Day 1: Everything New
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.
