The Final Daze

So, here we are, Austin, Texas, Monday, May 10, 2010, having arrived from Mexico Wednesday, May 5 and Thursday, May 6, 2010, I the former, Joe and Juanita the latter, as I'd left them in a roach motel in beautiful Dilley, Texas, Joe essentially delirious from his poopy diaper syndrome and lack of food and his dehydration, and ridden on the last few hours to Austin.  J&J made it to our house the next day, Joe feeling a bit better, but not by any means whole, and then Juanita came down with it, and I had a milder version.  The usual "I bet it was the enchiladas at that truck stop," or "Maybe it was the salad at..." conjectures went on until yesterday, as we all suffered from physical ennui, general malaise, and the Dread Malhungus, but then Suzanne was stricken in the night, and it became apparent this was not the infamous "Montezuma's Revenge" (me, personally, if I was Montezuma?  My revenge would be more severe than diarrhea and vomiting; I'd go for something like, oh, full-body shingles for life), but a contagious bug, a virus perhaps.  Regardless, much sittings on couches and sleepings in beds ensued from last Thursday until yesterday, when J&J began to make serious noises about Westward Ho.

This morning, bike packed, mostly into their driving suits, the weather report I checked for Van Horn in west Texas called for 30-50 mph winds out of the WSW, with gusts to 70mph.  Faces fell. Options abounded.  "Don't go today" entreaties were made.  Finally the decision was made to go to Fort Stockton, which had no dire warnings of wind (speaking of dire warnings of wind, there are some restaurants in Mexico whose beans should come with such admonitory alerts), and just awhile ago they zipped away from La Casa De Los Goodrich.

Suzanne and I count ourselves extremely lucky to have had such congenial guests as J&J for a few extra days, and to have cemented new, no doubt long-lasting friendships with them.  Likewise, our erstwhile companions, father and son, Dave and Garin, will always find a welcome in our home.

Lagniappe for the motorcycle nerds reading this:

Despite our somewhat reduced physical circumstances, Joe and I managed to wash the trillions of bugs and other spooge and schmutz off our bikes the other day, and partially disassemble Joes's dashboard so we could get at his headlamp adjuster and set it properly, as well as replace both windhsield upper struts, all without breaking or losing much.  I think there was only one screw left over when we buttoned his bike back up.  Then we undid my dash and figured out a way to secret my radar detector behind the fairing, out of view of prying eyes, again without breaking anything obvious, and only having a short-term extra-screws situation.  I think we only had to have one do-over.  Joe was especially pleased that we had to go to Harbor Freight in search of some electrical connectors, as he found just the right stubby wrench (similar to this, only yellow and with "ergonomic knurls") he needed for headlamp adjustment, but then proceeded to fret, worry, whine, and bemoan the lack of a 13mm socket with which to make such adjustment, never mind the fact that he likely has several at home.  So, this morning, as a bon voyage gift, I gave him my priceless, vintage 1969 Powr-Craft (Montgomery Ward Brand) 1/2-inch socket, which works admirably as a 13mm in non-critical applications.  

Right about now he should be approaching Dripping Springs, Texas, about 25 miles from Austin, and is likely searching for a good place to pull over to check the headlamp aiming.

-30-

Lessons Learned, Lessons Ignored, etc

All right Children, now that the class has reviewed the adventures of the Dear Leader and his followers, it is time to make a list of the lessons the group learned.  Or not.

1.  Drink the water.   In big cities.  No problems.  Well, Joe did have a bit of a poopy diaper, as a young child said years ago, but only for one day.  And who can prove it was the water?

2.   Six bikes is a fine number, but progress is much slower than two or three bikes, so don't try to go quite so each day.

3.  Make certain you are physically fit.  Anyone can sit on a motorcycle.  Not everyone can hold one up, or walk up stairs, or carry luggage. 

4.  Don't believe the lady inside the GPS unit.  She must be a shopaholic, because she never, ever, EVVVER chooses a route around a city (known as a "loop" or "shortcut") but instead sends everyone straight to the center of every city, town, and village.  Where the stores and vendors are.

5.  Do not worry about head choppings-off.  It is highly unlikely to occur, and if it does you will be immortalized amongst family and friends with the phrase, accompanied by a tearful smile and maybe a shake of the head "He (she) died doing what he (she) loved to do."

6.  Bike-to-bike communicators would be very useful, but reduce the adventure quotient by several orders of magnitude.  They would, however, lower the Dear Leader's frustration level at times, with concomitant increases in some followers' IQ levels.

7.  Learn to enjoy the arguments among two or more Mexicans when you ask directions and they, literally, without exaggeration, point in opposite directions and begin the arguments.

8.  Do NOT, let me repeat, do NOT, pee in the street or on a sidewalk.  Would you do that at home?

9.  It would be a good idea to not forget the guidebook.

10.  Most important lesson learned:  go.  Yes, go to Mexico.  Be not afraid.  Go places others don't.  Skip Cancun, go to Merida; by all means go to places like Cuernavaca (City of Eternal Spring), Guanajuato, Puebla, Xilitla, Queretaro, etcetaro.  You will be richly rewarded.

11.  To sum up:  don't pee in the street, be physically fit, quit worrying about head choppers, give the gas station guys a little tip, drink the water.  Pretty simple, really.

Any other lessons or suggestions?  Comment.

General Observations

Well, since Joe is addicted to his toilet, I might as well offer some generalizations about Mexico, mainly in comparison to my last road trip about ten years ago.

The most obvious change is that, while the prototypical Mexican dog, loping along streets with rear legs sort of cattywampus (a little sideways, in other words) is still the majority, actual breeds of dog are evident everywhere:  schnauzers are especially popular.  In Cholula the place is, relative to years past, eat up with dachshunds. I bet I saw four.  Poodles are also popular, but make terrible street dogs, as their long hair mats and becomes filthy.  I see this influx of purebred dogs as a travesty, as there really is nothing finer than a Mexican street dog.  Certainly, sheep are worthless creatures, and chickens are naught but clownish panic-stricken morons.

Sanitation and litter are vastly improved, orders of magnitude from just a few years ago, a good thing, both for tourists and for the population at large.

Likewise, modern technology such as the Intergoogie, cell phones, convenience stores, ATMs, are everywhere.  Ecological concerns mirror, and in some cases, such as solar water heating and even solar electrical generation, are more commonly seen and accepted than in El Norte. 

Most impressive.  More impressive is that while yes, there's a series of drug wars going on, and yes, the Mexican press sensationalizes it, it does so at a lower volume than the shrill shouters of Fox, CNN, print media, etc.  Thus far, we have encountered exactly zero issues regarding the narco wars, or for that matter any minor crimes of misdemeanors, despite the departed Jim's fear of leaving his bike unattended for even a few minutes directly in front of a Mexican policeman, way back there in Xilitla.

Whereas, say, in 2000, I might have said Mexico is like the U. S. was in the early 1960s, today I'll say it's more like, say, Alabama of today, with more literacy.  Your mileage certainly may vary, but I'll say without equivocation there is no reason to avoid traveling this fascinating country and culture.

Almost all motorcycle travelers in Mexico become obsessesed with topes, which I find to be a nuisance, but not something to obsess over.  As Joe says, they do come in many flavors: " Mexico has several variations on the tope theme. There are short topes, wide topes, dos topes, tres topes, flat top topes, bumpy topes, steep topes, gentle topes, topes con valle, topes where the tops are wide and little topes are added for extra measure, topes where the tops are wide and two inch channels are cut across them, they have topes in the sweepers, topes on the freeways, topes with tope signs that tell you you have just run over a tope, topes with no tope signs, tortise shell shaped multi-topes, there are negative topes, topes con negative topes for good measure. My brake pads will surely need replacement. My shocks will require freshening up. Maybe I'll replace the steering head bearings while I'm at it."

 His comment brings us to the real issue with Mexican cartels.  It's not the narcos. It's the Carteles de Los Freneros y Choqueros*.  The topes are put there by these cartels, controlled by some of the richest families of Mexico, with whispers of ties to U. S. corporations such as Monroe, Penske, Bendix, and more.  The topes cause premature brake and shock absorber failure, increasing the vast fortunes of the brake and shock makers and sellers.  Asphalt and concrete are so cheap that the extra volumes used for the topes have not materially increased the fortunes of the road material suppliers.



*Freno: brake; Choque: shock

Dia Diez

I am reminded this morning of the first group trip Suzanne and I ever took, to Arkansas, with six or seven other motorcyclists.  The putative leader of the group seemed intent on riding as hard as possible on those great twisty mountain roads, never bothering to hammer home to the others the concept of "ride your own ride," i.e. don't try to keep up with faster riders.  As a result, one fellow went off the road into a country cemetery, but was uninjured, although his brand new motorcycle was broken very badly.  After some milling around the rest of the group headed towards cell service to call the leader's wife, who would bring the truck and trailer.  The leader seemed to have an increased sense of urgency, as well as an excuse to go even faster, and sure enough, a young woman trying to keep up [I should interject here that Suzanne and I were on our ex-Goldwing, a motorcycle of prodigious proportions, which we christened the Queen of the Ozarks, and were proceeding at our usual stately pace] went off a very steep embankment, tumbling down out of sight, again unhurt, but very shaken, and her bike, too, was no longer serviceable. Leader decided all should stay put with the crying, shaking girl, while he rushed off to get cell service to call the wife.  Here I get to my point:  we have two riders down, the leader is an idiot, the whole debacle is his fault, yet still he's issuing directives, whereupon one of the remaining riders turns to me sotto voce, and says, "I don't see why her wreck should ruin the whole day for the rest of us, we ought to be able to ride."  At the time, and still, I thought his attitude selfish, as the girl was sobbing an shaking, clearly in need of solace.

I am reminded of this story because this morning our man Joe awakened with Loose Stool Syndrome, and at best our departure for the border is delayed, at worst, we are stranded in the faded empire of the Imperial Hotel.  I, however, am sympathetic and solicitous of his reduced physical circumstances.   And am happy that I at least have what our English friends call a well formed, firm motion.  Joe is overdosing on Lomotil (Immodium), so perhaps we shall proceed, perhaps not. Either way, one will not hear me mutter sotto voce, "I ain't sick, we got riding to do, leave him for dead."  The Dear Leader is compassionate with his subjects.

Dia Nueve: OH, SHIP! SHEEP!!!

Once again we were devastated to leave our accommodations, these the wonderful Casa Zuniga mentioned in yesterday's post.  But we were off to new adventures, passing over a great mountain road, stopping to inspect remarkable modernist majolica pottery at a place recommended by our Guanajuato host Rick Zuniga, and then down into the Bajio to Highway 57, which, four-lane divided sometimes free, sometimes cuota, runs up the spine of Mexico.  Nominal speed limits are posted and universally ignored.

The two biks were uh, whizzing up the highway when it happened:  the space-time continuum ripped, and They Came Out of Nowhere, just like everyone says who's had a similar experience with a truck, or dog, or machetero.  For us, the road ahead was clear, and then, instantly it was filled with sheep.  Shocked sheep, shocked to see our headlights bearing down on them at terrifying speed, shocked to find themselves on a highway in Mexico.  I never, ever, have squoze the brake lever so hard on a motorcycle, managing to stop just short of Mary's little lamb.  Joe, behind me, and more heavily laden, had a harder time slowing, but noted a tiny space between two of the shocked sheep, and went past me at what seemed like 130mph, time having slowed to practically zero as I bore down on the panicked lamb.  Had I hit the lamb, it would not have been amusing in the "I hit a chicken at practically zero mph" sense; in fact, it would not have been amusing at all, it would have involved very large doses of pain and expense. 

So naturally, after stopping to gas up and gather our wits, we sped up.  Hey, think about it. No way the space-time continuum is going to split in front of us twice in one day.  We were golden.  I do wonder, though where the sheep came from.  Were they somewhere in Basque country, when suddenly the worm hole opened and they were dropped in front of us?

The rest of the day was anticlimactic:  truck stop enchiladas (not THAT kind of truck stop, a dusty little cafe by the side of the road with trucks stopped in front of it), misdirection directly into the heart of Saltillo via Ms. GPS (and a bad guess on my part) to a semi-seedy hotel that is really a motel, but aspires to greatness with the name:  Imperial.  Mexican fast food chicken for dinner because it was across the street and we were hot and tired, and well, that's about it for today.  Tomorrow won't be worth writing about unless we get our heads chopped off, as we'll just run up to the border, and then across south Texas back to Austin.

Most fun I've had since Suzanne and I spend about nine months bumming around South America, during the Eocene Epoch.  I'm already scheming up a different route....

Dia Ocho: La Maravilla de Guanajuato

Guanajuato, the city, is the most Italian/Spanish of Mexican cities of all Mexico.  Built in a deep valley or ravine, an exceedingly important mining center in the 16th and 17th Centuries, it has all the charm of a small city in Spain, with only a few streets, and hundreds of callejones, or pedestrian walks/alleyways, all uphill in all directions.  Beautiful, and much fun to explore. 

Also the seat of the Mexican Revolution of 1810, the famous Father Hidalgo one, the one for freedom from Spain.  Big, big uprising zenithed here in a big battle after he'd made his Grito over in Dolores, now Dolores Hidalgo.  Wikipedia is your friend in this matter.i

We're beyond lucky to be staying at Casa Zuniga, as the owner, Rick Zuniga, an American, makes the Energizer Bunny look dead.  He took us on a breathless walking tour of the city, explaining all the various buildings, the why of the many tunnels, the reasons for the architectures, and most important, brought the famous battle alive, standing on the very spot where it occurred.  An absolutely stunning punctuation point to this stunning trip we've had.

Tomorrow begins the long two days of zooming up the Autopistas to the border and on to Austin.

'Tis late, I'm tired from all the climbing at this altitude, G'night, Gracie.

Dia Siete: The Dawn Patrol

Joe and Juanita must like to fish.  They wanted to leave Cholula this morning at 6:00.  I negotiated them down to 7:00, which still about kilt me, but it was fun leaving the city as dawn was brightening, seeing people cooking tripas out on the sidewalk, a man on a bicycle with two metal milk cans strapped to it like panniers slowly heading toward the market, Popocateptl coming alive in the rising sunlight. 

We bombed happily along for an hour or so, then stopped at a little roadside cafe which was just opening and had yet another wonderful meal...nothing like enchiladas with fresh cheese for breakfast.  After, we entered a small town with the GPS giving specific instructions on how to proceed through to the other side.  The GPS was mistaken.  We had entered The Labyrinth.  We found dead ends at every turn.  We practiced u-turns many, many times. We stopped at the square and asked a huge swarm of cops who had mustered in the early morning for some kind of in-service, in a slouchy, Sunday-morning sort of way, how the heck we could get to the highway.  Two immediately got into a moderately heated argument pointing, of course in opposite directions with exquisitely complex instructions for turns and landmarks to look for.  Finally one of the two kind of huffed off, and the other turned out to have a little English, and to have lived in Brooklyn at some point.  He proudly named off all the sections of Brooklyn, the Bronx, Queens, etc, for us.  We chose, at random, his directions.  They were wrong,  The Minotaur almost got us, but at the last second I chose a turn and...bingo, we were out of the town, nearing the highway.  Off we went.  Somehow we did NOT get lost in Cuernavaca.  I don't understand it.  We turned off not too far north of the city through a national forest, full of pine trees and pastures, not unlike northern New Mexico, with the Mother of All Squiggle Roads, and springlike temperatures.  Big Fun for the motorcycle part of our brains.  By the end of all the squiggling we were tahrt out and decided to head for the Autopista to get to Guanajuato a little quicker. Only the major highway up to the autopista was even MORE twisty, with giant trucks and buses for additional excitement.  By the time we found the autopista to take us west past Queretaro we were not only tahrt, we were HOT.  Throwing all previous moderation goals to the winds, we ran west at autobahn speeds, finally arriving late afternoon in Guanajuato, only to have the stupid GPS again send us wandering around the city, through tunnels, and eventually up what Joe seems to think was a cobbblestone cliff, to our wonderful bed and breakfast, Casa Zuniga, just below, and I really mean JUST below the giant statue of Pipila overlooking the entire city.  Dinner late, now off to bed, all day tomorrow to wander the city's callejones, etc. 

View from my balcony: