The A-Team’s Mexican Odyssey: Twisties, Topes, and Unseen Spirits
The journey began with a bang—or rather, an explosion. Todd’s KTM 1290, motorcycle affectionately dubbed the Alaskan Dragon, suffered a catastrophic rear shock failure somewhere along the rugged roads of Mexico. The A-Team—comprised of Joey, Chris, Todd, and me—had been tearing through the landscape, a pack of riders bound by the thrill of the chase and the unspoken pact that no man gets left behind.
When the shock blew, Todd was known to have ridden over a tope at roughly 55 mph. It was now nearly sideways on the frame.
Todd decided it was now best to nurse the wounded Dragon back to Mexico City, with Joey and Chris riding as wingmen through the unpredictable terrain. I’d catch up with them later, but for now, my BMW 1250 GSA and I pressed on toward Veracruz, joined by Yoda Roberto, our local guide who floated between groups like a sage on two wheels.
Todd’s saga would continue but, one thing was clear: when chaos strikes in Mexico, all things—good, bad, or mechanical—are in the hands of unseen, uncontrollable spirits. No culpa, no guilt, just the road ahead.
At that moment, I found myself perched on a bench in a dusty pueblo, the air thick with the blare of festive music—horns and drums clashing in a joyous cacophony.
Our lodging that night in Veracruz was a gem: Hotel Dona Juana, a 300-year-old building modernized from its days as the home of an educated, wealthy family. The current owner regaled us with tales of its history as we checked in, and I couldn’t recommend it more highly. Our group—swelled by additional riders—required three separate locations to house us all, a testament to the camaraderie and chaos of this adventure in old town Veracruz.
After settling in, we ventured several blocks away to the Zocalo for dinner, landing at a locals’ mariscos joint. We sat under a sprawling awning on plastic chairs, warm rain tapping the canvas overhead. The river was right there and flowing gently. Hundreds of years ago, sailing ships made their way here to pick up the cotton bales.
A burly singer belted out tunes nearby, accompanied by a Covid-masked señorita of about fifteen who hammered her tap shoes on a wooden box she’d carried with her. This was both unexpected and incredibly beautiful.
Just beyond, a fisherman wielded a machete with surgical precision, filleting a fresh-caught fish that resembled a Florida Keys tarpon. Our freshly ordered dinner? It was a marvel—like watching a barber trim hair with garden shears.
The meal was a gumbo-style mariscos stew, served in a watery rice broth that sang of Spanish roots. Appetizers, drinks, and a decadent dessert of fried banana with cream cheese and queso came to 1200 pesos for six of us—a steal.
Todd, Chris, and Ed, ever the salt-of-the-earth stand-up guys, covered the bill, and Roberto, Chris, and I tipped our hats in gratitude. Afterward, we strolled off the feast, stumbling upon an old home-turned-museum once owned by Mexican movie star Lara.
His son greeted us, fixating on my BMW rain jacket. “That’s a fine bike,” he said, eyeing my GSA 1250. I jokingly offered to trade it for the motel; he pondered it for a moment before declining with a laugh, citing sentimental ties. Fair enough—some things are worth more than horsepower.
The day’s ride had been a 200-mile odyssey from Oaxaca City to Veracruz, a rollercoaster of twisties that climbed over mountain peaks and plunged through valleys. The weather swung from wet and cold—51 degrees at its chilliest—to bursts of warmth, while the scenery morphed from pine forests to rainforests reminiscent of the Pacific Northwest’s Olympic Peninsula. At times, I swore we’d left Mexico behind, transported to Thailand or Costa Rica.
The road demanded everything: sharp leans, quick brakes, and a steady nerve as we navigated potholes deep enough to swallow a tut-tut—the ingenious local vehicles adapted for everything from passenger transport to livestock hauling.
Earlier that morning, we’d split into two groups for breakfast, stopping at a parador where the special featured melted cheese over mushrooms, peppers, and fresh veggies, paired with hot chocolate made from water or fresh milk. By splitting up I mean if you’re able to keep up with the first group then that’s all that it takes.
At 51 degrees, that steaming cup was a godsend. Refueled, we tackled the twisties with gusto. Chris, on his Africa Twin, played a daring game of “no brakes,” weaving and slowing with finesse, while I shadowed him, relying on a mix of front and rear brakes, downshifts, and English-style leans.
Two close calls tested my reflexes—broken pavement rearing up mid-curve—but I held my line, craving more with every mile. This is how you get good. You ride and ride and ride. Sometimes for an entire week just to get better.
The descent brought us to a parking lot that doubled as a bakery café in a town of 1,000 souls and, improbably, fifteen bakeries. I quizzed a baker about the secret: wood-fired ovens, he said, producing bread so good it was shipped fresh to Los Angeles every week. Via a bus.
A sign in Spanish confirmed it, and I marveled at the ingenuity of this little corner of Mexico. Further along, we’d passed sugarcane fields, a Corona distillery, and tractors hauling towering stacks of cane, each rig a slow-moving obstacle amid the topes—those infamous speed bumps that demand respect. We’d gotten bold, hitting some at 45 mph, shocks groaning but holding. It’s a rush you can’t explain unless you’ve felt it.
Tlacotalpan was our stop that night, a charming town en route to the Caribbean after days tracing the Pacific from Puerto Escondido—a gringo surf haven—through Oaxaca’s highlands.
The jungle mountains had shifted the vibe entirely, tut-tuts buzzing like a scene from Southeast Asia. Yesterday, Chris and I had veered off-script, stopping at a parador for tacos and a chilled Corona while Todd and Joey blasted ahead, fueled by the road alone.
They waited for us later, mildly scolding us like concerned parents, but we shrugged it off—no culpa here, just spirits guiding us to that perfect break.
The view was stunning: mountains breathing cool air, goats clambering up trees, and a family cooking over open fires in a smoky hut. Twenty-year-old Jessica served us as her grandmother rolled fresh tortillas, her tethered toddler playing nearby—a practical choice in a land where cliffs and roads pose constant threats.
This ride was a gift, unwrapping itself anew each day. Waking up felt like Christmas morning, the promise of twisties and camaraderie pulling me from bed.
The A-Team had pushed my limits—my left lean sharper, my nerve steeled. Todd’s misadventure with the Alaskan Dragon was a reminder of the stakes, but even that couldn’t dim the magic.
Tomorrow, we’d ride 221 miles to Tehuacan, chasing more thrills. Maybe I’d pass Todd yet, though with his brakes shot and shock gone, he’d earned a hero’s retreat to Mexico City.
As for us, the road called, and the spirits—those unseen arbiters of fate—would decide what came next.
End
Trawlercat Chronicles 