American H-D Rider Tours The Middle East

Editor’s Note: This article was supplied to Bikernet courtesy of Cycle Source Magazine and the writer. They do a helluva job printing out-of-the-ordinary road tales and techs. We are proud to re-publish this piece.–BanditPart 1

Why would you want to go there? Do you have a death wish? You’ll get killed! They hate Americans over there.

I had decided to ride to the Middle East from my home in New Mexico. “Why not go there? I could get killed anywhere,” I told myself. I am an American. I ride a Harley, and I am not hiding from anyone. Especially not terrorist hell-bent on dividing the peoples of the world with fear, murder and a twisted version of something they call religion.

The sun rose over the New Mexican desert, a black Harley-Davidson fired to life and what turned out to be a ride of a lifetime began.

The plan was to ride to Toronto, Canada. From there I could airfreight my bike to Frankfurt, Germany. In Frankfurt I would meet up with friends, Florence Pierson and Lee Main. Together we would ride to the 2nd annual Turkish HOG rally, held in Istanbul on the 12th of August. We had five days to travel 1400 miles, crossing Germany, Austria, Slovenia, Croatia, Serbia and Bulgaria before entering Turkey. After the rally Florence and Lee would ride to Greece and I would continue on my journey traveling to Syria, Jordan and Israel.

To prepare for a journey that would take me half way across the planet and back I spent months reading travel guides, studying maps and learning enough Arabic to say hello and ask simple questions. I also spent many hours on the website www.horizonsunlimited.com.

Horizons Unlimited is a website started by Grant and Sue Johnson. Grant and Sue have spent many years traveling around the world by motorcycle. Their website covers information on bikes, gear, routes, road conditions, shipping, medical issues overseas, along with the stories of riders who travel the world on motorcycles. The site also has a bulletin board where current issues are posted and responded to by travelers. Today Internet cafes are found all over the world making the horizons unlimited site an invaluable tool while on the road.

A motorcycle shipper simplified the trip’s logistics. A company called “Motorcycle Express” made the arrangements to have me and my bike flown from North America to Europe. They handled the required paper work and also provided the motorcycle “green card” insurance needed to ride in European countries.

The ride was uneventful as I neared the Canadian border. Riding just outside of Port Huron, Michigan, hot and humid weather forced me to lift the face shield of my helmet up to allow more airflow. Suddenly, a hornet slammed into my face– just missing my left eye. A searing pain raced to my brain. Within minutes I was in the midst of an allergic reaction, pulled over to the side of the road vomiting. On the verge of losing consciousness I wondered, “Was fate to be so cruel?”

A store clerk directed me to the local hospital. I had a hard time focusing with one eye. Balancing my bike was difficult, as I made my way through afternoon traffic trying desperately to reach the emergency room before passing out.

Emergency room doctors examined my swollen face; they quickly administered a shot to counter the poison of the hornet’s sting. I waited in the examining room, compress held to my forehead, for over an hour, until the doctors gave me the okay to ride.

Released with a prescription for a self-administering hypodermic syringe, I left the hospital in search of a pharmacy. Unable to find a pharmacy, I rationalized: “What are the odds of that happening twice?” then headed for the border.

To prepare for the ride, I purchased traveler’s insurance from MedjetAssist. In the event of serious injury, MedjetAssist would airlift me to the hospital of my choice from almost any location in the world–peace of mind for a fee of only $200 per year.

Once I arrived in Toronto I booked a hotel near Pierson Airport. Some 1900 miles from my home in New Mexico the 2001 Dyna Wide Glide I was riding now had over 91,500 miles registered on the speedometer. I had two days before dropping my bike off at the shipper’s warehouse.

Breakdowns in the United States and Canada are a mere inconvenience. I carried emergency roadside assistance insurance from Road America. Twenty dollars a year and Roadside America would tow my bike to the nearest Harley dealer, regardless of distance. Add another ten dollars and my hotel expenses are covered while waiting for repairs to be completed. As soon as if I left the coverage area, however, I was on my own.

Previous breakdowns with the same bike in Honduras and Mexico inspired me to check everything on the bike–from wheels to wiring. When the mechanics at Mississauga Harley-Davidson heard I would ride to the Middle East they spent two hours looking over my bike, only charging me for a leaky gasket. The bike was ready; in the morning I drop it off at the airport and spend the next two days waiting for my flight to leave.

While shooting pool at a Mississauga pool hall, someone asked: “Are you going to pretend you’re Canadian while traveling?”

I responded harshly, “I don’t do that. In Mexico I am a Norte Americano, on this trip, Ana Amerike. I am an American.” After that, everyone lightened up–the bartender offered me free drinks and handed me a free t-shirt as I left. The shirt had Canada written on it; I thank him but I wondered what I would do with the shirt.

Saturday night I boarded my flight to Germany.

Part 2

I arrived in Frankfurt, Germany at 12:30 pm. Florence and Lee where waiting when I arrived. We headed to the cargo warehouse to pick up my bike. It took about two hours to get my bike through customs. By 3:00 we were on the road. It began raining around 6 o’clock so we found a guesthouse off the highway where we spent the night.

At sunrise we loaded the bikes and began to ride. Cold and miserable, the rain started around 7:00 am with not a sign of letting up. Traffic was fast and heavy. Water began to seep into my boots and gloves. With a fogged up visor, it took all of my concentration to stay in my lane and avoid the onslaught of trucks and fast moving cars. “Welcome to the German autobahns,” I mutter to myself.

It was late afternoon when we crossed into Austria. The rain stopped and we found a guesthouse close to the Slovenian border.

We spent the evening tasting local beers and reminiscing of the places we had ridden and the people we had met since last riding together. At midnight, the bartender informed told us he was closing the bar. Reluctantly, we retired for the night.

On Tuesday we crossed Slovenia and most of Croatia. The road was a modern four-lane highway. We were cruising along at about 75 miles an hour when something flew into my helmet. I heard a buzzing sound and quickly pulled over. Remembering the hornet sting I had suffered earlier on the trip I panicked. .

Lee asked, “What’s wrong?”

I screamed, “I have a bee in my helmet!” Quickly, I pulled the helmet off—throwing it to the ground. Once again, I reminded myself to leave the visor down.

By late afternoon we were riding through forest nearing the Serbian border when we came across a hotel and campground. The campground rented giant barrels. The barrels were covered with A-frame type roofs. Inside the barrels there were cots for sleeping. At the front desk we were informed that the barrels were all rented so we settled for rooms in the Soviet style hotel.

I asked the desk clerk, “Will the bikes be safe outside?” She gave a look as deep in thought. Then with a smile growing across her face she udder the one word of English she knew, “NO!”

The roads didn’t start to get bad until about 60 miles from the Bulgarian border. We were in the mountains. The road became a single lane badly paved road. The fun part of the ride was a series of very old tunnels carved through the mountains. Once inside a tunnel it was pitch black. The road was cobblestone with loose sand. You couldn’t see the road it was so dark. This gave you the feeling you were floating through space. At the end of one of the tunnels a bus had ran into the back of a semi-truck causing a backup of traffic in the middle of the mountains. This was the only road going to Sofia, Bulgaria.

The Bulgarian border was backed up with long lines of cars trying to enter from Serbia. It was hot and there was nothing to do but sit in line and wait. A gypsy woman pulled up and cut into the line. This caused a number of angry people to exit their cars and begin shouting. The gypsy just stood facing the crowd with a big grin on her face shouting back. After awhile the crowd went back to their cars in defeat.

Florence and Lee had arrived at the border before I did. I had made a wrong turn and fell behind. They were several cars ahead of me as we waited in the hot sun.

I talked to people as they stood around waiting to push their cars up as the line slowly moved closer to the inspection booths. The crowd that had been so angry with the gypsy woman now decided that I should ride my bike up with my friends in the front. Someone in the crowd began moving barricades so I could ride around the line of cars. While I rode up to where Florence and Lee were, the crowd would follow along telling people ahead to let me through. Only the guy next in line to the customs booth had a problem with it. But the crowd was not going to suffer another defeat as they had with the gypsy. They banged on his hood until he let me pass. I smiled and thanked my new friends as they returned to the back of the line happy that they had shown the gypsy that they had gotten their way. The roads in Bulgaria were challenging. They were Single lane, poorly paved and potholed. Traffic moves quickly while sharing the road with horse drawn carts. Everyone in Bulgaria seemed to be in a hurry. That is everyone except the guy with the horse drawn cart.

It was getting late when we arrived in Sofia. We couldn’t find a hotel or anyone who spoke English. We pulled into gas station, tired and hungry, uncertain of what to do next.

While sitting there a Honda rider pulled up. Speaking a little English he asked us what we were doing. We told him we were from the US and that we were looking for a hotel with secure parking. He told us, “Wait five minutes!” and raced off.

He returned with another rider and told us to follow them. It was dark now. We jumped on our bikes and tried to keep up. The locals rode fast, up and down narrow, potholed streets. We had no choice but to keep up and hope they were leading us to a hotel. After several minutes of ducking cars and potholes we turned down an ally.

The hotel was and old apartment building that had been converted into a makeshift hotel. They had a large wall around the property and an even larger dog guarding the parking.

The hotel was run down but the people seemed friendly. Down stairs there was a small kitchen and bar. Our new friends introduced us to the woman who ran the hotel and left.

Everyone was interested in what three American were doing riding around Bulgaria. We ordered some beers and by our second round the locals had asked to join us. Our friend who led us to the hotel returned with more people. The night was spent telling stories of our journey while drinking and joking with the locals.

One guy got it in his head that he would marry Florence’s daughter and come to America with us. Needless to say his girlfriend was not too happy with the idea. But with 52 liter bottles of Beck’s costing about 75 cents the party kept going until early in the morning.

We left Sofia, Bulgaria that morning only to find out that the road going to Turkey was immersed under five feet of water. We had to detour around the entire city. It was early morning rush hour as we made our way out of the city heading to Turkey.

Just outside the city there is a truck stop at the crossroads between Turkey and Serbia. Along the road a group of working girls were hustling truck drivers. As I rode by on my Harley they all began waving. I smiled and waved back. It was a perfect morning for riding, nice weather, pretty women and unexplored roads. Life was good.

Part 3

We reached Turkey by late afternoon. The highway leading to Istanbul was a modern freeway–four lanes in each direction. Oddly enough, there was hardly any traffic.

Running low on fuel, miles passed with no gas station in sight. When I hit reserve we took a chance and rode off the highway. About 7 miles down a back road we found a town with a gas station.

After Lee filled his tank, the attendant said, “40.” Lee handed him 1,000,000 Turkish lira. The man became agitated until he realized Lee was serious. Apparently, 1,000,000 liras equals 74 cents US. The cost of the gas was 40 US dollars. We laughed, until we realized gas was over eight dollars a gallon. Still a hundred miles away from Istanbul, and the sun quickly setting, we found a hotel and spent the night.

I rose early to find coffee. I wandered around the streets watching the shopkeepers preparing for the day. I came across an outside café and ordered coffee, sitting back watching the world go by–Turkish style. After having breakfast with Florence and Lee we packed up our bikes and headed out.

Istanbul is a city of 13,000,000. Traffic was much like riding in Mexico City. The only road rules are; the bigger guy owns the road and he never stops for red lights. Not knowing exactly where the Harley-Davidson HOG rally was we pulled off the freeway and began asking for directions. We arrived at the HOG rally around noontime. At the reception booth we were greeted as old friends. Everyone was excited and amazed that we had ridden from the United States to attend the rally.

The rally was held in a private park called Parkorman. The centerpiece of the park was a huge swimming pool surrounded by restaurants, outside cafes and bars. A stage was setup for the nightly concerts. Food vendors were throughout the park. The park had a camping area that was covered with astro-turf. Complete with electric hookups and restrooms. The cost for three days of camping, concerts, rally events and Tee shirts was $36US.

Florence and Lee had been riding around Europe for over two months. I just rode from New Mexico to Istanbul. The next week would be spent hanging out with the Istanbul HOG chapter taking it easy.

The Istanbul chapter of HOG was the most enthusiastic group of Harley riders I ever met. No expense was spared to ensure that the rally was a first class event. The next three days were spent lounging around the pool partying with Harley riders from Turkey, Greece, Bulgaria and all parts of Europe. There were bike shows, riding contest, pretty girls and cold beers. When the sun went down there were concerts, dancing and partying late into the night.

During one of the nightly concerts Florence, Lee and I were taken on stage and introduced to the audience as having ridden from the United States to attend the rally. I wasn’t sure how the crowd would react with all the anti-Americanism displayed in the world media. So I was relieved when everyone cheered. We were given gifts of rally pins, tee shirts and patches. Later I was interviewed by one of the Istanbul television stations. I told the reporter that I was having a great time visiting the people of Turkey and attending the HOG rally.

It was a great experience meeting bikers from this part of the world, seeing that we are all united in a common passion for motorcycles that transcends politics, nationalism and religion.

That night I visited the Russian tattoo artist working the rally and had the words, NO BORDERS—RIDE FREE, inked on my right arm.

The rally ended with a parade that took us across the Bosphorus River. The Bosphorus is the dividing line between Europe and Asia. The parade path covered both the Asian and European sides of the river continuing through downtown Istanbul and back to the rally site. The conclusion of the parade was the official end of the second annual Turkish HOG rally.

After the rally in Istanbul, I spent my time watching TV and checking the internet for current news on the region. Israel had begun its withdraw from Gaza; Turkey had captured a terrorist; Syrian forces had engaged in firefights with terrorist in the hills outside Damascus; and American forces fought up to the Syrian border of Iraq. Regardless of consequences, I had made my decision—I would ride. I prepared mentally for what might lay ahead.

Part 4

I left Istanbul two days earlier and was now sitting on a deserted stretch of highway somewhere east of Adana, Turkey. Sixty more miles and I would reach Iskenderun, a city founded by Alexander the Great. I decided to spend the night there before crossing the final mountain range that would take me into Syria. That’s when I spotted a couple go by on a BMW motorcycle. I fired up my Wide Glide and headed out.

At a gas station, I met Stefano Tona and Paola Martinenghi—a married Italian couple traveling to Syria. Surprised to learn that I rode from New Mexico, they were more surprised to learn I was also on my way to Syria. After talking, we agreed to ride together. The wind picked up as we crossed the last mountain range before the border–it was a challenge to keep up with the large dual sports bike, which glided effortlessly through one hairpin turn after another. At the Turkish – Syrian border, we cleared Turkish customs and continued towards the Syrian border.

The road into Syria disappeared before the border control station: a gravel pit with a narrow pass provides the only path for vehicles. On the ridge sat a large earthmover, positioned to quickly push large boulders into the pass, which blocked off any entry from that part of Turkey. As I rode across the loose gravel and sand, I realized vacation time was over. I was entering Syria, next-door neighbor to Iraq. The war was no longer a two-minute segment on the nightly news; rather it was reality–right down the road.

I was reminded of a conversation I had earlier in the week. Florence had watched CNN at the hotel. The news ran a story of American forces fighting near the Syrian border. Florence said she didn’t think I should go to Syria now. Momentary panic set in—rapidly, my mind developed an endless list of reasons not to go.

Five in the afternoon, we arrived at the customs building. Other than Syrian military personnel the place was nearly deserted. Inside there were several windows to present your passport and visa, pay for insurance, etc.

The building was old. Trash and cigarette butts littered the floor. Unshaven soldiers loitered about, eyeing us with uncomfortable stares.

A soldier came out and instructed Stefano and myself to follow him. He led us down a hallway and up some stairs. We were put in a room with a cot and old beat up locker and told to wait.

Standing in the room I realized that the expression, “I nearly pissed my pants,” wasn’t just an expression when the guy in pajamas entered the room. It was starting to look like a bad movie. In the end they just wanted twenty US dollars for who knows what.

If the International Olympic Committee ever recognizes scary border crossings as a sport, these guys were well prepared to compete with the best of them.

It was dark when we were given back our passports. A solider gazed down at my passport, looking up he handed it to me and said, “Amerike! Good Luck”.

I had spend many days riding and conjuring up images of what may lie ahead for an American Harley rider in this turbulent part of the world known as the Middle East– I was about to find out.

It was dark as we exited the customs building. As we were getting ready to leave two Polish couples on motorcycles pulled up. We said hello then quickly rode off into the night. We had 25 miles to go before reaching Aleppo, the second largest city in Syria.

The only light on the backcountry road was that of the moon. The scenery had a surreal feeling as we rode through the countryside. The moonlight casting shadows turning trees into eerie creatures reaching into the road. Trucks would appear out of the dark with no lights on. A poorly maintained single lane country road twisted through the night entering and exiting a few villages along the way.

Aleppo is a city of two million people. The city competes with Damascus as being the oldest inhibited city in the world. It is said that on the mound upon which the citadel now sits Abraham camped on his way to the land of Canaan.

We were navigating our way through traffic trying to locate the Hotel Baron. Turkish traffic was only a prelude to what we were to find in Syria. The city has many traffic circles in which no one yields the right of way. The streets were a sea of small yellow Chinese taxicabs. Bumper to bumper, horns blazing, traffic flowed as a mighty river with a course of its own.

Having no idea where the hotel might be, Stefano began asking cab drivers for directions. One cabbie shouted, “Follow me”. He led us for several blocks, then before turning shouted to another cab to lead us. This game of follow the yellow cab continued until we reached the Hotel Baron.

The Hotel Baron was built in the early 1900s by two American brothers. At the time it was the first European style hotel in the Middle East. The grandsons of its founders now own the hotel. Though a former shadow of it’s once grand self, it is still a great place to stay when visiting Aleppo.

The Baron’s most famous guest was Lawrence of Arabia. Others include Agatha Christie, Charles Lindbergh and Theodore Roosevelt. The history and atmosphere overcame me as I signed my name in the old guest book.

I rose early and went out to explore the city. The souqs (markets) were a marvelous journey into the past. The souqs cover an area of over 10 kilometers. Many of the souqs were built in the 15th century. Each souq is named after the crafts sold within. There is the gold souq, the copper souq, the cotton souq and many others.

Making my way from shop to shop I would be greeted by the merchants. When I returned their greeting in Arabic many were surprised. I was never shown any hostility for being an American. Everyone I met was happy to meet an American.

I was talking to the young men working in a shop selling Syrian silk and cloth. One of the men asked where I was from. When I said New Mexico he proudly proclaimed that he was the resident expert on Santa Fe. “Ask me anything about Santa Fe,” he said. “In my next life I will live in Santa Fe.”

When I asked why his next life, why not now? He replied that it would be too hard in this life. Syrians can’t go anywhere. Everyone thinks we are terrorists. This theme was repeated in many conversations I had during my stay in Syria.

Later in the day I came across a small shop near the great Umayyad mosque. Upon hearing I was an American the owner stopped his sales pitch and insisted that he show me the mosque. The mosque was in the final stages of renovations. Everyone was busy getting ready for its grand reopening.

There were several women standing and praying in front of a gate inside the mosque. My guide informed me that this was the tomb of Zacharius, father of John the Baptist. The women come here to pray for help with husbands and family matters. Outside the mosque there was a long row of men sitting in chairs. The men were blind and are supported by the alms given them from people entering and leaving the mosque.

Paola was an expert shopper and locator of great restaurants. That evening we went to Sissi House, a fine restaurant in the old Christian quarters. Located in a restored mansion an evening tasting local cuisine and wines came to about ten dollars per person. A must stop when visiting Aleppo. The rest of our stay in Aleppo was spent exploring the citadel, souqs and shops of this captivating city.

We left Aleppo on Friday. Being the Muslim holy day, traffic was light. We made our way out of the city and headed south on highway 5. We turned off the highway searching for the Roman ruins of Apamea. We were somewhere in the Orontes valley. We rode through farmland and a few small villages until realizing we were lost. I was running low on gas. We changed direction and headed back towards the last village we had seen. Running out of gas at home is an annoyance. On a rural road in Syria numerous possibilities ran through my head.

On a dusty main street in a small village we stopped to look at our maps. Local men dressed in traditional garb were sitting on the sidewalk in plastic chairs. A man approached us and signaled for us to get off our bikes and sit with them.

As I dismounted my Harley I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t be hitting the starter button and be doing a burnout.

We sat and with limited English one of the men asked where we were from. Paola and Stefano replied Italy. All eyes turned to me as I said, Ana Amerike (I am American).

Suddenly there was a chorus proclaiming “we no love Bush”, then individually “I no love Bush”.

Looking around I saw one man get on a cell phone. Another man began pointing at an older man sitting with us saying, “He is Colonel”. A man with a woman following came out of the nearby building and told Paola to go with them. As Paola disappeared behind the outer wall of the building Stefano and I sat there with the men. One man began showing us roman artifacts, some coins, a ring and a small statue. Smiling I examined the items and passed them back to the owner.

Stefano said he was going to find Paola and also disappeared into the buildings courtyard.

I was left with the men trying out my limited Arabic, while they tried out their limited English. Eventually I was told to push my bike against the wall and I also was lead into the house.

The front room of the house was empty. The men brought in the plastic chairs and everyone sat in a circle. A woman emerged with Paola and told us she taught English and would interpret for us.

The owner of the house stood up, began biting his arm and saying something in Arabic. I looked to the woman and she said, “He says that he is a man eater.”

I looked around the room and replied, “Someone tell me you fed this guy today.” All questions were directed towards me, the American.

“Do you think we are terrorists?”

“I sure hope not.”

“Why did you come here?”

“I watch my TV and it says you are the bad guys, you watch your TV and it says I’m the bad guy. I don’t believe TV. I think it is better that we meet each other.”

All the men began talking in Arabic. Our interpreter turned to me and said, “The men say they no believe TV either.”

“Why did Bush invade Iraq?”

“Why are the American soldiers bombing innocent Iraqi woman and children?”

“Why did the American people vote for Bush a second time?”

The questioning by the men of the village continued for an hour or more.

After answering many questions our interpreter turned to me and said, “The men say you speak well of policy.”

Upon hearing that, regardless of what may have transpired, I was glad I had rode my Harley to this land and presented myself as an American traveler looking to meet Arab people, so hopefully we could all go away with a better understanding of each other.

Arab hospitality is something to be experienced. After a long and intense questioning session the men of the village left and our host brought out mats and pillows. Stefano and I were told to rest. The woman took Paola with them.

When I woke the chairs were gone and a large circular rug was spread on the floor. The men had returned and the women were setting out food on the rug. We sat and ate a meal of fish, fruits and numerous local dishes. Afterwards we sat outside and had hot tea with our host. Our host offered whiskey, which I turned down explaining that it doesn’t go well with riding motorcycles. As we were leaving our new friends made us promise to return and see them again.

The sun was intense as we rode up a narrow winding road through a small village just before arriving at the ruins of the ancient Roman city of Apamea. Founded in the third century B.C. the city that once had a population of half a million now sat silent and deserted. The only other visitors were four Italian female students studying in Damascus and a UN van of Polish men.

In its glorious past visitors such as Cleopatra and Marc Anthony had traveled on the main street where now only a Harley-Davidson and a BMW motorcycle sat parked in the afternoon heat.

Slowly we walked the main street of Apamea marveling at the hundreds of columns that lined the stone roadway. The road was more than a mile in length. Twenty-three centuries had passed since men had labored to build her. How many countless souls have traveled here and gazed at her in awe? Now sitting in silence; waiting for an occasional visitor to once again marvel at her eternal beauty.

I paused and wondered what will we leave for the future? Will all we have built in our disposable, replaceable world disappear so that in the future once again only the remnants of the ancient world will stand as a testimony to what man could have become? Will we destroy all mankind because we couldn’t let go of ancient tribal feuds? In the end shall only the stones speak in whispers to one another as to what was or could have been?

The late afternoon sun was still scorching hot as we headed for the city of Hama 55 kilometers to the east. After finding a hotel we had diner and visited the park where the city’s famous norias (waterwheels) are displayed. Dating back to the thirteenth century the norias once lifted water from the Orontes River into the cities aqueducts. Today the wheels attract visitors from the world over.

Part 5

In the morning we rode to the most famous medieval citadel in the world, Crac des Chevaliers, known in Arabic as Qal'at Al-Hosn. The castle was completed in the year 1170. T.E. Lawrence believed this was the greatest of the Crusader castles and “the most wholly admirable castle in the world.”

The man collecting admission tickets was surprised that an American on a motorcycle was visiting the castle. He informed me that another American had also ridden a motorcycle to the castle some months earlier. He was more surprised when I told him that the earlier visitor was a friend of mine, Glen Haggstad.

I had met Glen, known to motorcycle travelers as “The Striking Viking”, back in 2003 while riding in El Salvador. Glen rode through Syria in late 2004 on a solo “round the world” ride. After reading of Glen’s adventures in Syria and the Middle East I decided that my next ride would also include this part of the world.

We spent several hours exploring the castle and taking pictures. After having lunch we headed into the Syrian Desert in search of the famed Roman city of Palmyra.

The travel guides describe Palmyra, known locally as Tadmur, as being in the middle of nowhere. Looking out in all directions seeing only flat barren desert, I had no doubt I was riding in the middle of nowhere. As I rode my Harley looking out seeing only sand and tarmac the lyrics to a song from my youth began playing on my internal jute box.

–“America – Horse with no name”

Magic does exist despite the disbelief of modern society. Ride far enough and you just might experience it. Somewhere along that road in Syria I experienced a “high” I knew I was not likely to experience again any time soon.

The sun was brighter than at anytime I could remember. The heat was intense. The only sound was that of my twin cam engine and the music playing in my head. We raced through the afternoon at speeds of 85 to 90 miles an hour.

Mirages formed in my head and soon I was in another world where anything was possible. The road became a stone pavement of the Roman Empire. There were caravans of camels and peoples from the ancient times drifting slowly by. Looking over, I witnessed a ghostly image of an old friend on his custom Harley with his woman sitting behind him laughing, as if they had just been set free from the world beyond. I felt a soft hand gripping my shoulder.

“Why does he still ride here? Alone?”

“Come ride with us forever”.

“He’ll come when he comes,” was the reply from behind me.

It was too late to avoid the huge sinkhole that covered my entire lane. With only loose sand to my right and a truck in the oncoming lane I hit the sinkhole full force at 90 miles an hour. I kept the bike upright and rode through it. Looking over my handlebars I expected to see fork oil pouring out of my seals. Not seeing any oil I was relieved.

We stopped a few kilometers outside of Palmyra at a gas station. I glanced at my tire and didn’t notice anything. After drinking some water we headed into the village that surrounded the ruins of the ancient city.

Once parked my tubeless tire went flat. The impact of hitting the sinkhole bent my cast rim on both sides. Why I was able to ride for over 45 minutes was beyond me. Standing, staring at the only Harley-Davidson in Syria, I wondered how I would get it replaced. I filled the tire using the tire pump I had in my saddlebags and we rode to the hotel.

We checked into the Palace Hotel. The Palace is a clean, friendly hotel run by Mr. Maloof of Damascus. The hotel has a restaurant with a view of the ruins. The staff provides excellent service.

Upon hearing the story of my wheel being damaged Mr. Maloof began making inquiries around town on what could be done to help. I didn’t hold out much hope for getting a Harley-Davidson wheel in the middle of the Syrian Desert. I figured that this would be where I would part with Stefano and Paola. I would have to take a three-day bus ride to Istanbul, contact the Harley dealer there, hope a wheel was in stock, and take a three return bus ride to Syria. A minimum of a one-week delay was the best I could hope for. If I had to have a wheel shipped to Syria the time would have increased dramatically.

There was a knock on my door around seven that evening. Mr. Maloof had a friend of his waiting downstairs. Charles was the owner of another hotel in town. Charles spoke English and would show me to a tire repair shop.

The tire shop owner came out and examined my wheel. I thanked Charles for his help and told him I didn’t want to take up any more of his time. Charles informed me that he was staying with me until I returned to the hotel. We sat drinking soda while the tire repair guys figured out how to fix a motorcycle wheel. One of the boys came out of the shop with a large bench vise. The vise was positioned over my cast wheel as I looked on in astonishment. I told Charles that the wheel was cast and could break if subjected to the force of a vise on it. I was told not to worry. I watched as they tried to bend the rim back into place. When that didn’t work they removed the wheel and took it in the shop.

Charles and I sat in chairs on the sidewalk talking of Syria and America until the tire was returned. We placed the wheel on the bike and filled it with air. I could see a look of disappointment and dismay on the men’s faces when the tire went flat again. I thanked everyone for trying to help and when I offered to pay the owner, he refused to take any money. I took a tube of silicon gasket sealer from my tool bag and filed each side of the rim where the bend was. After waiting for it to set we filled the tire again. Everyone seemed happy when the air held. Again I thanked everyone and again everyone refused any money for helping.

It was a humbling experience. I asked myself what if a Syrian came to a shop in my country at closing time needing help. What would be the response?

Paola and Stefano planned on spending a few days in Palmyra. That gave me some time to see how my silicon tire repair would work before venturing back out into the Syrian Desert.

When Mr. Maloof heard that the tire wasn’t repaired he again became concerned and gave me his cell phone and instructed me to call the hotel if I have any problems while in town. We spent the next couple of days visiting the ruins, sitting at the outside cafes drinking cold beers and having conversations with the local people.

My tire repair seemed to be holding up well enough to attempt the three-to-four hour ride to Damascus. When riding I would loose about ten pounds of pressure during a days journey. Sitting over night the tire would go flat. I had removed the plastic housing from a cheap ten-dollar car tire pump and packed just the pump and hose in my saddlebags. I installed a cigarette lighter on my bike so I would have the ability to run the pump off my battery. It was a lifesaver as I searched for a more permanent solution.

Mr. Maloof assured me that “in Damascus all things are possible.” He called a friend at a hotel and instructed him to help find a motorcycle repair shop as well as booking us rooms at the hotel.

The next morning we said goodbye to our new friends at the Palace hotel and heading towards the oldest contentiously inhibited city in the world, Damascus.

I was about two kilometers outside of Palmyra when I noticed that my gas cap was missing. We turned around and slowly rode back towards the village looking to the side of the road for the chrome cap. The cap was nowhere to be seen. I cut the top off a plastic water bottle and duct taped it over the opening to the tank. This kept sand out of my gas but eventually the overflow of gas turned the tape into a sticky mess that covered the side of my tank.

The sign up ahead said we were 150 kilometers (90 miles) from Iraq. We had joked about not making a wrong turn and ending up in Iraq and now realized that we had indeed taken the wrong road and were heading in the wrong direction.

We stopped at the Bagdad Café and had coffee. The café is located on the road heading to Iraq. The owner was happy to have us and we spent some time drinking coffee and talking before riding on to Damascus.

On the outskirts of the city we stopped for gas and I inquired about finding a cap for my tank. The gas station attendant called a friend who showed up on a Honda street bike and took us to an automotive parts store. I didn’t expect to find a cap for a Harley gas tank but the owner looked at my tank and returned with a gas cap for a Chinese motorcycle that fit. He only charged two hundred Syrian pounds, about one dollar. I thank him and we set off to find the hotel we had reservations for.

Damascus is a major city and we had to stop several times to ask directions. At one stop there were about a dozen Syrian soldiers standing outside a building. They all had rifles with bayonets and looked at us with sober stares. So we began asking them for directions. I don’t think they were accustomed to giving directions but a couple of them came forward and asked some questions before pointing us in the right direction.

We found the hotel that our friend in Palmyra booked for us. I settled in and then went out in search of somewhere I could get my wheel repaired. The man who ran the parking lot at the hotel sent his young son with me to find a tire shop. While walking to the tire shop the boy said, “Damascus is very happy that an American is visiting.”

I was amazed that everyone in the country, young and old was aware on how isolated their county was from the rest of the world. I heard the same themes in all the conversations I had with the Syrian people I met. The people of Syria like Americans. The people of Syria all seem distressed yet helpless to change the fact that “the whole world thinks we are all terrorists.” Every Syrian I met wanted me to let the American people know that the Syrian people were their friends. All the people I met were very happy that they had the opportunity to meet an American. Everyone I met treated me with kindness and respect.

Having lived under oppressive governments for so long the Arab people have learned to distinguish between peoples and governments. Unlike the tendency of Americans to identify people and governments as one entity the Syrian people would separate the two and harbor no ill feelings toward the peoples living under governments that they felt were unjustly targeting them. The time I spent riding in Syria changed my outlook on the people of this land. The Syrian people are not my enemy.

Riding a motorcycle alone in far away lands leads to the realization that if the world was as bad as it is portrayed in the media you wouldn’t make it. Riding at home you have all kinds of support, friends, insurance and cell phones. On the road in distance lands you only have the support of the local people. They are the ones who make your safe return home possible. It may appear that you are a lone rider heading out into a hostile world to return due to your own skill and abilities. The reality is that you have only set out on a journey alone to quickly find out that you have connected to the human race.

While a small minority make it difficult for everyone the world is still a great place to find adventure and share life’s experiences with strangers who quickly become friends and at times life savers.

As I crossed into Jordan I felt sadness as I realized that I may never see such a wonderful land or meet such beautiful people again.

Part 6

In Syria I was the only rider on a Harley-Davidson. Due to government trade restrictions US products are not imported into Syria as Syrian products are not imported into the US. In Jordan ordinary citizens are not permitted to own motorcycles. The King however does ride a motorcycle, a Harley “Road King.” Pictures of King Adualla and Queen Noor can be seen throughout the kingdom of Jordan. I guess the old saying, “it is good to be the King,” holds true to this day.

In Jordan I rode with Stefano and Paola as far as the ruins of Petra. Petra was founded in the 6th century B.C. by Nabataean Arabs. The city was a trade center controlled by the Nabataeans until around 100 A.D. Famous for its massive temples and tombs carved into sandstone rock cliffs. To enter you must walk through a narrow gorge carved by nature in the cliffs surrounding the city. The gorge is about a mile long and 15 feet across. The rock walls rise up hundreds of feet.

As you reach the end of the passage you see your first glimpse of the Treasury building made famous in modern times by the Indiana Jones movie “The Last Crusade.” The Treasury building is over 120 feet high. The entire site covers over 400 square miles. Days or weeks could be spent exploring the area. We spent a couple of days visiting this wonder of the ancient world before our time traveling together ended. Stefano and Paola would head back to Turkey and take a ferry home to Italy. Before parting I promised to visit them on my way back to Frankfurt. We rode from Petra out to the desert Highway and said good-bye on the side of the road.

I was reminded of the words from a Bad Company song, “All my friends are strangers, they quickly come and go.” As I waved good-bye to this truly adventurous Italian couple who had just decided to take a ride to Syria and Jordan, see the sites and do a little shopping.

Once again I was alone, as I rode down to Wadi Rum, the desert in which Lawrence of Arabia had led the Arab revolt against the Ottoman Empire a century earlier.

I enjoyed the solitude of the ride as I headed into the desert looking for the village of Wadi. Wadi is home to several hundred Bedouins living in goat-hair tents and concrete houses. There are a few shops in the village and a school. I arrived before noontime and hired a truck and driver for the day.

The endless sands and moonscape terrain of Wadi Rum was void of any roads. Camels and fourwheel drives, not Harley Wide Glides, were at home here. I locked up my bike near the government visitor’s center and climbed into the old beaten truck I had hired.

This was the same land that Moses spent years wandering with the tribes of Israel. Other than the fourwheel drives nothing much has changed. The cry of the ancient world echoed from all directions. Graffiti was etched upon the rocks and cliffs. Drawing of animals, caravans and humans were still visible from the stone age of civilization. Names scratched into the rocks thousands of years ago cried out silently, “I was here, remember that.”

It was late afternoon when the truck broke down. There was nothing to do but wait for someone to come by. Eventually we saw another truck in the distance and my driver waved him down. My driver decided to stay with his truck and wait for his friend to send help. I would ride with my new guide as far as his camp where I could spend the night.

My new guide told me of another American who had visited his camp months earlier. He then described the Striking Viking and his bike. I was amazed that for a second time someone was telling the story of having met a fellow American rider and friend in this far corner of the world. That night I slept outside the tents under the stars. In the morning I caught a ride back to where I had left my bike and headed down to Aqaba.

Aqaba is in southern Jordan on the Gulf of Aqabq. Three miles from the Egyptian border and ten miles from Saudi Arabia it would be the point at which I would turn around. I had traveled half way around the world and now would enter Israel, get my wheel repaired and begin the long journey home.

In Israel I rode to Haifa and booked passage on a cargo ship going to Greece. While in Haifa I met Yosef, a Harley rider, who ran a sandwich shop down on the docks. I had ten days before sailing to Greece. I spent the time riding around Israel and hangout with Yosef and his riding partner Eyel. We quickly became friends.

When I told Yosef I was going to buy a new wheel from the Harley dealer he became agitated. He thought it was stupid to spend a thousand dollars to buy a new wheel. In the US the cost would have been three hundred dollars. Yosef repaired or built his own parts to keep his bike running. I was worried about riding further on a bent and leaking rim with a crack in it. Finally I listened to Yosef and he took me to a friends welding shop. The shop had the wheel repaired in a couple of hours at a cost of thirty-five dollars. I still use the wheel and when I look at the weld on the cast rim I remember my Harley riding friends from Israel.

It was early October when I sailed to Athens. I rode across Greece and caught a ferry to Italy. After spending a few days exploring Tuscany I visited Stefano and Paola in Milan before heading back to Frankfurt for the flight back to Canada and the ride home to New Mexico.

On the ride home I recalled a reprinted article in the Harley-Davidson “Enthusiasts” magazine from 1915. The article was a story of Effie Hotchkiss, a woman from Brooklyn, NY who crossed the county on a Harley with her mother in a sidecar. When asked why she would attempt such a dangerous trip, her reply was something like, cold, heat, bad roads, no roads, deserts to cross, hostile Indians, the more I thought about it the more I said I can’t miss this.

I smiled and thought; ninety years later, cold, heat, bad roads, no roads, deserts to cross, terrorists…. I couldn’t miss that.

As I rode south on route 69 heading home the internal jukebox kicked in a song that has kept me going for decades.

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