The things you learn on the road that were never taught in school.

Back in school, our teacher loved to re-focus our scattered attention by exploding gas-filled balloons in the name of science. If he had bothered to teach us about explosive rocks as well he could have saved me a lot of trouble. And a quick mention of how bare legs will expedite the flow of rainwater would have come in handy, too. But he never said a word, and it took a motorcycle journey across the Americas to learn those vital lessons. My partner, Aidan, and I were slowly progressing from Vancouver toward Argentina, and now there was a new kid in class: Aidan’s brother, Reamonn, was joining us in Nicaragua for a couple of weeks.

Having fallen in love with the country on a visit six years before, I was excited to introduce the brothers to all my favourite places. The colonial town of Granada was just as I remembered it. Houses painted warm reds, oranges and whites enclosed shaded courtyards, their inner life revealed through wrought iron gates with heavy wooden doors left open for a breeze. Galleries displayed local art as vibrant as the town, and the cobble streets of the central square were lined with artisan stalls. We couldn’t find a motorcycle to rent, but Reamonn procured a little scooter. My 1991 Honda NX250 was mismatched to Aidan’s 2004 BMW F650GS anyway, so we were used to trundling along, waiting for each other as needed.

THE EYE OF THE VOLCANO

There are a lot of volcanoes in Central America, and the active Masaya Volcano is exceptional, allowing a glimpse of the molten lava inside its crater. Parking right at the top, beneath the sign that advises four-wheelers to reverse in for a speedy retreat in case of an eruption, we leaned far over the stone wall for a better view. The glowing red cauldron steamed and bubbled away, spitting small splashes of lava, captivating like the flames of a campfire with the added thrill of something forbidden and dangerous.

The spectacle is most dramatic in the dark and, soon after sundown, the tour buses arrived, breaking the spell. We left them to it and returned to Granada. In this touristy town, hotels with safe parking were a rare luxury, but the owner of Casa Azul parked his car in the street so we could roll our bikes into his garage. He and his wife treated us like family, inviting us to use their kitchen, and hanging out to chat about all things motorcycle travel. 

The original plan had been to cross the country to Puerto Cabezas, but our hosts advised that would prove a bit of an iron butt ride on the scooter. So instead, we headed to the surfer’s paradise of Playa Popoyo, stopping in a small town…