Race Report from CMRA Round 8 at Cresson, TX

1st Place! Finally…

The RSVR ran like a dream all weekend. So well in fact that in Friday’s practice session I noticed the bike getting a bit squirrely coming out of corners, even more than usual. I don’t mind sliding a bit under WOT but I wasn’t even at 100% yet, not even 75% as I was still learning the track. Something else was wrong. I got back to the pits to realize that my brand new Dunlop D211 looked like it had been spun on a cheese grater. WTF mate?

I rode it over to the tire guy to ask him what I was doing wrong.

“Are you whiskey dickin the throttle?”
“Hell no man, I’m smooth like butta!”
“Tire hot? Checked your pressures?”
“Always”
“Hmmm, let’s add some compression and send you back out. With as much torque as your bike is putting down if the bike can’t sit back up under acceleration it will just put all that energy into the tire.”
“Wonder why I haven’t had any problems in the past?”
“Maybe that compound is just too soft for your bike. You sure you aren’t hammering the throttle?”
“I swear I know how to ride. Isn’t that tire what I always run?”
“Nah, this is a new compound that Dunlop is beta testing on you racers.”

Ah, ok, so maybe it’s the wrong tire for me. We flipped the tire on the rim so that all the left hand turns could eat up the other side and we dialed in some compression in the rear to keep the bike from squatting.

2 sessions later I came in early and went right back to Dunlop’s trailer. The tire was roasted down the entire ‘new’ left side, little chunks of rubber were just flaking off.

That’s when he bounced on the rear end and promptly informed me that my shock was on its last legs. We dialed in the high speed compression 2 clicks and low speed 2 clicks off from full. He had a take-off slick that we swapped out, since the current rear was just plain dangerous in its current state (but kind of fun!).

Now I dropped the hammer, and I really wanted this tire to come back in perfect shape that way it was obviously the shock’s fault, just anything but my ability. I progressively got up to speed to ensure there was plenty of heat built up in the rubber, and I dipped into the 1:25s (my goal for practice was to learn the track and maybe break into sub 1:30s). I rolled into full throttle just past every apex, the RSVR growled smugly and voraciously ate up the straights. That tire stuck like mad.

Once again, back at the Dunlop trailer we inspected the rear to find everything perfect. Heat, pressure, and rubber condition were all ideal. Phew! I can’t believe I had almost doubted Dunlop quality. If the valving in the rear shock held on for the rest of the weekend with the new settings I would be in pretty good shape.

And it did. I ran in B Superbike, A Superbike and Heavyweight Twins, netting a 4th in B (starting 13th), 5th in A (starting 15th), and a 1st in HW Twins (starting 6th).

The 1st is nice but I’m really proud of the 4th and 5th place finishes. The RSVR should be outmatched running against R1s and GSXR 750/1000s, but I managed to hang in there with some very close racing. I dropped another 3.5 seconds to my fastest time of 1:21.5 in the B Superbike race, and I ran consistently all weekend while making some brilliant passes (if I do say so myself :p). I definitely had a blast through out it all. And yesterday the Penske shock came off for a refreshening so I should be good to go for next month’s race.

Special thanks to David Roy for helping me get the bike sorted.

ONBOARD YOUTUBE VID!

And thanks to Hart Photography for the great pics:

Ted Phillips is sponsored by AF1 Racing, Apriliaforum.com, Aprilia USA, Dunlop Tires, North Texas Superbikes, Acculign, Woodcraft, Leo Vince, Rhino Moto, and Modo-Marketing.com

“I think the RSVR’s gremlins are finally killed. We’ve been chasing issues with cutting out and backfiring since my first race back in March, and to date we’ve rebuilt the fuel pump, flushed the coolant system, replaced plugs, coils, thermostat, Power Commander, throttle bodies, injectors, and added a fuel pressure regulator kit.

After the last go round of surgery we tried to re-map the ecu on the dyno last week. The rough-in went well but once we tried to dial in the mapping at around 8k RPMs and above, the bike became dangerously lean for no apparent reason. Progress was ground to an immediate halt. As a last ditch effort we grabbed the gas tank, fuel pump and high pressure line from a donor bike and swapped out the entire assembly.

Voila! The next run saw CO numbers in the 12-15% range, which is insanely rich (ideal is 4-5%). Turns out the fuel pump just couldn’t keep up under high demand. I can’t say I blame it, after all it has been slammed into the wall at over 140mph more than once. Over the following few hours we honed the mapping from 3-11k RPMs in 500RPM increments, and at 2, 5, 10, 20, 40, 60, 80 and 100% throttle positions. The bike runs like an absolute dream now!

And just in time for the trackday last Sunday. I’m getting very comfortable on the bike and have improved my body position and smoothness considerably. I was able to ride comfortably at a very aggressive pace all day long. As I passed other riders, more than one of them later commented on how I was leaving darkies out of every corner. I absolutely roasted my rear tire, man it was so much fun.

My next goal is to improve my corner entries, I’m braking way too early and not trailing it in to the apex like I need to. Yesterday the bike got fresh front brake pads so hopefully that will help with feel and fade. With any luck we’ll be bringing home another podium finish from Cresson.”

Ted Phillips is sponsored by AF1 Racing, Apriliaforum.com, Aprilia USA, Dunlop Tires, North Texas Superbikes, Acculign, Woodcraft, Leo Vince, Rhino Moto, and Modo-Marketing.com

Special thanks to Hart Photography for the photos.

“I made my move for 1st in the second lap. Turn 1 is a very fast left hand sweeper that the leading Triumph was parking it in. I set up wide to get a good drive and rocketed past him into Wheelie Hill. That was by far the most speed I had carried out of that turn all weekend and by the time the front wheel came back to Earth I was 20 feet past my usual braking marker. Crap! I squeezed the living hell out of the brake lever but ended up blowing past the apex in the Bus Stop by that same 20 feet, only to see the Triumph disappear through the chicane and get a good 100 yard lead.

He then upped the pace and started dipping into the 1:24s, my fastest lap up to that point was a 1:25. Regaining my composure I began to reel in some of the experts, but the Triumph was out of reach. In lap 4, going into the last 180° horseshoe leading onto the front straight, I got the bright idea to take an outside line around 2 experts. Evidently I was completely unprepared for this new line full of bumps and carried way too much speed. By the time the turn was 2/3s behind me I was already dancing with the edge of the track and rather than risk lowsiding I stood the bike up and went offroad.

While I was busy flat tracking it out in the field that damn CRF450 was in striking distance and took over 2nd place. For real this time, I regained my composure and blew his doors off the next lap going into Wheelie Hill. And this time I didn’t blow my brake marker. I then began to turn consistent 24s but it wasn’t enough, the Triumph was a good 10 seconds ahead at the checker.

Oh well, he earned it. And I learned a good lesson: don’t get greedy, a consistent race is much more important. If I had just stuck right behind that Triumph through the majority of the race I could have learned his strengths and weaknesses, and then passed him with 1 lap to go for the win.

I have to say though, I’m getting better. In the novice class I started 5th and finished 2nd, and overall (novices and experts) I started 12th and finished 5th. I’m looking forward to Cresson Raceway in 3 weeks, it’s a 1.7 mile track that the RSVR should simply eat up.”

Ted Phillips is sponsored by AF1 Racing, Apriliaforum.com, Aprilia USA, Dunlop Tires, North Texas Superbikes, Acculign, Woodcraft, Leo Vince, Rhino Moto, and Modo-Marketing.com

Special thanks to Barry Nichols for the photos.

Race Day:

The RSVR had been running flawlessly all throughout Friday and Saturday’s practice and I had been gaining second after second, lap after lap. I kept comparing my laptimes with my competitors’ and it was obvious that Sunday’s race was my race to lose. When the time came to go out for my warm-up in the B Superbike Race I headed to the grid with confidence. And that’s precisely when things started going down hill.

To start the downward spiral, I had a crappy launch at the green flag and I’m not sure what went wrong. At the 30 second board, I had the RPMs locked in at 4500 and the clutch warming up with a slight drag, but when the green flag dropped I lofted the front end into a 2 gear wheelie and had to back off much sooner than I should have. Couple that with a lack of faith in unscrubbed tires and I may as well have parked it in Turn One.

It didn’t matter much anyway as two laps later I had found renewed confidence in my riding abilities and the RSVR’s capabilities, and I came screaming off the front straight into Turn One at lightspeed.

Turn 1 is a double apex and the first goal is to scrub off enough speed so that you can hug the second apex which guarantees a good drive out into some flickering switchbacks. To my dismay, the RSVR simply fell on its face halfway through the turn, totally unexpected to its pilot, and I nearly ran off over the curbing on the inside of the turn. The bike absolutely refused to rev passed 5000 RPM, and in protest it backfired and sputtered like a fireworks factory going up in flames.

Disgusted and frustrated, I pulled off the track and hid in shame behind a tire wall. Not sure what to do at this point I shut off the beast and debated my options. There was no real point to trying to get back in the race, my only goal for the warm-up was to force myself up to race pace by surrounding myself with the buzzy drone of the lighter and faster GSXR fleet in B Superbike, and to concurrently scrub in my new set of tires in preparation for the main race. After a few minutes of stewing and steeping I turned the key back on and the RSVR roared back to life as if nothing had happened. You little bitch. Although I did note the coolant temp was a scalding 233° F

I ambled back toward the track surface across the grass and patiently waited for race traffic to pass- I could almost see their sneers and jeers glaring at me through their tinted visors as they flew past. Once the coast was clear I made my way through the infield back to pit in. Tail between my legs, my brain reeled trying to diagnose what had gone wrong.

Back at the pits we tore into the beast. Bodywork went flying, and all involved became roped into the zone. Best prognosis, the bike had simply overheated and gone into limp mode. Easy fix? Perhaps a coolant flush. Or maybe the thermostat was stuck closed. I hoped it wasn’t anything more complicated, I just didn’t have the time to sort such issues out. There was precisely 120 minutes until the main event, and that was my race to lose.

Time was fleeting, time was a bitch. Race after race was announced to us over the loudspeaker as we worked furiously in the pits. An ever present warning to hurry the **** up. Dammit! With 20 minutes to go until showtime we were still left without a definitive cause for the RSVR falling on its face, and we were forced to button up the beast.

Time to hatch a game plan: Assuming the bike overheated and went into limp mode, then all we have to do is keep the temps below 235°F. Take it easy on the sighting lap, shut off the bike and coast into the grid for the start, and do whatever it takes to avoid heat soaking the engine at all costs.

The plan worked to a T. I was a racing robot. At the grid I was starting 14th position and I was at the top of my game when the flag dropped. Milliseconds before the streak of green registered in my brain I had fed in the perfect ratio of clutch and throttle, and the RSVR thrust forward with me clinging on. Two bikes in the row ahead of me careened toward each other, threatening to chop my line, but I punched my way through with inches to spare. By Turn One I was in 3rd place in class and 6th overall.

This was my race to lose. The leader pack of experts was slowly receding, and I was the leader of the backmarkers. I summoned my A-game. Over the course of the next two laps, with determination and unnatural focus I reeled the leaders back in. By lap three I was in 1st place in class, 3rd overall, and basically had the track to myself. And then my mighty beast fell on its face again.

Coughing and lurching, I coasted down the front straight with the folded green/white flags signaling the halfway mark screaming at the top of my lungs, “COME ON BABY, PLEASE , PLEASE, PLEASE, YOU CAN MAKE IT!!!” The bike and I stumbled through Turn One but miraculously, things came alive on the exit. A spectator later commented, “Man, you lit up the rear something awful and then you disappeared down the switchbacks like a bat out of hell!”

The next two laps were uneventful, yet just as thrilling to me. It all came down to the final lap and I really thought I had it wrapped up. The bike faltered yet again in the midst of a series of chicanes and I had a chaser close enough to capitalize on the situation. He passed on the inside, but I blew his doors off down the back straight when the RSVR spontaneously came alive as if nothing had happened. Though it was all for naught when he passed me on the outside going onto the back long straight away. One final time, the RSVR composed itself, carrying me ever closer to victory, and I tried to gain as much ground as possible going into the last two turns.

The second to last turn is a 180° horseshoe and I went in stupid fast. I swung wide trying to conserve my momentum knowing that my bike may not have anything for the drive out, and sure enough I spied my nemesis showing me a wheel on the inside as the RSVR wheezed along at part throttle. I debated my options. I could be a dick and crank my ailing bike over, chopping off his line and hopefully coast over the finish line, or I could be noble by acknowledging that I was bested this round and get out of his way.

I decided to get out of his way since it made little sense to risk a crash should the bike cut out completely with him anywhere near me. Nevertheless, I found myself hopelessly flogging the throttle out of the last turn in the desperate search for a miracle, with no result, and he crept past me with just enough speed to grab 1st place by .11 seconds.

That equates to less than five feet.

Dammit. I’ll be getting 1st at Hallet!

Ted Phillips is sponsored by AF1 Racing, Apriliaforum.com, Aprilia USA, Dunlop Tires, North Texas Superbikes, Acculign, Woodcraft, Leo Vince, Rhino Moto, and Modo-Marketing.com

Special thanks to Marisa Roman, Dan M and Barry Nichols for the photos.

I spent almost all of the practice sessions on Friday trying to sort out a mystery electrical problem. The bike kept cutting out suddenly and violently under part/full throttle and things could have really been nasty if it had bucked me off in a corner. Turns out the regulator/rectifier had fried itself and the battery tried its best to keep up until the voltage dropped below 11 volts, which caused the sudden power surges. The solution was to cut out the reg/rect from the system for the rest of the weekend and run total-loss on the bike, just charging the battery in between sessions.

During my “warm-up” race on Sunday (basically a race that the bike is legal for but not competitive in: eg “B Superbike” - running against a bunch of rev happy GSXR 750s), I caught a false neutral under heavy braking into an off camber uphill right sweeper and had a little off road excursion at about 50mph. I kept it upright and got back on track quickly, but I loss 3 positions and a lot of confidence.

I rebuilt my confidence going into the Heavyweight Twins race, where the RSVR simply shines. At the green flag, starting from the 3rd row, I destroyed everyone off the launch and I had Turn 1 to myself. Leave it to me to ruin a good thing, I cut the apex too sharply and ran over the curbing. This shot me wide and I missed my drive onto the straight, putting me in 4th. I spent the next lap slowly reeling in the leaders and was going for the pass, flying down the front straight, and setting up the inside line. I came in just a little too hot and was sliding the rear all over the place, but still managed to get down to cornering speed in time. By some crazy chance the 2nd and 3rd place racers clipped each other right in front of me as they were settling into their lean angles, sending them both off the track in a cloud of tire smoke and dust. I had 2nd place all to myself with 6 laps to go!

At this point, I didn’t know how far behind the rest of the pack was and I could no longer see 1st place, so I made the decision to just race smart. No more extreme late braking, no more full throttle drives out of the apexes, just nice and consistent racing all the way to the finish line. In lap 6, in the slowest corner of the track - a left kink into a right hairpin known as the Bus Stop - the 3rd place rider grabbed the inside line and took my position. I had set up a bit wide to get a good drive onto the uphill back straight, which paid off when I gave it full throttle and wlet him have it. The RSVR roared past him on one wheel, with me climbing far forward on the tank to keep the front wheel in check, and a few seconds later the bike became weightless underneath me as I crested the hill, leaving me just enough time to grab a handful of brakes as gravity returned so I could pitch the bike over into the fastest right sweeper of the track. That was the last I saw of him and I finished the race with my fastest lap of 1:27.766

We were running clockwise. Turn 1 is the 180 in the bottom left, the Bus Stop is top right, and the last fast right is in the bottom right. It’s a really fun track with some crazy elevation changes that make for some hairy blind corner entries and exits. I hit 131mph on the short main straight and averaged 71mph for the race.

ted

I woke up just before 5am. I was the only conscious one in the park and the entire world was mine. Overhead was a thick blanket of stars, and except for those dense scintillations I was enveloped in complete darkness. Perfect time to make my escape and steal away under veil of night.

There are few moments in my life that I feel truly aware. Most of the time I’m just plodding through life, day to day, with my brain never operating outside of auto-pilot. It takes extraordinary circumstances to jump start it out of its preferred state of perpetual alpha-waves. Cruising out of the Chisos aboard the Capo, I filled my lungs with the crisp mountain air, my eyes danced between the incredible star field above and the swath of light carved ahead by the headlights, and somehow, for that very brief moment, everything was right in the world. I felt alive.

My destination was only 40 miles away, the Santa Elena Canyon on the US/Mexico border. I had to make it there by sunrise, as the light would be striking it perfectly for my awaiting camera. The road was sinuous and tacky as it snaked its way down towards the Rio Grande. I had the entire park to myself so I felt no guilt wicking it up a bit on the Capo. It begged to go faster but I was already borderline and out-riding my headlights. The last thing I wanted was to plaster a jackrabbit or send the Capo offroad dodging a tarantula. I made it to the Canyon mouth with just enough time to scout out the perfect angle and 5 minutes later the sun crested the Chisos mountains behind me, giving me this dazzling display of fiery reds and oranges.

The Santa Elena Canyon was formed rapidly by the Rio Grand only about 5 million years ago. The 300 million year old limestone that form its 1500 foot bluffs was deposited while most of the region was covered by a shallow sea. About 20 million years ago, the tectonic margin changed on the Pacific rim of North America and the entire continent began to expand, forming the basin and range landscape of the western US. As the crust extended it also rose in elevation. About 5 million years ago, the fault block that makes up the limestone cliffs rose and tilted so rapidly that the Rio Grande sliced straight down through it effortlessly. Upon exiting the Canyon, the Rio Grande makes a sharp turn towards the south, and follows the rift in the Earth’s crust that can be traced all the way up into Colorado.

I had to be back at work in less than 24 hours, so it was time to exit the park and start the long trek back. But not before hitting paydirt. There is a stretch of gravel road that leads from the canyon to the western exit and that was just what I needed to end the perfect morning. Looking at the Capo’s street tires I almost turned around where the dirt began, but somehow I just knew the Capo would treat me right.

My only previous experience on dirt was a few hundred miles aboard an XR650R. It was insanely fast and tended to dance all over the place. It took a lot of faith to just let it do its thing and keep my right hand into the gas. The Capo, even handicapped with improper tires, fared extremely well offroad. It put its weight to advantage and basically sank its way through the sand and soft stuff, finding purchase on bedrock. Like an elephant doing the tango, it just plows straight through anything, but gracefully. I felt completely comfortable, and although I didn’t push it as much as I might the XR, I made good time and thoroughly enjoyed getting some dirt in my teeth.

It had been an amazing journey through the park and I felt like showing my appreciation. So I expressed my thanks the only way I knew how.

On into Terlingua for some heart-attack-on-a-plate breakfast. I hadn’t had a proper meal in about 2 days so I felt like treating myself. Fried egg, greasy sausage and loaded down with cheese. Kill me with cholesterol. Once my belly was properly full, it was time to start the long trek home. I turned the Capo north towards Alpine, and what lay before me was about 80 miles of total desertion.

I didn’t see another car, or another person for that matter, for nearly 70 miles. It was just me, the Capo, and the Chihuahuan desert. Total isolation and solitude. A breakdown here could mean death. But I had nothing to fear, the Capo is bullet-proof reliable and would undoubtedly carry me the distance.

I may as well have been the only human on Earth. I was the star of my own private Twilight Zone, and my mind began to wonder. So many isolated events had to occur exactly as they did for this moment in time to occur. Me, racing across the desert aboard a miraculous machine, trying to make sense of it all. I gazed out across the mountains piercing skyward through the desert floor. This unique moment in time had its roots millions of years ago with the immense tectonic forces that molded and sculpted the scenery before me. A few hundred thousand years ago the human race gained consciousness, and it was this new powerful brain that would eventually allow us to develop tools and machines, and with them the capability of building roads and motorcycles. And I, the observer, entered the scene just a few decades ago, possessing a highly refined mental prowess that allows me to analyze and contemplate the vastness and impossibility of this moment. My life had to follow its exact course to put me aboard a Capo, lost in the desert, in this unique moment in time. And there is an absolute zero chance of this moment ever happening again.

I then began to wonder what the Universe might think of our silly little machinations we call our ‘lives’ here on Earth: “Oh look, your greatest accomplishment is that you’ve bought some land and put a little fence around it, calling it yours. ‘This is my rock, this is my tree, and amongst them I put my house’, you say. Well, your house and fence might last 50 or even a 100 years. But you won’t. How quaint that you call them yours. Your timescale is so insignificant compared to mine. And once you stop breathing and pumping blood, you will try to achieve some semblance of my immortality by having your remains placed in an aluminum box to protect your borrowed atoms and molecules for eternity. Guess what, I’ll get them back eventually. I might just plunge a tectonic plate below your burial site and force some magma to engulf your remains, melting them into oblivion. After being recycled countless times over eons and eons, your oxygen atoms might end up in some silicate rock, your carbon may eventually find its way to a seafloor and become part of some future hydrocarbon for the next super species to exploit. By the time I’m done, there will be no trace that you ever existed. Intimidated yet? Watch out, I may just blink and in that time 5 billion of your years will pass. Then your sun will cool and expand, enveloping your tiny Blue Oasis that is all you ever knew. Your Earth, and anything that was ever you, is doomed to that certain fate, a tiny morsel for your ravenous sun in repayment for every erg of energy you ever stole from its output. Then there will be absolutely no trace of anything human, anywhere, forever. How’s that sound? You just piddle about in your insignificant life, try to tell yourself it all means something, and feign happiness in ignorance. Silly human.”

Where was I? Oh yeah. A lone shadow streaked across the vast desert platform, a silly human trying to make sense of his life and the surrounding world. Motorcycle trips such as these lend themselves to deep introspection. In a certain light everything is for naught, but in that morning Chihuahuan desert light, everything was right in the world, everything was perfect, as it should be. I couldn’t be happier. The past day has been full of moments of perfect bliss. All thanks to the indescribable miracle of the motorcycle. Because of that machine, I can find solace in a non-sensical world.

Towards Alpine, the road climbed out of the desert into a small mountain chain, and with it came the twisties. Now, in broad daylight I smirked to myself as I railed through corner after corner. It’s an interesting feeling having such a massive bulk flexing and yawing underneath you as the laden Capo soaked up the corners, but at no time did I lose feel with the road.

Entering a long uphill right hand sweeper, I cranked the Capo over and craned my neck, looking as far as I could up the inside. And coming the other direction I glimpsed the familiar YZF with Caesar at the helm, putting right along, with Roger piloting the truck right behind as a chase vehicle. I suddenly felt like showboating a little, so a hung a bit off to the inside and fed the Capo some more throttle. I can only imagine what they thought as I roared past, bike overloaded with gear, and me with a shit-eating grin that they couldn’t even see. At least he was riding now.

A few miles later I nearly peed myself. I came flying out of the last twisty into Alpine, only to come face to face with an immigration checkpoint. Being situated so close to Mexico, these checkpoints are commonplace on strategic highways upstream from ports of entry. I didn’t expect one on this highway though, the closest crossing was way over in Presidio. I slowed the Capo to respectable limits and approached the armed Border Patrol agents with my heart in my throat. “They’re going to tackle me off of this bike I obviously just stole in Mexico because it ain’t got no plate!”, I projected my fate. The west Texas version of Boss Hogg and Roscoe P. Coltrain glared at me from behind their aviator sunglasses. Boss Hogg quizzed “Are you a US citizen?”, his plump jowls bouncing as he chewed his gum, to which I choked out a reply of “Yessir!”.

“Well, that’s all we need to know, have a good ‘un!”.

Your tax dollars hard at work. I fled quickly and gingerly out of the checkpoint, waiting in expectation for the cross tackle once they realized I had no plate. I didn’t even check my mirrors for fear of making eye-contact, they could have been running after me with the dogs, guns drawn and waving in the air frantically, for all I know.

Somewhere outside of Del Rio is a tiny town called Langtry, home to 145 inhabitants and the Texas legend of Judge Roy Bean. Nearby the mighty Pecos River cuts a deep swath south into the Rio Grande. The highway bridge that spans this river just happens to be the tallest in Texas at a respectable 273 feet. From a perch above you can see the Pecos and Rio Grande, with Mexico just beyond.

This entire trip Mexico had been beckoning. Hey, I’ve got money saved away, I could easily cross at Del Rio and disappear into Nowhere, Mexico for a month or two. Who knows what adventures would lay in wait south of the border? But damn, I’d get busted for sure trying to take a bike across that didn’t belong to me, and was blatantly missing a license plate. Mexico will have to wait for a bit. But not too long, I hope.

As I headed back toward civilization, I successfully crossed two more checkpoints, each time no one the wiser. In fact, the only person who ever made mention of my lack of a plate was a Harley Rider at some gas station. “Boy, where you from? You ain’t got no tags!” Together we surmised that some hoodlum had stolen the dealer plate while I was camped out in the Big Bend wilderness. That’s exactly what happened, *nudge nudge wink wink*. I refused to let him on to the truth that I am functionally retarded when it comes to bothersome nuances like vehicular legalities.

I got a lot of compliments on the Capo at every gas station. I met plenty of other Harley riders that, of course, would never give up their hog, but if they did they’d get a bike just like mine. Beemer riders had comments like, “Boy, you sure don’t see a lot of those on the road!”. But my favorite was “Ap-uh-rilla, who makes that?”

Through some miracle of law enforcement laziness, I made it back to the shop unscathed. No tickets, no crashes, and no incidents other than one sore butt and aching neck muscles. Almost 1100 miles in 2 ½ days, all with 0 license plates. This little mini-adventure has left me thirsty for the next Capo ride. Hmm, as I break out my map, where to next?

I had slept late for the first time in a long time. I had no obligations, no duties, not a worry in the world other than my slight negligence in the motor vehicular legality department. I leisurely packed up my camp site, and once again my thoughts turned toward admitting defeat and heading back home. Why would I let a measly thing like a lack of a license plate slow me down? I’ve made it this far, let’s see how much further I can push the envelope!

Once underway, the miles greased by easily and the Capo was eating up pavement like a ravenous lion. I was racing headlong into the northern reaches of the Chihuahuan desert, and the temperature kept growing and growing.

I had a gallon of water stowed in the Capo’s bags, but the constant arid wind had me reeling for even more hydration. The Capo’s air temp sensor was reading 100*, but that doesn’t include the factor of the constant 70mph wind across my skin, wicking away every last bit of moisture.
Dayumn, it’s hot!

Somewhere near Marathon, TX, I stopped to top off the Capo’s fuel reserves. There I met Caesar and Roger. They were headed to Big Bend as well, but in the plush comforts of an air-conditioned truck. Riding along in the bed was an old YZF750. They were intrigued by the Capo and approached for a closer look. “What is this?” to which I answered with my well-practiced spiel. They acknowledged their comprehension with a “App-a-rilla, huh? Eye-talian? Shore is purddy.” I’m sure that was a compliment. The YZF belonged to Caesar and I couldn’t help but wonder why he wasn’t riding it. Then he started a barrage of questions, “You’re riding alone? You think it’s safe? You don’t carry a gun?” They couldn’t even fathom doing a motorcycle/camping trip like the mini-adventure I had currently undertaken. It completely blew their minds when I told them that less than two years ago, I had ridden all the way to Panama and back. I left them jaws agape, but hopefully a little inspired to just simply ride.

Closer towards my ultimate goal of Big Bend, the landscape and the weather began to improve, mountains cropped up and with them the air cooled a bit. Sparse thunderstorms loomed ahead, threatening to cool me down even more with their life-giving sustenance. I tried to dodge them as best I could, but my chosen path led me closer and closer towards Big Bend, and eventually there was no avoiding the dark clouds.

It was just a quick drench. And since the surrounding air was so deprived of moisture, I quickly dried off. Rather pleasant actually. Once inside the park, the road headed steeply uphill towards my intended campsite in the midst of ancient volcanic batholiths and plutons.

No rain ahead, all my woes are behind me:

The Chisos mountains provided excellent shelter against the elements sweeping through the desert below. About 50 million years ago a tectonic plate was pushed under this region. As it sank into the depths of the Earth, temperatures rose to molten levels, and the rock was turned to magma. Under tremendous pressure, it made its way to the surface, erupting in a fierce chain of volcanoes from here to New Mexico. Big Bend is littered with ash and tuff flows, as well as subterranean batholiths and plutons that are now revealed by erosion. The Chisos mountains are the remnants of what powered those ancient volcanoes. Now they provide a gorgeous backdrop for me and the Capo.

After setting up camp I made my way out to explore some in the park.

After a full day riding, it was time to head back to camp to relax.

And with that spontaneous thought, I quickly threw everything I needed together in a matter of hours. I curtly finished all of my loose ends at AF1, gathered my camera gear and flew home on the Capo to pack up my camping stuff. Just before sunset I was giddy for what might lay ahead. Once packed, I tore out of the driveway hoping to put some miles behind me before the long day’s toils drained my motivation. I was off, and I was free.

There is something deeply calming for me about riding a motorcycle. As the RPMs increase, my respiration slows to idle. With each pulse of the v-twin, my heartbeat slows and slows. The deep throaty rumble of the Capo and the quiet roar of the wind past my helmet are a hypnotic siren song, beckoning me ever further and further into the unknown. What lay ahead of me, besides miles and miles of pristine pavement and the immeasurable chance for adventure? And the thought of heading into the unknown aboard a bike, with nothing resembling a plan, is about the only thing that gets my heart racing anymore.

A few hours into my journey I chose to stop for the night at the logical halfway point, Del Rio TX, right on the cusp of the US/Mexico border. Just outside of town is situated the Amistad Reservoir, a massive and shared body of water between the US and Mexico. A perfect place to camp. But first, I needed some supplies.

Now, I hate Walmart as much as the rest of you, but in Small-Town Texas you don’t really have a choice when it comes to midnight shopping possibilities. Once inside their “made-cheaply-in-china-but-special-price-for-you” mecca, I quickly made my way to their outdoor section and found the few bits and pieces I needed to aid in my journey. Since I had thrown everything together so quickly for my departure I had forgotten a few key ingredients for a successful trip. Like Food. And Water.

Once properly laden with the necessary supplies, I made my way out of the mega-capitalist-corporation-conglomerate towards the Capo, sitting patiently in anticipation just where I left it. Right on the sidewalk next to the mechanized pony ride, halfway blocking the entrance, in a desperate attempt to slow this micro-economy’s dependence on foreign labor.

Amongst the curious onlookers’ gaze of amazement and bewilderment, “What the hell is this guy doing?”, I made haste to properly pack up all my newfound goodies onto the Capo. They had no clue what I was up to, and I’m sorry I never had the chance to enlighten them as to my intent. I totally take it for granted how much enjoyment I get out of piloting a motorcycle to destinations unknown, but I would love to clue them in to how much joy there is to be had in thrusting yourself into the world with only a motorcycle as your defense.

The time was now past midnight and I was exhausted, both from a long day’s work and a full day’s riding behind me. Outside of Del Rio, the Amistad Reservoir was thankfully easy to find, and once off the highway I made my way down the gravel road to an awaiting campsite. And that’s when I noticed the one thing I really needed to pack that I didn’t. Remember how I said I had my choice of so many awesome bikes? Well, the problem lies in that we don’t have enough Dealer Plates to go around. I had just ridden this Capo the day before, and I know it had a plate on it then, but within a day’s time and my excursion to Del Rio, that plate had gone missing. Either it had fallen off (unlikely) or one of my shopmates had borrowed it for a lesser bike without informing me (Damn you Jon!)

I was now faced with a conundrum: Sheepishly head the 230 miles back to the shop under the safety of darkness, admit my stupidity and failure and let my weekend go to waste, or….Hurl myself headlong into the illegal void and make this a true adventure? Hell, it wouldn’t be a proper motorcycle ride if you didn’t pee yourself a bit every time you saw a cop!

The more I lay sleeplessly in my tent, the more I convinced myself that I could make it. Plateless and all. I’m no criminal, I really didn’t steal this bike, even though that’s how it seems to you Mr Ossiffer. I tried desperately to extinguish these thoughts of paranoia, but my mind ran rampant with endless scenarios of me getting busted and sent to pound-me-in-the-ass prison.

First, some background. I knew that after I graduated college I wanted to go back-packing via buses through Mexico for a few weeks as a self-reward. Somehow, I ended up doing a spontaneous trip to Ireland first, and while over there we rented a car. No big deal, except it dawned on my feeble brain that there is only 1 way to travel through a foreign country, and that’s under your own steam. I kept remarking to my travel buddy how much more we were getting to see in Ireland because we weren’t holed up in bus stations or stuck on the side of a road with our thumbs out-stretched. The light bulb flickered above my head and I realized that I was going to ride a motorcycle on my trip through Mexico instead of taking the bus, like a sucker.

Once back from Ireland I started doing research and found sites like www.advrider.com and www.horizonsunlimited.com . The more I read, the more my heart raced in exhilaration at the thought of actually doing a trip of that nature. Soon, my plans grew from just tooling around Mexico to the grand scheme of riding to the Panama Canal and back. I was in way over my head and loving it. The gears were set in motion and there was no stopping me. In 3 short months I had bought a Honda XR650R, outfitted it for dual-sport use complete with luggage, planned my route, moved out of my house with all of my stuff in storage, and all while working 2 jobs to save up enough to pay for it all.

Before I knew it I was on my way. You can follow my journey here . After my 2 month journey I was absolutely hooked on adventure motorcycling. So much in fact, that I did another month long trip in Mexico a few months later. That trip is chronicled here.

After being back for almost a year now I’m getting the itch to go traveling again. This time I’m going huge: Around the World. I’ve slowly gotten the ball rolling but things are really picking up steam now. I’ve sold the XR to make way for a more robust machine capable of a RTW, I’ve moved out of yet another house and into a place with free rent so I can save every penny (I’m remodeling it in exchange for a place to stay), and as of yesterday it looks like obstacle #3 on the infinite list has been cleared. Allow me to explain:

Since my return from Mexico I started working with my buddies at AF1 Racing, the number 1 Aprilia motorcycle dealership in the USA. We are pretty much it when it comes to Aprilia, and we are the golden-child dealership in the eyes of Corporate. My co-workers knew of my lust for adventure traveling and I had mentioned it in passing that we should take some bikes on a huge trip. But I have been reluctant to tell them about my plans to leave for 6 months or a year for fear of losing my job. Yesterday, we made a deal for some 2006 close-out bikes, one of which was the Aprilia Caponord, a big adventure bike comparable to the BMW 1200’s. Jon called me into his office and asked me,

“Hey ted, remember when you were all fired up to do another huge trip?”
“Of course!”
“Well, I bet we could get Aprilia to pay for everything if you took a Capo.”
“Man, I’ve already got my proposal outlined for an Around the World trip on that bike. Bike setup, budget, tentative route, marketing… ”
“Good, you better start working on that in earnest, let’s make this happen.”

So they just presented the trip I’ve been dreaming about for a year like it was their idea! Now I get to start planning on the company dime!

If you’ve stuck with me so far, I’m going to need everyone’s input. I’m going to need info on route planning, sat phones, travel cameras/camcorders, marketing ideas, possible charity associations etc and etc…

Best case scenario, I’ll be leaving this time next year. So that puts me in Siberia in late fall when the snow melt has subsided and the rivers are passable. Gets me through Russia before dead of winter hits.

Phase I of The Plan:

• Tentative Route: Leave AF1 Racing for Alaska, ship me and the bike to Siberia, Road of Bones to Mongolia, Lake Baikal in S. Russia, Kazakstan, more Russia, Ukraine, Poland, Czech Republic, Austria, then to the Aprilia factory in northern Italy, France, Spain and Portugal, then ship me and the bike to NY and ride back to AF1 Racing in New Braunfels TX. [b]Grandiose Route[/b]: Turn south in Spain, cross the Strait of Gibraltor into Morocco, take the Atlantic route through Africa to Cape Town, ship me and the bike to Cape Horn in South America and turn north, Chile, Peru, Equador, Colombia, ship me and the bike over the Darrien Gap into Panama, then home through Central America and Mexico.

• Things that need to happen before I send off the proposal to Aprilia:

- Revamp my website into something more professional looking, update all photo galleries, proofread and clean-up my travel journal
- refine total cost estimate with an itemized budget
- narrow down route with timeline
- find a charity to associate trip with. Raise money for World Hunger? AIDS awareness?

Here’s a tentative outline of what I need to write-up for my proposal to Aprilia:

Introduction:
• My work history with AF1
o No one else loves and supports the brand like us
• Dream Trip of a Capo RTW, picture photos of a Capo in Siberia, Strait of Gibraltor, Machu Pichu etc…
• Golden Opportunity to improve sales and market niche for Aprilia

Trip Details:
• Austin > Alaska> Siberia > east and so on
• Option to turn south at Africa if budget allows
• Stop in Italy at Noale for Aprilia factory tour
o Has any US spec bike ever been back to the factory by land route?
• Meet apriliaforum members along the way, pictures of members + me and the Capo that rode around the world.
o Contact our international customer base to setup group rides / meets

Qualifications:
• My 2 previous trips of 15k miles of adventure riding
• Pro Photog, qualified writer – will be well documented, weekly updates
• read/write/speak conversational Russian/ ~fluent Spanish
• Riding for 14 years – mechanical ability
• Well aware of the rigors/challenges of solo adventure travel
o Know what to pack/what’s needed
o Familiar with dangers of solo travelling

Marketing Opportunities:
• Pro Photog, qualified writer – will be well documented
o Outfit bike with bullet cam, also bring camcorder for video updates
• Post on several forums with ### exposure
o Advrider.com = ##
o Horizonsunlimited= ##
o Apriliaforum.com= ##
o NASIOC = ##
• Aprilia homepage/email updates
• Magazine write-ups/possible book??
• News/Today Show/Late Night??
• Word of Mouth on the internet
• Find a charity to coincide with – raise money for
o Give trip meaning / everyone loves companies that support charities

Estimated Costs:
• Need Rally Raid Caponord with alum side cases and every accessory
• 25k miles / ~25-30 mpg = ~1000gal * $3-$6/gal = ~$5000 fuel
• $40/ day food and lodging * 180 days = ~ $7500 total cost, or * 360 days = ~$15000
• Carnets/permits/border fees/visas = ??
• Incidentals/repairs/unforeseen circumstances ~$2000
• Total estimated cost = $……..

Additional Considerations:
• AF1 can provide all support – ship packages and parts worldwide, daily
• Overall goal is to paint Aprilia and the Capo as a competent and rugged adv tourer
o Claim some adventure market niche back from BMW

If anyone reads all of that, I’m impressed! I’ll keep this thread updated with my progress. I’m giddy just thinking about it.

Somewhere in between Saltillo and Monterrey it seemed that my hearing improved suddenly and dramatically. After almost 30 days and 3000 miles I had learned to block out the incessant drone of the XR’s thumping. But now, something was amiss.

Before I had originally left on this trip, I noticed that my muffler’s endcap was working its way loose, so I drilled some holes and riveted it tight. On the highway to Monterrey, when the constant hum of the XR suddenly crescendoed to a thunderous shriek, an ear-splitting howl, I figured that the end cap had blown off. Hey, this is Mexico, right? If I don’t mind I don’t think anyone else will either. And if the XR starts to run a little lean then I’ll just fiddle with the choke to keep it running cool.

When I got to the next Pemex I pulled over to inspect the damage. I didn’t expect carnage. The entire muffler was gone! The header pipe was dumping raw exhaust to the underside of the XR melting the bodywork in the process. Hmmmm. Well, there’s nothing I can do about that now. As long as nothing catches fire I should be good to reach the border. Hopefully I wouldn’t go deaf in the process.

Smooth sailing all the way through the smog of Monterrey. I even passed about 3 miles of backed up semis in a construction zone by skirting by them on the dirt right-of-way adjoining the freeway. Sometimes there were big payoffs to being on a dirtbike in Mexico.

As the sun slowly lowered, I was only 30 miles short of the border when…

SNAP! rrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrr

There was suddenly no correlation between my throttle and the rear wheel. Did I strip a gear? Did the tranny grenade? Oh no, not my $40 chain!

A quick glance down confirmed my fear. My chain was nowhere to be found. I turned south to see its remnants slithering their way across the highway, a broken serpent that would never reach the other side.

I found myself stranded so close to the American border. Yet, so very very far away. 30 miles may as well been 3000. There are no services of any kind on this stretch of road. No gas stations, no rest stops, nothing but 100 miles of dragstrip to the border.

The sun was about to set. I had a precious little amount of time to do anything. My space was 5 feet of shoulder pinched between the steep drop-off to the right and the wide conveyor of huge double trailer semis roaring past to the left. The wind blast and the rumbling from these beasts was formidable.

Quick brainstorm.

On this stretch of highway, there is nothing. I was 80 miles past the last Pemex, but only 30 miles to Nuevo Laredo. I could ditch the bike down the drop off so no one would find it, and hitchhike to the border. Once on the other side, I could catch a bus and come get the bike later. But damn, I’m so close!

Wait. I still have my original chain (the one from Baja that is one link short), but now I have 2 master links–one from the $40 chain and an extra spare. If I could somehow free up one link I could frankenstein myself a chain and be on my way!

With darkness closing in fast and traffic seemingly getting closer and closer, I set to work. Using the file on my leatherman it would take about an hour to shave off a rivet head that joins the chain links. I scoured the desert below the highway to find myself a big enough rock to hammer out the rivet. After several misplaced whacks I had finally freed up a precious link, and I didn’t even manage to smash a finger. Success!

Now all I had to do was join the loop of chain together with this newly freed link, a master link on each side. The master link from the $40 chain went on easily enough but I just couldn’t get enough clearance with the spare. Exasperated, it dawned on me that I had cut a link off of the $40 chain instead of the Baja chain. Both chains were 520 in size but had different widths. UGGHHH!

It was completely dark now and I had to go back and cut a link off of my spare DID links. And these rivets were stout. But I had a technique now and it would only take an hour and a half this go around. And hour and a half of furious filing on the side of a Mexican highway. The whole time, traffic careened past as if I didn’t exist, the entire world was leaving me behind.

The time was now about 8:30pm and I finally freed up another link. I had been on the road since 8:30 that morning. I had not eaten since then either. With dinner and a hotel room plaguing my mind, I went to connect up my improvised repair.

Again, one master link went on easily enough, but I had difficulty with the other. In the shop with proper tools a master link will get pressed on with a special made clamp. All I had was a c-clamp and a pair of vise grips. Using every ounce of strength I could muster, it still wasn’t enough. I tried and tried to get the safety clip to stay, tearing my fingers to shreds in the process, but it just wouldn’t work. 30 miles to go.

In my mind, my choices were limited. I hadn’t come this far to simply give up. I certainly hadn’t wasted the last 3 hours on the side of the road to simply quit. I’m going to ride this one out. I’ll just see how long that master link will hold without the retaining clip. All I had to do was limp to the border. 30 miles to go.

I didn’t dare go faster than 15 mph. I think I held my breath the whole way. I clutched to the edge of the highway, my hands growing weary of their deathgrip. I wondered how invisible I was to the passing 18 wheelers. Every once and a while a torrential blast of air would confirm that I was anything but obvious to passing vehicles. This was not good. 30 miles to go.

For two hours there was but one thought in my head. “Make it.” In a perpetual loop, these two words rattled around my exhausted brain. 20 miles to go. Hey, I can walk 20 miles in about 5 hours, I could get there one way or the other by dawn. 10 miles to go. I can’t believe it’s held together this long. Make it, make it, make it, make it. 5 miles to go. It’s all down hill now. 2 miles to go. I’m almost home free. 1 mile to go. Clink, clink, clink. The master link was finally working itself loose and I could hear its desperation. Make it, make it, make it, make it…

A full two hours after my makeshift repair I found myself navigating through the heart of Nuevo Laredo. This was no time to get lost. About a half mile away from the bridge I began to hear the master link clacking louder and louder as it slowly chewed its way into the crankcase. Its one tooth made its presence known with a sickening metal-tearing-metal sound. I was now riding a self destructing chainsaw.

I had no time to wonder around town looking for immigration so I could get my visa properly stamped out of Mexico. Luckily, they have booths at the entrance to the bridge so I could cancel my bike permit. Otherwise I could face a $400 charge for not canceling it. I just had to hope that the US border official wouldn’t deny me entry because I didn’t get properly stamped out. They’ve been known to by grumpy sticklers for less.

To my relief, the wait was not long. After the usual interrogation I was waved through by the customs agent. During the process I caught myself several times trying to explain too much about my trip, my day, and my chain. His only reply was “That’s interesting.”

“Quiet, you dolt! He doesn’t care, just get across the border!”, I told myself. The days events had nearly broken me.

But I actually made it back to the US! I didn’t care what happened next. But if the chain could hold together for 2 more miles I wouldn’t complain. All I could think about now was finding a hotel for the night. Make it, make it, make it.

I pulled into the Monterrey Inn in Laredo, TX at around 10:30pm. I tried to clean myself up as best as possible. My hands were covered in blood and grease, my face had a film of grit blown up by 18 wheelers roaring past. Hmmm, now what?

A quick call to my long time friend, Micah at AF1 Racing, put my mind at ease. He readily volunteered to drive the 3 1/2 hours down from Austin to come and rescue me in the morning. I was so close to home!

The next day was a blur, but I remember being very content and satisfied with the outcome of the whole trip. The ride home in the shop truck was thankfully trouble-free. I sat through most of it with a tired grin on my face. When we arrived in New Braunfels, Micah was even kind enough to let me borrow the shop’s Caponord so I could make it all the way home to Austin. The big hurry was: if I could make it back by 6pm then I could pick up a shift at work and start the long process of building back up my bank account.

I made it to work on time and had a great night’s rest. The next day I carried my stock muffler back down to AF1 Racing aboard the loaner Aprilia and began to piece the XR back together. With a new chain and the stock muffler in place, I deemed my well-traveled beast road worthy, and set off to finally complete my journey.

I got within a few miles of my house when….

SNAP! rrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrr

Are you kidding me? A quick glance down confirmed my fears. Where the hell did my front sprocket go? UGGGH!

I was so close to home.

But just like a long list of fortunate coincidences I have come to expect in my travels, one of the AF1 employees just happened to be a few miles behind me on the highway on his way home and saw my bike pulled over.

In the end, this would be a much simpler resolution. He made the turnaround and we quickly loaded up the beaten down and broken XR into his truck. Twice they had to rescue me. I can’t thank my friends enough.

I was finally home for good and the XR had made it too. I spent the night reflecting on all that had happened and fell asleep with a smile on my face.

Some 3000 miles over 30 days and I can’t wait to do it again. Now, to start saving again…

Our conversation darted from politics to philosophy to religion to science to art to music to culture, down to things of no consequence. It was the Meaning of Life itself contained in that little room that night.

I had to leave the next day. I knew that I would probably never see these people again, but there was no sadness when I said goodbye and goodnight and good luck. Through every moment from the Huichol ceremony to this memorable last dinner, each of us knew that we had shared in something special. And we could hold onto that forever.

The next day would begin the long trek home.

After a quick stop by the local grocery shack I had a picnic lunch to pack for the day trip up to the mine ruins. I was looking forward to taking the XR offroad without being fully laden with my traveling gear. The bike felt lively and springy as I roared towards the mountain top.

The road out of town takes you from 9000′ to over 10000′ in a matter of a few switchbacks. After it levels out somewhat, the first stop is a large structure that surrounds a vertical mineshaft. I entertained myself for a while tossing every rock I could find down that hole. I would count up to 11 seconds before I could hear the report of the rocks striking bottom. Knowing that there is no way to recover anything thrown down that mine, I wondered how many bodies littered the bottom. It was all too easy to slip over the 1′ retaining wall surrounding the shaft.

Further up the dirt road is a group of ruins that, upon further exploration, revealed a horizontal mineshaft. I went as deep as I dared before worries of a cave-in forced me to turn around. I was really hoping that I would come across some native silver but I couldn’t see a damn thing.

I was getting hungry so I found a nice spot for a picnic. The soft grass was soothing, so after lunch I read a book until I fell asleep for a quick nap.

The wind was howling over the nearby mountain tops which produced an eerie echo. I felt as if I was being watched. My nap was completely undisturbed until it was raided by looters.

At the end of the ruins I came to a spot that just might have forced me to turn around. I didn’t expect washouts this big.

Go go gadget goat-mobile! I forced the XR to stick to the side of the mountain as I edged around this pit.

Once around that obstacle, I decided to take the path as far as I could just to see what was there. On the other side of this hill is nothing. No more ruins, no houses, no fences. Nothing but high desert as far as the eye could see.

Towards the end of the day I made my way back towards Real. I was proud of myself when I made it the whole way without dropping the bike. That was some of the most technical and difficult riding I’ve done on the XR. I don’t think the pictures do it justice. Most places were in such bad shape that I didn’t dare stop for a photo.

Our mood was somber and respectful during the 3 hour trek from Real up to the 10,000 foot peak. Once near the top the staggering views of the sparse landscape were buttressed by a howling wind that rushed warm arid air up from the desert floor. We could hear chants.

We didn’t expect anyone else to be on the mountaintop, so the sight of 20 traditionally dressed Huichols performing rites was a shock. Unsure of how to proceed we meekly skirted around their 2000 year old fire circle to leave them in peace. “Pasale ustedes! Sientese por aca por un rato!”, the tribal elder called out. They want us to join them!

This was a rare and special moment for gringos. We sat for hours on a slope close by, observing intently as they performed ritual offerings to their gods. I tried to decipher the well practiced and stylized moves each Huichol acted out as they danced around the smoldering fire pit. Each of them had small handmade baskets in which they carried their sacred items to be used in the ritual. In each Huichol’s hat they carried artfully detailed sticks that they used to sprinkle water from gourds and corn meal from baggies into the fire and over the offering area. The whole time chants would erupt in unison, starting high in pitch, sustaining for 10 or so seconds, then trailing off into silence.

When one of the participants signed the cross on his chest I was taken aback. My Canadian friend enlightened me. The Huicholes had 32 gods. When Christianity made itself known to the Huicholes, they decided that they liked this good and fair Christian god. Now they have 33. There is something to be said for a culture that is wise enough to adopt the best points of another, and absorb them as their own.

At one point, the tribal elder called out and motioned for us to join them inside the circle. My heart leapt into my throat. Surely, I was going where no gringo had gone before. Once I stepped over the rocks outlining the fire circle a calming feeling of content overtook me. I had no idea what I was expected to do but I knew it would somehow be right. Before us was a colorful woven blanket on which the gourds of water were set with little baggies of coins interspersed, precisely aligned to the 4 cardinal points of the compass. Each coin purse represented a different concept: 1 for life, 1 for luck, 1 for health, and 1 for knowledge. After I carefully placed a few pesos in each offering I was cleansed by the elder as he waved his hands over me. My small part being done, I rejoined my friends on the hillside.

Against better judgment, I forced myself to sneak this pic. I wouldn’t have dared as being caught would undoubtedly be interpreted as offensive, but one of the Huicholes had a disposable camera and was occasionally snapping shots. I discretely slid my camera from behind my backpack and pressed the shutter button, holding the camera slightly off the ground in between my legs.

I felt compellingly honored to have been invited to participate in their offering ritual. After I exited the circle and sat close with my friends, the feel and vibe of the ceremony heightened. Each Huichol passed in turn by the elder to partake in the iconic peyote. I was slightly relieved that they didn’t offer me any. With this change in the ritual we felt it was time to make our exit, so we graciously thanked the Huichols and slowly began our descent. We took our time, reflecting on the afternoon’s events, and after a few kilometers we could make out the sounds, lofted by the wind, of the Huichols howling like coyotes from the mountaintop. I wonder what their visions told them about their place in the world?

I didn’t understand most of the ceremony but I was deeply moved by its significance. I spent the rest of the hike down in meditative thought and the rest of the night in introspective reflection. It was refreshing and invigorating to have a foreign spirituality affect me at my soul.

Real de Catorce is a magical town. Quaint and small with a refreshing lack of gringos. However, during certain festivals and pilgrimages it can be overrun with up to 50,000 tourists. I was lucky in my choice of arrival date, the town was deserted.

My plan for the next 3 days was to relax as much as possible, hike around the countryside and take the XR up the mine road to explore the nearby ruins. Within an hour of my arrival my friends from the Zacatecas hostel had found me and invited me to dinner. I do like traveling alone, but my new friends were a joy to be around. I love how kindred spirits just seem to find each other when they are thrust out in the world.

(come back and fill in details of afternoon, maybe something about valentines)

The plan was to find my way out of the maze of tunnels that undercut the city, and then head downhill to the Christo Rey. This is a huge bronze statue placed on a mountain top outside of Guanajuato that is said to be located at the exact geographic center of Mexico. What better thing to have at the very heart of your country than a huge dude on a cross?

5 minutes into the ride I noticed an unusual vibration. I’m used to the XR vibrating horrendously all the time, but this particular one was new and different. I tried to ignore it as long as possible, but once up to highway speeds the handlebars began to shake violently and it was slightly unsafe. I leaned over one side to glance at the front wheel and I immediately noticed something amiss. Some menacing shadow was flying around the inside of my wheel.

Awesome! It had only been a few days since I had to do a repair on the bike. This was exactly what I needed. Through some miracle of foresight, I actually had a 6mm wrench with which I could undo some spokes. Because of the tight nature of the spokes at the hub, in all I had to remove 7 completely to get to the 2 that carried the dead weight.

Cheeky bastards! Once I realized that it was actually a pretty innocent prank I laughed out to myself. After all, they could have put sugar in my tank, cut a brakeline or removed my $40 chain at the master link. This was actually a pretty good joke. Haha. And because of this unexpected detour I missed the exit for Christo Rey and couldn’t find a retorno for sometime. Oh well, I’ll see it next trip.

Upon arrival in Zacatecas, I was thrust into a madhouse of traffic. Having no real idea where exactly I was headed I lane-split my way passed the brunt of cars and eventually found the old town center. Then it was relatively easy to find the hostel Villa de Colonial.

After unloading the XR’s bags into my dorm room I climbed up to the terrazo to introduce myself to everyone. It was too small of a world because 3 of my hostel mates had been in San Blas on the same day as I had. We had been no less than 50 feet away from each other watching the parade go by. Furthermore, they were heading to Real de Catorce the next day, which was where I was headed. I would meet up with them yet again down the road.

We all became close friends and enjoyed a beer or two up there on the terrace. The view out on the town was amazing and tranquil. Later that night, this guy Alan and I decided to go out on the town for some nightlife. The hostel owner’s son had invited us out to his favorite local bar, so we started there. It was nice and quiet. The son was kind enough to buy us a drink so we obliged and stuck around longer than we really wanted to. After making a graceful exit we made our way to a booming discoteque nearby. This was more like it! Ladies everywhere.

The doorguys parted the velvet ropes as if we were VIPs, and after it was made obvious to us that we were not to pay cover we headed straight for the bar. Unlike the doorguys, I guess the bartender was unsure about my gringo appearance so it took a while to get his attention. What finally did it was the girl next to me waved him down and ordered beers for us. I’m sure this act would have shamed any proper macho Mexican male, but I loved it. That move by her sparked a very enjoyable night of dancing and conversation with her and her 5 friends.

The next day, a group of us gringos in the hostel caught a bus out to La Quemada, an Aztec/Toltec trade post on the Camino Real to Mexico City. We spent most of the day climbing all over the ruins. It wasn’t as compelling as Copàn in Honduras, but it was still impressive.

At one time there were over 15,000 inhabitants living in this mountain city. Though its real name is Chicomostoc, it is called La Quemada because it met a fiery demise somewhere around 1500ad. We spent hours and hours exploring every nook and cranny of the ruins. All of us got more exercise than we bargained for, so it was a welcome 2 hour rest as we waited for the return bus to Zacatecas.

The rest of my time was spent touring the nearby mines, enjoying 5 for $2 tacos in the market and wandering aimlessly around town. One of the highlights was going to the restaurant Cazadores. We ate filet mignon that had been cooked right in front of us for $8. The view from the restaurant’s second floor looked down on the plaza where the town was celebrating the Chinese Newyear. Yep, Chinese Newyear in Mexico. Complete with the drums, dragon dances and loads and loads of fireworks. I was in cultural overload.

I ended up spending 3 days in Zacatecas because I didn’t want to arrive in Real de Catorce on a weekend. That small village is notoriously raucous on Saturday and Sunday with bused-in tourists.

So, on to Real de Catorce!

That next night I got to enjoy another free concert in the Jardìn. These guys belted out John Philip Sousa like I’ve never heard before. I really love that about Mexico: that there is a central place for everyone to gather and enjoy some old fashioned culture. I really enjoyed the people-watching. People bustling about, music in the air, all in the heart of Mexico.

Tomorrow, Zacatecas!

As luck would have it, I got lost trying to find the right highway out of Guadalajara. This series of wrong turns just happened to bring me alongside a small moto repair shop. Of course, I was in the far opposite lane and quickly sped past with no chance of making it.

15 minutes later of wondering around the side streets that adjoined the busy highway and I was back where I needed to be. I came flying into the small shop and quickly explained my predicament to the 15 year old mecanico with my newly learned word for grinder - molinillo. He and his 7 year old apprentice soon had my chain cut to the right length, but they had to wait for their older brother who was in charge of the cash register.

Not much longer and they were explaining the quick repair to the proprieter and I inquired how much it was going to be. “Una soda”, was his reply. A coke? Are you serious? I handed him a 100 pesos intending for him to keep it and split it amongst the 3 of them. He wouldn’t hear of it and went to go make change. The much needed repair cost me $2. Unbelievable. (I tipped the 2 expert mechanics for their quick service)

I quickly found my bearings and the correct highway up to Guanajuato. The ride from Guadalajara took me through miles of industry that thankfully gave way to a more attractive agricultural area. The entire ride was totally uneventful except for the two times I almost died.

Coming over a hilltop that curved slightly left, I noticed a semi with 2 trailers in tow coming down a side road at an alarming pace. An alarming pace that did not seem to be slowing. I covered both brakes and down shifted twice. Sure enough he pulled right out onto the highway, right in front of me. Then I suppose he saw me coming so he stopped abruptly, expertly blocking all of my lane and a third of the oncoming one. The XR’s brakes are not nearly good enough to slow in time so I made a quick decision. Hoping that any oncoming traffic would have also seen this rolling roadblock and slowed to a halt, I dove left and grazed the semi’s grill as close as I could. To my relief, there was no oncoming traffic and I escaped cleanly.

An hour later, I’m heading around another slight left and the oncoming traffic is nonstop. Experience told me that I should expect cars and trucks in my lane, threatening a head on collision, as they try to overtake the slower drivers in front of them. I instinctually hugged the shoulder to my right but in no time I see a fortress of a semi heading straight for me in my lane. And he was not slowing at all. In fact, he was still accelerating, trying to make it around a slow moving chicken bus. I winced and yelled a few choice words as I nearly made the choice to hit the dirt at full speed. I think we missed by a mere 2 feet, but the wind blast hit me like a brick wall and nearly took me off the seat. Somehow, I escaped cleanly again.

Oddly enough, neither event got my heart rate above idle.

Soon thereafter I was in Guanajuato, an intriguing and vibrant city. It is perched in a high valley which forces some interesting infrastructure on it. There are only a handful of streets passable by car, everything else is pedestrian-only alleyways that wind steeply up into the surrounding hillsides. All traffic is east to west and if you want to go back the other way, you head underground using any number of tunnels that cut under the town in an intricate system. It took me a full day to get a feel for how this worked and on the first day trying to navigate on the XR was interesting, to say the least. I was the lab rat that never found the cheese.

Guanajuato is a very beautiful and colorful city. It is historically famous for being the location of the first major victory of the rebels in the Mexican War for Independence against Spain, around 1810. This is where Miguel Hidalgo and his rowdy bunch of troops surrounded a few thousand Spaniards and killed them all. It’s also where Spain took revenge and had a random lottery to hang hundreds of commonfolk.

Guanajuato has a tumultuous history of exploitation in war and mining. Now it is a college town and the locals are youthful and carefree. The University of Guanajuato is famous for its art, music and mining disciplines. All of this means it is a very fun town to hang around for awhile. My first night there I saw handmade signs everywhere advertising the exhibition futbòl game between Mexico and the US. This was a can’t miss opportunity.

At kickoff, I found a local’s bar and took a seat amongst several rowdy Mexicans. With a snack of popcorn with hot sauce and an ice cold beer to wash it down with, I settled in for 3 hours of entertainment. When the US scored the first goal it was all I could do to stifle my cheer. When the US scored its second, I began to think I might not make it out of there alive. With each beer consumed, the crowd grew rowdier and rowdier. The US ended up winning 2-1. For the first time ever, I thought I might actually die in Mexico.

Actually, everyone was completely congenial and it was a great experience.

I told one particularly aggressive artista ever so delicately that I really liked her artwork but I had to meet someone in the museum and I would find her on the way out. Of course, I ducked out the side entrance after the museum and was on my way. It would have been devastating to the artista if I had flat out said “no”.  This sort of subterfuge and diversion suits me, I think.

Inside the museum, Jose Orozco has painted some very striking frescos. These are all larger than life reaching out from the arches overhead, and hours can be spent lying on your back on the benches below just taking them in. Most of his paintings give tribute to Hidalgo’s effort in the Mexican War for Independence from Spain.

Next to the Instituto is the largest indoor market I’ve seen in Mexico. 3 stories, in fact. As far as I could tell, the first floor was all shoes and leather wear. The second, all food vendors and grocers. The third was all bootleg DVDs and CDs and fake watches. Booth after booth after booth would all be selling the same thing. I have no idea what kind of psychology you have to employ to ensure that customers choose your booth over your neighbor’s when you each sell the exact same thing.

I squeezed my way through throngs of locals to the second floor in search of some cheap lunch. The sight of counter after counter of every Mexican food you can think of reminded me of that trick you can do with two mirrors and see into infinity. I simply had to eat here. After a few laps around the different sections, past cabrito, past camarones, past carne, past pollo, I settled on one nondescript counter and prepared my stomach for a treat. I figured carne asada was a safe route, considering the options, and it was delicious!

After a fantastic meal, I ambled back to the plaza and just sat and people watched for awhile. In between brief rest periods I would feel the urge to just walk around, taking in the sights. I must have roamed for miles through the centro and the sun was soon done for the day.

At night, there was a free concert by the city band and hundreds gathered around for the show.

In attendance of this concert was a seemingly crazy lady dressed in a cowhide getup that would dance strange iterations of some step that only she could have invented. She kept a tribute to a saint around her neck and would periodically sign the cross and give it a kiss — no doubt expressing her thanks for her unique gift of dance. The local children, and I as well, were mesmerized by her hypnotic movements. I still have no idea what that was about but it sure was entertaining.

That night for dinner I came across a seedy bar that my Lonely Planet had actually recommended as a local favorite. It seemed to be a set directly out of a Robert Rodriquez movie. I made my way up the half flight of stairs, through the makeshift saloon doors and into unknown territory. My eyes spied a dozen tables, each occupied with its own constituents morosely drowning their sorrows in beer after beer. A blaring jukebox rattled traditional Mexican tunes off of the bare brick walls. I found an empty spot and the waitress seemed shocked that I wanted a menu. I was the only gringo and I was also the only one that ordered any food…

And it was delicious!

I have a newfound love for Guadalajara and can’t wait to return.

By the time you reach the town of Tequila you can actually smell vaporous tequila in the air. In a rare moment of clarity, I decided that it would be in my best interest to pass straight through and get to Guadalajara safely. I’ve read too many reports of distilleries handing out free taste after taste until tourists are too shnockered to reboard their bus back to town.

I was slightly apprehensive about riding into the second largest city in Mexico. Home to over 2 millions inhabitants, Guadalajara was refreshingly clean and the city’s infrastructure was well designed. I was able to find a hotel 1 block from the main plaza in no time.

Guadalajara has a history steeped in the silver boom and not surprisingly a lot of that wealth remains. The people struck me as affluent and unpretentious. The youth dress with the height of fashion and there were so many fair skinned Mexicans about that I almost fit in. Ignoring the high fashion bit, of course.

Guadalajara’s centro is beautiful, especially at night.

I may have instantly fallen in love with this city.

Tomorrow I would head south towards Puerto Vallarta.

The next morning was an early start down towards Puerto Vallarta. I really liked Vallarta last year so I was looking forward to some more relaxation. Ironically, the town was now infested with gringos (remember how I hated Mazatlàn last year for the very same reason?). Oh well, I’ll make do.

I tried to find cheap accommodations but somehow I gravitated towards the same hostel I stayed in last year. What is this, instant replay?

After checking in and stowing the bike I ventured out to enjoy the town.

Trying to find a place to eat on Superbowl Sunday in Puerto Vallarta was a near impossibility. About the only places where there weren’t gringos were the streetside taco stands. After hours of wondering up and down the cobblestone streets of old Vallarta I finally got roped in to a makeshift taco stand, not of my own volition. These guys were relentless on filling my belly with their tacos. At this point, as I listened to my irate belly growl, who am I to deny?

I grabbed a barstool as my perch and began to really take notice of my surroundings. This was the real Mexico. Screw all of that tourist crap. I was surrounded by real people with real desires and motives and intentions. And we had all congregated to one little taco stand in some back alley of Vallarta. This food was going to be amazing.

I listened intently to what my fellow taco stand companions were ordering. The word “lingua” came up a lot. Now I consider myself adventurous, but I have to draw the line somewhere. In my sheltered upbringing, beef tongue was a nonexistent dinner choice. I simply was never exposed to it. If that was all there was on the menu I was currently faced with, I would order it with glee and love it. But my prospective choices ranged from Al Pastor, to Carne Guisada, to Pollo con Salsa Mole. Each choice it’s own version of exquisiteness.

I had to deny my adventurous spirit for once, and order something besides the “lingua”. Instead I filled my ravenous belly with a sampling of that taco stand’s finer offerings. To my memory, $3 has never bought so many tacos that tasted so good.

After sunset I went to a beach side bar to quench my thirst. After my second beer I couldn’t stand being surrounded with the arch-typical barflies. Overly obnoxious talk, ripe with trite sexual innuendos, and general clumsiness in people’s gait and in the manner they dealt with each other. Bars are the same world over.

I was done with Vallarta, but it was nice to relive one leg of my trip to Panama. Some things really do never change.

I had the limited foresight to pack a spare master link and a short length of chain, while a quick conversation with Carlos, the house caretaker, produced a grinder to cut out the bad link. 10 minutes later I realized that instead of an easy triumph, I was one link short of success. Hmmmm, what to do now?

I suppose I could hitch a ride with everyone down to Los Cabos on their way to the airport and try and find a new chain somewhere. But on a whim, I borrowed one of the ATVs and headed to the closer, but very small, town of Los Barriles. I didn’t know exactly where to look for a motorcycle chain in a town without a motorcycle shop but I figured I would start at the main ATV rental place.

After a quick hello, I produced my cut chain and asked for advice. The mecánico just happened to be sitting right there and immediately said “Ah, este no sirve!” I knew that the bulk of the chain was in decent shape so I figured that he was saying that because instead of selling me another master link, he had something else in mind. My suspicions were confirmed when he ambled off to the garage and came back with a brand new chain, the right size even. 400 pesos later I was on my way to get the bike in tip top condition. It was definitely not a high quality chain (anyone ever hear of Excelsior chains?) but it should do the trick. After all, this was Mexico, where they perfected the art of “just make it work”.

The ride out the next day was enjoyable, but uneventful. I arrived in La Paz in a matter of hours and went straight to the ferry dock. Still plenty of tickets left, so I made the purchase. I even decided to pamper myself and got a cabina for the 19 hour journey back. The last ferry ride was entirely too miserable. Trying to sleep on the cafeteria bench in rough seas was an experience I don’t wish to replicate.

I grabbed a quick lunch at the nearby taco stand and I was shocked when the proprietor knew my name. What the? Turns out, he was the same guy I chatted with for about an hour on my way down to Panama last year. He remembered the bike and me and I was floored at his recollection. Great lunch, too.

A bit later, 2 more dual sport bikes pulled up in the waiting line for the ferry. Awesome, I’ll have 2 more chaps to converse with to help pass the 19 hours at sea. They were riding 2 DRZ650s down to Panama. Once I stated that I had made that very trip last year, the questions started flying. They were mainly concerned with safety and the hassles of border crossings, but I did my best to put their minds at ease.

¡Buen viaje!, Chris and David!

I’ve managed to blank out most of the memory of the time aboard the ferry this go around. But I do know that the 400 pesos for the cabina was some of the best money I’ve spent on this trip.

The service was traditionally catholic, but what we were really looking forward to was the ensuing fiesta. They say the success of a Mexican fiesta is measured by the number of people thrown in jail. It is also said that the only way to ensure the newlywed´s success is to drink profusely. After getting our fill at the party, me and the rest of the gringos made a quiet escape around midnight (the band was paid until 4am), but there were reports of a few locals still hanging around the fiesta until 10am the next day.

The next night we were invited to a cockfight. I didn’t know what I would think or how I would feel about such a controversial event (from an American-centrist point of view), but I was excited to attend. Within the first five minutes of our arrival a brawl erupted between some drunks and a guy trying to get paid. The policia had order restored in a few minutes and ensured the gentleman got paid. No one went to jail, mainly because the nearest jail is hours away. In fact, the Policia had to be called in special for this event as there is usually no police presence in small Mexican villages.

This was a huge event for such a small town. A rare glimpse into raw and traditional Mexican culture for a gringo’s eyes. I have to say, I really enjoyed the spectacle, but it helps that I try my best not to judge another culture and morals.

It was almost surreal how the rooster owners would coddle and baby the combatants until it was time for the face off. I was told it only takes 25 days to train a rooster to fight. The training consists only of hours and hours of running the rooster in a dry arroyo while holding its tail feathers so its legs paddle the sand. This builds up the leg muscles and lets the rooster jump and strike more aggressively. Nothing is done to enhance the rooster’s natural anger towards other males.

After the fight the dead roosters are trash, unfit for eating in the Mexican’s eyes. There was a pile of dead bodies in the corner that no one paid any mind.

My friend is Hispanic but speaks limited Spanish. She and I were unsure about the etiquette of betting. Since Mexico is a very macho country, we didn’t know if anyone would frown on her attempts to wager. “Do you think anyone will bet with me?” she asked coyly to one of our local friends. “Lady, I think everyone will want to bet with you.”

She made $75 that night.

La Paz was still familiar to me so I made my way quickly to the highway out of town. This year I would head directly to the coast and then head south to Punta Pescadero by way of a dirt road that wound through the divisive mountains of southern Baja. I was so close to Paraiso I could taste it! Every mile brought me and the XR closer to the salty air of the sea. Every mile brought me closer to my friends.

Within an hour of leaving La Paz I was greeted with the beautiful visage of the Sea of Cortez. I stopped in quiet admiration - just long enough to realize I had missed the turnoff for the dirt road. Oh well, I’ve made worse wrong turns in my tenure on the XR. Taking a deep breath of salty air, I turned around to find the first dirt road south that would hopefully lead to my friends.

I had only passed it by 5 miles or so and it was thankfully obvious that this was the road I wanted. My eyes could follow its sinuous path all the way up and through the rocky crags. With a twist of the wrist the XR broke the rear loose on the kind of terrain that it was built for. And I was off.

I’ve never felt this confident on dirt before so I twisted the throttle and zoomed towards the house. My excitement was growing and could barely be contained. The last 2 days had been some of the best and thrilling riding I have ever done. My heart was in my throat. The memories of that sickening ferry ride were soon extinguished by my anticipation.

I screeched to a halt right in front of the house after a prolonged stint at wide open throttle, just to announce to everyone that me and the XR were near.

My friends ran out of the house to greet me with an ice cold Pacifico and I knew again, at last, the true definition of Paraiso.

What is it about first impressions that makes them so predictably and consistently wrong? I suppose it stems from the fact that you’re essentially trying to cram everything about a person’s being into one localized and brief experience. Anyway, my aversion to these two Americans in particular was caused by my observations of their actions in the ferry booth. Doe eyed and a little lost, they loudly barked questions in English to each other as they stumbled around the hectic ferry booth until they finally figured out who to talk to for a ticket. Ironically, I suppose I must have looked the same way, minus the barking bit. In fact, while running back out to get my license plate number I accidentally bumped into a younger Mexican that appeared at first glance to be a hood. Shaved head, droopy pants, tattoos, etc. I briefly apologized but he seemed not to take note.

Back at breakfast, I could easily overhear these Americans’ conversation some 10 feet away. Why do American tourists have to stand out so blatantly? (I really wonder what I must look like at times…) I quickly and quietly ate my delicious huevos motulenos and was one my way to explore deeper into old Mazatlàn.

When it was time to start loading on the ferry, I returned once again to the ferry dock and wheeled the XR around to the back to await directions. I parked right next to the Mexican hoodlum´s car that I had accidentally run into that morning. I busied myself with getting everything I needed for the 19 hour ferry ride ready while the guy next to me got out of his car and sauntered over.

Turns out, he was the nicest guy in the world. Antonio lives in Pennsylvania (yes, he’s legal before you start thinking otherwise) and works for a landscape company that plants multi-thousand dollar trees for the wealthy. He has family in central Mexico and Baja and makes a trip every year to bring them gifts and goods. We chatted for nearly an hour and then I saw the 2 American tourists pull up. I’m now 0 for 2 on first impressions, as these 2 guys were also the nicest guys in the world. Why am I such a pre-judging idiot? Jaime and Greg used to work for a huge energy company in California and are now retired. They had driven down to check out Jaime’s new condo he’d just bought in Puerto Vallarta (he was born in Mexico and has dual citizenship).

I really hate to think what people think of me upon their 1st impression.

Just as we were about to board the ferry a fellow motorcyclist pulls up next to me on an older KLR. I tried my best to suppress any preconceived notions as we introduced ourselves. This guy, Cory, is a bush pilot in the Yukon. He bought his bike, which had been sitting in a snowdrift for a year, for $1800 canadien and had never even started it until it was time to put it on the ferry from the Yukon down to Vancouver. On the back of his bike he had several large duffles that contained a para-glider. This crazy Canuck had traveled some 3000 miles on a bike he had never ridden to come para-gliding in Mexico. And I thought I was hardcore!

I was looking forward to having some interesting company for the long ferry ride ahead. But first, I had to get the XR safely secured in the ships hold. Because of their smaller size, motorcycles are the last to board. I was wishing I had known that ahead of time because that would have meant a few more hours not wasted waiting at the dock. Oh well, at least I met some interesting people and learned a lesson not to be so judgmental.

Soon after I wheeled the bike aboard the crew sealed the bay doors and I felt the boat set free from the dock. I had barely begun to tie some shock cord from the handlebars to the floor when I realized I was all alone. When the ferry is at sea, no one is allowed in the cargo bay for safety and security reasons. This means that any way up to the upper decks is sealed off by heavy and thick fire doors. I hastily finished tying another line and began to look around for an exit. I found the fire doors easily enough but there was no opening them, save some sort of real emergency. The thought of 19 hours in this cargo bay with overbearing diesel fumes, and no windows with a view of the horizon to ameliorate the rapidly approaching nausea of sea sickness, this panicky thought started a slight twinge of panic in my gut. It had only been about 5 minutes, but time was irrelevant to my escape. I began to squeeze through tightly packed cars and underneath gently rocking semi-trailers, trying desperately to find anyway up. Dead end after dead end. Discouraged and breathing nervously, I headed back towards the bike.

I was really starting to regret the recent turn of events. What were the next 18.7 hours going to be like locked away in this smelly brig? I then noticed a small hatch near the ferry’s main doors that I hadn’t seen before. Upon further inspection, it lead to a 2 story ladder that climbed into pitch blackness. I tried to convince myself that, because obviously no one knew I was still down here nor did they care, I had to take it upon myself to get out. Ignoring the thoughts that told me that I was going to set off an alarm, or be detained for being a stowaway, or worse, I carefully ascended upwards.

My eyes slowly adjusted and I could see another hatch above. A slight push let in a little daylight. No turning back now! I peeked my head through to the astonishment of a few dozen Mexican onlookers on the observation deck above. No one made a move, so I continued to extricate myself. I found myself in a restricted area on the ship’s stern so I quickly egressed over the rail and through a door. What nobody else knows, won’t hurt me.

I spent the next 18.5 hours enjoying conversation with my new friends, getting tossed back and forth trying to sleep in high seas, and trying not to worry too much about how the bike was faring because I had left it only partially tied down. I could not wait to be off this infernal boat and on dry land. I could not wait to rip up some dirt in Baja!

That far west I would pass into Pacific standard time which would gain me an extra hour to make the ferry by 3pm. It would be tough, but there was a slight chance I could cover the 300 some odd miles by then.

Just outside of Torreòn, the high desert gave way to rolling hills. Not much further, the hills began to show signs of heavy erosion. Rocky outcrops of sandstone and limestone. Craggy bluffs that plunged into river cut valleys. Random cactus and scrub brush finding purchase in the most desperate locations. This was the beginning of the Sierra Madres.

For the first time this trip, I really began to enjoy myself. The straight and narrow road changed to twisty and exiting. With a grin on my face I sped towards Durango. I arrived in that town famous for its Vaqueros and rodeos by high noon, but the time I was making was too good to stop for a visit, and I pressed on. Somewhere north of Zacatecas, I made a wrong turn.

I realized my mistake immediately and pulled over to whip out the map. Oddly enough, as I sat on the side of the highway a van pulled over. A very polite Mexican woman got out and asked me if this was the road to Zacatecas. That was a first! I’ve been lost in every country from the US to Panama and this woman thought it was a good idea to ask me for directions. As her husband remained sternly behind the wheel, I noted to myself the all time truism: Real Men do not ever ask for directions.

After consulting my map I was relatively certain that I sent them in the right direction. I hope. And after an illegal u-turn across the grassy highway median I was back on track. Mazatlàn by 3pm or else!

It wasn’t long before I encountered every motorcyclist in Mexico’s wetdream. ¡Curva Peligrosa! I have never seen so many signs telling you that danger lurked around every corner. A twist of the wrist pitted me and the XR against everything the serpentine road could throw at us. Chicane into split-S into decreasing radius into gradually opening left, up and down, left and right, one after the other with no break in sight.

For almost 200 miles this road wound through some of the most awe-inspiring scenery I have ever witnessed. Cliffs that plunged into nothingness. Canyons that opened into infinity. Curves in the road that made me drool. This road that clung onto the mountain side as if it was afraid of heights. It was all I could do to keep my eyes off the vistas and where pinned on the road where they belonged.

The elevation of Durango is about 6,000 feet. I passed peaks in the Sierras that soared above 8,000. If I was cold before, think how I felt up there. Good thing for me that the road I was on would eventually take me down to sea level. Problem is, it took 200 miles to do it.

One of the most encouraging parts about the ride was the truckers. Those poor guys have it rough in the Sierras. Because of the altitude and steep inclines, it probably takes them 2 days to accomplish the same distance I did in 4 hours. But apparently they don’t let that fact bother them. Almost anywhere else it seems that big trucks have it in for motorcyclists. A sort of mechanical food chain exists and we’re at the bottom. I’ve been run off the road, almost run over and just generally looked down upon by big trucks wherever I go on the bike. But up here in the Sierras, a sort of symbiotic relationship developed between me and the 18 wheelers.

It was almost as if they went out of there way to look out for me. As they slowly lumbered up the steep grades they would signal with their left blinker when it was safe to pass. Since their vantage point was high I had no problem trusting them. If they came to a sharp right where they would have to swing out in the oncoming lane to clear their trailer, they would signal with the right blinker telling me to stay back. I don’t think I ever had to stay behind a truck for more than a few minutes before they let me pass. Otherwise, it would have taken me forever as well to get out of those mountains.

Of course, it was mutually understood that once we were both out of the Sierra Madres and back into the real world, it was game on. If we ran into each other again in the big city, I had better be on my toes.

After I passed the Tropic of Cancer I was soon approaching sea level. The blast of warm sea air was very welcome, but soon became overbearing. I stopped just outside of Mazatlàn to shed most of my layers and proceeded with haste to the boat docks. It was already after 3pm but I was betting on the fact that it wouldn’t be the first time the Baja ferry left late. Much to my chagrin, I pulled up to the tightly sealed entrance for the ferry dock and realized it was Sunday. There is no ferry on Sunday.

Oh well, off to find a hotel and get some grub. A quick consultation with my Lonely Planet informed me of a bargain hotel near the beach and good eateries. Within 10 minutes I had found that place to stay and was quickly engaged in a lively conversation with the hotel owner. After the usual questions of where I was from and what the hell I was doing on a dirtbike in Mexico, he assumed my Spanish was good enough for a test. For the first time in all my travels someone told me a joke, entirely in Spanish, and I understood it well enough to get the punchline.

It goes something like this: Jose, the motorcyclist, wanted to ride up the very same road I had just come down to go visit the indiginous people that live up in the mountains. Pedro, his friend, wisely advised him to wear his jacket backwards, so that the chilly wind wouldn’t find its way through his zipper and make him cold. He obliged and went on his way. Some time later, on one of the most dangerous curves in the whole canyon, he got ran off the rode by a truck and would up in a ditch. Jose was dizzy, but otherwise okay. Some indiginous people happened to witness the whole thing and ran down to help out. To their dismay, Jose’s body was a mess, so they did what they thought best and twisted his head around (insert spine breaking noise here) so it lined up properly with his backwards jacket.

So it’s not that funny in English, but the owner and I had a good laugh and made the neck braking sound to each other several times. As if to say: ¿Entiendes la chiste? ¡Por supuesto! Crrraaack!

It was good to be in Mazatlan.

The only thing that might prove to be a problem for the day was the bank at the Columbia bridge was out of pesos. Avoiding the centro of Nuevo Leon, there is not another bank until Monterrey and all I had to get me there was American dollars . I suppose this meant I was destined to take the free roads instead of the luxurious tollroads.

At the 20km checkpoint (where the free trade zone ends and you need to show documentation to enter the interior of Mexico), I got the red Alto light which meant I was to be searched. What might inspire fear in the first timer was merely routine for me. As to be expected, a polite greeting and a slight smile from me coaxed the Aduana agents to let their guards down. After a cursory search — Abre este maleta, ¿que es esto?, ¿donde viajes? — a crowd of 6 Mexican agents had gathered around to inquire about my trip. After 5 minutes of congenial conversation, I was free and underway into the heart of Mexico. On to Monterrey!

The free road was not as bad as I expected. I’ve done the route to Monterrey several times on the tollroad so a change of scenery was a bonus. A few hours later I was on the outskirts of the large city so I was ripe for a mistake. I should have stopped at the first ATM I saw so I could withdraw some pesos, in addition to my dollars. For some reason I thought it would be better to find a bank so that I could exchange some of the dollars I was holding. Afterall, the less cash you have on you, the better right?

I was almost proud of myself, the way I deftly maneuvered through the bustling city straight to a bank near the center of town. 3 minutes later and with pesos in hand all I had to do was find the highway to Saltillo, and all told my sidetrack for proper currency would only cost me 20 minutes.

All it takes in Mexico to dash any semblance of a plan into pieces is one missed turn. U-turns are all but impossible thanks to 2 foot curbs and divided roadways. And there is never ever a second chance exit. Because I was one lane off in my guesswork of which sign to follow to Saltillo I was thrust into an indecipherable maze of one way streets that consistently lead further and further away from my highway. At one point I was on the side of a hill in a residential neighborhood overlooking the very highway I needed, and yet there was absolutely no clear path down to it.

Danger, danger!! Frustration levels exceeding maximum tolerances!!

My wrong turn cost me a 2 hour tour of everyday Monterrey, and at least a few grey hairs. But on a positive note, by mid afternoon the weather had stopped drizzling on me and the sun must have warmed my surroundings to at least 50 degrees. Finally time to lose some layers!

Just prior to finding my leave of Saltillo I witnessed the first break in the clouds. I knew then that things were eventually going to go my way. I quickly shook off the unpleasant experience of being hopelessly lost in Monterrey and began to enjoy the ride into the high desert. The vegetation gradually thinned from thorny scrub brush to sparse cactus, which revealed a stark white caliche soil below. It was strangely beautiful seeing the patches of various greens floating on a sea of white as I zoomed on to Torreon.

My arrival into this bustling city was greeted with a spectacular sunset. The combination of a clearing sky and the ever present Mexican haze provided the source for a dazzling palette of colors. The few remaining clouds near the western horizon were smoldering embers slowly dying and fading to black with the onset of nightfall. I was almost plunged into total darkness before being welcomed by city lights, but I arrived in Torreon just in time.

Just in time for another mistake.

I should have consulted my Lonely Planet sometime before arriving to get the lay of the land and a vague idea of where I should stay. If I had, I would have discovered that Torreon is actually 3 cities in close proximity, each with their own centros and individual infrastructures. This network provided the labyrinth in which I would spend the next 3 hours cursing and deriding my sense of direction. It didn’t help matters that a fog had rolled in so I could no longer see the stars or the surrounding mountains, my oft used markers of secondary navigation. I had absolutely no idea which way was north and little hope of finding my way out once I found my way in.

It didn’t help that I saw more than one street fight break out in the streets or alleyways. It didn’t help that the only hotels I could find were high rise Hiltons and Holiday Inns that wanted $100+ for the night. It didn’t help that I was hungry and tired and sore and numb. It didn’t help that this exact scenario of feeling hopelessly lost had happened no less than 6 hours before in Monterrey. In fact nothing much helped, so in a fit of frustration I pulled into a “motel” on the outskirts of the bloated urban sprawl.

I had often seen Motels on the outskirts of Mexican cities but never gave them a second thought. It didn’t strike me as odd that every one was surrounded by high concrete walls which blocked any interior view. I never really paid attention to each motel’s strategic location near main arteries at the city limits. I never put two and two together until I entered the gate of this certain nameless Motel and took in what makes up the interior. Behind every one of those high concrete perimeters that every motel has is row upon row of concrete bays with heavy curtains or tarps concealing the “room” behind. No wonder the lady working the front had a quizzical look on her face as she asked me ¿Cuantas horas?

How many hours? Holy crap, I don’t belong here! A quick and graceful “perdoname!” in conjunction with an agile u-turn put me back out on the street where I found myself face to face with a young and dapper couple destined for the No-Tell Motel. It all made sense now! With a smirk on his face the guy lead his girl of the night into the Motel for a few hours of fun. With a smirk on my face I quickly regressed down the highway and soon found a reputable Hotel for the night for a few hours of rest.

It will never cease to amaze me how one little turn of events can take the most dire of emotions and change it into one of amusement. And that is how it goes when traveling alone on a dirtbike in Mexico. It just takes one wrong turn to find frustration, but it’s only one wrong turn more to find (mis)adventure.

Departure Day is finally here and I am just now beginning to feel butterflies. I had planned on going west out towards Big Bend, then cross the border into Chihuahua to tackle the Copper Canyon. Latest reports have Cd. Chihuahua receiving snow later today and tomorrow while the Copper Canyon presents its own intimidating problems. Apparently everything above 7,000′ is blanketed with snow, which is now melting and feeding the ravenous rivers that carved out the expansive canyons in the first place. I have read recently that motorcyclists have had to turn back when faced with closed mountain passes and impassible rivers in the area. The route I had planned to take involves more than one mountain pass and river crossing. My other option is to head directly south towards Monterrery and then cut over into the west. Paved highways and warmer weather are very inviting, albeit slightly less adventurous.But first, a quick jaunt south to see my friends at AF1 Racing to do a quick oil change, radiator flush and chain adjustment and I’ll be on my way. Then after, will I go due south or due west? Nothing like waiting until the last minute….

I, more than anyone, am very interested to see which route will win my internal debate over the path I will take to Baja.  And only time will tell.  As I thoroughly despise making pressured decisions, sometimes procrastination has its benefits.

T-minus…..and GO!

Weather on the day of departure: 31 degrees with a strong chance of freezing rain. Riding with way too many layers on I was almost warm…almost.  Because of a late start and bad weather I didn’t make it into Mexico today. The weather and last minute details slowed me down, so I decided to stay the night stateside and cross first thing in the morning. What a difference a year makes! Pulling away from my house I noticed that I wasn’t nervous in the slightest. After all, this trip should hopefully prove to be tenfold easier than the trek to Panama. But of course, only time will tell.

My morning started with a greeting of some bitterly cold weather. I was layered to the point that my mobility suffered, and yet after a few hours I still felt chills creeping down my spine. I don’t know what the windchill is with a 70mph wind, but I can tell you it feels damn cold! The clouds were still threatening rain/sleet but for the time being they were holding back.

I stopped off in New Braunfels to see my friends at AF1 Racing so I could do an oil change and some other minor adjustments. Nothing like waiting until the last minute! My previous employers were kind enough to buy me lunch as a sort-of send off. It’s almost like I used to work there. After lunch they took me out back to show off their newly constructed ramp. I expected a 1-2′ dirt berm with plenty of room on both sides. Apparently, my crazy friends have enough free time to fashion a 5′ launch, complete with a wide landing ramp. They invited me to take the XR off of it, but that conjured up visions of me breaking an arm before I even crossed the border. I politely declined, and felt a slight pang of remorse that I didn’t still work with these guys.

With a mid-afternoon departure from AF1 I knew that the smart thing to do was stop short in Laredo. And then the rain started. Nothing quite like being cold and wet. But I was satisfied that I had prepared enough to the point that my gear withstood the elements as long as they did. I wasn’t completely miserable until just before Laredo, some 3 hours later. Along the way, several passing cars gave me the thumbs-up, waves of approval, and blown kisses of buen viaje; undoubtedly as the strange image took hold in their minds of a lone rider on a pack mule of a dirt bike heading south. This was exactly the encouragement I needed!

In all my travels I’ve learned to become annoyed if I have to spend more than $20 on a hotel. Every possible place to stay in this border town wanted at least $50 for the night. I eventually caved into one that offered free breakfast. Little did they know that my $50 included garage parking for the XR. I almost got my money’s worth.

It’s amazing how the mind forgets. It has only been a year since I last subjected myself to hours upon hours, miles upon endless miles astride the XR. After arriving home from Panama I nearly vowed to never ride that butt-numbing machine again. And now here I am again voluntarily subjecting myself to the same irritations. Except it gets even better when you consider the frigidly miserable weather. What the hell am I thinking?

Considering everything that seems overwhelmingly wrong with the present situation, there is no denying that there is something intangible about it that just seems right. A quiet sense of freedom to combat the pulsing drone of the engine. A subdued feeling of confidence spurred on by a necessity for self reliance. Me and the XR, riding off into the unknown, in search of adventure.

Tomorrow I cross the border.

The town of Golfito sounded promising, an ex-banana exporting hub in a little bay off of the Pacific.  I could definitely use a half day of riding, especially for the last big push to Panama City.  So Golfito it was, and thanks to Costa Rica’s benevolent signs I didn’t miss the small turnoff onto the dirt road to the tiny coastal town.

I should have known something was amiss when the dirt road quickly turned to mud.  I was surrounded by oppressive rainforest, replete with oversized photon gathering fronds slapping me in the face.  At one point an unexpected monkey ran right in front of me, causing me to nearly lose the front end because of my overzealous braking.  Definitely something you don’t see everyday.  The 4 miles to Golfito were going to be interesting on the XR equipped with a rear street tire.  The handlebars were mushy and the rear end was squishy and sliding all over the place.  I just knew that I was going to be digging the XR out of some impossibly deep mud puddle after I lost control over this impossible terrain.  But slowly, I made distance on the mucky landscape.  With the XR filthier than ever I pulled into the town square, much to the locals’ bewilderment.

After a mere 5 minutes of looking around I knew that I didn’t want to stay the night.  It was only noon and I desperately needed the rest, but I didn’t feel that I was in a town where much relaxing could take place.  A selection of shabby hotels within close proximity to the boisterous market were not enticing, and the rest of my cruise around the town didn’t net anything more promising.  At this point, I figured I would at least go check out the border to see how long it might take to cross into Panama.  Afterall, I did have half a day left and once at the border there was no turning back.  Maybe that’s how it was supposed to be.

At the border, even though I was the only one in line at any given time it still took 2 hours to get through to Panama.  Red tape is dumb.  The fellow who had the task of typing up my bike permiso must have been an obsessive compulsive dyslexic.  On a manual typewriter, he would methodically hit the delete key exactly 3 times after each keystroke.  I have no idea how many keystrokes were actually typos.  1 step forward, 3 steps back.  Frequently, truckers, who obviously pass through that crossing every week and knew the typist personally, would cut in line to thrust their paperwork at the poor sap, further throwing him off track.  I foreshadowed that I would get halted later on at a checkpoint because of some mistake this guy made while he was under constant distraction, but eventually I got my paperwork and was underway soon enough.  

After getting the bike fumigated one last time, I crossed into Panama, the last country on my route.  In a celebratory fashion, I accelerated onto a most beatiful stretch of highway, divided and two lanes wide, no potholes anywhere.  I would be able to make good time on this.  I road straight until dusk, and that’s when I had my first encounter with corrupt police. 

As the sun was setting, I saw a sign at the bottom of a random hill that said to slow down and then a bit later I saw a tiny sign that said 40kph.  Towards the top of the hill, just before the hidden checkpoint, I noticed another tiny sign, hidden to the side, that stated 20kph as the maximum.  I got immediately flagged to stop once I crested the hill.  The young cop asked for my passport and then began to ask the standard questions, to which I spit out my well rehearsed replies.

I thought I had satisfied all of the questions and I figured all the formalities were over, but then he asked about my speedometer.  Just like all the other cops, I thought he was just being friendly by asking about the bike, and my speedometer was kind of trick.  Maybe he was just a moto enthusiast and was curious?

He wanted to know my speed when I arrived to the checkpoint, so I showed him how the contraption computed an average speed from the last time it was reset, at the border.  I should have known things were amiss when he wanted to know my exact speed up the hill.  I tried to explain that it didn’t save every speed, but I was very clear to tell him that I was going 40kph up the hill. 

Blast! The correct answer was 20kph.  He then told me to turn off the bike, get off and follow him into the headquarter shack.  I tried to ask him what was going on but he was silent until we got inside the little police barracks.  Once there, the young cop and his older boss went off on me.  I didn’t understand every word of the inflamed tirade, but I caught the words ”velocidad”, “ticket” and “multa”.  Apparently I was getting a speeding ticket.  No proof, no radar, just my botched attempt at being friendly that proved my guilt.  I tried to protest, really just to make sure I understood what was going on exactly, but to no avail. 

The young cop took me around back and showed me his cute little traffic regulation book.  I scoured the pages written in Spanish and found their accusation listed quickly.  The fine for speeding in Panama was $60.  No worries, where do I pay?  He promplty jumped my case about mentioning the word “pay” outloud.  Never ever do that.  The next 20 minutes were spent with him going back and forth between me and his boss trying to perfect their machination.  He had the ticket in his hand while he tried to lecture me.  I tried to be as attentive as possible, but really all I wanted was to sign the damn thing and get out of there.  It was almost dark and I still had 45 minutes to go to Santiago.  

As I was uncooperative I was now seated outside.  During his next excursion inside to consult with the jefe, another fellow victim started to talk to me, his main point was that all they want was money.  Of course I knew that already.  If you were in the middle of Nowhere, Panama, with a badge, would you be any different? 

I wasn’t worried about the $60, actually I was surprised I had gotten this far without being taken advantage of.  In a louder than usual voice, so that the cops might overhear, I explained to my fellow friendly victim how I had no problem with the ticket, I just wanted to get to Santiago because it’s very dangerous to ride at night.  I also threw in how I always drove carefully and always obeyed any signs.  As if by clockwork, the young cop promplty came out, sent the other guy on his way, and then showed me the back of the ticket.  After a a few repetitions this is what I gathered he was saying:

“We have your passport number here on the ticket (it was still blank) so you can’t leave Panama without paying.  You can pay at the border, in Davìd, or here.”  To which I curtly replied, “Fine, I’ll pay at the border.”  I glanced around and saw no computer or phone, no way to communicate any info anywhere.  I figured the chances of them finding a way to forward my passport number to the border were slim to none, so I was willing to gamble.  He then went on to try and tell me how the fine would be cheaper if I just payed here.  Ah, I understand!  Aye, there’s the rub! 

I had no problem paying off a Panamanian cop, but the real problem is I only had my credit card and some colònes from Costa Rica.  I couldn’t properly pay until I found an ATM.  

By then, the stars were coming out and the young cop had the frustrated expression that showed he was sick of dealing with someone who only spoke half a language (as far as he knew).   If I made him repeat himself one more time I think he might have screamed, it was hilarious.  I really understood almost everything he was saying, I was just playing dumb for fun.  If they’re going to waste my time, I can do the same. 

Completely frustrated, and with an utter look of disgust on his face, he thrust my papers back towards me and then got up and left.  I dared not say another word.  I slowly got up and walked back towards the highway and the patiently waiting XR.  I really expected them both to come running after me, but it must have been closing time for the Panamanian Speeding Racket because I made it all the way to my bike unscathed. 

I slipped away into the darkness scott-free, laughing the whole way down the hill.  I truly lead a charmed life.

I fully expect them to be waiting for me when I return.  I’m going to do my best to find a way around that checkpoint but that might be difficult without a map.  I might still have to pay afterall, but for the time being I was free to head towards Panama City.  Come night’s end I was only 150 miles away from the Canal and there was nothing in the way that was going to stop me.

Tomorrow will be the culmination of 6 months of dreaming, planning, prepping.  Tomorrow will be the zenith of 5 weeks of hardcore riding.  Tomorrow I will see the Panama Canal!

The Nicaraguan/Costa Rican border was much like the one to the north from Honduras.  I was quickly surrounded by the local youth, all of which wanted to serve as my guide through the border zone, and all wanted to get paid for it.  I knew I could make my way through the Central American red tape all on my own, just like I had at several border crossings before, but this time I was torn as to what to do.  These kids were the very definition of ‘dirt poor’.  Should I save some money by brushing of the riff-raff, or should I donate some of my dollars to some kids who at least try to earn a living?

It really didn’t matter, because within 10 footsteps of leaving the XR one of the eldest kids had quelled his cohorts and attached himself directly to my side and wouldn’t take no for an answer.  As we walked away, one of the youngest and dirtiest kids made motion to wash my bike and I couldn’t help but laugh, as did the other kids.  All involved knew it was a joke and a veiled attempt to get a handout, so I handed him a few coins for the laugh.  After all, you can’t really expect PigPen to clean anything with results cleaner than himself, can you?  Really, I was just happy to be leaving Nicaragua for the time being and didn’t really care if it cost me a few extra dollars.

After getting all the stamps in the right places I was free to leave the border and explore Costa Rica.  I took a deep breath and, for the first time in a while, I noticed the incredibly gorgeous countryside.  Deepdown, it was a good feeling to be in a country without an official army.  The houses lining the highway looked well kept and the road surface was mercifully devoid of potholes.  The first 3 checkpoints were manned by smiling policemen who just glance at my passport then waved me on.  Costa Rica was a welcome change from Nicaragua so far.

My path led me straight to San Josè, yet another bustling capital city.  For the first time in Central America I saw clear signs of how to proceed.  You would expect that the most travelled and major highway would cut straight through most cities, but that is rarely the case.  Each time I saw a sign telling me to turn, the roadway got narrower and narrower and the buildings got closer and closer.  At times, in this brave new world, the main thoroughfare for the entire North American continent was nothing more than a residential alley.  I really wanted to ignore several signs and turn onto obvious onramps that joyfully led to major arteries with smartly flowing vehicles, but I stayed my course and did what I was told.  Often, my fellow commuters were forced to a halt, much akin to forcing a handful of marbles through a funnel.  Because I was now an expert at darting between slow and standing cars, traffic jams were no competition and it didn’t take long to put San Josè behind me.  I couldn’t imagine dealing with that kind of impetuous traffic with 4 wheels.. 

As a rarety, I found myself on the right highway and heading in the right direction. and both at the same time.  Viva Costa Rica!  The sun would not set for a few hours, so I pushed on.  I would try to make San Isidro de General by nightfall.  Now, if I had done my research I would have learned that the Pan American out of San Josè takes you into the highest mountain range in Costa Rica, and at such altitudes freezing temps are common. 

Within 20 minutes of leaving the city limits, the bike and I climbed abruptly into the clouds and the road turned slippery and wet.  Within 40 minutes I was shivering uncontrollably and cursing Costa Rica.  Tropical climate?   Harumph!

Remarkably, I had the good fortune to pack winter riding gear, almost as if I had planned ahead.  With a little foresight, something I’m not usually known for, I realized that I would be returning to a cold and blustery Texas in mid January.  I had no idea I would need that gear in Costa Rica!

Armed against the frigid air with my jacket liner, rain gear, and grip heaters I continued on.  Sometimes the clouds were so thick I could barely see 30 feet in front of me.  I slowed accordingly, but it was still a rush to come upon a line of cars crawling behind a laboring 18 wheeler, and then wait for the proper moment to gas it!  Or to take turns going one by one over a partially cleared landslide.  In these cases I would glide over to the center line and cautiously, but efficiently, pass the whole delay.  If I could have seen through the moisture I might have seen the Cerro de la Muerte (Mountain of Death) towering overhead at over 10,000 feet.  I’m sure it was covered in snow.

The road finally began its decent, and with it I began to gain feeling in my fingrers again, and I could tell through the limiting fog that daylight was short.  My view of the road through my visor was now obscured by countless water droplets instead of my accostumed view of ice, or the usual film of bugs.  My eyelids would undoubtedly make better wipers than my soaked glove so I raised up the sheild to let my face take the brunt of the weather.  Bad idea.  Almost instantaneously, I had insects finagling their way into my helmet, squirming in and around in each ear. 

I now know what it’s like to go completely mad.  With the fog, it was far too dangerous to stop my invisible bike on that steep and twisting slip-and-slide of a road, so I tried to stay sane by pounding the sides of my helmet with my available fist and shouting at the top of my lungs, “GET OUTTA MY HEAD!!”. 

I was absolutely miserable.  Everytime I got stuck behind a slow truck it may as well have been an eternity.  At this point, the only thing that made me smile was when I filed behind a small box truck with a death wish.  On a completely blind curve he came barrelling past me in a desperate attempt to get past the rolling roadblock of an 18 wheeler in front of me.  In a desperate attempt, he dipped his left wheels off of the asphalt in the oncoming lane, and as he overcompensated to get back on the roadway the top of his truck slammed into the opposing 18 wheeler’s trailer, throwing a few sparks and creating a sizable gash in the metal. 

They merely honked at each other as both trucks somehow maintained control all the way around, as if this kind of conduct were par for the course.  I decided that this kind of behaviour was not beneficial to my trip and I didn’t pass another truck all the way down into town.   

The clouds eventually thinned and I finally arrived in San Isidro.  A bit of good fortune put me right in front of a decent hostel with an ok restaurant next door.  An hour later, after a fine meal of carne asada, my mood improved a little.  As this trip wears on it seems that every day is getting harder and harder to stay optimistic, but thankfully, I usually go to sleep looking forward to the next day.  I only have to reflect a bit on all that I’ve survived and endured to get this far and the next day doesn’t seem as formidable.

I would love nothing more than to go an entire day without getting lost in Central America.  I figured after my impromptu 2 hour tour of Leòn last night that I would have the layout of the town sufficiently memorized.  Not so.  I managed to waste another hour this morning just trying to get out of the obfuscated city.  As it turns out, the Pan American Highway can be well disguised when it wants to. 

To my dismay I wasn’t particularly enjoying Nicaragua so far, so I decided to try and get as close to the Costa Rican border as possible, as quickly as possible.  If I could make the coastal town of San Juan del Sur today it would only be a quick jaunt to the frontera in the morning.  But in between me and my goal towered the imposing capital city of Managua.  As if Leòn wasn’t confusing enough, this bloated metropolis was undoubtedly home to countless engaging highways leading in every direction, and none of them would have large blinking signs saying “Hey Dummy, turn here!”

Once within the realm of Managua, the Pan American branched in several places and at each fork I stuck to my southerly heading.  Smugly, I actually presumed I was heading in the right direction until a fellow motorcyclist, aboard a sleek yet dilapidated 125cc pizza delivery bike, struck up a conversation with me at a stoplight.  Since I had become accustomed to lane splitting south of the border, it was a common occurance for me and several other riders to arrive simultaneously at the front of traffic, where I would usually garner many looks of wonderment from the local motociclistas.  This friendly rider began with the usual questions and I discovered my mistake when I told him I was trying to get to the frontera.  He quizzed me as to why I was heading the way that I was, to which I proudly replied that I was going to Costa Rica, duh!  He then stated, matter of factly, that I was now heading back north to Matagalpa, and the southern Pan American lay behind me by a few kilimeters. 

Lucky for me, motorcycle helmets do a remarkable job of protecting your brains, but they also excel at hiding emotions: like chagrin and embarrassment.  He offered explicit directions, of which I probably understood maybe half, and after parting ways I then made an about face to track down the way south.  A few more wrong turns later, as well as a few instances of blind luck, and I was back on track.  I’ve come to love dumb luck.

The pueblito of San Juan del Sur is described as a surfer’s hangout set in a lovely cove on the Pacific.  It is most definitely in a cove on the Pacific, but I don’t know how anyone surfs there because the bay is chock full of moored boats, not to mention the surf is all of about 6 inches.  And yet, surfers abound.

Once the night’s lodging was squared and the bike was stowed, I ambled over to Ricardo’s bar for dinner and a beer.  It happened to be movie night and they were showing “The Doors” on a 10 foot projection screen, strategically setup so that the dull roar of the Pacific provided an ambient background.  During subdued moments of the movie you could just make out the quiet restlessness of the ocean in the background, as if it were written into the script.  When Val Kilmer would go on a tirade the ocean would flare up, when he was at his most penitant the waves were at a whisper.

The restaurant, handbuilt from cinder block and palm leaves, was full of expats and locals, most of which sported dreadlocks.  Sitting on either side of me at the bar were inquisitive folk who wanted to know all about the gringo on the motorbike.  I obliged them as best I could, but I was physically exhausted and mentally drained, and all I really wanted was to be left alone to watch the movie in peace. 

I found it interesting that both of the inquisitors on my left and right were both native Nicaraguans and Spanish speakers, but when the guy on my right spoke he might as well have been gargling peanut butter for all I understood.  He kept using words that I knew, but the way he jumbled them into sentences approached nothing I recognized as a coherent sentence.  The guy on my left spoke at great lengths and I probably walked away with about 95% comprehension.  Thus, I deemed the guy on my right as incredibly annoying, so I turned my back to him and conversed freely with the bloke on the left.

Why am I talking during a movie anyway?  Tomorrow I would be out of Nicaragua.

The CA-1 lead me over and through a sawtooth pattern of mountains and valleys.  The temperature swings were wild.  I had, packed away, appropriate apparal and riding gear for both extremes, but was simply not prepared for both scorching heat and marrow chilling cold in the same day.  I progressed from teeth chattering mountain passes down to sweltering straightaways in valleys between, and I whiled away the discomfort with the realization that that’s an effective way to spoil meat–freeze, thaw, repeat.

Aside from the challenges the weather presented, I had several exhilerating chances to play Chicken with oncoming traffic.  I never really understood the attraction of hurtling head on at another vehicle and I have no idea why so many Central American drivers tried it with me.  Sure, I can understand why they would want to pass that lumbering 18 wheeler slowing them down to a snail’s crawl, but do they have to force me off the road by taking up my whole lane with unflinching spite?  Pitting a motorcycle against any other vehicle is akin to David & Goliath, all I have is my wits and an outmatched weapon, while my foes possess sheer mass and fortitude.   Time and time again, I would be challenged by an oncoming car swinging out from behind a lumbering truck to make a pass, and a quick movie clip would play in my head of the tractor scene in Footloose.  I would try to hold my line as long as I dared but I had no desire to become a hood ornament in Honduras.  More than once I was forced into the shallow ditch running alongside.  I suck at Chicken.

I reached the Nicaraguan border right at noon.  From all my research Nicaragua suffers from staggering poverty — something like 70% of its population lives below the absurdly low poverty line, and I think only Haiti exceeds that stat.  This sad fact became readily apparent the very second I hopped of the bike.  I was quickly surrounded and hounded by beggars and grungy homeless kids, all with their hands out awaiting a gift from the rich American.  I wish I could have done something, anything, to improve their state of life, but handing out money for nothing is not the answer.  It crushes the soul to defy a basal instinct to help a fellow human, but the situation is analogous to using a bandaid to cure cancer.  And not that it’s an excuse, but by the time I had made my way through the border’s redtape and finished paying for all of the necessary paperwork I only had the equivalent of 50¢ left. 

Oops, a bit of bad fiduciary planning there.  I had about 120 miles left in my gas tank to find an ATM.

For such a poor country, Nicaragua sure had nice roads.  The Pan American Highway south of the Honduran border was freshly laid blacktop and seemed to be lightly travelled.  I tried to stifle my mounting nervousness, fully expecting to run the tank dry at any moment, as the kilometers clicked by.  Running out of gas in Nicaragua without any cash on hand was not a challenge I was looking for. 

I set a fairly conservative pace to Estreli to try and conserve fuel consumption, the road carrying me past constrictive jungle and the occasional cinder block house trying desperately to repel its grasp, and I hoped that once in town I could find my way into some cash.  Before long my fears were put at bay as I arrived at Estreli with its replenishing commodities it could provide.  However, I probably spent an hour in the search of a working ATM, I had to go to 3 different banks and a gas station before I zeroed in on one that would comply.  Much to my relief I now had a wallet full of córdobas, and soonafter, a tank full of gas.  I was underway once again.

Just south of San Isidro I looked for the road to the east that would take me to Leòn.  Shockingly, it was well marked and easy to find.  And here is where I have to retract my previous statement about Nicaragua’s nice roads.  This rapidly deteriorating artery was festered with crater-sized potholes, and occasionally this lunar surface was shoddily ’repaired’ with backfills of dirt that were meant to be crushed into place by ponderous trucks.  The combination of the ups of the dirt and the downs of the holes sent the XR and I airborne more than once. 

I gradually became accustomed to how the sun, now directly ahead, was conspiring with its shadows and glares to hide the pitfalls before me, and I was able to slice a (mostly) clean path through the obstacle course.  It was easier for me than my foes, the multi-wheeled cages that repeatedly tried to end my journey, because I only had two wheels to worry about.  Cars and trucks were obviously terrified of dipping their tires into a pothole, as evidenced by their erratic and unpredictable swerving vectors, seemingly always aimed towards me.  Once, as I passed a chicken bus, properly on the left, it careened at me from the far right and I could sense its gravitational pull as it loomed.  Hard on the brakes, I dove even farther to the outside and skirted around it skillfully. 

I wouldn’t have minded so much, as I was well rehearsed by now in the martial art of  but I was forced to stop at a police checkpoint no less than a mile later.  As I’m dealing with the usual drudgery associated with checkpoints, the nefarious chicken bus came trolling past blaring its horn, obviously advising the cops of his innocence in my attempted murder.  I halfway wanted the driver to stop and get out so I could practice my Spanish profanity in a roadside showdown, but instead he insiduously leered at me through his filthy cracked window, grinning ear to ear in a toothless grin, because he no doubt thought I was busted for attempting to cross a chicken bus off the road.  I quickly squelched my rage as I watched the bus disappear over the horizon, and I was left in peace to fend for myself at the checkpoint.

Different country, same routine.  After all the formalities of checking identification and permits, the Nicaraguan cops began to quiz me on the bike and my trip and I left them smiling graciously after shaking hands.  I flew came upon that vile bus no less than 2 minutes later.  Out of shear spite, I twisted the throttle to full, and the XR roared to life.   We skimmed gracefully over the tops of potholes and left that bus in the past, the entire time kicking up a tornadic storm of dust and gravel in our wake.  Revenge was mine and it tasted sweet.

That dilapidated road, with its life threatening challenges, finally gave way to the smooth maintained road entering Leòn.  At first, the city didn’t seem so large that I figured I could find my hotel quickly and be out on the streets enjoying the sights by 4pm.  Fast forward to 5:30, the sun setting, and one weary and very frustrated traveller.  I took the XR on a circuitous path through the town and probably ended up going the wrong way down unmarked streets a half dozen times, only to be honked at or waved at or stopped by a cop to chastise me for not knowing my way.  I can tell you there was no rhyme or reason to the layout, and normal two way streets could become one way, the wrong way, without warning.  By sheer luck I made what I thought was a wrong turn and came face to face with the hotel sign I had been searching for the past several hours.  Drenched from head to toe in sweat, I gladly payed my $3 for the room and, for the first time on this journey I thoroughly enjoyed a cold shower. 

After I had rinsed the day’s trials away and cooled my brain, the thought of staying in Leòn for more than half a day became unappealing.  Instead a quietly repressed doubt had surfaced, no doubt brought on by the day’s frustrations.  Waning confidence in my ability to reach Panama urged me to rush further south, down to Costa Rica and ever nearer to the Canal.  No rest for the weary, tomorrow would be another day on the road.    

It has become readily obvious that Honduran highways are designed to make it as inconvenient as possible to reach my destination in anything resembling an efficient manner.  I would have to zigzag my way across several different roads, none of which headed due south, in order to make my way to the border.  I figured that once I got back on the Pan American Highway it would be smooth sailing all the way into Nicaragua, but accomplishing this would prove to be very tedious without a map.

The first leg of my trip lead northeast to the town of La Entrada.  Straightforward and easy enough.  I then turned southeast to head towards Santa Rosa de Copan, to the awaiting dogleg to the east.  After that, I began to look for Gracias and then La Esperanza for the next turn back to the northeast.

The road rose sharply into the mountains.  Breathtaking vistas of lush pine forrests being slowly covered and then revealed by dark and ominous clouds busied my eyes and brain as I chugged to the top.  What was a slight drizzle turned into a bone chilling downpour as I scaled ever highter, and the air turned crisp and penetrative.  I had previously thought impossible my current state in Honduras, but I was soon frigid at my everly diminishing pace up into the wintry oasis.  The curving and climbing roadway was riddled with potholes, making a proper line through the minefield of utmost importance.  Sometimes the wheel-benders were so numerous that I found it smoother to ride off the pavement. 

I finally crested the mountain pass, and I had steadily built up my defenses to the highway’s attacks on the trueness of the XR’s wheels.  The descent into the beckoning thick and warm atmosphere below was fraught with more flank attacks to me and my steed from stubborn 18 wheelers that encrouched into my lane, their hulking masses ensured it was free for the taking.  With a little diligence and a lot of luck, I safely negotiated my passage through the battlefield and was soon greeted with a few miles of straightaway, and my deathgrip on the handlebars eventually subsided.

Far too soon I came upon the familiar sight of a border crossing.  I belayed the obvious truth by assuming that my sense of time and distance needed to be recalibrated.  ‘Bienvenidos a El Salvador!’ screamed a hand painted sign.  What the…?  This border shouldn’t be here!  This should be the town of Gracias on the Nicaraguan border.  Crap, where’s my map.  Oh yeah…

Great.  It was now after noon and I had just gone 100km in the completely wrong direction, and over a treacherous mountain pass that I now had to cross again.  I had just succeeded in wasting time, fuel, and precious luck for no reason.  I had half a mind to just go ahead and cross into El Salvador, rumored to be the most dangerous and gang-ridden of all Central American countries, and make my way to San Salvador where I knew the other leg of the Pan American highway lived, but then I remembered that I would have to cancel my bike permiso only to have to pay for it again in an hour when I got dumped back into southern Honduras.  Finances would not allow, so I had no choice but to turn back towards the battlefield and pray that I could once again dodge every tire swallowing pothole while parrying with careless and bike crushing trucks.  Well, why not?

By mid afternoon I was back in Santa Rosa de Copàn frantically searching for that left turn I had missed on my previous visit.  Not one street sign anywhere.  With no map there was no way to gain my bearings or decipher the maze of streets.  By sheer luck alone I happened to catch a glimpse of car turning down what I had presumed to this point to be an alley.  I glanced up into the surrounding mountains to realize that this cart path continued at least as far as I could see.  That had to be the way out.  I had been in this situation before, I knew exactly where this day was going.  It would not end without my complete and utter exasperation brought on by being hopelessly lost, yet again. 

The dirt of the alleyway made for slow going at first, but surprisingly it turned to luscious concrete at the outskirts of the town and I relished in the thought that I just might make some time and distance lost.  And then I rounded the next bend and saw a police checkpoint.  Up until now, every other checkpoint I had seen in Honduras had been manned, but the roadside guards would not so much as glance up from their newspapers as I slowly crept past.  This one had four eager cops in the middle of the highway, all of them staring hungrily at the fresh meat coming their way, all of them motioning for me to stop and dismount from the bike.  Now, I had been in Honduras before on a previous adventure and on that trip I happened to have a run in a group of corrupt Honduran cops which cost me every dollar I had on me.  I knew from experience that Honduran police were the most likely to be corrupt out of any of the Central American countries, so I began to prepare myself for how much this was going to cost.

Once stopped, I removed my helmet to show off my friendly smile and mentally rehearsed my answers to the usual questions asked by every foreign official to date.  They closely inspected my passport, bike permiso, and even my driver’s license looking for any discrepency.  After several tense minutes they were satisfied that everything was in order, my tension relieved, and the still air was soon alive with friendly small talk.  They fired off the expected questions and I let loose with my standard memorized responses.  ¿De donde vienes?  De Tejas  ¿Y donde vas?  A Panama!  ¿Por cuanto tiempo hiciste aqui?  Hace como un mez… 

The head officer was smiling as he began to tell me all about the town of Gracias.  He mentioned a restaurant that had good food, and whose owner supposedly had a lot of information for foreign travelers.  He also mentioned that the road will fall into disrepair ahead dirt because of some construction and I should take care to not get crushed by any wayward heavy equipment.  Not to fear, I am well practiced in that art.  We shook hands and I was relieved to be back underway with an unmolested wallet.  I smirked to myself as I dismissed my previous misconception of the local law enforcement.  It was simply amazing how friendly and helpful everyone has been on this journey so far.  Simply amazing.

Sure enough, the road turned to dirt just outside of Gracias.  I never found the restaurant he mentioned but I really didn´t have time to stop anyway.  The sun would disappear in about an hour and a half by my estimation, and it would be all I could do to make La Esperansa near the Nicaraguan border by darkfall.  Yep, I knew precisely how this day was going to end.

I kept expecting the construction zone to end so that my tires could kiss beloved pavement hello again.  That never happened.  The winding dirt road became progressively bumpier and narrower forcing me to stand up on the pegs and shift the XR down into first.  It was slow going at 20mph.  I have definitely been questioning my judgment recently, but now I was questioning if I was, in fact, on the right road.  Memories of the Copper Canyon escape flashed through my mind’s eye.  Of course, there wouldn’t be any roadsigns, but it wouldn’t matter if there was, I didn’t have a map to check them against. 

In an eye opening realization, it dawned on me that this arduous road went somewhere.  Even if it wasn’t my intended destination, wherever it brought me to would be just fine as long as there was an awaiting bed and someone who could point me in the right direction in the morning.  Occasionally, the road would smooth out for a bit and I could briskly shift into second in a vain attempt to make up some time.  But these brief stretches would inevitably be followed by a section so rough that my spine and kidneys would howl in protest.  The XR’s suspension was getting quite the work out as it was forced to tackle obstacle after obstacle.  I imagined it being bumpier only if a truckload of bowling balls was spilled right in front of me. 

After what seemed a miniature lifetime, I finally came to a town whose name I didn’t recognize nor could I pronounce.  It was a dusty little place and looked suitable, but the sun was just now dipping behind the mountains and I still had about an hour to press on.  I really wanted to find La Esperanza because that’s where the next turn was to get me to the Pan American Highway.  I internally planned that if I didn’t come across my destination in a half hour I would reluctantly turn around to stay the night in that small town, just so I wouldn’t have to test the fates with what I knew was waiting for me if I rode at night.

And just when I thought my bones were going to give up and rattle apart at the joints, the bumps smoothed out, and I glimpsed cool hard pavement smiling back at me through bare spots in the blanket of dirt.  The road gradually widened and I soon found myself on a pristine two-lane modern highway complete with shoulders.  I can’t remember the last time I saw shoulders and the implied safety net that they represented.  Now I really didn’t care where the road went.  Anywhere that this delicious asphalt carried me had to be heaven on earth.  And what’s this?  Little signs on the side that count down the kilometers?  Imposible!  I didn’t know where I was going to end up, but I was going to be there in 37 kilometers.  36.  35.  34…..

I pulled into the town of Siguatepeque, where my new favorite highway deadended into the Pan American, just as twilight gave way to darkness.  I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to ride straight through La Esperanza without even flinching.  It had to be that dusty little town with the unpronouncable name.  But I can pronounce La Esperanza.  Maybe they had one of those James Bond rotating signs with their town name on it to keep out the gringos.   Now I didn’t care, for I was on the cusp of the Pan American Highway and checked into a hotel room by nightfall.  That’s completely uncharacteristic for how things should have gone today.

Down the road was a refreshingly familiar cultural icon, and I don’t feel guilty at all for gorging myself at the first Wendy’s I’ve seen in a month either.  It was fantastic.  I was famished, and my sole needed a little American nourishment, even if it meant depriving my body for a short time of any proper sustenance.

Soonafter I was safe asleep, reliving the day’s events in my dreams, preparing for what lay in wait.  Tomorrow I would cross into Nicaragua.

Last night’s sleep was fitful, perhaps because my tense punished muscles, pushed yet again to the brink of exhaustion, would not allow me to relax.  Regardless, I arose early in anticipation of leaving Guatemala for an inspiring destination, despite my expectation that it would be overly touristy.  I could play the part of a tourist for a day, complete with an obnoxious camera dangling from my neck advertising to all to come rob me.

I stopped on the outskirts of Chiquimuli to get gas and double check the directions I had in my head.  Since my map had gone missing I would have to rely on the locals even more to make sure I stay on the right highway and never ever take another secondary road.

I had been apprehensive about getting gas in Guatemala.  Not because I was unsure of the quality, but because of the prices.  Every time I passed a gas station, and there were a lot since unlike Mexico they are not under federal control, I would see prices of 25-27 quetzal.  I had run my brain in circles trying to convert quetzals to pesos to dollars, but I was still sure that that price was gasoline extortion.  If it really was 25 quetzal per litre, that would work out to about $12 a gallon.  No matter how much I saved with $2 meals and $6 a night hotels, I could never recoup that kind of expenditure on gas.

My fears were soon put to rest, however, when I discovered that for some odd reason Guatemala measures liquids in gallons, not in the expected metric litres.  Not only was the price exactly what it should be, there was an added bonus in that I finally got to pump my own gas.  Compile this with the overwhelming lack of topes on the thoroughfares and it almost makes up for the labarynthine highway infrastructure and complete lack of adequate signage.  But for now, I will relish in these smallish pleasures.

The Guatemalan/Honduran border crossing was much more tranquillo than its Mexican counterpart.  Only 2 tour buses and a handful of American volunteers to contend with this go around.  And both countries officed out of the same physical building, so if I missed a hoop to jump through here or there it would be no big deal to backtrack.  My only complaint was that Honduras wanted $35 for a vehicle permiso.  That wouldn’t be so bad as it’s good for 90 days, but I would have to cancel it when I exit at Nicarauguan border and pay again when I return, doubling the taxation on my bank account.  At least that’s what I gathered from the aduana official as he rattled off the stipulations in shotgun Spanish.  Perhaps I misunderstood, like I’m so apt to do.

With the requisite and tedious paperwork finished, I left the quiet border crossing and quickly ascended into the Honduran mountains.  A short while later I found myself in Copán Ruínas, the neighboring town to the famous archeological site.  It is a quaint and quiet little town set into a hillside, its interior crisscrossed with handlaid cobblestone streets.  I found a hotel room for $12, not as cheap as I had hoped, but it had a private bathroom and hot water, two commodities I had come to relish in my short term abroad.  Life really is about the small things.  I changed out of my riding gear, stopped for some fresh water and then set out on foot for the Ruins.  It was so nice to be hiking somewhere for a change, rather than relying solely on that cantankerous XR for transportation.  My legs rejoiced in their new task.  It was barely 11am and I had the whole day to do as I pleased.

It is indescribable to relate the feelings and emotions I experienced while walking around the 1,500 year old hand carved structures and precisely assembled pyramids, around which one sect of the living breathing Mayan society, 20,000 strong, carried out their daily lives.  I lazily walked around for hours trying to soak up the vibe of what it might have been like.  Two completely different worlds collided in that place, mine and theirs.  I suppose a Mayan from that era would never be able to comprehend the sights and sounds of the modern world, just like I would never be able to comprehend theirs.  If, through some bizarre and impossible time dilation, an ancient Mayan happened to find their way into this world I suppose I might find them ambling about in wonderment, eyes agape with curiousity, much as I was in those Ruins.  It astounds me how far human kind has come in such a short time.  It scares me how far we need to go.

After dinner I went next door, to what seemed to be the neighborhood bar, for a beer.  It didn’t take too long before a local struck up a conversation with me and we were soon chatting away about the bike, the trip, his life in Copán and everything else under the sun.  He obviously knew every local in the place so I felt he was a good person to get to know.  His name was Carlos and he was at the bar with some fellow Peace Corps volunteers to relax after work.  I would come to find out that he was gay–which became the focus of a later conversation: as if gay life wasn’t difficult enough in a close minded world, try living it in Honduras–but I didn’t mind because his female friend Quincy was quite striking.  She had also graduated from UT so right off the bat we had something in common in this strange land. 

The group of us spent the evening barhopping and a profound sense of belonging soon enveloped me.  Quincy asked me a question about current Austin politics which sparked off a fiery debate.  Hondurans are refreshingly passionate about politics.  There was a recent major election in Honduras, the results of which had just been revealed today.  The undergog liberal party had defeated the nationalista party to most everyone’s surprise.  This was cause for a huge celebration in the zòcalo, and we soon found ourselves amidst the din of blaring music accompanied by a thunderous light show, which inspired every local to express their intense joy with an example of the most lively dancing I’ve ever been privilaged to witness.  The scene was a strange concoction of a high school dance with awkward girations and lustful advances, and a Tejano concert with wonton consumption and deafening polka exploding forth from speakers.

Unfortunately Quincy had to bid an early goodnight, but some more Peace Corps friends had recently joined our group out on the town, two of which were expat sisters from England that happened to own a neighborhood watering hole.  This was incredibly convenient because our ravenous group was growing thirsty and needed more baccanalia to quench our soles.  Their hospitality was beyond reproach and we were obliged by the opening of her place of business to just our group for an after hour party.  As we sat on the upstairs patio, looking down on the last few stragglers staggering away from the zòcalo to their respective homes, I desperately tried to keep up with the swift conversations tickling my ears, all in Spanish.  I thought I was doing pretty well until occasionally one of them would interject to quiz me on what I had understood so far.  I would reply confidently as if I knew the exact answers to their questions, to which they would go back and fill in the blanks for everything I missed.

By 2am I felt like I had known these people for years.  A motley conglomeration of wordly travellers from all walks of life.  It was reminiscent of the vibe back in Baja, a bunch of close friends sitting around, enjoying tasty beverages, and exploring each others’ interpretation of the World.  I had thoroughly enjoyed myself and I would have loved to stay to see the sun come up, but I knew that the groundskeeper back at the hotel was going to wake me up at 6:30 so I could move my bike out of their restaurant where they had kindly offered it to spend the night.  I said farewell to my new friends, the whole time thanking them profusely for making me feel at home, and then strolled back to my room a few blocks away, upon reaching my beckoning bed I plunged fast into deep and restful sleep.

That is what traveling is all about.  Ships passing in the night, random encounters with a few enlightened individuals,  events like that can change the world.

Within 15 minutes of leaving Quetzaltenango I knew it was going to be slow going. My goal for the day was modest: make it through the hulking capital, Guatemala City, and on to Chiquimuli near the Honduran border. From there it would be a short ride across to the ruins of Copàn, and a much needed day of relaxation.

The Pan American Highway, or CA-1, through Guatemala is carved out of a very lush and steep mountain range. The combination of frequent heavy rainfall and constant groundwater seepage tends to wash the foundation out from under the roadway in unpredictable spots. This is the very reason for disastrous landslides that devour titanic chunks of roadway.

Still early in the morning, and long before any part of my body had a chance to get tired or go numb, I encountered my first of many ‘roadblocks’. Some 100 meters of highway had gone missing and an industrious Guatemalan workforce was working at a Guatemalan pace to fill in the void with soil and gravel to the point that traffic could continue, albeit 1 lane at a time. As I awaited my turn I took note of the Guatemalan tendency to capitalize on unfortunate everyday occurances.

Dozens of young salesmen appeared from makeshift thatched kiosks, as well as the all-encompassing jungle to peddle their wares. I was presented with multiple opportunities to purchase Coke, water, fruit drinks, chicle, almonds, weavings, carvings, and lots of porn. Unabashed, they went up to every car, every truck, and every chicken bus in front of me and behind me, sometimes surrounding the vehicles, pressuring the occupants to purchase their unneeded goods. It was a tedious 5 minutes of repeated nay saying for me, until the flagman finally waved me on.

Now, I was understandably a little more cautious as I rode away from that landslide. I knew I was right to do so when I came upon the next washout. This particular landslide had taken out an iceberg size chunk of the mountain and the makeshift detour road was dug out in a long arc around the washout. If you came over the crest of the hill fast enough it would seem like the road continued straight ahead, much like the infamous Roadrunner “painted backdrop” trick on the Coyote.

Such was the outcome of an ill-fated Izuzu Trooper. Policia and Bombero vehicles surrounded the tumultuous area as best they could on the narrow byway. As I made my way around the arcing path, I caught a brief glimpse of the growing crowd some 50 feet below as it performed the Guatemalan equivalent of rubber-necking at the crushed, overturned and maimed SUV.

I don’t know if there were survivors or casualties. I felt it would have been in very poor taste to stick around, being the only gringo gaping at the scene snapping photos, so I headed on my way at an even more reserved pace.

It took about 2 hours longer than the time I expected to reach Guatemala City. Once there, it took about 3 hours to get out. I detest big cities. They are the de facto commentary on the sad state of affairs in this world. You know there are far too many humans on the planet when vast numbers decide it’s a good idea to live within such close proximity to each other. It’s time to stop procreating, people.

As my funds were dwindling, the only thing I wanted to see in the city was an ATM that actually worked. This was no small feat. I never ventured off of the Pan Am hwy, where countless banks where located, but it was all I could do to scan the business signs on the roadside while simultaneously avoiding the numerous chicken buses and taxis trying to constantly run me over.

There were also cops everywhere. Probably 3 or 4 per intersection. There were cops on foot, cops on bikes, and even cops on 4 wheelers. They were pulling people over left and right for who knows what, and whisking them out of their vehicles to be patted down. I certainly did not want to be one of those victims. This means that once I passed an ATM on the opposite side of the highway, which happened more times than I care to remember, there was no way I was going to bust an illegal U-turn to get to it. And there are never ever any simple turnarounds south of the border.

The first few ATMs that I was actually able to make it to wouldn’t accept my card. Mental note for the future, ignore the BancoRed signs, they’re bunk. The next few were locked because it was Sunday. After an hour of misfortune I finally managed to happen upon one that was both open and working. Mission accomplished! Now to find some lunch.

Everywhere I looked I was greeted with modern commercialism gone horribly wrong. Numerous fast food restaurants, huge mega cinaplexes with glaring signs, and strip malls as far as the eye could see, all with unfamiliar names and logos but I knew what they were just the same because of the universally predictable marketing ploys.

Maybe I’m not that hungry after all. I think I can hold off until I get out of this terrible and gargantuan city. And that was an entirely different problem.

The highway I needed branched off from the CA-1 to the northeast. It did this somewhere within the city but I had no clue where. I assumed I would see a clearly marked sign for one of Guatemala’s few major arteries somewhere along the way, but by now I should have learned better. I don’t know what I was thinking because in my 2,500 odd miles tallied so far, I had rarely, if ever, seen a sign that told me exactly what I wanted to know. What I wanted was a huge billboard 40 feet across with giant sparkling neon letters that screamed “HEY DUMBASS, THE WAY OUT IS OVER HERE!!”. But Of course, there was no such sign and I flew right past the turn off that I never saw.

And this is a perfect example of why I hate planning ahead. I really wanted to be in Chiquimuli by early afternoon so I could be well rested in Copàn. But now that I was off of ‘the plan’, I felt frustration and anger setting in. Here I was, still on the CA-1, on direct route to El Salvador. Once I realized my mistake there was no turning back. I was not going to risk being chewed up again in that garbage disposal of a city. I would never make it. The cops would nab me for sure, if the chicken buses didn’t get to me first. No, I was now on my way out of Guatemala City but in a completely useless direction.

Here would normally be the spot where I would just take a deep breath and say “Whatever”. But it was not the plan. There was another way to get to Chiquimuli the way I was now headed but it involved a path that I had not researched, not to mention it added about 100 miles to my day. Oh well, such is life.

I slowly tried to put my frustration behind me and got accustomed to the task at hand. Because of all the time I had already lost with landslides, ATMs and wrong turns, I was going to be cutting it close with the tireless march of the sun. It would turn out, I was to be a victim of my own stupid foreshadowing (Remember after I survived the Copper Canyon I said that the problem with always escaping consequences is that you never learn from your mistakes?).

My path now took me far to the south of Guatemala where I intended to look for another highway east towards Honduras. It was getting late in the afternoon when I reached a turn off to the north. This route led north to the town of Jalapa and then cut across east to the highway that would eventually lead to Chiquimuli. It looked pretty far on the map but the funny thing about kilometers is they fly by so fast.

From my limited 2-day experience with this new Central America map I knew that I could cover 3 inches in about 2 hours. And that’s about how far I had to go when I finally reached Jalapa. The sun was about 45 minutes from setting, which gave me a very narrow window to reach the other highway that ran to Chiquimuli before darkness overtook the encroaching twilight.

And here’s where my over inflated ego and invincible sense of confidence kicked in. The smart decision would have been to stay the night in Jalapa, get an early start in the morning and still be in Copàn by noon the next day. But that’s not what adventurers do! They do not take the easy way out, and I was not about to either. Where is the challenge in folding your cards right after the first bet? I was gonna shoot the moon!

Now, that 3 inches on the map I had to cover was on what was described as a secondary road. It was presumably paved as denoted on the map. I expertly picked my way through the gridded alleyways of Jalapa and was soon riding down the lone road out of town on some very smooth pavement indeed. This was going to be a snap! I was back on plan, baby. No holding me back, now.

My shadow was growing ever longer in front of me, stretching itself lazily out to the trees in the foreground that I kept rushing past. Suddenly, the pavement turned to gravel. No big deal, I can still do 45. I’ll still make the highway in plenty of time. And then the gravel turned to dirt. Hey, I can handle this. It’s fairly hard packed. I’ll just slow it down ever so slightly. And then the dirt got rutted. And washed out. And sharp rocks appeared everywhere. I was forced to slow down to a crawl.

No sense turning back. I already knew what I was up against since it hadn’t been that long since I went through a similar situation. I tried to convince myself that riding at night wasn’t really that bad of an idea….on a rough dirt road….in Guatemala. Is it?

The sun inevitably crept behind the horizon as I continued to crawl along this secondary road. Soon I was surrounded by complete darkness, save for my weak headlight, and the stars emerged in splendid glory. As if I couldn’t have predicted the storyline thus far, the road forked into 2 equally appealing directions. There was no fork displayed on my map. Well hell, let’s go left this time.

A half hour later, after some perilous inclines and declines (remember, my rear tire is a street compound now) the road forked again. This time there was a group of Guatemalans hanging out at nearby cinder block house, in what appeared to be a somewhat regular social gathering, so I tucked my ego between my legs and went to ask for directions. After a lot of misunderstanding, miscommunication and self-denial it finally became clear to me that I had to backtrack all the way back to the first fork. Hey, why not? It’s already pitch black, I can’t see a thing, and I’m lost in the Middle Of Nowhere, Guatemala. What have I got to lose? I’ve got nothing but time.

I wasn’t terribly worried about banditos. This was far in the backwoods of Guatemala where good hearted folks live. I was more worried about breaking down or running into loose livestock. It was very easy to outrun my dim headlight, so I kept to my snail’s pace all the way back to the first fork.

The irony was killing me. I kept cracking up to myself at how I always manage to get myself into these situations. Will I ever learn? Here I was, reliving my own past not 1 month later.

By the time I returned to the first fork the locals of that tiny pueblito had gathered around, no doubt prompted by the now familiar grunt of the XR returning. So, I made use of my expert direction asking skills and pointed to my map for emphasis. My map. Where the heck was my map?

Apparently it had gone missing in the night. Perfect! That’s exactly what I needed. My one clue to this impossible puzzle had now anished into the Guatemalan abyss. I suppose I’ll just add my map and it’s sleeve to the rapidly growing list of items (1. Central America map, 2. GPS, 3. tent, 4. rearview mirror, 5. right riding glove, 6. iPod, 7. license plate holder, 8. tire irons) that have either broken or gone missing on this trip. I suppose the strain was more than they could bear. At this rate, by the time I get back to the US I expect I’ll be riding a gas powered unicycle wearing only swimtrunks and sunglasses.

Back to the Guatemalan crowd that had by now surrounded me. I am starting to grow a little tired of constantly being the center of attention. That is not a position I do well in. I love talking with locals when you don’t need anything from them–like chatting with everyday folks at border crossings or at the ferry crossings. My Spanish really seems to flourish when I am unencumbered by having to say the right thing in the right way.

But when I am faced with not only comprehending what is being said but also making sure that I am understood at the same time, I tend to stumble and miss important key words. Like when these folks were kind enough to tell me that yes, I was finally pointed in the right direction and that my desired highway was directly ahead, but that it was more than two hours away. Two hours? How could that be? It couldn’t be more than an inch on my now AWOL map. Maybe they meant 2 hours to Copàn and not just to the highway. Man, I wish I was fluent.

Regardless, I pressed on into the darkness. Occasionally I would pass a house with a streetlight. If there was power this far out I had to be going the right direction, right? Mile after mile, hour after hour, I made my way down this remote backroad of Guatemala.

After a lifetime, I finally came upon the town of San Pedro Escondilla. The zócalo was refreshingly alive with hundreds of people out on the town, enjoying the taco stands and perusing the artesania stands. And outside of this town the unending dirt road finally turned to pavement. Glorious pavement, how I’ve forsaken you! Forgive me as I take advantage of you one more time and twist the throttle to the limits of my vision.

During the day I had built up an impressive collection of bug guts on my visor. This presented no real problem when there was sufficient daylight to drown out the distractions. But at night when your eyes strain to focus, the constant scanning of every single approaching shape to see if it’s a car, cow, or just a bush, those bug guts were more than just a nuisance. Not only that, but I forgot to mention they take the light from every passing headlight or overhead streetlamp and diffract it into bizarre patterns, so that everything seems to be coming at you straight out of a Dali painting. I was definitely pushing the limits.

Because I couldn’t see out of my bug-gut encrusted visor I had to prop it up, which let in a torrent of air. Tears were streaming out of my eyes from the constant tickling of the wind. But I didn’t care. I was finally on pavement. When the secondary road finally intersected the main highway to Chiquimuli, I didn’t even need to read the misleading signs that were posted. I instinctively knew to turn the handlebars to the left and gassed the XR up to speed. With Venus finally setting on my left and Mars and the Pleides rising on my right, I knew that I was headed north and in the right direction.

I made my hotel by 9pm. I had been riding for over 11 hours straight and my numerous detours ensured that I covered the better part of 300 miles. I had done it once again. I had defeated the Guatemalan backroad demons just like I had defeated their brethren in the Copper Canyon, and my body was left suffering for it.

It was difficult and painful to turn my head and my throttle hand refused to make a fist. After paying for my room I stumbled back to the bike to unpack, and then struggled with the key for a few minutes before the sight of my thin mattress for the night was revealed to me. 4 inches of foam padding never looked so good. Once unpacked and there, I passed right out. But just before, my second to last thought was a self assuring “Nothing can hold you back from Panama”, while my last one was “Never again….”

The ride out of San Christóbal was rather bizarre. Perched high in the mountains of Chiapas, I had to ride down through the clouds to the border. It could have been any road in the world, and it was easy to forget that I was about to leave the relative safety of Mexico that I had become accustomed to.

Surprisingly enough though, I wasn’t nervous. I think I might have finally gotten my traveling legs centered under me and my sense of adventure was piqued. I began to look forward to the border, not as a strange place of armed soldiers and wayward travelers, but more like just another set of hoops I had to jump through to get to Panama.

It really is interesting what you have to go through to get a stamp on a piece of paper…

The Guatemalan side of the border was a madhouse. Throngs of people everywhere, chicken buses overloaded with crops and baggage, and no sense of organization whatsoever. Upon approach I was directed down a side dirtroad, away from the relative comfort of pavement, by a 10 year old violently waving a red rag, a devious detour that lead to countless makeshift stands for the locals to sell their wares. I don’t handle crowds very well anyway and I was almost overwhelmed at the narrow path I had to navigate through these stands to get to the Aduana. I don’t see how any car, much less a bus gets anywhere through here.

Just remember, it’s just hoops. First jump, get the bike fumigated. No problem except I had no quetzales to pay the agriculture department. Second hoop, find a black market cambio man so I could trade some pesos for quetzales. Luckily I stood out something horrible so the black market exchange men basically found me. Easy and done. Third hoop, get passport stamped at Aduana. Not so easy. Apparently I had to go 4km back to the Mexican side because I didn’t know I was supposed to be stamped out of that country. Ok, back on the bike for the 5th hoop. Mexican Aduana. Of course, they sent me straight to the 6th hoop: I had to pay for my Mexican visa before they would stamp me out. Onto the Banjercito, pay the nice man $21 then back to the 7th hoop (which is really still the 5th). Mexican Aduana man is smiling now, informs me that I still have until Feb 1st on my visa and bike permiso and I don’t have to pay again on my way back north, sends me on my way to hoop 8. Squeeze my way through the claustrophobic throng, straight past the fumigation stand and back into Guatemalan Aduana. Cleared the 8th hoop, now onto the 9th, get the bike permit for Guatemala. Getting easier now, I can see the light. Fill out papers, show bike title and Mexican permiso, then hoop 10. Go next door to the bank, past the heavily armed guard, pay the clerk 41 quetzal and then back once again to show I paid and pick up all my papers.

At last! Back on the bike, fire it up, put it in gear, ease out the clutch and….one more hoop! A man comes out of nowhere to stop me. He was dressed in plain clothes but I knew he was official because he carried a .45 Beretta on his side. He wanted to see my bike permit. Fine, whatever, it’s right here (of course I’m very friendly about it as he is well armed just like everyone else with authority). Last hoop and I’m free!

I finally got to break out my Central American Lonely Planet and maps and stow my Mexican maps for a few weeks. It was only 2 and a half hours to Quetzaltenango, and after I arrived I would have loads of time to soak up the Guatemalan atmosphere.

I’m not sure if I will ever get used to cold showers. If nothing else, they definitely wake you up, and there is no need for coffee after being assaulted by liquid ice. I had a fairly short ride ahead of me today, only about 150 miles high into the mountains to the colonial town of San Christóbal de las Casas.

Shortly after crossing into Chiapas I dismissed my earlier machinations on how to deal with the inevitable banditos that were surely awaiting my arrival. This state was actually rather upscale and affluent in appearance, compared to my preconceived notinos. The capital city, Tuxtla Gutierez, was clean and modern. They even had little countdown timers on the stoplights so you knew exactly when the light would turn green. I’d never seen anything like it.

Since I had a light day, and since I failed miserable at running errands in Acapulco, I decided to put my time to good use and look for a Honda shop in Tuxtla. My rear tire was hanging on admirably, but soon I would be in Central America and I was unsure if I would be able to take good care of the XR once out of Mexico.

Like usual, as if I knew precisely what I was doing, I found the lone Honda shop in Tuxtla within minutes and went inside to practice my Spanish motorcycle vocabulary. They had 2 tires in stock that would work, one a soft and gnarly offroader and the other a more modest street oriented tire. Since the Copper Canyon was long behind me and I really intended to stick to pavement from here on out, I went with the modest one. I expect it will last 15-20,000 miles and should carry me much further than the Canal and back.

I rode the bike back to the service room. Obviously, it was nothing like what you would see in the states. They were using milk crates as bike stands, make shift tools and no tire machine anywhere in sight. This was going to be fun.

After about 10 minutes of watching the gregarious Antonio fumble with my wheel I decided to jump in. I was worried he was going to warp my brake rotor the way he was haphazardly wrestling with the thing. I asked if we could simply remove the rotor, and then told him that I had something better than his unwieldy tire spoons. Luckily, the Copper Canyon saw fit to let me escape with one tire iron. Between the two of us, it still took the better part of 30 minutes to change one tire. The whole time the other service man and a few other salesmen would come in to chastise Antonio because I was helping him. We all had several good laughs over the effeminate jokes, and before long the bike was back together and I was ready to roll.

Antonio was infatuated with the US and wanted nothing more than a $1 bill to commemorate his interaction with the gringo motorcyclist. How could I refuse?

I said goodbye to my new friends at the shop and left Tuxtla knowing that there were very few hurdles left keeping me from Panama. The bike was taken care of and I was ready. All I had to do was cover the distance. Metaphorically speaking, it’s going to be all downhill now.

Downhill that is, except for the steep and winding single lane road up into the mountains the way to San Christóbal. On the way up I confirmed one of my suspicions as I glanced out into the valley below and saw nothing but a disgusting brown haze. Most of Mexico is covered in this haze but you never really notice it until you can look down on it. It almost makes you glad you have to go through the hassle of getting your car to pass emissions in the states.

Towards the top, the steep road was dotted with traditionally dressed people wearing colorful plaid skirts and bright flowery shirts, carrying various loads and goods on their backs. This was my first view of some of Mexico’s true native people, descendants of the Olmeks. Though I was breezing past at 40mph I felt I was able to somewhat glimpse how they continued to live off the land, growing maize and capitalizing on tourism with their brightly colored and artistic weavings. I wonder if I could ever truly understand their lifestyle, or they mine?

The best thing about the ride up though was the chill in the air. I think I topped out at around 6,000 feet, and the difference was refreshing. I pulled into San Christóbal late afternoon and the temperature was probably around 75F. It amused me to see everyone wearing sweaters, jackets and hats. I would have been happy in my swim trunks, although maybe they wouldn’t be so pleased.

I pretty much covered the whole town before I got my bearings and zeroed in on my hotel. I became slightly frustrated trying to figure out the labyrinth of cobblestone streets, but once I found the right place and heard that it was $6 for the night, I was elated. And they even helped me pull the XR up the tall curb and through several hallways so that it could sleep soundly too. If this trend of bear-market prices continued I would have no problem stretching my money to Panama and back. And I suppose that was the deciding factor because the next day would take me to the Guatemalan border. I couldn’t turn back now that everything was getting cheaper.

I ran into another moto-touring couple in that hostel. They were English and they were riding a hideous pair of motorcycles that had long since past stock. But it didn’t matter, their steeds had already carried them thousands of miles through Central America and the US. Upon our initial meeting, loose plans were made to ride out of San Christobal together, but as all of us were spontaneous spirits, nothing panned out.

I felt the need to make my way into Guatemala and they were heading in the opposite direction. I did not know what lay in wait for me in my first Central American country, but I was anxious and eager to press on.

I suppose I looked at Guatemala kind of like a kid looks at spinach: how are you gonna know you don’t like it if you don’t at least try it?

The bike was running smooth today.

I suppose it could have just beaten me senseless over the last few days, but I guess I wouldn’t know the difference anyway. I left Puerto Escondido at the leisurely hour of 10am with the hopes of covering some 200 miles to Salina Cruz in eastern Oaxaca.

It’s still amazing to me how a few good nights of solid rest can give me an overwhelming sense of confidence and well-being. It’s also amazing how quickly that feeling deteriorates. I almost feel bi-polar when one minute I think that this trip is futile and senseless, and the next I muse how nothing can stop me from reaching my goal. Luckily, I’ve gotten good at ignoring most of those negative notions and I just keep pushing on further south each day.

I made great time to Salina Cruz and was nearing the state of Chiapas, reputedly the most dangerous state in Mexico and home of the Zapatista revolution just over 10 years ago. If I was going to be robbed anywhere on this trip, why not in Chiapas? I played out mental scenarios on how the banditos would get me to stop. Perhaps a menacing chain stretched across a lone stretch of highway, set to clothesline me. Maybe a schoolbus pulling out of nowhere sending me down some blind alley. Hmmm, they would definitely be crafty and well practiced after 10 years. I was going to be ready for them.

I decided to push on, past Salina Cruz since I was still feeling fairly fresh. I rode out of the mountains and into the plains of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, where the wind loves to howl while it tries to blow you off the rode. I was now within 50 miles of the Pacific and less than 300 miles from the Caribbean. The road was wide and straight, as now I was on the Pan American Highway proper.

Before long, after hours of maxing the XR out at 85mph+, I was in a town called Tapanatepec, just shy of the Chiapas border. It was almost 4pm and I had covered 330 miles. Good grief, what am I doing to myself!

The interesting thing about riding on the Pan American highway is not the abundance of trucks, or even its Americanized feel with abundant truck stops, but rather the toll that 10 years of heavy traffic has taken on the road surface. In each lane of the Pan-American there are two dugout channels just as wide as semi-truck tires and spaced accordingly. The pavement has been squashed and deformed to the point that I would imagine a truck driver could let go of the steering wheel and let the channels guide the steering wheel while he slept.

This made for some thrilling side effects on the XR. In most turns you could use the outside of a channel as a bank of sorts, and really get the corner speed up. Of course, if you slipped out of the channel it meant a perilous slide off of the edge. I decided not to push my luck and made a slow and easy pace into Tapanatepec.

Tapanatepec is your basic truckstop town. I cruised straight through to see what there was to see, and soon doubled back to the few hotels I spied on the way in. I got a room for the night for $10 and made the acquaintance of Manuel, the proprietor. The room was actually very nice and even had a hammock outside, although the abundance of mosquitoes and large flying beetles ensured that I was sleeping indoors that night. Manuel invited me out to his roadside taco stand for some much needed dinner.

My Thanksgiving feast consisted of 5 Tacos al Pastor, a side of refried beans, which contained probably more lard than beans, and 2 Coronas (I can’t stand Corona, but he had no Pacifico and it would have been rude of me to say no once he offered). All the while trucks rumbled by on the Pan-Am highway and a nearby TV was blaring a Mexican novella. I was quite entertained to say the least.

It was a picture perfect Thanksgiving, if you ask me.

A good night’s rest did wonders for me. The only reason I awoke at 11am was to go pay for another night wonderful night at my plush hotel. After which I went right back to bed, all the while enjoying the one movie channel they had in english.

After naptime in the afternoon I found a local lavateria that would wash my clothes for $2. And since I had no clothes to wear except my swim trunks I was forced to slather up my gringo body with sunscreen and mosey down to the beach.

A surfer’s paradise indeed! I have never seen 10 foot waves before, nor have I really seen so many surfers in one spot. It was so tempting to brush off Panama altogether and find a way to spend the next month here in Escondido. I would love to know how to surf, especially on waves like this Mexican pipeline.

That night, the hotel had a reggae band play at the pool. Since they were much too loud to fall asleep to, I was forced to go enjoy the scene. I hung out at the pool bar for a few hours, chatted with some Australian and French surfers, and patiently waited for the band to stop so I could get some more sleep.

My body still ached, but the beach was slowly working its magical wonders upon me. I really wanted to stay in Escondido for awhile, but the funny thing about getting so much rest is it made me anxious. It had only been a day, I was barely rejuvenated, and already I was itching to get back on the road. I suppose that makes me a glutton for punishment.

One more night of American movies on the one english tv channel. One more night of motionless sleep. One more night closer to Panama.

One more night closer to Panama, huh? So you think you can make it all the way? Well, why not go for it then, tough guy?

And that’s a perfect example of how I make decisions. Never planned, always on a whim, and as spontaneous as possible.

Before I left the hotel in Pie de la Cuesta I had decided to make a halfhearted attempt to run some errands while I had access to certain amenities that only a big city can provide. All I wanted to do was to ship some stuff back to the states, maybe buy a mirror for the bike and inquire about a rear tire.

As it would turn out, those were high hopes. The only good thing about Acapulco is that’s where I learned the joys of lane-splitting…

Never having ridden in California, I never knew what a godsend it was to fully take advantage of the inherent narrowness and agility of a motorcycle. Over the past few weeks, I had seen scooters and smaller 125cc delivery bikes lane split their way to the front at traffic lights, but it never even occurred to me to try. After all, I wasn’t even in the slightest hurry.

But traffic into Acapulco was atrocious, and the sights and sounds of the big city quickly pushed me past my hesitations. As I sat in an endless line of cars, bike wanting to overheat, the final straw whizzed past me in the form of a 10 year old kid on a scooter. He was deftly maneuvering his ride within the 2 feet between the cars and the curb.

I quickly scanned the faces of onlookers for reactions of anger and jealousy, but it seems that not only is lane splitting tolerated, it’s expected. All this time I was contributing to the long line of cars when I could have been getting the hell outta the way.

I quickly tucked in right behind the scooter and smiled to myself, as together we began to pass car after car. After a few city blocks, when traffic began to move again, it was as if Moses parted the Red Sea and a spot between cars magically opened up for us both. Throughout the city center this happened time and time again.

We made great time into the city where I witnessed the next evolution of lane splitting: the sidewalk. When traffic got really backed up, almost every bike within sight took straight to the sidewalk. In this unnatural world pedestrians were the lowest on the food chain. And not one scoff, not one protest from anyone. Wahoo! That almost made up for my disgust over the trash and constant bleating of carhorns. Almost.

I managed to find a packaging place that was undoubtedly the jobsite of the world’s fastest Spanish speaker. Directly after the silent period of my first spoken sentence, one that politely and calmly explained my desire to buy a box and ship unnecessary possessions back to the US, I reached the limit of my comprehension for the whole experience.

This guy was obviously a practicer of the “spray and pray” tactic of machine gun Spanish. My brain reeled in an effort to pick out even one word that I understood. Surely it’s not possible to forget an entire vocabulary overnight?

I made several verbal attempts to get him to slow down. I might have a chance at comprehension if he would just take a breath! I couldn’t believe it. For the first time in 3 weeks, I couldn’t communicate at all with someone. At all.

I felt like an idiot. And I knew he thought I was an idiot. It didn’t help that he had no fan in his shop and I was sweating profusely. Maybe I was an idiot. After all, it’s only going to get hotter the further south I go.

Dodging his palabras rapidas, the heat became insufferable and I was getting frustrated, not to mention embarrassed. Upon reflection, I think he was making a game of it. In fact, I know he was because he after a lot of hair pulling he finally quoted me an exhorbitant price of $64. That’s in dollars, not pesos. I shook my head in defeat and quietly exited his place of business.

I hated Acapulco. I didn’t fare any better on my other errands so I made for the highway and tried to get as far away as possible.

My mood was quickly deteriorating. It didn’t help that the fun part of the coastal highway that I had come to love was nowhere to be found. All that lay in front of me was a long, straight, boring stretch of road. And it was getting hotter.

While riding a motorcycle you usually use the straights to prepare for the next corner. But if there is no next corner, then what do you do? It seems the only thing that could occupy me was the habit of humming a few bars of whatever song happened to be stuck in my mind. Over and over. I was completely incapable of changing tunes while I had the current song stuck in my mind on perpetual repeat, and I was completely incapable of finding the stop button.

Surely there were some philosophical tenets that needed buttressing, or maybe some cosmological nuance I could dwell on. But nothing entered my mind but that one song, over and over, mile after mile (I’ll save you the title and artist lest you end up with the same fate). My attitude was soon in the crapper.

The only chance to break the monotony, other than the topes, was the military checkpoints. At first I welcomed the chance to dismount the XR and chat with the soldiers, but even this got old after the first dozen occurrences or so. Time after time, I found myself held up explaining my trip and bike to eager and curious 18 year old soldiers with M-16s. I escaped scott-free time and time again, but with each stop my delays compounded upon themselves.

Somehow, despite my aching body and sole, I still managed to do 275 miles that day. I am a rock.

That distance put me in the town of Puerto Escondido, Oaxaca. Now, I had done over 850 miles in 3 days and my body was paying the price. It felt like someone had taken a corkscrew, stabbed it between my shoulder blades, and began to twist up my ligaments to the breaking point. I had a constant numbness in my hands from the constant vibration, and my ears were ringing something awful.

I was so close to turning the bike northward after I slept for 2 days straight in Puerto Escondido. I had been battling myself for the last 3 days on whether I wanted to continue out of Mexico into Guatemala.

I was extremely close to the breaking point. I really hadn’t had much fun since Puerto Vallarta and there was no sense continuing on if I wasn’t going to have any fun. I really needed a pick me up.

Upon arrival in Puerto Escondido I found the hotel I wanted to stay in after the usual wrong turns, but almost turned away after hearing the price of $20 per night. I really needed to keep my expenditures to a minimum if I was going to have any chance at Panama, but I decided to look at the room anyway.

The hotel was right on the beach and my room had a/c, hot water and satellite TV. Hell yeah, I’m going to spend $20 on that. What luxury! And that was just the pick me up I needed.

A nice dinner at a beachfront cafe and a few beers later, and my attitude had done a complete 180. I was definitely going to stay in this surfer’s paradise for a few days.

Pie de la Cuesta (Foot of the Hill) is a tiny strip of land nestled between the churning Pacific and a peaceful lagoon. I decided to try and stay there because it is supposed to be cheaper and further from the hustle and bustle of the larger city. And it was only another 250 miles away. Let’s see if my body is up to the test.

In my 2000 or so miles that I’ve driven in Mexico, I’ve come to learn certain facets that are unique to the art of survival on Mexican asphalt.

First off, most traffic laws are merely suggestions. Speed limits are never to be followed. The first time I was passed by a Policia vehicle was the last time. There are no speed traps, ever, so the idea is to maintain a safe and prudent speed no matter what the signs say. I was almost a little nervous about passing a Federale truck loaded down with feisty soldiers armed to the teeth until I realized that if they didn’t like me passing them they would have to get their beast of a truck to catch me. It turns out that no one thinks anything of passing a slow moving vehicle, regardless of their authority.

I’ve also learned of a clear hierarchy in Alto signs. The only time you have to obey them is when there is one of Mexico’s finest in the intersection, observing and directing traffec like a hawk. And even then it’s a tossup if you want to stop or not. If encounter an intersection that has both a stoplight and a stopsign, you obey the stoplight. Of course, feel free to run it if you feel it’s necessary. And if the stoplight is not working, pretend you didn’t see the stopsign. The only time it’s wise to stop entirely for a stopsign at all, is at railroad tracks and that’s really only when a train is barreling past. But I don’t think anyone would mind much if you felt you didn’t have to stop. I have found the best strategy for safely crossing Mexican intersections is to set myself up behind a big car, make him my blocker, and dive through in a quarterback sneak. I’ve yet to be tackled…

Now, the thing about topes is that the real danger is not lurking in the tope itself. The XR could probably fly over most of them at 60mph and I wouldn’t even feel a jolt. No, the real danger is in the cars that seem to break most of Newton’s Laws and manage to stop instantaneously just before the tope, as if their shocks were somehow rigged with dynamite and hitting the speed bump at anything over 1 mph could mean their lives. This, in and of itself, would be no big deal if the XR had brakes suitable for the street.

Somewhere south of Playa Azul, I was following a minivan at what I thought was a safe distance. I glanced down to check my map and do some mental calculations, and in less than a second that van had gone from “la la lala, I’m cruisin’ along” to “holy crap! I’m about to have a motorcycle enema!”. With ninja like reflexes I artfully dodged that brick wall of a van and swerved into the oncoming lane. I flew over the tope at breakneck speed, and expectedly didn’t feel a thing. Thankfully, not only was the oncoming lane clear, but the minivan took no notice of the red streak that flew past. Imagine the commotion it might have caused to have a crashlanding cosmonaut land on their hood, after I flipped over the van with its physics-defying brakes.

Compile all of these nuances in the art of riding in Mexico with a bike that is everything a barcalounger is not, and you’ve got yourself one helluva adventure!

The pavement gods had seen fit to provide me with their finest, stickiest, freshest example of blacktop yet. 100 miles of predictable serpentine sweepers, carved right out of the cliffs that plunge into the Pacific hundreds of feet below. The only reason my tires have lasted this long is because of roads like this. Being able to spend so much time leaned over on the edges ensured that my tires did not wear into the pathetic shape of a car tire.

By the end of the ride I was almost sea sick. A full 2 hours of swinging from full lean left to full lean right. The full 2 hours I only saw 2 other cars. Full confidence in traction. Indescribable.

If the ride into Playa Azul was any precursor, then the town itself should have rivaled my paradise, Punta Pescadero in Baja. Well, not only is Playa Azul an annoying oxymoron, it is a terrible misnomer. Just saying it outloud conjures up pleasant images of sipping tasty frozen beverages with tiny umbrellas while swaying in a hammock. But this dingy, nasty little town is only fit for dogs. I know this because upon my arrival I was greeted with the sight of 2 dogs humping in the middle of the street.

In retrospect, I suppose I’m just a little bitter because I lost one of my riding gloves in Playa Azul. I’m still not sure how, I just know that it’s going to be a long ride to Panama with only one glove.

After a quick jaunt down the beach front town and a quick bite to eat I could feel the fatigue set in. 250 miles of roller coaster had taken its toll.

I returned to my hotel, walked past the half full pool with palm trees growing out of it, and entered my room with the standing shower water on the floor. I was asleep by 6pm, which of course meant–and I should have seen this coming–that I was wide awake later at 1am. What a perfect time to get some reading in.

I asked the bungalow proprietor where I could have the procedure done and he recommended an auto parts shop near the highway.  I kick started the beast to life and was underway.  I found the tiny refaccionaria shop easily enough, now to explain in Spanish why I was there.  I had brought along my own filters so it was just a matter of them providing the oil, and apparently the labor, as it was clear they would not have me working on my own bike.  The lead mechanic of the 200 sq ft shop fit me into his schedule immediately.  I had to point and guide as he performed the blood transfusion, but he was an attentive and dedicated surgeon.  10 minutes and $10 later I was free to waste the rest of the day.

I returned to my bungalow, changed into my beachwear, and  forced myself to laze about and read a few pages in my book.  What a relaxing day on the beach.

Melaque is a very pleasant town right on the coast. The beach was full of Mexican tourists as well as a few out of place Canadians in speedos. I was very happy to keep to myself and tried, as usual, not to attract too much attention to myself. Occasionally, a hard working youngster would come by trying to offload a handmade necklace or a freshly carved pineapple, and I would have to let them down by explaining that I didn’t have any money on me. They seemed to be satisfied with the promise of “Pues, vamos aver manana.” I hope they’re not waiting for me.

That night I found a quaint little restaurant in the town square where a plate of chicken enchiladas and a Pacifico set me back $3.75. I could have sat there for hours watching the town’s youth zip around on scooters, exhibiting skill that could be put to good use on the track. But wanting to get an early start on the road in the morning, I returned to my bungalow and turned in around 8pm. Well, I at least tried to turn in.

As I lay in bed, it seemed that about every 10 seconds there would be a thunderous rumble, a deep reverberation that would shake the walls. At first I thought it might be thunder, but it the sound was too frequent and loud. I then remembered where I was. I headed outside to investigate. My search led me down to the beach where I had hung out all afternoon, and at this point I was not opposed to a pleasant night walk on the beach.

Now, the Melaque beach rises up out of the ocean at such a sharp angle that when the swells come in they seem to rise up and fall over on themselves in the narrow space of about 5 feet. There was definitely no surfing here. And this was the very source of the terrific rumbling. I guess I was just too tired, or it was just too boisterous earlier and I just didn’t notice it. But now that it was nighttime and everyone was in the townsquare, it was all I could hear and feel. I’ve never experienced anything like it, and the swells were only 4-5 feet. But like a hyperactive chihuahua on a short leash, each wave would approach, rise up suddenly and crash back on itself like its owner was jerking its chain.

All of that rambling really has no bearing on anything. It’s just that nothing really exciting happened today, so consider it filler material.

I had to pull over constantly to wipe off the bug carcasses just so that I could see the road below. This guaranteed that unless I was completely stopped, my helmet visor must be down and locked position at all times, lest I be on the receiving end of a bug-gut cocktail. To further compound the issue, the temperature had been steadily increasing since I had arrived on the mainland. You would think that at 60mph the wind would be enough to keep you cool, but it still gets quite stuffy in the ole helmet if you don’t at least crack the visor. I would roll the dice occasionally, like when passing over topes in small villages, and open up the visor so that I could enjoy a breath of fresh air……and whammo! Bug in the face.

Even with the visor cracked ever so slightly some persistent little buggers would find their way through my defenses. And then they would crawl. And then they would discover my ears. And I would be completely helpless as to how to rid myself of these pests. The sound of their incessant buzzing combined with the slight tickle of their 6 tiny feet inside my head was enough to drive me mad, mile after mile after mile. I would scream at the top of my lungs, “GET OUT OF MY HEAD!!!!”, while smashing the side of my helmet with a clenched fist, but they paid no attention. Innocent bystanders would, however. As if I didn’t garner enough strange looks as it was. It’s amazing the kind of concentration it takes to keep a bike upright when you have gnats in your ears.

After a pitstop and a thorough ridding of ear bugs, it would seem reasonable that I might be safe from all bug attacks with the visor sealed tight. It’s possible I might suffocate or overheat, but at least I would be bug-free. Not so, that’s when they send the big guns. Dragonflies and butterflies the size of my fist would fly out of nowhere on a kamikaze run towards my helmet. As they ricocheted off, there would be a deafening “PING” and the force of our combined velocities colliding would send my head back and to the left, over and over. There’s just simply no way to dodge bugs at that speed. My only hope was to take out their best and brightest soldiers so that the next evolutionary cycle of bug-dom would be tiny and weak for the next rider. I did my best.

By 1pm I felt like I had survived the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan, so I pulled over to regroup. I ended up in a pleasant town called Melaque. After cruising the cobblestone streets I found a nice enough place right on the beach to have some fantastic camarrones empanizadas. The waiter and I chatted, him mostly telling me his life story. Evidently, he used to live in the US, but times were tough so he resorted to selling weed. A moment of oversight and he was busted. He spent 2 years in pound-me-in-the-ass prison, then was deported back to Mexico. He told me he knew the error of his ways, but still has a fondness for the US. Overall it was an interesting aside, albeit a misplaced, to glimpse so much rough detail in another’s life experiences.

Soon thereafter I decided that I had had enough riding for the day and I would stay in Melaque for the night.

I came across some bungalows on the beach and managed to successfully haggle a bit on the price. After taking a cold shower (not by choice) I realized how beat up I really was. Perhaps it was the emotional roller coaster I had been on the last few days, but I was mentally and physically drained. I didn’t know it at the time but I would end up sleeping until 1pm the next day, and then stay another night to fully recoup.

I managed to find a hotel in the most popular vacation spot in Mexico for the lump sum of $16. I even had a private shower and a ceiling fan! Yep, life was good. I rested for awhile and then headed out to explore the town. I still couldn’t ditch my inherent sense of elitism as I spied on the countless gringos. All they had to do was get off a plane. I had to survive the Copper Canyon. Relax ted, these are people too. Not everyone can be a superhuman. I keed, I keed.

I found a not-too-crowded cafe to have a wonderful shrimp burrito complimented by the ubiquitous ice cold Pacifico. I learned the lay of the town in no time and felt completely comfortable strolling amongst the gringos and locals in Viejo Vallarta. At sunset, I strolled the beach and daydreamed about the girl that should have been holding my hand. As the sun faded and dipped below the horizon, just about everyone whipped out their cameras to try and capture the perfect memory. Not me. This sunset was captured permanently in my mind. A mental snapshot that was embedded with feelings of relaxation and sighs of relief. I was starting to enjoy myself again. Tonight would be a good night.

I found a bar that was a perfect example of things that just should not be. In the heart of Mexico, I stumbled across this strange watering hole with a Canadien bartender, patrons from Ohio, Washington, California, and 3 Mexicans that had all previously lived in the US. And everyone spoke English. It was almost harsh on my ears. After 2 beers, two lovely ladies came in and sat down right next to me. Great, now I had to practice my game. Oh yeah, I don’t have any game. Well, here goes anyway…

I commented to them how strange it was to be in a bar in Mexico where everyone spoke English, and furthermore, how everyone seemed to know each other. Of course, they lived in Puerto Vallarta and knew everyone there but me, so how nice that they feigned interest my way for at least a little while. We chatted back and forth and I tried to impress them with my trip details so far, while they informed me of the day to day struggles of teaching English in paradise (mental note: get job in paradise). Before long, the Rico Suave of the 3 Mexican locals came over to give the girls his best go. The poor fellow had no idea what he was in for. It’s funny what can seem like an honest question when you possess limited English. He came over and asked very smoothly and naively “So, do you ladies come here often?” The girls erupted in laughter and I think I actually saw his tan face turn red. Later, they invited him over and tried to explain the reason for his embarrassment, but how can you fully explain a foreign culture’s humor in one night? After 2 more beers, I felt I could sleep well enough, so I said my goodbyes to all and ambled back to the hotel.

It’s safe to say that I enjoyed Puerto Vallarta. I guess tourist traps aren’t all that bad.

I quickly grew tired of Mazatlan. Too many turistas being shuttled back and forth in annoying convertible Beetles to spend their precious American dollars on mass-produced crap. I wonder if those sunburned tourists realize that the person driving is not just a “Jose” or “Paco”, but is a living breathing human trying to support a beautiful family? Hell, I wonder if the driver realizes that the red-faced tourists are more than just a fat wallet waiting to be pillaged? What a disgusting symbiotic relationship. In such a beautiful locale.

I made for the highway and tried to put some miles between me and Mazatlan. That bizarre zoo where the consumerist animals had escaped into the streets and were set preying on the weak. At times it was difficult to tell who was the predator and who was the prey, but then I would spot that wide-eyed tourist with his wallet out flashing all his cash, all the time trying to play it cool and in-the-know. We gringos are so outmatched in this jungle and I wanted no longer to be witness to it.

After a few hours of riding along a nice stretch of blacktop my attention turned to the vegetation. Gone was the desert sea of brown and tan, with the sparse splotches of green, the occasional cactus or scrubbrush. The mainland was not only a figurative jungle. This land was some deranged botanist’s experiment run amok. Palm leaves the size of sails, thick ivy draping from tree to tree, lush plant life so tightly woven I felt claustrophobic just glancing at it. Not a glimpse of bare soil anywhere. This mountainous ocean of green on my left was only interrupted by the thin serpent of blacktop slithering out from under me, and by the actual sea of blue to my right. Occasionally the canopy overhead would open its cumbersome arms to reveal a pale blue sky. This hazy shade of azure would arc down to the horizon ahead, where it met progressively lighter shadows of misty mountains, each bulge further and further away, until they meshed into the same color and land and sky became one. That was my destination.

I thoroughly enjoyed my ride south that day. I found a small fishing village on the Pacific to rest for the night called San Blas. After a phone call home and a delightful dinner of carne asada (I was completely stuffed for a total of $4), my spirits were slowly lifting. I was actually looking forward to tomorrow and the surprises that it would bring.

For the second time on this trip I had to say a sorrowful goodbye to dear friends. Unable to say a word for fear of unleashing a stream of tears I watched the suburban carrying my friends away from our paradise and disappear over the hill. It will be a long long time until I see another familiar face.

The last 9 days have been amazing, mostly so because of the close company of my dear friends. I can’t think of a better group of people to spend a vacation with then with Jesse, Michele, Ramse, Carol, Tyler and the locals Carlos, Jose Maria, Canilla and Armando.

Aren’t we a beautiful bunch?

Some of the highlights of last week were:

* The snorkeling in front of the house was incredible. It was like flooding the exotic fish store and swimming down the aisles. Puffer fish, angel fish, parrot fish, moray eel, star fish, manta rays, sea cucumbers, spotted boxfish, spiny lobster, sea urchins, and a host of other species that I don’t know the name of. My first night there we went night-diving and spent a full hour swimming amongst the rocks that protect these delicate fish. During the day time the sunlight would catch certain fish at the right angle producing a kaleidescope of color. I’ve never witnessed anything quite like it, and you could go at any time after a mere 15 second walk down the stairs to the beach.
* If the snorkeling was amazing, imagine what 4 scuba dives was like. Well, 2 out of 4 were indescribable. We rented some gear and did 2 dives right in front of the house. On the first 45 minute dive the current had carried us so far out to sea that when we surfaced the sight of the tiny speck that was our house elicited a unanimous “Oh shit!” from all 3 of us. I think it took about an hour to swim back to shore. The second dive was even more of a hassle. We thought we would be smart and walk a ways up current so that we could drift back towards the house. Much to our dismay, apparently the current can completely change direction in the matter of a few hours. Try to conserve air while completely exhausting yourself fighting a force with much more endurance than you have. It’s impossible to scuba against a current. That was probably the shortest dive in history. For the next 2 dives we went out on a guided tour to the Cabo Pulmo reef system. These went markedly better for us. Having somebody who knows about the area makes all the difference in the world. The water was crystal clear, visibility was probably over 100 feet, and I’ve never seen anything like that reef. Grouper the size of hula hoops, angel fish the size of basketballs, vibrant coral and delicate fans; it was as if someone microwaved a crayola box and poured the contents onto the sealife. We spotted a white-tip reef shark, and interestingly enough my first instinct was to try and chase it down (it was only a 4 footer). Didn’t even get close. Even with all our gear on the shark is infinitely more adapted to underwater life. In between dives we pulled up to a rock that was home to a pride of sea lions. Jesse and I got out and snorkeled around while a few of them came within 10 feet of us, blowing bubbles as a warning to us not to get any closer. On the way to the second dive the boat captain thought he saw a school of sharks below so he slowed and began to turn the boat around. The irony was not lost on me that here we were, circling for sharks. I didn’t see any more sharks but I did make the outline of a giant sea turtle swimming below. In one day I saw more sea life than the Discovery channel ever told me was out there. Simply amazing.
* Down a lone stretch of dirt rode about 45 minutes from the house there is a trail that leads up into the mountains. After a halfhour’s hike on this cactus lined trail is a massive granite boulder. On one side of this boulder is a rapidly disappearing example of Native American painting. Pasty red paint describes the shapes of a marlin, a bow and arrow, and 2 men. It was a humbling experience to see an artpiece that predates written history, and it still survives. Not to mention that the XR really loved the ride out. After a while I finally eased into my comfort zone and would allow the bike to gently skate below me as it pounded over rutted washboard at over 50mph. It was fun leaving my friends on the ATVs in the dust, although I’m sure they didn’t appreciate me spitting rocks at them. But that was what the XR was made for, and who am I to keep it leashed in its element?
* We invited the locals over for a party the last Saturday night. Everybody came with their families dressed in their Sunday best. I felt a little out of place since in my limited wardrobe I only had a choice of 3 t-shirts, but I soon felt at ease when they figured out I spoke a little Spanish. It was fun serving as a translator of sorts between my friends the gringos, and the locals. I really enjoyed seeing how much happiness the locals got out of their families. The kids were well behaved and brought endless entertainment to the parents. And the food they brought was exquisite. Canilla, or as he is known: “El Lobo Del Mar”, went out the night before and spearfished up 7 lobsters and countless parrotfish. I almost felt guilty eating the same creatures that I spent all week admiring, but once you taste them you can’t stop. It was a fantastic dinner enjoyed by all, and then the guitars were uncased for a night of singing traditional Mexican folksongs. I will never forget that night.

Our goodbyes came too quickly. After the dust trail from my friends’ suburban had settled I quietly loaded up the bike and was underway for La Paz. I was overwhelmed with what lay ahead of me. Panama is incomprehensibly far, and I had no one to share in the journey. I barely remember the winding path back to La Paz. So many “What ifs” and “What the hell am I doing’s” bounced back in forth in my mind that before I knew it I was at the ferry terminal. If I was going to have any chance at Panama, I was going to have to stop puttering about and get on the road. The decision was made to head to Mazatlan to save a day’s travel down the mainland coast.

Well versed in the ways of ferry ticket purchasing, it was almost as if I knew what I was doing this time. The ferry left at 5pm so there was enough time to grab a delicious lunch of fried fish at a beachfront restaurant. As departure time approached I made the acquaintance of a Frenchman that would be joining me on the 15 hour ride to Mazatlan. I thought that my trip was impressive, but this crazy bloke had ridden his bicycle from Toronto to here. It had taken him the better part of 2 months, and here I was whining about 2 weeks of solitude. We had some good conversations on the ferry ride and his undertaking left its mark on me. If I was going to make it, I had to forget about the ultimate goal and just enjoy the ride there. Easier said than done.

That night on the ferry, I again had problems sleeping. I went outside to the upperdeck to do some stargazing. The race to the west was well underway overhead. Mars was in the lead, being trailed by the full moon, with Orion close on its heels, and bringing up the rear was the dog star, Sirius. I think I watched that race almost to completion as the rising sun drowned out their visages with its gradually increasing brightness.

A new day, and a new mission. Just get through the day and try to enjoy it. Ignore those feelings of doubt and loneliness. Take a deep breath and enjoy being alive. You can do this.

I expected an even greater military presence in the port of Mazatlan, after all it was a much bigger city with many more people passing through. But to my great surprise I coasted right off the ferry, through the parking lot and onto the mainstreet outside. Lucky me, I guess that the Mexican Army is only worried about the flow of drugs in one direction. Really, who sneaks drugs into Mexico? Things were looking a little brighter, so I gave the XR some gas and was off to explore Mazatlan.

I had no idea if the ferry across the Sea of Cortez actually ran that day. My plan, simple as it was, was to head on to the port city of Topolobampo and inquire there about the schedule. Of course once I arrived I realized that I didn´t have enough pesos to buy a ticket and there was no bank that would be open on Sunday. Not even an ATM existed in that small town. So, I regressed back to Las Mochis, past all the countless taco stands selling their wares and within minutes I had plenty of pesos for the botelo. Back again, past the stands, towards the sea and one step closer to my friends.

Once at the wharf, I pulled past the guards and looked for the entrance to Baja Ferries. After figuring out that I first had to have the bike checked out from a guy on the other side of the yard, I had my ticket in my hand and I could barely contain my excitement. By noon Monday I would be sitting on the beach drinking an ice cold Pacifico with the finest people in the world. I’ve never seen my watch move that slowly.

I decided to pass the next 9 hours by enjoying what little there was to do there in Topolobampo. The small port is mainly reserved for commercial fisherman but there was one touristy beach about 20 minutes away. At the entrance to the road there was a family of beggars that had strung a lanyard across the road which they would raise to slow every approaching car. I’m sure they had a very noble cause, but all I could think about was being decapitated by their horizontal guillotine. Luckily for me, the intense thumping sound emanating from my bike had them stunned and they forgot to raise their lanyard for me. Haha, the peasant jousters were going to have to try much harder to dismount me! (I’m not that heartless, I actually gave them some pesos on the way out.)

Out on the beach I stopped for some lunch. The local specialty is pescado zarandeado, which consists of a whole fish covered in spicy sauce wrapped up in foil with vegetables and baked over coals. It sounded too good to resist until I saw what they brought out. It was colorful enough, but I suppose I just have something against ingesting needle thin bones and scales that cling to your throat like popcorn kernels from hell. To date, that was the only meal that I have not enjoyed. Call me picky.

After wasting lunch I turned back towards Las Mochis and the now familiar taco stands. I picked a shaded spot in between 2 stands and spent the afternoon reading and enjoying the smells wafting my way. If my appetite had not have been ruined I’m sure that any one of these stands could have satisfied me. Oh well, good to know for the next time I’m in Las Mochis–don’t eat at the tourist dive, eat where the locals hang out. Actually, that rule applies everywhere. I can’t believe I fell for the oldest trick in the book.

At sunset I headed back towards the beach, but thankfully, not for dinner. I previously saw a sign for the Cueva de Los Murcielagos, and since it had been a whole 3 weeks since I had seen a string of bats fly around in Austin, I figured the experience would be 10 times more exciting in Mexico. I pulled off of the road and patiently waited at the mouth of the cave, camera in hand, for the winged insect eaters to come out and play. I think almost every car that left the beach that afternoon honked at the silly gringo sitting astride his motorcycle as they passed me. And finally the bats flew out towards me!

And by bats, I mean mosquitoes. I was absolutely swarmed by the giant thirsty blood-suckers. I left a ted-shaped hole in the cloud of dust I whipped up turning around and flying out of there. Apparently, the sign is there to bait a sacrificial lamb so that the mosquitoes will leave the locals alone. Haha, very funny.

I returned to the dock to wait out the next 3 hours. I passed the time by scratching my numerous intravenous infiltrations, and I also chatted with a Mexican family on their way to Baja for vacation. The 2 kids were enthralled with my bike and the father used to race motocross so the conversation was right up my alley. I learned a lot of new words and they seemed to enjoy my company. As the ferry horn announced its arrival with a throaty cough, we parted ways and I joined the line to board.

Once inside the cavernous boat I was directed to turn off of the main ramp onto a narrow ledge designated for motorcycles. They then motioned me to tie down my bike with some greasy ropes that were laying about. I think I still have stains on my hands. After saying goodnight to the XR I climbed upstairs and staked my claim on a seat for the night. Tomorrow I would be in Baja!

It was a tortuous night on the ferry. A combination of over-excitement and uncomfortable sleeping arrangements ensured that I would have to fight for consciousness as I made my way south on the Baja peninsula. But after everything that I had been through so far, I wasn’t going to let a lack of sleep slow me down. Now, if I could only find where they sell the Dr. Peppers…

Lines, lines and more lines. Get in line to get to the bike. Move the bike into the line of cars to get to the check point. Here, 1 long line splits into 4 shorter lines, which conveniently move slower than glaciers.

The army was showing a fierce presence. Guards paced intently passed waiting cars, each carrying the requisite machine gun. As I waited my turn to show my papers and be interrogated as to why I felt I should be in Baja, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the display of Mexican firepower. M16’s, B.A.R.s, hand grenades, and the occasional cup of coffee. I felt sorry for the poor mule that tried to carry drugs past this platoon. They were tearing every 18 wheeler apart, ransacking the cargo, and then respectfully helping each driver repack it correctly. Quite the operation in scare tactics. I hoped that no one had slipped their stash into my saddlebags while the XR was sleeping in the ship’s hold.

After 90 minutes of baking in the morning Baja sun, it was finally my turn. Only one thing stood in my way to freedom, a statuesque major, the head guy in charge. He approached me and the bike formally. He and I politely exchanged pleasantries and then it was down to business.

“Abre este”, he said pointing to my saddlebag. Oh please don’t let there be anything I didn’t pack! The last thing I wanted was to come this far and then be whisked away to rot in a Mexican jail. As I unzipped the bag I glimpsed the familiar sight of my toiletry bag. One step closer to freedom and paradise. “Abre este”, he said pointing to my backpack. Oh no! Surely that fiend would place his stash in my backpack, it’s much easier to get to! I slowly unzipped my backpack, convinced that I would spy a brick of marijuana…..but it was my camera bag, just as I had left it. “Ah, photos….bueno!” We then chatted for a few minutes amiably, him practicing his English, quizzing me on the translations of several phrases he had learned in his line of work. Both of us smiling broadly, I got permission to leave the port, and I left him and his army behind to do their work.

I calmly pushed the bike out of the way so that the next victim in line could endure some fear. I turned around to the sight of dozens of families and truck drivers repacking the entire contents of their respective vehicles. All I had to do was zip up 2 bags. Today was a good day to be a tourist.

I made my way out of the port at Pichilinque and into La Paz. 2 hours away from paradise. I had come through some of the most trying experiences of my life and nothing could slow me down now. As if I had lived there for 50 years, I navigated expertly through the hustle and bustle of the city and was soon on the Carretera Uno, which would take me all the way to Cabo San Lucas if I missed my turn.

But no! I would smartly turn off halfway there, at a small village called Los Barriles and then follow 30 minutes of ambiguous dirt road to the exact GPS coordinates of the house which I had programmed into the device before I left as a sort of homing beacon. I was 30 minutes away from my vacation home where I would spend the next 9 days sunbathing, socializing, drinking, snorkeling, scubadiving, offroad-riding….basically anything I could ask for in a heavenly setting.

I raced down the deserted highway at breakneck speeds, paying some, but not very much attention to the signs telling me “Cuidado, Curva Peligrosa” that were flying at me like yellow pizza boxes being thrown like newspapers. I had no time for their silly advertisements and I sure wasn’t hungry for piss-flavored pizza, I had somewhere to be!

Thanks to the GPS, I arrived directly in front of the gate where I was greeted by a handmade sign that my friend Jesse had been thoughtful enough to fashion out of an empty Tecate box that read “Ted aqui”. Since there’s no such thing as addresses down there,here, I felt the chances were acceptably insignificant of there being another house expecting another Ted on this day. So I confidently opened the gate, walked across the cobblestone patio, opened up the handmade wood and wrought iron door, proudly exclaimed “Estoy aqui!”…..to an empty house.

I read the note that my friends had left for me. They had gone to Los Cabos to pick up the last 2 people we were expecting for the week. At least I was in the right house! And it was all mine for a few hours. I promptly grabbed a Pacifico out of the cooler, went out onto the veranda, gazed out onto the impossibly blue sea, and was soon fast asleep in a lounge chair.

Es Paraíso.

Again, I woke up today way too early and I had no idea what was in store for. It would turn out to be a near disaster and possibly the hardest day of my life. But paradise would not be nearly as enjoyable without going through a little hell, right?I knew which fork to take out of Batopilas so I quickly said my goodbyes to Señora Monse and the Belgians. Once again, the XR and I were underway into the mountains of the Barranca del Cobre.

I must be getting used to how squirrelly the bike is on loose rocks and gravel, because before I knew it an hour had flown by and I was in the middle of nowhere. In just a few short days I had quickly become accustomed to seeing anything and everything in the middle of any Mexican road: cows, goats, kids….a dishwasher.

The last thing I ever would have guessed came flying around a corner so suddenly that I jumped with fright and nearly dropped the bike. In front of me were 4 racing atv’s complete with riders decked from head to toe in bright racing gear. Surely this was a mirage. They paused only long enough to make sure that they too were not hallucinating and then screamed up the hill I had just come down. Wow, now I really had seen everything in the middle of nowhere.

I was only an hour into the ride and I was beginning to tire. The slight lull I was experiencing after coming down from the atv adrenaline onrush was not helping either. I needed something to pick me up and the one thing I had forgotten to pack was a Dr. Pepper. I needed something else to stimulate my mind. As if it was scripted, around the next corner came flying a KTM dirtbike, again complete with rider decked to the 9’s with flashy riding gear.

Apparently, I was not the only one crazy enough to ride through the Copper Canyon. As he stopped right next to me, it occurred to me that I was headed in the right direction and out of these tiresome mountains. These bikes and atv’s had to be coming from somewhere close because they did not have nearly the 300 mile range that I did. As we began to chat, a total of 8 more bikes pulled up. All of us riders talked for maybe a half hour more and evidently became fast friends. They gave me a phone number to reach them in their town, Kubla Kahn - somewhere near Mazatlan, so that we could hang out later on down the road. That should be an experience!

As best I could, I got detailed directions from the riders as how to reach the town of Choix and the paved carretera that began there. I had already done somewhere around 100 miles on dirt and it was beginning to wear me down. I actually longed for some smooth tarmac and the memory of that racetrack out of Creel flashed in my mind. They told me the quickest way out was to cross the Rio Fuerte, look for some army guys (they reassured me that I had nothing to worry about the Federales, and I believed them) and then in the pueblito of Guayamos turn left so that I didn’t have to ride up the difficult mine rode. I thanked them all, they took a group photo, and I kicked started the XR to ride away.

Re-energized I quickened my pace. The heavily laden bike had never felt this comfortable offroad and my new goal was to be in Choix by 3 or 4pm so I could enjoy the afternoon.

And then I dropped the bike for the first time that day. I didn’t go down hard, but it was a blow to my confidence and was a precursor for how the rest of the day was destined to go.

Any normal XR is a light bike weighing in at under 300 pounds. If you add a six gallon tank, 100 pounds of gear and make sure that everything is packed as high as possible, you wind up with one overloaded, top-heavy beast. After hefting the bike up and dusting myself off I was bemused at how out of breath and drained I was from the effort. I would have really preferred to not have to do that again.

I reached the Rio Fuerte and began to grow a little concerned at my first river crossing. The moto-crossers had warned that the river would be over the crankcase but not as high as the air filter. Should be nothing to worry about. I found the best place to cross by taking notice of the group of Federales on the other side motioning to “Pase aqui!”. I emptied my brain of all negative thoughts and slipped the clutch, lurching the bike into the current.

I made it 9/10ths of the way across. How embarrassing. The motorcycling gringo had stalled his packhorse 10 feet from shore, and how convenient that there were 12 Federales to witness it. Thankfully the XR realized my predicament and actually started on the first kick. I didn’t know if I was supposed to show the Federales my papers or even if I needed to stop at all. So I didn’t. And almost instantly, I was isolated again in the middle of nowhere.

The worst thing about navigating the untraveled backroads of Mexico is the pueblitos that you have to go through. The tiny villages are actually quite pleasant and the people that reside there are resilient, proud and incredibly polite. But finding your way through them is a miserable affair. One road goes in and seven go out. I managed to get hopelessly lost in every single pueblito that I came across. If I ever got out of these cursed mountains I could write a book on asking directions from startled locals atop a dusty motorbike. I would love to know the thoughts that run through their heads when I pull up shouting “Como puedo encontrar Choix??”.

With more luck than I deserve I found my way to Guayamos, and once there I found the lone road out. A mile further things began to look much less well-traveled and internal doubt began to grow. The previous few hours of riding through the Copper Canyon had followed the river and never gained much in altitude. The rode ahead now rose sharply and began to resemble a goat trail. After decades of neglect, what was once a viable road, was reduced to an overgrown and deteriorated goat trail. Ruts and washouts cut deep gashes across my intended path. Loose boulders and menacing tooth-like rocks leered at my soft fleshy tires. I could hear Gravity laughing at my attempted defiance. I knew I had to be on the mine road, the one the moto-crossers had warned about.

I tried to turn the bike around in what I thought was the best spot, but I caught a rock with the front wheel and was thrown to the dirt. I let loose with a string of profanity that made the surrounding cacti blush. Luckily, my vulgar misuse of the English language went mostly unnoticed by the only witnesses: 3 cows standing nearby, staring at me blankly. I know they took no notice because they were obviously Spanish speaking cows. Phew! At least I hadn’t pissed anyone else off besides myself.

Every time the bike is on its side it pours gas into the airbox. This guarantees that you will quickly grow exhausted trying to kick it back to life. This time I had the advantage of being on a steep decline, so I put it to good use and coasted the lifeless bike back into Guayamos.

At the bottom of the mountain, I came across two teenagers to whom I confessed my ignorance to so that they could point me to the easier route. But to my disappointment, they reassured me that I was in fact, coasting the wrong way down the only road out.

Fifteen minutes later, after a flurry of exasperated kicks, I had the bike pointed in the right direction, unflooded and running. This time I went up the road past where I had injured my ego, and managed somehow to conquer some of the most difficult terrain that I previously had thought was impassable.

But again, doubt soon crept into my head. I was now convinced that the treacherous mine road I was on went to Choix, but in retrospect what I should have asked those teenagers was where the easy road to Las Mochis and the coast was.

Of course! They were sending me up the wrong road because I was too dumb to ask the right question. Once again, I attempted to turn the bike around and once again, down I went. No profanity this time, I was too tired. At least I was well experienced in the art of coasting down this little path, and I made good time back into Guayamos.

Hours had passed in vain and by this time in the afternoon I was out of water. I was physically and mentally drained and dangerously close to heat exhaustion. I needed help.

I stopped at cinder block construction that appeared to be the local schoolhouse, but it turned out to be a house that belonged to the kindest and most helpful family in all of Guayamos. The fates were being cruel but not completely heartless.

My plight was obvious and required no words to communicate my situation. They welcomed me with open arms. I don’t think I caught my breath for a full hour. I have never been that tired. I hated the dirt, I hated these horrific never-ending mountains and I hated this trip. I was near tears. What the hell was I doing here? I wanted out. I wanted to quit.

But quitting meant…well, it didn’t mean anything. I simply couldn’t quit. Not because I wouldn’t let myself, or because I couldn’t live with myself later. I couldn’t quit because it was an impossibility. There was simply no other way out. There was no other option. No escape but the one I created.  In the end there was no one to rely on but myself for the solution. There was no one to call, no one to help from the outside.  There was no way to get the bike and myself out of these wretched mountains short of riding it out myself.

I spent the next hour talking with the beautiful family that had given me water and shade. They invited me into their house to rest. Once my brain stopped boiling I spread out my maps on the floor so I could utilized my faulty direction finding ability. They crowded around and to my dismay they once again confirmed what everyone else had been saying: the road to Choix and Las Mochis was that detestable goat trail up the side of that mountain.

I strained to bolster my confidence. The water and rest helped greatly. I stopped any “What if…” (what if I can’t make it….what if I snap my chain…what if banditos lie in wait…) that tried to infiltrate my thought process dead in its tracks. I will make it up that mountain and out of these dispeccable canyons. These mountains that were so beautiful and inviting, and were so very close to breaking me. The largest Venus flytrap I have ever encountered. I would not let the Copper Canyon swallow me without a fight.

The family surrounded me and my maps, earnest to help in any way possible. I was amazed to see that the children, ranging in age from what I guess was 4-8, not only understood the concept of a map but all could read the names of any city and locate themselves with ease. I would end up riding over 150 miles through those mountains and valleys and not once did I see a true school. Simply amazing.

That family probably saved my life, or in the very least they saved my trip. I wish I could have given them more than the heartfelt thanks of a weary traveler, but they wouldn’t have accepted any more than that anyway. The very definition of human kindness. We should all strive to be like them; the world would certainly be a better place.

Above, the sun was racing towards its bed and I was warned that I still had 6 hours to go…and that’s if I could find my way to the canyon rim. If, at that moment, I could have thought about anything other than willing myself to the top I would have realized that 6 hours would take me past the sunset and into darkness…in Mexico….in the middle of nowhere. Looking back, I can’t believe how far I pushed the limits that day. For the 3rd time I left Guayamos and started the trek up that impossible road. Merciless on the clutch I spun the rear tire furiously, fighting and clawing every inch of the way. I passed the first spot where I had dropped my screaming XR, then soon after, the second. I will make it up this mountain, or die trying.

The road began to switchback on itself countless times, as the path climber higher and higher towards the sky. With each successive corner in the infinite series I slowly began to relax more and more and eventually got in a groove.

I could not allow myself to think about what would happen if I got a flat, or what I would do if I fried my clutch, or how awful it would be to make one simple mistake and plunge off into nothingness. Those were thoughts of fear and had no place in my mind. I will make it up this mountain. Without losing any focus, the eerie and quiet beauty of the mountains began to dispel my learned hatred for them. I suddenly found myself smiling. This was a true test of survival.

I wanted to push myself on this trip, I wanted to come back stronger. Not exactly like this, but who was I to question the exact situation? I could only react to what was presented to me, I could not control it.

I climbed that mountain for an hour and a half. I did not stop once, nor did I drop the bike. When the road leveled off I somehow knew that the worst was behind me and there would not be anything else that difficult for the rest of my trip. Nothing could stop me now. I finally allowed myself to look forward to Choix and the possibility of rest. I was not out of the Mountains yet, but it was all downhill from here.

Atop the mountain the path met a road that was smooth and appeared well cared for. Soon I encountered a fork. Here, I encountered a new and different challenge. The solitary road I had been following suddenly split into two equally well-traveled routes. No signs anywhere. I paused for a second, dumbfounded, and then chose the road on the right, as it was more westerly and seemed to head in the right direction. I found myself daydreaming about that logic problem where the native at the fork in the road either always lied or always told the truth, and you can only ask one question.

I lied to myself and presumed that I had made the correct choice. After all, only time will tell. And the funny thing about time is it never stops, nor slows. The sun was getting lower, ever closer to the distant horizon, and I had no idea how much further I had to travel. And so, I could never stop. I was in a race against time and slowly losing. I twisted the throttle more than I was comfortable with to try and catch up.

The road forked again. I chose the road that took me towards the setting sun, as that was west and just had to be the right one.

The road went on to split time after time, and each time I tried to go west. The sun eventually set on me and I was slowly plunged into darkness. It was a terrifying and absolutely beautiful sunset. Through some convenient astronomical coincidence, the moon and Venus were each not far behind the sun in its path, and I could use them to navigate. I didn’t know if I would ever reach Choix, but at least I was heading west, and away from that treacherous canyon. Someday I hope to miss that geologic thrill ride, but not today.

The descent into Choix was less dramatic but not any less stressful. By late evening the bike had been running towards the last drop of gas in the 6 gallon tank. The last opportunity to fill up was way back in Creel. Now the roads were fine, so I didn’t have to do more with the throttle than just cruise, but the last place I wanted to be stranded out of gas was on a road where you might see 1 car a week.

The air warmed considerably as I continually dropped in elevation. The bike surged and sputtered. I switched to the first reserve. Venus set, leaving me only the moon to guide me. I dropped further down towards the coastal plains. Mile after agonizing mile, I babied the XR, extracting every last bit of efficiency by coasting where possible and never ever giving it more that a slight twist of throttle. It surged and sputtered again. I switched to the second and last reserve. One way or another, my day’s journey was rapidly coming to an end.

I came to a small settlement with a nebulous infrastructure of roads. It had been hours since I left Guayamos and my route had not crossed any other settlements since. I now found myself surrounded by boisterous activity. It was somewhat refreshing to happen upon a community, and with it I knew I finally had access to resources that could aid me in my way.

I pulled up next to a truck piloted by a young kid. I asked the usual, “Cual camino va por Choix?” He rattled off some indiscernible Spanish that I couldn’t pick up on, but I was fortunate that he picked up on my bewildered look through my helmet.

“Sigue me!”, he exclaimed, and off we went. He was young but that kid could drive. I had a hard time keeping up through the constant lefts and rights, his truck drowning my pitiful headlight’s efforts with its constant smoke screen of dust. In the back of my mind I knew I had to be close to Choix, but was I close enough? It could only be insult in injury if I ran out of gas now.

10 minutes later he stopped where our dirt road met an improved secondary road that lead down below to the twinkling lights of a town. The most beautiful sight in the world was that of Choix peeking at me through the lowland hills. Even if I did run out of gas, it looked like I could coast the entire way down the steep grade right into the city center.

By the time I finally reached Choix my muscles were screaming at me in agony. The ligaments in my neck that held up my head the entire day were on fire. I felt like I had been beaten. I can’t believe I made it. I can’t believe what I had to go through to get there. I can’t believe that I was now so very close to seeing my friends in Paradise. I could not wait to be in Punta Pescadero. Now, I had earned it.

The town was alive, the paved city streets a parade of cars cruising for night life. The local police trucks were numerous, each speeding along, truckbeds full of young officers armed to the teeth with machine guns. Their lights flashing and spinning as a silent loudspeaker, announcing their presence to any that might cause trouble. I used the remaining bit of gas I had to quickly find a hotel with protected parking, so that I could find refuge from the mayhem that was brewing in Choix. I wanted no part of it. All I wanted was a bed.

It was 11 o’clock at night and I had ridden for over 14 hours. I have no idea what I’ve done in my life to be so lucky, but I hunted and pecked my way through that labyrinth, and eventually made it. I rode for 14 hours and had somehow only covered 110 actual miles. I suppose most of the day was soaked up by wrong turns, backtracks and catching my breath out of exhaustion. I later measured the distance on a map and Batopilas and Choix are only separated by about 40 miles as the crow flies. The route I blazed didn’t even show on any of my maps. Neither did any of the pueblitos I passed through. I had succeeded in riding solo through no man’s land, completely off any map with only the stars to guide me. Unbelievable.

110 miles to go just 40. I ended up dropping the bike 8 times that day, each time forced to right it, each time straining harder and harder to muster the strength. Somewhere in the Copper Canyon lies my tent, my tire irons and my iPod charger. They bounced off somewhere. I never noticed and I think I’ll manage the rest of the trip without them.

I slept like a baby that night in Choix. I laughed to myself at how many times I had cheated death. The problem with pushing the limits that far and actually making it is, you don’t really learn your lesson. Somehow, I managed to stay just ahead of the consequences of my actions. It was by far the most adventurous, and definitely the most stupid thing I have ever done.

Let’s see what tomorrow brings.