Photography by Kira and Brendon Hak
To honor the 20-year anniversary of Overland Journal, we are revisiting special heritage content in the upcoming 100th issue of the magazine. Originally published in Overland Journal’s Summer 2023 issue, this article is part of that celebration.
I can recall the first time I drove my motorcycle through a country that was not my own as if it were yesterday. It was through the Greek countryside along narrow, twisting roads—passing olive groves, sheep pastures, and apiaries. Concrete and stone villas in various sizes and situations were spattered across the mountainsides, each enclosed by painted concrete walls that were cracked, peeling, and overgrown with vines and bougainvillea. My eyes scrambled to take in the sights while my mind and body endeavored to handle the motorcycle beneath me. Overwhelm hit me with a dazzling intensity, and I swiftly realized that with the newly added requirement of watching the road while handling my bike, sightseeing would need to step back to a secondary task. Once I readjusted, I could relax (at least as much as a new rider can) into the ride. At that moment, it felt like I had advanced to the lead role of my adventure, and I knew there would be no going back.
After a two-year hiatus, we arrived in Greece by airplane, crossing the border back to freedom to continue our travels around the world. A few days prior to our departure, we sent our two Honda XRs (a 250L and a 650R) by airfreight and met them on the other end upon arrival. Our precious cargo unpacked; a cloak of excitement threaded with apprehension began wrapping itself around me. I became lost in reverie beneath it: for the experiences we would have, the cultures waiting to immerse ourselves in, and the places to be discovered. But overshadowing all of that was the new pursuit of steering my own motorcycle along the way. I attempted to pinpoint the exact moment the decision manifested, but realized it was a series of small moments collected over weeks, months, and years.
The first flickers of the notion appeared shortly after we bought our adventure bike. It was quickly snuffed out, though, as we had made big plans and an even bigger investment to ride two-up on a KTM 1290 across Central and South America. On those travels, embers glowed in the back of my mind, especially in moments when it felt like I was struggling for independence on the road or when I met other women riding their motorcycles. The quick thinking required in chaotic foreign traffic and the technical skills needed for steep rocky trails, sandy deserts, and slick rainforest mud intimidated me and fueled doubts as to whether it was something I could even do at all. Naturally, there was also the obvious worry of an accident, whether it be operator error or traffic mishaps. But that version of fear existed regardless of where I sat on the bike. What-ifs plagued me, but the one looming large was the thought of not being able to explore the hard-to-reach places we loved because of my perceived incompetence. Aside from playing around on an old Honda XR80 a handful of times, I had zero experience. But as the first few years of travel wrapped up, and we knew this was the lifestyle we wanted to keep, the notion of having my own set of wheels became imperative to my happiness and well-being. I had to try.
At the end of our first day on the road, we descended from the Dirfi Mountain along tight hairpins down to the coastline. Billy goats balanced on the rocky roadsides, screaming in annoyance at our intrusion into their grazing grounds. The road dead-ended at a pebble beach lying in repose, much like a fallen crescent moon amongst a valley of contorted rock faces pockmarked with dark caves. We quickly parked the Hondas and started peeling off our riding gear and clothes, dropping them on the beach as we clumsily raced into the crystal turquoise waters of the Aegean Sea. The water had a bite to it that made me stop for a moment to catch my breath, but it was welcome after a full day’s ride in the bright, hot sun. We lazed the rest of the afternoon away in our chairs, both completely at ease, reflecting on the day and affirming our delight of being back on the road. A strong sense of calm and fulfillment washed over me, new and unexpected feelings. In the past, I would be eager to move on, yearning for more, whereas Bren was more inclined to relax, feeling satisfied and at ease. For once, it felt like we had arrived in the same place.
It was upon descending the tallest mountain on the island of Crete that I faced one of my fears: dropping my bike. While coming to a stop to look both ways at an intersection, putting all my focus into maneuvering a sharp right turn on a steep road, I hadn’t realized it was also uneven. When my foot went down, there was no ground beneath it. Surprised and unaccustomed to this scenario, the bike’s weight made me lose my balance and sent me to the ground. Although only a minor mishap, it seemed to erase every bit of confidence I had built up so far, and self-doubt started to take over. Brendon, discerning my humiliation, reminded me there are not two levels of riding: as in, you can’t do it, and then you can do it. Instead, it is a never-ending progression of skills to be learned. This lesson repeated in the months to come, as this would be only the first of many slips and falls along the way.
We were spoiled with an atypical autumn heatwave in Greece. With the tourist season past its prime, we spent the journey waking with the sun, camping on empty beaches and in quiet forests. Long, pleasant days were spent on the road, along with calm nights reacquainting ourselves with the constellations. I was starting to feel more comfortable on my motorcycle in these new surroundings, yet at night I would find myself lying awake as fears washed over me in waves. This was a new layer of tension I hadn’t felt before. Sleep would elude me, and all that was left were the things better not dwelled upon. Uncertainties and doubts are a natural part of anything you do in life, but some days, finding a healthy balance is difficult. On the road, if I had too little fear, I wasn’t paying enough attention; if I had too much, I would freeze. But this kind of fear, the one whispering in the silence of the night, was pointless, and dwelling on what was to come served no purpose; a few deep breaths usually helped release me into Dreamland.
Over time, my fears shifted and evolved as my riding did, transforming into a general nervousness. The irrational, irrelevant, or dramatized were merely constructs, I told myself. For example, my fear of being unable to explore hard-to-reach places because of my inexperience ended up being groundless because being on a much smaller, lighter bike put me at an advantage. The Hondas are much more competent, and we have been able to get into places we wouldn’t have dared with the big adventure bike, two-up and fully loaded. Additionally, I wasn’t quite as inexperienced as I initially thought. My 10 years as a pillion rider benefited and aided me when I began to pilot my motorcycle. I already knew how to handle the weather (rain, cold, snow, heat) and how to sit and move on a bike, and I could do it for long periods. I even knew how to look for hazards, being Brendon’s second pair of eyes for all those years. This gave me more time and space to focus on throttle/brake/clutch control, off-road riding skills, and the overall juggling of it all.
Most of the time, we opted for backcountry routes, venturing off only to satisfy our interests in some of the more ancient sights, such as Sparta, Delphi, and Thermopylae. Every day brought surprises, frustrations, and victories. Every week that passed, Brendon introduced me to increasingly tricky terrain, keeping me just outside my comfort zone. Whenever I reached the end of a difficult section without incident or felt I had mastered a new technique or sharpened my skill, I couldn’t help but smile. During our year and a half of working and saving, I had every intention of building my experience on two wheels. But I found scant time to do this while maintaining three jobs. My riding experience had to come when we were on the road, learning by doing, and here I was. Initially, I had trouble kickstarting my bike, but now it seemed trivial. A noticeable progression was starting to form; terrain I once thought impossible was now seen through a different lens.
Autumn had begun to settle in on the day we entered the Agrafa mountain region. It was cold, rainy, and on the brink of a thunderstorm. We had no prior knowledge of this place, and because the country is so famous for its islands and beaches, we were surprised to learn that 80% of Greece’s landmass is mountainous. Our route was just another squiggly line, a narrow road along a deep gorge, followed by tight switchbacks etched into the side of the mountain, passing mudslides and washed-out sections of road. Eventually, through the mist, we spotted a small shelter and decided to call it for the day. It wasn’t until the morning that we realized the gem we’d stumbled upon, complete with jagged rocks, rushing rivers, forests, alpine meadows, and mountain peaks. Agrafa means “unwritten” in Greek, and was designated as such by Byzantine scribes who declared it uncharted territory. The Ottomans also found this to be true, and the region remained protected from the empire’s occupation as they were unable to conquer it. It wasn’t until the late 1980s that roads began to penetrate this wilderness.
Around every twist in the road, another harsh and forbidding landscape captured my imagination and urged me forward. In a strange sense, I wished the roads were worse. What my tires were driving over didn’t match what my eyes were seeing. I needed to earn my entrance here with a little more struggle than I’d given. But, perhaps, in another way, it had been earned. It wasn’t too long ago that I told myself I could never do this at all: that I wasn’t strong enough, experienced enough, or skilled enough to ride a motorcycle. But at the end of each day, filled with twists, turns, and gravel roads, I was reminded (and still surprised) to find that I could. That doesn’t mean the bike was always upright. These “down” incidents were also a product of the terrain we were riding; I learned to pick the bike back up, cut myself some slack, and keep trying.
We spent our last few days in Greece looking out over the magnificence of Vikos Gorge in Pindus National Park, in a region called Zagori, which means “beyond the mountains.” It is one of the largest canyons in the world, with Guinness World Records listing it as the world’s deepest relative to its width. We sat on the rocks of the lookout, sipping coffee, soaking up the winter sun, and reflecting back on our nearly two months in this country—until the clouds rolled in and obstructed the view. It was the final curtain on our time in Greece, but just the beginning of the story of my first motorcycle and the adventures we would have together.
Although I have ridden many thousands of kilometers since then, there is nothing to compare to that very first day. The sky seemed bluer, the surroundings more strange, and my heart beat a bit faster. The feeling of power as I twisted the throttle and felt the bike surge forward, the thrill of weaving myself through the twists and turns in the road, the wind in my face, and the sun gently warming my back—liberation realized. The callouses rising on my palms and thumbs and the strain of working long-neglected muscles in my forearms and shoulders are the results of this new pursuit and ones that I relish.
I would like to say that I no longer tell myself, “I can’t,” but that wouldn’t be true. When we encounter a challenging road or circumstance, the phrase still echoes in my head. But what I find challenging is still evolving; it is the reaction that remains unchanged. The biggest obstacles come from within. The first step was hard, but every step after that has brought me more confidence and further down the road to “I can.”
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