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Old 05-05-2013, 08:45 AM   #66
swamp OP
U lie&yo'breff stank
 
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Joined: Feb 2007
Location: lower appalachia, Alabama
Oddometer: 1,788
Wink swamp: Riding South Chapter One Mexistan and Central Bunghole

Friday April 12th 2014- “stuck waiting”


I slept like a dead man last night. I’m always amazed at how a good night’s rest has the ability to reset the mental switches. No matter how bad the previous day was, sleeping it off always works. Good sleep is a luxury. It has the magical ability to erase the stress and frustrations of the previous day. The more challenging the day, the better the sleep is at night.


Protein bar and water for breakfast. No appetite, all that really matters is getting the bike moving forward again. My sandals had busted my winter toe cherry while I was running around, jumping through my own asshole doing importation errands in Progreso. It’s funny how if the feet go without wearing sandals for a while their tolerance to “the thong” needs to be built up again. I hobble over to the bike shop to get the bike ready for the fresh meat.


I remove the wheel then pull the tire and tube off. The little service area in the back of the shop is filled with gas fumes. My bike is sitting in a puddle of its own fuel. For some reason it has started leaking gas everywhere. I remove the seat and check all the hoses. Everything seems to be tight ((“hmm”)). I notice that it is pooling up on top of where the fuel pump is. It seems to only leak when the tank is filled to its capacity. I’m really not worried about it other than the fumes are getting me and everyone in the shop stoned and it’s a giant inferno waiting to happen.


High on Gas and prepping for another tire change (tire #3)



*for those of you that don’t know, the BMW Sertao has a gas tank that is located under the riders ass. The air box is situated where the gas tank is “normally” located.


My Amigos from the Yamaha shop. Pictured From left to right:
Manuel, El Guapo, Jorje






After sitting around on my ass for a few hours listening to Narcocorridos blasting from Manuel’s shop computer (El Komander became my favorite)…. any guy with piles of cocaine, hot chicks and guns is definitely speaking my language.







11:00 rolls around and still no tire so I decide to walk around the town and wait for something to happen to me. Eventually a guy in a little red Toyota pulls up next to where I’m sitting on the curb, gets out of the car and starts talking to me in English. His name is Oscar and he used to live in Washington State. He is interested in my trip, tells me that its odd to see a traveler in his town because everyone usually heads for Bacalar or Chetumal.



Yamaha YBR (non USA bike): I think it looks like a fun bike. very "scrambler like"





He asks me if I would like to ride with him to pick up some people (he is an independent taxi driver). “hell yea, sounds fun to me!”. I jump in and two older women get in the back seat. We drive out to some little village where there are grass huts and little subsistence farms. From the looks of things there was not much to subsist upon mainly due to the poor quality of the soil, lack of water and nuclear Sun. Many people have skinny goats or famished cows. Outside next to the grass huts are elevated water tanks “running water”. We drop off the old women near a sign advertising “LOCO RODEO”.


He takes me all the way to far, Southern edge of town to show me the pride of the city; a large fair ground. He explains all the different activities that go on here: cattle auctions, horse barrel racing, bull riding and music. On the ride back to town he tells me that he was born here in Morelos, moved to Washington then moved back home. His dream is to start a hamburger restaurant here in Morelos. He tells me that he has a wife but no children, he tells me that sometimes the women here can’t pay the taxi fare so they will give him blow jobs for payment, then he tells me that he wants to move to fucking Quebec to live with the stuck up Frenchies for some god awful reason.


I really enjoyed the taxi tour and talking to Oscar. He didn’t ask for any money, he just wanted to knock the dust off of his English skills. I’m glad he put forth the effort to show me around and be a friend to a complete stranger. He dropped me off at the Yamaha shop around 13:00; the tire/tube still had not arrived. I get Manuel to track down a longer chain; he runs off for about an hour and returns with this:


525 chain






The 525 is wider than the 520 that is on my bike but it is the length I need. 15:00 rolls around and the tire shows up in a delivery/ passenger van. I’m happy to see that it is a 110/80 18 Pirelli Scorpion. Should be exactly what I need. I get the tire on the rim then onto the bike. I’ve got this new chain now so I thread it on. Its too wide for my sprockets and contacts the case saver. I’ve already bought it so it goes in the bag as a spare. Pretty sure if I were to use it that my sprockets would get skanked.


Its at least 16:30 when I’m sitting at El Guapo’s desk. The garage door (front door of the shop) has been closed and the guys are ready to go home for the day. The total cost of: tire, tube, chain, shop fee (I did all the labor but they charged me for using their facility), delivery was 3,700 pesos. They even through in a FREE bottle of water!

In my opinion the day was pretty well shot at this point so I pulled the bike out of the shop, parked it in the alleyway, walked over to the town’s “mini super” to buy a grip of bananas, a giant bag of jalapeno Doritos and an flat orange soda drink then retired to my room for the rest of the day to read the book I had (thankfully) brought with me.








Next Time: putting the hammer down





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