“The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.”
—ROBERT FROST
People alive today rarely know the differences between a war story and a fairy tale. In a fairy tale, the story almost always starts out-with “Once upon a time”, blah, blah, blah blah; whereas, in a war story you first hear the words, “No shit, and there I was”, blah, blah, blah blah, blah.
So, no shit, and there I was, here’s the final version served up of the past two weeks of 3,700 miles of motorcycle riding adventure from SoCal to Mexico City to points far and beyond; from Oaxaca to Puerto Escondido to Veracruz to places that I still cannot pronounce or even spell well today.
Apparently Spanish missionaries also felt the same way, so they replaced whatever characters they couldn’t pronounce of the Aztec written languages with an x. Usually, the x stood for a sh sound. Today, Mexicans pronounce Xochimilco, known for its floating gardens outside of Mexico City and meaning “plantation of flowers,” as so-chee-meel-koh.
And so there I was finally “arrived “ at the Phatt International border crossing after starting my day in Tampico and now; a freaking line of the pinche, puto, pendejos, babosos truckers, about as far and long as the curvature of the earth lay between me and god bless America.
I maneuvered Gordo to within the extreme right side of a two lane wide cement barriered sided spillway. About as smug as a Tomcat in heat I continued making progress for a long while, standing up on my foot pegs and admiring my prowess and great form amongst these behemoths that could smash me like a cucaracha if they wanted to. Once again, I encounter some pinche, puto, pendejo baboso trucker stopped on the right side awaiting some unforeseen astrological event to occur before he is able to proceed; this in turn blocked me in solid.
Picture yourself blocked in on all three sides by silver truck sided trailers to your front, truckers to your left and a cement barrier wall to your right side. I was trapped for what seemed like eternity when in fact it was but, a few minutes as the line inched forward.
My Gordo BMW motorcycle inched itself enough forwards to finally pass the stopped baboso trucker before I was able to proceed and make more progress. I continued this maneuver for possibly a kilometer or mile or two or even three.
Finally, I reached the Mexican side of the border crossing and the border guard asked me how I got here; as he has never seen a motorcycle or car come this way; where’s the Banjercito bank I asked. I need to cancel my visa, motorcycle tip and collect back my $400 US import bond.
He pointed and said, you see that line of truckers over there? You need to turn around and head to that building. At this point of my travels I have finely tuned my riding to the point of breaking every Mexican motor vehicle law on the books so, the thought of jumping over, through or around any Mexican obstacles was now in my pinche gringo DNA. What are they going to do if I get caught. Deport me?
A motorcycle’s life begins the moment it starts to gets ridden. In Phoenix, Arizona I started my journey with (Joey, Chris, Tracy, Todd, Brian) and once across the USA/MEXICO border we started laying down gpskevin type tracks to connect Yoda Roberto and a group of other riders who either flew in or came down their own separate way.
So what did this little two week Mexican road trip teach us, if anything? Well it taught some of us a little about history like for example; you know that USMC hymn song that goes;
“From the Halls of Montezuma
To the shores of Tripoli
We fight our country’s battles
In the air, on land, and sea.
First to fight for right and freedom
And to keep our honor clean; We are proud to claim the title Of United States Marines.
Well, this classic little American fighting song is a probably originated in Spain or France. Our USMC Marines while fighting the battle of Chapultec IN MEXICO captured a castle known as the Halls of Montezuma.
Some claim we should’ve gone as far as Panama and planted our US flag there. Thank god, common sense prevailed and today we have the undisciplined chaotic ways we do that make this place worthy of many more future visits.
I learned that people on a motorcycle road trip always want to tell their stories, to anyone willing to listen; if you show the slightest, honest interest, they often will. The locals are not fearful or mistrustful of motorcycle riders for we are not seen as the conquistas of yesteryear but, of bringing in and sharing the tourism dollars to pesos to all points away from their tourist meccas.
On day one from Tucson to Obregon we checked into the Fiesta Inn, located in Ciudad Obregón, a city in southern Sonora in northwestern Mexico. We consumed guacamole, pork cracklings, Sonora beef, and an assortment of exquisite Mexican cuisine. Earlier lunch asada tacos and drinks for four was 460 pesos or about $5 per person. Sonora beef, surf and turf and other specialties for seven extremely hungry and thirsty gringo came in at slightly more than 5,570 pesos. Thank you Joey.
On one day passing through Mexico City we felt like celebrities as photographers were stationed at most every turn. Our KTM Alaskan Todd used up most of his brakes today as we were now on a Mexican autobahn style speedway. And some of us raced sport and super bikes. 145 mph is not an exaggeration, not me but, a KTM 1290 Adventure bike.
And on another day we explored and learned about the more common religious holidays, Mexico celebrates innumerable things for any excuse; there’s a holiday for the blessings of the animals and I’m told one is in the words for motorcycles too. Those poor homeless dogs that we see all over definitely deserve a holiday. Then there’s the de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). Since they are already dead; why give them a holiday, you might ask? You need to come to Mexico to find out.
Finally we arrived to the land of mole—a chocolate sauce requiring the roasting, the toasting, the pureeing, the reconstituting, the frying, and heaven only knows what other processing of twenty-eight different ingredients that are served to you in a molcajete, a lava-rock bowl. Neither one at our table cared much for it.
A friend I know will one day need a new kidney. My cousin in Florida recently shared with me that she is undergoing chemo for breast cancer. Another military friend, much younger than me, has recently passed away.
Giving someone a body part while you’re still alive and kicking has got to be one of the most unselfish things a human being can do for another person but, giving of your time to a senior person or a child is easily within the grasp of anyone one of us.
Did we change after this Mexican adventure ride? Do I now possess less of an unselfish gene? Sometimes all that we need is for another person to fan our flickering flames of hope.
I hope these stories in some way has touched some of you; go out and search for your own passion and adventure; make the most out of the time you have left.
Traveling to Mexico and eating spicy foods is now just what the Doctor ordered and at the top of my list. And in the final words of Anthony Bourdain;
“If I’m an advocate for anything, it’s to move. As far as you can, as much as you can. Across the ocean, or simply across the river.
Walk in someone else’s shoes or at least eat their food. It’s a plus for everybody.”
Trawlercat
Trawlercat Blog Dispatches 