A Life Well-Lived...

Once upon a time, <this girl> had a dream of ushering in her 30th birthday by riding a motorcycle around South America. At the time, I didn’t know how to ride a motorcycle, but..it’s totally doable, right? I web searched “riding motorcycles in South America” and one of the first things that popped up was a book called “Two Wheels Through Terror.” I read it cover to cover, and took copious notes, treating it like a guidebook of what had worked and what had not. Granted, the author was kidnapped by a Colombian army and held captive before he was ultimately released…but he did ride a motorcycle around South America from his home in Coachella Valley. If anything, he had the experience I was looking for. 

I emailed the author after reading the book in July 2007. He replied back the same day(!), and essentially opened unto me -without hesitation- the black book of all of his contacts in South America.

Oh youth…don’t fault me for misspelling Colombia. I hadn’t been there yet.

I honestly do not even know if I would’ve been able to pull off such an ambitious adventure of circumnavigating South America without his help. From having a launch pad and local contacts to facilitate the purchase of a motorcycle, to the many folks along the way that supported my efforts in positive affirmations, bike repairs, and the occasional hot meal, it all led back to one man, Glen Heggstad.

The man, the myth, the legend…

I finally met Glen in person post-ride at the 2009 International Motorcycle Show in Long Beach at an ADV Rider Group lunch. I confessed that when I first reached out, I had not even known how to ride a motorcycle, which floored him since that was not exactly the kind of detail one leaves out. From there, we consistently kept in touch and for the better part of a decade, he was a close friend and confidant. There was no greater supporter in my life in that period than him. Ever encouraging me to capitalize on my adventure, he brought me along to do a screen test for a motorcycle television show in February 2010.

I met more than a few legends in motorcycling at this screen test that was never meant to be.

I have an unlimited card catalog of fond memories, of my many visits to his Palm Desert and Palomar Mountain compounds where we would have dinner, drinks, watch the sun rise and set, and talk about life. 

Sunset over Palomar Mountain.

Every time I would visit him in Palm Desert, a great internal debate would ensue over whether I should ride or drive, since many a time I would engage in a fight with the wind off the 10 Freeway. I would lose almost every time, finding myself on the shoulder trying to keep the bike from falling off its side stand. Somehow I never remembered his address but I knew the correct freeway exit and without fail, would pull over and find it on Google Earth. The ranch at Palomar was much harder to find having blended in with its aerial surrounding, unmarked turnoffs, dirt roads, and no reception. I would read and re-read texts with his turn-by-turn advice, side stand down in neutral.

The road to somewhere…on the way to Palomar Mountain.

Once I visited with the intention of recording a podcast with Glen and a mutual travelling motorcycle friend, Chris Baker. Glen did not let on he had zero interest in the podcast from the jump, but he was more than happy to partake in the pile of lamb chops that I had made us for dinner and then Irish exit his way to bed shortly thereafter, leaving Chris and I to it. I ended up with a good yarn and one of my favorite photos of us as a result (the opening photo above). Zero regrets from me, aside from a few jilted listeners expecting twice the hell in one show. 

Glen was once a rough and tumble Hell’s Angel but he had the biggest heart. He often spoke about his travels in public settings and dropped an occasional misogynistic joke, but he never treated me with anything but the utmost respect. A gentleman, a ‘road’ scholar, and generous to a fault, he was always there for me, even if he didn’t know the full extent of it. It has been said that attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity, and when you were with him, you felt it. 

He’d ask what I was up to, or vice versa, and he’d assure me my room was waiting for me in Palm Desert. The guest room and its en-suite bathroom were like a hotel in my world. The only thing I forgot without fail was that his house was coffee-free, and a migraine would befall me unless I dashed out first light on a coffee run. I remember at least once I rode down to see him on my birthday, insisting we go out to dinner and never telling him why, as I was embarrassed to have otherwise spent it alone. We shared a Christmas, New Year’s, and a Fourth of July or two together over the years.

New Year’s Eve without a blow dryer. Glen definitely wore it best.

Sadly, within the last five years or so, it was our foolish pride that prevented us from maintaining that friendship we had for so long. I regret that I didn’t fight the jujitsu master a little harder, but I think we both accepted our paths in life no longer intertwined. But more importantly, I regret never telling him how much he lifted me up all of those years and how much I appreciated him for being my loudest supporter when I needed it the most. 

It was through Glen’s unwavering support that I made connections at motorcycle shows, which ultimately let to me dipping a toe into the motorcycle industry as a journalist and hosting a reasonably successful motorcycle podcast for five years. Without him, there is a fair chance that I would not have ridden a motorcycle in South America let alone met anyone in the motorcycle industry. And that, by far, is probably the greatest gift anyone could have ever given me. 

Rest in peace, my friend. You have earned it in spades.

Glen Heggstad [May 1952 - November 2025]