First I crossed the United States...

First I crossed the United States...
From Miami to Vancouver

... Then I decided I wanted more

... Then I decided I wanted more
and rode through Canada from Vancouver to New York

New York, New York

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I am listening the Ramones in the Ipod while running along the Hudson River. It is cold but the scenery warms me up. I am not feeling like an estranger. This is my place in the same way Jerusalem, Cape Town or Samarkand were. I felt there in the right spot and even with wide open eyes nothing was weird for me. Those cities were part of me and I was part of them. Maybe the reason is I didn’t take land from an airplane after a boring transatlantic trip and suddenly opened my eyes and ears to a new reality. Instead of it, I have been coming day by day, mile by mile, step by step since I left my home fifteen months ago. I left sweat, tears, smiles and fears all over the way to arrive here. And I am proud of it.



I hate that common said: “I am a World Citizen”. No one is World Citizen and neither am I. I am just a fucking normal guy riding a fat motorcycle and getting surprised daily in every place I reached. I love to talk to local people and I hate also those who say “the Planet is small” just because they earn a lot of flight miles using American Express. No, this Planet is not small, is diverse, terrible and beautiful. And is really Big and takes a lot of time to ride a little part of it. People are small, not the Earth. I know now that we are not anything else but silly ants trying to survive and procreate, just like ants do. The tiny difference between they and us is that we can also love, laugh, paint, write and ride motorcycles.



And why is so important riding motorcycles when is exhausting, hard and terrible in hot or cold weather? Because we are different people. A guy who I didn’t know has left me his apartment in Broadway, in the middle of the Big Apple. David, Dr. Rocks, a middle age doctor in the hospital, has hosted me just because we both understand the meaning of biking. I knew by Chris Dave that he rode the Transamerican Trail (a dirt path which goes all along the USA from East to West) with his wife, who was riding her own motorcycle. You should be a real rough rider to do that. And he knew by the same guy that I had been riding USA, Canada, Africa, the Stans and Middle East. That was enough to trust each other, that was enough for Chris to made the connection.



5 minutes after my arrival, he took me to the Ear Inn, a famous pub in Manhattan, and introduced me to the hard core of New York Adventure Riders. There were the beers (the best Guinness since I left Ireland) and the bikes. And then I learnt something curious. For bikers my terrible accent in English is not an Spanish accent, is Dani Pedrosa´s accent, because the pilot has to speak to the International Mass Media after the races. Pedrosa is not Valentino Rossi, a real showman. He is boring and flat and his English is awful. So I did my best to put our flag up. After few pints of stout I think I got it. Now Pedrosa has a terrible ambassador in New York and I can keep forever a good night with real people in real places, something not achievable by turists.



Thanks to you all for being there reading these mails and sorry if anyone has felt annoyed for my insistence on travelling and telling it. Next adventure, behind the desk and wearing tie instead dirt biker gear. I am sadly happy for finishing this World Tour Trip 2008-2009. But nothing lasts forever and I have found a lot of faith. All the best.

2 comentarios:

jdavidr dijo...

Miquel, it was a pleasure having you stay with us. I'm touched by what you've written. It is a heartfelt and shared sentiment; and more eloquent English than most native speakers could muster.

Thank you for visiting! See you again somewhere on down the trail.

d

Alex Macías Molina dijo...

Es lo máximo, al ver tus videos me siento como si estuviera en la moto. Tengo una bajaj platina 125, cuando subo a ella imagino ser tu viajando, gracias por enseñarme a tener libertad en esta gran burbuja que se llama monotonía.

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