Dia Cinco

Well, back on the bikes for a little bit today, meaning I got us lost only once, and only for a short time.  The remnants of our band, Joe and Juanita, J. D., and I rode up the fabulous new toll road to visit the incredible mysterious ancient city of Teotihuacan (check the link the details and photos will be much better than anything I could describe or upload.  It was my second trip there, but I still couldn't wait to climb to the top of the Pyramid of the Sun and look down on all the amazement.

We all wandered and marveled for hours, and then J. D. led us around the back side of the park to a restaurant called La Gruta, or The Grotto, which is entirely situated inside a very large natural cave, perhaps a lava tunnel, which seats hundreds and hundreds of guests, and has been in operation since 1906.  Neat setting, and once again, delicious food.

I should digress a little and talk about the food on this trip. Even the most ordinary little cafes have served up sumptuous meals, and the nicer restaurants have been spectacular. I mean, really spectacular.  I don't even like mole sauce, but ordered chicken with mole poblano (Puebla style) last night in Puebla, and practically licked my plate it was so good.

I could go on and on and on, but won't.  Rest assured, we ain't feeling puny from hunger.

That's pretnear all for today, the ride was typical superhighway, and thankfully for some reason I didn't decide to crank it up to extreme extralegal speeds because for the first time ever, I mean EVER, we passed a Policia Federal cruiser who'd pulled two cars over and was waving a RADAR GUN!  Not all progress is seen as positive to all people.  I turned the cruise control on and settled back, worried that if J. D. had gotten a big fine while standing still, well....

Here's some pix of the Quinta Luna:

Dia Cuatro

Ahhhhhhhhhh.  After all that riding, a bunch of tired kittycats needed no herding, breakfast in the courtyard at the civilized hour of 9:00 ayem, then a leisurely walk over to and up on the Great Pyramid of Cholula, a massive structure with of course a church on top of it.  It was interesting, but because it's mostly covered with so many centuries of earth, it is underwhelming compared to other Mesoamerican monumental architecture, even though it is, literally, the largest monument anywhere in the world.

Afterwards I took Joe and Juanita and J. D. ambling across town (Cholula isn't very large) to the market, which Joe and Juanita fell in love with, and J. D. showed them some things to eat at the little cafe-like stalls.  I scuttled back to the Quinta Luna for a much-needed nap.

Then late yesterday we reconnected with Dave and Garin and all met at the Zocalo over in Puebla, having taxied over.  Wandered the 16th C. cathedral, the streets lined with buildings of the same era, listened to live symphonic music on the square, people-watched, had a wonderful dinner, as we let the evening overtake us. We sat in the hotel courtyard for awhile upon our return, and eventually repaired, happy, to our rooms. A lovely day.  The bikes gathered dust, literally, in the Quinta's parking area.

Oh!  And atop the Great Pyramid, looming much closer than expected, through the haze, the giant volcano Popocateptl, steam rising from the cone, snow here and there near the summit.  I have known the legend since 5th grade, and the old photos from geography class of that year fired my imagination then, just as did the hazy view today of the real thing.

Dia Tres, Onward Through the Fog

I've been thinking about my earlier posts, and feel like perhaps I'm not giving a clear picture of our adventure.  I've focused on the "what could possibly go wrong" part, in an attempt to amuse, entertain, and inform, but please, rest assured, the "go wrongs" are far outweighed by the "wowees" and the "yippees."

That said, I was sad to awaken on day three in my room at El Castillo, because I knew we were moving on, and I love that place.  The rainy forest was doing its rainy thing, which made for exciting getting-up-the-super-steep-hill from the parking lot, but we all made it, and I even was lucky and got Jim's bike up safely, too.  Jim, unfortunately, had concluded the trip was too arduous for him, and he planned to stop in Pachuca, a few hundred miles south, and then return home via the autopistas, which would be safe, smooth, and fast.  I hated to see him capitulate to his situation, but agreed with him that it was the best thing...as did all of us chickens.

So, off to the south on Mexico 85, through the cacophanous town of Tamazunchale, where I managed the feat of getting us lost twice doing the exact same thing, taking the same wrong detour twice.  On this trip I am rapidly losing my title of Loser of the Keys and ascending to Loser of the Way, since I am the Dear Leader, and have the gps.  Anyway, once past Tamazunchale we cross eastward on a slightly curvy road under heavy construction, still in the jungle-y stuff, so beautiful to our north of the border eyes, to the odd town of Huejutla, where we turn south towards Pachuca, and immediately climb and climb up spectacular mountain roads and scenery and perfect "I'm flying a small airplane whee" motorcycle riding, and...well, there IS a lot of fog along the way, but it doesn't dampen our spirits, and we adjust our speeds accordingly. This road, for the bike riders reading this, is world-class squiggle, in good enough shape to push when we want, so long as we watch out for the dread topes, the occasional truck in our lane, and other typical Mexican road impedimentia.

At some point our little group separates into two smaller groups, due to an inconvenient semi which grinds up the mountain, with three of us getting past, and the other three getting stuck.  Then one of the three had a very minor mechanical issue, which took some time to fix, the fog slowed them down, and they did the right thing, which was "If we get separated, everyone stops at the next Pemex station and waits for the rest to catch up" for half an hour, before deciding we other three were in fact still ahead.  We were, but hadn't followed the Pemex rule because in the fog we thought they were right behind us a half mile or so.  Regardless, we did follow Rule Two, which is "Don't worry about getting lost, I, Dear Leader, will always stop at every major turn and wait for all to catch up," which I did, sending Joe/Juanita and J. D. on ahead.  I, in an Einsteinian moment leave my ignition key on with the flashers going to warn the careening trucks and buses, and forget to switch off the uber-watt auxiliary lights.  The wait ended up being more than half an hour, which turns out to be exactly enough time to drain a good battery dead with the aux lights.  The three behind caught up, I waved Jim and Dave past, and stopped Garin, he being a strapping young man capable of helping me push start my bike, which actually took very little effort, and off the two of us went in pursuit of the rest of the crowd, having a ball on our little airplanes, zooming through the curves, literally in the clouds.

I was anxious to get to Pachuca before dark, but realized the late start, the fog, the mechanical issue, etc, made it unlikely, but I was determined to try.  We made it just after dark.  Very, very interesting, going through the rain/cloud forest for hours and hours, the suddenly, in the space of what seemed less than a mile, dropping through a piney forest out into an instant arid scenery complete with deep gulches, huge cacti, and more great motorcycle riding, now out in the clear, with the full moon rising on our left.  Spectacular, as I rocketed down the mountains to Pachuca.  Once there we pulled over, Jim had found a hotel on his GPS (those things can be handy), so we said our goodbyes, wished him luck, and took off in search of Cholula.

By now we were on autopista, and could really make time in between me getting us lost every half hour (this is not exactly true, but is the burden I must carry; actually, the nice lady inside my GPS unit kept getting us lost, but hey, the buck stops with the Dear Leader).  Joe/Juanita are always directly behind me about three feet, and Joe's headlights are aimed improperly, causing rear blindness on my part.  This became an issue when we stopped to hunch over the map and the GPS, and when we pulled away, Dave's bike wouldn't start, and the good son Garin stayed with him, and J. D. tried valiantly to signal me, but the Joe/Juanita lights blinded me to all that, until much, much later, the first time we got lost in Cholula.  Nothing to be done, and luckily nothing untoward happened, they got the bike started up after some fiddling and cursing, and made it to their hotel, probably before the rest of us got to ours, due to the Lady of the Unit. Or me.  Depending on your point of view.

Finally after several turnarounds and whichways, we managed to get to a fork in the road, and took it. No, that's Yogi Berra.  We stopped by the side of the road (remember, it's dark) and J. D. being in very dire straits, did that "MAN I GOTTA PEE" walk we all know, into the dark, while I tried to figure out which fork to take, and salvation arrived, bringing with it some financial heartache for J. D., in the form of three Mexican cops in a pickup.  They very seriously informed me that urination in public is a serious crime and I shouldn't do it. I pointed out that I did not do it.  They pointed out that the fine is 400 pesos, which I could pay on the spot.  I pointed out J. D.  J. D knew the drill, and after a desultory effort to negotiate a lower fine, he was back on his bike, light the 400 pesos, but feeling very much better about life due to the pressure relief.

The cops did save us, pointed out the proper fork, and 20 minutes later we were marveling at the wonderful accommodations of La Quinta Luna, perhaps the finest boutique hotel I've ever seen.  To bed, to sleep, to awake the next day, deliriously exhilarated from all the riding, all the adventures (the getting lost, not so much) to spend a day off the bikes.

Dia Dos

Day 2

Nice breakfast buffet, and off we go, all heads attached, no one even mentioning kidnapping macheteros…that’s a Norteamericano thing.  Old news, and wrong news at that.  So far.   The bad news this morning is that I'm beginning to question the wisdom of allowing a Harley dude to join us.  We're all gearing up, bikes packed, walk out to the parking lot, and J. D. is washing his motorcycle with a bottle of water.  We're appalled...you can surely see why.

Perfect temperature, 70 degrees, blue skies, green mountains coming up in the distance, road begins to wind a little bit, what could possibly go wrong on a day like today?

Oopsie.  We’ve arrived in Topelandia.  More topes than I ever knew existed, whole swarms of them, big huge ones, Invisible in the gray asphalt, Dear Leader, being in front, bearing the brunt of hitting the things a normal speed.  Owwwwwww.  They’re EVERYWHERE!.  Not much rhyme or reason to their placement.  Not like the old days, when one knew a tope would be lurking at the entrance to every village and town.

However, mellow reigns anyway, as we cruise south through orange orchards, sugar cane fields, mango orchards, get to see glimpses of horse-powered cane mills grinding sugar cane.  We arrive at the Tropic of Cancer, which, worldwide, is marked by giant balls, put there by ancient gods for future generations to have a photo op.

I only get us lost once, but do it twice.  Really.  The same losting.  Well, not counting the getting lost in Xilitla.

Right on schedule we reach the turn-off to Xilitla, and climb rapidly up to the charming little village I remember, which has grown some, but is still the same, except for the getting lost part trying to find the Castillo guest house.  I see a policeman, pull over to ask directions, and notice he instantly quits paying attention to me and is looking, with great concern, at the ground behind me.  Well, no, he’s looking at one of my compatriots who is on the ground.  As is his motorcycle.  A missed shift, putting the bike in neutral instead of first gear, combined with  an unfortunate incline has sent Jim to the pavement.  Luckily he is shaken, but unhurt, nor is his motorcycle damaged. 

Follows a finally successful hunt for a way to get to El Castillo, solo, then back to pick up the rest of the crew, lead them to the hotel, Jim takes a cab, Juanita waits with his bike, it takes forever for me and Joe to figure out how to walk back to where she is, (three, maybe four policemen give perfectly contradictory directions) and when we finally arrive, I’ve melted again.  Now, I have to confess to certain Levels of Frustration when I melt, so I was quite pleased to finally get Jim’s bike to the hotel, get it and mine unloaded and rip my riding suit (black in color) off and change into clean clothes, order up two taxis, and all but Jim go merrily off to the main event of the day, Las Pozas,  a place which has never failed to soothe my soul.  My harshed mellow returns.  Perhaps the photos at the end of this post will explain a little of the attraction.

El Castillo  is still a wonderful place to spend one or several nights, delightful hosts, a new, excellent restaurant next door, rainy forest all around, organic locally grown coffees on sale in little stores, and of course Las Pozas is a wacky, wonderful, surreal place to visit.  If ever you get a chance to visit, jump at it.

Jim was able to rest comfortably by the pool while the res of us went to Las Pozas, but unfortunately getting around was difficult for him, due to his rheumatoid arthritis. 

Dia Uno

Hmmmmm.   I believe I may have said “What could go wrong?’  Lookit this group, and think about that for a minute:

L to R: Garin, Dave, J. D., Mark, Juanita, Joe, and Jim

Day one, Austin, Texas, to Ciudad Victoria, 575 miles.  Austin to the border was a breeze.  Getting through customs was a breeze.

Oops.  No place to change money, have to head for Nuevo Laredo, home of the Head Choppers.  Stop short, though, as I remember that Oxxo stores (convenience stores) have ATMs.  I got some money.  Couple other got some money.  Couple others, uh, couldn’t get any mony.  ATM thought about each one for about five minutes before saying “Uh uh, nope, no pesos for you, Pedro.”  So we leave, and head for the next one.  Oh, wait. Six of the seven of us leave and head for the next one.  One of us leaves and, well to put it kindly, GOES IN THE WRONG DADGUM DIRECTION AND DISAPPEARS OUT OF SIGHT.  Headed back to the border.  So I send everyone else on to the next Pemex station (actually, our FIRST Pemex station) and I pull over by the side of the road and wait for the voyager who we won’t name (Jim).  By the side of the road that all Mexican trucks use, primarily to kick dust and gravel onto a motorcyclist standing by the side of the road.  A road that has no name.  Only a number:  2.  It’s a beautiful day in Austn, probably about 75 or so.  On the side of the road where I am, however, it’s 96 degrees (I have a thermometer on my fancy bike).  I’m wearing a Power Ranger suit, black in color.  I am on the side of the road for a very, very long time waiting for the unnamed (Jim) guy who, as I begin to melt, takes on other names, and whose IQ drops in inverse relation to the rising temperature of my body.  By the time he finally realizes his error and comes trundling back down the highway, my mellow is very seriously harshed.  20 miles past Customs.  But we take off, stop at the Pemex, everyone mills around for about four hours (this is apparently standard procedure at all Pemex stops), and eventually we turn into the wind (gale, actually) and bomb down the Cuota towards Monterrey.  Oh: guess whose(es) fault the wrong-way deal was?  If you guessed “Jim” you’d be wrong.  Try six other names.  All of them.

Harley guy JD claims to know exactly how to find a restaurant so we can have lunch, and exactly where to turn so we avoid the deadly Monterrey traffic and head choppers.  He misses both.  The restaurant and the turn.  I realize he is less reliable than hoped, and with the help of the Pemex guy (yes, we stopped at another one for four hours and milled around) we get onto another Cuota and eventually find our way around Monterrey and into the maze of a town named Cadereyta, I believe, where we stop on the square and mill around in a combination bank/appliance store/big screen TV store, and eat lunch for about seven hours (starting at after 4:00 Pee Em, rather DARN LATE if you ask me.  But, by now I am the Dear Leader, and must be kin and gentle to my subjects, and after some more hours and hours, we finally set off in search of, of course, a Pemex station.  Eventually the sun goes down.  We’re 250 km from our hotel.  It’s dark.  The next Pemex station we stop at, one of the pump guys is, I swear, sitting on a stool sharpening a machete.  There is no brush to cut anywhere in sight.

We escape his no doubt murderous intent and bomb down a perfectly good road filled not with burros, and cattle, as in the old days, but with huge trucks, all of whose drivers are annoyed at the brightness of  Harley Man’s and Joe’s super-trillion-watt lights, and let them know it by putting their own super-gadrillion-bright lights on high beam just as the get to where the lights will blind the Dear Leader.  A kind and wonderful man who does not react harshly, although he mellow is now not so much harshed as run through a special fine razor sharp German cheese grater. 

Eventually, close to midnight, we arrive at our lovely motel in Ciudad Victoria.  I wonder if the copyright for the title “The Longest Day” is still active.

Other than that, we had a swell time.  No, really, we did.  And after today, what could POSSIBLY go wrong the rest of the trip? 

I hope I can get in touch with Kim Jong Il and get the name of his hairdresser.  Me being the Dear Leader and all.

Let's Light This Candle!

We're outta here!  Yesterday was practically a full-blown tech day*, with three oil changes over the weekend, my man Buckster and Polo showing up at the house to harass me a little bit, and Buckster, unable to help himself, wiring up Joe's extra LED tail/brake lights, the Dave and Garin, father/son team, arriving on the Suzuki V-Stroms in time for us all to go out to the Salt Lick and destroy our girlish figures before returning to the house and changing perfectly good oil to soothe pre-trip jitters.

Had the typical pre-trip fitful night's sleep, and am now up before the damn coffee maker set itself off automatically.

I must say, I'm happily surprised at the general level of congeniality of this disparate band of travelers.

Joe, a lifelong California resident, is picking up Texanese fairly well, able to master "y'all, all y'all, yourall's, even all yourall's, overcame early confusing of "fixing to", as in "I'm fixing to go change old Jim's oil for him down in the grodge soon as I finish this cuppa coffee," but seems a bit stumped by "eat up with," as in "raht now mah grodge is eat up with BMWers", or "I hear thet road to Monterrey is flat eat up with head-chopper-offers."

And so the adventure fully begins....hasta la vista, babies.

*This blog is being written to various audiences, including family, friends, and many motorcyclists.  Thus there will be motorcycle jargon tossed around fequently, which may confuse some non-riders.  I was fixing to explain all the terms as I went along, and realized no one would care, so when you get to jargon that's unintelligible, just skip over it.

You'll Be Sitting Ducks!

So said one friend, when told of plans to travel Mexico on a motorcycle with five or six others...thus the "patossentados" url for this blog.  That was actually a relatively mild reaction.  According to many, many people, none of whom, I gather, have ever actually BEEN to Mexico, the country is seething with bandits armed to the teeth with, well, with mainly machetes, the better to chop off our heads.  We shall see.  I managed to survive the Shining Path folks, during their heyday; the Pinochet regime, whilst they were busy building walls out of people; Bolivian cocaine producers; and of course, the New York subway system, among other horrific situations.

She Who Wants to Always Be Obeyed refused this particular trip, to my surprise, so I broadcast a call for suicide riders on various motorcycle intergoogle forums, and we ended up with this crew:

Me, the Loser of the Keys, the Maker of the Reservations, the One the Others Will Think is the Guide and Daddy;

Jim, a retired fella who appears to spend all his time riding his motorcycle across vast distances;

JD, who, sadly, rides a noisy Harley Davidson, and is thus destined to ride at the rear of our little parade;

Joe and Juanita, intrepid Californians who braved a snowy pass just yesterday so as to arrive in Austin in time for...BBQ;

David, and his son Garin, joining us for the first few days of our adventure, before they push on to Panama, wherein they must pass the dread El Salvador, no doubt having their heads chopped off,  as everyone knows one is a Sitting Duck in El Salvador.  David is apparently off to dig the Panama Canal anew, and Garin, a mere stripling, is weathering the employment downturn by traveling the world.

The schedule:

Day One, April 26:  across the desert from Austin to Ciudad Victoria, Mexico, the most harrowing section, as macheteros line the roadways looking for heads to send flying.

Day Two: To Xilitla, a garden spot of a rain forest mountain village: www.junglegossip.com will provide information.

Day Three:  Squiggly roads to the mystery of Teotihuacan, then on to Cholula, outside Puebla, not the Cholula of hot sauce fame, for four days and nights of base camp and adventuring.

Day...whatever is next: To Guanajuato for two nights and

Then Days next and next back through the horrid Mexican desert via Saltillo to the border and Austin.

What could POSSIBLY go wrong?  Three different brands of motorcycle, riders of varying experience, hardly any Spanish speakers, and the terrifying and frequent topes, pronounced "to-pehs", Speed Bumps of Death, placed randomly all across the country.

 As I write this, the various players are converging on Austin, trying to remember, "he said to look for the big pink hand in the front yard."

Follow along if you like, comment away, but please, we KNOW about the heads-chopped-off part already.