My Colombian Motorcycle Journey
Alright, let me tell you about this whole ‘moto colombiano’ thing I got myself into. Wasn’t planned, really. I found myself needing to get around, you know? Buses were packed, taxis added up. So, I figured, why not a bike? Seemed like everyone and their dog had one.
Started looking around. Didn’t want anything fancy. Just something to get me from A to B, maybe explore a bit on the weekends. Checked online listings, walked around some local shops. Saw a lot of smaller bikes, mostly. Lots of AKT Motos, some Bajaj Pulsars, the usual suspects you see buzzing everywhere down there. Some looked okay, others looked like they’d seen better decades.
Finding the One (Sort Of)
After a week or so, I stumbled upon this little fella. It wasn’t pretty. Scratches here and there, seat had a small tear patched with tape. But the guy selling it, seemed honest enough. Started it up, sounded… well, it sounded like a small engine working hard. Took it for a quick spin around the block. Vibrated like crazy, clutch was a bit stiff, but hey, it ran and the price was right. Haggled a bit, shook hands, and suddenly I owned a genuine, used-and-abused Colombian motorcycle.
- Paperwork was surprisingly straightforward, thankfully.
- Paid cash, felt very ‘local’.
- Rode it home slowly, trying not to stall.
Hitting the Road (Carefully)
First few days were just short trips. Getting groceries, going to a nearby park. Got used to its quirks. Learned you had to give the throttle a little blip just so, otherwise it might stall at lights. The suspension? Let’s just say you felt the road. Every single pebble.
Then I thought, okay, let’s try a proper ride. Planned a day trip up into the hills nearby. Nothing too ambitious, just wanted to see some scenery. Packed a small bag, checked the oil (looked okay), kicked the tires (seemed inflated enough), and off I went.
The Real Experience
Man, that little engine worked its heart out on the inclines. Had to keep it revving high. But the views? Absolutely worth it. Pulled over a few times just to take it all in. The air was cooler up there. Passed coffee farms, small villages. People waved. It felt good, you know? Real.
Of course, it wasn’t all smooth sailing. On the way back, hit a nasty pothole – unavoidable, really. Suddenly, clank-clank-clank. Pulled over. Exhaust pipe bracket had rattled loose. Typical. Found a tiny roadside mechanic shop literally five minutes later. Guy came out, took one look, grabbed a wrench and some wire. Ten minutes and a few pesos later, it was secured. Maybe not factory perfect, but it held. That’s the thing down there, people just figure things out, keep things running.
Got back just before dark, covered in dust, bit tired, but smiling. That bike, man. It wasn’t fast, wasn’t comfortable, wasn’t stylish. But it was mine, it was reliable enough, and it got me out there. It was part of the adventure, not just transport. That’s my ‘moto colombiano’ story. Simple, a bit rough, but exactly what I needed at the time.
