Some journeys are planned. Others just happen. This one was always both. For those who’ve been riding along since the start, welcome back. You already know: this ride means early morning “mates” on the side of the road, the silence inside a helmet, and the kind of moments that stay with you even if no one ever sees them. And if you’re just joining us, here’s what you need to know.

Months ago, Diego set out from Ushuaia, the southernmost city on the planet, riding a Royal Enfield Classic 500 named Frankie. His destination was clear: Alaska. But not by the shortest route or the fastest. Every mile counted. No trailers. No shortcuts. Just wheels on the ground and eyes wide open.

Now we’re deep into the fourth and final stretch of this American adventure, from Los Angeles to the northernmost edge of Canada. A stage that’s long, tough, and full of stories: heat that warps your boots, forests that swallow the light, and highways that feel endless. In this first half, Diego reconnects with his brother Mariano, meets riders, strangers, bears, and memories, and keeps moving north, day by day, towards a dream that started at the bottom of the world.

Deserts, Sequoias and the Edge of the North

To see the world, to face danger, to cross invisible borders, to connect with others, to find oneself and feel deeply. That’s what this journey is all about.
May 22, 2024. I’ve just landed in Los Angeles, helmet in hand and heart racing. This is it, the final leg of a journey that started in Ushuaia and now points straight to Alaska. The north is calling, and there’s no turning back.

This stage feels like riding through a mirror. Every stretch echoes memories from Tierra del Fuego, but in reverse. It’s surreal to say it out loud: I’m heading toward the Arctic. The joy is real, but so is the fear. Each mile feels like air in an overinflated balloon, one breath away from bursting.

My brother Mariano is joining me in an RV, the perfect sidekick for these remote and unpredictable roads. The idea of camping alone with curious (or hungry) bears around? No, thanks. His support is both comfort and backup for what’s ahead.

First stop: ProItalia. I had to check on Frankie, my Royal Enfield Classic 500. Just like every other stop along the way, the Royal Enfield crew came through, solid and meticulous. A quick shakeout ride through the canyon, Malibu, and Venice Beach showed she was ready.

The day ended skating along Venice Beach with my new Alva board, dodging street performers and sunburnt tourists. It felt like the calm before the storm. The final breath before the climb to the top of the world.

From Venice to the Desert: Frankie Back on the Road

I landed in Los Angeles with my helmet under my arm and a knot in my stomach. This was it, the final stage of the journey. After thousands of miles from Ushuaia northward, Alaska was no longer a dream, it was a compass. And waiting for me in a garage in San Fernando Valley, Frankie, my Classic 500 freshly tuned and ready to roll.

Before hitting the road, there was a small electrical hiccup to fix, just a loose signal wire. Nothing serious. Then we warmed up through a loop on Mulholland Highway, that winding ribbon cutting across the hills to the ocean. A pit stop at Neptune’s Net gave us burgers with a side of Pacific breeze, just two Enfields parked out front: Frankie and my brother’s brand-new 350. Yes, he caught the bug and jumped into the adventure too.

We crossed L.A. for hours in chaotic traffic to pick up our rolling home: a fully equipped camper van that would serve as base camp, shelter, and mobile kitchen for the next 26 days. That night, we said goodbye to civilization at a Kraftwerk concert in the Disney Hall, a surreal, digital farewell.

The next morning, nerves kicked in again, but I kept it mellow. Just 110 miles (178 kilometers) ahead, so we had time. Mate in hand, I started the engine and rolled into the Mojave, stopping at Charlie Brown Farms, a chaotic roadside shop full of absurd trinkets I didn’t need but obviously bought. The day’s ride took me past Mountain High, a ski resort where I once cracked my tailbone, and into the land of Joshua Trees.

Ever since U2 released The Joshua Tree back in ’87, I’ve dreamed of seeing these strange and sculptural plants up close. These trees carry the spirit of the desert. They’ve been part of my imagination ever since I saw that album cover, and being here at sunset felt like closing a long-standing loop. For decades I pictured myself standing among them at sunset, camera in hand, surrounded by silence and golden light. And there I was, finally, in the middle of that dream. The heat softened. The air stilled. And I got the shot I’d been chasing for years.

That photo, that tree, it actually fell years ago. But the spirit of it lingers in the silence of the desert at sunset. Some dreams take a long time to bloom.

These trees taught me that.

Camping in the middle of that scenery, under a sky so big it felt like a dome, was pure privilege. I brewed more mate at sunrise, watching the desert change colors. By midmorning I rolled out toward Death Valley, where the heat came at me like a furnace. Temperatures rose with each mile. We dropped into Badwater Basin, 200 feet (70 meters) below sea level. It was stunning, but nothing compared to Uyuni or Salinas Grandes. Still, a place like that humbles you.

We tried a short canyon hike, but the heat was brutal. We barely made it 1,000 feet (300 meters) before turning around, soaked and dizzy. A sign warned us: “Heat kills.” We got the message.

The ride through the mountains after that felt like another planet. Red rocks, dry silence, and the kind of emptiness that clears your mind. At an overlook, we ran into 40 riders on Indian motorcycles — mostly French. I tensed up for a second, thinking back to that unforgettable 2022 World Cup final when Argentina beat France in a nail-biting match. But Frankie, as always, charmed them like a true lady. We laughed, swapped stories, and rode on.

That night, we camped outside the park to escape the heat. Frankie had taken a beating but never flinched. Her engine was probably simmering in its own oil, but she didn’t complain. Just like me, she was made for the long haul.

Desert Roads, Sequoias, and a Slight Bear Problem

Like a good luck ritual, I kicked off the day with mate at the camp table, Frankie parked right next to me. After the heat and punishment of the previous day, she needed some attention. A quick check revealed she was just a bit low on oil. Chain lubed, bolts tightened, oil topped up, we were ready.

We had to reroute due to snow, doubling the distance, but the ride was gorgeous. The first stop came early: Rainbow Canyon. A famous Air Force training ground where jets scream past at ground level. The rest of the day reminded me of Patagonia: the emptiness, the wind, the mountains. The occasional Joshua Tree was the only clue we were still in California.

Between Bakersfield and Fresno the road turned flat and sleepy. I started nodding off when suddenly, music. A live band playing full volume in front of a weed shop, jamming as if for a packed stadium. I stopped. I was their whole audience. When they found out I was riding up from Argentina, they launched into “Born to Be Wild.” Perfect soundtrack for what followed.

Near Yosemite, traffic was chaos, it was Memorial Day weekend. A ranger pointed us to a hidden campground up in the woods. We pitched camp and poured a second mate when a guy ran by shouting, “Want to see a bear?” We grabbed the camera and ran. First time I’d ever seen one in the wild. They look cuddly. Bad idea. We grilled some mystery meat, washed it down with wine, and passed out under the stars.

The next morning we tried to enter Yosemite Park but were stopped at the gate, full capacity. Online tickets only. All sold out. Mariano worked his magic, pulled out my books, and gave the rangers a heartfelt pitch about the trip. They opened the gate like we were royalty.

Yosemite doesn’t let you leave quickly. We spent the whole morning under ancient sequoias, beside granite cliffs, soaking up decades of climbing history.

El Capitan, Half Dome, names I’ve heard forever, now standing right in front of me. We traced the stories of legends like Royal Robbins, Warren Harding, and Yvon Chouinard, who’d go on to found Patagonia. Then came the Stonemasters and Stonemonkeys, pushing limits in every direction. And of course, Alex Honnold, who in 2017 free soloed El Capitan, no ropes, no safety, in under four hours. Madness.

We stopped for lunch roadside and set off for Big Sur. Traffic crawled, but we made it to a riverside bar I had bookmarked ages ago. Cold beers, feet in the stream, sunset behind the trees. One of those small moments that feels huge.

The day that followed was rough. I rode from 7 a.m. to 9 p.m., frozen and exhausted. We couldn’t find a place to camp, so we ended up sleeping in a shopping center parking lot in Carmel-by-the-Sea. Yesterday: paradise. Today: purgatory.
Still, it turned out to be one of the most interesting days so far. After coffee at a nearby Starbucks, we wandered the cobblestone streets of Carmel.

Charming town. Clint Eastwood used to be mayor, and they’ll never let you forget it.

In Monterey, I paid my respects to the Argentine flag that flew there for six days in 1818, after Hipólito Bouchard captured the town during a raid on the Spanish Empire. History lesson complete, we headed to Santa Cruz, the birthplace of American surfing. No board for me, but I had to visit the surf museum and watch the waves. That culture runs deep.

As I approached San Francisco, I pulled over and caught a bunch of skaters ripping it up on a roadside halfpipe. Instant shot of energy. The city itself is overwhelming, I only had time for two stops.

First was Haight-Ashbury, ground zero of the ’60s counterculture revolution. It’s all polished and touristy now, but the spirit still lingers. Then, the Golden Gate Bridge. Couldn’t leave without a photo. The sky cleared just in time. Perfect frame.

By the end of the day, I was toast. No more pushing. I parked Frankie and promised her, and myself, a proper break soon.

Adventure travel route from Los Angeles to Alaska

Bigfoot, Tall Trees, and a Border Crossing in the Rain

I woke up wrapped in fog and cold, parked somewhere near San Francisco Bay. One of those mornings where you just want to roll over and keep dreaming. But once the miles started ticking by, the sky slowly opened, the layers of clothes came off, and the ride got smoother. I crossed vineyard-lined hills that looked like someone had drawn them with a ruler, and soon I was swallowed by a redwood forest so dense it felt like something out of Star Wars.

Trees thick as walls, curves that never ended. By the time I reached Fort Bragg, the afternoon sun was out, and I was sipping hot tea like a local.

The town surprised me. Small fishing port, sleepy main street… but the real gem was Glass Beach. A shoreline born from trash, where decades of tossed bottles became polished, colorful stones. It was the first time I saw something beautiful made entirely of what we threw away. That night we found a proper campground, roasted food over a fire, and I took my first real shower in six days. The kind of small luxury that makes you feel brand new.

Next morning, I packed up and said goodbye to California. First stop: the Shrine Drive-Thru Tree. I’d seen the pictures but had to ride through one myself to believe it. The road split the day into three acts. First, a wild coastal ride where every curve demanded your full attention. Then, back into the forests, this time even deeper. These giants have been here for over a thousand years, and riding through them made me feel smaller than ever. Frankie, my little Classic 500, wove through the towering trunks like she belonged. Finally, the wind hit. Cold and relentless for the last 110 miles (177 kilometers), locking up my shoulder and making every minute a battle.

We reached Brookings, Oregon by late afternoon. I rolled in tense, cold, and tired. It was our last night riding alongside the Pacific, and I didn’t want that to be the lingering memory.

The next day started with groceries and skateboarding in a supermarket parking lot, very on brand. Then I rode alone for a while, photographing the

Oregon coast, soaking up the cliffs, beaches, and wild beauty. The ride east began slowly, barely 25 miles (40 kilometers) by midday, but it was packed with sights: a chainsaw sculpture park with an honesty box, massive Transformer-like logging trucks, and a cave attraction that promised sea lions but delivered a gift shop instead. You learn to enjoy the ride even when the payoff’s not what you expect.

The day turned around completely at Heceta Head Lighthouse. We timed it just right, waiting out sunset with mate on the beach. I got photo tips from two local pros and left with a shot I’ll keep forever. Spirits were high, until I noticed Frankie’s rear tire was flat. But even that couldn’t ruin the day. Not after a sunset like that.

On the Edge of Trouble and Triumph

Morning light confirmed what I already knew: Frankie’s rear tire was flat. After riding more than 23,600 miles (38,000 kilometers), it didn’t feel like a disaster, just one more scar from the road. I inflated it with my portable compressor and found it held air long enough to move on. I decided Portland would be the place to fix it properly.

The scenery began to shift. The ocean and redwoods faded into memory, replaced by new details pulling me forward. On one stop to check the tire, we found a strange building with an airplane parked on the roof. It was the Evergreen Aviation & Space Museum. We couldn’t resist. Inside, we walked through the world’s first airmail plane, the first passenger aircraft, and read the story of Douglas “Wrong Way” Corrigan, the pilot who “accidentally” flew from New York to Ireland in 1938, a rogue flight that made him a legend.

But the star of the show was the Spruce Goose, the colossal H-4 Hercules built by Howard Hughes. With a 320-foot (97.5-meter) wingspan, it flew only once, just long enough to prove it could.

Later in Portland, I rolled into a recommended shop hoping for a tire swap. No luck, they didn’t have my size, and ordering would take a week. I had to leave Frankie and wait. With time to kill, Mariano and I visited Multnomah Falls and explored Nob Hill. The day ended with dinner and hope that tomorrow, we’d ride again.

At 9:30 sharp, I waited outside the shop with my skateboard. Frankie was ready, or so I thought. We set off toward Seattle, a short 176-mile (283-kilometer) ride. But fate had other plans.

An hour in, I pulled off the highway to check out an old junkyard, and that’s when it happened. Frankie’s rear tire went completely flat mid-turn. The rear end fishtailed, but I held her upright, heart pounding. A miracle. No crash, just a dead tire and a new problem to solve.

We loaded Frankie into the camper, tight fit, but it worked, and made our way to the junkyard anyway. That’s where we met Chuck Wallace. Quiet at first, but when I told him about the trip, he showed me the scar from his old BSA and opened up like a book. He gave us full access to his lot and pointed us toward a place called Santa Motors. The owner looked like Santa himself but didn’t have the tire either.

Finally, in a town called Olympia, we found a shop with the right tire… and a mechanic who refused to work on it. No time, no interest. We had no choice: we’d change it ourselves in the parking lot.

The job dragged on, the new tire fighting us at every step. Just as we were about to give up, a guy named Ryan from the workshop next door came over.

Without asking, he jumped in to help. Classic road angel. He saved the day. With Frankie ready to roll again, we visited Ryan’s garage, where he builds Hot Rods and lives out his own version of the American dream.

He even offered us a bed for the night, in a marijuana plantation. We politely declined and pushed on to Seattle, 60 miles (100 kilometers) in the dark and rain. By the time we arrived, we were soaked and starving. We dropped the bike, found a beer, and collapsed. The tire saga was finally over.

We slept in. It was needed. The day’s only plan was to explore Seattle, a city bursting with music, art, and attitude. First stop: the Public Market. It felt more curated than raw, but still worth the visit. Around the corner, we found the famous Gum Wall. The smell was intense. I didn’t stay long.

The Space Needle was next, built for the 1962 World’s Fair and still the crown jewel of the skyline. I also visited MoPOP, the Museum of Pop Culture.

Hendrix, Nirvana, sci-fi, videogames… I was in no rush to leave. It rained all day, but I didn’t care.

Still, the call of the border was louder than the rain. With soaked boots and numb fingers, I rode 105 miles (170 kilometers) north and finally crossed into Canada.

Vancouver greeted me with warmth and comfort. Luis and Cocoi opened their home, and I traded my damp gear for a king-size bed. I made it. Another line crossed on the map, another piece of the dream realized.

To Be Continued…

Just a Few Thousand Miles Later

Twelve days, three states, two tire changes, and one unforgettable crossing into Canada, and Diego’s dream keeps rolling north. The road has already delivered extremes: heat, rain, flat tires, open skies. And this is just the beginning of the final climb.

But the road ahead gets even lonelier, colder, and wilder.

In the next edition of Bike Travel Adventures, the journey picks up from Vancouver and climbs into a territory where fuel is scarce, wildlife is unpredictable, and “town” might mean a gas station with a vending machine. Diego will face mechanical doubts, muddy trails, and his own fears, all while chasing the magic of the Arctic Circle and the ultimate goal: Deadhorse, Alaska.

Frankie’s engine is humming. The map is thinning. And the dream is burning brighter than ever.

Stay tuned. The story isn’t over, not even close.