November 3, 2004
"The Flying Gringo left the American Motorcyclist Association offices at around noon, heading south to the end of the road, in Tierra Del Fuego, the tip of South America. His 2000 Moto Guzzi Quota was so loaded down it looked like a Dromedary Camel, and he was hunched over the tankbag, peering out at the road before him."
Darkness fell as I got to Memphis, at the height of rush hour. Then a gentle rain began to fall. Then a downpour, as I sat in the bumper to bumper traffic and felt water find places in my jacket and rainpants to enter, and run down my back and into my lap. My visor began to fog up, and I got off the road to wipe it dry.
About a mile down the road, it was fogged up again. This continued through Memphis, and the traffic didn't let up until I crossed the road into West Memphis, Arkansas. Once in a roadside hotel, I stripped off all my wet clothes and set them before the heater to dry, then went in search of libations. But the pickings were slim at the side of that road, and I settled for a convenience store sandwich and a sixpack of beer.
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