Java Energy Drink Shootout

July 18th, 2010 1 comment

Over the course of many long nights, I've done the hard work of reviewing the landscape of java energy drinks for you, the reader. Some were delicious, some were revolting, but I finished a can of each in order to bring you these results. Wonder no more about your next 11pm gas station purchase, because everything you ever wanted to know about coffee-flavored taurine binges is just below!


Java Monster (Originale) – The first impression you get when you take a sip of this is mellow, sweet, and smooth. It's like a Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee, but a bit sweeter. It's more creamy than coffee-ey, but that's alright. The kick lasts for hours, and it tastes so good that I wish they made a non-energy version so that I could enjoy them before I go to bed. Undeniably addictive, even though it's rather sweet. bitterness 0 sweetness ++ energy ++ overall (7/10)

Java Monster (Mean Bean) – Refreshing. This guy has a pretty smooth coffee taste with quite a bit of vanilla cream in there. Not quite as sweet as the Originale. bitterness 0 sweetness + energy ++ overall (5/10)

Java Monster (Loca Moca) – A very level-headed mocha drink. Not too much cream, not too much coffee, not too much chocolate. It's pretty tame, taste-wise, but it's pretty damn good. Nothing wrong with going the mild route when it tastes as good as this. bitterness + sweetness + energy ++ overall (7/10)

Starbucks doubleshot (Coffee) – Melted coffee ice cream. Amazing. I'm going to be stocking up on these guys for sure. Smooth, creamy, and loaded with coffee flavor. Absolutely delicious to the last gulp. bitterness + sweetness + energy + overall (8/10)

Starbucks doubleshot (Mocha) – This one's all about the coffee and mocha flavor. It's a deep, rich chocolately java flavor that makes you crave that next sip. The slightly bitter flavor and reserved sweetness make for a more mature taste that has you savoring it longer than a Monster. bitterness ++ sweetness + energy + overall (9/10)

Starbucks doubleshot (Vanilla) – I don't know who they're trying to fool with this one. The can says Starbucks, but it tastes exactly like Baileys (minus the alcohol). It tastes alright at first, but the flavor starts to wear on you halfway through the can. If you love Baileys, go pour yourself a few fingers, and leave this one on the gas station shelf. bitterness + sweetness + energy + overall (2/10)

Rockstar (Roasted Latte) – This tastes like coffee ice cream that fell into a glass of milk. No punch, no bite, no soul, just lottttts of energy. This is about as lame of a coffee drink as you can find. Recommended if you hate flavor (and sleep). bitterness 0 sweetness ++ energy +++ overall (1/10)

Rockstar (Roasted Light Vanilla) – 50% less fat & 50% fewer calories. 50% less flavor & 50% less body. It has the consistency of water, barely any java, and leaves an aftertaste of saccharine. If you like thin diet drinks, the flavor on this isn't bad, just soft. bitterness 0 sweetness + energy +++ overall (4/10)

Rockstar (Roasted Mocha) – Imagine mixing Ovaltine and a bunch of diner half and half cups together. Now imagine that mix after it's been sitting in the sun for a day. I'm not sure which one I would rather drink. This one makes my nevereverevereveragain list with flying colors. bitterness 0 sweetness + energy +++ overall (1/10)

Java energy drink comparison

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1995 Honda Fireblade CBR900rr for sale [SOLD]

April 20th, 2010 1 comment

Selling my 1995 Honda CBR 900rr.

This thing is FAST, and will smoke most bikes on the road. It’s a few years old, but it has had thousands of dollars in performance work done to it. Given the modifications and styling, I’m pretty sure that this bike has a history on the racetrack.

To get an idea for how fast this bike is, it weighs 400 lbs, and was 124 horsepower stock. That was before the heads were ported, a Two Brothers carbon-fiber exhaust was installed, the carbs were re-jetted, and the gears were shortened. These are the performance mods that I know about, and there may be more. I haven’t dynoed the bike, but there is no way that it is under 140 horsepower right now. In addition to speed upgrades, a steering stabilizer has been installed to improve control at really high speeds.

The paint job screams, and is one-of-a-kind. This bike gets tons of looks. It’s in great mechanical shape, and is ready to ride for the season. Tires have good tread, and the clutch is super tight. This is a serious machine. A nice perk is that the license plate is legal, but almost impossible to see, except from directly behind the bike. It will save you many tickets.

The bike has some scratches on it, and looks like it went down at some point. It’s all cosmetic, and nothing functional was damaged. As mentioned, I’m pretty sure that this used to be a track-bike, so a little road-rash on the plastics is to be expected. It only has ~11,000 miles on it, which is incredibly low for its age.

Wikipedia page about the Honda CBR900rr page about the Honda CBR900rr

I’ll allow test rides with a valid license. But if you drop it, you bought it. $2,900 in the NYC/Hoboken, NJ area.

Front view with carbon fiber mirrors

Side view showing off the wild paint job

Rear view

Rear view

The license plate is valid, but almost impossible to see

The license plate is valid, but almost impossible to see

Left side view

Left side view

Left front view

Left front view

Front low view

Front low view

Lovely lady not included

Lovely lady not included

Pilot view

Pilot view

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Never Again

March 15th, 2010 9 comments
I’ve been very fortunate to see a little bit of our world. A unique life of my own design allows me to fairly regularly enjoy what for many people would be “the trip of a lifetime.” Invariably, I return from these trips with a greater respect and appreciation for the countries I had visited. This is not the case for Central America. For me, the time, expense, headaches, hassle, hassle, and headaches of visiting most of Latin America far outstrip what little these countries have to offer.
To be fair, Mexico merits more than a few eagerly-anticipated return visits and much of Costa Rica is fully deserving of its reputation as some sort of modern-day Eden. Beyond this the garbage, filth, poverty, and incredible governmental inefficiencies are staggering.
I’ve never seen such widespread use of open-air garbage dumps as are found in both Mexico and Guatemala.  Acres of garbage lay rotting in shallow pits next to the roadway. Vultures circle overhead like flies above a corpse. Garbage set afire smolders for days sending putrid clouds of smoke drifting across the road and into the open windows of passing vehicles. My helmet offered no resistance at all. In El Salvador, trash was not deposited into a proper receptacle but simply thrown on the street to wash into the rain gutters and later into creeks and streams already choked with raw sewage. The sinks in most restrooms, including those in restaurants, were without soap.
The border crossings were an especially absurd circus of chaos and inefficiency. When arriving at a border crossing, you are first greeted by “helpers” – young men familiar with the bureaucratic mess that awaits you and who are eager to guide you through it. They flock to me like seagulls fighting for a french-fry tossed on the beach. Before I even come to a stop they crowd alongside and in front of the moving bike – flapping their arms, squawking in English and Spanish, and jockeying for the US or Canadian money they’re sure I’m carrying. They force the bike to a stop, and their combined clamoring creates a cacophony that I can barely understand. “NO,” I yell. “Back off!” “Did you hear me?! Back off!” One guy never gets the message. One guy always hangs on. He’s the one I hire to shepherd me along; without him I’d never make it through.
Before I enter the next country, I am required to exit the one I’d just ridden through. Immigration wants to stamp my passport. Customs wants to confirm that I did not leave my motorcycle in their country, in effect having imported it illegally. This out-processing is comparatively straightforward and only requires a visit to two or three separate agencies in two separate buildings and can be completed in 30 to 45 minutes.
Entering the next country is where to hassles escalate. After 30 minutes in line, assuming that everyone else has even organized themselves into a line rather than a simple mob, I learn that immigration requires three copies of my passport but is not able to make those copies themselves. They direct me to a separate building where someone photocopies my passport for a nickel a pop. Back in line now, I present my passport and copies when I learn that I am required to pay a small entrance fee or tax in the local currency of the country I’ve yet to enter. This is when the money changers get involved.
Since every country in Latin America uses a different currency, you change money at every border. Banks are typically absent from most border crossings, and this gap is filled by money changers. These are men with fists and fanny-packs full of multi-colored bouquets of currency. You tell them how much you have and in what currency and into what currency you would like it to be changed. Knowing your Spanish numbers is very helpful here, but most of these men carry calculators on which they’ll show you what they’re willing to buy and for how much. They usually low-ball you so it helps to know before you talk to them how much your Pesos are worth in Quetzels. I found my iPhone invaluable in this regard. “Travelling through some dusty little stink-hole and need to change Honduran Lempiras into Nicaraguan Oros? There’s an app for that.”  U.S. dollars remain the preferred currency for bribes.
I get back in line, pay my fee, get my pasport stamped and move on to customs or aduana. Here the same process of forms, copies, stamps, and signatures repeats all over again but now with my motorcycle, rather than me, the object of attention. They want to see the bike, inspect it, record the VIN, compare it to the VIN on the custom’s form from the country I just left, sell me insurance, and spray the tires with some sort of pesticide/fungicide/cleanser. Men and women in three-dollar jobs stand as gatekeepers to filthy garbage-strewn chaotic countries determining whether or not you and your bike are suitable for entry.  All the while little boys with battered wooden boxes ask to shine your boots, or elderly beggars approach you with their wrinkled and shaking out-stretched hands.

This insanity doesn’t stop at the border. I was issued a ticket in Panama for making an illegal U-turn where I saw no sign indicating that I couldn’t. The cop told me that I had to pay the ticket or I would be stopped at the airport and not be permitted to leave the country. Given that the ticket was issued to my passport rather than my driver’s license, I thought this might be a real possibility. I’ll spare you the tedious story, but it took me four hours and visits to five different locations before I was able to pay the $75 ticket and get a stamped receipt.

So many of the people I met throughout Central America were wonderfully kind, helpful, and friendly. I am very fortunate to have met them. However, I can’t shake the feeling that they fully deserve the prevailing living conditions to the extent that they’re able to do something about them yet still willing to put up with the status quo.

Admittedly, these opinions are based on what was essentially little more than an extended road trip through foreign lands.  Others may come away from time spent in Central America with alternate views and opinions based on experiences unique to them.  The route I followed, and the manner in which I did it,  gave me a far greater exposure to Central America than if I’d simply arrived for vacation in some resort via the comparative magic of air travel.  Equally, anyone who has lived, worked, or study in these countries for an extended period of time will have considerably more informed opinions than the ones I’ve shared here.

I also greatly underestimated the isolation and loneliness brought about by being unable to communicate with almost everyone I met. Four weeks and five-thousand miles spent only on the periphery of the world around me was a rough experience that I’d rather not repeat.

In the end, I rode across a beautiful suspension bridge and looked down into a thick green valley to see a muddy brown river filled with – ‘Are those…? Those are…? They’re fuckin’ cargo ships! Those are ocean-going cargo ships? This is the Canal. I made it! I fucking made it!’ I’m screaming inside my helmet, pumping my left fist in the air, and raising both hands as my Triumph and I rolled across the Centennial Bridge to complete a solo month-long, 4,824 mile journey through seven countries. I’m done. I’m going home.

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March 5th, 2010 2 comments

The border crossing between Mexico and Guatemala along Highway 190 proved to be a straightforward nonevent. After a brief hassle with Mexican immigration authorities, I rode another two miles, passed a smoldering open-air garbage dump, and was soon in Guatemala. My first experience with a Guatemalan was a young man in a sharp crisp uniform who informed me that my bike tires would need to be sprayed with pesticides. “Ahh…OK” I watched as he donned a simple respirator, fired up a small spray rig, and lightly misted the bottom half of each tire. I can appreciate that the good people of Guatemala don’t want my bike transmitting whatever this application was supposed to stop, but he only sprayed the bottom half of each tire. Once the bike moves just half the circumference… whatever. Clearly this process was intended more to create a job than to do anything else. Then he billed me! I paid for pest-control… and a half-assed job at that! The border crossing consisted of driving down a narrow street lined on both sides with flimsy stands selling all manner of disposable kitch, stopping first at immigration where I presented my passport, then at customs where I presented the Pennsylvania title document for the bike. Copies were made, small fees were paid, forms were stamped in triplicate, and bureaucrats were spared from joblessness. The only physical barrier to entry into Guatemala was a simple hand-drawn wooden gate like one you’d see exiting a parking garage. They couldn’t even be bothered to lift it. I just ducted low on the bike and rolled under.

Guatemala looks even poorer than Mexico. Town after town appears as little more than a collection of ramshackle buildings and garbage strewn lots. I spent the night in I-Don’t-Know-Where, Guatemala because very few of what passes for a towns here have any signs indicating where you are. Even the route markers appear only every 50 miles or so. I actually spent the night at a junction where three roads, one of them dirt, intersect. Multi-colored ornate buses with every imaginable type of cargo strapped to their roofs stopped in the middle of this intersection to unload and collect more passengers before roaring off again, doors still open, men still climbing the ladders attached to the rear. Other men, whose job is to coordinate this madness, bark destinations and departure times. Stray dogs patrol the crowd in search of dropped food or discarded garbage. Children play soccer in a field edged with trash. In the morning, a young boy, drunk the night before on Tequila, lays passed out in my hotel courtyard.

I’m glad I didn’t leave Guatemala without a brief stay in Antigua. This vibrant and colorful city centered around a beautiful lush park is dotted with art galleries, coffee-shops, old Spanish Baroque architecture, and bookstores selling a rich array of Latin American literature. Antigua also seems to draw a certain type of visitor. Situated pretty far from the beaten path, it plays host more to travellers than to tourists, more to those who come to discover than to confirm.   A guy in dreadlocks passes time before an eco-tour by thumbing through a dog-eared Che Guevara while pretty blonde twenty-somethings in flowing hemp dresses hurry along the black cobblestones en route to Spanish class – Berkley with a bit of dust and better coffee.

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What’s your defense mechanism?

March 2nd, 2010 No comments

This has been an interesting week. I put in my two-weeks notice at my job.

A year and a half working with the same team means that we’ve shared a lot. The responses I got ranged everywhere from excited to being visibly disappointed. I certainly don’t think that I was viewed as the savior of the company, but people had high hopes for me. When those high hopes up and move to New York there’s a feeling of hurt. I feel like the kid in a small town that decides to up and out for the big city. There’s more than enough love, encouragement, and resentment to go around. Everybody I’ve talked to has been dealing with it in different ways.

How do you deal with surprises?

Change is hard. Even the most adventurous of us can shirk away from it when it challenges what we’re comfortable with. This need for stability only gets stronger as we get older. Sure, we may revolt against it from time to time. If my life is stable for too long, I feel trapped. At that point, I have no choice but to change or do something to re-affirm my control over my life. These revolts aside, as a whole we look for stability more and more the older we get. Our desire for control is the work of our lizard brain doing all it can to avoid change. Unfortunately for that inner control-freak, change happens regardless of our intentions. How do you deal with it?

No coping method is better or worse than others, but it is important to know how you handle it. Think back onto the last time that you got dropped a major surprise-bomb. How did you handle it immediately? 5 minutes later? 2 days later? 1 year later? All you really have is you, so I hope you know yourself.

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Jim’s Progress

March 2nd, 2010 2 comments

A very kind reader, (thanks Skim), put together a map of Jim’s progress on his solo motorcycle ride from San Diego to the Panama Canal.

I’m hoping that the map will continue to be updated as Jim progresses on his journey.

Jim’s been at this ride almost a month, and is still going strong. Keep on keeping on Jim!!

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March 2nd, 2010 2 comments

Having survived “The Windy” I continued into the Chiapas region in southernmost Mexico.  Chiapas seems like Mexico’s West Virginia.   It’s mountainous, beautiful, sparsely populated, rich in natural resources, and poor in virtually everything else.   Many of its people, accounting for only 3% of Mexico’s population,  live in insular mountain villages where they speak languages derived from Mayan dialects, farm seemingly inarably steep mountainside slopes,  wear  very distinct and colorful dress, suffer from mal-nutrition, and beat their wives and children.  I was told to avoid the section of Highway 190 between Tuxtla and San Cristobal.  “Take the main road.  The road through the mountains is to twisty, too dangerous and isolated, “ someone in Tuxtla told me.  I’m glad I didn’t listen.

This section of road was brilliant.  It rose steadily through the mountains until it reached the ridgeline where it ran below only the blue sky itself.  The air here was cool and crisp. I flipped open my helmet visor and let it wash in.  The purest air I’d ever tasted seemed to flow directly from wherever it is that air is created.    From this vantage point the landscape rose and fell for miles below me.  Clumps of small houses dotted those peaks connected by frail dusty roads.   Women in brilliant colored dresses hauled bundles of four-foot long wooden stakes tied with twine up narrow little trails clinging to the mountain’s edge.  Together with wire, these stakes are used to build acres of trellises attached to amazingly steep slopes .  I have no idea what they grew in their trellises.

Four men sitting at a dirty plastic table on the porch of a concrete block store stocked only with a dented refrigerator of beer and a  small wire rack of chips seemed shocked when I stopped.  They didn’t take their eyes off of me as I walked confidently up to the front door and asked for a beer.  When I told the men in Spanish that I was en route by motorcycle to Panama, they immediately started speaking Japanese.  This was when I noticed slight Asian facial lines and features hiding quietly beneath their dark brown skin.  I wondered what circumstances brought people of Japanese descent so far from home to such a remote place where they still talked in their mother tongue.   I finished my beer and set the empty can on the table in front of them.  “Domo arigato,” I said with a big smile.  They laughed.  Thank you Dennis DeYoung.

Further along the twisty road I found a home sitting on the outside of a wide bend.   Hanging clothes formed a band of rich blues and purples along the second floor faded wooden porch railing.  I stopped for a closer look.  The people who lived here seemed happy to have a visitor and potential customer.  I talked with the husband in broken Spanish enough to learn that he too only spoke a little bit of Spanish.  Fortunately, we seemed to know most of the same words.  His wife, daughter, and two sons soon appeared.  They seemed interested in where I was from and where I was going.  They took down one of the cloaks for me to try on – a bright blue and green piece ornately adorned with tassels.  I’d seen men along the roadside wearing these same garments.  I took it off and thanked them.  I then removed my Joe Rocket motorcycle jacket and offered it to the man.  He smiled and put it on.  I pointed out the protective padding in the shoulders, elbows, and back.  His wife began striking him across the back with a stick, laughing.  One of the little boys liked my bike and climbed onto the seat.  We all clapped as he sat there with a huge grin.  His little brother was too afraid to follow suit.  They took me upstairs to the open deck where they not only made the shirts and cloaks but slowly fabricated by hand the material from which they were made.  I was awestruck by how labor-intensive this whole process must be.  The littlest daughter kept her distance sitting on the deck floor swimming in a black and orange dress a few sizes too large and wearing a plastic bowl on her head.  I bought two garments and later mailed them home. 

Stopping at a fruit stand of meticulously arrayed peaches, apricots, avocados, and watermelons I noticed a pickup truck parked nearby – the bed filled with children.  They watched as I bought a bag of small peaches, sat on my bike, and ate a few.  I waved hello, but they just stared.  I’m sure I looked as strange and foreign to them as they did to me.  Before leaving, I bought two more bags of peaches, approached the driver of the truck, and asked him if I could give the peaches to the kids.  At first the kids were hesitant, but I smiled and spoke softly.  The littlest one went first and soon the others followed suit – pulling a peach out of the bag while I held it and walked around the truck bed.  They smiled and giggled at me and my poor Spanish.  I set the bag and remaining peaches in the truck bed.  I wanted the kids to  remember someone who looked, dressed, and talked nothing like them but did something kind nonetheless.

I spent the night in San Cristobal, a town which seems to be the historical, architectural, and cultural gem of the Chiapas region.  In the morning I rode for the Guatemala border.

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The Windy

February 27th, 2010 4 comments

Today was by far the worst day of this ride.  There are only a few stretches of road that are indelibly etched into my memory; the Pacific Coast Highway through California’s majestic Big Sur, a torrential and  blinding thunderstorm along Route 183 into Fort Supply, Oklahoma, and Highway 190 into Zanatepec, Mexico – a section of road known locally as El Ventoso, The Windy.  Winds rush out of the southern peaks of the Sierra Madres to sweep uninterrupted across an immense expanse of flat barren land before heading out to the Pacific Ocean.   I learned later that these winds frequently become severe enough that they will actually roll trucks and buses.  I rode through it just as a storm approached.  I’ve ridden over 34,000 miles on my Triumph and under a myriad of conditions; I was, for the first time, barely able to keep the bike under control.

The winds were steady but managable at first – coming directly from the east as I rode north.   When I turned 90 degrees east the winds seemed to follow suit.  Soon, they intensified.  With heavy crosswinds continually pushing the bike to the right, I had to keep it tilted ten degrees left just to stay upright and on the road.  The tank bag holding some small items as well as my maps kept lifting off the tank and blowing into the crook of my right arm.  I looked for someplace to pull over and take shelter but found nothing.  The land was flat and empty; no houses, no garages, no sheds or outbuildings – nothing at all.  Trucks approaching in the oncoming lane created a turbulent wake wherein for a few terrifying seconds the winds seemed to come from everywhere at once.  Thinking I could no longer control the bike I stopped under a bridge which offered no real protection.  This was when I was reminded that the bike was even less stable at slow speeds. 

I continued on hoping to find somewhere to pull over and get out of the approaching storm.  I crept along on the shoulder at a speed fast enough to create enough forward inertia to stay upright but slow enough that I could be “comfortably” blown off the road; 30-40 mph seemed the sweet-spot for this.  The tank bag lifted again and blew into my arm; I couldn’t stop or even slow down to adjust it.  I tucked my arms, chest, and legs into the bike as close as possible to reduce resistance.  The unrelenting winds kept pushing the bike right to the edge of the road before I could lean left hard enough to bring it back.   I knew that even at 30 mph I could be seriously injured if this bike left the pavement.

I rode like this for miles – crumpled up on a shaking motorcycle, all but certain that I was gonna find out what being literally blown off the road feels like.  That’s when the rain started.  It wasn’t  heavy at all but still just enough to coat my windscreen and helmet visor.  My visibility was now cut in half and the thin slip of rode I was on became increasing difficult to see.  This is when the bus showed up.

I heard it coming from behind, braking and gearing down as it approached.  I rolled off the throttle to let the bus pass. It didn’t.  Instead, the driver turned on his hazard lights and slowed to keep pace with me.  I looked up to seeing someone at the front of the bus waving at me.  This is when I realized what they were doing; the driver had positioned the bus alongside me to create a rolling wind-block.  I rode like this for about ten miles and was able to get the tank bag back to where it belonged and wipe my helmet clear of rain. I’m not one to look for or expect to find the hand of Providence in any human endeavors, but I know that a few reading this will make something of the fact that just before the bus showed up, a rich and vibrant rainbow arced beautifully across the road in front of me.  By the time the bus exited, the rains had subsided and I was reaching the mountains.

Highway 190 was about to cross the Continental Divide.  The mountains thankfully blocked much of the wind, but now the road became twisty with steep drop-offs to the right. “Yep Jimbo,” I thought to myself, “This is when you find out what it feels like to drop this bike.” 

None of this was fun. It wasn’t exciting.  It wasn’t thrilling. It wasn’t adventerous.  It was frightening and maddening.

Oh yeah, “Jimbo?” I don’t know either.

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The Hotel Bravo

February 23rd, 2010 10 comments

Further south in Petatlan, I found what has got to be a personal never-to-be-topped-again best in cheap accommodations.  I found a hotel room for just seven dollars per night, and had to take it if only on principal.  What a glorious shithole the Hotel Bravo was.  The sort of establishment where you could quietly and in peace nurse yourself through the last lonely days of a terminal alcohol dependency.  The Hotel Bravo certainly seemed to be in the midst of its last lonely days.

Imagine a building caught somewhere between a Soviet-era apartment house and a long-ago abandoned mental hospital – minus the charm.  Discarded mattresses lay in a pile on the third floor.  Surprisingly large rooms opened to the wide and quiet hallways through broken interior windows.  One room was mysteriously written off altogether – its doorway boarded over.  Visible through its broken window, and  with its bed, linens, and furniture still intact, it looked like a museum exhibit without its wax figurines.

I was the only guest in the otherwise vacant hotel; I didn’t shower alone though.  Small black bugs scuttled around my feet before being washed back down the drain they’d crawled out of.  The shower floor and bathroom floor were one in the same.  Two five- gallon buckets collected rain water seeping through the blistered ceiling.  The shower itself consisted of a single cold-water valve.  It did, however, have excellent pressure. 

There are a few things a guy can get away with if travelling unescorted by a wife or girlfriend.  My stay at the Hotel Bravo was clearly one of them.  

Oh yeah, the landlady let me park my motorcycle right in the lobby.

Safe secure parking

My room at the Ritz


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More Pics From the Road

February 21st, 2010 No comments



Road Flowers
Agave - an essential ingredient in Tequila
Agave – an essential ingredient in Tequila


Thirty acres of "Ya know, it really seemed like a good idea at the time."

Banana coccoon

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