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Motorcycling Destinations
BIKES: Peru Travels
Neale Bayly travels through Peru.
Neale Travels to Peru. (Photos by Neale Bayly and Brad Alston)
Out in the Peruvian desert, where the only sign of civilization is the long, black asphalt line that stretches endlessly into the hazy white distance, a man can lose himself to his thoughts. With the hypnotic rhythm of a big, single cylinder engine thumping beneath me, and warm air flowing across the padded handlebars, I’m riding toward the center of my soul.
As the miles roll by, the occasional cloud sails on the distant horizon, adrift in a tranquil sea of blue as the kaleidoscope of thoughts tumbling through my mind slowly start to take focus. Riding in the wild places, away from our possessions and rituals we perform on a daily basis, the value systems used to quantify our existence begin to melt. Life is distilled to its essential components and for a time you can be free. Alone in this vast, unspoiled desert, after many days in the saddle and a myriad of experiences not typical to my daily life, I finally find this freedom. It was 1995 when I first rode in Peru, and rolling through the desert I realize the only consistent possession we carry through life is our story. This 3,000km ride from Lima to Nazca, up to Cuzco, out to Machu Pichu, across the Altiplano at 14,500 feet, before hurtling down into this wide, open desert, will allow me to tell mine. I was deep in the Peruvian Andes, divorced and running with the throttle wide-open in the wrong direction. Living for booze, sex, and instant gratification, I watched a small, loaded motorcycle struggle up the side of an impossibly steep mountain. At the controls, the rider stared intently through a pair of old, crooked glasses, dust settling on the smudged lenses. A dirty white helmet crammed onto his head, and a full wiry beard, marbled with gray, erupted from the opening. Wearing a faded engineering jacket, stained blue jeans, and a pair of dusty work boots, the rider seemed to blend into the rugged landscape. Gunning the small engine out of a turn he smiles, remembering his own story that started with his college years in Canada.
It’s 1969, the first moon landing has just taken place, and man can do anything he puts his mind to. There can’t possibly be a God, and Darwin’s theory of evolution makes more sense than the bible. An engineering student working at the cutting edge of technology, his life was about to change. Removing a petunia plant from the campus gardens started a chain of events that would lead him to the harsh, dusty mountain road in Peru some twenty-five years later. Examining it, he realized that cutting a branch from the plant won’t cause it to wither and die, it will simply come up with a new idea. The plant has an infinite amount of possibilities available. Realizing even a simple electrical wire in an airplane can’t repair itself, it becomes apparent that man can’t create anything living from scratch. From this moment his mind and life are turned around forever, as it becomes clear to him that God truly is the Author of life.
He joined the Seminary and shunning material possessions swore a vow of celibacy, before starting his ministry among some of the poorest people on earth. Traveling alone by motorcycle to the most remote villages in the Andes, his work included installing irrigation systems, erecting solar panels and greenhouses, as well as funding health care and education programs. Periodically he would return to Canada to visit family and raise money, but would soon long to be back with his people in the rugged mountains of Peru.
Pulling higher into the rarified air on the small, red motorcycle, he leaves the town of Abencay behind as a shrinking dot in the majestic landscape, and sees a bearded Gringo leaning against a filthy, battered, motorcycle covered in many layers of South American dirt. “Where you heading?” the Gringo shouted to the Priest. “Ollyantaytambo” came the reply, as the small motorcycle passed.
Over the next few hours, the two men crossed paths a number of times, each feeling it was his destiny to meet. Finally, where a small river cut across the dusty road, they met, talked, and traveled on together. Riding with the Lord, he took the Gringo further back in time as they passed through forgotten Peruvian villages, places so far from the beaten track that the inhabitants had never seen a white man other than the Priest. Blasting across ancient Incan terracing, racing alongside thundering rivers, and flying down dirt trails, their crazy journey continued into the night, ending at the ancient church in Ollyantaytambo.
During the following days, the Priest and the Gringo exchanged their life stories in the uncensored way travelers often do. Then parted company never to meet again. I was the Gringo, Father Giovanni Battaglini the Priest, and I could never have realized the life changing effect of this meeting. Back in the US, I felt a change without knowing why, quit drinking, quit my job, and took off to Europe. For ten months I rode and wrote, traveling through 23 countries before returning to the US on a new path.
Years later, I learned a car accident had taken Father Gio while he was driving supplies to the people he so dearly loved. As the news sank in, it became clear why I had met the motorcycle-riding Priest years ago on that lonely, deserted road high up in the Peruvian Andes. I had to tell his story.
By now I hadn’t seen the group I’m traveling with for more than an hour, and thankfully they are pulled over by the side of the road a few miles later. Pharmacist, Chef, Carpenter, Mechanic, Tour Operator, and Journalist (we all have titles), our collective goal is to visit an orphanage in Moquegua to take much-needed funds to the children who live there.
As the miles roll by, the occasional cloud sails on the distant horizon, adrift in a tranquil sea of blue as the kaleidoscope of thoughts tumbling through my mind slowly start to take focus. Riding in the wild places, away from our possessions and rituals we perform on a daily basis, the value systems used to quantify our existence begin to melt. Life is distilled to its essential components and for a time you can be free. Alone in this vast, unspoiled desert, after many days in the saddle and a myriad of experiences not typical to my daily life, I finally find this freedom. It was 1995 when I first rode in Peru, and rolling through the desert I realize the only consistent possession we carry through life is our story. This 3,000km ride from Lima to Nazca, up to Cuzco, out to Machu Pichu, across the Altiplano at 14,500 feet, before hurtling down into this wide, open desert, will allow me to tell mine. I was deep in the Peruvian Andes, divorced and running with the throttle wide-open in the wrong direction. Living for booze, sex, and instant gratification, I watched a small, loaded motorcycle struggle up the side of an impossibly steep mountain. At the controls, the rider stared intently through a pair of old, crooked glasses, dust settling on the smudged lenses. A dirty white helmet crammed onto his head, and a full wiry beard, marbled with gray, erupted from the opening. Wearing a faded engineering jacket, stained blue jeans, and a pair of dusty work boots, the rider seemed to blend into the rugged landscape. Gunning the small engine out of a turn he smiles, remembering his own story that started with his college years in Canada.
It’s 1969, the first moon landing has just taken place, and man can do anything he puts his mind to. There can’t possibly be a God, and Darwin’s theory of evolution makes more sense than the bible. An engineering student working at the cutting edge of technology, his life was about to change. Removing a petunia plant from the campus gardens started a chain of events that would lead him to the harsh, dusty mountain road in Peru some twenty-five years later. Examining it, he realized that cutting a branch from the plant won’t cause it to wither and die, it will simply come up with a new idea. The plant has an infinite amount of possibilities available. Realizing even a simple electrical wire in an airplane can’t repair itself, it becomes apparent that man can’t create anything living from scratch. From this moment his mind and life are turned around forever, as it becomes clear to him that God truly is the Author of life.
He joined the Seminary and shunning material possessions swore a vow of celibacy, before starting his ministry among some of the poorest people on earth. Traveling alone by motorcycle to the most remote villages in the Andes, his work included installing irrigation systems, erecting solar panels and greenhouses, as well as funding health care and education programs. Periodically he would return to Canada to visit family and raise money, but would soon long to be back with his people in the rugged mountains of Peru.
Pulling higher into the rarified air on the small, red motorcycle, he leaves the town of Abencay behind as a shrinking dot in the majestic landscape, and sees a bearded Gringo leaning against a filthy, battered, motorcycle covered in many layers of South American dirt. “Where you heading?” the Gringo shouted to the Priest. “Ollyantaytambo” came the reply, as the small motorcycle passed.
Over the next few hours, the two men crossed paths a number of times, each feeling it was his destiny to meet. Finally, where a small river cut across the dusty road, they met, talked, and traveled on together. Riding with the Lord, he took the Gringo further back in time as they passed through forgotten Peruvian villages, places so far from the beaten track that the inhabitants had never seen a white man other than the Priest. Blasting across ancient Incan terracing, racing alongside thundering rivers, and flying down dirt trails, their crazy journey continued into the night, ending at the ancient church in Ollyantaytambo.
During the following days, the Priest and the Gringo exchanged their life stories in the uncensored way travelers often do. Then parted company never to meet again. I was the Gringo, Father Giovanni Battaglini the Priest, and I could never have realized the life changing effect of this meeting. Back in the US, I felt a change without knowing why, quit drinking, quit my job, and took off to Europe. For ten months I rode and wrote, traveling through 23 countries before returning to the US on a new path.
Years later, I learned a car accident had taken Father Gio while he was driving supplies to the people he so dearly loved. As the news sank in, it became clear why I had met the motorcycle-riding Priest years ago on that lonely, deserted road high up in the Peruvian Andes. I had to tell his story.
By now I hadn’t seen the group I’m traveling with for more than an hour, and thankfully they are pulled over by the side of the road a few miles later. Pharmacist, Chef, Carpenter, Mechanic, Tour Operator, and Journalist (we all have titles), our collective goal is to visit an orphanage in Moquegua to take much-needed funds to the children who live there.
Neale Bayly Rides Peru - Dirt Course Training
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