Chingar and the Open Road: A Motorcycle Odyssey Through Mexico
Today was a zero, down, rest day that started out with therapeutic room massages on account of our tired riding shoulders and legs. Yesterday I pushed the lean angle on my BMW 1250 motorcycle possibly more than ever, on the road to Toluca, just trying to keep up with the Lord, Todd, and Chris. The Lord in this case is our most capable of riders; one that always takes the lead and holds on to it with a vengeance. Both the Lord and Todd were going toe to toe, splitting lanes and laying down tracks to each of our planned destinations.
To ask “why” he is now known as the Lord is like asking “why do nicknames always seem to rhyme for shortened versions of full names like Bob for Roberto or Bill for William.” The reason is that there’s no reason; things just evolve the way they do, and if you try to change it, there’s consequences. Did I fail to mention that Lord is his last name? I suppose we can also refer to him as Chuy, at least until we cross the border back to Phoenix.
The Lord’s sidekick Chris usually rooms with the Lord and rides a wicked Ducati, but not on this ride—he’s now on a Honda Africa Twin. The Lord needs a Robin in a way no other superhero needs a sidekick because Robin keeps the Lord from going to the dark side. Robin ensures the Lord never forgets why he chose to join a Gpskevin ride: it’s for the food, the camaraderie of riders, and to ride with Yoda Roberto and his friends. Robin has a few superhero weaknesses, though spicy foods and bad wine are the only two he’ll admit to.
We’re now at an elevation of over 8500’. Coming into Toluca, it felt like a Big Sur or Monterey, California sort of climate and greenery. Finally, we arrive in the land of mole—a chocolate sauce requiring the roasting, toasting, pureeing, reconstituting, frying, and heaven only knows what other processing of twenty-eight different ingredients, served in a molcajete, a lava-rock bowl. Neither one at our table cared much for it. “Hold on Lord, I’m coming,” says Robin.
In addition to riding motorcycles on scenic and twisty roads to parts far and wide in Mexico, our goal is to be like Anthony Bourdain, RIP, and walk in someone else’s shoes while eating their foods.
Bourdain knew how to walk a fine line between being a tourist and respecting local culture. Here’s an awesome quote of his: “Do we really want to travel in hermetically sealed popemobiles through the rural provinces of France, Mexico, and the Far East, eating only in Hard Rock Cafes and McDonalds?
Or do we want to travel without fear, tearing into the local stew, the humble taqueria’s mystery meat, the sincerely offered gift of a lightly grilled fish head? I know what I want. I want it all. I want to try everything once.”
Last Sunday, I left my home, and by Tuesday, we traveled to Mexico City. We’ve had one non-riding day since then, and today is Sunday again. In Mexico City, riders are showing up in airplanes to pick up their motorcycles and join the rest of us already here. Canadian John joined our little table group, and we got along great catching up on previous rides.
Some of the Mexican people around the places we’ve ridden to, and plan to ride to, have ancestors who developed governments, made awesome astronomical discoveries, and created their own writing system. These future Mexicans were so smart they grew enough corn to feed their entire population, even tapping rubber trees. What they didn’t have was the wheel—yes, that was their missing link. So how did they overcome? Through the most amazing foods.
Today, they ride everything imaginable, creating constant gridlock in their cities. Rarely do they hit each other—they’re the ultimate froggers. In the game of Frogger, the object is to direct frogs home by crossing busy roads and navigating hazardous rivers. Mexicans, left to their own devices, do this better than anyone else in the world.
My friend Keith M didn’t show up to this ride due to this worldwide situation, so in his honor, we’re planning to celebrate his birthday without him, hopefully with mariachis.
Mariachi music is a cultural cornerstone of Mexico. Keith’s favorite song, I believe, is “Camino de Guanajuato.” “No vale nada la vida …….!” And where’s my tie-dye, Keith?
Roberto took us on a walking tour. Normally, mariachi bands feature seven or eight musicians in tight pants and silver-adorned jackets playing violins, trumpets, and guitars, but due to this “situation,” finding traditional mariachis is tough—any two guys in blue jeans will do.
Last night, we slept at a Holiday Inn and ate at an Applebees in Morelia, Michoacán. Trust me, 99% of people reading this have no clue where that is, beyond “somewhere in Mexico.” Do you like avocados or guacamole?
Michoacán produces more avocados than any other state in Mexico and is the world’s largest supplier. It’s a land of mountains and lakes. “Be one with the motorcycle” were the last words I heard at dinner from Todd and Joey.
Then Chris chimed in that I should bond with my BMW 1250 GSA like Cortez riding his horse Mozilla toward Montezuma. These guys are pro riders, and I’m the “kid.” Thankfully, they care enough to offer advice I took to heart.
Their timing was perfect because today was all about ultimate twisties. Picture a windy country road with elevation drops and endless riding opportunities. I progressively got better, leaning deep into corners to lower my bike’s center of gravity. At one point, I thought if I lost it on a turn, I’d vanish into the jungle, never to be heard from again, with cartels taking the blame. I have no writing credentials—just the musings of an over-60 mind for entertainment.
Don’t take riding advice from me.
In Loggins and Messina’s “Your Mama Don’t Dance and Your Daddy Don’t Rock and Roll,” the lyrics explain why our supportive women back home aren’t here: 1) she doesn’t ride, 2) there’s a worldwide pandemic, 3) why risk her safety in a foreign country?
Ladies, we love you and talk about you at dinner—Pam’s new puppy, Patti’s grandkids.
Today, I’m the group’s La Malinche—Hernán Cortés’s translator—and proud of it. Without an interpreter, it’s tough to get things done here. I’m not the fastest rider, but I make up for it elsewhere.
Fast forward to the early 1990s: I’m on a hush-hush work assignment in Mexico City with my partner S. Gonzales, who taught me the Mexican cosmos values living and enjoying life over relentless work.
At La Fuerte restaurant next to the AC Marriott our tab—appetizers, salads, drinks, Japanese oysters, wine, Grey Goose, mojitos, margaritas—hit 11,700 pesos. Our five-star 15th-floor room with a city view? Just $59 a night. Todd wants to return for their “Tomahawk” steak—pricey, but we didn’t know they counted that high.
Speaking of records, a town near Toluca boasts the world’s tallest tope—camouflaged and brutal. Chris nearly flew off his Africa Twin, and I almost went over the handlebars.
“There’s only one frontier we dare cross at night,” the old gringo said, per Carlos Fuentes’s The Old Gringo. “The frontier of our differences with each other, and of our battles with ourselves … each of us NOW carries the real frontier inside.”
Chingar belongs on any list of vital Mexican words—versatile for every mishap. Miss a turn? “Chingar, I missed it!” Joey the Lord got us so lost leaving Mexico City this morning that I stopped checking the time and watched the temperature climb from 53 to 63 degrees. “Chingar, I smell breakfast burritos!”—passed for the 12th time. Getting out of Mexico City is tough. “Chingar, now I smell lunch!”
Last night at La Fuerte, we got chingared with the bill—charged for two 3,550-peso bottles of wine when we only drank one. Each sip was divine, the food fit for gods, but don’t chingar me, hombre!
Despite leaving at 0800 instead of 0700, our mishaps made for a fun Mexican city tour. They were prepping for a bicycle race, police lights flashing in a welcoming way. We love their police and cuota roads that double as motorcycle tracks—hundreds of sport bikes, Harleys, you name it. Police only appeared for carnage cleanup; we saw two accidents. Photographers at every turn made us feel like celebrities. KTM Alaskan Todd burned through his brakes on this Mexican autobahn-style speedway. Some hit 145 mph—not me, but a KTM 1290 Adventure did.
We blew past our exit, took U-turns, and regrouped. My riding hit a personal best—no-fear, one with the bike, thanks to my riding brothers. My right hand’s calloused and blistered, but I can’t wait for tomorrow’s 200-mile ride to the ocean after today’s 333 miles toward Oaxaca.
We’re four groups, free to switch if someone’s style offends—just pay a mordito (lunch, dinner, or drinks). One rider misjudged a toll booth, and the pole slammed his head—chingar! The early group left at 0700 to beat traffic; we embraced adventure at 0800. While lost, I saw industrious Mexicans—scissors sharpening, broom making—all manual, even on a Sunday meant for rest. Mexico borders the U.S., speaks Spanish, and yes, has cartels, but we’ve never felt unsafe. My riskiest moments were self-inflicted on twisties—felt like a riding clinic. I owe Joey, Todd, and Chris for the lessons.
The alma—the inner spirit—defines Mexican and American self-worth. Americans admire success, even if immoral; Mexicans prize individuality and inner qualities over feats. Their culture celebrates this spirit. Oaxaca’s town square rivals Key West’s sunset scene with street performers—no pictures, sadly. We just got back to our hotel near midnight after a church sighting and dinner. Pleasant dreams.
Trawlercat
Trawlercat Chronicles 