1 | Leaving Texas

Mexico. So close and yet so far.

I’d never ridden in Mexico, despite my friend Hank asking me to go on several occasions. Hank had run motorcycle tours there for years, so he was certainly familiar with the place. Being Hispanic and speaking Spanish didn’t hurt either.

I had a break in my work schedule and was anxious to ride somewhere, when he called to tell me he was leading a small group into Mexico to attend the Mexican BMW Rally in the interior. To be honest, I wasn’t totally crazy about going, my last trip there to a resort ending in the worst stomach virus or food poisoning I’d ever experienced in my life. Though irrational, it had been so bad that I never wanted to risk that again. Yet, I wanted to break the mental barrier of international travel so I said “Sure!” quickly before I could think of a good excuse. The plan was to leave in a few days from Laredo.

Unfortunately for me, my GS began having issues of intermittent stumbling with a really bad drop in fuel mileage. Typically I was getting 40 mpg but it suddenly dropped to 32-ish and I spent my prep days chasing parts and ghosts. After changing fuel filters, plugs and more, the general consensus was to just dope the tank with injector cleaner and hope for the best .

Heading for a foreign country with a poorly running bike was not high on my list and I really wrestled with going or not. It had been such short notice I didn’t really have time to get it sorted, but Hank being a BMW mechanic, assured me we could deal with it if necessary.

We were all due in Laredo for a leaving at 8 am on Monday, so on Sunday I packed the bike, filled the tank with gas and GumOut and headed south for Laredo.

I stopped in briefly at Hank’s shop, “MotoHank”, and dropped off a GoPro housing, where a disassembled KTM 950 was being reassembled by its owner, Cullen. He'd ridden in from Nevada for this rally trip and was doing some last minute prep to his bike. I stood around and pointed at things while he worked and Hank supervised. From there I headed south to Laredo in a fierce headwind, serious heat and a setting sun to swap some cash for pesos and get some rest for our early morning rendezvous. My gas mileage to Laredo was a horrendous 29 mpg. I didn't sleep well due to the bike issue and nerves about entering a country where I could not speak the language.

Exciting pics from the Motel 6:

Note the copious amounts of Pepto. There was more stashed all over the bike.

High tech, eco friendly usage of air - note that the position of the insoles not only dries them, but deflects a tornado-like air current into the sweaty boots. Pure genius in action.

Ok, I’ll admit the pictures are boring, but what else do you do in a Motel 6 besides count all the other creepy people staying there?

MONDAY 8 A.M. The plan was to meet in the parking lot next to the motel at 8 am and head for the border to beat the crowds, but Hank called and had had a fuel pump failure just a couple blocks from his shop and was running late. I wandered into the adjacent Denny’s for breakfast and spotted a couple of other riders, whom I guessed were part of the group. Jim from Texarkana and Rob from Michigan shared the table with me. Our group was going to consist of Hank and his girlfriend Sherry, Cullen from Nevada on his KTM 950, Jimmy from Texarkana on a 1200GS and Rob from Michigan on his 650 GS twin. In addition we had two other riders, Jim from Michigan and his son Matthew from Arizona, who were going to cross with us and then part ways in Monterrey.

Hank and Sherry arrived about 9:30, Hank having swapped in a new fuel pump on his bike. We formed up and headed for a gas station to top off and exchange more pesos if needed, then headed through the old section of Laredo to the original International Bridge rather than to the newer crossing. It was near the Inmigracion and Aduana buildings and would save some time.

Cullen on his Katoom 950

I was pretty nervous for some reason and paid the toll to cross the bridge. Once across, there are a few lanes with red or green lights that appear over them as you arrive. If you get a random red light, you pull into an inspection area or if green, you just go through. I was last in line and three of our five got red lights and inspections. Rob and I did not and for some reason Rob rode off to find the Aduana. I followed him, both of us missing the turn and eventually finding our way back.

Hank and crew were waiting as we headed inside, with only a few folks ahead one of the benefits of a Monday morning. The process took a couple of hours and we were on our way through Nuevo Laredo. Hank took a loop along the Rio Grande that bypasses the main section of town and leads to the highway heading to Monterrey. We were dodging and bobbing in traffic, seeing lots of armed policia and federales, then passed a large machine gun emplacement hidden behind sand bags in front of the Holiday Inn Express on the loop. Needless to say, that got my attention and I realized Toto and I weren’t in Kansas anymore.

The cartel violence in Mexico had spiked, especially with the Zeta’s and this was a real reminder. The border areas were notorious for turf war violence, so it was with much speed that we headed out of Nuevo Laredo for the interior. A lot has been made of the danger in Mexico, but as Hank had told us, as long as you were staying away from any drug related activity you weren’t worth a nickel to the cartels.

We were soon on the main highway at high speed for Monterrey about 140 miles away. We were traveling about 90 mph and into a strong headwind. I watched as my fuel gauge went slowly down, my stomach sinking at the same rate. We’d gotten on the tollway through the bleak landscape and I seriously didn’t think I would make it before running out of gas. I was last in line and they were far ahead, trying to conserve speed and fuel. I knew they’d have no idea I’d run out of gas for a very long time if I did.

As we got closer to Monterrey, the air was thick and hazy - whether smog or natural - and I was barely able to make out the shapes of mountains ahead. Just as my low fuel warning light came on at 115 miles instead of the usual 180 miles, I began seeing signs of the city and we finally rolled in to a Pemex station. We filled up with gas and I was genuinely wrestling with continuing my trip since the bike was getting such poor mileage. If I was to quit, it had to be now or never as I’d never be able to find my way back to the border as easily. I debated whether to and told Hank, but he said fuel wouldn’t be an issue.

The usual lunch restaurant was closed, so Hank led us to a neighborhood flea market where the food search began. The only vendor was an old man with a cart full of roasted chicken, sloppily piled against dirty glass. I watched as he grabbed pieces with his greasy hands and tear them apart for the buyers. My worst nightmare was getting violently ill again in Mexico, and this setup looked to be a veritable bacterial sickness laboratory. Everyone else was buying chicken from him and I thought. “Well, what the hell, if I die in Mexico, I’ll die in Mexico.” Despite my trepidation, the chicken was absolutely delicious.

I tagged along as we rolled for Saltillo, listening to every rumble in my stomach just in case. I’d filled up the bike with Premium and the gas gauge had slowed in its rapid descent. The bike got better mileage on the second tank, likely due to higher altitude where it uses less gas. I was finally able to relax a bit and check the scenery. We raced south, passing innumerable "Vulca" or tire changing sheds and shacks, stacks of bagged onions or lemons on the inside lane, horses and sheep grazing the medians along the highway. At the speeds we were traveling 80-90, you needed to be alert at all times. We raced past a freshly rolled old Ford pickup in the center median, the bodies having been drug out and surrounded by a crowd of locals, feeling that terrible sense of guilt in knowing there's nothing you can do. It seemed we stopped at innumerable toll stations and I was beginning to wonder if I'd changed enough cash into pesos at the rate I was handing it out.

We were in the “altiplano”, the high mountain desert to the west of the Sierra Madre range. The beautiful desert mountains rolled past as we flew along, with no time for photos in the race against a setting sun. We finally reached the cut-off for Cedral north of Matehuala, where we topped off on gas before turning onto a 12 mile cobblestone road through the desert and up into the mountains. The road was an amazing site to see and the vistas into the setting sun were beautiful. I snapped a quick pic while riding but the cobbles made it a challenge.

We did switchbacks up into the mountains until reaching a tunnel which goes entirely through the mountain and leads into the old town of Real De Catorce. We waited for a truck to come through before paying a 20 peso toll and proceeding.

I can't remember the length, but the old tunnel was a couple of kilometers long, dark and musty. It was a great ride.

Bursting out the far end into the light and into the old town was like stepping back in time.

Cobblestone streets and stone buildings, street vendors and crisp mountain air. The tiny streets are steep and rough, but it's a beautiful place.

We found the hotel just about dusk, showered and went out for a meal in the darkness.

It was dark but here are a few shots:

Real De Catorce was a spectacular place and I was anxious for daylight to explore!

The Route:

2 | Real De Catorce to Zacatecas

Awakened to the sounds of donkeys braying, roosters crowing, muffled voices and rattling pickup trucks on the rough cobblestone streets, I walked out into the early morning light and watched the children walking with mothers to school.

Bleary eyed to say the least, I’d gone to sleep way too late and then was awakened by the TV coming on at full volume right at 3 am.

Unfortunately for Cullen, he and I had shared a room. Poor guy.

A couple of morning songbirds… Rob and Jim

Our plan was to leave at 10 a.m., giving us a little time to do some exploring in the town after breakfast. There was much dawdling, much cafe' de olla and cafe' con leche, much sweet bread and a great breakfast. All at a leisurely pace on Mexico time.

Purists will laugh, but I had pancakes. Yes, pancakes. They sounded good for some reason and I figured I’d see how they were made in Mexico. They were featured highly on the breakfast menu and I wasn’t disappointed. There was no Aunt Jimena syrup, but a blend of honey was perfect. I was to find that pancakes are quite popular in Mexico, so there.

After our meal, we didn’t have much time, but huffed and puffed our way around the village in the thing air of 9,000’ elevation and very steep streets.

A few pics from the wandering:

I was to read later, that at one point this little village had been the richest town in Mexico, made so by the silver mines. In the valley far below a railroad had been set up and this village figured in the political history of Mexico.

“Real De Catorce” means “Royal Fourteen” and there are legends that 14 Conquistadors were killed here by the Huichol Indians, but it’s more likely the name meant the 14 mountains were claimed by the King of Spain for their silver deposits.

Another factoid is that the old movie “Treasure of the Sierra Madre” with Humphrey Bogart had been filmed nearby. Also, “The Mexican” with Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts had been filmed recently in Real.

There was a very large church downtown, Iglesia Real De Catorce, which I found out later was the second church built, as the smaller original was on the edge of town in the cemetery.

The church floor seemed to be made of door-like panels. Never found out if they were.

Let sleeping dogs lie

Making the small chips and slices of rock used in construction

The original church, Capilla de Guadalupe, on the outskirts was closed. It was much older than the larger church downtown

The valley far below, famous for its peyote, was covered with clouds. There is a nearby mountain known as the “Quemado”, a high place overlooking the valley and it has been a holy place for the Huichol Indians, who make a pilgrimage yearly to the mountain. One can hike or ride horses to the spot from the town. Peyote was used as part of the religious practices and would be collected from the valley floor as pilgrims made their way to the mountain.

The old bull fighting arena. There is also an executioner’s wall at the site, where criminals were shot and the wall is covered with bullet holes.

Remains of the night

Most of the dogs resided on the roof of homes

Real De Catorce has a signature construction method, where chips of stone, “rajas”, are hammered into the gaps to lock the stones in place

We had a long ways to go to make the festival yet, so after getting my appetite wetted to return to this fabulous little town, we hit the hotel and began packing up for the road.

We were geared up and ready to go by 10:30, jumping the curb onto the polished cobblestones, winding up and down the tight streets until we reached the Ogarrio tunnel. I fired up the GoPro and got some of the ride through the town and tunnel.

The weather was magnificent, with stinging hot sun and crisp cool air. We wound back down the mountain on the old cobblestone road and turned west for Zacatecas, which compared to the previous day from Laredo would be a short day. We hit the road in force, Cullen dropping quite a ways behind for a while. His KTM had developed a problem with oil coming out the breather tube and coating the engine. It wasn’t serious but he was having to wipe the oil and try to figure a way to stop it.

We traveled at speeds ranging from 80-90 down into the altiplano, my eyes stinging in the crisp air despite having sunglasses and shield down.

We motored on passing miles and miles of cactus, shepherds and sheep, road crews who waved and cheered as we rocketed past, giving a big thumbs up and smiles.

When we stopped for gas, Rob's 650 had developed a disconcerting wobble at high speeds. After a thorough check-over he and Hank believed it to be caused by his large aftermarket windshield, which probably was not designed with those speeds in mind.

Hank's warning before leaving the gas stop was simply, "Stay right against the next bike's rear tire when we hit Zacatecas or you'll get split off by cabs immediately and never find the downtown plaza." Ok, great. My position was the tail of a five bike train and I wasn't relishing the thought of trying to stay with them in insane traffic.

With that thought in mind, we reached the city and immediately the fun began. In a nutshell, it’s the craziest high speed traffic riding I've ever done, trying to stick close through the mess, eventually just clearing my mind and charging past bumpers and blaring horns. Being five bikes back, when a break came in traffic for the first three riders, it was far gone by the time my turn came up. It was very stressful and I certainly didn’t want to get lost since I had no idea where we were going and no ability to speak Spanish.

As we made a very fast exit and came fast down into a traffic circle, I hit both brakes as usual, but felt my rear brake pedal go limp. Nada. Zip. Zilch. My rear brake was non-existent. To say my pucker factor went to "Black Hole" in an instant is an understatement. I was praying the front brakes didn't fail.

The front brake continued to work, but the rear never came back. We had to continue racing through the insanity into the downtown district and I tried to decide what I’d do if the front brake failed. My only rational choices were to lay the bike down, or aim for Jimmy’s side cases on his 1200 to get stopped. I kept praying and tried several more times but the rear pedal had zero pressure.

In the midst of the traffic race, a transit policeman pointed at me and blew his whistle for me to pull over, but I simply nailed the throttle and raced past him. To be frank, I didn't give a damn.

We finally pulled up in front of the main plaza, each of us parking our bikes and getting off with increasing degrees of sweat and red faces. Hank and Rob, both in the front of the pack, said "Hey that wasn't bad at all!". Jimmy calmly said, "You guys weren't riding the tail of the dragon" Truer words were never spoken.

I told Hank about my brakes and after about 15 minutes checked them again. Thankfully the pedal pressure was back and the pads appeared fine. I had likely had my foot lightly on the brake pedal unknowingly and overheated them, boiling the brake fluid. When you’re in the middle of a traffic race like that, and your brakes suddenly aren’t there, you have no idea if a line has burst and thus the terrible fear of complete brake loss. I was still shaken from the event, due in large part to the insanity of the traffic.

Cullen and his KTM - unfortunately he was having to do work on a daily basis

The view from the room really sucked

We’d checked into a nice hotel across from the plaza, then decided to head to the Museum of Masks at Museo Rafael Coronel, an old convent destroyed by an earthquake and then up to the top of “Cerro de La Bufa” which overlooks the city. We grabbed two cabs and immediately our cab turned the opposite direction of Hank's cab. After a few minutes, Rob, who is a linguistics genius and fluent in many languages, asked the driver if he knew the way to the museum. He responded "no" then took us on a wild drive to the cab headquarters, running inside for information we guessed, then tore off into the city again. He finally stopped in the middle of the street, blocking traffic to go talk to another cabbie, then headed off yet again. We eventually reached the museum, but it had closed since we were so late in arriving.

Despite the museum being closed, the ruins were beautiful, having been transformed into gardens. It was a peaceful place and enjoyable.

We grabbed two more taxis and drove to the top of the mountain where a large plaza and statue of Pancho Villa were built, enjoying the views of the city. From the bluff, we took Teleférico de Zacatecas, the oldest cable car in Mexico down to the town and walked back to the hotel.

View from the top

For dinner, we walked to an Argentinian restaurant and had steaks in the evening air of the plaza. From there, we grabbed two more cabs and went to get coffee at the bar of the Quinta Real Hotel.

The Quinta Real was an amazing hotel, literally built on the old bull fighting arena. The hotel bar being the chamber where the bulls were kept.

The Quinta Real - an amazing hotel built from the old bullfighting arena

Zacatecas was a really beautiful city filled with museums and culture.

It had been a long day, filled with a lot of fun and exploration. The next day were to do a long haul to reach Uruapan in Michoacan, the base city for the BMW Rally we were looking forward to enjoying.

I hoped that my brake issue truly was just boiling the fluid, but the next day would prove it for sure.

The Route:

3 | Into Uruapan

Zacatecas was a city that reminded me of Rome in many ways, the only city I can compare it to since I've not been to Spain. It's a place that needs to be explored and discovered over several days but I really liked it, despite the intensity of the traffic at the time we arrived.

I didn’t get much sleep due to staying up until 2 am, then getting up at 6 am to upload the ride blog. We were to leave the garage at 9 am sharp.

At 6 am, the streets were completely deserted and the cool air felt nice. I had planned to seek café on the street, but decided to use the hotel breakfast bar instead. I was under the impression that breakfast was included and after coffee and the ride report upload I walked out, only to be chased by the waiter as if I were a thief. The bill was for 22 pesos, about 1 dollar US. All I had was a 500 peso bill after I’d used up the smaller bills for tolls and he turned his nose up. I went to the room and scraped up 21 pesos in coins, being 1 peso shy and upon paying him swore I'd return yet again with a single peso. We’d paid 1700 pesos for the room, and you'd think they could spare a cup of coffee but "no".

Both Cullen and I have been squeezed for pesos in smaller denominations and at gas stops we swap and loan pesos back and forth both for gas and the ever present toll booths. Showing a 500 peso bill seemed to scare folks and they refused to accept them. The tolls have ranged significantly in price so you never know if you've got enough small bills or big ones.

We were loaded and idling by about 9:15 am, my mind engulfed about the potential brake issue as we climbed the steep ramp up and into the streets. I tried extremely hard to stay off the brakes by using gearing, expecting brake failure at any moment. We eventually made it out of the city and onto the highway heading for the town of Aguascaliente at high speed. I rode behind the group as we progressed until my brakes proved reliable. We fell into thick traffic and narrow streets in the centro district of Aguascaliente, searching for the way south to Leon.

Downtown Aguascaliente…

Our plan had been to reach Leon, then go west and catch MX 37 south to Uruapan to get off the tollways. We got lost in Aguas, it was hot, we were sweating and seemed to wander back and forth in the town until finally a cab driver led us out the correct direction. He also warned us that MX 37 was loaded with big trucks and we should stay on the tollways to Morelia instead. With the heat and traffic, I had forgotten my worry about the brakes which were working better, just a little spongier than usual.

When we finally broke free of Aguas and got going south, the wind felt wonderful and my temp gauge returned to 5 bars from its 9 bar position idling in traffic.

Descending into the volcanic region near Morelia, it was exciting to see a volcano off to the left, with either clouds or steam covering the top. The region had much water and hills, usual in an area of calderas. Quite a change from the desert scrub we'd been in.

When we reached the town of Morelia, I experienced the craziest ride of my life. Traffic had thickened and again, being on the tail, it was a major workout to stay with Hank. We hit a very long traffic jam that slowed to a stall, a three lane road suddenly containing five lanes of traffic. In Mexico, lane splitting for motorcycles is not only legal, but expected. If you fit, you can go. The lane splitting began quickly, at which point we all eventually were separated as we squeezed our way between cars, trucks, buses and semis. It was my first time to ride like that, literally pushing your way in and out of cars, squeezing within an inch or less between buses, cabs, cars and semis.

If ever I wish I'd had my GoPro helmet cam on and running, it was then, but I didn’t have time to mess with it. I would see Hank several cars ahead in one lane, Cullen passing in a ditch to my right, Jimmy behind me at one moment, then ahead of me in another lane the next. I'd cut between semis and ride the right side ditch and see no one, then see Rob passing two lanes over and no sign of anyone else. Then I’d get wedged and stuck going nowhere, only to see Hank pass from behind me three lanes over, having no idea how he ended up behind me. It was true craziness.

Eventually the bottleneck cleared up and we all seemed to morph back together. Then the real fun began.

A couple miles up the road the traffic stalled into another mass and we again ended up separated and wrestling. I have to admit, the adrenaline grabs you and it becomes such a rush you forget about the dangers and just go for it. At one point I ended up behind Cullen and his KTM, lodged between a truck and a new Volvo sedan. As I sat behind him, he began to move forward, forgetting that his Touratech panniers were wider than his handlebars. I could tell he was going to catch the Volvo’s passenger and tried to yell at him, but he couldn’t hear and accelerated, snapping off the mirror, unbeknownst to him. The mirror fell to the pavement and his rear wheel ran over it. The Volvo began honking furiously as Cullen cut directly in front of it, oblivious, and began squeezing alongside the inner curb. The Volvo accelerated and jumped the median into the opposing lane trying to catch Cullen, honking wildly. Cullen probably assumed it was a maniac and went even faster to get away. I followed in morbid wonder until the Volvo gave up chase and crossed back over the grass median behind me. Cullen had made a sharp right angle cut back across the traffic and disappeared.

I finally broke free of the jam and got moving again only to see Rob parked and waiting on the side of the road. I hadn’t seen Hank, Jimmy or anyone else for so long I assumed they were far ahead of me. I pulled over to talk to Rob and heard another rider, pull up behind me, who it was I couldn’t see. Rob and I assumed the others were long gone ahead of us and decided to ride on a short ways.

We had just stopped at a crazy intersection and were trying to decide what to do, when from behind we heard yelling "Go to the right, go to the right!!!" I did a hard right and was then passed by Hank, Jimmy and Cullen, a yellow cab in hard pursuit. I was surprised Rob and I had managed to get in front of the others, but had no idea why they were being chased by a cab.

Rob and I weaved and bobbed in the traffic, riding fast until eventually catching Hank and several miles later reaching a place where we pulled over for gas. When I took my jacket off, sweat literally ran out like water. We were all exhausted from the heat and stress and just sat like sweaty zombies.

The story eventually emerged that someone had clipped the yellow cab and the driver had given chase, much like as had happened with Cullen. Another of the group confessed to his rear passenger peg hooking the tail pipe of an old pickup and bending it as he rode by. Cullen had no idea he had even been involved in an accident until I told him.

I felt bad that our group had had some small incidents, but Hank said as a gringo, to never, ever stop for traffic incidents because you’d end up in jail no matter what. I had no doubt he spoke truth since he’d led tours into Mexico for 30 years, but I felt bad for the innocent folks who were sitting placidly in the jam and now had to deal with hassles of minor repairs, though small.

The weird thing is, I totally enjoyed the crazy experience of working through a traffic jam by lane splitting, though obviously not the accidental damage done by a couple of the bikes.

We got moving again for Uruapan, leaving the volcanic region and quickly climbing into hills, trees, and pines. It was surreal after so much time in the hot desert areas.

We had to race to get to the rally before dark and get the hotel, get registered and attend an event. With that in mind, we followed the typical rules of the road in Mejico. Slower vehicles to the right and passing at speed to the left. In the undulating hills and mountains, we flew along, flashing past semi's, cars and anything slower than us.

Most memorable pass of my day? Well there were several, but the one that takes the cake was the uphill pass I made around a huge tourist coach at about 70 mph. Just as I got adjacent to the bus, the driver decided to suddenly pull out to pass a slow moving semi on the uphill with no warning. Whether he saw me or not, I was forced me to pass the coach and semi who were side by side simultaneously, forcing me completely onto the far shoulder of the opposite lane, barely missing oncoming traffic before racing past them on their roadside shoulder. It was nuts but I sure felt alive!

To put all this in perspective, I ride safely and conservatively generally, but in Mexico anything goes and you have to drive like they do or you’ll end up in trouble.

Finally reaching Uruapan, there was a group of folks waving placards and cheering for us as we entered the town. It was pretty cool. As we got deeper into the city, I could tell Uruapan was very different than the other towns we’d experienced. It was more of what I'd imagine a Central or South American town would be like. The people looked different, the town was older and dirtier, but I liked the feeling.

As we motored along the streets, people would stare and wave. They were not used to seeing the bikes and riders. Small motorcycles would pull alongside to ride with us and smile. When we reached the main square, there were large parking areas filled with BMW's and a street literally lined bumper to bumper with Federale Police trucks for an entire block. We’d continually passed through road blocks by the military, state and federal police, having been pulled over by masked men in the black uniforms to check papers and look us over, but the police were out in full force for the rally.

We found the hotel and a gaggle of BMW's parked on the street. Weary, worn and wind-beaten. I pulled my helmet off, sweaty hair hanging in my face and got off the bike. People on the sidewalks were taking pictures of us and standing around. I turned around and a young lady ran up to me and in Spanish asked if she could have her picture taken with me. I was shocked, so smelly and so sweaty I simply burst out laughing. Her boyfriend asked me to put my arm around her and smile and he composed the shot to frame us with the bike. That was certainly a "first" amongst a day of many "firsts."

The hotel staff were excited to help us and as we checked in and generally sorted things, more and more riders began arriving. Cullen and I dragged gear inside and then rode down the street to the secure parking garage, where he began checking the success of his crankcase breather hose / oil collection bottle. He'd rigged a coke bottle, stuffed with a rag to collect his oil residue. It had worked well.

Hard to see but the upside down coke bottle stuffed with a rag…

And speaking of bike issues, my GS had begun to run better. From a low of 27 mpg from Laredo to Monterrey, the bike had climbed to 39 mpg several times. With the wind drag of my height, weight and fully loaded bike I'll take that any day. We have been at altitudes of 6000 to 9000' and my GS usually gets great mileage in thin air. The stress of running out of gas was easing.

As to the brake issue, I was getting some weird ABS faults and resets but the brakes were working, though a bit weaker. I hoped the fluid had just gone past its prime and a good flush and fill would solve the issue. At any rate, the day's insanity tested them well and I didn't lose the rear, though I tried hard to baby it.

After hotel check-in, Hank and I wandered over to register at the rally, ogling the vendors, bikes and multitudes of riders. Of course I didn't have a clue of what was being said since I speak no Spanish, but smiling a lot seemed to help.

The locals and most people were nothing but courteous and friendly.

If you look closely you'll see the street is lined bumper to bumper with Federal Police trucks with belt fed machine guns. We assume they were there for the rally

BMW Rally Registration

One thing I learned about the Rally and BMW riders in Mexico is that rider’s clubs are very important, with different towns and regions having their own clubs. These clubs sponsor the national rally, which occurs in different regions, hosted by the local club.

We were given a bunch of swag!

After registration they bussed us to the main event at another hotel - entertainment, fresh cooked tamales and enchiladas, drinks and local music.

We mingled and had a great time, despite the fatigue of a very long and very stressful day. I met so many nice folks who went out of their way to accommodate me by speaking in English as best as they could.

Truly a wild, woolly and rich day.

The Route:

4 | A Church Buried in Lava

The previous long day made its effects known, combined with a gang war in my stomach from two food items that had differences, all to make me feel groggy when I awoke.

The Rally had designated two rides for attendees this day, one for the street bikes and one for the adventure motorcycles which would include some off-road or at least dirt road sections. I was of course taking the adventure route, though I’ll admit to having no idea what would be involved or the difficulty. Hank had relayed to me to leave the side cases and any excess gear off the bikes. He and Sherry were taking the street ride since they were two up.

Outside the main hotel at the plaza, the two groups had assembled. Cullen was taking the adventure route, however I didn’t see Jimmy, only Rob. Amidst the sea of adventure bikes, my old 1100 was solo amongst an ocean of new 800’s, 1200's and GSA's. In fact aside from Hank's 1100 I'd only seen 2 others out of hundreds. But I digress.

While waiting in the line of bikes, I was approached by a big bear of a guy - Mark from Colorado - who said he recognized my bike from Advrider.com ride reports. Mark had ridden from near Aspen over ice on Independence Pass on his way south to get to the rally.

Attending a Mexican rider's meeting with no Spanish language skills was an interesting affair. I understood absolutely nothing in the 15-20 minute information discourse, EXCEPT when the leader pantomimed doing a front wheel stoppie. I was glad to at least recognize one thing from the discourse, however whether we’d be required to do one or were being told not to do one was the question.

The leaders started their engines, and as with all group events, it turned into a mass exodus in the style of a motocross race through the tiny streets of Uruapan and onto the highway heading out. I was determined to stay with the group since I had no route map or any idea where the hell we were going.

We briefly conglomerated, for the most part, at a Pemex gas station. I sat on the bike in the crowd until suddenly and explosively, the group departed at high speed with no warning.

I’d recently bought a GoPro and had missed a lot of videos due to not being able to tell when it was on or off, simply guessing at whether I’d hit the right button combo, or battery failures or a host of other frustrations and got the brilliant idea that by using a mirror I could see if the recording light was flashing, only to find that the light was too weak to see in daylight. Grrrrr.

I quickly learned that riding in Mexico required tossing out most of the rules of the road, including passing in blind curves.

The pack raced up into beautiful twisty blacktop roads going into pine forests and cold air in the mountains, until we reached a village and was suddenly invaded by a couple of hundred roaring BMW’s, stunning the inhabitants. Twisting through the little streets we exited the village and began climbing a narrow winding road, passing old lumber trucks, riders on horseback and workers in fields. In short order the road became dirt, twisting though pines with mountain vistas. Of course with so many bikes it became somewhat of a dusty trail ride, as you can imagine.

I held back my temptation to blow past slower folks and just be content to ride in a group. Other than the dust it was a great forest road, nothing difficult, but definitely fun. We came down into a valley where we found the leaders stopped, pointing out the Paracutin volcano. We chatted, took pics, looked at GS's that had tumbled somewhere on the forest road and had parts hanging off. After a bit, we were given the signal to go and I was about 5th in line.

Where we had stopped was the beginning of about 75 yards of black volcanic sand and almost immediately the lead bike went down, followed by a second and third. Did I mention that big BMW’s suck in sand? I got past the pile and in my rear view mirror I saw big GS's dropping like flies. I started laughing at the site and then hit a deep patch of sand myself, barely saving a big fall.

Big Mark the chef from Colorado, and the volcano, Paracutin in the background

My survival of the big pileup pretty much left me near the front of the pack. I entered a huge lava field, the tiny dirt and rock road undulating up, down and around the black flows which seemed like huge dirt piles on either side. It was really a great place to ride and I was lucky enough to ride it alone, the mass of motorcycles somewhere behind me and whomever was ahead, far enough that I could not see them. It was quite a sensation riding solo up and down amidst huge black lava. Here and there, you'd pass memorial to the dead - whether from the volcanic eruption or something else, I had no idea. It was somewhat surreal. In the distance an old stone church tower stood above the black piles of lava.

After a while I reached a sharp turn with an arrow and followed it into a 50 yard stretch of black sand that led to a tiny village. There were 3 or 4 bikes there, along with factory reps with water, beer and energy drinks.

Texas black bear riding a tricycle spotted in Mexico

[IMG]http://www.lonesome-road.com/Galleries/Uruapan-Michoacan/i-72KmHp5/0/L/P1050158-L.jpg[/IMG]

The local Indian residents were prepared for us and had fires burning, with handmade blue corn tortillas and wares to sell. The group continued to arrive and filled the parking area. Behind the shelters you could see an old colonial church tower rising from the black lava. I scrambled up and into the lava field to an amazing site. The remains of an old colonial church totally buried in lava with only the bell towers above. The Paracutin volcano had grown from a small mound in a farmer’s field and fully erupted in 1948, burying the area including the town and church.

After an hour or so, we left and headed in a salmon-like stream into the village of Zacan, where we regrouped and then rode to Angahuan. Riding through the old town of Angahuan was a lot of fun. The residents watched from windows and doors - a parade they'd never seen before. A huge stream of bikes and riders in their dusty town.

When we arrived at the event, there were already a couple hundred bikes and huge tents set up. We were to spend the afternoon there and it was quite a shindig.

All the tables were either filled or reserved, but after standing like a lost group of puppies Rob, Cullen and myself were finally invited to sit with a group of riders from Guadalajara. Later we were told they were the "Elite", a very wealthy and exclusive riders club from Guadalajara, all very powerful in Mexico. It was nice of them to open their table to us and they were very friendly.

Though I know little of the class system in Mexico, apparently it was a noticeable event for us to be invited to their table, but it speaks of the general manners and hospitality of the people of Mexico, especially as shaggy as we were… or at least one of us :D

We were fed constant courses of local foods, prepared by the local Indians in the traditional methods. I eventually realized that we were to sit while they brought course after course after course of different foods. While we lounged and ate, we were enjoyed local customs, dance and songs.

Around 5 pm, the prizes had been given away and we fired up and headed back for Uruapan. The blacktop roads were tight, twisty and I swear one curve had to have been almost 360º as we wound down from the elevations at high speed. And I mean high speed. One thing I learned quickly is that the Mexican riders can really ride. It was surprising to see 1200 GSA's tossed around and driven so fast on both dirt and pavement. I was really impressed with the rider skill and seriousness they take it with.

GoPro users will recognize this shot - I must have an hour of these 2 second clips checking to see if the camera is on

We got back to the hustle and bustle of Uruapan, a shock after the relaxing afternoon, made the hotel, shook off some dust and after a shower wandered to find some local food

The area was beautiful, the blacktop roads were in excellent condition and were very twisty. The people were very friendly as well and I was loving it. Another day that had richened my life was under my belt.

The Route:

5 | Michoacán Magic

After a great and exciting day previous, another ride route for this day was into the "Lagos" region on blacktop.

Observing the controlled chaos

En masse, several hundred riders left downtown Uruapan at 9 am sharp, escorted initially by the police through downtown.

I ended up separated from our crew and somehow managed to be in the first 10 riders or so again, that is until I had to pull in for fuel, watching the stream of motorcycles racing past.

While in the station, Cullen pulled in on his KTM, both of us low from yesterday's ride. We exited the station together and stayed in sight for a while.

Quickly we were shrouded in low clouds, my sunglasses and shield covered thickly with moisture. The riding was extremely fast and on the narrow roads with fog and multiple bikes, it was somewhat intense for a bit. Did I mention the Mexican riders rode fast? The moisture stayed heavy and shielded the sun for much of the early portion of the ride, also obscuring the scenery high in the mountains.

Eventually it burned away, revealing great views and beautiful countryside. We rode fast and passed through small towns, jumping the ever present topes on the GS's, the street bikes having to slow almost to a stop. It was very interesting seeing the native Indian population watch as we passed through town, the smell of wood smoke in the air. Scenes of fields of corn, old men with machetes and men riding burros along the road.

One thing about the BMW clubs I mentioned, is that the riders take their ownership of the bikes and riding very seriously. They are first class riders, very fast and aggressive, either solo or two-up. The bikes are generally new, in great condition and the riding gear is high quality. I was impressed with the level of quality, skill, professionalism and friendliness of the riders and club organizers here. The event was absolutely first rate. In Mexico, the rallies and clubs are a source of pride and status, exemplifying quality.

Having said that, it's hard to explain to someone, myself included, just how fast and aggressively they ride. Not hooliganism, just skilled and fast.

As Jimmy said, in the U.S. we'd be put under the jail for riding this way, but in Mexico it's just the accepted “normal”. Readjusting to riding back home in the U.S. was going to be difficult. My only frustration was that the riding and time schedule was so aggressive I had no time for photos while riding, instead just road racing and concentrating intensely.

As we rode higher and higher, the roads became tight and twisty, with one section several miles long that is one of the best roads I've ridden. The sharp turns were banked, as if built for motorcycles and it was like a dream riding through forests with views of volcanos and mountains.

We passed through Quiroga, a larger town, which led us up to Tzintzuntzan where we caught a narrow road high along the edge of the lake. I looked to my right and the view took my breath away, but I had to stay focused on riding.

We finally ended up in the town of Patzcuaro, bikes parking all around the central plaza. There was a little market, loaded with sugar skulls and candies as they prepared for the upcoming Day of the Dead holiday. Rob and I snagged an excellent cappucino there. We made friends with an Italian rider named Tommas, whom in later conversation I found out was a nephrologist in Mexico. Cullen came in a bit later and we all mixed in with several hundred riders.

Making a sugar skull

All four sides of the square looked like this, so you can imagine how this stream of bikes passing through small villages created quite a stir

A government official from the town gave a welcoming speech, choosing the pegs of Rob's 650 to stand on, after which we moved into the plaza center for a giant group photo from a scaffolding setup. There was a native music and dance demonstration while we cooled off and then the announcement was made that we would be leaving in a few minutes.

I began readying my gear at the bike, my long hair loose from having lost the rubber band for my ponytail in the wind, when I felt a tap and turned around to see a cute little girl and her brother dressed in their school clothes. She asked in very good English if I was the rider from Texas. I said "Yes ma'am I am" and smiled. She beamed and said excitedly "I was born in Texas!" I laughed and asked her where, to which she responded "Dallas!". When I told her I had lived there she just giggled.

I knelt down to shake her hand, told her my name and her brother excitedly told me his. They had seen my Texas license plate and had waited by the motorcycle to meet someone from Texas. I asked their mother if it was OK if they sat on my bike and they got very excited, but she said they needed to run home and get their camera first. They were afraid we would be gone by the time they got back, so I took a picture of them. It was very sweet and sure enough, I had to leave before they returned.

As an aside, I guess seeing a big Texan with a ponytail in this neck of the woods is rare. People stare at me like I'm an alien and I've been asked several times to take a picture with them. It’s been fun being a freak.

One of the enjoyable things in riding here has been the groups of children screaming, yelling and waving as we pass through. Seeing a stream of 600 motorcycles passing through the little villages is a once in a lifetime event.

A vivid memory was seeing a very old Indian woman dressed in traditional garb, literally jumping up and down with joy like a little kid and laughing out loud, throwing her arms in the air as we passed her on a narrow street.

From Patzcuaro, we rode to the town of Zirahuen on a lake, where another event was set up and waiting for us.

Now that’s a bunch of Beemers…

The area is near Santa Clara Del Cobre, famous for copper mining and copper craftsmanship. At the event, they had a furnace set up and were smelting copper, heating the disc, pulling it out and 4 guys hammering with sledges in perfect rhythm.

The Copper Queen and Copper Princess greeted us… be still my beating heart :D

Again, white tents and tables with white cloths were set up beside the lake. We were served varied courses of local food and were serenaded by musicians and dance. This lasted through the afternoon until the raffles for prizes and a new BMW motorcycle was given away.

Roughing it once again… I was beginning to like how Mexican motorcyclists think. Quite different than the BMW rallies in the US where scraggly old men with grey beards and faded t-shirts stand around with a beer… wait a minute, I fit that description :O

Deep fried minnows - delicioso!

Rob showing a close-up… we scarfed these babies down!

THE best tasting chicken I've ever had. There was a 30 foot row of coals with the chickens roasting. Hoo Weee!

The lake and a wonderful breeze kept us cool all afternoon while we ate, watched the dancing and listened to music.

With this region being the copper rich area, we saw demonstrations of copper forming and such. Mark, being a chef, snagged an entire set of copper pots at what he described as ridiculously low prices. I chuckled at the thought of him carrying the huge set on his motorcycle back to Colorado. He laughed and said it was such a bargain, he could toss all the things he brought and still come out way ahead.

Hammering the copper

After lying in the sun and cool breeze by the water for a while, Rob and I headed back for Uruapan and arrived late in the day.

The roads this day were absolutely superb, as was the food and friendship.

I managed to get a little bit of GoPro footage of returning to Uruapan with Rob, though not the best by far.

Third time was charm :D

That evening we walked the plaza and a couple of hotel lobbies to check things out and eventually find some dinner.

The hotels were adding Dia De Los Muertos decorations, the ubiquitous marigold petals and flowers used all about the town.

The Route:

6 | A Day In The City

No rides were planned for this third day of the rally, Saturday, only a bus excursion to the National Park within the city, Barranca del Cupatitzio, followed by a second excursion to a museum and millinery.

We were due to leave at 9 am, however word came that there had been an hour delay and I found myself free for 30 minutes to wander around and take some pics.

I needed coffee and found a little coffee shop just around the corner.

My lovely and talented barristas who were shy until the camera came out

Liberty Bell got nuttin' on you

Throughout the town they were decorating for the Day of the Dead

I wandered around a bit, cuppa hot José in one hand and a camera requiring two hands in the other. Somehow I managed to not pour hot coffee down my shirt, but I looked like El Dweebo del Norte.

A few shots:

I finally ended up at the buses in front of the Plaza Hotel and found the gang. We were driven a short distance to Barranca del Cupatitzio, lying within the city itself.

Cupatitzio turned out to be a beautiful rain forest setting with lots of running water, stonework and fountains. Very beautiful place and surprising such an amazing place existed within such a rough and rugged city. The stonework was amazing and the fountains are all from natural water pressure.

Note the figure mid picture - he had just dove (dived? diven? doven? take your pick) from a tree limb about 50 feet over the little stream into a small deep hole. In the water. Not just a small deep hole.

More tree leapers were found

The crystal clear streams were full of drowned grubs - not sure if it was mass suicide or accidental drownings

Unfortunately for Javier, he thought the upcoming holiday was the “Day of the Grateful Dead”

The Lady of The Corn

From the park, we were taken by bus to an old fabric mill that had been turned into a museum on the top floor, a working fabric mill in the basement and a large conference center.

Our bus featured anti-lanesplitting devices

The vendors kept us in bottled water and tiny bottles of Corona

Each place we went, all the tortillas were hand made. I was told these particular tortillas used black corn which is evidently rare. The other tortillas used blue corn, the color actually from a blue fungus I was told. All I can say is a lot of fungus died for the cause.

Hank, Sherry and I explored the upper floor of the building, a converted fabric mill, then the basement which still housed the working mill and many photo opportunities.

Wandering around, I bumped into Mark from Colorado and we hung out for a bit. Cullen arrived as well and the two began planning their return to the States. BMW had rider's clinics going, but since they were in Spanish we just sat outside in the shade and acted cool. Well, as cool as "heavyset" middle aged guys can act...

In a bit Hank swung by and said "Comida" so we wandered up to the main hall and were ushered in past a red R1200GSA - the one to be given away - and were handed more swag from babes. I got a black corduroy Negro Modelo hat, a free bag, and some other stuff. As usual the hat is too small for my fat head and simply falls off if I lean. Oh well what's new.

Hank and Cullen had gotten not one, but two caps from the Corona girls, a green one resembling a Che Guevarra hat minus the red star and a super cool black one.

We found a table and the slow but sure process of continuous feeding began. The weird thing is that at each event, with a hundred tables or more, we always ended sitting next to the same guys every time. Even weirder is the fact that I had the same waiter at each function.

Schnazzy!

We were regaled with music, indigenous dances and more.

While standing in the “free ice cream” line, suddenly two beautiful girls butted in the line directly in front of me. It turned out they were the two girls from the Zirahuen lunch day, the “Copper Queens” who’d been wearing the crowns with red, white and green dresses and greeting everyone. “Princesa” (in the blue) acted snooty, while “Reyna” (prison stripes) was a bit sheepish and apologetic - not that I’m bitter or anything. I looked around and a few observers were chuckling so I winked and smiled. Just goes to prove “beauty before age”.

With sweaty palms and our acceptance speeches planned, the drawings for gear and the R1200GSA motorcycle arrived. Sadly, none of us won the motorcycle, but my speech was so well written I saved it for the next year’s rally… just in case.

Once we realized we hadn't won anything, there was a mad rush for the door. Once in the lobby we realized that the “riding” photos the roadside photographer had been taking were for sale. They were sorted by day and motorcycle type. Day 1, R1100 GS and R1150 GS. Mine were easy to find since there were literally only 3 bikes in the stack.

Back to the room, Cullen and I started packing. I decided to leave all my local sweets and nuts and thingamabobs for the cleaning lady and got ready to leave the next morning. Cullen was from Nevada and Mark was heading for Colorado, so they had a vague plan to head north, however Cullen had met a guy at the dinner, who had a 10 room house in Guadalajara and insisted Cullen and Mark stay at his place on the way.

The next day would find us parting ways, as Hank and Sherry, Rob and Jimmy and I would head for Valle De Bravo, then work our way northeast for Laredo.

7 | Valle De Bravo

It was a quiet, early Sunday morning and I went outside to load bike. The town was still asleep in the cool morning air save for a couple of early rising motorcyclists packing their bikes. Mexico had had their time change the previous day, but I was still on previous time.

Cullen got his bike loaded, said goodbye and took off a little before us to meet Mark for their trip back home, while we readied for Taxco.

Our gang had been impressed with the number of women riders at the rally. This lady rode a 1200GS or GSA - can't remember which. Later it was pointed out to me she had been featured in a BMW documentary

Hank had to get back to Dilley by midweek, but Jimmy and Rob wanted to stay longer in Mexico. Hank agreed to lead them to Taxco before heading north. I was torn as to stay with Hank or continue on with Rob and Jimmy, who’d invited me to travel with them.

At any rate, our route out of Uruapan entailed going through Morelia. The thought made me shudder after the hot, lane-splitting fiasco we'd been involved in on the previous trip through. Jimmy was quick to say he had no desire to go through that again.

No choice, however, but this time we went through the city center and it was no problemo. Traffic was light and the old city was beautiful.

We rode past the huge aqueduct that was built in the early 1700’s and stopped for some photos and to cool off.

Morelia had a very Spanish colonial feel and was a very pretty town indeed.

From Morelia we took Mex 15 on a high speed run generally towards Toluca, but at some point not too far out of Morelia we hit the famous “Mil Cumbres” section, known as “The Thousand Curves” due to its intense and tight twists and turns. It truly is a road of glory for a motorcyclist. Highway 15 quickly climbed high into the mountains, with fog, mist, huge pines and spectacular views.

Rob and I stayed together for what must have been 60 miles of intense twisties that would make a passenger hurl.

This went on for so long, in 2nd and 3rd gear only, that both my hands went numb and my forearms began to cramp. It was the longest sustained twisties I've ever done, and to be honest, after such a long time on it I almost, almost, almost wished for it to straighten out. Adding to it, the occasional cars and trucks to pass, cows and sheep standing on the edge and big, fresh cow patties in the middle of blind curves kept it tense.

A section of Mex 15 to give you an idea why it’s known as “Mil Cumbres” or “Thousand Curves”

It was truly a workout, and I was sweating, scraping pegs and boot toes, watching Rob's Happy Trails panniers scuff the pavement, and feeling like a badass when suddenly I was passed by a rider in the middle of a curve, waving as he went past. I was in shock, and even worse, he was riding the new BMW 650 scooter. I knew at this point, I’d have to commit suicide rather than ever admit I’d been passed by a scooter. No amount of excuses for gear, weight or anything else would ever count.

I was thankful to see him scoot past Rob as well. Since Rob and I were at the rear, we had no idea how far ahead Jimmy and Hank were, and after what seemed an hour - and it was - I saw a group of riders ahead pulled over at the Mirador Mil Cumbres overlook.

Rob and I whipped off, to find Jimmy and Hank removing their helmets, having just pulled in. There were a good number of the BMW riders from Mexico City there, including the president of the club and other elites. We'd been running with the big boys and rubbing elbows with swank, as usual.

And there sat that damn 650 scooter.

Hank admitted the scooter had passed him and Jimmy, setting a blistering pace to keep it in sight, so I felt a little better.

It turned out the rider was a BMW professional test rider who’d come to the Rally in Mexico to teach the riding clinics. At least it made admitting we’d all been beaten by a world class racer a little easier. Except for the 650 part.

El Diablo and his 650 Scooter

He was a super nice guy and we laughed about it.

Jimmy spotted a deep layer of brake dust on his rear rim. Apparently he'd used a new brand of brake pads that wore quickly, so he swapped in a new set while we waited.

The overlook gave some good views of the valley below, since our curvy roadracing had carried us up high into the mountains.

From the top down, the ride was a little easier, though still fast and furious. A few hours later, we made Valle de Bravo, a beautiful town on a lake known as the "Little Switzerland" of Mexico. Being a couple of hours from Mexico City and in such a beautiful locale, it had become the weekend home of many wealthy folks from Mexico City.

We came in on rough cobblestone streets through droves of locals, eventually winding down a very, very steep cobblestone street that led into a main area by the lake. All I can say is if that cobblestone street had been wet, we'd all have come out of it with brakes locked going 70 mph.

We were liking the looks of this place and Hank checked with the cops and others about a hotel. There was a huge arts festival going on and much of the place was booked.

Hank eventually returned with a teenage kid, told him to hop on back of my bike and lead us to a hotel. We rode out of the town and around to the other side of the lake to small, screaming yellow hotel that overlooked a boat yard that overlooked the lake. It was bright, but was home for the night.

We washed up and caught a cab back to town, having dinner and then wandering the streets.

Oh, the suffering…

Rob and Jimmy were planning to leave us for Taxco the next morning, so we found a coffee shop with wifi so they could research some routes.

Rob with Jimmy in the background takin’ care o’ binness. Rob was originally from Holland, a linguist who’d spent years in South America and other lands living with indigenous peoples in the jungle and other locales, learning and translating their languages. We had a lot of fun on the trip.

There was an arts and music festival in town. A large stage had been set up and a woman violinist was playing to the crowd. Her music was beautiful and she had a dramatic flair, but the stage show was excellent.

We watched for a while, then wandered off in the dark to find an old church we'd seen in the daylight. Up and down the cobblestone streets in the darkness, the sounds of beautiful violin music echoed.

We found the church, then wandered further up into the little town, passing sights and sounds, disappearing in time. It was surreal in many ways.

We ended up in yet another plaza, in front of the largest church in town, the place filled with people listening to a flamenco singer and guitarists on a secondary stage of the festival.

Eventually the flamenco dance began on stage and the crowd was enraptured.

The air was cold and crisp, the streets old and filled with interesting light, patterns, voices and people.

In the darkness we walked to the echoes of The Who's "Teenage Wasteland" being played on violin.

The Route:

8 | Bernal

Morning over Valle de Bravo

We were up and on the bikes around 9, headed for downtown Valle de Bravo and breakfast for the road

The road into downtown was packed, no doubt for the Day of The Dead celebration coming up in a couple of days.

The night before, Rob and Hank had looked at routes to Taxco, the original plan being for Jimmy and Rob to go on to Taxco while we turned north. After some discussion with locals, the route Rob and Jimmy had planned on taking was up in the air. Apparently there had been robberies or rumors of such on the road, but information was dated and sketchy. The only real information being that it would be full of truck traffic. After looking at the maps at where to go after Taxco, it appeared R & J would be too far out of the way for their schedule, so they decided to hang with us yet another day before splitting.

We had a relaxed breakfast on a balcony overlooking the lake. Each meal in Mexico has been leisurely. It's been nice not having to swallow an Egg McMuffin whole, while simultaneously snorting a cup of coffee through a nostril and climbing on the bike. Actually its been nice not even seeing an Egg McMuffin.

The two policemen spent a lot of time looking at my bike

Orchids everywhere

The view and the breeze called my name, so I told the gang to go ahead without me. Said I'd meet them in Vera Cruz at the Rally the next year cuz I wasn't leaving this balcony. Rob reminded me that gringos come south, meet a lovely chiquita, move there and then try to survive by starting a bar or copy center, only for it to fail.

True, so I decided to go with them.

We saddled up in our stanky gear, once again trailing through a beautiful town and up to the faster roads leading ever to the horizon.

We were on high beautiful roads until reaching the tollway heading north for Queretaro. From there it was hot, long and tiring.

After days of 85 mph buffeting, it begins to tire you. You notice pressure points in your jacket, that now have become irritating. You notice things about your helmet that bug you, and you decide you're going to get all new gear - like the Rukka jacket you tried on at the vendors booth in Uruapan. Hey, $1800 for a jacket? Who cares! Woohoo! And that nice Schuberth C3 helmet with comm system? $1300? Who cares! Woohoo! Oh yeah, and while I'm at it, that new red 1200 GSA would be much better than my antique Anniversary Edition - $25,000? Who cares! WooHoo! Then I began to wonder if I have enough pesos for the gas and tolls between here and wherever the heck Hank is taking us. Crap, I should've gotten some pesos from the ATM.

About the time we were all getting burned out, we rolled into the small town of Bernal, a colorful and peacefully quiet town sitting beneath a massive rock promontory.

Hank found a hotel on a side street, where we unloaded gear and then parked the bikes in a gated lot on the next street. Rob opted for a single room and Jimmy and I shared one. Poor Jimmy.

Entrance to the parking garage across the street

The town was right out of a storybook - colorful buildings, cobble streets and a quiet atmosphere. We wandered and climbed, eventually reaching the old cemetery under the rock cliff.

This guy was very friendly and spoke English well. He told me of the preparations for the Day of the Dead they were doing. And yes, it's one of those pigs from Angry Birds

As we climbed the road, I kept hearing a horse’s hooves clip-clopping but each time I looked, I only saw a white pickup truck coming towards us. Turns out it was this guy exercising his horse and I couldn’t see it behind the truck.

The cemetery we explored had not yet been decorated for the holiday.

This young man decorated the grave while we were there and spent much time talking to his loved one(s).

I had not been able to get wifi in the last 2 days and Rob found out the main plaza had a gazebo with free wireless, so we planned to have dinner and then get caught up on email and posts.

About the time we decided to head for dinner, I began to feel a bit weak and queasy. Hank and I walked a bit shooting pics, but I was going downhill fast and began looking for a farmacia. I feared it may get much worse and decided to try to get some antibiotics ahead of time, in case it did. Hank got directions to one and Rob walked with me, however we found out it was much further away than we realized, so I blew it off.

I barely was awake through dinner and felt pretty bad overall, so I left some money on the table for the guys to cover my bill and went back to the hotel and laid down. I could feel intestinal happenings and prayed it wouldn't get worse. The gang arrived and I felt a little guilty at having dampened the last night's party (cause God knows I'm the life of the party). Hank and I looked at his GoPro video and some other stuff before I finally passed out, feeling like I had a stomach full of lead.

The Route:

9 | Santiago

I was up earlier than the others, feeling like I was made of lead, intestines rumbling and feeling weak. I made my way down the street and sat in the cold air of the plaza, thankful I hadn't gotten violently ill the night before. From my laptop and using the free wifi, I posted a photo for my friends to know I was still kicking since I hadn’t updated the report for a couple of days.

I went back up the hill and retrieved my bike from the parking lot while the others were getting up and about. I was packed early and then we congregated for breakfast at a little cafe on the square. I forced down an apple pastry and a capuccino, as well as a bottle of water.

Rob and Jimmy were going to part ways with us and spend another couple of days before returning. I had debated staying with them, but in the end decided to stick with Hank since it was a more direct route.

We said our adios' and parted, riding up the cobblestone streets out into the sunshine and onto main roads, our plan being lunch in Matehuala which was about 5 hours north, and then on to Saltillo.

I shot some GoPro footage but I have to say I've been very frustrated with it. I brought 6 batteries and kept them charged, however every time the runtime varies wildly, sometimes lasting 5 minutes and sometimes 20. The only consistent thing they do is die right when something interesting comes up. Oh, and always getting condensation in the case and fogging the lens. Hank was having the same issues and we both had almost decided to pitch them for good.

So, my video consists of either interesting footage completely ruined by condensation, or footage of boring crap just before great scenery arrives and the battery dies. There has been much frustration with my new video toy.

The air was very cool this morning - eye watering - as we merged onto the highway southwest back to Queretaro and then eventually north for Saltillo. Blasting 85 mph for long periods, the vistas changed and yet remained the same. From high plains lower into the desert, the familiar crumbling buildings painted with Corona signs and partially completed concrete buildings with rebar standing above the roof lines. Burros, horses, cattle and sheep grazing in and on the highway medians, every so often a broken down Ford pickup on the side of the road - of which I've counted 10 to 1 being maroon colored - and the groups of locals waiting at the lonely bus stops with plastic grocery bags as their luggage.

It felt great to be riding right behind Hank and not 200 yards back as the last week. Being the tail end of a high speed train is not easy. You have to watch all the bikes ahead of you, as Hank sped, split and wove through traffic, keeping an eye on the three bikes in front of you and trying to gauge what they're about to do, an eye on the cars, trucks and buses all around you, the various cars, semi's, dogs, potholes, topes and people along the roadside and running across the road, only to try to make the gaps in traffic before they closed, which rarely happened.

As well, when you pass through the toll booths, everyone ahead has waited and had time to adjust glasses, clean shields, put away money and wallets, but as you exit the booth they all take off like the start of a motocross race and you have no time to adjust things or pocket your money or a thousand other little things. It got a little frustrating at times but that's just part of the game.

One thing I've found interesting has been the conversations, or rather lack thereof, with the gas station attendants. For me, the concept of having someone pump my gas is a new one. The routine being, pull up to pump, get off bike, take the tank bag off, point to Red Premium and say "Rojo", have the attendant say "Roja?", to which I say "Si, gracias" then the attendant then asks in Spanish "how much" (at least I assume that's what he or she is asking) and I then point up to the sky, or raise my hand like water level rising, or some other inane thing, but they understand. Or as a couple of them have done, let me go through an entire hand signal routine complete with tap dancing, and they then say "You mean full?" in English. Eventually I learned “lleno” which helped a bit.

At any rate, I try to have some discourse, which entails "Buenos Dias", "Muy Bueno" and then shortly after, "No Habla Espanol". It's been interesting as some attendants have worked in the US and enjoy speaking in English. Today when I pulled in for gas, three attendants came over and began trying to communicate with me about travel, the bike and such, all in Espanol. One finally said "Mexico bueno?" so that I could understand, to which I said loudly "Viva Mexico!". They all burst into smiles and shouts and we had a good laugh. I drove out to the sounds of "Adios Amigo" and "Buen Viaje".

When we broke for lunch in Matehuala, Sherry wasn't doing well. She'd had a back muscle go wonky and was miserable. She medicated, and Hank said he'd decided to head across the mountains for Linares and on to Santiago, which would put us later in the day, but was a more interesting road. My stomach issues had slowly passed and that was certainly fine with me.

We headed north until finally reaching the highway east for Galeana in the mountains, and Linares on the eastern side, the first mile or so being talcum powder dirt from road construction. A water truck had just heavily doused the deep powder and I watched Hank weaving and wobbling in the slick stuff, as did I until I was able to get over into the oncoming lane which was mud-free.

When we finally got into the mountains I was treated to one of the best roads I've yet ridden. Super twisty, high drop-offs, no railings, spectacular mountain views and one heck of a ride! I don't think I've ever scraped so much metal and boot rubber. Had a ball!

And of course the GoPro died just as I hit the good stuff…

We finally crested the mountain range, getting gas at a station outside Galeana and headed downhill for the valley on the eastern side of the mountains which was much, much warmer than the western side. We passed through multiple checkpoints, through large vehicular X-ray machines with steely-eyed machine gun toting policia and military watching.

It had gotten very hot but we arrived in Santiago, just south of Monterrey, late in the day. As we rolled into the old downtown plaza, there was much activity in preparation for a happening on the square. In each town we've been in, other than Bernal, there has been something going on.

The hotel faced the square and the street had been cordoned off. We were allowed to pass to the hotel, but had to unload quickly and get the bikes into the garage, as they did not want the bikes there.

As we piled off, there was a high school band practicing in the plaza, playing hard core military type drum music.

Hank went inside and Sherry laid down on the sidewalk from her back pain. I felt for her, as back pain is the worst.

After dumping gear in the rooms, it appeared we were the only guests in the beautiful place. Hank had been told that the hot water had to be fired up and it would be a while before we could shower. I tried to get online but the password wasn't working.

Hank knocked on my door and I told him we'd meet in the square. There was a stage set up, as well as chairs. Tonight was a formal gathering in front of the church, with dignitaries and the mayor giving a speech.

We walked the town for a bit, listening to the reverberations of the speeches and then mariachi music.

A fireworks finale was the signal for dinner in the hotel restaurant.

As we ate, the dignitaries and mayor filed in in groups, going downstairs to a private meeting room.

Santiago was very pretty and quiet. It is sort of a suburb town for Monterrey and looked like a great place to live. Hank said that the town used to be busier, however one of its mayors had challenged the drug cartels and was assassinated, leading to tourist shops leaving. No further incidents had occurred, so the town was slowly recovering. There was only the one hotel, and from the looks of it being empty I guessed the lack of tourism had left it lonely as well.

I liked Santiago and its peacefulness, a place I’d enjoy spending a couple of days relaxing.

Tomorrow Laredo and then home.

The Route:

10 | Texas

The previous evening’s dinner with Hank and Sherry and a good night's rest made for a bright morning attitude, despite knowing this Mexican adventure would be ending.

Having been without access to the internet for the last few days, I decided to try and upload a ride report from the previous day or two, however the password for the hotel wireless didn't work.

I walked out into the plaza and looked for some coffee, finding a cup in a small “OXXO” store, much like a 7-11. It felt weird and disturbing to find prepackaged foods, coffee from machines, and styrofoam cups after so many quaint cafes, “cafe de olla” and "café con leche " served hot from earthenware cups.

I said "Wifi?" to the checker and he pointed outside to the square, so I ambled out, feeling very proud of my Spanish communication abilities.

The surrounding mountains were beautiful

I was looking forward to a quiet time of coffee, editing photos and uploading. As soon as my tush touched down, an old gentleman ambled up and began speaking in Spanish to me.

After a couple of minutes of me waving my arms in my best Italian, he spoke to me in broken English and said "Eet ees a beautiful early morning no?" I agreed and complimented him on his English. He began speaking to me of many things, his age and life, his town, how he loved to walk early in the mornings.

Feeling pressed for time, I began to get antsy about uploading and then caught myself. Life was about these moments and about people, and I felt a little angry at myself for wanting to rush him. I closed my laptop, leaned back and enjoyed our long chat. His name was Fortencio, aged 77, and he'd grown up in Santiago, but had worked 55 years in a consulate. I asked what he had done, and he told me he was the bell boy there, before becoming the elevator lift operator.

We talked and talked, him telling me about the various people as they would walk by and how long he'd known them, where they had grown up and other things. He said his wife of 70 still looked as young as when they'd married in the early 1960's and how she was visiting family in nearby the nearby village of San Francisco. He would point out the buses and tell me where they went and how much I would pay to ride them.

Fortencio also told me about the previous night's event, in which a new mayor had been elected and last night was the official handover. He then told me a previous mayor had been shot 2 years before by drug lords. Hank had told me the town had had an incident a few years back, which had stalled tourism to the town. It was a shame as Santiago is a beautiful place, but Hank and I both had the feeling it was about to make a comeback.

My time up, I thanked Fortencio for his kindness and shook his hand before heading back into the hotel to get geared up, find Hank and get the plan in order.

We decided to grab breakfast in the restaurant, one of the centerpieces being an old well.

Laredo was our immediate goal, but Hank was unsure as to whether to go to the Colombia International Bridge about 30 miles north of laredo where the traffic would be lighter. It being further out would add time to the trip, but often the traffic at the Laredo crossing could take hours. It was a gamble, but we opted instead for the Laredo crossing.

Santiago sits about 20 miles south of Monterrey and as we headed out, the sky was much clearer than when we'd come through the northern end the previous week. The smog had been so heavy one could barely see the mountain silhouettes. But this morning they were easy to see and impressive.

Soon we were into the bustle of Monterrey's highways and I stuck to Hank as tightly as I could, weaving and bobbing in traffic. We cleared the town and grabbed gas on the north side. Hank said to have the passport ready as there would be more checkpoints on the way north now. The heat rose quickly as we left Monterrey, my mind on the traffic and on the drab vision of the border and returning to life in Texas.

I'd been warned to lose the GoPro and not take any pictures near the border area unless I wanted to sit in a room and be questioned for a few hours, so I stashed the cameras and put on my dumb tourist face. Which differs only slightly from my dumb regular face.

At the split for either Colombia or Nuevo Laredo…

We paid our dues sitting in the heat of multiple construction delays

As we neared the International Bridge in downtown Nuevo Laredo, the heat became more oppressive. Hank had asked earlier if I wanted to keep my import permit (good for 6 months) and I had said yes, so we avoided having to deal with that and paid the toll to cross the bridge to the US. I'd gotten down to the bottom of my peso pile and ended up paying the toll in US dollars.

As we sat idling in the heat, the crossing lanes jammed with traffic, Hank asked if I wanted to eat at Wendy's or Whataburger with an evil grin. I told him “neither” loudly and laughed. We then split into different lanes and inched along. By the time my slot was open, I was feeling loopy from the heat and I can't imagine sitting there for hours during July or August.

The Border Patrol Officer asked for my passport and to remove my helmet. He then asked a few questions about where I'd been. I told him “San Miguel” as Hank had advised all of us to do. Hank said that so many Americans go to San Miguel regularly that it’s accepted as routine, whereas if you said say, “Uruapan”, which is in Michoacán, a known cartel area, you’d likely get delayed for a couple of hours being questioned. The officer then asked if I had any fruits, meats, etc and I told him I had some chocolate and some energy bars. He asked to see inside the cases, so I dismounted and opened a couple of them for a cursory glance. He said all was fine and sent me on my way. I exited the official area and back into the US, pulling over in a Valero gas station lot just outside the gate to wait for Hank and Sherry.

They rolled in about a minute later and we tried to gas up, but the credit cards weren't working, so we drove further out for gas.

We were hungry and needed a break from the heat, pulling into a Fuddruckers nearby. It felt very, very strange to be back in the U.S., so different than the beautiful and fascinating country I’d just left. In the hamburger chain restaurant, the employees were dressed in bizarre costumes which added to the surreal feelings. It was then I remembered it was Halloween, as I'd lost track of time in Mexico.

After a burger, fries and a root beer, I started to relax from the tension of crossing and the exhaustion began to set in.

We cranked up and raced along to Dilley, where I followed them to his shop to deliver a hat Sherry had bought, literally off the head of a local in Mexico. I’d had room in my top case for the mini sombrero and thus had carried it for much of the trip.

I thanked Hank and told them goodbye, heading back out in the heat for next 3 hours to my home outside Kerrville. The ride back through Devine, Hondo and Bandera was bittersweet, as I longed for home to get out of the gear, the heat and to relax, but I also hated the thought of my ride ending.

After a couple of hours, I made it home and readied myself as best as possible for “regular” life again.

Over the next few days, I had time to reflect on my journey, which was much more than just a physical one. I’d left Texas, honestly with some fears - motorcycle issues, getting sick or worse getting hurt or killed, only to lose all three. Luckily my motorcycle performed well enough to get me through, though I had to do more work to get it running perfectly. My fear of getting a severe stomach illness proved unfounded, only having a couple of random days where I didn’t feel 100%, so I was lucky in that regard. And lastly, the fears of violence from bandits and drug cartels I found to be overrated. There’s no denying those issues exist, however they are blown far out of proportion by our media, why, I don’t know. That said, anything can happen anywhere and you must use common sense, but the citizens of Mexico seemed confused as to why Americans would fear coming south.

What I did find were people who were kind and friendly, going out of their way to do so. I found fantastic scenery and excellent food, with some of the best motorcycle roads in the world. The culture and history were deep and enjoyable, as was the attitude of “live and let live”, with so little uptightness about rules and regulations.

The difference was so noticeable after crossing back into the U.S., where you could literally feel the control issues, expecting to be ticketed for driving to slowly or too fast, for wandering out of a lane or countless other reasons to be harassed. That, more than anything, was what shocked me about returning. Mexico has a sense of freedom that is now lacking in my own country.

This trip opened a new world for me, taking away fears and concerns, real or imagined and I look forward to heading south of the border again any time possible.

The Day’s Route:

The entire route: