11/04/2005 - Batopilas

I woke up at rarin to go, at what would normally be the time I would be getting off of work, and headed downstairs to fill my belly with some wonderful free breakfast. I had a chat with some Canadiens that were in Creel for the incredible singletracking that is offered to mountain bikers, and they began to warn me of the perils I was about to face on the way to Batopilas. Overly steep downhills, tight switchbacks and livestock everywhere. But scenery that would not disappoint. They said they rented a car just for the drive alone and I couldn’t wait to witness it firsthand on the XR.

After a quick fillup at the Pemex I was underway. The air was crisp, the sky was clear and my heartbeat was quickening. After the last tope I twisted the throttle and got up to a comfortable cruising speed. With darting glances I tried to gather in all that was being presented to me outside of my tight focus on the road.

The tarmac was unbelievable. This is what motorcycles dream about when they are put to sleep in the garage at night. A pristine racetrack in the sky. The road cut through towering limestone bluffs and snaked its way perfectly amongst the pine trees in elegant esses. I was in heaven.

After 40 or so kilometers I encountered the turnoff for Batopilas. I left the racetrack for the dirt road that the XR had been begging for. It was fairly easy going at first, as I jogged my muscle memory to automatically guide the bike underneath me. My goal was simple that day: do not drop the bike.

70 kilometers to Batopilas, all on dirt. But I tried not to think about that and cleared my mind for the task at hand. The Scenery was singing its siren song however, begging me to plunge of the edge and come take a closer look.

Remember that Creel sits at 7,000′ and I was heading to Batopilas at 1,500′. Only 15 or so kilometers remained and I was still breathing mountain air. Am I on the right road anymore? I figured I should be plunging into the more tropical climate of the valley below by now. And then I rounded a corner I will never forget. I was at the edge of the Earth and my path was taking me down the scariest, most treacherous looking goat trail I had ever seen.

You could probably fry an egg on my brake discs after I managed my way down that vertical wall. I didn’t think it was possible to balance the XR at a pace that would bore a snail. In my wildest imaginations I would never presume to force a road down that mountain. After all, some things have got to be impossible in this world. Whoever constructed that road is a mysterious magician because I’m still not sure how he got me and my bike down to the bottom.

The rest of the ride pales in comparison the that thrilling descent and I made quick time to Batopilas. I cruised down the main street after crossing a rickety wooden bridge. The XR was idling pleasantly, sending thumping reverberations off of the local concrete buildings. This in turn caused a wave of turning heads from the local spectators as they followed my progress through the small town. In no time I was on the other side and itching to get out of the Copper Canyon and on my way to see my friends. The road forked shortly thereafter and I was clueless as how to proceed. Now would be a good time to turn around and break the unwritten male rule of not asking for directions.

It was about 1 o’clock and uniformed school children were out in the street, apparently done for the day. One young lad decided to hold out his hand as I passed, which I instinctively slapped in a friendly high five. This one kid sparked a domino effect that would leave my hand numb and nearly gloveless as every kid in town clamored to high five the motorcycling gringo. Shoutin’ hoopin’ and hollerin’, I was at the center of a one motorcycle parade. It was everything I could do to keep the XR upright and coasting with only my left hand on the grips. What an entrance! And what a memory those kids left with me. Each with their shiny faces beaming with joy, tiny hands outreached in a cloud of palms, all with the thought of high fiving the strange conquistador astride his mechanical steed.

I really need to get a mirror so I have some idea of what I look like when I stop anywhere in Mexico. I arrived at Casa Monse’s, the best hostel in Batopilas, to inquire about directions. As I swung open the screen door, the sight of me compelled her to rush from her kitchen roost and escort me to a table. Insisting that I relax and cool down she hit me with a barrage of questions about the usual curiosities. Where am I from, how far have I come, how long have I been away??? I tried my best to keep up with her barrage of preguntas, but found myself relaxing at the same time as she forced some fresh squeezed juice upon me. Señora Monse keeps an amazing garden right there in her courtyard and the juice from its fruit was exquisite. I was soon informed that the next town out of the mountains was over 7 hours away and that I would be staying at Casa Monse’s that night. How fortuitous that I turned around. I would never had made it if I had kept going past that fork in the road.

The rest of the afternoon was spent sleeping and reading, trying to recover from the exhausting ride in. Later that afternoon, some Belgians arrived to enjoy the hostel. At dinner they invited me to join them, and the resulting conversations were some of the best examples of why I love to travel. You can never learn more about yourself and your place in the world than by seeing how other cultures and people view both themselves and you. We talked at great length about the United States, its leaders, and American culture. I will spare you our political views but I would like to pass on a glimpse of European work ethics. At 38 hours, the Belgians say their work week is over. Every minute is logged methodically so that no one exceeds that limit. They have over 30 paid Federal holidays per year and about 2 weeks of personal holidays that they can choose to take whenever they like. They really can’t understand how Americans are productive at all, usually working over an average of 50 hours per week, and with only 2 weeks of normal vacation time to recuperate. I tended to agree with their assessment and think it’s a little insane myself.

But I don’t have to worry about that again for a few more months! After a restful night at Casa Monse’s I will be off to find my way out of the Canyons.