Motorcycle Diaries

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When one Googles “things to do in Guatemala” the answer is typically “hike the volcano” or “day trip the lake”. Hiking the volcano requires going up, which I don’t have a great history with. The rest of my friends opted to do the hike. And so, a solo day trip to the lake was born.

Reaching the lake requires a three hour drive through winding mountainous terrain. This, according to Reddit, is highly unenjoyable when you’re the passenger. One usually has to hire a driver as well, which is less economical when the rest of your group is on the volcano. And so, in famous (last) words, I said “wait, I could just drive myself.”

Now, it would be one thing to drive a car, but I go to school in the land of cars. So ideally no car. Also, when I think back to some of the happiest times of my life, I think of the motorcycle in Thailand. And the only thing missing from that trip was that I never got a chance to drive a manual bike — despite learning how to — because my rental was a semi.

My heart rate increased at this point as I — despite my best instincts — decided I would do it on provision of some sign from the universe. I typed “motorcycle rental” into Google Maps. I stumbled upon a rental shop that had, literally, the best reviews I have ever seen on any institution1 only a three minute walk away. That’s a sign if I’ve ever seen one.

One short walk and shorter conversation with Daniel later,2 and I had a motorcycle. As I turned to walk out, Daniel offered me his riding jacket for tomorrow. He must have known.

~

This account of Hackuba so far has been quite self-centred, when the truth is that while I was riding, I often thought about the other people on the trip. I thought of Peter, Logan, and Vincent and their varied responses to my idea3 when, the next morning, I fired up a motorcycle for the first time since my crash a year ago. As I slowly remembered what the clutch was, how to shift gears up and down, and other skills important to riding a motorcycle (much to the concern of the onlooking shop attendants), I thought of JC relaxing back at the house, wondering if it was too late to join her. Once I clumsily pulled out into busy traffic, and immediately pulled over (out of sight of the shop) to take a deep breath, remember how to drive, and just generally gather my bearings to prevent getting into an accident, I thought of Michael whispering “just send it”4 and decided to do that instead.

Sending it was a mixed strategy. One mile in, I was on a 45° incline mountain one-lane highway, and I hit traffic, which meant my bike came to a complete stop. Once I tried to restart, I stalled. Getting out of a stall and starting a motorcycle on flat ground normally requires good clutch control and lots of practice. On a downward incline, one has to brake as well to avoid slipping backwards, thus requiring an extreme amount of experience and intuition in addition to the normal skills. In place of these skills, I had a banana in my backpack and a paragraph from Claude5 on how to not die. When I started the bike at the shop, one of the attendants asked if I had ridden before.

claude-motorcycle.png

As my bike continually slipped backwards, the locals were kind enough to not honk, instead choosing to fly by me at double-digit speeds. Miraculously, after twenty minutes6 my bike started, and I vowed to never again come to a complete stop.

The next few miles, I slowly got more used to shifting up and down. I realised I was countersteering naturally,5 I learned to use the clutch in traffic, and I stalled only one more time. I came to a complete stop more times than I could count. Before I knew it, I was halfway. I stopped for coffee and a piece of banana bread, where the language barrier meant I gave a 50 quetzal bill ($6) when it was actually 5 quetzals ($0.6), and the shopkeeper just started laughing and returned my money. I paid 10, out of respect, and I drove by mountains and farms, and I thought about what Shin was up to now that he was already on a plane.

Slowly, tableaus of my gap year filtered through. I remembered the last pair of kind shopkeepers I had met; I remembered how much worse I was at driving hills. I felt more mentally prepared for the ups and downs, doing a form of mental countersteering of whatever my mood was at the time. I had felt behind much of the trip, with friends who were younger and much further along paths I had recently become convicted to start walking. By all measures, I was better off than I was during the gap year. I had more money, better relationships, and a stronger sense of taste about the world. As I watched the kilometers and these scenes of my past (self) clip by, I felt this progress, no matter how intangible, how incomparable.

Two years on, I still sometimes get asked about the Stanford decision by well-meaning adults, and I occasionally think about it. On the bike, I thought about alternate realities, ones where I met Saheb and Dilon in a dorm (or, realistically, at a party; definitely not in a classroom) and wondered if I’d be less in awe or more so. But, of course, it all recurs back to the point that without UNC, I likely wouldn’t have gone to ASPR, and my exposure to the EA/rationalist/smart young kid community I was now vacationing with would have been completely different. My intimidation by the tech world likely would have continued, or gotten worse. Or maybe not. Who knows.

~

I took a long break at a petrol station overlooking the lake and local village. Despite being only ten minutes away from my hotel (which I booked while at the petrol station), I leaned against the bike and thought a lot about my favourite game, the “optimal social interaction” one we began at dinner a few nights ago. Nicholas shared a story which, to this day, is one of my favourites. When I first met Nicholas, I joked he never learned to dap properly. This story indicated social prowess that extended way beyond handshakes.

I was interrupted by the attendant, who was trying to indicate that if I wanted to get gas, I would have to drive over to him. I waved him off, and he stared for a few seconds. He then burst into a huge grin, and imitated a karate chop, saying “Jackie Chan! China man!” Unlike the DKE episode, I just smiled. Something about this one felt a bit more innocent, as if they didn’t get many Chinese tourists. I gave him a thumbs up, time for my break seemingly bought, and returned to that night.

A lot of things happened this semester, and I never really thought about how the events connected or what, on a grand scale, actually happened until I gave a small social predicament following Nicholas, which I realised required a bit more context, and then turned into, essentially, therapy from Emil and Saheb and Nicholas and others on the balcony. Being alone and being in motion had finally begun processing. I climbed onto the motorcycle and started driving.

~

There’s more I could tell you. Savar and I debated about whether it was safe for me to drive back in darkness and pouring rain. When I did decide to drive back, a very odd interaction with a Korean traveller happened in this twilight zone, and I got a few stares in a grocery store where I sought refuge and wrung out my soaked clothes. While driving home, I stopped for the first time in hours, and just then my mom called, perfectly timed so that I could act like I had been stationary the whole day instead of just that ten minutes.

What I noticed, after doing this trip, was that my mind and body had become weirdly accustomed to uncomfortable rain.7 In that discomfort, I often thought about all the things I wrote above. Rohan was the first person I Googled after seeing the email chain for Hackuba. I thought I would dislike this trip, again, out of being intimidated by such put-together websites and people. I figured it was some kind of risk worth taking. But there’s the kind of risk that involves going on a trip or pursuing a unique life path; and there’s a kind of risk that involves learning to drive a motorcycle through the pouring rain on Guatemalan mountain roads. What this trip has proved to me is that with a specific, well-selected group of friends, all of these risks are easy. And well worth it.

Footnotes

  1. They weren’t just high, but also clearly written by real people. And each review had a personal story, the kind that implies the place wasn’t just a “10% discount for Google Review” type. ↩

  2. Daniel had spent a year studying in Texas and assumed that my IDP saying “motorcycle” on it was equivalent to having a motorcycle license. I also did not know one needed a unique license for a motorcycle until he said “so, are you actually allowed to drive a motorcycle?” and I said “yes, I’m 20” and Daniel made the confused Pikachu face. ↩

  3. An admonition, a kind paragraph, an expression I “might get cooked” ↩

  4. He didn’t say this, but he would say this. ↩

  5. Things I asked Claude, in chronological order: I’m planning to drive a motorcycle to lake atilitan from Antigua. This is tomorrow and there is rain forecasted. Tips?; Explain the engine brake; Explain countersteering; Give me some reminders of how to downshift etc; What are some Mayan saunas in the area. Also, is the quote “dead motorcyclists don’t get second chances” not insane? ↩ ↩2

  6. I know, I know. ↩

  7. Perhaps because of Alaska. ↩