Welcome to the Two Wheeled Texans community! 
Feel free to hang out and lurk as long as you like. However, we would like to encourage you to 
The crew was up early to pack the bikes and get ready for the marathon day back to Texas.
At 8 the restaurant opened for breakfast and the fatigue was showing a bit. Huevos revueltos con jamon were the order of the day before we said our goodbyes in front of the restaurant and a few final pics.
As the sound of GS’s slowly disappeared down the street, I took in the crisp air and sunshine in several deep breaths. The altitude plays a part and the steep streets don’t help. I had adopted the street style of the old natives, walking very slowly and with short steps - but I added the “Oh I must stop frequently and take this all in” move to disguise how out of shape I am.
Real is a place to savor, to breathe in, to set aside any sense of schedule and just to be. The bohemian travelers one meets all say the same thing… just let go of time. It’s easy to do here.
Having met such friendly people each time I’ve come, I must say I feel that somehow I’ve lost something that I desperately want to regain. I consider myself a caring, open, and honest person who lives by the golden rule until it hurts, yet the way people I’ve met open their homes and lives to a stranger just humbles and shames me. I’ll spare my thoughts of the hardness and futility of the American lifestyle, but I have to look deeper inside at the walls I live behind.
To a photographer’s eye, Real is an eternal landscape of textures, moments, light and juxtapositions. It is like being a kid in a candy store and yet exhausting from the number of images one takes and even mores the ones that are missed.
As my thoughts of motorcycles and goodbyes faded, I slowly walked the sunlit streets and felt a sense of complete freedom, no schedules, no agenda, nothing but the sun and the sky as friends. It was a rare feeling and I took it all in in deep breaths. Also I needed the oxygen.
I shot image after image, stalking figures both unsuspecting and aware for the moment… which rarely came or was ruined by the sudden appearance of someone into the moment. Photogs you know the frustration.
As I walked up to the municipal plaza, the sound of drums came loudly as a series of school children arrived, each marching down a different street and carrying flags and banners.
My wanderings eventually took me towards the old original church and cemetery, but I stopped for a Coke and savored the flavor while I sat on the stone ring of the old bullfight arena, it’s lukewarm contents growing warmer in the stinging mountain sun.
I reminded myself to return the glass bottle to the tiny street-side shop where the lady and her daughter stared wide-eyed at such a big gringo filling the tiny shop. I found a tree stump along the road and hid the bottle until I returned that way.
The old church was built in the late 1600’s and then abandoned when the much larger one was built in the town that grew closer to the tunnel. Though the large church is impressive, it is this original one that I fell in love with. Amongst the graves of the cemetery, which choke the entrance from the deceased’s desires to be as near the altar as possible, I saw the small, old gentleman who takes care of the church and cemetery with his wife. As I approached him he looked up and smiled in recognition. He reached out and grabbed my hand with both his, squeezing hard and smiling a big grin. I said “Jose” and he replied “Alejandro”. We attempted to communicate as usual, not really understanding but knowing each other’s desire to be able to.
From the church I wandered down across the road and climbed down into a small canyon. following it to the edge of the cliff, but it was hot and I was getting tired as the day had passed away. I retrieved the bottle and made my way back up the dusty street, passing an older lady sitting by herself on a step. She was an older Spanish lady and dressed a bit like a tourist. I greeted her as best I could, and she began speaking to me in Spanish. We attempted to talk and in her tiny bit of English told me “Toronto, Ontario, Hershey’s Chocolate, Houston” to let me know she’d traveled to the US and Canada. We laughed in our attempts to communicate and then she produced a large list of handwritten things to do in Real, pointing at each one and asking si or no? We had fun and in my attempt to say it was a pleasure to meet said “bonita’ or some other word trying express “good” - she laughed and feigned flattery. I laughed and walked on, depositing the Coke bottle with a man in the little shop who looked at me like I was crazy.
A few steps further down the road I met Brian, a young photographer from Ireland and his friend and assistant Raine. They’d hiked to the Cerro Quemado, the sacred high place of the Huichol Indians that draws new agers from around the world for it’s “energy”. It sits high above the plains that harbor peyote, a part of their ancient ritual.
I eventually made the main street for a coffee and a rest on the sidewalk out front.
Pleasantries were exchanged with a few passersby until I headed to the hotel... to download images, sort and rate, tweak, export, attempt to upload again and again, attempt to connect to the forums, attempt to edit and export GoPro footage and then upload to Youtube, then write something interesting to post, go to SmugMug and attempt to connect, wait for the uploads to complete, copy links for each photo and paste them into the ride report, check Youtube upload status, all while the internet connection stopping for 15 minute intervals, made even more fun by the hotel attendant randomly resetting the modem from somewhere downstairs… only to find the forum post has lost it’s “token” and I have to redo it all again. Sometimes I wonder why I do this… :O
At 8 the restaurant opened for breakfast and the fatigue was showing a bit. Huevos revueltos con jamon were the order of the day before we said our goodbyes in front of the restaurant and a few final pics.
As the sound of GS’s slowly disappeared down the street, I took in the crisp air and sunshine in several deep breaths. The altitude plays a part and the steep streets don’t help. I had adopted the street style of the old natives, walking very slowly and with short steps - but I added the “Oh I must stop frequently and take this all in” move to disguise how out of shape I am.
Real is a place to savor, to breathe in, to set aside any sense of schedule and just to be. The bohemian travelers one meets all say the same thing… just let go of time. It’s easy to do here.
Having met such friendly people each time I’ve come, I must say I feel that somehow I’ve lost something that I desperately want to regain. I consider myself a caring, open, and honest person who lives by the golden rule until it hurts, yet the way people I’ve met open their homes and lives to a stranger just humbles and shames me. I’ll spare my thoughts of the hardness and futility of the American lifestyle, but I have to look deeper inside at the walls I live behind.
To a photographer’s eye, Real is an eternal landscape of textures, moments, light and juxtapositions. It is like being a kid in a candy store and yet exhausting from the number of images one takes and even mores the ones that are missed.
As my thoughts of motorcycles and goodbyes faded, I slowly walked the sunlit streets and felt a sense of complete freedom, no schedules, no agenda, nothing but the sun and the sky as friends. It was a rare feeling and I took it all in in deep breaths. Also I needed the oxygen.
I shot image after image, stalking figures both unsuspecting and aware for the moment… which rarely came or was ruined by the sudden appearance of someone into the moment. Photogs you know the frustration.
As I walked up to the municipal plaza, the sound of drums came loudly as a series of school children arrived, each marching down a different street and carrying flags and banners.
My wanderings eventually took me towards the old original church and cemetery, but I stopped for a Coke and savored the flavor while I sat on the stone ring of the old bullfight arena, it’s lukewarm contents growing warmer in the stinging mountain sun.
I reminded myself to return the glass bottle to the tiny street-side shop where the lady and her daughter stared wide-eyed at such a big gringo filling the tiny shop. I found a tree stump along the road and hid the bottle until I returned that way.
The old church was built in the late 1600’s and then abandoned when the much larger one was built in the town that grew closer to the tunnel. Though the large church is impressive, it is this original one that I fell in love with. Amongst the graves of the cemetery, which choke the entrance from the deceased’s desires to be as near the altar as possible, I saw the small, old gentleman who takes care of the church and cemetery with his wife. As I approached him he looked up and smiled in recognition. He reached out and grabbed my hand with both his, squeezing hard and smiling a big grin. I said “Jose” and he replied “Alejandro”. We attempted to communicate as usual, not really understanding but knowing each other’s desire to be able to.
From the church I wandered down across the road and climbed down into a small canyon. following it to the edge of the cliff, but it was hot and I was getting tired as the day had passed away. I retrieved the bottle and made my way back up the dusty street, passing an older lady sitting by herself on a step. She was an older Spanish lady and dressed a bit like a tourist. I greeted her as best I could, and she began speaking to me in Spanish. We attempted to talk and in her tiny bit of English told me “Toronto, Ontario, Hershey’s Chocolate, Houston” to let me know she’d traveled to the US and Canada. We laughed in our attempts to communicate and then she produced a large list of handwritten things to do in Real, pointing at each one and asking si or no? We had fun and in my attempt to say it was a pleasure to meet said “bonita’ or some other word trying express “good” - she laughed and feigned flattery. I laughed and walked on, depositing the Coke bottle with a man in the little shop who looked at me like I was crazy.
A few steps further down the road I met Brian, a young photographer from Ireland and his friend and assistant Raine. They’d hiked to the Cerro Quemado, the sacred high place of the Huichol Indians that draws new agers from around the world for it’s “energy”. It sits high above the plains that harbor peyote, a part of their ancient ritual.
I eventually made the main street for a coffee and a rest on the sidewalk out front.
Pleasantries were exchanged with a few passersby until I headed to the hotel... to download images, sort and rate, tweak, export, attempt to upload again and again, attempt to connect to the forums, attempt to edit and export GoPro footage and then upload to Youtube, then write something interesting to post, go to SmugMug and attempt to connect, wait for the uploads to complete, copy links for each photo and paste them into the ride report, check Youtube upload status, all while the internet connection stopping for 15 minute intervals, made even more fun by the hotel attendant randomly resetting the modem from somewhere downstairs… only to find the forum post has lost it’s “token” and I have to redo it all again. Sometimes I wonder why I do this… :O
Last edited:
but I do wave my arms a lot and smile
I really enjoyed this report! Your fantastic photos and descriptions do a wonderful job bringing out the atmosphere of the places you visit. Thank you for all of the time you spent creating the report.
