Ride Far | Mark Hammond

Breaking the Law

Acapulco, Mexico · October 28

MX 200 from Playa Azul snaked up rugged mountains along the coast. I passed thru impoverished rural towns and junked vehicles and donkeys chewing grass along the shoulder, tethered to a tree. Atop one crest, I was struck by a powerful, fetid odor. It was a landfill. Garbage was burning, a Mexican means of trash disposal. I negotiated (in first gear) switchbacks and hairpins so acute that they seemed to turn in on themselves, like an uroboros, the snake that eats its own tail, or a visual paradox in an M.C. Escher painting. The pace was brutally slow.

Scenery was non-existent, save for one hilly panoramic stretch at which I stopped in mid-afternoon for a bowl of ceviche, a marinated mix of seafood and vegetables. Restaurants here are not nearly as efficient as in the U.S. Few people stop, for one thing. There are no Big Macs warming beneath a broiler.

To prepare my ceviche, the ladies needed to start a fire. They burned coconut husks for flame. Then they cooked the seafood and chopped the vegetables and cooked them, too, and warmed the tortillas. I began to get ansty and thought about taking off. Then I remembered I was on Mexican time.

Two men slept on hammocks. A dog slept, too. A small, beat-up, smoke-belching bus stopped; people carrying plastic bags full of possessions disembarked. I studied my maps and gazed out at the blue Pacific. The meal took an hour.

As I approached Acapulco, population density increased. Traffic thru small towns slowed to a crawl. Already it was 6:30 p.m. and daylight was dwindling. I had seen not one hotel in these small towns. I would need to make Acapulco in order to find lodging.

***

Don’t ride at night in Mexico or elsewhere in Latin America. It is Rule #1. It's virtually a law. It was easy to see why. In darkness, it would be impossible to spot the potholes and obstacles I routinely avoided. I pushed ahead, running the numbers thru my mind. By 7:30 p.m., it was dark, and I was 15 miles north of Acapulco. I rode with my helmet visor up for better vision, thru swarms of insidious bugs that splatted on my face and got in my eyes and mouth. I pulled into a Pemex with and small convenience store to get my bearings.

There was a small seaside town called Pie de la Cuesta somewhere nearby. I asked a girl at the convenience store where. It was useless. She knew the way from home to work and back, and that was it. A smartly dressed man was slightly more helpful. Go straight, he said, and after a kilometer and the first set of topes, take a right.

I had a cappuccino and washed the day’s dust from my helmet face shield with a napkin and mop water and rode on. There was indeed a turn to the right, but the sign said La Barra, 17 km. La Barra? It was on neither of my two maps, nor my GPS. The road to Pie de la Cuesta must be just up ahead, I thought. It was not.

Oh, what the hell. I must have missed the turn. I may as well proceed into downtown Acapulco, I figured, though my city map showed it to be a maze of streets. I would want to find the neighborhood with cheep motels, not the $200-a-nite resorts. It could be a bitch.

Traffic was snotted up badly, on account of a burst sewage pipe that reduced the street to one lane. I inched ahead, reluctant to detour along the shoulder because of the abundance of broken glass and other debris. Managing six miles took more than a half-hour. There were no streetlights. If I hadn’t been inching along in the traffic jam, I could very well have struck a gaping maw in the road opened because of a broken grate.

Once again, I pulled into a Pemex to check the map. I was still on Acapulco’s outskirts. The neighborhood was sketchy. I lit a cigarette. A woman who looked like a prostitute yelled at me to put it out. I ignored her. Then a policeman did the same. Gasolina aqui, he said, gravely.

Just up the street was a place called Motel La Luna. No doubt it would be a dump, but it was time to cut my losses. Plus, it was a full moon. Motel La Luna beneath a full moon. But of course.

I pulled in, and a scantily clad young woman came out to greet me. I read a sign that said, three hours, 80 pesos. There were no rooms, but large, curtained stalls in which one could park a car. I told the girl with a laugh, “Ha! Esta lugar es para amor!” This place is for love!

She smiled, not at all demurely. A Mexican love shack would offer about the worst possible security for me, my bike, and my possessions, I thought (though I realized later I was wrong). Considering the horrid traffic jam, I decided to backtrack. The road to La Barra would surely take me to Pie de la Cuesta and a selection of cheap beachfront motels noted in my Lonely Planet guidebook.

I’d passed a fire station on the way, and pulled in to ask directions. This was no simple inquiry, as each fireman in the station had to come out to meet the American motorcyclist and inspect my bike. I thought of Drake the Snake, S.F. fire medic. He would have been right at home here, even with his 10 words of Spanish.

Yes, the road to La Barra would take me to the Pie de la Cuesta beachfront. It was only two miles down the road. It was a small and quiet town. A few people lingered about taquerias and mercados. I spied a place with a gated courtyard in which I could park my bike. It was called Hotel Parador de los Reyes. A boy unlocked the gate and Dr. Trinidad Reyes, proprietor, waddled out to greet me. A room would be $9. Si, you may park your bike here. Don’t put paper in the toilet. It plugs up.

I parked the bike and looked at my watch. It was 8:58 p.m.

* * *

Score! Game 4 of the World Series was on in a TV in the courtyard. Trinidad was watching the Red Sox get the best of the Cardinals. The Bostonians led in the series, 3-0. This could be the final game. Trinidad welcomed me to join him, and fetched me a cold Corona with lime from his refrigerator.

Trinidad was an avuncular fellow in mid-60s with ruddy jowls about his neck. He was a diminutive 5’4” and had wavy gray hair and a mustache and glasses. He wore a plain white tank top and red gym shorts and sandals. He told me he had lived in Orlando and Washington and New York and Los Angeles and had worked for the United Nations. This I found difficult to believe, as his English was practically non-existent.

He got up and returned proudly with his business card. It proclaimed him to be a doctor. A doctor of what? I asked. Medico, he said. Hmmm. Fireworks exploded in the distance.

We sat together in plastic chairs at a plastic table in comfortable conversation, or comfortable silence, in front of a 27” flat screen Philips TV. (Once again, I was the lone guest). I watched intently as innings 6, 7, and 8 passed, and the Red Sox held on to their lead. Could this be it, after 86 years, a world championship for the long-suffering Red Sox and their fans? A final burial for the ghosts of The Babe, Bucky Dent, Bill Buckner, and all the heroes and villains and choke artists in the great tragicomedy of Boston baseball?

Edgar Renteria bounced back to the closer, Keith Foulke, to end the game, 3-0. The field erupted in celebration. I imagined the insane, pinch-me-I’m-dreaming joy that at that moment had seized up the heart of every Red Sox fan. I imagined the eruptive scene in Boston bars, and hundreds and hundreds of bars throughout New England.

For the Red Sox, the opponent was not merely St. Louis Cardinals. The opponent was history. It was fear. It was doubt. History is malleable. So is the human spirit. Faith is rewarded. I was reminded of a favorite poem I’d run across in an alternative newspaper in the late 80s:

If you would do magic, listen
Start here
Everything is connected
Nothing moves unless the heart is in it
Unless the will is in it
Magic is not easy

Trinidad retired for the evening and left me with the remote control. I lingered before the television, watching the postgame interviews and celebrations. They are one of my favorite spectacles in all of sport. There was Pedro Martinez and David Ortiz and Manny Ramirez. There was Tonly La Russa, the Cardinals manager, looking wan in defeat. This World Series had been a sound 4-0 trouncing.

I appreciate a sound trouncing. An opponent – in this case, fear and doubt – that lies prone and bleeding in the dust is much less likely to retaliate.

Mi Moto, Mi Novia

Acapulco, Mexico · October 27

The Spanish word for motorcycle, motocicleta, is feminine. (Unlike English, the language assigns a gender to each noun; nouns ending in -a are feminine, and those ending in -o are masculine).

Now a feminine noun may seem a peculiar choice for such a virile piece of machinery. On the other hand, the vast majority of motorcyclists – particularly in Latin America – are men. We love our motorcycles. We make love to nuestros motos – our motorcycles – while riding, while wrenching, or simply admiring their sexy curves and sleek lines.

La Cabra, The Goat – you’ll kindly disregard any bestial inference – is my girlfriend. Mi novia. Hers is not skin and hair and bone and tissue, but steel and rubber and aluminum and plastic. Over the weeks, we have come to know each other on the most intimate of terms. We are together most hours of the day. So far, she has been faithful to me. And, I like to think, I to her.

I met her in October 2003 on www.craigslist.org, a popular community bulletin board for the S.F. Bay Area and elsewhere. She was for sale, used, with 3700 or so miles, by a guy in Walnut Creek. She was a 2002 in perfect condition. I’d never ridden a KLR before. I took her for a test ride. I was delighted at how spry she was, how responsive to my touch. She was light, and highly maneuverable. I paid $3550 and brought her home to S.F.

Over the summer, I did just about everything possible to ensure her durability and optimize her performance for the long journey. I fortified her subframe with a special set of bolts that should withstand the inevitable punishment. I swapped out a weak part in the motor known in KLR circles as the “doohickey,” with a higher quality part from Eagle Mfg. of San Diego. I added guards for her engine, radiator, rear brake master cylinder, clutch and brake levers, and headlite.

I added a higher quality shift lever and a taillite that flashes when the rear brake is applied and an 80/100 watt Xenon headlight bulb that’s brighter than Einstein. I bolted up a center stand to make oil and tires changes easier.

I rejetted the carburetor, and added a K&N air filter and the loud SuperTrapp exhaust, and stripped out emissions equipment specific for California. These things amped her power up considerably. I swapped out her stock rear shock and fork springs for more durable aftermarket products from Progressive Suspension.

I upgraded the both front and rear rubber brake hoses to Galfer steel braided lines, and installed fresh brake pads just before departure. On her front fender I fastened deer whistles, which, I hope, work equally well for the alpacas of Patagonia. I wired up heated grips and a Garmin eTrex Vista GPS unit, fastened up to my handlebars. To the handlebars I added cushioned gel grips.

I decided on luggage that would be hard and lockable, for security. I custom-mounted a Givi E45 top box to the rear rack. It’s removable only by unlocking the case, and undoing eight bolts. Happy Trail aluminum panniers I bolted up via a rack to the bike, and procured from an S.F. locksmith four padlocks with matching key. I built from ABS sewage pipe ($10 from Fredericksen’s Hardware in S.F.) a tube with screw-on cap, secured to a motor guard behind the front wheel, in which I carry tools.

I labored for dozens and dozens and dozens of hours in my garage. Joe Ortega of S.F. was there for most of it, doing the same to his KLR. We – Joe even more so than I; he read his Clymer maintenance and repair manual cover to cover -- learned a great deal about our rides.

We worked mostly on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. More often than not, a Giants ballgame was on the radio. Joe, though not a big baseball fan, came to appreciate the soothing sounds and occasional dramatics of baseball on radio. When the day's work was done, a beer would be in order. Wrenchin' and quenchin', I called it.

And I took a three-night motorcycle maintenance class at Subterranean Cycles in S.F., which covered a lot of stuff I knew, but which was enlightening nonetheless.

And after doing all that work, and doing it well enough, I thought, I screwed up one of the final jobs – adjusting the valves. I mistightened a cam cap cover and part snapped off and fell into the motor. I brought it up to Subterranean Cycles for excision of the offending part, and spent several anxious weeks apart from my ride. It was good training for the patience I would need for this journey.

The nite before I left, and the day itself, was a frenzy preparations and packing. I was up until 3 a.m., and awoke at 6. By the time I had the bike fully loaded with luggage, it resembled an overladen pack mule. I saddled up, started the motor, and up Laguna Street we went, to the 101 on ramp and the blue highways south.

* * *

The bike was well prepared. I had prepared myself, as well, for many things. I read many books – “Riding South,” by Greg Frazier, “Adventure Motorcycling Handbook,” by Chris Scott, “Jupiter’s Travels,” by Ted Simon, “Chasing Che,” by Patrick Symmes, and my two favorites, “One Man Caravan,” written in 1936 by Robert Fulton Jr., and “Running with the Moon,” by Jonny Bealby. And others books, too.

I spent hours at favorite Web sites – www.klr650.net, www.horizonsunlimited.com, and www.advrider.com. I made a list of things to do and bring. It was seven pages long as a Word document.

And I was a fairly experienced distance rider. I’d crossed the U.S. four times and ridden up to Alaska and back. I knew little tricks of the road. For instance, in a heavy downpour, never stop at the near end of a bridge overpass. A car or truck could have the same idea and run you over. Always stop at the far end.

If it’s freezing cold, a good way to warm your body is to push the bike for 50 yards. Or if it’s cold and you have to pee, empty only half your bladder. That remaining is warm and will help maintain body heat. (Thanks to the twisted mind of Paul Hoffmann of Golden Gate Cycles for the latter; I have yet to put his thesis to the test).

And for years, I’d mentally trained myself to be a cold-blooded killer of small animals. I’d visualized many times a squirrel or possum or other brown-furred varmint darting out in front of me. I’d visualized running the sucker over – splat!

The technique would be disastrously ineffective with a deer or donkey or moose, of course. But with a small animal … I love animals, but better him than me. The last thing you want to so is swerve and run off the road.

* * *

I rode from Cuyutlan on MX 200 early on the afternoon of October 26. It was a blistering hot 112 F, and humid along the coast. I wore a tank top. An animal darted out in front of me. I was leaning into a corner. Despite all my mental preparations, I instinctively swerved to avoid it. It wasn’t the brown-furred varmint I’d envisioned so many times. It was a large, long, whip-slender lizard, complexioned a neon-green.

There was no shoulder. (The only shoulder I’ve seen in Mexico is on the MX 54 toll road from Guadalajara to the to Pacific coast). I may have nipped the lizard’s tail. Or not. I didn’t stop to find out. I executed the swerve successfully – La Cabra is nimble, even with a load – but the incident shot adrenaline up to my eyeballs.

Trust nothing. Expect the unexpected. Expect the worst. Expect a cow in the middle of your lane as you take a corner, as I encountered the other day. Or expect an oil slick from a broken-down truck, as Torria, the young woman from Seattle I’d met at the Horizons Unlimited meeting, encountered a few days ago. In an email, she reported:

Hi Mark,

I´m leaving Puerto Vallarta tomorrow after one week of rehabilitating some broken ribs suffered in another bike accident in the mountains just outside of Parral on the 21st. A semi truck broke down and had oil leaking all over the road and when I came around an uphill switchback and hit the oil and went down violently; I had no chance. I will still be in pain but will deal with it for the next several weeks until I heal.

* * *

You see the damndest things. The gruesome carcass of a cow, being fed upon by carrion-eating birds and issuing the foul, nauseating odor of death. Dogs, live and otherwise. (As author Greg Frazier has noted, “There are no old dogs on the Pan-American Highway.”) Donkeys ambling about the middle of the road. Chickens, roosters, pigs, goats, horses, cows, turkeys, and sheep.

MX 200, which I would ride from Cuyutlan to Puerto Escondido, proved to be long and tedious. I’d imagined a scenic coastal road, but it afforded few views of the picturesque Pacific. The road was narrow and the condition of its asphalt ranged from fair to poor. It shoulders overgrown with foliage. And, as the only road in the vicinity, it was packed with traffic.

One asshole in a large black truck tailgated me at a distance of maybe 10 feet, until I waved him past, and then he crawled up on the arse-end of the next vehicle at the same foolish distance. I’d be cruising a straightaway at 65 mph and would be startled out of my skin by a vehicle passing me at 100 mph or so. And never, ever expect, if you’re in a line of traffic behind a slow-moving vehicle, that the vehicle behind you will allow the courtesy of your passing first. It’s every man for himself on the roads of Mexico.

For lunch I stopped in the sizable town of Pinotepa Nacional and made my way to the central market. Traffic inched along narrow streets, and there was no easy place to park the bike. I pulled up to a food stand and dismounted. The lady looked at me and smiled. I wandered over. She was cooking meat over an open flame.

Es carne asada? I asked. Si, she replied, dubiously. I looked more closely. That did not look like beef. Es de aqui, I said, pointing at my stomach. Si, si, she said, affirmatively. I'd never had tripe before. It's animal entrails, and whatever they feel like tossing in. I ordered two. A bit gamy and piquant, almost unpleasantly so, but edible.

I passed thru smaller towns every 10 or 15 miles. Many are small, subsistence-farming communities. Tiny shacks serve as homes and stores. Many are built of brick and thatch and wood. Animals ambled about. I spotted a sign for a tiny, bucolic hamlet called San Francisco, and was obliged to stop.

It is my home, San Francisco, in California, Estados Unidos, I told a man waiting for a bus. He laughed and pointed up ahead. The Golden Gate Bridge is that way, he chortled. People lived in tiny, open shacks along the road. A barefoot little girl told me that San Francisco was home to about 50 people. I led her and other children over to my my bike. I pointed to my license plate holder, from Golden Gate Cycles. On the bottom it reads, “San Francisco.” They giggled in wide-eyed wonder.

Each of these towns had topes, or speed bumps, on the road for speed control. Some are advertised with homemade signs fashioned by some industrious local. Many are not. The height and construction of these topes varies widely. Some are gentle. Some are severe. They are another reason my daily distances are down. You have to crawl the bike over many of them, or risk a rough shock to the suspension.

By 6 p.m., owing to a late start, I had managed a pathetic 135 miles from Cuyutlan. It would be dark by 7. I found myself outside Playa Azul, pop. 3500, and took a hotel bearing the town’s name. I showered and strolled to ocean’s edge and met two young women from Vancouver having a beer at one of the many enramadas, or waterfront restaurants. They were theatrical performers in town for six nights after participating in a weeklong festival in the inland silver city of Guanajote.

One of the women, Carmen, was a native Chilean. She had long black hair and plastic-rimmed glasses and spoke Spanish fluently. I told her she should get on the back of the bike and serve as my translator. She told me her mother’s husband had ridden a BMW from Prudhoe Bay in Alaska to Tierra del Fuego. Carmen knew motorcycling.

I went out to dinner with Carmen and her friends to a small, simple place popular among the locals. Geckos crawled on the walls. Prices were a third of what I’d seen on a menu at a touristy seaside restaurant. I had two dozen delicious shrimp over rice with salad, and a peculiar side of potato chips, for just $3. Carmen had a fried fish. How far will you get tomorrow? Carmen asked me.

South of Acapulco, surely, I replied. I was wrong.

The Days Are Just Packed

Cuyutlan, Mexico · October 26

I rode due south from Guadalajara on a freshly paved and wide open road. MX 54 cut a swath through a broad plain between the vaulting, verdant peaks of the Sierra Taltapa Mountains, along a cappuccino-colored lake called Laguna de Sayula. In the sky were great minglings of cumulus and cirrus clouds. That not covered by cloud was a brilliant Windex blue. My tankbag thermometer registered an agreeable 83 F. I was bound for the Pacific. The bike felt strong. So did I.

I thought, I should call Mom and Dad. I try to call once a week or so. They are older and live in upstate New York and no doubt worry about their only son, el hijo loco motorcycling through Latin America. When did I last call?

It was … Thursday. My God! That’s only four days ago! I seemed like … a month.

Time traveling is time warped. The past four days have been whirlwind of sights and sounds and smells and experiences, even though nothing particularly remarkable has occurred. Just four days … it was practically shocking.

Returning from a ride to Alaska several years ago, I pondered which adjective would most appropriately describe my adventure. People would ask, How was your ride? How was your vacation? To reply, Oh, great … it was just too pedestrian. It hardly did the journey justice.

Intense. That would be the word. It applies here, as well, of course. Every week, every day, every hour, every minute seems preternaturally concentrated. Normal time is alchemized into a richly textured and faintly alien terrain. I have become disoriented in this strange temporal landscape. The clock’s ordinary routine has become extraordinary, as unpredictable as quantum mechanics. I think, The Days Are Just Packed – a semi-famous line from Calvin, to Hobbes, in the erstwhile Bill Watterson comic strip.

I am as Calvin. I am as child. Immersed in endless summer. Bewitched by a world just beyond.

Too, I have fallen under Mexico’s languorous spell of time. Manana, manana, they say – tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Or maybe not. Life proceeds of its own accord. The mechanized urgency that governs life in North America and Western Europe and Japan has little currency here. It’s reflected in business transactions, for instance. Simply paying for a quart of oil can take five minutes.

As a result, I am far behind the schedule I’d imagined. It is Day 27 of the ride. I have motorcycled 3633 miles. Mexico has surprised and delighted me. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I approached it with an open mind. In fact, I figured I’d just rip thru, all the better to get to the meat of the ride, South America.

What I have found is a warm and colorful country, rich in culture, biodiversity, and scenery, and full of generous, welcoming people. One day, as I pulled into a Pemex, I was approached by a boy of about 9. He was selling newspapers. I told him I couldn't read Spanish very well. He grinned sheepishly. I tugged his hat down over his eyes and told him, "Tal un muchacho grande -- y muy guapo, tambien." Such a big boy -- and very handsome, too. His grin was as broad as it was shy.

I have a soft spot for paperboys, having been one myself, and having toiled as an ink-stained wretch ... um, a reporter ... for daily newspapers. This kid had to be the world's cutest paperboy. I gave him a 10 peso coin and told him to keep up the good work.

It is difficult to spend just one day in a place. I find much to divert me.

It is not like the riding the U.S. At home, I pretty much know what to expect in each town. Chances are it will be something very much like something I have seen before. I ride 400 or 500 miles a day. Here, I count 225 miles as a decent day’s work. The suspect road conditions contribute to my modest pace, of course. So does the considerable time invested in writing, and at Internet cafes.

* * *

Yes, Mexico does have much poverty, squalor, and despair. On Sunday, October 22, I departed Zacatecas for Guadalajara. With more than 1.6 million residents, Guadalajara is second in population only to the monstrous megapolis of Mexico City and its 20 million people. As I entered Guadalajara’s outskirts, I observed heaps of garbage along the road. Rubbish burned. A gaunt, three-legged dog limped about.

Dirty, barefoot people and prostitutes and beggars loitered alongside the four-lane road. Some young men enterprisingly endeavored to wash windshields, as one sees in Harlem. Others peddled lottery tickets and beans and flowers and donuts. Lumbering buses belched great plumes of black smoke. On nearby hills, I saw the rundown shacks in which these people live, six or so to a shanty, I expect. Whether they have electricity and running water, I do not know. Probably most do. As sorry as it was, conditions are worse elsewhere.

Yet as I rode the 15 minutes from outskirts to city center, Guadalajara’s conditions visibly improved. Boulevards were handsomely lined with tall trees. Traffic was polite, more or less, if spirited. I made my way to the heart of the city, dominated by two large, open plazas and a spectacular twin-towered cathedral, and located a quaint hostel called Posada San Pablo.

A three-bed room to myself would be $15 US. The place had a two-car garage. One stall was for the immaculate, late-model Nissan owned by the 60-something proprietress. The other stall served as a painting studio. Several demure older ladies were hard at work on oil paintings. They seemed nonplussed as I pulled the bike in, rudely infringing on their workspace.

Es suyo? I asked one of the ladies, pointing to a painting of cows in a field. Si, she nodded shyly. Me gusto mucho! Las vacas … muy bonita. Su es artista muy buena. She beamed with delight.

Four young Americans were sitting in a cheerfully appointed courtyard. They were here for a month, studying at the university to become English teachers. One wore a Red Sox hat. The young Americans knew their way around town, and of several places at which one might watch Game 2 of the World Series. I showered in a shared bathroom and set out to explore a bit of Guadalajara.

The plazas, and a handful of pedestrian malls, were bursting with people. I wandered thru these great community gathering places. Families, lovers young and old, musicians, performers, and vendors of tacos and ice cream and corn on the cob and newspapers all came here to be amid this throb of humanity. People held hands. They kissed and smiled and laughed.

A parade was passing along Avenida 16 de Septiembre, a colorful cacophony of sight and sound. Virtually every evening, in any town, I find a parade, or a musical performance, or a fireworks display. The participants and onlookers appear to enjoy themselves immensely. There is a distinct sense of community, of family, of love.

One finds these great communal gatherings throughout much of the world – Europe, in particular, in Spain and Italy and Austria and elsewhere. Over the years in the U.S., this gathering instinct and the infrastructure to support it has become lost. America has become an insular, solitary, and distrustful society, at least comparatively. It is regrettable, especially when one observes the joy that animates such places as downtown Guadalajara on a Sunday evening in late October.

I was hungry. I walked by a fast food place called El Oasis. I’m not partial to fast food, but this place was packed. That was a good sign. I decided to give it a try. I ordered a slice of pepperoni and sausage pizza and four carne asada tacos and a salad. It was amazingly good. The salad was huge and – I made a list – comprised of lettuce, tomatoes, garbanzo beans, carrots, beets, zucchini, cucumber, and cabbage. I ate nearly the whole meal.

On the recommendations of the young Americans, I settled into a place called La Terrazza, and watched approvingly as the Red Sox defeated the estimable Cardinals in Game 2 of the World Series. I’d watched on my hotel room in Durango as the Bostonians drove a stake thru the Yankee heart, by the convincing score of 10-3, to finally break the 80-year Curse of the Bambino.

I’m a lifelong Yankee fan, but I’ve never disliked the Red Sox. Rather, I’ve felt sorry for them. I was glad, in a twisted way, that they had finally won.

* * *

The next morning, Monday, October 25, I walked about in search for coffee and observed the bustle of the early day. Traffic was jammed along the main downtown streets. Workers swept with peculiar brooms with long bristles. I considered staying another day.

I packed up the bike and set out to find Moto Enlinea. This was a motorcycle shop in Guadalajara that Federico has assured me had Avon Distanzia rear ties in stock. I had perhaps 700 miles left on my Continental TKC 80, and the 17-inch rear tire requisite for the KLR is notoriously difficult to find.

It took my pal Joe Ortega of S.F. five stops at motorcycle shops in the seething cauldron of Mexico City before he finally located a 17-inch rear. There are few large bikes here. There are many bikes, but most are single-cylinder two-strokes or 125 or 250 cc.

I’d tried to call Moto Enlinea in advance, from Zacatecas, but failed to recognize the need for an area code, and didn’t bother asking anyone how to place the call. I would just ride there. It was time. Instinct said go.

Moto Enlinea was situated, curiously, in a large shopping plaza. (Guadalajara shopping plazas, incidentally, have the bizarre practice of charging motorists to park. I avoided the expense by simply motoring around the gate and giving the guy in the booth a knowing nod).

The shop was not much larger than your living room. I expected a streetside dealership with a service department. I was greeted by Jose Gonzalez. He was the proprietor and sole employee, so far as I could tell. He was in his late 30s and had a mustache and the small paunch typical of so many middle-class Mexican men.

I told Jose I was from San Francisco and en route to Tierra del Fuego and in need of fresh rubber on the rear, preferably an Avon Distanzia. I asked if he knew Federico of Zacatecas. He did.

Jose emerged from the rear of the shop with a 130/80 17-inch tire. It was the only one he had – not an Avon Distanzia, but a Pirelli. The tread was what’s called 80/20 – 80 percent on road, 20 percent off. It would be fine. The sticker read 1017 pesos, or about $95. Jose told me, for you, 800 pesos.

And then he gave me a free balaclava, a snuggie thing you wrap about your face beneath the helmet to help keep warm. I told him I already had one, but he insisted I take it nonetheless. And he gave me a free BMW hat, and came out to the parking lot to inspect my ride.

Why such kindness and generosity here? Jose could as well have overcharged me by $20, not knocked $20 off the price. In the parking lot, he helped me engineer my bungee cords to secure the tire atop my Givi top box. And then he agreed to return to Posada San Pablo the room key that I had absentmindedly taken with me.

I thanked him profusely, and made my way from the parking lot via the same surreptitious route by which I had entered.

* * *

Again I motored thru the outskirts of Guadalajara. Traffic was heavy around noon, and I dodged and swerved amid surging traffic. I’m coming to believe that heavy urban traffic is best tackled with a certain degree of aggression. Some horse’s ass tried to cut me off the other day. I yelled pendejo! (technically, a pubic hair, but the Mexican equivalent of "dickhead"), and stabbed a finger in his direction. He backed off.

I had spent well over a week in dense urban environments. It was time for fresh air, not Times Square. You are my bike / goodbye city life! / Green Acres, we are there (I have, I ruefully admit, sung the full song at karaoke bars. Multiple times).

Halfway from Guadalajara to my destination, the tiny seaside town of Cuyutlan, the environment changed abruptly. I descended from 4500 to 1500 feet and discovered, suddenly, lush, jungle-like flora. Large trees with broad leaves lined the road. The temperature had risen 10 degrees F, to nearly 100 F. I could smell fecundity and earthy decay. I had entered the northern cusp of the tropics. The thousands of cacti I had admired this far south I did not expect to see again.

Like the ride from Durango to Zacatecas, my route from Guadalajara to the seaside town of Cuyutlan was punctuated at the end by an invigorating set of twisties. The road wended up and wound down small mountains, and past a scenic observatory and picnic park at which I stopped for photos of the jagged horizon and a sizable waterfall.

Cuyutlan is home to about 1000 people. Its few streets are built of dirt and rock and sand. Chickens and roosters and dogs trotted about capriciously. Many storefronts and homes were in various degrees of disrepair. There is no bank, nor gas station. As I percolated conspicuously down the dusty main street, people stared. Several waved and smiled. At the end of the street, 100 yards from the ocean, I found Hotel Morelos and a rather tattered room for $11 US. I was the lone guest.

It was hot. My fortified mesh riding pants were soaked with perspiration. I felt humidity for the first time in ages. Mosquitoes and other bugs made their presence immediately known. I turned on the noisy ceiling fan, showered, perfumed myself with Repel 100, and headed out for a nite on the town.

I sat on the sand and watched the sun set, and made my way to the town’s one Internet café. Practically every small town I have visited has at least one Internet café. And each is equipped with a high-speed connection. I have yet to connect via a 56K modem.

Next door was a small eatery. The owner, Manuel, roasted chickens on a charcoal grill on the street. He had been a motorcycle mechanic in the U.S. for several years. He was about 40 and had green eyes and large ears and a cute daughter of maybe 2.

Over the course of that evening and the next morning, Manuel filled me in on Cuyutlan. I had arrived only several weeks before the tourist season. Next month, the town would be overrun by as many as 3000 Mexican, norteamericano, and European vacationers. That accounted for the hundreds of empty lounge chairs and tables and umbrellas on the beach. It would be the year’s single economic spike for this sleepy villa.

Coconut trees were everywhere. On my approach and subsequent departure from Cuyutlan, I would see thousands – thick, massive groves of 100-foot trees. Though something of a delicacy in the U.S., the coconut in Mexico is regarded as a poor man’s fruit. One coconut sells for 1 peso – or 1/10th of a cent.

The Pacific serves up a wealth of camarones (shrimp), pulpa (octopus), and many varieties of pescado (fish). Forty pesos – 4 cents – will buy you a kilo of shrimp – about 80 of the briny creatures. A few kilometers up the beach was a nature sanctuary at which one could observe tortoises and crocodiles.

Manuel led me across the street to his truck. The rear was loaded with coconuts. He pointed across the street to a large, unoccupied, hotel-like building. It was in good shape, and freshly painted white with green borders. It has sold recently for $6000 US, according to Manuel.

The town began to button up around 9:30 p.m. I lingered at the Internet café, until a brief power outage rendered the café and the entire town dark. A young man was seated next to me. He threw up is hands in frustration, and laughed. His name, too, was Manuel. I invited him to join me for a beer outdoors.

It is easy to romanticize a tiny seaside town such as Cuyutlan. In fact, such places are mercilessly monotonous for their residents, particularly the young, like Manuel #2. He was 21 years old, and spoke fair English by virtue of having living in Seattle for several years. He had a girlfriend and was considering marriage.

He did not have a job, though, nor did he have a car. In Cuyutlan, jobs are scarce, and pay but a pittance. He wanted to buy a car. Or perhaps a motorcycle. That way he could drive up the coast to a larger town for work.

I asked what he would do tomorrow. He did not know. Maybe we could do something, he said.

I watch the world change. I see it in young people like this Manuel. Over a cold Modelo Especial at an outdoor taco stand, this Manuel said something that sent a chill up my spine. Some video game, he said – it was great. Did I play video games? I did not. Too bad for me, he said. He loved it. It was a respite from the punishing boredom of Cuyutlan.

What does it take? Five years? Ten years, 20 years? In time, Manuel and the younger generation of Mexicans to follow will have spirit-deadening video games in their homes. The forward march, and commoditization, of technology is ineluctable.

And slowly, I fear, the great sense of community, of family, of love, that one finds throughout Mexico will begin to deteriorate, until it begins to resemble the United States – insular, solitary, and distrustful. I hope that I am but a fatalistic neo-Luddite (and a hypocritical one, too, depending as I do on technology). I hope that I am wrong.

* * *

The next morning, I was awakened before dawn by a rooster outside my window. After coffee, I stopped back to see Manuel, the restaurateur. It was 10 a.m., and he had laid and lit his charcoal for another day of chicken-roasting. This was carbon charcoal, illegal in the U.S. because of the contaminants it produces, but which endows meats with a deliciously smoky flavor. Manuel introduced me to several townspeople as an American on a motorcycle journey to Tierra del Fuego. I was greeted warmly. I was a celebrity of sorts.

He cut open a fruit called a guanavana and bid me to sample. It was a tarty blend of sweet and sour, and perfect for a light breakfast. I swatted futilely at mosquitoes and ate. I watched as Manuel arrayed his chickens on the grill, and later, of course, would have an early lunch of roasted chicken and rice and salad and tortillas and salad. It was superb.

Cuanto le debo? I asked Manuel. How much do I owe you? Oh, nothing, nothing, he replied, dismissively. Like Jose of the Guadalajara motorcycle shop, Manuel could have easily overcharged a tourist. But he wanted nothing. I slipped a 20 peso note into his apron pocket and told him it was for his daughter’s education. I gave his daughter a balloon, and gave him the BMW hat that Jose had given me.

Manuel was thrilled by the BMW hat. He had worked, after all, as a motorcycle mechanic, and was partial to Beemers. He put in on immediately, and, as I fired up the bike and rode from Cuyutlan, tipped it in gracious farewell.

The Synchronicity of Shelter

Zacatecas, Mexico · October 22

Ending a day of riding is easy in the U.S. I carry AAA camping guidebooks, and around 4 or 5 p.m. will be able to tell which town or towns I can hit by nitefall, and whether or not they have a campsite. More often than not, they do.

If it’s raining, or I feel like a motel, there’s rarely a problem finding a Mom ‘n Pop or a cheep Motel 6. Often there’s a diner and/or tavern within walking distance, and I may have some supper and a couple of beers, watching a baseball game or yukking it up with the locals.

(Of course, the lobbos in some smoky dive in a one-horse town in Montana or Nebraska or Kentucky know immediately that I’m from somewhere else. They’ll size me up and get around to asking, “So where you from?”

I used to answer forthrightly – “San Francisco” – virtually guaranteeing the reply, “Why, you must be QUEEEER!!!” … (which I’m not) … and leading to a tiresome half-hour debate over homosexuals.

I’ve wised up. Now I reply, “I’m from just outside Oakland” … usually prompting some yahoo to shoot back, with raised fist, “RAIDERS, MAN! RAIDERS!” I’d much rather reminisce over Fred Biletnikoff, Ted “The Mad Stork” Hendricks, Bo Jackson, Kenny “The Snake” Stabler, and the rest of them silver-and-black ruffians, than endure the blue-collar barroom spin on homosexuals).

Pulling into a sizable Mexican city presents unique challenges. I have a trusty Lonely Planet guide that dutifully lists cheep motels, but which does not account for the motorcyclist’s desire for secure parking. So you roll the dice and hope there’s suitable parking available. Or course, poor signage, heavy traffic, and a preponderance of one-way streets aggravate the difficulties of finding acceptable lodging.

Riding solo, I set a leisurely pace on the 175 miles of MX 45 from Durango to Zacatecas, one of the fabled silver cities of Mexico. I rode past vast arrays of cacti, with round leaves, I guess you’d call them. They bore a red fruit – was it kiwi fruit? I don’t think so, but it was similar.

I stopped and wandered through the cacti forest. These are mighty impressive plants. I marveled at how nature had engineered the thorns as a means of protection. I was curious about the red fruit. One was on the ground. I picked it up, and took a small bite. ACK! Barely visible to the naked eye were tiny thorns … which stuck viciously into my fingers, my tongue, my lips, and the roof of my mouth. It would be two days before they ceased to trouble me.

Once to Zacatecas, I found a rich and lively enclave of 108,000 residents, nestled among hills and two striking mountains that dominate the city’s horizon.

I also found a crazy-quilt labyrinth of narrow, winding, one-way cobblestone streets built for pedestrians and packhorses of the 17th century – not the automobiles, trucks, and motorcycles of the 21st. Motor a few blocks, turn off the bike, check the map, repeat. People stared at the spectacle of me and La Cabra. A crowd of about two dozen giggly teen-aged girls approached me and asked (according to the lone translator), “Who are you? What are you doing here?” I found myself giggling along with them. I began to feel conspicuous.

One hotel was full. Another hotel was full. I found myself at the wrong end of town; it took me 20 minutes of inching thru heavy, noxious traffic to get to where I wanted to be. Then rain began to fall. Darkness would soon, as well.

Finally I found a place with a few rooms left, at the rather high price of $35 per nite, but at least it had parking. I told the lady I’d be right back. I returned to my bike, and found Federico standing there, alongside his KLR 650.

With an ear-to-ear grin, Federico stuck out his hand to greet me. Who was this guy, and how did he know me … ha! That’s right! He was at the Horizons Unlimited meeting in Creel! “I recognize your bike!” he exclaimed. He’d seen La Cabra parked, and waited for me to return to it.

Federico lived in Zacatecas, and what’s more – he owned a hotel, just around the corner. And he spoke fluent English. In less than a minute, Federico took me under his wing. He let me a fine room at his hotel -- Plaza del Carmen on Avenida Juarez, smack in the middle of downtown -- at a deep discount of $12 per nite. His hotel had a large interior courtyard, and I swung La Cabra in.

We talked for more than an hour, comparing bikes and modifications and notes from Horizons Unlimited. He showed me a photo album, with pictures of a dozen or more overland riders he had hosted at his hotel. He told me of a motorcycle shop in Guadalajara at which I might find a fresh rear tire, which I will need in a few hundred more miles.

I stepped away for a few minutes, and upon returning discovered that Federico had most presumptuously affixed a large sticker for his hotel on a prominent spot on my right pannier. I might have been pissed – you never screw with someone ride’s, even with its aesthetics – but I was not about to complain. In fact, I thanked him. The sticker did look pretty cool.

Federico is a buoyant, good-looking bachelor of 40 with salt-and-pepper hair and a weakness for foreign women. “Take a shower,” he said. “We go to the international hostel. I hear there are two Dutch girls there who want to party.” He seemed to know a lot of people in town.

The Hostal Villa Colonial would have been a fine place to stay, but it, too, was full. A seat on the roof terrace affords a superb view of Zacatecas, and the many festively colored homes and buildings – yellow, pink, green, blue, orange – bolted up to the hillsides that surround its downtown.

Lodging at Hostal Villa Colonial was another rider named John. John was 28 or so and had an apple-cheeked earnestness. He was from Atlanta and on vacation from his job at Habitat for Humanity astride a red Suzuki sportbike. He too had been at the Horizons meeting (though I didn’t meet him), and his Suzuki was parked at Federico’s.

There were indeed two Dutch girls. There were also two Dutch boyfriends. It was Friday nite (October 22), and that meant it was margarita nite at the hostel. By 10 p.m., a large, noisy crowd filled the small building.

Giggly groups of cute Mexican girls. Some Swedish girls. A European-looking kid from Philadelphia bound by public transit for Tierra del Fuego. An American-looking kid from London and his quiet, bespectacled girlfriend. A quiet Japanese guy backpacker. A boom box pumped out Santana tunes and Dire Straits. Federico assumed the role of master of ceremonies, and mixed pitcher after pitcher of tasty margaritas. He relished being at the heart of the action. People ate and drank and danced.

I introduced myself to a young woman named Maria, as beautiful as she was sweet. Gorgeous. Rich brown eyes, ruby red lips, and perfect teeth. Now there’s inspiration to improve my Spanish. I told her she was very beautiful, and jokingly invited her to ride on the motorcycle to Tierra del Fuego. She blushed like a child.

I made the acquaintance of one Conrad, a native of Long Island, late of New Jersey and New Mexico, and now rootless in Mexico in search of work as an English instructor. He was 40 years old and sitting alone on a couch studying Spanish. We talked, and found common ground in the recreational study of science, philosophy, politics, history, and literature.

Conrad is disaffected from the U.S. – a misanthrope, practically, an ex-patriate waiting to happen. His demeanor was equally wry and resigned. He is on something of a quest here in Mexico, to find meaning and himself. He had failed to find it in the U.S., particularly amid the dehumanizing machinery of the greater New York City area.

He is smart with a dilettante’s knowledge of many topics. I liked him. We enjoyed a stimulating conversation on everything from farm subsidies (on which he improbably well informed) to nuclear power to genetic research to the declining state of higher education to the funniest book I ever read, “A Confederacy of Dunces.”

Later, I told Federico of my travel plans. I would ride south to Tierra del Fuego. With good luck and godspeed, I could catch up with my friends Joe & Vlad from S.F. in Peru in a few weeks. Federico stopped and pulled a business card from his wallet. “You mean this guy?” he asked.

WTF?! That was Joe Ortega’s card – my buddy from S.F.! For weekend after weekend, Joe and I had wrenched on our KLRs in my garage to fortify them for the ride. He left in May with Vlad Sotoh, Ambassador de Chicas. As it turned out, Joe had ridden thru Zacatecas a few months ago, spotted Federico’s KLR, and spent three hours talking with him.

Stranger still: It was Joe who had turned Federico on to Horizons Unlimited. If not for Joe, Federico would never have known about the Horizons gathering in Creel. And I would not have been enjoying this fine hostel party, and the company of the slender Swedish girl with long brown hair.

Synchronicity. The eminent Swiss psychologist Carl Jung has dissected this phenomenon of fortuitous confluence of events that defy explanation. Occurences that stretch credulity beyond mere coincidence. This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened to me. It has happened many times. I doubt it will be the last.

Sometimes, you just wait, and the world comes to you.

* * *

Zacatecas is an enchanting place. I meant to stay just one night, but was seduced into two. On Saturday, October 23, I set out to walk this charming Spanish colonial settlement and its maze of hilly, narrow, winding streets.

In the center, at the Plaza de Armas, one finds a spectacular cathedral with an incredibly detailed hard-carved façade. Arrayed around an angel holding a tabernacle are stunning interpretations of God, Christ, the 12 apostles, the Virgin Mary, and other Catholic icons. As I admired, a tour guide explained to his group in Spanish the origins and meanings of the cathedral. I wished that I could understand him.

Zacatecas is a clean and tidy and proud and prosperous city. I saw little garbage on the sidewalk, and few beggars and stray dogs. Sidewalks are narrow, and packed with polite pedestrians. At night, municipal lighting is uniformly a soft yellow, lending something of a gaslight-era ambience. City codes prohibit obtrusive signage; stores and services are advertised by hand-painted lettering on the exterior. It reminded me of Vienna. Very nice.

The city resides within a valley, anchored by a hill called Cerro del Bufa to the northeast, with a striking rocky formation jutting from its apex, and the smaller Cerro del Grillo to the northwest. For a $4 US round trip, a teleferico – cable-suspended car – spirited me high above the city, to the summit of Cerro del Bufa. I admired a wonderful panoramic view, and the rainbow of colors of the buildings below.

The wealth of silver and other minerals built this beautiful city. But as I strolled – or limped, as my right ankle continues to trouble me after last weekend’s parking tipover on the dirt road to Batopilas – I had to reflect, too, on the great cruelties of the conquering Spaniards in the 16th and 17th centuries.

To exploit the earth’s wealth, the conquistadors had enslaved thousands of indigenous peoples, the Zacatecos of the Chichimec Indian tribe. Thousands died, in insufferable conditions deep within the earth. It went on for decades, for centuries.

The duality of mankind is a devilish thing. I like to think that good and evil are symbiotic, and will ultimately be reconciled. The devil will dance with the holy ghost. I am reminded of an old Todd Rundgren song, which remains squirreled away in my mind even 20 years after I last heard it.

Mr. And Mrs. Universe
In their cabin in the sky
She’s a little bit of heaven
He’s one hell of a guy
And like all domestic couples
They may have a spat
But that is that
And it’s your nite to feed the cat

On Riding Partners

Durango, Mexico · October 20

Olee split.

After two weeks, he hightailed it out of MX back to the U.S.

He never showed at the Horizons meeting. (We'd split up a few days earlier, outside Guayamas. He wanted to camp and I wanted to stay in the city). From Creel, I sent him an email. In Durango, I received his reply:

got sicker than hell, then ran out of gas. got pissed and blazed into southern US. had to get of of MX and breathe some quality air and eat a steak or something non-threatening. sorry dude. don't know what plans are of yet but will let you know. good luck heading south. oh yeah the la paz sticker already fell off the bike so I would just pitch it.

olee

And that’s all I got to say about that.

Except that I learned from Chris Ratay at Horizons Unlimited that contact paper works great for keeping stickers affixed to your panniers.

* * *

I rode from Batopilas to Hidalgo del Parral, a city of 110,000, among a group of five. There was Mark of Holland and Curt of Alberta, both referenced earlier as among the crashees on the dirt road to Batopilas.

There was Dan, 27, a former day trader from Sweden who’s been motorcycling the world for the past 2½ years. Dan is tall and slender with long blonde hair and good looks that turn many a female head … I call him the Ambassador de Chicas. A naturally skilled rider, Dan’s been through Europe, Australia, and Asia, and North America, and is bound for Tierra del Fuego, too, on a black Africa Twin with a 12-gallon aftermarket tank and minimalist luggage. After that, he intends to tackle Africa.

Jon Huber, a middle-aged industrial salesman and triathlete from Minneapolis on a heavily loaded Beemer, set the pace for the group much of the time. Jon’s a good rider, though in my estimation he rides a bit too fast for the suspect conditions here. I’m trying to shave about 5 to 7 miles off my average speed in the U.S. in the interest of self-preservation. Too many times I’ve leaned into a corner only to encounter a large rock, a mule, a patch of gravel, or a pile of cowshit.

There’s an envelope of time and space and rider skill in which you want to operate the motorcycle. The time it takes to react to a hazard, the space in which you have to maneuver, and the skill required to miss the obstacle. Jim Hyde reminded me of that fact during his dirt-riding seminar at Horizons Unlimited. I keep it in mind.

Of course, Jon’s on a highly capable BMW. The single-cylinder KLRs that Curt and I ride are hard-pressed to keep up once Jon exceeds 80 mph. The motors whine plaintively, and you sense you’re pushing the bike to its limit.

These are good guys. A good group. We set out together in Hidalgo del Parral for a dinner of tacos and steaks, and enjoyed each other’s company. The next morning, we took off for Durango, the 400,000-pop. capital of the eponymous state … a rather dull ride. But once in downtown Durango, we found a delightful city bustling with commerce around the handsome Plaza de Armas, anchored by the baroque Catedral Basilica Menor, constructed in the early 1700s.

We agreed we’d spend the next day in Durango. Nearly everyone needed an oil change. Mark and Curt had both busted their mirrors, and were in the market for a fix. But after I awoke (Thursday, October 21,) and made my way from my room at the Hotel Roma for a few cups of coffee, accompanied by Curt, we spotted Jon’s bike, fully loaded and ready to roll.

Jon was antsy, and didn’t particularly care for this city or downtowns in general. He would rip down solo to Guanajote, for a large weeklong festival, and later to Oaxaca for a few days of Spanish language study. Jon’s abrupt departure underscored the difficulties of traveling in a group.

The others – Curt, Mark, and Dan – wanted to ride to Mazatlan, on the coast, over a scenic, twisty road called the Devil’s Backbone. That sounded pretty good to me, but I’d been to Mazatlan a few years ago, and didn’t particularly care for its layout … a loooong touristy strip along the coast, and an Old Mazatlan in the center of town. Mazatlan underwhelmed me. I decided to set off solo for the silver city of Zacatecas.

* * *

I ride alone. I have no problem with that. My four cross-country U.S. rides, a rip around the western states and up to Alaska and back, have been virtually all solo. Had I never found a partner, Olee or otherwise, I would have taken off for South America by myself. I’m comfortable here in Mexico, and I expect Latin America at large. I speak Spanish serviceably enough, and my language is getting better all the time.

Like anything else, there are advantages and disadvantages to riding with a partner or partners. Riding together, you have help for a flat tire, and companionship over a beer. Perhaps you’re less likely to be robbed.

Solo, you go faster. Or slower – you set your own pace. You do what you like, with no mind to compromise. People are more apt to approach you when you’re alone. My focus is better when riding solo. I’d probably not leave my turn signal on for 21 miles of desert road.

I’ll head south toward Oaxaca (wa-HA-ka) and arrive in less than a week. I may well reconnect with Jon and the others. Like Jon, I plan on a few days in Oaxaca for Spanish tutoring to nail certain grammatical details and expand my vocabulary. Oaxaca is said to be a wonderful city, and a hostel haven for backpackers and the ilk.

Better still, my good riding pals from S.F., Joe and Vlad, are in Bogota, Colombia, on KLRs. (See www.tripvicariously.com). They suggest via email that I hightail it south and join them, in Lima, Peru. Hmmmm hmm hmm…

I’ve been off the bike for three long days. I’ve changed my oil, procured (with considerable effort) some cool stickers, had my laundry machine-washed for the first time in a month, and finally managed to get some writing and photos posted to the Web. I found a 148-book called Guia Roja, full of maps of Mexico, and some contact paper that prevents stickers on my aluminum panniers from peeling off.

And I found a solution to my earplug-storage problem. I bought a small, leather purse that fastens up like a keychain to my tankbag. It’s good for earplugs, and spare change, too.

Durango is a fine city. I am delighted to have experienced it. It’s time to ride.

All the Pretty Motorcycles

Creel, Mexico · October 17

The next morning, the terrain flattened and the road opened up. I bundled up in double long johns against the frosty, 40 F-something conditions and roared across a landscape not unlike the Big Sky of Montana, or the magical ranching country of Route 64 (if I recall correctly) west of Taos, New Mexico. The Horizons Unlimited meeting was at an impressive camping and cabin compound called Villa Mexicana in Creel, pop. 4500.

Dozens of motorcycles were parked in front of the large building that housed a store, office, restaurant, and bar. I disembarked and was greeted immediately by fellow riders. I strolled about and admired the rides. There were plenty of Beemers – 650s and 1150s and the new 1200 GSs, a couple of venerable Paris Dakars, two Africa Twins, a Triumph Tiger, some smallish kick-start dirt bikes, and more than a dozen KLRs, like mine.

Ah, the exquisite beauty of the motorcycle. I never tire of admiring the sleek and sexy lines of the machine, and relished the opportunity to inspect the many fortifications and after-market additions and luggage that the riders had enterprisingly built into and fastened up to their machines. We swapped stories and insights on what worked and what didn’t, our travels and problems and plans.

Most of the luggage was of the aluminum rear pannier sort, the same that I run. Many were decorated by colorful stickers announcing the exotic places to which these riders had traveled – Nicaragua, Peru, Argentina, and so on.

Aluminum panniers are heavy. We use them strictly because of the security they afford while riding overseas. A thief with a knife can make off with a set of fabric panniers while you relieve your bladder at a Pemex. I was pleased to meet Al Jesse, who handcrafts eponymous aluminum panniers and top boxes in Arizona. Al, in his 40s, I think, is an accomplished overland rider, mechanic, and machinist. He gave a fascinating slide show on his travels around the world, including Africa and Asia. The man’s resourcefulness and patience is inspiring.

Also on hand was Chris Ratay, a salesman once of New York City and now of Boulder who, with his wife, Erin, holds a Guinness Book record for the longest ride by a couple – 101,000+ miles around the world. I had the good fortune to host these exceptional folks at my place in San Francisco in spring 2004, and was delighted to consort with Chris and his inimitable sense of humor, even if I was the butt of a few of his jokes.

“Didja get your tent set up yet?” he asked me.

“Nah, ain’t worried about it … I can do it in two minutes,” I replied.

Impishly, he parried, “Yeah, I’ve heard that about you.”

Chris gave a terrific slide show on his RTW ride, BTW, set to music. Check out Chris at Erin at www.ultimatejourney.com.

And I hooked up with my pal John Drake of Oakland, S.F. fire medic, en route back to the Bay Area after a rip thru Mexico and Central America. I’d mentioned John earlier as having been stricken badly by diarrhea. He may have a weak stomach, but he’s got brass balls.

Drake the Snake is new to motorcycling, the KLR is his first bike, but he rode like a bandito loco thru countries in which he speaks, as he wryly put it, “10 words of Spanish.” His bike, affectionately named Carmen, got dumped and struck multiple times -- his Happy Trail aluminum panniers are hanging on by duct tape and baling wire, practically -- but on he rides. You rock, dude!

Also in the mix from the Bay Area: Patrick Moriarty, who, along with the World’s Oldest Newspaperboy, Brian Halton, runs the delightfully quirky City Bike newspaper. We lamented to loss of Joe Glydon, an excellent City Bike columnist, by, alas, his own hand, a few months ago. (While I’m thinking of it, Motorcyclist magazine named S.F. the best motorcycling city in the U.S. a few months ago. Got that right!)

Thanks to Grant Johnson, meeting organizer and another RTW rider with his wife, Susan. The Johnsons founded Horizons Unlimited a few years back, and it’s evolved into the singular source for information and resources for overland riders. Great job, Grant!

* * *

All the pretty motorcycles. All the tough and smart motorcyclists. (Beer drinkers with a motorcycling problem, as we like to say). Why had we come here, to Creel, atop Copper Canyon, us 100+ adventure riders? Why do we ride long distance thru challenging environments? Over the course of several days, in this perfect petri dish of my peers, I endeavored to distill the reasons.

I asked a few of the riders – why? Most found the reasons difficult to articulate, other than in superficial terms. It’s fun. It’s the best way travel. I like it. Why is it fun? Why is it the best way to travel? What do you like about it? To get to the nut of it, you have to do some subtle journalistic interrogation.

And here’s the nut of it, according to me: It’s the intensity. We crave intensity. It’s the intensification, the concentration, of experience. It sustains and nourishes us. Ordinary people cannot manufacture such intensity in their ordinary lives. And many of us, when we’re not riding, are ordinary people.

I work 9 to 5, more or less, as a freelance writer for Silicon Valley software companies. I work at home. I work hard, on a computer. My two cream-colored cats, Eddie and Opie, help me. I take a great deal of pride in my work. For good or ill, I am a perfectionist. There is a certain intensity to the way I approach work, and my life outside of it. But it’s perfectly ordinary.

On the road, on a motorcycle, intensity is heightened to extraordinary degrees. It’s a drug. Nine months of ordinary life is rewarded with a narcotic hit that leads inexorably to recognition, once again, that this is why. This is it. Yes I remember. Yes o yes.

Intensity is the nucleus. About it may be arrayed challenge, adventure, joy, a broadening of one’s horizons, a seeking of personal truth, a litmus test of one’s cojones. One woman rider I met at Horizons Unlimited, a Japanese American named Torria from Seattle, described herself as a tourist on a motorcycle. I like that. Except I would describe myself as a motorcyclist on a tour.

Distance motorcycling puts me face to face with myself. It strips away the nonsense and pettiness that attends my ordinary life. It strengthens the mind and the body and the spirit. I am reminded of Albert Camus and a line from his book, “Lyrical and Critical Essays”: “Man is alone; I defy him to be happy … and yet this is how travel enlightens him.”

Being in Mexico particularly, and on a motorcycle, similarly calls to mind the Yaqui Indian brujo named Don Juan in Carlos Castenada’s series of books from the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. The solitary, desert-dwelling Don Juan possessed magical powers, or so it seemed to Castaneda, an anthropology student in Los Angeles who made a fragile if illuminating acquaintance with Don Juan.

Death is forever over your left shoulder, Don Juan counseled. And yet this is a source of your power.

Riding tests my limits. It challenges my resourcefulness and endurance and ingenuity and courage and patience … and by challenging them, strengthens them in turn. On Sunday, October 17, I joined a group of nine riders on a 70-mile ride to a tiny town called Batopilas at the bottom of Copper Canyon, the Grand Canyon of Mexico. This would prove to be a test.

* * *

Forty miles of the journey was on a rugged dirt road that plunged from roughly 7000 feet to less than 1000 feet. Many of the grades I reckon to have been as steep as 14 percent or more. La Cabra was fully loaded with all its gear. The narrow, treacherous track hugged canyon walls and cliffs that plunged hundreds of feet down. We rode mere feet from the precipice. This was serious business. I heeded the presence over my left shoulder.

Down we rode, gingerly thru hairpin corners and hard up the ascents, my knobby Continental TKC 80s confidently taking purchase on the dirt and rock. A day earlier, I’d attended a three-hour, $45 seminar on dirt riding led by Jim Hyde of Rawhyde Adventures in southern California.

Jim had led me and a dozen others thru exercises such as standing on the pegs, maneuvering the bike with pressure from your feet (versus the handlebars), skidding, hairpins turns, and more. For a guy whose motorcycling career has been principally on pavement, Jim’s tips and tricks proved invaluable for a successful ride to Batopilas.

The road thru the canyon served up scenery was simply stunning, though one admired it at one’s peril … eyes are best kept focused on the 50 yards ahead. And the scenery was unique in my experience, owing to the remoteness of the region and its relative inaccessibility.

Trust nothing. Always ride to the right. It is a sound rule. Despite its isolation, we were not alone on the narrow dirt track to Batopilas. We encountered a fair number of oncoming trucks and four-wheelers. These drivers, Mexicans all, had obviously driven the road before, and knew its idiosyncrasies. They went fast, and accorded us motorcyclists little courtesy, the bastards. Twice I was very nearly clipped by an oncoming vehicle … a matter of mere inches. Others faced the same peril, though no collisions occurred.

Among our group of nine, six crashed. Mark, 36, a tattoo artist from Amsterdam, escaped unscathed when his BMW F650 went down in spectacular fashion, somersaulting twice to come to rest at the edge of a cliff. Curt, 48, a former commodities trader from Alberta, busted up his KLR rather badly after hitting a downhill corner at the dreaded speed too fast for conditions – broken off mirror, gouged swingarm, bent Happy Trail engine guard, and other damage, but he too walked away with little more than a couple of bodily scrapes.

Torria lost it on a downhill corner, bending the foot shift lever and shattering the mirror on her Beemer, and complained of a strained back. Jacob, a lawyer from Brooklyn on a BMW F650, took a tumble after only a mile or two on the dirt, and headed back to the campsite.

As for me, I dumped La Cabra in most inelegant fashion … tipping over at 1 mph while attempting to stop on a decline for a photo. No damage to the bike, but the spill tweaked my right ankle and left me limping for a few days.

La Cabra – The Goat – lived up to its name. This was truly goat country, and we spied a half-dozen mountain goats perched safely on a ledge 30 or 40 feet above us. La Cabra, meet las cabras.

Not far from the goats we encountered a small herd of cattle. One brown-skinned bull took an obvious disliking to us. I was the last of four to pass, and the bull eyed me menacingly. He moved to the middle of the road and stopped, glaring at me with rheumy eyes.

The old bull had just one horn, but it was large. He could easily impale me and chew my liver for cud. I turned off the motor. The loud SuperTrapp pipe might further distress him. Carefully, I maneuvered the bike forward with my feet. I moved on past him with a margin of a couple of feet. He snorted brusquely. At last, he ambled away.

The road to Batopilas was the most exhilarating ride I’d ever done. Once there, we were greeted by dozens of little kids. They were Indian children, but not shy children, as many Indians are. They were accustomed to visitors. They cheered us, and held out their hands for a congratulatory slap as we rode by. I felt like I was in the Tour de France, what with all the spectators.

In due time, we tired but gratified riders found lodging: $10 US a nite for a clean, tidy room at Hotel Mary. We parked our bikes in the hotel courtyard. More than two dozen riders had made the journey, in separate groups. Many in the other groups had crashed, too, though none was seriously hurt.

* * *

Batopilas is a tiny town of 1100 people. Many are Indians in colorful dress. All of the streets are dirt. There is a central plaza and a lovely Catholic church and a large elementary school, to which, on Monday morning, dozens of well behaved youngsters proceeded in quaint uniforms.

The town is pretty with many trees and a river alongside. It is tranquility incarnate, save for us invading motorcyclists on our noisy machines. There seemed to be one telephone for the whole town. Water is warm only if the ambient temperature is, too. After arrival, I took a coldish shower and made my way to one of the few restaurant/bars in town, for celebratory vittles and victuals with my fellow riders.

It was a happy nite for all. We had done it. No one was killed. No one busted a bone, or ripped open a knee, or got impaled by a one-horned bull. All of our machines were mobile, if somewhat wounded. We traded stories and observations and toasted the grand adventure with quarts of cold Carta Blanca, and devoured T-bone steaks that were surprisingly delicious.

I awoke before dawn and readied myself for the ascent. It would be the same 40 miles of rugged dirt track back up, to an intersection that I would follow to a city of 110,000 people called Hidalgo del Parral. I had four cups of coffee and a ham and cheese omelet and a shave and packed. Before I departed, I stood in the bathroom of my hotel room and looked in the mirror. Then I fell to my knees and wept, in joy and gratitude for having experienced such an unforgettable adventure.

I wept for being there, at the bottom of Copper Canyon, and for another day to ride again.

Racing the Sun

Basaseachi, Mexico · October 15

I’ve never been one to look with disdain on long stretches of twisties. I’ve ridden Deal’s Gap, the US 29 “Dragon” at the border of Tennessee and North Carolina; its famed 318 curves in 11 miles makes it a motorcycling mecca. My favorite twisties in the U.S. may be found west of Missoula, Montana, along the Lolo Pass, traversed in 1800-something by Lewis and Clark en route to what would become Idaho … a serpentine ribbon of blacktop upon which you race the roaring river alongside, leaning and diving thru hundreds and hundreds of delicious corners.

Like many riders, I’ve swooped into a set of long twisties and said to myself – aloud, even, in the auditory cocoon of the helmet – “I’m gonna carve me some canyon.”

I departed Guayamas at 9 a.m. on Thursday, October 14. I’d sized up the mileage to Creel and the Horizons Unlimited meeting – 400 miles, give or take certain discrepancies that exist between mileage on my AAA map and reality. It would be a long but doable ride, and deposit me in Creel at twilight or earlier, in plenty of time to crack a celebratory beer with my fellow adventure riders.

I promptly got lost. I found a sign to Tesopaco, but found no such town on my map. As usual, there was no route number on the road. Again with the discrepancies and idiosyncrasies – the AAA map, I discovered later, calls the town Rosario del Tezopaco; the locals, Tesopaco. Strike one.

I decided to fuel up at a Pemex station, and would ask directions there. The attendant asked, Cuanto? How much? The bike is fully loaded with luggage. I’m obviously traveling. A full tank would be a fair assumption.

I think, “Oh, I’m just running down to the Safeway for some cat food. A buck will do.” I wish I could rip out the line in Spanish.

Next, this clown and his Pemex pals confidently directed me 17 km to the north – counterintuitive to reason and instinct, but I took their word for it. Strike two. I lost an hour before I finally determined the correct route, and later confirmed it with a jovial policeman who applauded my ride, wishing, it seemed, that he could do the same.

I motored thru rolling farmland at a decent clip. Rural campensinos stared and waved as I rode thru small villages. Some cheered with broad grins. Shortly, though, elevation increased. Dozens of squat mountains sat like swollen, foliated knuckles as far as one could see to the west. The farther I looked, the taller they appeared. This road would not be straight. It would necessarily snake up and down and around and over this undulating terrain.

It was twistie time. Damn! I started doing the math. I had well over 300 miles to ride … could I make it before dark with speeds averaging 35 mph or so, accounting for rest stops and low cornering speeds? I gave it the gas, and hoped the road would open up.

You cannot trust roads in Mexico, and I suppose anywhere outside the U.S. and Canada and western Europe. (Really, you can’t trust any road anywhere, but there are degrees…) This one – to MX 16, and MX 16 itself to the Creel junction – reminded me of that fact.

Any number of times I would lean into a corner and encounter gravel, sand, potholes, head-sized rocks, donkeys, cows and the inevitable cowpies, horses, and oncoming vehicles most inconsiderately half in my lane. That’s called a pucker moment. The etymology of the term is indeterminate, but most seem to believe it concerns a sudden puckering of the sphincter prior to, pardon me Mother, shitting your pants.

The perverse fun of roads like this is to go as fast as possible without taking a nasty tumble. It can be treacherous, and demands total concentration and diminished speeds. The dividend is a heart-pumping adrenaline rush and the cultivated sensation of being one with the motorcycle, with optimal reaction times and hair-trigger response to hazards.

* * *

I rode hard. By 7 p.m., it was dark. It was cold. Against my hopes, the road never did open up. I’d ridden from sea level to 6500 feet, according to my GPS. I fueled up at a Pemex in a rural, alpine town called Basaseachi and conceded defeat. I’d ridden over 300 miles, and was still more than 100 miles short of Creel.

The young fellow in charge of the Pemex market was named Ankiel. He had uncommonly fair hair and had studied in Salt Lake City and spoke a bit of English. I told him, cabalgo a Creel. He corrected me: Cabalgar means to ride a horse. Montar was the correct word for riding a motocicleta, he said. There was a hotel a couple of clicks up the road, he offered. It was called Hotel Anna Rosa. I pulled in. A matronly woman in her late 60s emerged from the adjoined restaurant to greet me. She had a warm smile. Yes, we have a room for you. Si, the restaurant is open.

Riding at 60 degrees or less can be downright frigid. I doffed my gloves and settled in at a nicely varnished picnic table to warm up. The restaurant was brightly colored and nicely lit and boasted an impressive array of wooden accoutrements. It was a cowboy theme. This was vaquero country. A mustachioed young man associated with the restaurant wore a large, ivory-colored cowboy hat. His petite wife was impossibly cute.

There was no menu. I would have what the family that runs the hotel and restaurant had for dinner. It turned out to be a delicious beef stew, with toasty tortillas and refried beans and superb chips and salsa and Nescafe for beverage. It was so good that I excused myself and ordered a second serving, which they graciously served.

The room would be relatively expensive – 350 pesos, or roughly $32 US. I told the woman in Spanish she reminded me of my favorite aunt, my Aunt De. She beamed. Her name was Virginia. Later, when it came time to settle up for dinner and the room, I put on my best puppy-dog face and inquired whether the room might be let at something less than 350 pesos. On the bill, she wrote a 2 over the 3 and smiled. The room would be mine for 250 pesos. Thank you, Aunt De.

The room had no heat. It did have a television. It received one channel, improbably in English. On it was a perfectly awful B comedy from the 70s with no-name actors, about some horse’s ass who’d won the lottery. It was good to hear English for the first time in days. I watched the whole thing, curled up in thick blankets and my riding gear against the cold, which would register the mid-30s F by the time I awoke at 7 a.m.

The Earthy Animation of an Ordinary City

Guayamas, Mexico · October 12

Baja was easy riding. Open spaces, few motorists, and little way to get lost, unless you tried really hard (as I did). It was a good proving ground to get the rhythm of the road and hone instincts for travel. The game is changed now that we’re on the mainland. It’s harder here, and more dangerous … the motorists, for one thing.

Twice today, Tuesday, October 12, en route to Guayamas, I was passed at uncomfortably close range by fast-moving vehicles, once on a hiway and once in a town. Dumb shit assholes. Over the days, we have passed by hundreds of elaborate roadside shrines – flowers, candles, and frescoes of the Virgin Mary -- to motorists who have lost their lives. You don’t want to let your guard down. You do want to always expect the worst. These people are trying to kill me. It’s a sound mantra.

The ride to Guayamas on the MX 15 toll road was only 230 miles, but it cost us roughly $19 US. Tolls roads in Mexico are notoriously overpriced, and it’s a shame … not so much that we have to pay it, but that the government exacts this blatant highway robbery on its own citizens, most of whom can ill afford it.

For $19, we did not get a fast-moving expressway. Instead, MX 15 turned out to be an unremarkable, liberally patched four-lane road that snaked slowly through each town and city en route to Guayamas.

Bicycles and pedestrians trundled along the shoulder. We rode through a cave of black smoke from burning tires and grass just feet off the shoulder. You could feel the heat from the flames. (I kick myself for not having arranged a photo of that spectacle). On a dirt median in one tiny burg, I observed the improbable sight of a young mother pushing a pink baby carriage.

We stopped more than a half-dozen times to fork over tolls and submit to inspection at military checkpoints. One guard sported a Uzi submachine gun, according to Olee, who knows his weaponry. I’d noticed the gun, and took a close look at it as I pulled away from the toll station. It was silver – stainless steel, and mighty impressive. The guard saw me looking, and tightened his grip about the handle as if to affirm that yes, turisto estupido, this is one bad ass piece of hardware.

* * *

Wednesday morning, I’m up at 7:24 a.m. Holed up in a dump called Hotel Ana in a rough part of downtown Guayamas, $15 US per nite. The bike is secured – one hopes – in a fenced and caged offstreet parking lot. Returning to the hotel late last nite, I negotiated a gauntlet of hard-partying laborers who live here, single-room occupancy style. They sized me up as I walked thru. One grunted a greeting. The laptop I attempted to hide beneath a desk, which is missing two drawers. The bike this morning I expected to be unmolested – it was – but confirming that fact came with a wisp of relief.

It is hot and bright at 7:45 a.m. as I step out in a hunt for coffee. A couple of blocks away is a perfectly preserved 18th century church, Iglesia de San Fernando, attractively illuminated at nite, and surrounded by several smartly appointed municipal parks with stone benches on which old men loiter the hours away. View the church from the east, however, and you see behind it a massive, billowing roil of grey smoke, curling up towards the heavens – emissions from some factory we’d passed yesterday afternoon.

There are no emissions controls here, at least that are evident. Buses, trucks, cars and picks-ups in grave disrepair, and little two-stroke motorcycles belch noxious fumes with impunity. A handful of pedestrians wear bandanas about their mouths; the majority appears resigned to breathing these poisons. It’s disgraceful, of course. But it’s also the status quo in practically every developing or Third World nation.

(Thanks to our “president,” incidentally, for all his support for the Kyoto air quality accord. I detest that knuckle-dragging nitwit. Fellow Americans, please: We can’t erase the stain he has left on history, but we can remove him from the high office he so undeservedly occupies. Vote Kerry).

Over two days, I spot not a single tourist. Olee opted to spend the nite at a campsite at the tourist resort town of San Carlos, 12 miles to the north, said to be overrun by norteamericanos. In a spirit of anthropological inquiry, and in search of a cold beer, I elected to stay here in Guayamas, the better to immerse myself in the earthy animation of a perfectly ordinary Mexican city. We planned to reconnect two days later in Creel, at the Horizons Unlimited meeting.

Morning coffee here is hardly as commonplace as in the U.S. The hunt takes me eight blocks to the city’s colorful enclosed market, where, at last, I find a vendor of Nescafe instant amid a warren of stalls peddling hats and shoes, lottery tickets and soap, chiles and onions and bananas and corn and beans, and sweaty slabs of liver-colored meat and ashen fish. It comes in six-ounce Styrofoam cups for about 50 cents per. I have four cups. (I would return to the market later for some decent tacos carne asado from a large, jovial young lady).

On the exterior, Guayamas is a tough, gritty town. Little in the way of affluence is evident, other than a few late-model cars. There’s a main drag called Avenue Serdan that’s paved and busy with pedestrians, broken-down buses with route numbers and destinations soaped or spray-painted on their windows, and a selection of farmacias, taco stands, clothing shops, and even a Woolworth’s, defunct in the U.S.

Many of the streets running parallel are dirt – pocked with holes, littered with refuse and rocks, sidewalks crumbling in front of tiny dwellings, limping businesses, and hollowed-out buildings. Bags of garbage on the sidewalk issue foul odors, and attract flies and stray dogs. I wander the side streets and observe dilapidation in some areas is quite advanced. I am watched. They know I’m from somewhere else.

The interior, though – the people who live here – may affect a toughness and a grittiness, but a great warmth, passion, and joy for the simpler things in life is readily discernable, if you watch and listen and attempt to converse. A smile is usually returned twofold. Laughter is infectious, even if they’re laughing at me at my deficient Spanglish.

Two people I’d met one day spotted me the next, and greeted me warmly, with handshakes and smiles, and wished me buen suerte -- good luck. Early in the morning, it’s heartwarming to watch the uniformed schoolchildren head to school, and to imagine their mothers dressing them back at home. The city is surrounded by lovely, vaulting mountains that in morning and twilight handsomely reflect the sun. I am happy to have visited.

Time to ride. Next stop – Creel and Horizons Unlimited.

Beats the Badger

Los Mochis, Mexico · October 11

A few years ago, motorcycle, ex, and I ferried across Lake Michigan to Wisconsin on a lumbering old vessel called the USS Badger. It was a fun ride, as ferry rides go, with basic amenities, like slices of frozen pizza for $3.75. The California Star, the ferry that would in a matter of six hours spirit us across the Sea of Cortez, from La Paz to Topolobampo, was decidedly a step up.

We paid about $110 each to an outfit called Baja Ferries to transport both bikes and ourselves across the border. We procured vehicle permits – another $29 each -- from the Mexican Customs Office, a bit of a bureaucratic ordeal that involved presenting originals, plus two copies each, of passport, driver’s license, title, registration, and tourist visa. Naturally, the Customs Office didn’t have a copier.

On the bikes we hopped to ride a quarter-mile to a hotel to get copies made for $1 to satisfy Customs’ anal triplicatese. Now get this: Liability insurance is mandatory in Mexico. If you’re in an accident, it’s a criminal matter, not a civil matter. Mexico is governed by Napoleonic law – that is, guilty until proven innocent. So does Customs want to see copies of our insurance? Noooo. (Good thing, because we didn’t buy it).

The Customs fellow who helped (or hindered, depending on your perspective) us, named Cesar, had vacationed in S.F. and elsewhere in the U.S. a few years back. We swapped stories of S.F. and California. He loved S.F. He bore a large grin seen on so many Mexican faces. Muy bonita, very pretty, Cesar said of S.F. Everybody’s Favorite City, with good reason.

We’re packing our own tiedowns – weighty but necessary for securing the bikes in boats, planes, or pick-up trucks. Good thing, because the California Star didn’t seem to have them on hand. With bikes lashed against an inside wall of the vessel, we took an escalator – an escalator! – a few floors up, to commodious surroundings that nearly rivaled the Love Boat.

Furniture was plush and in decent shape. The huge bar boasted an enormous stereo system that blasted out Mexican music at ear-splitting decibels. The boat had its own singer, who wasn’t bad, I suppose, if you don’t mind Mexican love ballads.

Despite all this, the upper outdoor deck supplied just 15 or so cheep plastic chairs, versus demand for 50. And no one had the common sense to put a waste receptacle on the upper deck. The sad result was that empty Tecate cans, cigarette butts, and other rubbish were bound to be blown into the Sea of Cortez.

Dinner, we learned to our dismay, was free. Free?! Surely you jest. What tour or travel outfit doesn’t take advantage of every opportunity to pick the pockets of its captive audience? A chicken sandwich on United Airlines will lighten your wallet of $9 or so. Yet there it was – an enticing hofbrau-style smorgasbord of seafood, barbecued pork, rice and beans and potatoes, and plenty of others fixings. I say we learned this to our dismay because we killed time before departure with an overpriced $10 fish dinner at a seaside restaurant. Nonetheless, we forced a bit down. We’re growing boys, you know.

We were the only motorcyclists on the boat. The only other non-Mexicans were a pair of elderly gringo tourists and a half-dozen Brits on an organized tour from Alaska to Tierra del Fuego. Most travelers were families and truck drivers, who’d imported goods to the Peninsula and were headed back to the mainland.

We sat not too far from one particular quartet of drivers. Each was thirty-something and in high spirits. We watched with morbid fascination as these clowns bought round after round after round of Tecates. Over a full five hours, by Olee’s astute reckoning, they’d swilled at least 15 beers each. Towards the end, one hombre was flexing his biceps and tripling up six-pack plastic thingies so as to demonstrate his virility by ripping them apart.

Don’t ride at nite in Latin America, the motorcycle guidebooks warn. Chickens, dogs, potholes, and drunken truck drivers … four of them, at least.

We rode nonetheless. It was 10:30 p.m. by the time the California Star disembarked, and by 11:15 p.m. we’d traversed the 15 miles to the nearest town with cheep lodging, Los Mochis and the decent Hotel Montecarlo, $28 for a double and secure parking for our steeds.

It felt good to ride again. We’d been off the bikes for three days. We ripped along the road, relishing the acceleration and cornering … simply being astride once more, which is why, after all, I am here. The air was balmy, and perfectly sublime in tank top and shorts.

See, every rider has a different style. You weigh risk and reward and choose your devil. Harley dudes think nothing of riding in a tank top and a silly little beany helmet. Certain of the sport bike and adventure riding community are zealots: All the protection, all the time, full leather or fortified Cordura jackets, even in 100 F stretches of desert hiway, hardened riding pants and boots, and battle-ready gloves straight out of Star Wars. They snootily condemn any rider who elects to take his or her chances.

I always wear a full-face helmet. If I want to eat bugs, I’ll have plenty of opportunity at the grasshopper stands found throughout much of Latin America. (Yep, they eat ‘em, and roasted guinea pigs, too). I find it convenient to wear riding pants and my Sidi Discovery boots, if only because I lack the space to pack them.

On hot days on open hiways, though, I do weigh risk and reward, and opt for the trusty tank top. One that I pack, advertising Hobie surfing gear, has been with me on bicycle and motorcycle adventures since 1989. It’s faded now by the sun, from black to charcoal. Hail the tank top. The warmth of sun on bare shoulder at speed is one of the sweetest sensations I have ever known.

Today, Tuesday, October 12, we ride again. Destination Guayamas, a seaside town of 130,000 about 230 miles north of Los Mochis. Three days to Copper Canyon and Horizons Unlimited and its gathering of 100+ adventure riders.

Don't Call It a Vacation

La Paz, Baja California Sur · October 10

Hell, go ahead if you want. But it in many respects distance motorcycling is a lot more demanding than your average 9 to 5 job.

Details are magnified on the road. One little comfort or convenience that you may have engineered into your bike or ride will be the source of inordinate gratification time and again. One small misjudgment or unattended detail will nip you in the arse just as regularly. Here are some devils in the details:

Earplugs: I wear ‘em probably 90 percent of the time. I favor the sort called Earplanes. They’re made of rubber, not foam. But here’s a convenience thing: In the U.S., I’d wear Levi’s jeans. That little pocket in the upper right corner was ideal for storing earplugs when stopped for a break. Now I’m wearing specially fortified riding pants, and the absence of that little pocket has left me perplexed where to keep the earplugs for easy retrieval.

Tool Tube: This is a 10-inch length of ABS sewage pipe that I’ve fastened up to the front of the bike, just behind the front wheel. A lot of KLR riders do this, and it’s a great place for tool storage and provides optimal weight distribution. It also attracts the most comments of all the equipment on the bike. People we meet are forever asking what that thing is. Cost – maybe $12 from the outstanding Fredericksen’s Hardware on Fillmore Street in S.F.

Happy Trail Engine Guard/Hiway Peg Combo: Damn, Happy Trail did a sweet job with this thing. Cruising at 70-75 I just park my feet on those pegs and lean back against a fabric luggage bag bungeed up to where a passenger would sit and it’s like driving a Lincoln town Car, at least if you indulge your imagination.

Custom Bungee Hooks: Kawasaki didn’t pay much attention to building in adequate facility for multiple bungee lashings. So I figured I would swap out a pair of stock bolts that fasten up the rear rack to the subframe with a couple of 1 1/4–inch eyehooks. Works like a charm. Use ‘em everyday, much more secure than what’s available stock.

Airhawk Seat Cushion: An absolute arse-saving must. This inflatable cushion consists of individual air cells that allow blood in your cheeks to circulate. It was originally designed by a company called Roho for the bedridden and wheelchair bound, until I imagine some Roho rider got the brilliant idea it would have an excellent application for motorcycling, too. If you’re riding distance, get the Airhawk. You too can be Mr. Happy Cheeks.

Gasoline Jerrican: Not only is it a good idea to carry extra gas for the inevitable emergency, a jerrican serves as a source of fuel for the pint-sized WhisperLite International stove that I carry. This baby will run on gasoline – no special white gas required. At least it’s supposed to … er, I haven’t around to testing the stove out yet. I built an cage out of aluminum bar, bolted to the left rear pannier, for fuel storage in a Sigg bottle.

The Little Things: You don’t want to be following in the dirt when your buddy is kicking up a load of dust, unless you have proper eye protection. I use a set of $15 swim goggles, smaller, lighter, and less expensive than motorcycle or ski goggles. A crushed Modelo beer can serves as a kickstand support to keep the bike upright when parking in the soft stuff.

***

Saturday, October 10, and we’re in La Paz for a second nite. We left the Hotel Yeneka. A bit of an odd place. For all its artistic eclecticism, you’d think they’d invite taking photos. But there’s a big sign – “NO CAMARAS.” “Please do not take photographs.” (Which, of course, I willfully violated). It was $31 for a room to split. We moved down the street to a place called Hosteria del Convento that charges $13 each for a single.

They have a courtyard, too. Much larger than Yeneka, so we can readily maneuver the bikes in and out. There’s a little stove in the courtyard on which we can boil water for French press coffee in the morning, as well as ogle the chesty German girl, eating Mueslix cereal with her sullen, tattooed boyfriend and his heavy metal headphones.

I was up at 8 a.m., feeling fine after my bout of illness. I strolled about until a local led me – arriba! arriba! -- to a semi-concealed coffee shop. No Starbucks here, for sure. Inside was a bunch of old men, mostly, including one of the abuelos from Hotel Yeneka who watched stoically last nite as we powered up the steps with our machines.

Traffic conventions here are at the discretion of the motorist. If you feel like stopping, you stop. There are stop signs – ALTO – with the same red octagon as are found in the U.S., but evidently they are merely a suggestion. In the morning, when traffic is light, just about everyone rolls on thru intersections.

Speed limit signs on hiways are similarly advisory. On a wide-open stretch of desert, the limit will be a preposterously low 80 kph, or less than 50 mph. WTF? No one abides the law. No cops seem to be about to enforce it. When you pull up behind a slow-moving vehicle on the hiway, it’s customary for the driver to activate his left turn signal. That means it’s safe to pass.

The Mexican solution to traffic control is topes, or speed bumps. Any town of size will have a load of these dastardly things. They can slow traffic to a glacial crawl, and I have zero compunction about swerving around the waiting vehicles and gunning on by. Most of them are well advertised, but every now and again I’ll be admiring the scenery – a brown-skinned beauty waiting for a bus, say – and will hit one at 35 mph. Ba-BOOM!

About the only signs of authority we see are at military checkpoints. We encounter one or two of these a day. Stopping here is strongly advisable, as these Mexican Beetle Baileys are toting rifles. We have been searched, however, just once – a cursory peek into my Givi top box and one of Olee’s panniers. We could have been packing two kilos of coke and a small nuclear weapon and no one would have been the wiser.

La Paz is a cute, family-oriented town. (Dammit!) There are expansive stretches of beach on the north side of town, virtually unpopulated even on a Saturday afternoon. Vendors hawk jewelry and other junk from booths. One clown tried to sell us -- with a straight face! -- leather necklaces bearing tooth of shark, or tiburon, a Spanish word I happen to know only because it’s the name of the affluent enclave north of S.F., in Marin County.

Shark tooth, my arse. It was about the size of the tip of your pinky, and was more likely extracted from some poor perro who got smacked by a car down the block. (As for the rest of the perro … grilled up by some unscrupulous taco stand hack, perhaps?)

The La Paz waterfront strip is bursting at the seams in the evenings. Accompanied by a recently discharged Israeli solider named Avaida whom we’d met at the hotel, we strolled down last nite for a couple of beers amid a throbbing, pulsating excess of people, music, and commerce

Bars and restaurants were jam-packed with people; the main drag jam-packed with cars. The joints try to outdo one another with music – the louder the better. Whose stereo system es mas macho? Who’s got the biggest watts in town? Turn it up, dude! Taco stands are on every other corner; well after midnite, I availed myself of an establishment called Picho’s for some carna asada burritos muy tasty.

Navigating these streets is not for the inattentive or intoxicated. Every so often one finds a gaping six-foot-deep hole that would probably bust up your pelvis if you had the misfortune to step into it. One piece of scaffolding stuck out at head level. Hey, you can put someone’s eye out doing that…

Street signage is similarly haphazard. Must be every Mexican is packing a GPS unit in his or her pocket, because intersections even in heavily trafficked tourist areas are only occasionally marked. That’s the way it is throughout most of Latin America, as I understand it. I’m accustomed to it already. Expect little to nothing; that way you will not be disappointed, nor waste energy on petty complaints.

***

We fired up the KLRs and headed north for some off-road riding. Ride the sand north of La Paz and you can get your KLR stuck in a big rut that’s virtually impossible to detect until you hit it, as I discovered. My rear wheel got buried pretty well. To extract the bike, we fired it up and revved it out with aid of clutch and throttle, no problem.

There wasn’t a lot of sand, but some patches were plenty deep. We skimmed over as best we could, struggling to keep the bikes upright in the soft stuff. We’d left the luggage at the hotel. Minus the gear, I was pleasantly reminded of how light and capable the KLR can be. It chews up rocky roads and spits ‘em out. A fun offroad ride, capped by a cool seaside beverage.

Tomorrow we ferry to the mainland, bound for Creel and Copper Canyon – the equivalent of Flagstaff and the Grand Canyon in the U.S. -- and a gathering of some 100+ riders under the aegis of the organization Horizons Unlimited.