The End of the Road

By Jason Lathrop
January 21, 1998

PUERTO YUNGAY, CHILE — "You're not allowed to fall down today," Malcolm Smith jokes, tossing me a Gore-Tex riding jacket that he designed. "That's the original prototype."

I pull the jacket on over my, or rather Boyd's, plastic chest protector and feel even more like one of the team. The three of us start our motorcycles and drop them into gear. Malcolm roars off. I wait for Lyle to leave second. With typical politeness, he pauses as if offering to let me precede him, even though we both know he'll just have to pass me seconds after we ride away. We release our clutches and start rolling at the same time. I slow and Lyle nods, grabs a handful of throttle, and races off after Malcolm.

Today's the final day of our journey. We've got a 125-kilometer ride ahead of us from Cochrane to the end of the Carretera Austral, or Southern Highway, which winds its way to a ferry landing at Puerto Yungay. This is the southernmost piece of road in Chile.

Within just a few kilometers I notice the two fresh sets of motorcycle tracks leave the road and head off to the right, up and over the hill. Even at 70 miles per hour, Malcolm doesn't miss anything. He seems to have found a cow path and led Lyle off on a little detour. Not quite a quarter of a mile later, I see the tracks and skids where the two of them came barreling back down a sandy wash, hit the road, and kept on going.

The hills yield to the widening valley floor. A cowboy leads five cows across the road, urged on by two working dogs. Up ahead, Lyle and Malcolm have stopped to take in the sights. "Look at this," Malcolm says as I pull up, "it's honeysuckle." He takes a pinch of flower and puts it in his mouth.

I drop the bike in gear and head out while they're still talking. Malcolm blows by in a few minutes, followed by Lyle. This time, though, Lyle doesn't keep on going. He matches my pace and, riding alongside, starts moving his elbows up and down and shaking his head. At first I think it must be something he ate, but then I catch on. He's giving me tips on my riding form. I emulate him as best I can, but within a few minutes, Lyle waves me to a stop.

"Keep your elbows up," Lyle advises gently after we turn off the motorcycles. "That way the bike doesn't push your body around. And get forward on the seat, further than you think you should. It keeps weight on the front tire and gives it more traction. That helps you steer. Just watch Malcolm. He has nearly perfect form."

He starts his motorcycle. "You'll get it," he says. I'm pretty sure he's smiling behind his helmet as he roars off.

We drop down along the Río Baker for a time, then the road cuts to the left and begins switching back up into the mountains. After about a kilometer, we come upon a construction barricade that blocks access to the last 18 kilometers leading to Puerto Yungay. The support trucks have caught up with us, and Jim Slade and Rex Bryngelson haggle in Spanish with the soldier manning the barricade. The soldier says they're still doing work along the road — drilling and dynamiting — and they're not too keen on allowing us through. Somehow Jim and Rex talk him into letting us pass, and with a round of muchas graciases we turn back toward the vehicles.

An unfinished highway turns out to be the best thing that could have happened for road warriors Lyle and Malcolm. Uneven grades, construction equipment and debris around every corner, washed-out culvert ditches, large beds of fist-sized river rocks — it's a fitting challenge for the home stretch. Lyle and Malcolm ride like they're downright giddy.

Rounding a corner, I see Lyle and Malcolm have stopped at the crest of a rise. "Just follow me," says Malcolm, gazing down a long, steep stretch of road covered with river rocks. "I'll pick the easiest line."

He heads off down the steepest section we've seen. I point my front tire at his path, stand up on the pegs, and follow. The bike comes alive under me, weaving and popping around. I keep what Lyle told me in mind — elbows high, weight forward — and his words don't let me down.

The road ends, just as we've been told, at a ferry landing. The town of Puerto Yungay is deserted today, the only sound the lapping of light waves at creosote-covered boards at the base of the landing. The moment is not exactly anticlimactic but it's close — as if we knew, but wouldn't admit, that reaching the end of the road was just our excuse all along, and it was the journey that mattered.

Jim pops open a bottle of sparkling cider. Lyle takes the first pull — straight from the bottle, naturally. Then he passes it to Malcolm, then to me.

We return to Cochrane, and that night Lyle breaks out his guitar in the hotel bar. All along he has told us he hoped to play something for us, but the long, hard days on the road and the leisurely Chilean dinners haven't left time. A handful of us gather on the couches near the fireplace, while a wide-eyed Chilean looks on as he wipes down the bar.

Silver picks flash across the strings like lights in his fingers as Lyle's voice fills the room.

If I had a boat, I'd go out on the ocean.
And if I had a pony, I'd ride him on my boat.
And we could all together go out on the ocean,
I said me upon my pony on my boat.

And if I were Roy Rogers, I'd sure enough be single.
I couldn't bring myself to marryin' old Dale.
Well it'd just be me and Trigger.
We'd go riding through them movies
then we'd buy a boat and on the sea we'd sail.¹

It's a whimsical tune written from the perspective of a boy dreaming of heroes and adventure. It seems to fit the feeling right now, after the motorcycles and ferries, huasos and horses, in this beautiful country of peaks and fjords. I could see it in Malcolm's eyes when he picked the honeysuckle and hear it in Lyle's voice when he talked about riding.

Or maybe after a trip like this, it's the song that changes. Maybe the song's not just about a child's dream. Maybe it's about all of us.

1. From "If I Had a Boat." Used by permission. From Pontiac (MCA/Curb, 1987). Written by Lyle Lovett.

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