Rumarosa Road Rebels: A Motorcycle Saga Through Sonora’s Wild Heart

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Rumarosa Rebels: A Motorcycle Saga Through Sonora’s Wild Heart

This afternoon, fourteen riders dribbled into the Estancia Inn in Tecate, Mexico following a border crossing, and now clutching land visas and temporary motorcycle import permits in hand. Jens from Colorado, perched on his GSA 1200, was the first rider I met. We swapped some riders stories- he’s new to the crew of our wayward boys, and already seems hooked.

Soon, I’m catching up with Paul, reliving our 2017 British Columbia ride where he cartwheeled his GSA and earned a titanium collarbone. Russ and I saw it happen right before our very eyes from the seat of our Africa Twins as we were trailing right behind him. We both sprang into action as emergency responders. Poor old Paul was now in shock. Russ stayed with him and I rode a short ways away to find a guy and his wife picking blackberries deep in the woods. The $$ offered made them drop everything and offer up a ride to Paul’s who’s GSA wasn’t moving anywhere soon without the aid of a tow truck.

Old wounds heal into tales, and here we are, damn lucky to ride to places most folks in the USA or even Mexico don’t even know exist.

Now back to Mexico land. The Spanish linguists—Roberto, David, Luis, Ray, and me—stood out quick, our Spanish flowing as easy as the desert wind.

Roberto’s hands still twitch from a head on collision in Ensenada on the observatory road. You either have that fire in you to continue riding after a near death experience or you’re done. There’s no in between. We now live to ride and ride to eat.

Road Notes – Tecate Kickoff: Picture a town you feel safe in. That’s us now at the Estancia Inn. Last night, margaritas hit the table, same bartender as last year was now grinning at us as he kept mixing his secret concoctions for the entire group.

Dinner was a killer—molcajeta’s made with Sonora beef all around. The US media’s fearmongering about stepping foot or riding in Mexico. Perhaps it’s like the term, ride your own ride. You decide what’s best for you and then go with it.

Next up: Puerto Peñasco, a sandy little town on the Sea of Cortez. Two windmills tower over a tourist hive—mostly Arizonans buzzing on golf carts and side-by-sides. We bunk at the Hotel Playa Azul, a basic one-story joint from the worker days—clean and comfortable with parking right out on the front.

Across the street, scrap-metal bars started to hum at around 8p.m. till god only knows how long.

Earlier in the day we blasted through a five-mile desert rainstorm, sand crusting our entire bikes. I wondered why Todd slowed—to 91 mph.

Road Notes – Puerto Peñasco Chaos: Took taxis to Señor Amigo for seafood—damn good. Hotel’s sandwiched by karaoke, tacos, strip clubs, working girls. Sat on plastic chairs in the lot, watching the street circus.

Then biker’s midnight hit, and hell broke loose. Rooftop karaoke turned into torture—think “Welcome to the Jungle” butchered ‘til the walls shook. Lightning flashed, pillows were trash, sleep was a joke. Noriega-style music torture works, trust me.

Mexico 2D’s toll road hauled us from Tecate to Mexicali—breakfast at La Cabana de Abuelo—then desert rain pinned us down, 84 degrees after a 52-degree dawn.

Sonora highway 3 was next, a scabbed-up mess of potholes and sand. Todd set a brutal pace; I stuck with him, thinking, Can’t beat it, join it. Then his arms flailed—a cow bolted from the brush, spooked stupid by our roar.

We swerved, hearts hammering. Later, two guys flagged me down at 100 mph—one with a rifle, the other a radio. I locked eyes, waved sternly, and gunned it. Poachers, maybe, but that radio nagged me. David’s Triumph lights flashed in my mirror—he ran the gauntlet too. Todd followed.

Road Notes – Sonora 3 Scare: Road’s like a chicken-poxed corpse—holes everywhere, sand half-filling ‘em. Rode the left side ‘til it crumbled too. Todd just went faster, so I did too. Then the cow—brown blur, freaked by the noise, spilled onto the road. Looked at my Garmin twice for the next gas stop. Wild day.

David passed me at 95 mph, signaling a roadside shack. Mesquite smoke hit us—chicken roasting. Half a bird, salad, four handmade tortillas for 60 pesos ($3).

I tossed candy to the kids—smiles and waves chased us to Hermosillo, a sprawl like LA at noon. Highway 16 came next, my new love. Getting there was hell—brush, rocks, cows, a road caving in. Sun blinded me through overgrown trees; I shielded my eyes to dodge a buzzard-covered horse carcass around a curve.

At the T-junction, 16 opened up—pure riding glory. Alone for a stretch, I hit that rare high, like meeting your soulmate or cradling a newborn child for the first time.

Road Notes – Highway 16 Bliss: Spotted a shack—best huevos rancheros ever. Todd rolled in, downed two steak tortas, swore they’re unmatched.

He fed a skinny dog kibble and water; I handed candy to a family—kids cheered like it was Halloween. Heart swelled, maybe a tear too. Butterfly caught my eye.

Hermosillo’s La Siesta Inn dished out tomahawk steaks. Routines kicked in—Todd lubed his chain, Dal checked tires, Luis shined his BMW 850. Coffee, big breakfast, then ride.

I stuck with Paul ‘til a farm truck distracted him. David, Larry, Ray, and Lee joined me, but I craved speed. David led, then Todd and Paul caught up. Twisties hit, and Todd became my shield—dodging trucks, cows, potholes at “Joey” speeds (named for a Copper Canyon pal). Three-quarter Joey was my max; Todd blew past it, riding like a thief.

Sahuaripa was a gut check. Covid killed its eateries, but a grandma turned her living room into a kitchen—picadillo, lard fries, beef stew.

Ray’s 1990 BMW Paris-Dakar blew its shock on a pothole; he’s now juggling FedEx and Ubers to fix it. We pushed to Creel, then Topolobampo for the midnight ferry to La Paz.

Nine days—Chihuahua to Sinaloa—landed us at Copper Canyon. Roads demand respect; one slip flips bliss to chaos. But that’s the draw. Gas, food, lodging—a quarter of home prices.

Locals, grateful for our dollars. In my panniers I carried about 35 pounds of candy that I graciously handed out at nearly every turn.

Road Notes – The Ride So Far: Picture your cozy neighborhood—that’s every town here. Media fear’s a lie. Roads, though? Fear ‘em. One ahhshit moment and you’re done.

Costs dirt cheap—91 octane, meals, beds. Handed out candy—eyes sparkled. Priceless. Batopilas to Choix was dirt, expert-only. Rode past construction, drop-offs, ruts—locals tackle it in everyday beaters.

The ferry was a paperwork shuffle and strap-down marathon. Fatigue mixed with buzz as we crossed the Sea of Cortez—Jacques Cousteau’s “world’s aquarium.”

Sinaloa beef burgers fueled stories with riders from everywhere. Baja loomed, unknown and electric. “Al mal tiempo, buena cara,” we said—grin through the grit. This ain’t just a ride; it’s life.

Trawlercat

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