreds of turns (and miles) to reach a ridge to another. The map shows the cities, but our stores are not all gas stations. We buy gas in a small shop beside a woman with a bucket scoop kettle, then poured through a funnel plastic kitchen tissues in our aquariums. Watches citywide. We drive through the night descends. We have reached next light, about 20 buildings of two streets, find a hotel and park the bike in a closed court with dogs, chickens, dead birds, plastic bottles and tanned skin of animals on the wall. Instead of the output signals usual, the restaurant of our hotel has green arrows that say "escape". It is a critique of the food. The driving forces of the Andes to the air have been known to destroy entire cities.

The next morning fire to bicycles, and ascend to the Andes Mountains on a perfect road. We liquids through brackets, double brackets, the square becomes the escalation the side of a single peak at 4700 meters. I can not believe a single word: delicious. We move through the fog and low clouds, with sunlight slanting in the rainbow. The fertile green valleys are a mix of Inca terraces and modern farms. Eucalyptus Slender border road, providing shade for cottages with red tile roofs. A girl tends a herd of goats (identified by colored ribbons) in a green meadow, book in hand. At one point I think clouds parted to reveal patches of blue, but when I look up I see is snow-covered rock, another 3000 feet or 4000 of the mountain. In a roundabout at the top of the peak is a dozen temples, churches decorated with small flowers and ribbons and photographs of their relatives. The site of a fall from a bus. On a hill the whole valley gliders work of spas, the appearance of colorful glasses, eyebrows, angels or ostentatious.

We share the road with vicuña, alpaca, llamas, sheep, goats, dogs, roosters, pigs, horses and cows. In an alley near Abancay of a bull with Al Gore on me when I step load and making as if to engage with their horns. One night, after sunset, in a corner and a beautiful Roan wheeled light of our bikes, filling the road with big eyes and hooves flashing inches from my head. I realize that scanning constitutes an electoral risk. The novelty of our bikes passing fade local wildlife and have time to react.

Introduction Cusco, Ryan demand directions, a young girl leads to a narrow streets and cobbled Slick by rain, as pronounced as a race sled. The rocks are converted your side, like teeth. The Knobbe have no traction whatsoever. People on the sidewalks of frantically waving your hands, indicating that the road becomes steeper. I touch my brakes and the bike crashes, pinning my leg against the curb, one quarter inch shy of a fracture. The bike falls behind me. It is heartbreaking. The villagers help us lift the bikes, get turned up.
An escort led police to a hotel which allows us to store the bikes in the lobby. Without Regardless of shower, we headed to the bar of rats in the northeast corner Norton Central Square. The owner, an expatriate American, once Norton to fly throughout the continent. The walls are covered with pictures of the trip. Above the bar is mounted the head, the last four U.S. presidents, with their best-known films: I am not a thief. Do not inhale. I do not remember. We will find weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. We drink beer, trading stories of how assemble days. The battery. The radiator was punctured. Repairs to the road. Fever implacable incredible beauty.

Three days desert north of Lima generate some details. The total absence of life, the three colors of sand. Boys tricycle pedal carts Ice cream in the middle of nowhere. We have entered an area <I> nimble </ I>, but instead of mist, we encountered a wind through 60 mph, sending a layer of sand slipping through the streets as a special effect in a film by Steven Spielberg. Two narrow lanes covered with once sand, thick enough to swallow the front wheel, deep enough for a road grader is ready to remove the drift sand.

We decided to seek a secondary road through the hills. We had a dirt road and everything changes. We drove through villages live with people, dogs, three small wheeled motorcycle taxis Fashion old. Children walk past on scooters, take pictures with their cell phones. The highway throws split finger right to bash plate that crash so strong and firm, like the sound of an aluminum bat. Paddling our way through the gravel, especially the gray dust, pieces of falling teeth rattle. Oh, yes, this is what we wanted.

ECUADOR

In Macara, we sat on the sidewalk, near a place of lesser importance, eating pork cooked by a woman rotunda, with a yellow dress. Her daughter brings three beers (Giant) at the time, and keeps results in a milk carton for accounting later. The guys on motorcycles through the streets quiet, the lucky with the girls in the back. Across the square, girls sitting on benches. Jeff knows a cultural revelation that girls in South America have breasts and wear tight pants ... and "Hey, I think she loves me. "

Our dinner companion is David McCollum, an American expatriate who met ADVrider.com Ryan. We tell stories about riding the Ecuadorian Andes, and gives advice on handling block roads. "Act stupid. Do not communicate Spanish. To say "no smoking Spanish (Spanish, I do not smoke). If all else fails, cry Katie has." Um, Katie did not weep. "The next day, leads in the Ecuadorian Andes.

Ridges Impressions: Razor. Lumpy, the conical outcrops. Monasteries on hilltops. So steep as ever they are exploited by the machine. A couple arrested on muck, man holding a wooden hoe, the woman a bag of seed. A woman on horseback, and black red cape, a coiled whip in one hand. Trees. Cloud. Mist. The feeling of a Japanese block print, indicating the way to infinity.

I introduced the group to a family tradition. When we travel, we end each day by counting points high, low and funny bone. After this day, I'll add "moments Pucker. Trucks are thrown out of the mist, running without lights, a signal that the spectral wave pushed forward. They appear in our lane without warning and without reason. We pass by the construction sites where the road narrows, which provides a dead end. Some seems awfully close to the new concrete, studded with hooks of steel bars. The other side is a precipice. Moments Pucker? Make your choice. Sometimes, is the surface of a half-mile bobsled run in the mud, gravel, water jets, the management of the bicycle as loose stools. Twice around us a corner and can not find the way, the area that collapsed, were sucked into underground rivers. Katie moment comes when a cow without conditions, is fast on the path of his bike. For Jeff, you are passing a truck suddenly swerved to avoid a pothole, the trailer was given to him as a baseball bat.

We spent two days in Cuenca, 500 years, the city, surrounded by mountains. Ken the phone and discovers that the ship we went to the bike and Ecuador in Panama does not exist (if we had been on drugs or illegal aliens, no problem, but no accommodation for tourists <I> </ I> with motorcycles). We asked David to help. Although the trip to Quito, working the phones. It is a contact, a man known to do things when nobody else can not. We encountered this magician of airfreight in the turtle's head, a biker bar in Quito. At midnight.

The next race bike in the morning military section of the airport, then into a refrigerated warehouse. The floor is covered with ball bearings in steel integrated through steel blades which slide. For the next three hours struggle with fixings. A thin man dressed in black overseeing the investigation, taking pictures of bikes with a digital camera, ensuring that the batteries are disconnected, the tires are deflated. Drug dogs poking their noses into every recess.

Then, as our bikes have been on his way to Panama in the belly of an airplane.

CENTRAL AMERICA

American countries plant the size of a postage stamp. You can cross in a day and a half, only for a day and a half to customs and immigration. Ken had Xerox copies All our documents (passports, licenses, certificates, registration, VIN numbers) and notarized them. While working with staff in the office with air conditioning, we sat in the heat of 100 degrees and watch the ants carrying grains of dust from beneath the earth. You get used to requests Copies of the independent traders waving bills in front of your face, young prostitutes who want to facilitate the process, food vendors expect hunger to overcome the caution on the local cuisine.

Before embarking on this trip, I read the Travel Warnings State Department. The section on Peru warned that five Americans died from liposuction in Lima. OK, that liposuction of consensus, or there are bands of thugs armed with sharp high vacuums accessories? Almost all entries in the Central American countries warned on false roadblocks, bandits in uniform, soldiers in the middle of nowhere.

Across the road are signs of a blood red eyes and a warning alert <I> </ I>. We're in a corner to find two soldiers patrolling on foot, miles city. They ask for documentation. A discharge adrenaline in my mouth turns to cotton. David, our friend in Ecuador gave us good advice: act stupid. Smile. It seems we have a natural talent for that. No smoking <I> Spanish </ I>. After inspecting the documents, they wave us on. In the next weeks we will be arrested several times, sniffed by dogs, radiography, wander with devices resembling antennae carving knife where the blade drive should be. Border crossings, boys coveralls and masks our bikes with a liquid jet designed to kill insects stowaway too lazy to cross borders by its own means. There are soldiers on every station attendants armed service convenience stores and restaurants, with the guys shotguns in the truck for Pepsi. We are aware of poverty, a culture of criminal opportunity. The night air is able to scan your naked bike, if not find a hotel with parking.

These countries are linked through the soil to the United States and our culture has rocked its way. America Central is a motorcycle culture. Entire families by the genius sitting on the narrow seats, helmets with visors missing. In Panama City we have met a group of Harley riders. Bicycles must exhaust size shells, horns sound a soundtrack special effects. Around us and ask if they want to get their burger run on weekends usually. We follow an exclusive country club just outside the Miraflores locks of the Panama Canal. They will sent instructions to a bed and breakfast on the coast. I fell asleep that night in a hammock, a bottle of beer still in his hand tight, the blades a fan over soft Hum.

Central America has a different feel that Peru and Ecuador, a different gravity. We turn a green landscape at a speed that a native of Virginia or Colorado or California. The vegetation is similar fireworks only green. Here, a single plant groups have taken up a hill. There is a different kind explodes. A slow war.

We have the chair for three weeks. Nothing can break our rhythm. Pan left the road and find ways to make it appear that the two flat tires, which look like when mounted on a spill oil. There are narrow, vehicle-on-a-time-size Narrow single-lane bridge noncompliant or small roads, steel plates thrown through the rotten wood. The earth is a mash-up geological, without the power of the Andes, but the altitude enough money and unexpected sharp turns to make an interesting trip. Municipalities are advertised with stops and potholes that can swallow any bike. I see the traffic signals at specific countries, animal silhouettes foreigners. A snake crossing. A jaguar crossing. Costa Rica has reached a 30-mile stretch of gravel road, and the world turns to dust. Bicycles are alive. We romp, skitter, walking, trusting in the gyroscope. I try to read the strange shadows that appear in the dust, riders, road vehicles, large trucks, but clearly not - always with precision. There are breaks in the cloud of dust when I see fields with egrets white paws and white. The sky is pink with glints of light from a setting sun. A feeling almost like peace.

We spent one night at Arsenal, a tourist destination for thrill seekers with discretionary income. Posters announcing canopy tours, Zip Line Rides through the forest Tropical, the possibility of recall of falls, night hikes to lava flows, kayaking, canoeing. We ignore the offers, saddle and ride in the forest tropical. A group of low clouds meercats an embankment on the road. Monkeys frolic in the trees overhead. Tourist postcards by cable steel a shadow on the road, a spot of color in the sky. Looks like someone was hanging laundry and forgot to take his mantle.

The Nicaragua has its own aspect. Last Build volcanoes so big that they make their own time, hidden under the clouds crown margins. Don Quixote barber bowl hat. The streets are crowded with carriages drawn by horses. We found a hotel near the village square. In front of the hotel is an Internet retailer offering Galactic. Traditional culture is slowly losing ground to the bandwidth. Tours relay competition with steeples church, billboards Service cellblock large statues of saints in the hills nearby.

We visited a bridge built by the organization Ken, in a remote region of Honduras. At the junction of the main road that I believe we are entering in a drainage ditch. Indeed, during the rainy season, the road is impassable, the surface of the clay very clever traction. Now, road bikes facing a carved by erosion, work your way through the rocks exposed by the force of water. This is by far the most technical route of travel.

The 40-mile route will have five hours to cross. Ravines motorcycle Ken clawmark sweater beneath him Katie walks into a ditch and broke the windshield of motorcycles. Even Ryan has problems. The river, when we come hand, is daunting. I take pictures of bikes as they come through, pushing a bow wave in front wheels, jouncing by stones in the other side. If a trip can be reduced to 1? 250th anniversary of the second, a moment etched in memory, these images are the same.

We crossed the border with Guatemala, and spend the night with Hemingway imitators and aspirants Jimmy Buffet at Rio Dulce. The hotel has a wonderful sense bad taste. Ceiling fan sparks showers. Energy electricity goes off at regular intervals, such as water. If you want a shower, not outside. We spent a day riding through the rain. The water destroyed one of my cameras, making the display in an aquarium. Hey, I have enough photos.

ALMOST THERE

In the first, the Mexican border town, we stopped for directions on a street crowded. A truck Sideswipe my bike, a sidecar problems, and drags me down. I left free, but the windshield and dashboard are fragments. The police, when they are the opposite of help. We collect the pieces, everything on tape view, and pluck. We are unstoppable. We Ride, but the mental state changes of speed and timing signals. Katie, Ryan and Jeff have to be back to a certain date or lose their jobs.

The walk becomes the time against the distance, a surge that erased most of Mexico, and a final border crossing into the United States.

We jumped out long road motorcycles nursing show signs of wear. Ken bike is a horse. Ryan is a visor. Katie treat their windscreens shattered and BMW badge of honor, but a headwind of 75 mph is exhausting. Jeff mache bike rear sprocket to the protuberances, the chain begins to decline. It will end with a U-Haul 100 miles from home.

Five weeks after have left, we see the lights of Newport News. When you enter the city, Ken, Ryan and Katie spread across the road, coast to coast, arms raised. The long journey is over.

About the Author

To read more motorcycle tours stories like this or get reviews of the latest bikes and gear, go to ridermagazine.com or pick up a copy of Rider Magazine.

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