Life in a Helmet

By Tommi Keranen

Bored with his life and Christianity, Tommi Keranen decides to set off to South America from Canada aboard his trusted motorcycle, the mighty Republic of Vancouver Island. Along the way, he meets various characters and encounters a variety of situations, both humorous and frightening. All along the way, he learns that God is truly in control.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781973648956

Tommi Keranen

Tommi O. Keranen is an author with a passion for travel and photography; which in combination with his motorcycle, has been blessed to visit various parts of the world. Any comments or questions, please write to: [e-mail]

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Part 1

Prologue

Shakedown

Its 0445 in the morning and I am standing in the middle of a street in Buenos Aries with my bags; everything is dead quiet and black in the pouring rain. The tall, dark buildings loom ominous as I look about and then realize that, in addition to being 500 pesos lighter, I am now also utterly lost.

It was quite the scam; have to give them credit for that. After an 18 hour bus ride from Mendoza, I had caught the first taxi I saw when leaving the bus terminal and soon as we were out in the middle of nowhere, he had stopped, telling me to get out as his meter was not working. In my confusion, I grabbed my luggage and stood there as he drove away, it started to drizzle.

After about 5 minutes, another cab came and he asked me where I was going; upon verifying that his meter was working, we left. While the meter was fine, apparently there was a problem with money in Buenos Aires and mine was no good when he looked at one of the bills. He told me that it was a counterfeit, pulled over and told me to get out; flabbergasted, I lugged my luggage out and now stand in a sketchy part of town as he drove away; the rain was starting to come down harder.

Thankfully a third cab arrived shortly after and I asked him if he accepted Argentine pesos and if his meter was working, he nodded yes and I got in.

He explained that there were many fake bills circulating about Buenos Aries and there were only some serial numbers that were real; he offered to separate them for me. By now, with the lack of sleep and utterly dumfounded to what was going on, I showed him my money and he pulled over. He explained to me in rapid Spanish that there were many problems in Argentina, not the least scams. I thanked him after he handed me 2 rolls that he had split my money into; one good roll and the other bad. I then ask to be taken to the Hotel Goya; he said no and told me to get out.

Walking by an upscale hotel and spotting a clerk, I go in and ask her if there were problems with bad money in Argentina, she shook her head and replied that she was unaware of any.

Outside in the now pouring rain, I catch another cab after asking him if his meter worked, if he accepted all Argentine Pesos and if he could drop me off at the Hotel Goya. Going to pay, I open one of the bundled roles and there are about 20 pesos worth of ratty, worn out notes and the other yielded about 30. All the 50 and 100 notes were gone. Welcome to the big city gringo, you´ve been had.

I had to laugh and jot it down as just another experience …

Chapter 1

The Plan

"You are going to get robbed, stripped and left on the side on the road!" This was latest nugget of sage advice joining the lengthening list of negative feedback as I told others about my intention to ride to South America via motorcycle.

I found it quite startling of how people reacted when it came to the subject of the Central and South America. Suppose the news of the drug wars being played out in Mexico had a bearing; but really, had there really been much positive news out of those regions? When telling my mother that I read that it was quite safe, her quip was to ask if the books were from the 1930´s

To be honest, I didn’t know much about these areas, at least up to a year ago; nothing except tales of corrupt police, woeful stories of tourist robberies and revolutions in banana republics. Then why, you might ask, would I want to go travel through such countries in light of such problems.

Well, several years back, I started hearing stories (snippets really) of things happening, of an explosion of faith in regards to the evangelical church and what God was doing there. It had piqued my curiosity and I just had to find out what was happening and if it was true.

The Bored Christian Life

In the summer of 2008, I was in a state of melancholy; fed up and frustrated with all that life had to offer. I had come to the grim realization that none of this mattered. In the words of the king in Ecclesiastes – it was all meaningless.

The blessings that God had graciously provided me had become the millstone around my neck; my albatross if you please. This little world I inhabited and had built: motorcycles, job, living in the most beautiful city I have ever been in, had trapped me in its grips. I felt like a prisoner in a gilded cage. But why did I feel like this? There was nothing inherently wrong in what God had blessed me with, then why was I so miserable, so unhappy?

It went on like this, the frustrations mounted and the despair deepened until one morning prior to work; I decided to search bored Christian life on-line and was directed to a site that answered my question. I was surprised, ashamed and inspired by what I read.

The cure to the bored Christian life was step out of your comfort zone, from the world of the safe and mundane¨ Pretty simple but oh so complicated; what to do and where to begin?

The Seed

Several years back, I had gotten into a brief conversation with a gentleman while on a ferry taking me back to Vancouver Island. This fellow told me of riding in a group to South America from Canada several years back. Although I cannot recall much of the conversation, the subject of travelling to far off lands had perked my interest as it seemed like quite an adventure; it had laid a seed in the sub-conscious region of my mind. I recall thinking; too bad I couldn´t go on something like that, who would go with me?

Fast forward some time later and I’m sitting in a hotel room alone and isolated in Port Alberni; a small blue collar town on the west coast of Vancouver Island. It was smack dab in the middle of the stormy wet season; they measure here rainfall by the foot. The feelings of despair and restlessness with life are still there when the thought of doing a faith test enters the mind and with that, the memory of that conversation. The seed had sprung.

The faith test

The first of these trips happened when I first became a Christian at the age of 30. This had been an exciting time of change and blessing. I could sense the Holy Spirit working in my life; impacting my thought patterns and how I looked at everything. There was so many changes that a friend asked when I was going to get a lobotomy and start licking my refrigerator.

I got the inspiration to hike the Chilkoot trail in Alaska; to put my trust in Jesus Christ in action. When I told others of this plan, they shook their heads and told me I was crazy. My mom advised me not to pick up any hitchhikers as they would most likely murder me (ended up counting 14 potential serial killers on the way up).

I don’t know if I could put my finger on what I learned during that initial trip, but I do know it has shaped my character and made me realize that God was in control; there not being much to fear in life with that in mind.

That was an exciting time back then; I was bolder in my faith and I always looked back on that time with fondness. That said, I think I have lost some of my faith since those heady days and have since sought to reclaim some of that feeling.

There were been other trips since that initial one; for instance, went on a trek in the Indian Himalayas, visiting mountain villages with a small group from a church I attended. We ended up hiking up in the Himalaya region, seeing Hindu shrines and meeting various believers along the way. It was a blessing and I learned mainly that travelling long distances with others can be a pain in the butt; for myself, I am better off doing things like that solo.

Upon receiving my motorcycle license, I discovered the joy of travel on a bike while riding to San Francisco. For me, it is the only way to experience a journey, especially as it engages all 5 senses.

There were definitively some questions that needed to be asked and answers for an idea this ambitious. This would require logistical planning in addition to exactly what I hoped to accomplish. Things to consider would be: the time off from work and type of bike? After pondering for a while and asking for Gods direction. I came to the conclusion that the destination would be Buenos Aires and that everything else would come into focus as time went on.

I felt that it should be a loose schedule; perhaps ride for 6 days, stop and hopefully visit any church that I felt led to at end of the week. This would be the paramount reason I wished to experience on this trip, faith at a local level. I wanted to talk, listen and feel what people were going through and how the love of God was impacting their immediate world. I also wanted to experience the culture, perhaps learning something from it and thus growing more as a person and believer.

Chapter 2

The mighty Republic of Vancouver Island

The next day, on a library computer, I checked out bikes on line and there was a 2008 KLR 650 at a local Triumph dealership. It was a fully kitted machine with crash bars, aluminum panniers and skid plate. With only 8000 km (around 5000 miles) on the speedometer and $5250.00 Cdn (about $500.00 US) I called the shop to set up an appointment. Once getting there, I took it out for a test ride. The first thing you noticed was the vibration at certain speeds. The second was the stability at low speed; very impressive.

I rode around, checking the brakes, turning slowly etc…. and although it did not have the sharp cadence of the English bikes I enjoyed (this more of an asthmatic cough). It struck a chord with me and I thought it would be ok to listen to on a 20,000 kilometre trip.

Back at the dealership, I got up to dismount and with my left leg on the ground, swung the other leg back over the seat. The bike sprung upward as the weight of the body was removed and I had one leg stuck on the seat, with the panniers and this big, ugly helmet trunk installed on the back blocking the swing of my leg. I stood there awkwardly in my enforced Kung Fu high kick pose, praying that no one was looking at my helpless state. My leg muscles began to quiver as they were stretched taut.

With a desperate heave I swung the leg over, felt something pull in the groin area and in the process learned that I would have to mount and dismount the bike like a horse; left foot on left peg, then swing other leg over. The helmet trunk was ditched.

So with a mighty swipe of the credit card deeper into consumer debt, I was now the proud owner of a blue Kawasaki KLR 650. It turned out the previous owner had purchased 3 other bikes along with this one; he, a friend and their 2 sons had ridden them up to Alaska. Upon returning, he traded this bike in so it was all highway km’s on this machine, a good thing.

Popular sentiment of the KLR was that it was a bike that did things well in all areas, but not excelling in any particular one. I would agree; while it would prove too heavy for major off road riding, it was reliable, with simple enough design that it could be fixed on the side of a road. To me, it had a charm all its own. My brother told me that riding it forced you to take a look at the scenery as the top speed was so low.

The appeal also of this bike was that it was nothing flashy and if I was to get robbed, beaten etc… I wouldn’t be crying over a loss of a $20,000.00 machine. The plan was to leave the bike with someone I felt led to give it to once I reached Buenos Aires; perhaps with a missionary? Who knows, time would tell.

Una Enchelada Por Favor

Well, transportation being settled, it was time to address other important issues: time off, money and how all that was going to happen. I decide to address the language barrier first. To date; I was only aware of one phrase and that was ¨Mi perro está en llamas. Call it a hunch but I just couldn’t see ¨my dog is on fire" helping me out.

Everyone told me that Spanish is like speaking English; you can learn it in minutes. Well here is a newsflash; it’s a lot harder than you think; having its own quirks, phrases and grammatical structure.

I attended a Travellers Spanish class at a local college and at the end of the sessions basically learned how to say hola (hello). The teacher had a cheerful countenance and wild strawberry blond hair. Being very enthusiastic, she described herself as a socialist revolutionary, namely of the intellectual type (the ones that talk and let others do the bleeding).

In class she played songs of tragic tales regarding heroic peasant workers being oppressed by the bourgeois capitalistic pigs. Of course, I didn’t understand a word, but the flamenco guitar and wailing was pretty impressive. Then one night, I decided to test the skills at a local coffee shop that offered Spanish conversation nights left after a half hour as I could not hold a conversation past asking where the bathroom was; guess I would have to learn on the fly.

Other time was spent in researching the route and processes for the numerous border crossings. From reading accounts of traveller experiences at various ¨Fronterias¨ (borders) the waits and processes could range from 10 minute affairs to 5 hour exercises of bureaucratic silliness.

All through this time, I must say that apart from a great friend in Ontario, the reaction to my plans bordered on incredulousness and disbelief. Numerous comments from others began to get rather discouraging and I must admit there were pangs of fear and self-doubt starting to percolate, a questioning why I was doing it and the motives.

I suppose that when God calls us to do something; the evil one is right there beside us, filling us with doubts and anxieties; the greater the need to put your trust in God, the more intense the distractions and the worries of life.

One thing that was bothering me also was what the outcome of all this was going to be. What is also clear from Gods calling us to do something is that the outcome may not go exactly as planned. I had this vision of coming back from Argentina covered in dust and grime, to a hero’s welcome of an adoring crowd and the girl running up to my arms, heart aflutter.

But what if it didn´t go that way? I am ashamed to write that although God’s blessings have been greater than I have ever anticipated, I always think that he has some calamity in store for me ie: cancer etc…something that will bring him glory, but me misery; a blessing with an ironic twist. The concerns were addressed via fasting and prayer, especially when seeking wisdom and direction from God in matters that were weighing heavily on the mind.

A verse in Scripture caught my attention as I read Mathew 26, when Jesus is pleading and petitioning God about his upcoming crucifixion; in the end he states that what is important is God´s will, not what we desire. The verse spoke to me and gave me comfort that this trip was indeed what God desired for my life.

Columbia or Not?

Regarding the crossing from Central to South America, where would I go after I left Panama? Columbia, to me, had become verboten, based on all the troubles they have had for several decades. However I purchased an up to date travel guide and based on the rave review of this land, I become convinced that this country was good to go

Then the question became: Flying or sailing? What was certain was that I was not going to attempt to travel through the Darien Gap (stretch of land between Panama and Columbia) as it was home to drug runners and guerrillas. The Pan Americana highway also disappeared into small back road and river routes that required a guide. How I would pass through? Guess time would tell.

Chapter 3

Preparations

Well, with the bike purchased and plans to learn a new language in the works; it was also time to start conditioning myself for the trip. I would need physical exercise, as I was not in the greatest of shape and also learn how to ride under heavy load; on road and off.

The first destination would involve distance; I decided to visit an old friend who lived in Kelowna, some 5 hours away. The road went through the Pacific Coast mountain range and there was altitude and cold weather to be met. Overall, it went well, the seat was comfortable and with the previously installed highway pegs; the riding positions were varied, which allowed me to stretch out and not be confined in one spot. A lesson learned was that I would need warmer gloves, preferably heated ones.

Several months later, I visited Bamfield, some 180km away that could only be reached via dirt and gravel road. Deciding to kill two birds with one stone, I made it a camping trip as well. The bike rode sure through the gravel and I learned quickly to slow down the speed and ease the grip on the handlebars, the tires skimming and skipping along the loose rocks.

Bamfield

This is a small coastal village, in an isolated spot on the rugged west coast of Vancouver Island. Camping at an Indian reservation; it became the perfect spot for prayer and contemplation, a lovely bay with slow rolling waves coming through the morning mist onto a wide expanse of sandy beach. Sharp cliffs lined the bay and the emerald green coniferous forest came up to the edges, dark and impenetrable.

The first nations had tribes coming in that weekend from various reservations north of the coast via war canoe. They were gathering here and then sailing en masse to a destination south, somewhere in the states I believe. The boats would arrive at night, I was told, from far away as Alaska and drums and song would welcome them as they made their way to the assembling area. I awoke in the middle of the night to music and chanting and was taken back in time, to practices and ceremonies spanning generations; it was quite moving.

It was here I also learned just how devious people could be. A woman came up to my campsite as I was adjusting something on the bike and suggested I take it on the sandy beach, saying the bay was perfect for riding and that the surrounding area could be explored during low tide.

She invited me to access the beach via her spot and that it would be no problem, that people did it all the time. I told her that I appreciated the offer and would likely do it in the afternoon. I decided to go to the entrance to see if it was OK with the tribe; turns out it wasn´t, anyone with a motorized vehicle on the beach would kicked of the site immediately. Lesson learned; not all people can be trusted. Felt very tempted to rev the bike right beside her camper early the next morning when I left, but didn´t bother.

There were several more trips during the months leading up to leaving; small towns visited, riding in a variety of weather and road conditions and the confidence in the machine grew as little issues on the bike were rectified. I ended up upgrading different parts: new braided brake lines to sharpen the rather sluggish stock brakes, a replacement of the dreaded ¨doo hickey¨ (cam chain adjuster) and switching over the shock absorber with an aftermarket heavy duty unit. As it had a rather unhealthy appetite for oil, the piston received new rings and then all was good as gold.

One trip stands out now as the ultimate test of whether or not I could ride in difficult conditions and it was a trip up Vancouver Island in the grips of a violent winter windstorm. A friend of mine was visiting Parksville, a small town 3 hours north of Victoria and I was due to meet him and his wife. The only problem was that there was a storm of such intensity that the ferries had cancelled sailings, houses were without power and trees were strewn about the road. I know that normally in such circumstances, I would never have entertained such folly but I don´t know, I felt led to go.

The ride itself, while cold, wet and extremely windy went rather well. Upon checking into a hotel (certainly not going to attempt my way back that night), I met him and his relatives for dinner at a local restaurant. When an in-law was informed of my little excursion, my anticipation of admiration was dashed when he looked at me and exclaimed loudly ¨fool!!¨. I then learned that opinions on risk vary and that not everyone will be impressed.

Countdown

Christmas came and went and affairs were slowly being put into place. There were still questions that remained up in the air; namely my apartment and whether or not I could find a renter in my absence. With the vacancy rate so low in this city and with my garage a great shop, I did not want to give it up so it became a bit of a dilemma. Though there was some interest, nothing was settled and I end up paying rent on an empty place for 4 months; not healthy for a bank account.

Emotions were also weighing on the mind, extreme feelings of hopelessness and profound despair: several times, on a bus and driving home from work, a solid all powerful wave of sadness swept over me, leaving me feeling completely overwhelmed and exposed in its wake….never had that happen before. It is strange how you just want to scream at nothing in particular, just at everything. Perhaps it was just nerves and anxiety rising to the surface.

At the last Christmas, my parents reiterated that I was a fool and that I should never call them if I were to end up in jail. At work, an