Day 1 – Arrival in Guayaquil

Coming back… but different”

I arrived in Guayaquil with heavy bags… but not just clothes. I was carrying the Africa Twin’s cases. The bike had flown in the day before. The Norden… well… that was history. On its way to Miami.

This leg started differently. Straight from the airport, I headed to Customs. Round one. And as expected… nothing was going to be simple. Papers, windows, signatures, systems that don’t work, people who “aren’t available”, emails that “never arrived”… the full Latin American combo.

But there was one thing in my favor: it was Monday. I had the whole week to fight for it.

I got things moving — or so I thought — and made a decision I’d been putting off for years. I rented a car… and drove to Montañita.

I’d had that place in my head since I first planned this trip back in 2007. It was a mandatory stop. And also a promise… To Claudio.

I never got to do it with him… but in that moment, on this leg, I felt him more present than ever. Not as a memory… but as company. As if I wasn’t doing this stretch alone. As if, somehow, he was on the bike too.

Days 2 & 3 – Montañita

“Presence”

Montañita doesn’t disappoint. It’s one of those places where time downshifts two gears without asking. Sand, surf, humid heat, background music, and that vibe that’s half hippie, half party… but genuine.

I stayed in a rustic little hotel, facing the sea. The constant sound of the waves, the wind through the palms, salt in the air. Days of hammocks, silence, and thinking. But above all… feeling.

Claudio was there. In every moment. In every pause. In every decision that had brought me to this journey.

In those long hours staring at the sea, I understood something: the journey isn’t always about moving forward… sometimes it’s about stopping so you can keep going.

It wasn’t tourism. It was pause. It was connection. It was gratitude.

Days 4 & 5 – Guayaquil

“Welcome to the system”

I went back to Guayaquil ready to finish the paperwork. Spoiler: nope.

Nothing is easy. Nothing is fast. And it can always get more complicated.

Problem 1: the Norden was still listed as active in Ecuador → another bike couldn’t enter. Problem 2: systems that don’t respond. Problem 3: emails that “never arrived”. Problem 4: patience… at its limit.

Two full days running from office to office, explaining the unexplainable. In and out of buildings, repeating the story, waiting for answers that never come.

But through all of it, something kept me grounded. The feeling that I had to keep going.

Until finally… Friday, 7 PM. They release the bike. At night.

Right there at the warehouse door, the show began: wooden crate, tools, bolts… I pulled out the drill I’d brought along (yes, full obsession mode), and assembled everything piece by piece.

I’d left it with battery, oil, and some fuel. I turned the key… and it started.

That moment… is non-negotiable. It wasn’t just a motorcycle starting. It was the journey coming back to life.

I rode straight to the hotel. Mission accomplished (for now).

That night, to wind down a bit, I went for a walk through Las Peñas… and climbed the 444 steps of Cerro Santa Ana. One by one. Like the journey.

Day 6 – Reunions

“Roads always cross with people”

Santi arrived. And with him, the travel dynamic came back. Conversation, shared decisions, the rhythm of two.

But the day had a surprise: Mati — a friend from Miami — was in Guayaquil with his family. We met up, jumped in a car, and went out for dinner. His wife, a local, took us to incredible places.

One of those nights that wasn’t in the plan… but ends up being one of the best. Great food, great drinks, great stories.

And again that feeling: the journey isn’t just the road… it’s the people who show up… and the ones who, even when they’re not there, are still present at every step.

Day 7 – Guayaquil → Quevedo

“Climbing again”

We set off. Left behind the heavy coastal heat — the kind that wraps around you — and started climbing.

The landscape changes fast: deep green, humidity, endless plantations, roads that wind through the vegetation. Ecuador has that: in a few hours, your whole world changes.

We slept in Quevedo, at a social and sports club that seemed frozen in time. Literally. Colonial furniture, antique décor… all a bit surreal, as if the place never got the memo that the years had passed. But perfect for breaking up the day.

Day 8 – Quevedo → Ipiales

“Border… again”

Long day. Mountain, curves, trucks, some rain. And that cold that comes back when you gain altitude.

The Andes again, right there. Imposing. Familiar. Challenging.

The border with Colombia… as expected. Slow. Long. Unnecessarily complicated. What should be simple… they turn into a bureaucratic odyssey.

But it no longer feels desperate. You get it. It’s part of the journey.

We crossed. We slept in Ipiales, right on the border. With that mix of tiredness and satisfaction. And the feeling of stepping into a new phase… again.ise through the chaos. And with friends like Santi, anything is possible.

As usual, we were up early, back on the bikes—and miraculously, dry.

The last stretch was the easiest: highways, no rain, warmer weather. But that can be dangerous too: you can’t relax or get overconfident. So we stayed focused—now at full cruising speed.

Our travel setup:

• Harley-Davidson Street Glide: classic touring bike, Batwing fairing, Milwaukee-Eight engine just under 1,900 cc—built to devour highways in comfort.
• Honda CRF1100L Africa Twin: adventure bike, 1,084 cc parallel twin, rally DNA, long-travel suspension, upright posture—ready for asphalt or dirt.

Last stop: a Shell in Port Saint Lucie, on Florida’s Turnpike. Lucky got a quick chair-massage, I grabbed an Americano, we fueled up for the last time.

At noon, we were back where everything had begun: Miami Shores. But we were no longer the same.

Experiences like this make you better friends, closer. You see the other person in different contexts—not just at barbecues or at games, but wet, cold, tired, scared, sleepy, happy.

We grew up together—same neighborhood, same school, same rugby club—but then life and distance happened. Distance in miles, not in feelings. Because every time we see each other, it’s like no time has passed. Like distance never existed.

Thank you, my friend, for sharing this adventure.

Thank you, Poly, for making us feel like part of your family, for opening your home and treating us like one of your own.

Thank you, Vale, for always being there. For being a partner in adventures, in joy, in sadness. A partner in life.

I hope my children live things like this. I was going to write “I hope they get lucky,” but this isn’t luck. This is the result of nurturing beautiful relationships over time.

Because at the end of the day, it’s not about the journey or the destination. It’s about who you share it with. That’s what we’re made of: the people around us.

Day 9 – Ipiales → Popayán

“Postcards and warnings”

We set off and Colombia welcomed us the way it knows how: incredible roads. Perfect curves, jungle, mountains… a constant spectacle.

On one of those curves, something unusual. An old tow truck on the roadside. We stopped. They were pulling a car out of a ravine, fallen into a mountain stream. Fortunately, the driver was fine. Just metal. One more reminder of how thin that line is.

We kept going. Further along, we stopped to eat somewhere… questionable. Mistake. Moving on.

We arrived in Popayán. And there, everything changed. They say it’s the best-preserved colonial city in the Americas… and they’re not exaggerating. White everywhere. Cobblestone streets. Order. Cleanliness.

That night we had an incredible dinner. Then, a recommended cantina. We walked in… and it was a tango temple. Gardel on the walls. Vinyl records everywhere. Tangos playing.

And there, in the middle of Colombia… Argentina again. And again… memories.

Day 10 – Popayán → Pereira

“Lost”

The GPS decided to play. And it won.

Leaving Popayán it sent us down a gravel road… but not a normal gravel road. Closed mountain. Climbs, descents, mud, rock. Three hours in. No signal. No landmarks. The GPS wasn’t helping. The locals couldn’t explain how to get out. It felt like a loop. A game. And not a fun one.

But in those moments… something else shows up. Patience. Instinct. And that inner voice that says: keep going.

After twists, attempts, and some intuition… we found a way out. Coincidence or luck.

We arrived in Pereira. And then: shower, food… and that simple relief that’s worth gold.

Day 11 – Pereira → Bogotá

“Each one their own road”

Last day. Decision.

Santi kept going to Medellín, to see friends. Me… back to Miami. My brother was arriving on the weekend. And I’d already been on the road for two weeks.

So I headed to Bogotá alone.

Not many kilometers… but dense ones. Curves. Traffic. Tunnels that open and close. Heavy rhythm.

But the landscapes… never disappoint.

I arrived at night. Tired. But with that feeling you can’t put into words.

Last stop in South America… for now. Next day: paperwork. The bike ready to fly to Panama. And stay there… waiting.

Because this isn’t over. It’s just… on pause.

And deep down, knowing that in every kilometer… some journeys aren’t made alone.

The post Guayaquil – Bogotá | by Motorcycle: Between memories, bureaucracy, and jungle: when the journey is also inward appeared first on People Garage | Car Restoration Miami.

A couple of months earlier, Lucky had shared the route with me. And like every time someone tells you something new, your mind tries to compare it to something familiar just to make sense of it. There’s a reason Columbus, when he first saw America, called it the Indies: he was trying to fit the unknown into what he already understood.

When I read “3,000 km in 6 days,” I thought: that’s like driving to Bariloche… it’s tiring even in a car, I can’t imagine doing it on a bike. Especially considering that my longest ride on two wheels had barely been a straight shot to the coast. But I trust my friend blindly.

The week before the trip, the bike I was supposed to ride was “peeling.” They had removed the fairings, it was half disassembled, they had swapped the exhaust and were still messing with it. The clock was ticking and the bike looked nowhere near ready. They were installing all kinds of tech accessories: Bluetooth module for the helmet, extra USB ports, crash bars, auxiliary LED lights—you name it. It all made me wonder: are we really going to make it 3,000 km like this?

There wasn’t much time to test it. Basically, we were going to break it in on the trip. The truth is that it started, we rode it from the garage to the meeting point without issues, and we clung to that.

That Wednesday, October 22, we went to bed late after doing the final prep: clothes, tools, paperwork, chargers, first aid kit… everything had to be ready for the next morning.

And so it was: Thursday, October 23, 2025, at 5:30 AM the alarms went off. Quick shower to erase the last trace of sleep, a fast coffee, and final adjustments to the bikes. We loaded backpacks and panniers, suited up like real riders (cordura pants and jackets, armor, gloves, neck warmers, boots), synced our Bluetooth intercoms, checked fluids, lights, tire pressure… fired up the engines and by 6:30 AM we were rolling out.

Vale was there too, camera in hand, capturing the moment. But not just for that—she’s always there when you need her. Like the sun: clouds may hide it, but you know it’s there.

We left Miami Shores in darkness, the headlights of cars and the interstate stretching out ahead of us, and a whole universe of stories waiting. We took I-95 North and then merged onto I-75, the great highway that cuts straight through Florida up to Georgia.

For such an early hour, traffic was already heavy: trucks, cars, people going to work. And my fear came true—an alert light turned on in my dashboard. The worst part was I didn’t know if it had always been on or if it had just lit up; since I didn’t know the bike or its normal behavior, I had no reference. But something told me this was new.

I told Lucky, we pulled over. I turned the bike off, waited, turned it back on—and the light vanished. Probably a sensor still not “friends” with the new exhaust and temperature settings. It never lit up again. LET’S GO.

Our first stop came with full daylight, on the highway toward Orlando—still in Florida, where everything screams Disney: signs, souvenirs, families with sleepy kids and parents with vacation faces. And honestly, we looked like we were going to Disney too… but ours was the biker version: highways, curves, new states to discover, and thousands of kilometers ahead.

After a short rest, back to the road. Now without stops until crossing state lines: Georgia was waiting. We entered on I-75, that asphalt artery running north to south across the southern U.S. The plan was to have lunch in a small, deep-South town. That’s where the contrast hits: Miami is definitely not America’s true reflection.

We arrived at 1:05 PM in Valdosta, Georgia, after our first 750 km. That’s an average speed (stops included) of about 120 km/h—not bad for day one. Lunch was at a classic American restaurant: wood everywhere, TVs playing football and basketball, friendly servers, massive plates. We recharged both our batteries and the phones’, and continued westward. Then came the scenic part: leaving the big interstate and diving into state highways and backroads, crossing tiny southern towns.

Things that struck me:

• Cotton fields—rare in Argentina. Like a carpet of clouds stuck to the ground.
• Houses right by the road, no gates or fences, many with wooden porches, railings, rocking chairs. Straight out of Pet Sematary.
• Cemeteries with no walls—you can see the neat headstones right from the road, almost touching the shoulder.

But one thing all of it had in common: tidiness, order, and an overall sense of cleanliness.

We kept a steady pace. Meanwhile, I was “scanning” my body:

• Legs: excellent.
• Arms: a bit tired, but fine.
• Torso: perfect.
• Head: neck and cheeks, destroyed.

I wasn’t used to wearing a helmet for so long. And this helmet was new, and as it should be: snug.

Next stop: Albany, Georgia, at a gas station. Fueled up, bathroom break, and mate with alfajores—full Argentine mode even in the deep South. Everything was perfect: weather, roads, scenery, and my lifelong friend riding beside me. Nothing could be better.

Next: a long stretch to Auburn, Alabama, about 200 km west, entering through small country roads that lead into the university area.

Auburn is a place made for living. A classic college town, very charming, near Columbus, Georgia. We got there around 5:50 PM. Our hotel belonged to the university. Pristine, spacious, functional.

Right across the street: Auburn University—imposing lawns of perfect grass and red-brick buildings. The textbook American college campus.

After settling in, shower, and out for a stroll. First thing that caught my eye: the sports merchandising stores. No knockoffs. Everything was official: top-brand clothing with Auburn colors and logos. Capitalism on another level.

We wrapped the day at a local restaurant with pizza and beer. Nearly 1,000 km behind us—we felt it. Early to bed.

Day 2: Incredible

We started early. Solid hotel breakfast—strong coffee, eggs, toast. My neck didn’t hurt as much; my body had switched to motorcycle mode.

By 8:30 AM we were rolling again. Perfect day: clear sky, ideal temperature, best company. What more could you ask for? Right—visiting the most important motorcycle museum in the world.

But first, more backroads. We headed north and then west in Alabama, along narrow roads where houses appeared every 100 meters between giant trees. Curves, hills, twists… they kept coming.

And Lucky kept saying:

“This is nothing. Wait until we get to the Tail of the Dragon…”

Nothing? For me this was everything. The sharpest curve I had taken in my life before this was the Panamericana–General Paz interchange. And here I was leaning side to side at over 100 km/h, linking blind corners, rises, descents.

My inner voice said: enjoy it, gain experience, feel the bike, build confidence. Let it flow.

We stopped at an abandoned gas station straight out of a movie: old pumps, rusted signs. Time to stretch, breathe, and take in what we were living. This place was in Sterrett, Alabama, Shelby County, about 100 km from Auburn.

Then we continued to the Barber Vintage Motorsports Museum in Leeds, outside Birmingham, next to I-20. This is the most important motorcycle museum on the planet: a modern five-story building with over 1,600 bikes and race cars in the collection, around 900 displayed at any time. Surrounded by a racetrack.

I lost my mind there. A temple. Five floors packed with motorcycles and race cars from every era and country—steam bikes, MotoGP machines, off-road, street, choppers, police bikes, war machines… sensory overload. I must have taken over 2,000 photos. Someday I’ll make a proper album.

And it doesn’t end there. From the museum you can see the racetrack, surrounded by a botanical-park-like landscape. A glass walkway over the circuit lets you watch bikes pass under your feet. There’s a lake, waterfall, sculptures, carved trees—art everywhere.

We were lucky: they were doing qualifying sessions. The sound of the engines hit you right in the chest.

On one floor I found a Lotus-only section. And if you say Lotus, you say Formula 1. And there it was: the legendary black-and-gold John Player Special Lotus, one of the most iconic cars of its time, driven by the greatest of all.

Seeing it took me back to the 1980s: to our family kitchen, Sunday mornings watching F1 with my dad and grandfather. To afternoons on the street racing our little plastic F1 replicas bought at the kiosk…

Those memories stayed with me as we left the museum, after nearly three hours.

Then: destination Nashville, Tennessee—about 340 km north, through highways and scenic roads along the Tennessee River.

We arrived at 7:00 PM. A completely different world: tall buildings, shopping areas, heavy traffic—urban America.

Lucky had booked a place two blocks from the famous Broadway. As soon as you enter downtown you understand what the city is about: music, party, good vibes.

Open-roof buses packed with people singing, dancing, drinking—celebrating who knows what. It didn’t matter. Their happiness was contagious.

We parked the bikes right in front of our Airbnb building—and at that exact moment, the girls arrived: Vale and Poly, with their own travel stories from a day of airports and airplanes. They had flown from Miami that same day to join us.

Somehow, by 8 PM we were at the first bar.

Nashville is insane. No one should die without going at least once. Music everywhere. Bar after bar after bar, each with a live band—rock, country, or something in between. Some have two or three floors with a different band on each.

Entry is free. They only ask for ID if you look too young. Nobody asked us, obviously. You don’t even have to buy anything, but morally we felt like we had to.

At the first bar, Broadway Brewhouse, we started with gin & tonics and beer with whiskey. Three floors, balconies overlooking the packed street.

The band finished, so we moved on. Hard to choose, but it really didn’t matter—everything was awesome.

We hit around seven bars. Same routine:

“Bar’s open, order whatever you want.”

Gin, whiskey, beer… someone would sneak in a beer “to hydrate.” The night exploded. I hadn’t laughed, danced, or sung that much in years.

Vale and I went back first. Getting there wasn’t easy. And entering the building? Even harder. The door code was simple—1-2-3-4—under normal circumstances. But it wouldn’t open.

A guardian angel from a nearby shop came over and said we were missing the asterisk. And something important about Nashville: everyone—even the police—is there to help when they sense you’re “happy.” No judging. They just want to keep you safe.

There are even golf-cart-style vehicles equipped like mobile ERs for drunk people—stretchers, oxygen, everything. You feel taken care of.

Back at the building: reached the third floor. The Airbnb code? A 20-digit nightmare on a tiny keypad. We had it in our WhatsApp group. I must’ve typed it 15 times. No luck.

The city’s guardian angels were gone. What now? We went up another floor. It wasn’t the third—it was the fourth. Done. Inside. Slept like two angels.

Day 3: Hangovers Don’t Exist in Nashville

Around 10 AM, Vale and I got up. Mate in hand, after a while Poly and Lucky emerged. We spent an hour swapping stories. What I lived was not what they lived—perspectives differ. We couldn’t stop laughing. My neck hurt from it.

They had their own “adventures” getting back, but I won’t be the one to tell them.

At 11 AM, Vale and I went to buy lunch. But first, a city walk. Nashville was already partying again. Does it ever stop?

Buses filled with people dancing and drinking like it was 11 PM, not AM. Bars already open with live bands. Do they ever close?

We grabbed some pasta and sauce, walked back, ate, and then went for a short bike ride, this time all four of us.

We took scenic, leisurely routes—what in Argentina we’d call “dominguear.” Curves, hills, autumn trees in bright greens, yellows, and ochres, unbelievable houses tucked into the woods.

We stopped at a national park overlook, but we’d forgotten the mate… so the stop was short. Soon we were back on the bikes heading home.

We passed shopping areas, beautiful neighborhoods, and Vanderbilt University—the building looks like a castle. We even saw a game through the giant outdoor screens from the street. Imagine how big those screens were…

Like good adopted Americans, we ate early. By 8 PM we were bar-hopping again, but at a much calmer pace. We ended up at a bar where an older lady played the violin like she was possessed. Blew my mind. The place was called The Stage.

Day 4: The Tail of the Dragon

Sunday morning: goodbye to the girls—they headed to the airport; we continued our adventure. It felt like we’d spent two weeks together, but it had barely been a day and a half. Intense doesn’t even begin to describe it.

What awaited us was insane: a road every motorcyclist dreams of doing at least once. The Mecca. Like Santiago de Compostela for a Christian.

The curves appeared quickly. We reached the famous Tail of the Dragon, a stretch of US-129 between Tennessee and North Carolina with 318 curves in just 11 miles (under 20 km).

A sign warns you:

“Welcome to one of the most crash-prone motorcycle roads. Ride carefully.”

Great.

Not just bikes—sports cars everywhere, straight out of Fast & Furious.

We started. Lucky leading, me right behind. Once a car gets in front of you, passing is almost impossible: mountain road, two-way traffic, almost no shoulder or guardrail. One mistake and you’re off a cliff, into a rock wall, or into the grill of an oncoming car. Zero margin for distractions.

You have to ride at your absolute limit. Focused, present, fused with the bike. Nothing else exists.

Lucky—an excellent rider—vanished as soon as he could pass the car blocking us. I took a little longer; there were almost no chances. But finally, I saw a gap, took the risk, and passed.

Then it was full throttle, full adrenaline. Why was I here? To ride it slowly? No. I came to push myself.

At one point I got dizzy. So many bends, so much leaning, so many 180-degree switchbacks… it was inevitable. But it passed quickly.

At the end, Lucky was waiting on the other side. We stopped for lunch around 2:30 PM at the magical Tapoco Lodge in Robbinsville, North Carolina—by the Cheoah River, in the Smoky Mountains and Nantahala National Forest.

A Patagonia-style lodge: wooden building, mountain river, dense autumn forest.

Around 4 PM, the first drops fell. We hurried, geared up, and headed toward Asheville, North Carolina.

A few kilometers later, drops turned to rain. Then heavy rain. Then torrential rain. Non-stop.

We pushed through to the hotel. Arrived around 8 PM, soaked. Not a single dry item. As good Argentines, we improvised: the hair dryer became an industrial-grade clothes dryer. Boots, gloves, shirts, pants—everything went through it.

Lucky and I are bald, so we didn’t need it for anything else.

Quick dinner. Exhaustion everywhere—Nashville’s party, the Tail of the Dragon’s adrenaline, and a whole day riding in the rain…

We went to bed smiling ear to ear. I was proud of myself—I had handled mountain curves with almost zero prior experience.

At Tapoco I told Lucky:

“I’d do it again.”

But it was late, and the rain was chasing us.

Before sleeping we made a decision: wake up early to avoid the worst of the storm. Forecast said the peak would be mid-morning. But forecasts… can fail.

Day 5: A Different Trip

Monday we woke very early. By 6 AM we were loading the bikes, and by 6:30 we were back on the road.

The rain was torrential. Perfect conditions for not riding a motorcycle. It felt like the god of rain and wind teamed up with the god of bikers and said:

“Okay, you passed the first tests. Now let’s see how you do with heavy rain and 5–8 degrees Celsius…”

Any other two riders, on a Monday like that, would have stayed in the hotel. But we are not “any other two riders.” We didn’t hesitate. Staying wasn’t an option. A little (a lot) of water and a little (a lot) of cold weren’t going to stop us.

At 6:30 it was still dark. The only thing marking the road was headlights and traffic lights. Visibility: near zero.

When daylight came, things got worse—the rain intensified and the gray sky flattened the landscape, disorienting us. Spray from trucks, reflections on the asphalt, horizon gone—you couldn’t tell if you were on the road or floating in the sky.

But nothing stopped us. We were those crazy people you watch from the comfort of a warm car and think:

“Look at these guys… they’re nuts.”

And yes, we were.

We stopped at a gas station in Inman, South Carolina, near Spartanburg. Time to dry off a little and grab breakfast. Right before entering, we got an SMS: tornado alert for the area.

Seriously?

It was right behind us.

For a second we thought: what are we doing?

But there was no time for philosophy. We finished breakfast and hit the road again. Within an hour we were soaked once more.

Lucky’s feet were two lakes. My hands were frozen and purple. Lucky looked up a Harley dealership—we found a massive one, like a temple. We went in to buy a taller windshield for his bike and ended up buying boots and gloves too. A slight improvement. Slight.

As we were leaving, the manager—big guy, white beard, leather vest with the Harley logo, pure mileage—told us kindly:

“I can ride in rain, I can ride in cold, but both together? No. Too dangerous. Be careful out there.”

Nice words. I don’t know if they reassured me or scared me more, but the fatherly tone stayed with me.

Back to the road. Faster and more furious than ever—not because we wanted to go fast, but because we couldn’t believe the cold and the amount of water falling.

We passed the only other motorcyclist we saw that day. He was going 30 km/h, as the weather demanded. We passed him standing up, easily doing over 120.

I asked Lucky:

“Are we going too fast?”

We didn’t slow down.

My intensive motorcycle course was extreme. Only gravel and sand left to learn. Curves, endurance, and speed—I think I passed. But Lucky has to sign the certificate.

It was a long, demanding Monday—physically and mentally. We had to ride hyper-focused.

We reached the last hotel, about 800 km from Miami. The rain had eased a bit but we were still soaked. Hair dryer: round two. Light dinner and straight to bed.

Day 6: The Return

With the worst behind us, the next day we rode to Guayaquil. I had already been in touch with Renato, a contact who was going to help us ship the bike to Miami, where it would rejoin the adventure — this time with the Africa Twin prepped and ready to take over.

We handed over the Norden, went to the hotel, and prepped for our early morning flight.Because adventure isn’t just about the destination — it’s about how you rise through the chaos. And with friends like Santi, anything is possible.

As usual, we were up early, back on the bikes—and miraculously, dry.

The last stretch was the easiest: highways, no rain, warmer weather. But that can be dangerous too: you can’t relax or get overconfident. So we stayed focused—now at full cruising speed.

Our travel setup:

• Harley-Davidson Street Glide: classic touring bike, Batwing fairing, Milwaukee-Eight engine just under 1,900 cc—built to devour highways in comfort.
• Honda CRF1100L Africa Twin: adventure bike, 1,084 cc parallel twin, rally DNA, long-travel suspension, upright posture—ready for asphalt or dirt.

Last stop: a Shell in Port Saint Lucie, on Florida’s Turnpike. Lucky got a quick chair-massage, I grabbed an Americano, we fueled up for the last time.

At noon, we were back where everything had begun: Miami Shores. But we were no longer the same.

Experiences like this make you better friends, closer. You see the other person in different contexts—not just at barbecues or at games, but wet, cold, tired, scared, sleepy, happy.

We grew up together—same neighborhood, same school, same rugby club—but then life and distance happened. Distance in miles, not in feelings. Because every time we see each other, it’s like no time has passed. Like distance never existed.

Thank you, my friend, for sharing this adventure.

Thank you, Poly, for making us feel like part of your family, for opening your home and treating us like one of your own.

Thank you, Vale, for always being there. For being a partner in adventures, in joy, in sadness. A partner in life.

I hope my children live things like this. I was going to write “I hope they get lucky,” but this isn’t luck. This is the result of nurturing beautiful relationships over time.

Because at the end of the day, it’s not about the journey or the destination. It’s about who you share it with. That’s what we’re made of: the people around us.

The post Miami to Nashville A Spin-off Magically Pulled Out of a Hat appeared first on People Garage | Car Restoration Miami.

We took it in completely stock and decided to turn it into something no one would expect: a mini urban 4×4 with giant-sized attitude. First step: a 3-inch lift, the key modification that shifted its identity from “city car” to “trail explorer.” That new clearance opened the door for more: 15-inch wheels wrapped in Yokohama all-terrain tires, a combo that changed the stance completely and gave it the soul of an adventurer.

Then came the serious stuff: reinforced, custom-made bumpers — not just to give it a tougher look, but to handle real off-road use. No decorative plastics here — we’re talking steel, bolts, and purpose.

Powering it all is a reliable, efficient Mercedes-Benz engine, perfect for a build that had to be fun and functional. And for the final touch, we gave it something that lets it play with its own identity: a bold custom wrap, designed to stand out from the crowd and invite constant reinvention. It can go corporate, sporty, tactical, or urban… depending on the owner’s mood.

Today, this Smart is much more than a modified Fortwo. It’s a statement. A reminder that size never defines character — and that any vehicle can become something unique when imagination meets craftsmanship.

Small on the outside, ready to conquer the world.

The post 2006 Smart Fortwo – Off-Road Rebel appeared first on People Garage | Car Restoration Miami.

We disassembled everything — down to the last rivet. At its core, the original engine, a classic 2.25-liter diesel four-cylinder typical of the Series II/IIA models, became our starting point. Land Rover offered these engines in both petrol and diesel versions, and this one had stood the test of time.

That engine was fully rebuilt — inspected, compression-tested, fine-tuned, and carefully adjusted. We focused on every critical point: crankshaft, bearings, camshaft — the kind of work that makes a restoration truly dependable.

But we didn’t stop at the engine. We rewired the entire electrical system from scratch, installed brand new wiring and lighting, and updated the headlights. A classic should stay true to its roots — but it also has to meet today’s standards. The new lights not only improve visibility but bring safety where it counts.

The bodywork was handled with the same level of care: panels repaired, structure reinforced, and finished in a military sand color — a shade that feels like a uniform on a veteran, ready to head back into service.

We completed the build with new wheels and tires, overhauled suspension and brakes, and thoroughly reviewed every mechanical system. Every part was inspected, rebuilt, or replaced — no shortcuts, just craftsmanship.

This Series 2A no longer sleeps in a corner. It drives, growls, shines. It’s ready to hit rough trails again, to be reliable — just like in its glory days — but with the strength of a modern rebuild. It’s a tribute to off-road heritage, to pure mechanics, and to the spirit of going far.

Today, this Land Rover is not just a restored classic. It’s a living vehicle with a renewed story — ready for another 50 years of adventure.

The post 1971 Land Rover Series 2A – Spirit of Service appeared first on People Garage | Car Restoration Miami.

Day 1 | Lima to Huaraz

We landed in Lima with the first light of the day. The city was still half asleep, so we crashed for a while at a capsule hotel in the airport — one of those pay-by-the-hour pods that feel like you’re sleeping in a spaceship. Perfect for a reset, both body and mind, before hitting the road again.

Then, straight to the Husqvarna dealer in Lima, where we had left the bikes for a full service. Waiting for us there was Felipe, a friend we met during the previous stage. We brought him a couple of bottles of whisky as a thank-you — in the moto world, small gestures go a long way.

As soon as we got back on the bikes and hit the road, I noticed something weird (in a good way): mine was running better than ever. Turns out, the ECU had been reset — all the settings were different. It felt like a brand-new machine. I was stoked.

The route this time was closer to the Pacific, without climbing as high into the mountains as before. A literal change of air. We rode around 400 km until Huaraz, a small, unremarkable town — but perfect to rest before sunset.

Day 2 | Huaraz, engine failure, and a hard wake-up call

We left early. About 100 km in — flash. I catch something blinking on the dashboard: low oil pressure warning. But by the time I focused on it, it had disappeared. The day before, the bike had been acting weird, even triggering the hazard lights on its own. Something wasn’t right.

Fifteen minutes later, the oil light came on again — this time, it didn’t go away. I called out to Santi, we pulled over. Oil level: all good. Started the bike again — light was off. We kept going.

But 15 km later: light comes on again, power drops, I ease off the throttle… and nothing. Engine dies. We coast to the side. I try to start it — it sounds like a baby rattle.

Diagnosis was instant: engine blown.

There we were, in the middle of Peru, surrounded by mountains and emptiness. Now what?

With nerves running high and no real options, Santi reaches into his bag and pulls out two zip ties he’d been carrying since Ushuaia (“just in case”), and builds a makeshift tow strap. Tied together, we rode 80 km northbound.

We stopped to rethink everything. Should we go back to Lima? Keep going? How?

Looking at the map, we saw we had passed a decent-sized town earlier: Chimbote. We decided to turn around. It was still early. We had time.

We had lunch at a roadside spot. The town seemed dull — until we realized we were just on the outskirts. The real Chimbote was a proper town: paved streets, life, motion.

Felipe had mentioned a shipping company called Shalom. We thought about sending the bike back to Lima by truck, but that meant risking our legal time in Peru — and we didn’t want a repeat of the Bolivia situation.

Then came the lightbulb moment: ship the bike straight to Aguas Verdes, the border town with Ecuador. We’d tow it across the border, and just like that, she’d be legally out of Peru. That’s what we did — same day, the bike was packed and shipped, thanks in part to Jesús, a guy we met at Shalom’s gate who helped us wrap it all up in record time.

In a single day: engine failure, regroup, new plan, executed. Pasteles.

It was a rollercoaster. But it was also the day that Santi stepped up, no questions asked. He towed me, supported me, made smart calls under pressure. This stage, without a doubt, belongs to him. Gracias, hermano.

Day 3 | Chimbote to Piura

With the Norden on a truck somewhere, the two of us jumped on Santi’s Africa Twin. We tied my duffel bag to the back, tightened up our resolve, and hit the road.

We wanted to reach Máncora, already close to the border. But it was a long way — nearly 800 km — so we decided to break the ride with a night in Piura. A charming northern city, full of soul, with Peru’s signature combo: amazing food and kind people.

Days 4–6 | Mancora

We were getting close, but Peru plays by its own rules. Village traffic, stray animals, and landscapes that demand you stop and stare — everything slows you down.

But we made it. And it was worth every second.

Máncora greeted us with clouds overhead but warm vibes all around — a laid-back beach town with a surfer soul and a friendly heartbeat.

We found a hotel that looked decent and turned out to be fantastic. The staff? Even better. We spent three unforgettable days there. Volleyball tournaments, postcard sunsets, karaoke, horseback rides on the beach, tons of pisco sours, incredible food… and something harder to describe: a real connection with the people. We became friends with everyone.

Meanwhile, the Norden kept crawling through Peru’s bureaucratic jungle. Every distribution hub meant a new truck. Thankfully, we had an Apple AirTag on it, so we could track it live — a real-time logistics soap opera.

Day 7 – Máncora to Aguas Verdes, and crossing into Ecuador

The big day came. The bike was almost at the border.

We said heartfelt goodbyes to our hotel friends and headed for Aguas Verdes.

At the border, they told us the truck would arrive in 2 hours. We grabbed a bite, came back… no bike. It had been dropped at a hub 40 km back — we had driven past it earlier without knowing.

We turned around again, picked up the bike, checked everything, tied her up (again, literally), and went back to the border. It was already dark. I was riding in the back with no lights, blind, towed. But the mission was clear: get across.

We cleared immigration, did all the paperwork, and crossed into Ecuador. Legal. Alive. Tied together — but still moving forward.

We crashed at a bizarre hotel that looked abandoned, complete with an empty amusement park. Straight out of a movie.

Day 8 – Guayaquil and end of stage

With the worst behind us, the next day we rode to Guayaquil. I had already been in touch with Renato, a contact who was going to help us ship the bike to Miami, where it would rejoin the adventure — this time with the Africa Twin prepped and ready to take over.

We handed over the Norden, went to the hotel, and prepped for our early morning flight.

Stage closed. Tough, but unforgettable.

Because adventure isn’t just about the destination — it’s about how you rise through the chaos. And with friends like Santi, anything is possible.

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Day 1: Santa Cruz de la Sierra and reuniting with the bikes

“The hidden treasure”
Returning to Santa Cruz de la Sierra meant reuniting with the Bolivian heat, the bikes, and the beginning of a new chapter. The bikes were waiting for us in perfect shape at the KTM Santa Cruz shop, where the great Chavo Salvatierra, Dakar legend, personally took care of changing the tires, servicing them, and having everything ready to hit the road.

But something essential was missing…

Santi’s riding gear was gone. It had been left at the hotel for laundry months ago, but now no one had a clue where it was. Jacket, pants, boots—everything needed to get back on the bike was lost.
We stared at each other: was the trip already over before starting?

Time was ticking, tension rising. Maybe it was stolen? Maybe someone took it by mistake? We were already planning B-plans and makeshift gear—until finally, the hotel called us. “It’s here, stored in a bag, exactly in the same room you used in April,” they said.

What a relief. We celebrated with laughter, cold beers, and a farewell dinner with our friend Monin who came by to wish us luck.

Santa Cruz de la Sierra → Sucre

“The ride begins… with hangover and hope”
We left with a bit of a hangover, we admit it. But the excitement of being back on the road pushed us forward.
The route to Sucre gave us majestic views—mountains rising, perfect curves for riding. We passed through Potosí and started climbing past 3,500 meters above sea level, where we’d spend most of the next 15 days.

Fuel scarcity, which we had already noticed in April, was now critical. Long lines, closed gas stations, trucks stranded without diesel. We got gas by asking locals, dodging queues, and filling up wherever we could.

In Sucre, the city was in celebration mode. The bicentennial of independence was near, and the colonial downtown was vibrant. We stayed near the center and had dinner in a restaurant inside catacombs from 1820—dim lights, soft music, first-class food. A perfect ending to a long and beautiful day.

Sucre → Uyuni

“The mirror of the sky”
We left early. The altitude’s chill was beginning to creep in, and the bikes could feel it too. We climbed up to almost 4,200 meters, where every move took your breath away—literally.
We were already taking altitude pills, so it was manageable, just some fatigue.

Arriving at the Uyuni Salt Flats felt like landing on another planet. A massive white sea of salt, completely flat, under a cloudless sky. A thin layer of water reflected the heavens like a mirror—creating an infinite illusion. We spun around on the bikes like jets on an endless runway. Pure freedom.

We stayed at the Palacio de Sal—literally built from salt blocks: walls, ceilings, furniture. Even the lamps were made from salt crystals. That night, we thoroughly washed the bikes (that salt is pure poison for any metal), had some wine, and crashed.

Uyuni → La Paz

“Mechanics, chaos, and a great friend”
Leaving the salt flats, Santi’s bike began stalling and losing power. We suspected bad fuel—probably dirty or with water. The filter was clogged.

The entry into La Paz was madness: chaotic, noisy, a swarm of buses, bikes, street vendors, ignored traffic lights, and honking everywhere. It took us two hours to get to the hotel—just 15 km away.

We called Dany Nosiglia, a Bolivian motorsport icon and owner of the KTM/Honda dealership in La Paz. Without hesitation, he welcomed us at night, had his mechanics tear down the bike, clean the tank, change the filter, and fix everything on the spot.
Huge help. Eternal thanks, Dany.

La Paz → Copacabana

“Of ferries and promises”
Santi’s bike was running great again (mine still had a vanishing rear brake).
We headed toward Copacabana, on the shores of Lake Titicaca. To get there, we had to board a rickety wooden ferry across 1 km of water—no railings, no ropes. The bikes almost slipped into the lake. We clenched our teeth and prayed.

The town was mid-festival for the bicentennial: music, flags, dancers, street food, and a chaotic charm. Copacabana is messy, yes—but it’s got soul.
We went to sleep with a strange mix of nerves and excitement. Tomorrow, we’d try to cross into Peru.

Copacabana → …Copacabana

“Border escape: the white storm”
We got up early and with our hearts racing. Crossing into Peru was just a few stamps away.
But nothing is easy at 3,900 meters above sea level with overloaded bikes on an incline. Even putting on the helmet felt like a workout.

The border was pure chaos: crowds, fruit vendors, kids selling toys, stray dogs, a burning sun mocking our anxiety.
Migration was easy. But Customs… that’s where the storm began.
Our bike permits, issued months ago at Villazón, were valid for 90 days. We had been in Bolivia for 92. There was a grace period to pay a fine—but we were two days past that too.

We were told to wait. No supervisors on site. Calls to La Paz. Hours passed. “You’re not in Bolivia, but not in Peru either,” said a woman selling empanadas. She was right—we were landlocked castaways.
Then came the final blow: a truck was on its way to seize the bikes.
That’s when we made the call.

Santi, with nerves of steel, slipped into the crowd and got the employee to hand back our passports. When the supervisor asked to “take photos” of our papers, she stepped outside with me… and that was our moment.
We left.

Closed cases. Poker face. Tourist mode.
We walked the bikes casually through the crowd—blending in, like we were going to grab bread.
And just like that, we were back in Copacabana. With bikes. With dreams intact.

Copacabana → La Paz

“Plan B: the capital and its contacts”
The border was a bust. We needed a new plan.
The problem was bureaucratic, so the solution had to come from La Paz.
August 7. Bolivia was still partying. Parades, markets, chaos.
Getting into La Paz was urban survival mode again—Google Maps threw us into the heart of the apocalypse: streets blocked by tents, flags, parades, trumpets. Somehow, we made it.

Back at the hotel, we activated every contact possible:
• Chavo Salvatierra
• Dany Nosiglia
• Monin Camacho
• Willy Aguirre
• A doctor friend of Rodri’s
• A lawyer claiming “Customs and Immigration contacts”

The lawyer agreed to fly in Friday.

The Argentine Consulate also promised to receive us.
Until then: we waited. Everything closed. No movement. No riding.

La Paz

“D-Day with no lawyer”
Friday. Hopes up. And… crash.

The lawyer canceled. Said he couldn’t get fuel to reach the airport. Sounded like a lie.
He promised to come Monday.

So we went to the Argentine Consulate. Santiago, the Consul General, greeted us warmly. A curious, honest guy with incredible stories about life in La Paz.

He listened to us for over an hour and explained the legal limits of what they could do.
His conclusion: in cases like ours, he had never seen a successful outcome through formal channels.
We looked at each other. No one said it aloud, but we all knew:
“There’s only one way out now… the unofficial way.”

La Paz → Puno (saturday)

“The ghost route: off the map”
We left La Paz that Saturday with fear and resolve.
No papers. No plans. Just a GPS coordinate and a prayer.

The route? Pure madness: rocks, cliffs, no signage, barely passable. Over 4,000 meters high. Even Google Maps didn’t know it existed.

But the landscape… breathtaking.

Clear skies. Snowy peaks. Llamas watching us like sentinels. We were riding the line between two worlds.
It took all day. But we made it. We crossed.

When our tires hit Peruvian asphalt, we burst into laughter. We were in Peru. Mission accomplished.

That night, in Puno, we finally rested.

Puno (sunday)

“The hidden oasis”
We stayed in Puno. Sunday. Everything closed.
For the first time in days, we let our guard down.

Hotel with a lake view. Massages. Lakeside stroll. Good food.
Cold Titicaca breeze clearing our minds. Even the bikes got to relax.

Puno → Tilali → Puno (monday)

“The secret office of the highlands”
Early Monday, we took a taxi—still avoiding using the bikes with no papers.

First stop: Immigration. But they told us we couldn’t process our entry there. We had to go to a border checkpoint.
Khasani was the nearest…

800 meters from the very place we’d fled days ago.
No way.

We scanned maps like planning a prison escape.
Found a tiny post near the lake—Tilali.

Passed there Saturday but didn’t know it existed. Looked promising.
Before heading out, we stopped at Customs in Puno—just in case. And got this gem:
“Good thing you didn’t come with the bikes… we’d have confiscated them.”
Déjà vu from Bolivia. We walked out fast. Back to the hotel. Bikes ready. 300 km of mountain roads.
Tilali awaited and We will try our luck again.

Well, “luck” played another trick on us. This time it wasn’t about paperwork, but something far more unexpected. As we left the hotel, Santi was riding ahead. About 20 blocks later, I passed him (we always rotate positions), and right then he called me on the radio:
 —“You’re missing a pannier!”

I looked back and sure enough—the right pannier was gone.
 —“Let’s go back and see if we can find it,” he said.

So we turned around and rode the same 20 blocks back to the hotel. The street was busy with cars and people walking, so the chances of finding it there waiting for us were very slim. And that’s exactly what happened: we retraced the whole route, paying special attention to the speed bumps and dips where it must have flown off. Nothing. It was gone. Farewell, right pannier!

And then… the miracle:
At Immigration, just one guy. Eduardo.
Poker face on: “We’re coming from Ushuaia, going to Alaska.”
He listened. He looked at us. And (I swear) he thought:
“These guys are living the dream.”
He stamped our passports.
Round 1: won.
Now Customs—2 km away.
Same story: one guy, Javier.
Same speech. Same magic.
He gave us the papers for the bikes.

We couldn’t believe it. We had papers. We had freedom.
We rode back to Puno, same hotel, and celebrated over dinner.

Puno → Pisac

“Breathing again”
With all the papers in order, our souls returned to our bodies.
We set off toward Pisac—a small, mystical village near Cusco, quieter and more local.
The ride felt like a prayer to the mountains: green valleys, perfect curves, blue skies, and cold wind slapping your face like a blessing.
Lila was waiting for us—friend of a friend—with a unique plan: a high-altitude lagoon, ancestral chocolate, spiritual connection.

Pisac

“Cacao, grandmothers, and peaks”
Slow breakfast. Peaceful air.
Pisac breathes serenity. And since we arrived in Peru, the food and hospitality have been incredible.
We took the bikes to the mountain—should’ve taken 30 minutes, but a wrong turn made it 50. No complaints—the road was stunning.
We reached the Kinsa Ccocha lagoon in Paru Paru, 4,500 meters high. Surrounded by mountains. Deep blue reflection. Sacred silence.
We hiked a bit. Lila gave us ceremonial chocolate with ancestral medicine.
Time slowed down. Santi still had cell signal and wasn’t fully disconnected, but even he mellowed out.
We sat, breathed, reflected.
On the way back, we passed through villages where grandmothers still weave by hand—same techniques from thousands of years ago. The colors, the designs—woven poetry.
An unforgettable day.

Pisac → Puquio

“Descending from the heavens”
Plan: reach Nazca—600 meters above sea level. From Pisac’s 4000+. That’s 3,500 meters of descent. Basically: downhill savings.
But we left late.

Endless plateaus at 4,200 meters, ups and downs, and a record: 4,650 meters—the highest so far.
Thin air. Bikes running great. And dry boogers (sorry, but true).
As night fell, we stopped in Puquio—a tiny village tucked in the mountains.
Hotel had no parking, so the bikes slept in the hallway, next to our room. Literally.
Dinner nearby. Early bed. Tomorrow: the ocean.

Puquio → Lima (and back to Miami)

“Goodbye for now, Peru”
Early start. Final mountain pass—around 4,500 meters.
Then: descent to the Pacific.
Air thickening, temps rising. Thousands of curves. Random detours. Santi’s inner demons.
In Nazca, I stopped at a lookout to see the famous lines. Climbed all the way up… saw nothing.
Asked the guy: “What can you see from up here?”
“The Cat.”
Wait, what?
Came down… it was a cat drawn in the dirt. Looked like Nacho’s doodles from childhood.
“Seriously? I climbed for that?”
Other lookouts tempted me, but I passed. Better to see them on Google Maps.
Ate in Nazca, then rode to Lima.
I looked up a Husqvarna dealer to service the bike: rear brake had been failing since Bolivia, tires worn out…
Found one. When I arrived, Felipe—a fellow biker—welcomed me like a brother. That unspoken bond of riders.

We left the bikes there. That was the end of this stage.
But the road goes on.

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The 1986 Ford Bronco – Wild Rebirth is more than a restoration — it’s a tribute to one of the most iconic classic SUVs of the 1980s. Expertly rebuilt with modern performance upgrades and custom details, this classic Ford Bronco blends vintage charm with rugged capability. Whether you’re a collector or an off-road enthusiast, this fully restored legend is ready to turn heads and conquer any road.

This Bronco rolled into our garage full of character, stories… and mileage. We started with the interior: new door panels, eco-leather upholstery, custom carpets, and brushed aluminum accents that update the look while keeping that 80s soul alive.

Mechanically, we gave it the full once-over — brakes, fluids, belts, suspension, and exhaust. Nothing crazy, just exactly what it needed to drive like it should.

The final touch? A matte red wrap that didn’t just refresh its look — it made it unmissable.

Today, this Bronco is the perfect blend of toughness, style, and throwback charm. Ready for new roads, with its spirit untouched.

The post 1986 Ford Bronco – Wild Rebirth appeared first on People Garage | Car Restoration Miami.

We completely disassembled it and went full rotisserie on the restoration. Every piece was either rebuilt or replaced, from the frame to the smallest trim. The body was meticulously worked and finished in Highland Green — the same iconic color that made the original Bullitt famous. We shaved off unnecessary chrome and badges to give it that minimalist, aggressive presence.

The Legacy of the 1968 Ford Mustang Bullitt

At its core sits a 390 V8, fully rebuilt by a performance racing shop. We paired it with a Brawler carburetor for stronger throttle response, higher torque, and that raw, muscular feel that makes this car more than just a looker.

The suspension was upgraded, disc brakes were added, and power steering was modernized — so driving this machine feels confident, sharp, and seriously fun.

Engine Rebuild and Performance Upgrades

But we also knew that if McQueen drove this car today, he’d want a few modern comforts. So we integrated a clean, modern A/C system, added a completely new dashboard with vintage-inspired gauges, and installed a retro-look radio with modern internals — all the style, none of the compromise.

The result is a one-of-a-kind piece: a soulful tribute, balanced between authenticity and usability.
Now available for USD 205,000, waiting for someone who truly understands what they’re looking at.

The post 1968 Ford Mustang – Bullitt Spirit: Classic Muscle Car Restoration appeared first on People Garage | Car Restoration Miami.

Day 1: Neuquén – Chos Malal
The journey began as soon as we landed in Neuquén. Colo picked us up at the airport and took us straight to a friend’s workshop where our bikes were waiting: clean, tuned, and ready to ride. We had lost a day due to a transport strike in Argentina, so we hit the road that very afternoon to make up for lost time. 

We headed north on the legendary Ruta 40. It was a long day—we had left Buenos Aires at dawn and were riding by noon. We arrived in Chos Malal, a town we didn’t know, but which welcomed us warmly. Friendly people, great food (except at Tauro), and a mountain landscape that hinted at the adventure ahead. We closed the night with a well-earned dinner and deep sleep. 

Day 2: Chos Malal – San Rafael (Miss Olivos)
We set off early, continuing along Ruta 40. The landscape became drier, and the road rougher. After passing Laguna Coipo Lauquén, the asphalt disappeared completely. Santi was ahead, and Gastón and I paused to assess the terrain. That’s when we met Francisco, a cyclist who warned us we had over 70 km of gravel ahead. 

We let some air out of the tires for better grip, and pushed forward. It was a tough, fun, and tiring stretch. I reached Malargüe and found Santi already fueling up at the station. We were recommended a grill and went to grab lunch. 

More than an hour passed with no word from Gastón. Eventually, he arrived walking slowly and clutching his hand—he had taken a fall on the gravel. At first it seemed minor, but the bike was banged up and his hand was clearly hurting. 

We continued to San Rafael, where we stayed at Miss Olivos, a boutique lodge nestled among olive groves, with its own olive oil production. Silvana, Marina, and Roxy, founders and owners of Miss Olivos, welcomed us warmly. The evening closed with white wine-braised beef, a full moon, and a fire under the stars. 

Day 3: San Rafael – San Juan
Gastón went out to test his hand on the road. We had lunch in Mendoza City, and he made the call to return to Buenos Aires to recover. It was the closest point for him to head back, and he planned to rejoin us further north. 

Santi and I continued to San Juan, where we reviewed our plan: we had to reach Santa Cruz by Friday for a special KTM Bolivia event. A lot of kilometers still lay ahead. 

Day 4: San Juan – Santa María (Catamarca)
This stretch was marked by the countless dips along Ruta 40, built to handle seasonal floods. Luckily, they were dry. This part of the country winds between low hills, adobe homes, free-roaming donkeys, and small farms. We stopped for lunch in Chilecito, La Rioja, a mining town with a rich railway history. There we met Omar, a cyclist friend of Esteban who stopped mid-training to give us excellent tips. 

We passed through Tucumán—lush and lively—and ended up in Santa María, Catamarca. It’s a rustic little town without conventional hotels, but known for welcoming travelers. Ada hosted us in her home and recommended a local place with unforgettable empanadas. 

Side note: We couldn’t agree on whether the best empanadas were from Catamarca, Tucumán, or Salta. But one thing was clear—they were far superior to the ones we had in San Martín de los Andes. These were homemade, with hand-folded dough and flavorful fillings. A true northern delicacy. 

Day 5: Santa María – San Salvador de Jujuy
We started early, knowing it would be a long day. We reached Cafayate, a charming colonial town in the heart of the Calchaquí Valleys, surrounded by vineyards famous for Torrontés wine. After coffee in the plaza, we continued toward Cachi. 

The route between Cafayate and Cachi is as stunning as it is tough. Loose gravel, sand, and winding paths offered breathtaking views: colorful hills, giant cacti, and dramatic cliffs. We also crossed the famous Recta del Tin Tin, a 19 km straight stretch originally traced by the Incas, located within Los Cardones National Park. Surrounded by towering cacti and endless skies, it’s the kind of place that forces you to stop and take it all in. 

We thought a lot about Gastón—he missed this stretch, but also spared himself the beating. In Cachi, a picturesque town, we grabbed a quick lunch and admired the white church and cobbled streets. We pushed on to San Lorenzo, near Salta city, for tea and pastries at Hotel Las Moras, then continued to San Salvador de Jujuy for dinner and rest. 

Day 6: Jujuy – Tarija (Bolivia)
This was our last full day in Argentina. We took Ruta 9, passing through the north’s iconic villages: Purmamarca, with its Seven-Colored Hill; Tilcara, known for its artisan market; and Humahuaca, frozen in time. Each stop was a postcard. 

We reached La Quiaca before noon. Crossing the border took nearly three hours of paperwork and waiting. We entered Villazón, Bolivia, and decided to press on to Tarija, a mountain city tucked into the highlands. To get there, we had to tackle a steep gravel road that climbed to over 4,300 meters above sea level. The air grew thin, the vegetation changed, and the landscape turned lunar. A humbling ride. 

Day 7: Tarija – Santa Cruz de la Sierra
One of the most intense days yet. We rode through what they call the green hell: jungle roads, deep mud, rocks, humid heat, and isolation. For hours we saw no one, just the sounds of nature and our engines. 

Every curve was a challenge—and a reward. We finally arrived in Santa Cruz de la Sierra just in time for the KTM Bolivia event, organized by none other than Chavo Salvatierra. That evening, our friend Monín Camacho hosted us for dinner and conversation.

Day 8: KTM Bolivia Tour and Arrival at La Pajcha
Friday kicked off with uncertainty—we were joining a 40-rider adventure tour with KTM Bolivia. First hurdle: fuel. In Bolivia, foreigners often struggle to fill up, but after some station-hopping, we managed. We dove in, unsure what to expect—as usual. 

The first stretch was twisty mountain asphalt leading to a remote vineyard where we had lunch. From there, things got real: 50 km of rocks, dirt, and steep terrain led us to La Pajcha, a secluded waterfall deep in the jungle. 

We took the shorter path and arrived first. KTM had set up an incredible base: tents, a bar, lights, DJ booth, and even a chef cooking paella in the middle of nowhere. We set up our tent, inflated the mattress (really missing that hotel bed), only for it to deflate midway through a cold, rainy night. We reinflated it by hand—twice. 

As riders trickled in, we greeted them with cold fernet. We met amazing people: Ariel, Patrick, Bernardo, and many more. Rock band Los Salmones played live under the stars. We celebrated José’s birthday—father of organizer Juan—and the vibe was pure magic. 

Final Stage: Santa Cruz de la Sierra The next morning, groggy and sore, we packed up and rode back the same challenging path, now muddier from the rain. It was a true final test. 

Back in Santa Cruz, a hot shower brought us back to life. One last dinner with Monín, and we dropped the bikes at KTM for some well-earned TLC. 

The stage was complete. 
The adventure doesn’t let up. And neither do we. 

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Preparations and the First Kilometers
Monday morning set us in motion with a crucial mission: retrieving the bikes. Both mine and Gastón’s had been left in a container at a fishing company, and to our relief, they were in perfect condition. That same day, Santi’s bike arrived by truck from Buenos Aires, marking the official start of an epic journey stretching from the southernmost tip of America to Alaska. After a quick stop at “La Pataia,” the final point of Route 3 and our continent’s last stretch, we set off. That afternoon, we returned to Isabel, where we enjoyed a hunter-style lamb stew, a dish truly fit for the gods.

The Patagonian Wind and the 3005 Motorcycle Museum
On Tuesday, we headed towards Centro Sombrero, facing the legendary Patagonian wind head-on. Along the way, we stopped at the 3005 Motorcycle Museum, a roadside break filled with stories. That’s where an unexpected detail became memorable: Gastón forgot to bring his passport to get the half-stamp that certifies the Ushuaia–Alaska journey. I managed to sign the stamp, but later lost it, adding yet another obstacle to the adventure. Nevertheless, the spirit of adventure prevailed, and we pressed on.

Ferry, Tierra del Fuego, and a Dreamlike Arrival
Wednesday began with the adrenaline rush of a new beginning. A ferry took us out of Tierra del Fuego, and within a few hours, we arrived in Puerto Natales, where the wind amplified every emotion. Guanacos and rheas became our travel companions as nature unfolded its grandeur with every kilometer. With full stomachs and minds filled with unforgettable images, we ended the night in Puerto Natales with a well-earned rest.

Between Landscapes and Flavors: From Puerto Natales to El Calafate
On Thursday, we set out for El Calafate, traveling along Chile’s charming Route 6, a road that captivates with its contrasts—mountains, lakes, and endless horizons. Crossing into Argentina meant tackling kilometers of gravel roads, a challenge that, despite its difficulty, enhanced the wild beauty of the journey. Upon arrival, we were greeted by Lucas—”El Mayor de El Calafate”—who welcomed us like lifelong friends. We stayed in a lovely cabin, and he took us to dine at Corto’s restaurant, run by a well-traveled chef who prepares homemade, natural dishes. One of them was simply incredible: the best flank steak Milanese in the world.

The Glacier’s Impact and the Test of the “70 Damned”
Friday was a day of extreme contrasts. In the morning, Perito Moreno Glacier took our breath away. The 80-km ride gifted us with stunning views: the ancient ice, its shifting hues, and its immense scale seemed to whisper secrets of past ages. After the visit, we returned for lunch with Lucas and enjoyed a delicious Patagonian lamb in an amazing spot.
By 5 PM, we faced a dilemma: should we continue before or after the notorious “70 damned” kilometers of Route 40—a stretch of gravel that can extend up to 150 km of tough riding? Despite Gastón’s initial hesitation, the experience turned into a personal epic. With determination, we conquered that section and reached Gobernador Gregores as night fell.

Setbacks and Decisions on Route 40
Saturday brought new challenges. From Gobernador Gregores, we rode 250 km to Bajo Caracoles, a tiny town where the relentless wind made its presence known. During our stop, I realized I had lost my envelope containing all my motorcycle documents and my passport—the same one that had already caused trouble at the museum. After attempting to backtrack 100 km to recover them, the wind and the rough road forced us to accept that they were lost somewhere in the vast Patagonian wilderness. Without the option of crossing into Chile via the Carretera Austral, we decided to stick to Route 40, reaching Gobernador Costa, where, despite the strong wind, the scenery continued to gift us with unforgettable moments.

Between Mountains and Lakes: From Esquel to Neuquén
The next leg was a true journey through the essence of Patagonia. Riding up Route 40, we passed through Esquel and “El Hoyo” before stopping in El Bolsón for a traditional barbecue. In Bariloche, the sight of numerous fire trucks battling the area’s wildfires reminded us of both the fragility and resilience of these landscapes.
We arrived in Villa La Angostura, where hospitality reached another level. We stayed at the home of Elvio, another friend of Santi, and that night, we shared a meal that wrapped us in the warmth of a home. Elvio and his family made us feel like part of the family, closing the day on a high note.
The next day, we embarked on the iconic Seven Lakes Route, a stretch that earned the title of “the most beautiful” part of the journey, with landscapes that looked like something out of a dream. In San Martín de los Andes, we tried empanadas that were said to be the best in the area—though they left us with mixed feelings. A chance encounter with a British rider traveling South America on his GS1200, with over 320,000 km under his belt, reaffirmed that the love for the road knows no borders.
Finally, after debating whether to stop in Zapala or El Chocón, we decided to push through to Neuquén, the final destination of this stage. There, we were welcomed by El Colo, a friend recovering from a motocross accident just a week earlier. Soon, we would be happy to see him fully recovered as we got back on the bikes to continue the adventure.

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