Archive for the ‘motorcycle’ Category


motorcycle road trip to davao city

March 13, 2008



I had been to Davao City four times in the past, all for official trips—visiting model cooperatives in 2002, joining the 2003 PEARLS Olympics, attending the 8th FOCCUS Awarding ceremony, and participating in the CU-TE Batch 8 Trainors’ Training in 2005. The first one was via the ordinary Bachelor trip, the next two were in a chartered Bachelor bus, while the last one was in the Coop service vehicle.


But going there on a motorcycle had always been an exciting idea. Reading the stories of Iron Butt riders gets me drooling in awe and envy. Scaling down their adventures to fit my budget, physical capacity and hardware was an option if only to have a peek into this kind of trip.


A random call to Homer, my behemoth of a riding buddy, brought me close to that trip. He was a newly accepted member of KARANCHO, and together with other members from different chapters in Southern Leyte, they were scheduled to attend the 12th Annual Convention of KABABAYAN RIDERS FOR NEW CULTURAL HARMONY AND ORDER (KARANCHO) in Almendras Gym, Davao City in January 25-26, 2008.


Without thinking twice about it, I signed up for the trip.


The ride would be more than 1,000 kms to and from Davao City. Wow! The longest I had before that was only 300 kms two-way from Kananga to Silago and back.


I picked up some tips from this website on group long distance riding. this was also helpful


My travel checklist has the following items:



  1. tools (c/o 61)
  2. tube
  3. spark plug
  4. rain gear (c/o reynold)
  5. shorts
  6. one pair pants (baggy)
  7. five t-shirts
  8. one pair of socks
  9. face towels
  10. handkerchief
  11. mineral water
  12. biscuits
  13. or/cr
  14. money
  15. mp4
  16. sandals
  17. large cellophanes (at least 3)
  18. luggage support (c/o 61)
  19. cp charger

I was to meet homer and anching with the rest of the group in lilo-an at around 7am on January 25. this quaint little town has a port terminal for ferry boats servicing lilo-an to lipata route. lilo-an for a long time has been the jump-off point to surigao city.

only on the night before did homer tell me that his wife erlyn would be with us for the trip, and that she will ride pinion with me to lilo-an. That’s more than 150 kms of driving with a back rider in an early morning trip!


Excitement with a dose of anxiety is a sure formula to rob you of a deep sound sleep. A minute before 4 am I was at homer’s doorstep to pick up erlyn. ( had this an official meeting I would have been late for a good one hour, I amusingly told myself)




season of the bike

March 6, 2008

dsc07531.jpgThere is cold, and there is cold on a motorcycle. Cold on a motorcycle is like being beaten with cold hammers while being kicked with cold boots, a bone bruising cold. The wind’s big hands squeeze the heat out of my body and whisk it away; caught in a cold October rain, the drops don’t even feel like water. They feel like shards of bone fallen from the skies of Hell to pock my face. I expect to arrive with my cheeks and forehead streaked with blood, but that’s just an illusion, just the misery of nerves not designed for highway speeds.

ut when warm weather finally does come around all those cold snaps and rainstorms are paid in full because a motorcycle summer is worth any price. A motorcycle is not just a two-wheeled car; the difference between driving a car and climbing onto a motorcycle is the difference between watching TV and actually living your life. We spend all our time sealed in boxes and cars are just the rolling boxes that shuffle us languidly from home-box to work-box to store-box and back, the whole time entombed in stale air, temperature regulated, sound insulated, and smelling of carpets.

On a motorcycle I know I’m alive. When I ride, even the familiar seems strange and glorious. The air has weight and substance as I push through it and its touch is as intimate as water to a swimmer. I feel the cool wells of air that pool under trees and the warm spokes of sunlight that fall through them. I can see everything in a sweeping 360 degrees, up, down and around, wider than PanaVision and higher than IMAX and unrestricted by ceiling or dashboard.

Sometimes I even hear music. It’s like hearing phantom telephones in the shower or false doorbells when vacuuming; the pattern-loving brain, seeking signals in the noise, raises acoustic ghosts out of the wind’s roar. But on a motorcycle I hear whole songs: rock ‘n roll, dark orchestras, women’s voices, all hidden in the air and released by speed.

At 30 miles an hour and up, smells become uncannily vivid. All the individual tree-smells and flower-smells and grass-smells flit by like chemical notes in a great plant symphony. Sometimes the smells evoke memories so strongly that it’s as though the past hangs invisible in the air around me, wanting only the most casual of rumbling time machines to unlock it.

A ride on a summer afternoon can border on the rapturous. The sheer volume and variety of stimuli is like a bath for my nervous system, an electrical massage for my brain, a systems check for my soul. It tears smiles out of me: a minute ago I was dour, depressed, apathetic, numb, but now, on two wheels, big, ragged, windy smiles flap against the side of my face, billowing out of me like air from a decompressing plane. Transportation is only a secondary function. A motorcycle is a joy machine. It’s a machine of wonders, a metal bird, a motorized prosthetic. It’s light and dark and shiny and dirty and warm and cold lapping over each other; it’s a conduit of grace, it’s a catalyst for bonding the gritty and the holy.

Learning to ride was one of the best things I’ve done.

thank’s to Dave Karlotski