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:

Dia Seis

The Dear Leader Takes the Day Off...and...

...so do Juanita and Joe.  We took a taxi over to Puebla, and wandered through the shop of a large Talavera factory, intending to take a tour of the production process, but, and this is an indicator of how successful the trip is, we'd forgotten what day it is.  Saturday.  No one working.  We did look at the pots and whatnots.  I was most interested in the many different shapes for funerary urns.  One in particular was about four inches tall, three wide, and 24 long.  Perfect for, for instance, dead wiener dogs.  Or a trout. 

We then wandered over to the Zocalo and had some ceviche and shrimp coctel.  Interestingly, there were five different Tabasco-type sauces on the table...all habanero.  Gustatory perspiration ensued.  Then it was a taxi back to the sainted, blessed Quinta Luna for a nice nap.  Now, late afternoon, we're finishing an early dinner at the hotel, planning a dawn patrol exit around the south side of Popocateptl  on a circuitous, squiggle route to Guanajuato, for yet another, totally different cultural experience.

I love Mexico.

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.