An International Love Story

Not being the type of person who truly comprehends the meaning of “crazy” or “impossible,” I delighted in a self-realized moment of genius: trading a backpack for a motorcycle to circumnavigate the South American continent. The only hiccup was that, well… I had never ridden a motorcycle. The two-day MSF Beginner Rider Course coupled with reading Motorcycling for Dummies cover to cover (twice) was my crash course in two-wheeled preparedness. On paper the DMV said I could ride a motorcycle, but in reality I had the sum total of eight hours’ experience in the relative safety of an empty college parking lot.

Landing in Quito, Ecuador, my first order of business was to, you know… buy a motorcycle. I did not, however, arrive with an inkling of which motorcycle to buy. After challenging that question by dropping a surprisingly tall KLR and a BMW that didn’t appreciate my zealous handful of front brake on a banked uphill curve, I found the answer to be simple: one that doesn’t hurt much when you wear it, and that can be picked up afterward. I settled on a 2006 Honda XL200, a street-legal dual sport that moonlighted as the local police bike.

With a top box, two kayak dry bags, and a tangle of bungee cords, I wholly embraced being ringmaster of my very own traveling shit show. Once I successfully navigated myself out of major cities (a few times with the help of a taxi), traffic dissipated and I was left to serenely contemplate my life in relative silence, only occasionally interrupted by packs of rabid dogs, wandering llamas, VW Beetle-swallowing potholes, and cliff edges made daunting by gusty winds. There was also another kind of silence: the painfully awkward, gas-gauge-flickering variety. The first occurrence was unexpectedly in the middle of the Sechura Desert of Northern Peru, where I prayed that the generous gas gods would send me an entrepreneurial villager with a plastic five-gallon bucket of fuel. (They did.)

Somewhere outside of Cusco, I found myself alone again (in silence) on a gravel-packed road with a dead bike; only this time the issue appeared to be the ominously dangling chain, its tacky, half-greased surface catching souvenirs in the dirt. Armed with only the under-seat tool kit, I somehow managed to loosen the large chain-tensioning bolt with the basic five-inch tool, my boot, and an explosion of profanity. While I stayed in Arequipa for a few days to explore on foot, I decided it was long overdue I treat the lady to some quality time with a real mechanic. Not being able to read the manual, which had been printed in Brazilian Portuguese, I guess I overshot my first oil change by an itty bit. There was plenty of time for the mechanic to scream at me in Spanish (while what looked like high-viscosity Turkish coffee trickled from the drain hole), informing me that it was once per 1,000 kilometers (not every 3,500). At the very least, the educational earful wasn’t a total loss and I learned how (and how often) to change my oil. That’s progress.

The author and her XL200 on a highway somewhere in Argentina. Photo courtesy of Farrell

When I crossed the Southern Andes between Chile and Argentina in the shadow of Aconcagua (South America’s Everest), I miscalculated how much gas was required to complete the mission, despite departing with a full tank and riding with a one-gallon, gas-filled plastic bottle as a backrest. I was a quick study in figuring out that neutral was my friend while descending 10,500 feet of hairpin switchbacks over Los Caracoles Pass (aka the most dangerous road in Chile), hoping to find a functioning gas station somewhere near the bottom. (There was, and the proprietor was treated to a happy dance of disbelief and overwhelming gratitude.)

The little Honda that could threw me a few curveballs, and deservedly so, as I had become keenly aware of high-altitude/oxygen-starved starts at 12,500 feet in Puno, Peru, the heart-stopping noise of a dead battery at night outside Rio, and the rim-deforming effects of hitting a pothole at speed on a desolate Venezuelan road that could’ve easily doubled as the cratered surface of the moon. I learned that inevitably, when left to my own devices, I found a way to persevere… and that roadside auto mechanics in Venezuela are neither motorcycle savvy nor gentle with a hammer. When the mechanic announced he was finished with the front wheel while clutching a handful of leftover parts, I made the bold move to install the rear tire myself. By this time, death felt like a foregone conclusion, so might as well be at my own hand.

With only a few international incidents, a city-leveling earthquake, and gluttonous consumption of asado, empanadas, tropical fruit, Malbec, and gelato under my belt, the journey was nearly over as I pulled up to the Suzuki Superstore in Medellin. It was here that my little Honda had her final servicing before I regretfully sold her upon my return to Quito. The business owner explained to me that he was a lifelong Suzuki enthusiast, but after my service, he would preach the good word of Honda.

“How many kilometers has it been since you cleaned your air filter?”

“Ummm… 42,000?”

“That’s crazy! It’s damn near impossible for a motorcycle to keep running with an air filter this dirty.  All you needed to do was clean it with a little diesel.”

“Hmmph…good to know.”

Ten years and 100,000 miles after her first foray into motorcycling, Cristi Farrell is an intermittent motorcycle industry freelancer when not chained to her desk as a California-licensed geologist with a local consulting firm. An unquenchable thirst for wanderlust and a passion for motorcycling fuel off the beaten path adventures like chasing fireflies and dodging tigers after dark on an Enfield Bullet in Bardia National Park, getting lost in the deserts of Rajasthan on a Triumph Bonneville, and using a Honda XR250 as a ladder to pick fresh dates in the Dades Valley.  She has contributed to and reviewed motorcycles for a variety of publications including American Motorcyclist, Revzilla's Common Tread, Cycle News, and Motorcyclist, and is a co-host of the Moterrific podcast.

The Water Boy’s Water Boy

No one finishes the Dakar Rally without support in some way, shape, or form, and you get it wherever you can find it. My first experience in the event was back in 2001, when it took place in Europe and Africa. I was a privateer, but I was supported by Italian Honda importer Dall’Ara Moto (who prepared my Honda XR650R) and Acerbis owner Franco Acerbis (who sponsored me).

By the time I returned to the event, for the 2012 edition, it was taking place in South America, and I was the navigator for Robby Gordon. Although this time it was my role to provide support, I learned a lot riding in the seat with a great American off-road driver (though there were certainly a few scary moments!).

The following year, I was back on a bike, as HRC had decided to embark on their Dakar project and had hired me to help develop the machine. I was over 40 years old and hadn’t intended to race at that point in my career, but I stepped in after a series of injuries with some of our riders. Although I was entered as a competitor, my primary job was to be a “water boy,” providing support for my teammates Helder Rodrigues and Javier Pizzolito in whatever way I could. If they broke down, I was supposed to sacrifice my results and scavenge needed parts from my own equipment to make sure they could carry on. I was fine with that, but of course there was no water boy for me—at least not officially.

HRC was treating that edition as a big learning opportunity, to gather data on the bike—a CRF450X-based chassis and engine with factory fuel injection and a complex fuel system with five different fuel tanks. We wanted to see how we stacked up against the other equipment and establish a baseline to develop what would eventually become the current factory CRF450 Rally.

The author with the development bike he raced in the 2013 Dakar Rally. (CJ photo)

The early stages were held in Peru, and a few days into the race, my bike started having a bad engine hesitation shortly after the start in Pisco, like it was starving for fuel. I tried continuing for a while, but the bike was borderline unrideable, and I knew I had over 300 kilometers to go and that we were headed into some big sand dunes. Rather than risk getting stranded too far in, I stopped after about 20 kilometers to check things out. Based on a superficial inspection, everything appeared to be fine—the plugs were okay and the tanks had fuel. I figured it must be something more significant, but while I had plenty of tools (I was a water boy, after all), I didn't have any spare parts to speak of.

After racking my brain for a few minutes, I came up with an idea. I knew that the cars hadn’t started the stage yet, so I pulled out my satellite phone and called our support people, who were preparing to depart the bivouac for the stage’s finish in Nazca. “Hey,” I said, “go find Robby Gordon and give him a fuel pump and an ECU—anything you can think of that might be causing the problem.”

The team rounded up the parts and brought them to Robby and explained the situation. “No problem!” he said. “Anything for Johnny.” He and his navigator, Kellon Walsh, put the stuff in their car and left when their time came up.

I had to wait quite a while, but in the meantime I was able to get all the necessary components stripped off of my bike so I was ready to immediately begin installing the replacement parts when I received them. Eventually, Robby arrived, and he was easy to spot in his bright-orange Hummer. When he saw me waving him down, he spun a big U-turn, threw the care package out the window and took off, and I dug the stuff out of the sand and went to work putting my bike back together.

By the time I completed the work (still unsure if the problem had been resolved), all the cars had already passed and even some of the first trucks were coming through. I lost so much time, but I wasn't really racing for position anyway. I got going, and although the bike started hiccupping again toward the end of the stage, I made it to the day’s finish and eventually completed the race. Come to think of it, the guys never did tell me what the problem had been.

That was my last Dakar on a bike, although I did return two years later, again as a navigator for Robby, who this time was entered in the “Gordini,” a two-wheel-drive FIA truck that he built. Based on the machine Robby raced in the Stadium Super Trucks series, the HST (as it was officially called) was much smaller than his Hummer, and the space was pretty tight for the passenger. Fortunately, we didn't have to squeeze any spare fuel pumps in the cab that year…

Campbell is an 11-time winner of the Baja 1000, and currently owns and operates JCR Racing, American Honda's official effort for GNCC, NHHA, and WORCS racing. Have a Moto Story you want help telling for free? Email chris@jonnummedia.com.

An Italian in Baja

Since I was very young, I always had a great passion for motorcycles, but it took years to convince my father to buy me a bike. He finally relented when I was 11, but although my sole thought from that point on was racing off-road, my family wasn't as enthusiastic. My only option was to use my own weekly allowance to race, so with almost zero budget, I was limited to the regional enduro championship near my home in Turin, Italy. I never had any great results, but I was able to take part in some of the races.

One day when I was a 23-year-old university student in 1987, I was reading an issue of Moto Sprint (the Italian weekly racing magazine), and I happened across a coupon to try out for an expedition-style off-road event. Started in 1980, the Camel Trophy was a competition between national teams driving Land Rovers, usually in South America or Africa. From the coupon, I learned that Camel Italy, in cooperation with Honda Italy, was planning to introduce a two-wheel version called the Camel Trophy Bike, in part to launch a then-new Honda model called the Dominator (NX650 in the U.S.).

At the time, the four-wheel Camel Trophy was huge in Europe, thanks in part to the success of the Dakar Rally, and I couldn't imagine ever getting to participate. Nonetheless, I decided to fill out the coupon. The perception from the outside was that the Camel Trophy was a pure competition like the Dakar, but in reality it was primarily a promotional event. A series of regional tryouts were held around Italy, and I participated in one at Arsago Seprio, north of Milan. Eventually, I was named among the 10 finalists who in December were sent to the Motor Show, a trade show in Bologna, where we were evaluated in riding tests aboard MTX125s, but also in running races, English speaking, interviews—even a psychological exam!

Livio Suppo (right) with teammate Claudio Foschini on El Diablo dry lake near San Felipe, in  Baja, Mexico. Photo by Scott Cox / Resmarket

When all was said and done, I was elated to be selected as one of the two official team members, along with Claudio Foschini, a motocrosser who was 7 years my senior. For sure there were other riders who were faster, but maybe I spoke better English than they did or did better in the interviews—I like to joke that I was lucky to have blue eyes!

When the time came, we flew to California and went to American Honda’s offices in Los Angeles. There, Claudio and I climbed on our Dominators and, accompanied by the Camel Trophy entourage, headed south to the Mexican border, where we crossed over and rode a big loop in Baja. Honestly, it was more of a long tour than a competition, although the format did have us taking part in the Gran Carrera Internacional, a real desert race similar to the Baja 1000—but while everyone else was on 500cc two-stroke motocrossers, we were on our Dominator dual-sport bikes! The course was 1,500 miles long, routing us through Tijuana, Ensenada, San Felipe, Mexicali, and the Glamis sand dunes.

It was a lot of fun, and the Camel Trophy organizers would go on to hold other editions in South America and Africa, although that debut ’88 event was the only time I participated. It was an amazing two weeks that I’ll never forget—my first time in the U.S., and the only occasion I ever had to be a sort of factory rider. Beyond that though, the experience changed my life, as I had the opportunity to meet several people who had a big influence on me: Italian journalists who were traveling with us, Camel P.R. man Francesco Rapisarda (who I went on to work with at Ducati), Honda representative Carlo Fiorani (who I work with now), and Gabriele Mazzarolo, now the owner of Alpinestars and still a good friend. I remember one night we all went out to dinner with Roger De Coster, who was a myth to me. I also met a number of Americans, including marketer/photographer Scott Cox (who was the event's American promoter) and Don Ogilvie. Father of the late Bruce Ogilvie (a talented desert racer who built the effort behind American Honda’s legendary successes in the Baja 1000), Don made a big impression on me by riding much of the course with us at age 62.

Many of those connections, along with my university degree in economics and marketing, which I earned a year later, helped to kick-start my career, and I often gratefully think back to the day when—almost on a whim—I decided to send in that coupon.

Suppo is the Team Principal and Communications and Marketing Director for the Repsol Honda MotoGP team. Have a Moto Story you'd like help telling for free? Email chris@jonnummedia.com

Corky and the Headlights

“The dash light just went out,” said Uncle Corky, grimly pointing at the little pickup’s now-black instrumentation. “All we have left now are the headlights.”

We were headed home to Southern California after an amazing trail-riding trip to Silverton, Colorado, my Mazda SE5 loaded down with our Honda XRs and camping equipment, and towing a tent trailer. The mini truck's heavy burden made for slow going, so the sun had long since set when we trundled past Four Corners, which was right around the time I noticed the trailer’s lights flicker off in my rear-view mirror.

Following a pause for a fruitless investigation and a change of drivers, we once again hit forlorn Route 160 west, only to be plagued, one by one, with a series of additional electrical failures, starting with the taillights and proceeding to the horn, cab lights, turn signals and now the dash. Our concern was mounting, and as midnight ticked by, it seemed that we were all alone in the dark Arizona desert.

Our plan had been to stop at a rest area to spend the night, but with the Mazda’s headlights still gamely brightening a sliver of the Navajo Indian Reservation, Corky wisely pointed out that the situation dictated a change of plans.

“The starter’s probably out of commission too,” he said. “If we turn off the motor, we might be stranded.””

Pointing a flashlight at the AAA map in my lap, I did some calculations and determined that about an hour and a half separated us from Flagstaff—if the headlights would hold out that long.

Ever since I was in grade school, my dad’s older brother had taken it upon himself to ensure that I had a full appreciation of the American Southwest, his irregular work schedule and lifelong bachelorhood enabling us to make the best of my vacations. From fishing at Convict Lake in the Sierras to dirt biking at Dove Springs in the Mojave Desert, my youth had been seasoned with adventures with Corky, and this was one of the best—or at least it had been until the return trip.

It was 2:30 a.m. when we finally approached Flagstaff, breathing a sigh of relief as Corky downshifted so that he could seek out a suitable stopping point. He found what he was looking for in a wide, graded dirt road that descended from the left side of the highway, and we parked to one side and drifted off for a few hours’ uncomfortable slumber in the Mazda’s cramped cab.

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Uncle Corky aboard his BSA in Silverton during an earlier trip to Colorado. (Gail Shannon photo)

After being jolted awake at sunrise by a convoy of trucks lumbering by (it turns out our impromptu lodging area was also a logging area by day), we rubbed the sleep out of our eyes, bump-started the Mazda on the dirt downhill, found a turnout to reverse direction and—being careful not to stall—headed into town. In the daylight and civilization, our predicament didn't seem nearly as dire, and some crawling around in a Pep Boys parking lot resulted in a successful diagnosis: the trailer connector harness had been damaged (we both now recalled I’d run over a retread just before Four Corners), and the exposed wires had occasionally contacted the trailer’s metal tongue, popping electrical fuses one at a time. Thanks to the headlights using a separate circuit, they had been spared the fate of the other electrical functions, and after we taped up the harness and replaced the blown fuses, the remainder of our drive home was relatively uneventful.

Although I didn't realize it at the time, my impending move away to college—and then a career, then marriage and a kid—would significantly curtail my camping and riding trips with Corky, but he was frequently in my thoughts last year as he struggled with poor health. Last month, Uncle Corky’s name was added to the long list of those who succumbed to 2016’s ruthless toll, and while he wasn’t as high-profile as many, I’m feeling his loss acutely as I peer down the unknown road of a New Year.

Have a Moto Story you'd like help telling for free? Email chris@jonnummedia.com