Motorcycle Explorer February 2015 Issue 4 | Page 171

W
ith the road en route to Salar de Uyuni still under construction, we were forced to
ride in the dirt to reach La Chita. My latest assault on the sand left me feeling very Monday
morning-ish. Sensing Jason’s waves of frustration snaking my burdened path, I was beginning to
miss both the point and the boat. All I wanted was two-wheeled peace instead of the spirited
minefield of my emotions against Jason’s expectations. I didn’t want to give up my confidence or
my headspace, to sand, of which would inevitably overwrite it with its own needs, desires and
wants. But relationships are fraught with grey areas. It’s not always possible to do what, in other
circumstances, one would feel is the right thing.
Furrows of concern formed between my eyebrows, I was starting to feel like a country song,
“There’s something wrong about not feeling right.” I sensed a tectonic shift between the correct
conduct on the sand and my current riding behaviours. Now I was caught up in a triangular
turmoil and, like the delayed wash from a passing liner, the swell of tension between Jason, the
sand and me was rocking my own comfortable boat.
Positively pushing me on, I straggled behind Jason until we reached Colchani. In fact, I hadn’t
realized at the time but I’d ridden the briefest section of the Dakar race! Go me. Seconds before
each patch of sand, the words ‘Keep the gas on’ with a gulp surged into my mind and left my
insides turning to jelly. “Oh come on Lisa, it wouldn’t be so bad if I knew you couldn’t do it. But I
know you’ve proved time and time again – you CAN DO IT.” I felt sympathetic towards Jason’s
ongoing patience but his words still elicited the same response from me. Slowly, slowly, catch a
monkey!
The ruddy sand threw me into a constant state of flux; it was the agony of acknowledging what I
should be doing on the sand, along with the pain that neither logic nor understanding could
dispel. I was disintegrating in a welter of waning confidence and collapsing morale. I was starting
to disconnect with Jason and put up a protective shield. The trouble was, the more I neglected to
adopt a ‘Get on with and go for it’ mantra, I watched myself becoming more whiny and resentful;
I was becoming hateful to myself. This vicious circle was creating a lack of affectionate ease and
companionship between us – taken for granted usually – that I so badly craved.
En route to La Chita, we bumped into a gregarious band of Bolivian bikers. Ricardo introduced us,
exuded a gentle bonhomie and told me he’d be leaving his motorcycle behind, apparently didn’t
like handling it in sand. I hear you fella, I hear ya. Beer can thrust in my hand, these guys were
having a ball on their lad’s weekend jaunt. I took a long pull of the chilled welcoming nectar and
smacked my lips. That should loosen me up.
Rapidly becoming jaded with ruminating on my own incompetence tinged with an erratic riding
style, I fixed my eyes on the middle distance and opened Pearl up. “Vamos, lets go Lisa!” she
roared. I flicked the switch inside my head and felt like a pit pony loosed into the sunshine.
Anything was possible, despite being a little tense and ready for battle. But after the 26 sandy
miles to La Chita, nothing eventuated. I was still in one piece. Now there was a large and
beautiful logic. I’d done it, albeit with a lacking equanimity. May be what happened was a
portent, a warning to me that I MUST get over myself, out of my own stereotype and the cringe-
worthy, reticent rider I didn’t want to be.