We are in Cape Town, South Africa, our bikes parked behind us. Bathed in the pink glow of the evening sun, our bodies weary and worn, we have ridden 24,000 miles through 11 African countries. We walk over the sand down to the water's edge, where the cool green waves of the Atlantic lap against our bare feet. A moment to savor - feels so good to have the boots off. It has taken us nearly eight months of demanding riding to traverse Africa's west coast, and we are sporting our cuts, bruises and scars like badges of honor, commemorating each hard-fought mile.

The horizon is pink and yellow and purple and we are airborne, high above East Africa. Our destination is close - Mombasa at the Indian Ocean. Some 200 miles south of the equator in northeastern Tanzania, we see the majestic Mount Kilimanjaro. The rising tropical sun catches the flanks of the mountain, and glaciated Uhuru, Africa's highest peak at 19,340 feet, shines a bright orange. The highlands of Tanzania and Kenya stretch to the west and north, and the Massai Steppe to the south. Rivers swollen with dull water snake through lush vegetation and the green squares of the fields. We are to discover these are not rivers, but the roads we will be on today. The rains were unseasonably late this year, and although it is already the end of May, the land is still flooded.

A washed-out track that winds through green banana plantations to the Ugandan border has led us here. And once inside the post on the Kenyan side, it's obvious we've committed the serious offense of disturbing a well-fed immigration officer during his power nap. Call out the guards!