Ride Report: A Solo Adventure Ride Through Mexico and Guatemala
After lugging the ever-voluptuous C-14 through the Sierra Madre Oriental in 2015, it was quite obvious that there was even more fun to be had with a bike that was better suited to the inconsistent and sometimes challenging road conditions that are encountered throughout Mexico, so I decided to add another bike to the stable, specifically one that was prepped for some adventure touring. I’ve had my eyes on a DR650 for quite some time, so after a bit of an obsessive search, I finally found the right horse that was largely already set up the way I wanted it to be. A few minor adjustments and a shakedown ride to Big Bend later, and the new girl was ready for a big adventure.
The Plan
My goal was to ride along Mexico’s Pacific coast and Sierra Madre Occidental into Guatemala, then head northeast into Belize, before crossing back into Mexico, exploring the Yucatan peninsula, and finally riding along the Gulf coast and Sierra Madre Oriental back into Texas. I had up to five weeks to complete the journey before I was expected to be at work again, which seemed reasonable enough for what I estimated would end up being around 7k miles in total.
But solo? Why would you go solo?
This was mostly due to practical reasons: not many people are able to take off from work for a period of five weeks, and even fewer are willing and able to spend that time scratching around Spanish North and Central America. As usual, I received a number of ‘maybes’ and ‘hopefullys,’ but ultimately ended up planning this as another solo adventure. There are actually a few advantages to riding solo: you are free to alter your itinerary on a whim, and you never have to worry about getting anyone else in trouble. Also, there is no one there to tell you that something isn't a good idea, but let's not get ourselves caught up in details...
Day 1: Fort Worth, TX → Eagle Pass, TX (427 miles): And so it begins…
The one part of these trips that does require a bit of courage is pulling out of your driveway on the first day. Do I have all of my documents? Did I leave anything important behind? After a few miles, you begin to settle into your groove and stop thinking about any items that you may have forgotten. That part was made easier for me by choosing the scenic route to the border: I took I-20 W to US-377 S to Brody, and then US-190 to Menard, and then US-83 to Uvalde. From there, I took FM 481 S to US-57 into Eagle Pass. I also learned that I had overestimated my fuel range by a few miles when I almost ran out of gas near Leakey, but was able to make it to the next gas station on mere fumes.
I spent the night in Eagle Pass, and stayed with a couchsurfing host named Paco who lived just a few blocks from the border. Paco, a realtor and Eagle Pass native, was both a fellow rider and an adventurer, and we immediately became friends. For dinner we crossed over to Mexico into Piedras Negras, and met up with one of Paco’s friends, who showed up on a 1200GS. After some great food, a few beers, and a lot of good stories being exchanged, Paco and I crossed back over to the U.S. side and called it a day.
Ready to leave the driveway on day 1. This is the only part of a trip like this that actually requires courage.
Day 2: Eagle Pass, TX → Saltillo, Coahuila (271 miles): The Crossing
The border crossing was uneventful. I crossed around 8:30am and reached the immigration office on Mex-57 at Allende about 30 minutes later. It took only about 25 minutes to get the temporary vehicle import permit (TVIP) and the tourist card. I stopped for lunch at a small comedor in Monclova, before continuing down Mex-57 S all the way into Saltillo.
In Saltillo I was being hosted by another couchsurfing host: Danny, who lived in the northern part of town and was also a motorcyclist and promoter, working for a well-known dog food brand. When I told Danny about my preference for tacos de lengua (tongue tacos), he immediately did some recon and found us an excellent little taco shop that had the best tacos de lengua in Saltillo. We had a very nice and relaxing evening in Saltillo, and Danny gave me lots of ideas and suggestions for my travels.
Quote of the night, said in a voice of despair: “Man, I don’t know why I like chubby girls.” This may or may not have caused me to have beer come out of my nose.
Ready to cross into Mexico. I don't know why this always triggers the melody of "Tequila" by The Champs to start playing in my head, but I'm not fighting it!
[ame=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3H6amDbAwlY]Warning: This may not leave your ear for days.[/ame]
The Aduana at Allende. Time to get the TVIP and tourist card.
Mex-57 South toward Saltillo, having just passed Monclova and the Sierra de la Gloria.
My couchsurfing host stayed in an apartment in the northern part of town. The DR was locked and covered for the night, just to err on the side of caution.
Day 3: Saltillo, Coahuila → Torreón, Coahuila (159 miles): The Accident in the Desert
The third day was about to deliver the first bit of real adventure on this trip, if only in a form that unexpected. My destination for that day was the city of Durango, a 5.5-hour ride through the desert on the Mex-40D Quota (toll road). About 90 minutes into the ride, everything was going nice and easy, and I was passing a part of the highway, at which a local highway (COAH 102) branches off to go south toward the town of Parras de la Fuente. I was continuing straight, and there were very few vehicles on the highway at the time. The intersection also had a Pemex gas station on the right hand side of the highway, and there were a couple of 18-wheelers parked parallel to the highway, blocking off much of the access to the gas station.
As I approached that intersection, I noticed the front end of a silver pickup truck protruding from between the two 18-wheelers. One of the two 18-wheelers was blocking the view of the pickup truck, so I slowed down as I watched the truck slowly inching its way onto the highway. Being positioned in the left lane, I had a sufficient amount of space, and I would enter its field of view long before it would come close. The pickup truck continued to slowly roll onto the highway, while remaining perfectly perpendicular to the direction of travel. It isn’t unusual for a car to pull out as you are passing it, so I thought little of it and expected the truck to time its emergence appropriately.
However, the truck continued to roll onto the highway a bit too quickly, even after the driver was able to see me. I began to shave off some speed, which eventually turned into full-on threshold breaking once it became evident that a collision was unavoidable. I kept on hoping that the driver would either stop the truck or gas it at the last second, allowing me to get off the brakes and steer around it, but no such luck. Fortunately, I was able to shave off the majority of the speed before the impact, but I still slammed right into the driver’s side door. As I made impact, the bike folded to the right and we both bounced off and back onto the pavement, where I did my best impersonation of a tope (speed bump). Son of a bi$@%&! My first thought was that my bike was going to be in pieces, and that this trip was going to be over on just the third day. My next thought was that my right hand and my ribs hurt like a son of a gun, and that there might be more to this accident than whatever damage there was to the bike.
Much to my surprise, the DR actually did fairly well, with cosmetic damage to the tank, grip, and hand guard. However, the big question mark was about the forks. Based on a quick self-assessment, I was fairly confident that the fingers on my right hand were only sprained, although the pain in my ribs was remarkably familiar from back when I used to occasionally crack a rib during martial arts training. Knowing that there wasn’t much that could be done for either of those two injuries, I decided to refuse medical assistance for the time being.
I asked the other party—an elderly couple from Mazatlán who were on their way to visit their sons in Chicago—to call the police, so that we could go through the proper channels. The municipal police showed up within a few minutes, and much to my delight, they immediately interviewed both parties and took detailed pictures of the accident site and both vehicles. After about 30 minutes of what appeared to be a reasonably thorough investigation, they informed us that since the accident occurred on a federal highway (Mex-40D), they had no jurisdiction, and that they would inform the Policía Federal, who would be responsible for this investigating this case. I can only assume that they were so bored that they initially decided to overlook the obvious and sought to kill some time.
The local office of the Policía Federal was only about 200m away, well within view from where we were standing. Nonetheless, after two hours of waiting, they had yet to show up. At that point, the driver—who had since apologized to me for his mistake—walked over to the office to see if he could motivate them to come out. Apparently they told him that they had no interest in coming out, and if they did, then they would start by impounding both vehicles until the matter was settled. I suppose this was their way of saying, if you force us to come out of the air conditioning, then we are going to be pissed! After telling me about their response, the elderly man launched into a tirade about the Federales in English, which was pretty funny in itself.
Without any official police involvement, the matter was now left up to the insurance companies, who had been notified and were both sending their adjusters to the accident scene. This meant two more hours of waiting time until the adjusters from both insurance companies arrived. At this point I was very glad that I had purchased full coverage for Mexico, so even in the event that the other party was to pull a fast one on me, I was covered. Fortunately for me, the other party was very honest about what happened, and officially accepted the liability for this accident. Since my bike was still rideable, I opted for getting the damages repaired upon my return to the U.S., and was finally able to move on with my trip. We completed the paperwork, and after over four hours of waiting in the desert heat, I was finally on my way.
My goal for the day had been to reach Durango, but that was still 240 additional miles through the desert, without knowing the exact damages that the bike had sustained in the accident. Instead, I decided to limp the bike to Torreón, which was only about 80 miles away from the accident site. I arrived there during the heat of the day, and found that the hotel that I had in my notes no longer existed. Exhausted and in pain, I decided to stay at the nearest place that my GPS would suggest. This happened to be an auto motel—a type of hourly (“romantic”) hotel that is big on privacy and low on price, and is quite common in most Mexican towns—but I was too tired to care. The lady in charge was a bit confused with my desire to spend the entire night there (by myself, no less), but finally quoted me a price of 300 pesos (approx. $16) for the night.
I ended the day on a positive note, by hanging out with Paula, another couchsurfer and a local dentist. Paula was a friend of Danny, and was nice enough to show me around Torreón that evening. This was also when I realized that I had not memorized the name of my hotel, so it took a bit (ok, a lot) of time and a very annoyed taxi driver to find it again. The rest of that night was uneventful, with the exception of the unsolicited midnight concert that was being broadcasted from the various sections of the hotel complex...
Heading into the desert west of Saltillo.
Within a few minutes after the accident, the municipal police was on the scene and actively investigating. You can see the dent in the driver's side door of the Toyota Tundra. If you look closely, you can even see my hand imprinted. Ok, just kidding on the last part.
This was the site of the accident. I wanted to go straight, and the truck came out of the gas station, trying to cross the highway get to the exit to Parras. At the time, there were 18-wheelers parked a bit further behind of where they are positioned in this picture. The truck came out between two 18-wheelers onto the highway.
Finally on the road again after over four hours of dealing with the accident in the desert heat. This picture was taken about 23 miles SE of the town of San Pedro.
Auto motels have "private driveways," in this case with curtains that can be closed behind the car.
I tried not think of what kind of life this bed has lived.
A pink & white bathroom. Because nothing screams romance quite like this. Or something.
The sign on the door offered everything from drinks to shampoo. The sign on the left offers help to victims of extortion.
Enchiladas verdes for dinner.
Day 4: Torreón, Coahuila → Victoria de Durango, Durango (164 miles)
After rolling out of bed and feeling like I had been run over by a truck, I did a relatively thorough mechanical check of the bike. The forks were moving freely, so even if they were a bit tweaked, it was possible to continue the trip. The rest of the damage was largely cosmetical, although the gear shifter had taken a bit of a beating and had to be rigged back into place. I actually felt good about being able to move on toward Durango, and took Mex-40 southwest through the desert.
I did a quick lunch stop near Los Cuatillos, and reached Victoria de Durango by the early afternoon. This city of roughly 500,000 people sits at an elevation of 1,880 m (6,168 ft), causing the bike to show the first signs of altitude sickness as the carburetors were starving for oxygen. This started a routine of adjusting the idle, which basically continued on a daily basis throughout the trip. Eventually I became so used to adjusting the idle that I would often do it while sitting at a traffic light.
I stayed at Hotel Paso Real for the proud sum of 270 pesos (approx. $14.40), which got me a decent room with a moldy shower, a non-working fan, and secure parking in the back of the hotel. The town itself seemed lively, and I spent the rest of the day exploring it on foot.
Early that morning, I went through the bike to assess the damage from the accident. The DR had come out surprisingly well.
What you call overloaded, others call efficient. Photographed near Cuencamé, Durango.
No frills, but at least there was no midnight concert involved here.
Some of the Mexican Walmarts sell small-displacement motorcycles. Cost: 15-17,000 pesos (around $729-826 dollars).
A small concert was taking place at the main plaza.
Durango's cathedral, Catedral Basílica de Durango.
Another church, Iglesia del Sagrado Corazón de Jesus.
This place was practically next to my hotel, so it was perfect for dinner.
My favorite dish for dinner: enchiladas verdes.
Dinner is never complete without dessert, just like a plaza is never complete without an ice cream shop. I tried the tequila ice cream, but that concept didn't really work for me.
Day 5: Victoria de Durango, Durango → Concordia, Sinaloa (200 miles)
I was excited to leave Durango the next morning, because this would mark my crossing the Sierra Madre into Sinaloa, and, hopefully, seeing the Pacific ocean in Mazatlán by that end of the day. The way to coast offered two strongly contrasting routes: you could take the brand new tollway (Mex-40D) through 60 mountain tunnels and many brides, including Baluarte Bicentennial Bridge, the highest cable-stayed bridge in the world at a total length of 1,124 m (3,688 ft), and sitting at 403 m (1,322 ft) above the valley below. The second option is to take the old highway (Mex-40), which beautifully snakes its way through the Sierra Madre, but is also notorious for being hazardous and time-consuming.
The decision was easy: I was going to do both. This required some careful time management, so I decided to take the toll road until near the town of El Salto, then switch to the old highway to ride around the area of Parque Natural Mexiquillo, a place that is known for its breathtaking natural beauty, and finally continue until I was in Sinaloa, at which point I could backtrack to see the Baluarte Bicentennial Bridge.
The new highway was exactly as one would expect: mostly flawless pavement and Texas-style straight road as far as the eye could see. This allowed me to make good time and it was easy to find the branching point to cross over to the old highway near El Salto. The old highway instantly won my heart over, as the scenery was breathtaking and the riding through the Sierra Madre was nothing short of spectacular. The pavement quality was mostly good enough to have fun on, and the view was intoxicating. It didn’t take long for the effects of the new highway to become obvious, as there were very few vehicles on old road, and many vendor stands and shops that had been abandoned. I spent several hours of carving through the mountains, and only encountered about a handful of other vehicles.
At some point I stopped in a village to get some gasoline, when suddenly the serenity was interrupted by the sound of about half a dozen ATVs and side-by-sides that came screaming up a nearby dirt road filled the air. They aimed straight for the gas station, and quickly inundated the place from every angle. The first thing that struck me as odd was the fact that these were all super high-end vehicles, and most of them looked like they had just rolled off a showroom floor yesterday. The guys riding them were mostly young and all of them were in full gear, with a few wearing ski masks. I glanced at the gas station attendant, who was pumping my gas, but her look was stern and she refused to look up. The entire situation was bizarre and unexpected, and made my inner alarm bells go off. A couple of them pulled around the gas pump to the side that I was on, and seemed surprised by my presence (I think being on the far side of the gas pump had initially concealed me). They looked at my bike and me, and I, not knowing what else to do, gave them a friendly nod. A couple of them nodded back at me, then they all roared back down the same dirt road that they had come from.
I’m not the type of person that is easily spooked or quickly jumps to conclusions, and while there are people who ride ATVs in these mountains, this group created a set of dynamics that were both unnerving and unpredictable, and I was glad to get out of there. Every Mexican national that I’ve ever told of that encounter was convinced that they were narcos, since the area is known for its narcotics activity. Whoever they may have been, they did have some good taste in offroad equipment.
When I finally reached the tollway again, I was already in Sinaloa. I backtracked until I reached the famous Baluarte Bicentennial Bridge, and stopped there to take a break and eat some snacks at one of the food stands. When I finally arrived in Concordia, I was exhausted from the long ride in the heat. Concordia is a small town of about 8,000 people, and is located about 30 miles East of Mazatlán. After a bit of searching, I found the house of my couchsurfing host Eduardo near the town center. He is a young guy who builds electric guitars for a living, and enjoys meeting travelers from all over.
We decided to spend the evening in Mazatlán, and took a local bus for the 45-minute journey into the city. Mazatlán is absolutely everything that everyone always claims it is: a beautiful oceanside town of about 440,000 people with a strong colonial history that served as the capital of Sinaloa in the 19th century. We made our way to the beach, and enjoyed some local ceviche while watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean. After that, Eduardo decided to show me the nightlife of Mazatlán, and off we went on what essentially amounts to a pub crawl, during which we partied like rockstars. We were having such a good time that we missed the last bus and ended up having to take a taxi all the way back to Concordia, which cost us 500 pesos (approx. $27), and was well worth it.
The bike is ready to go after spending a night in the "secure parking" area of the hotel, which was essentially a back room.
This was the type of landscape that was found west of Durango City. Photographed about 12 miles NE of El Tecuan National Park.
On the old highway, about 1 mile N of the village of Las Adjuntas, Durango, and the Río Presidio.
The old highway is phenomenal for riding: the pavement is (mostly) great, and the scenery is spectacular. This was about 1 mile W of Los Bancos, Durango.
Fantastic riding in the mountains near the Durango-Sinaloa border.
The elevation was now approximately 7,500 ft (2,286 m), and not a soul in sight.
Not only the bike was feeling the elevation. This was in the middle of the Sierra Madre in Sinaloa.
The Tropic of Cancer in Sinaloa.
The town of Potrerillos, Sinaloa.
Once I was finally back on the new highway, there were lots of tunnels to pass through.
And, of course, Baluarte Bicentennial Bridge, the highest cable-stayed bridge in the world at a total length of 1,124 m (3,688 ft), and sitting at 403 m (1,322 ft) above the valley below.
The main plaza in Concordia, a sleepy little nest of about 8,000 people, located 30 miles East of Mazatlán.
The San Sebastian church in Concordia is about 350 years old, making it the oldest church in all of Sinaloa.
Finally at the house of my couchsurfing host in Concordia.
Secure parking. Bedroom parking, even.
This was a cute little house with the coolest doorways.
The yard was used to grow Aloe vera, among other things.
The bathroom was essentially an outhouse, which worked just fine.
A short bus ride later, and we were hanging out in Mazatlán.
Mazatlán was dynamic and fun. I could get used to this!
And yes--the Pacific Ocean!
We picked a neat spot to enjoy some seafood, drink beers, and watch the sunset over the Pacific Ocean.
I always considered for Costa Rica to have the best ceviche, but Mazatlán was giving the Ticos a run for their money!
Watching the sunset at Mazatlán. Therapy for the soul!
Day 6: Concordia, Sinaloa → Guadalajara, Jalisco (295 miles)
I woke up with less of a hangover than I had anticipated, so I was able to get an early start. My goal was to make it at least as far as Tepic in Nayarit, and ideally all the way to Guadalajara. Not being quite at 100%, I opted for the toll road and took Mex-15D into Nayarit and past Tepic (where I was hit by a bird with questionable navigation skills), at which point I figured that I had enough energy in my tank to make it all the way to Guadalajara. I briefly considered stopping at Tequila, but ultimately decided to stay two nights in Guadalajara instead (blasphemous, I know). My couchsurfing host there wasn’t expecting me for another day, so I grabbed a hotel room in the center of town. It was called Hotel Dali Plaza, and was a solid step above the class of hotel that I normally prefer to use on these trips, but at 495 pesos (approx. $26.40) it was still within the scope of my travel budget.
Driving in central Guadalajara wasn’t as bad as you it could have been, but still, it did entail a crash course in lane splitting and creative passing that would end up serving me well later in the trip. Everything essentially boils down to one simple principle—if there is space, take it or someone else will. Note that ‘space’ is a rather loosely defined term, and can mean anything from a part of a lane to a part of the shoulder or even off-road. Regardless, if you’re not using that space, someone else will.
I ate dinner at a restaurant called La Chata de Guadalajara, which turned out to be absolutely amazing. The wait was about 45 minutes (it was a Saturday night), but the food was absolutely incredible and well worth it. Lengua en salsa verde (beef tongue in green sauce) turned out to be one of the best dishes that I’ve ever had in Mexico, and was nicely complimented by some Jose Cuervo 1800. Afterwards, I sampled a few of the bars on my way back to the hotel, but after that crazy night in Mazatlán, Guadalajara actually seemed comparatively tame. Nonetheless, this was a fun Saturday night in the center of town.
Props to one of the coolest-ever couchsurfing hosts for an epic adventure in Mazatlán!
The streets of Concordia were even sleepier than usual when I left that morning.
On Mex-15, about 4 miles S of Ojo de Aqua de Palmillas, getting ready to cross into the state of Nayarit.
Splurging on a tourist class hotel room. Low on adventure, high on comfort.
The center of Guadalajara was filled with people and all sorts of activities.
The cathedral at the Plaza de Armas in Guadalajara. This is by the main square in the historic center of town.
La Chata de Guadalajara served me one of the best meals of the trip with this beef tongue in green sauce. Delicious!
Jose Cuervo 1800 and a couple of unidentified chasers for good measure.
Day 7: Guadalajara Centro → Zapopan, Jalisco (6 miles, in-town riding only)
This was my first day off, but I still had to ride across town to reach my couchsurfing host Humberto, who lived in Zapopan, which was northwest of the center of town. Navigating in a metropolitan area is usually the most difficult (not to mention annoying) part of motorcycle travel, and this was no exception. My GPS refused to acknowledge that his address existed, so I was stuck using creative measures to aim for a location that was close to my actual destination. Getting to the right part of town was easy, but finding the actual street was another matter altogether. Eventually everything lined up, and before I knew it, Humberto and I were drinking beers and watching the Copa America on tv. Humberto was one of the most laid-back people that I have ever met, and he pretty much seemed impossible to offend or even get a rise out of. He teaches English classes to Chinese students online, so he gets to work from home and have a flexible schedule.
For dinner, we went to a local taco stand that had some ridiculously good tacos. There were so many choices that I decided to just take one of each. It rained cats and dogs that evening, and I kept hoping that the weather would pass by the next morning, which it fortunately did.
The author Robert Heinlein once said that one should not attend even the end of the world without a good breakfast. Like the one I had at a place called La Fonda de San Miguel Arcángel, in Guadalajara.
My couchsurfing host Humberto lived in Zapopan, which was a bit less scenic than the historic center, but the tacos there were to die for.
Secure parking in front of Humberto's place.
I need one of those taco stands on my street as well, please. At each end. And one at work as well.
These guys may look like regular Mexicans, but they're actually magicians. Those were definitely the best tacos that I've ever had.
I didn't really know what to order, so I just got one of each, which included sausage, intestine, steak, and a few other things that I do not recall.
Day 8: Zapopan, Jalisco → Pátzcuaro, Michoacán (182 miles)
The eight day marked an important part of the trip, as this was the beginning of the part when I would travel through the states of Michoacán and Guerrero, which are considered to be high-risk areas. Both of those states have a very rich history and culture, but they have also been marred by periods of unrest and violence. To be honest, I spent a disproportionate amount of time planning that section of the trip by digging through every shred of information that is available on the security situation in those two states. As it turns out, there is an abundance of disparaging information out there about those areas, but a careful analysis shows that much of the violence is restricted to cartel-related issues, and even that is commonly reported through the eyes of fear and sensationalism. There is no doubt that some of those areas can be quite dangerous, but it is also a fact that a combined eight million people live in those two states, and most of them are able to avoid the violence every day. I planned on being one of them by setting a few rules that have always served me well in the past:
1. Never ride at night. I have previously done a significant amount of nighttime travel in rural Mexico by car, and there is no doubt that it increases the associated risk exponentially. Daytime Mexico and nighttime Mexico can be two very different places. A number of Mexican nationals with first-hand knowledge of the situation in those areas also confirmed that the vast majority of the operational end of narco activity occurs at night.
2. Query the locals. Get a consensus from multiple local sources with obvious knowledge of that particular area. In my experience, reliable sources include taxi drivers, truck drivers, and soldiers of the Mexican Army.
3. Use common sense. If I’m in a high-risk area, I’m much more likely to stick to primary roads, and do not feel as tempted to explore random routes that look like they could lead off the beaten path. A lot of those rural areas that do have narco activity have tons of lookouts and informants, so people will know about your presence long before you actually encounter them. If an area looks like it might be a bit too adventurous, I have no qualms about turning around and losing a few hours, rather than shortening my own life expectancy.
So off I went down Mex-15D across River Lerma into Michoacán, and continued on the tollway until near Churintzio, then headed south on Mex-37 until near Carapan, at which point I turned southwest on Mex-15 toward Lago de Pátzcuaro. I stopped in Zacapu for lunch, and just past Comanja the road became deliciously twisty. Unfortunately, the sky opened up shortly thereafter, giving me my first rain ride of the trip in a mountain section, of all places. The ride around the lake (Lago de Pátzcuaro) was incredibly scenic, and I finally arrived exhausted but happy in the town of Pátzcuaro. This place was founded sometime in the 1320s and has since played a major cultural role in Michoacán.
I spent the night in Hotel Pátzcuaro, which was located near the town center, for 395 pesos (approx. $21). The room was tiny but clean, and secure bike parking was available in the lobby. The city has a very colonial look to it, and many of the streets are paved with cobblestone. Throughout my travels I have always noticed that as elevation increases, the local cultures tend to also become increasingly distant, making it more difficult to have genuine interactions with people. Pátzcuaro (elevation 2,140 m [7,020 ft]) was no exception to that rule, and it wasn’t always easy to get people to engage in conversations.
A quick pre-departure shot with my couchsurfing host Humberto, the chillest dude you will ever meet.
Entering Michoacán.
Lunch stop in in Zacapu, Michoacán.
So, so good. I wanna go back to Zacapu, just to eat at that restaurant again.
Tzintzuntzán, is a small town (with a cool name) that sits on the northeastern shore of Lake Pátzcuaro in Michoacán.
Plaza Vasco de Quiroga is the main plaza in Pátzcuaro, a place that has both a rich culture and a lot of history. Also, you don't see a lot of sportbikes outside of the metropolitan areas, so the red & white R6 was noteworthy.
The plaza was dedicated to Vasco de Quiroga, a bishop who took over the town at a time when the Spanish were ruling the place with an iron fist. This fountain is honoring that same bishop.
The Ex monastery of San Agustin.
Dinner at Restaurant Lupita with a mug of Indio, my brew of choice in Mexico.
For a good local cuisine, the staff recommended "Pollo Placero," which were essentially Pátzcuaro-style enchiladas, stuffed with cheese and onion, as well as sauteed carrots and potatoes.
Hotel Pátzcuaro was a decent hotel, located in the center of town.
Secure lobby parking.
Day 9: Pátzcuaro, Michoacán → Zihuatanejo, Guerrero
Heading down to Zihuatanejo had been on my mind for a long time, even though it wasn’t part of my original itinerary. The accident in Coahuila had slowed my progress and I had already burned a couple of my “flex days,” but I thought, what the heck—I’m already here. I took Mex-120 South into the mountains. There was a police checkpoint at the northern end of the town of Opopeo, and they took their time thoroughly examining my TVIP documents, which was a first on this trip. Those cops were edgy and grumpy, and I was happy to be on the road again after about 15 minutes of answering questions and showing documents. Mex-120 looks like your typical primary highway on the map, but as soon as you pass Santa Clara del Cobre, it instantly becomes a very desolate mountain road. The scenery was absolutely gorgeous, and the views of the Sierra Madre were a treat for the senses, but the isolation and sense of vulnerability on those desolate mountain roads—whether real or just perceived—was eerie.
When I got to the southern end of La Huacana, there was a checkpoint where I was signaled to pull over. Traveling in Mexico means passing through lots of checkpoints, including both police and military versions. But this one was different. It was manned by a guy in civilian clothing, his maroon-colored 90s model Nissan Sentra parked off the road, and clutching an AK-47. Going through a police or military checkpoint is one thing, but I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of being questioned by someone without any sort of uniform or official designation. Finally I noticed a patch on his sleeve—Fuerza Rural, one of the autodefensa (self-defense) paramilitary/vigilante groups that were originally created by local civilians in an attempt to fight the cartels. After some initial successes battling the cartels, the situation had quickly became complicated, and several of those groups were ultimately dissolved after evidence emerged that their leaders were themselves involved with the cartels.
The guy asked me who I was and what I was doing there. I was sporting the most disarming demeanor that I could muster, and told him that I was just a traveler passing through the mountains on my way to the coast. He stared at me in disbelief and said that this area was very dangerous, upon which I assured him that I was heading straight for the tollway at the earliest opportunity. At that point, he got on his cell phone and reported to someone on the other end. “Yeah, I got the motorcycle.” Not ‘a motorcycle,’ but ‘the motorcycle.’ That one word sent chills down my spine. He appeared to be receiving instructions, which he acknowledged with an occasional grunt. Almost a bit surprisingly, but much to my delight, he told me to be careful and let me go on.
I was relieved when I finally reached the tollway Mex-37D, which ran straight to the coast. It was already late afternoon when I crossed the Atoyac River, the natural border between Michoacán and Guerrero, eventually reaching Mex-200, which runs right along the coast. The sight of the Pacific Ocean instantly gave me a huge second wind, even though I had to dig out my rain gear for one part of the final stretch.
As I was approaching Zihuatanejo, I couldn’t help but to think of Harry Devert, the 32-year old New York native who was murdered while on his way to ride to the World Cup in Brazil in January 2014. His remains were later found near Zihuatanejo, and a local gang leader was eventually arrested for his murder. Everybody in town and the surrounding area was familiar with the case, and it was rather interesting to hear the various local perspectives. Most of the locals feared the mountains, but Zihuatanejo itself was considered to be relatively safe. The consensus was that Devert’s main mistake was breaking one of the golden rules: he rode at night.
Guerrero is considered to be at least as high-risk as Michoacán, so I had a strong interest in the security situation. One lady told me that she had been abducted by narcos a few years ago, and that she had been held captive for several months. At some point she managed to escape, but has never been able to return to her hometown in the mountains out of fear of the narcos there. Stories like hers were not unusual, nor were reports of mutilated corpses being found off the mountain roads.
After a quick walk through the center of town, I decided to stay at a small hotel called Hotel Ada, named after the lady who owned it. It took a bit of haggling, but we finally agreed on a rate of 250 pesos (approx. $13.25), which got me a nice and clean room with a ceiling fan and lobby parking. The main beach near the town center features a combination of restaurants and infrastructure for local fishermen. One of the main attractions are fishing tours for tourists, and there are lots of private vendors who are offering to take you out in their boats. Local restaurants are even advertising to prepare and cook your own catch of the day for you. That evening, I enjoyed a nice dinner at the beach, and found the town to be unexpectedly charming, in spite of the abundance of tourists.
Heading South on Mex-120, about 2.5 miles N of Opopeo.
Crossing the Infiernillo Reservoir on my way into Guerrero.
After a long mountain ride, I finally made it to Zihuatanejo. Nothing cures fatigue like the sight of the ocean.
Hotel Ada, my home-away-from-home for the night.
The room itself was nice and clean.
A statue dedicated to the State of Guerrero.
Zihuatanejo seemed vibrant and energetic, the way you'd expect a beach town to be.
Fishermen at the beach of "Zihua."
Zihua even has a humane society.
There are lots of restaurants along the beach, some of which will cook your own catch of the day for you, if you feel so inclined.
A statute dedicated to Jose Azueta, a Mexican Navy Lieutenant who died while fighting against the U.S. occupation of Veracruz in 1914.
The pier at Zihua.
Had I not been exhausted from a long ride, I probably would have chartered a small fishing boat to catch some dinner. Next time!
Some of the finer things in life come in small packages. At least that's what I keep telling myself when I'm hungry and the portions are small.
Day 10: Zihuatanejo, Guerrero → Taxco, Guerrero (262 miles)
After a nice breakfast in Zihuatanejo, I backtracked on Mex-200 along the coast for a bit, before heading northeast into the mountains on Mex-134. I ran out of juice in Coyuca de Catalán, so I stopped there for some lunch in the form of my usual favorite—enchiladas verdes. The way to Taxco proved to be long and tedious through the never-ending sequence of blind but beautifully scenic turns through the Sierra.
At one point I became concerned about running out of gas, so I stopped at a farmhouse and asked if they had any gas for sale. They didn’t, but pointed me toward another farmer that lived nearby, and that person was nice enough to sell me five liters of gas. The road was extremely curvy and full of switchbacks, and seemed to drag on for hours. Every time I passed through a village, a lot of curious eyes seemed to examine me, and I did my best to offer a friendly nod or a wave everywhere I went.
Shortly before reaching Taxco, I was exhausted and running low on energy, when a local rider passed me in a particularly celebratory fashion that woke me up and got my juices flowing again. We ended up in a friendly race for the last ten miles to Taxco, and he turned out to be a solid mountain rider, complete with a couple of kamikaze passes into blind turns.
The GPS estimated about 6.5 hours for the route, but the actual time was every bit of 10 hours. I pulled into town right as the sun was beginning to set, so I had no time to waste if I wanted to explore Taxco a bit. I booked a room at Hotel Real de Taxco for 420 pesos (approx. $23.85), which included a neat accommodation, a fan, hot water (!), and secure gated parking.
Taxco is a city of about 52,000 inhabitants, and is known for its silver mining and smithing. It is set in a very rugged and steep part of the mountains, and some of the streets are among the steepest that I have seen anywhere. Curiously, the vast majority of the taxi cabs in Taxco are Volkswagen Beetles that have been customized specifically for that purpose.
That evening, I decided to spoil myself to a nice dinner at a fancy-ish restaurant, which included a regional speciality called mole rosa, which entailed chicken breast in a chocolate-based sauce, and was followed by platano flameada (flamed bananas), prepared with tequila and orange juice, and was absolutely delicious.
Just a few houses here and there were all that you'd encounter in the Sierra Madre of Guerrero.
I was able to buy some gasoline from the farmer who lived at this house. This was about 8 miles N of Vallecitos de Zaragoza.
The road itself featured a never-ending series of turns as it wound its way through the Sierra Madre.
Absolutely breath-taking scenery in the Sierra Madre of Guerrero.
Not an unusual sight in Mexico, and one of the reasons why hauling tail would be ill-advised.
Luscious green everywhere you looked: Finally climbing out of the Sierra.
Having left the Sierra Madre behind, the road began to straighten out accordingly. This was about 10 miles S of Coyuca de Catalán. The mountains ahead mark the state border between Guerrero and Michoacán. (To be precise, the actual state border is formed by the Ayotac River that runs through those mountains).
Lunch in Coyuca de Catalán, Guerrero.
A clean hotel room with hot water. What more could you ask for?
Parroquia de Santa Prisca y San Sebastían, the official name of the cathedral at Taxco.
As is usually the case, the main plaza was adjacent to the cathedral. Notice the white VW beetle taxis, which seemed to be the standard for taxis throughout Taxco.
After searching for the right hole-in-the-wall type of restaurant, I decided to treat myself to some fancy grub at El Rincón del Toril.
Mole rosa was a local delicacy that is said to be based upon an Aztec tradition, in which tomatoes, vanilla, and spices were mixed with other ingredients. It might look unorthodox, but this stuff is delicious.
The streets in Taxco are steep. Really, really, steep. Much steeper than it appears in this picture. If you learn how to drive with a manual transmission here, you're probably going to be fine driving anywhere else in the world.
Some of the streets don't look like actually using them would be a good idea.
The crowds were out and about in the evening, strolling around the main plaza.
After lugging the ever-voluptuous C-14 through the Sierra Madre Oriental in 2015, it was quite obvious that there was even more fun to be had with a bike that was better suited to the inconsistent and sometimes challenging road conditions that are encountered throughout Mexico, so I decided to add another bike to the stable, specifically one that was prepped for some adventure touring. I’ve had my eyes on a DR650 for quite some time, so after a bit of an obsessive search, I finally found the right horse that was largely already set up the way I wanted it to be. A few minor adjustments and a shakedown ride to Big Bend later, and the new girl was ready for a big adventure.
The Plan
My goal was to ride along Mexico’s Pacific coast and Sierra Madre Occidental into Guatemala, then head northeast into Belize, before crossing back into Mexico, exploring the Yucatan peninsula, and finally riding along the Gulf coast and Sierra Madre Oriental back into Texas. I had up to five weeks to complete the journey before I was expected to be at work again, which seemed reasonable enough for what I estimated would end up being around 7k miles in total.
But solo? Why would you go solo?
This was mostly due to practical reasons: not many people are able to take off from work for a period of five weeks, and even fewer are willing and able to spend that time scratching around Spanish North and Central America. As usual, I received a number of ‘maybes’ and ‘hopefullys,’ but ultimately ended up planning this as another solo adventure. There are actually a few advantages to riding solo: you are free to alter your itinerary on a whim, and you never have to worry about getting anyone else in trouble. Also, there is no one there to tell you that something isn't a good idea, but let's not get ourselves caught up in details...
Day 1: Fort Worth, TX → Eagle Pass, TX (427 miles): And so it begins…
The one part of these trips that does require a bit of courage is pulling out of your driveway on the first day. Do I have all of my documents? Did I leave anything important behind? After a few miles, you begin to settle into your groove and stop thinking about any items that you may have forgotten. That part was made easier for me by choosing the scenic route to the border: I took I-20 W to US-377 S to Brody, and then US-190 to Menard, and then US-83 to Uvalde. From there, I took FM 481 S to US-57 into Eagle Pass. I also learned that I had overestimated my fuel range by a few miles when I almost ran out of gas near Leakey, but was able to make it to the next gas station on mere fumes.
I spent the night in Eagle Pass, and stayed with a couchsurfing host named Paco who lived just a few blocks from the border. Paco, a realtor and Eagle Pass native, was both a fellow rider and an adventurer, and we immediately became friends. For dinner we crossed over to Mexico into Piedras Negras, and met up with one of Paco’s friends, who showed up on a 1200GS. After some great food, a few beers, and a lot of good stories being exchanged, Paco and I crossed back over to the U.S. side and called it a day.
Ready to leave the driveway on day 1. This is the only part of a trip like this that actually requires courage.
Day 2: Eagle Pass, TX → Saltillo, Coahuila (271 miles): The Crossing
The border crossing was uneventful. I crossed around 8:30am and reached the immigration office on Mex-57 at Allende about 30 minutes later. It took only about 25 minutes to get the temporary vehicle import permit (TVIP) and the tourist card. I stopped for lunch at a small comedor in Monclova, before continuing down Mex-57 S all the way into Saltillo.
In Saltillo I was being hosted by another couchsurfing host: Danny, who lived in the northern part of town and was also a motorcyclist and promoter, working for a well-known dog food brand. When I told Danny about my preference for tacos de lengua (tongue tacos), he immediately did some recon and found us an excellent little taco shop that had the best tacos de lengua in Saltillo. We had a very nice and relaxing evening in Saltillo, and Danny gave me lots of ideas and suggestions for my travels.
Quote of the night, said in a voice of despair: “Man, I don’t know why I like chubby girls.” This may or may not have caused me to have beer come out of my nose.
Ready to cross into Mexico. I don't know why this always triggers the melody of "Tequila" by The Champs to start playing in my head, but I'm not fighting it!
[ame=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3H6amDbAwlY]Warning: This may not leave your ear for days.[/ame]
The Aduana at Allende. Time to get the TVIP and tourist card.
Mex-57 South toward Saltillo, having just passed Monclova and the Sierra de la Gloria.
My couchsurfing host stayed in an apartment in the northern part of town. The DR was locked and covered for the night, just to err on the side of caution.
Day 3: Saltillo, Coahuila → Torreón, Coahuila (159 miles): The Accident in the Desert
The third day was about to deliver the first bit of real adventure on this trip, if only in a form that unexpected. My destination for that day was the city of Durango, a 5.5-hour ride through the desert on the Mex-40D Quota (toll road). About 90 minutes into the ride, everything was going nice and easy, and I was passing a part of the highway, at which a local highway (COAH 102) branches off to go south toward the town of Parras de la Fuente. I was continuing straight, and there were very few vehicles on the highway at the time. The intersection also had a Pemex gas station on the right hand side of the highway, and there were a couple of 18-wheelers parked parallel to the highway, blocking off much of the access to the gas station.
As I approached that intersection, I noticed the front end of a silver pickup truck protruding from between the two 18-wheelers. One of the two 18-wheelers was blocking the view of the pickup truck, so I slowed down as I watched the truck slowly inching its way onto the highway. Being positioned in the left lane, I had a sufficient amount of space, and I would enter its field of view long before it would come close. The pickup truck continued to slowly roll onto the highway, while remaining perfectly perpendicular to the direction of travel. It isn’t unusual for a car to pull out as you are passing it, so I thought little of it and expected the truck to time its emergence appropriately.
However, the truck continued to roll onto the highway a bit too quickly, even after the driver was able to see me. I began to shave off some speed, which eventually turned into full-on threshold breaking once it became evident that a collision was unavoidable. I kept on hoping that the driver would either stop the truck or gas it at the last second, allowing me to get off the brakes and steer around it, but no such luck. Fortunately, I was able to shave off the majority of the speed before the impact, but I still slammed right into the driver’s side door. As I made impact, the bike folded to the right and we both bounced off and back onto the pavement, where I did my best impersonation of a tope (speed bump). Son of a bi$@%&! My first thought was that my bike was going to be in pieces, and that this trip was going to be over on just the third day. My next thought was that my right hand and my ribs hurt like a son of a gun, and that there might be more to this accident than whatever damage there was to the bike.
Much to my surprise, the DR actually did fairly well, with cosmetic damage to the tank, grip, and hand guard. However, the big question mark was about the forks. Based on a quick self-assessment, I was fairly confident that the fingers on my right hand were only sprained, although the pain in my ribs was remarkably familiar from back when I used to occasionally crack a rib during martial arts training. Knowing that there wasn’t much that could be done for either of those two injuries, I decided to refuse medical assistance for the time being.
I asked the other party—an elderly couple from Mazatlán who were on their way to visit their sons in Chicago—to call the police, so that we could go through the proper channels. The municipal police showed up within a few minutes, and much to my delight, they immediately interviewed both parties and took detailed pictures of the accident site and both vehicles. After about 30 minutes of what appeared to be a reasonably thorough investigation, they informed us that since the accident occurred on a federal highway (Mex-40D), they had no jurisdiction, and that they would inform the Policía Federal, who would be responsible for this investigating this case. I can only assume that they were so bored that they initially decided to overlook the obvious and sought to kill some time.
The local office of the Policía Federal was only about 200m away, well within view from where we were standing. Nonetheless, after two hours of waiting, they had yet to show up. At that point, the driver—who had since apologized to me for his mistake—walked over to the office to see if he could motivate them to come out. Apparently they told him that they had no interest in coming out, and if they did, then they would start by impounding both vehicles until the matter was settled. I suppose this was their way of saying, if you force us to come out of the air conditioning, then we are going to be pissed! After telling me about their response, the elderly man launched into a tirade about the Federales in English, which was pretty funny in itself.
Without any official police involvement, the matter was now left up to the insurance companies, who had been notified and were both sending their adjusters to the accident scene. This meant two more hours of waiting time until the adjusters from both insurance companies arrived. At this point I was very glad that I had purchased full coverage for Mexico, so even in the event that the other party was to pull a fast one on me, I was covered. Fortunately for me, the other party was very honest about what happened, and officially accepted the liability for this accident. Since my bike was still rideable, I opted for getting the damages repaired upon my return to the U.S., and was finally able to move on with my trip. We completed the paperwork, and after over four hours of waiting in the desert heat, I was finally on my way.
My goal for the day had been to reach Durango, but that was still 240 additional miles through the desert, without knowing the exact damages that the bike had sustained in the accident. Instead, I decided to limp the bike to Torreón, which was only about 80 miles away from the accident site. I arrived there during the heat of the day, and found that the hotel that I had in my notes no longer existed. Exhausted and in pain, I decided to stay at the nearest place that my GPS would suggest. This happened to be an auto motel—a type of hourly (“romantic”) hotel that is big on privacy and low on price, and is quite common in most Mexican towns—but I was too tired to care. The lady in charge was a bit confused with my desire to spend the entire night there (by myself, no less), but finally quoted me a price of 300 pesos (approx. $16) for the night.
I ended the day on a positive note, by hanging out with Paula, another couchsurfer and a local dentist. Paula was a friend of Danny, and was nice enough to show me around Torreón that evening. This was also when I realized that I had not memorized the name of my hotel, so it took a bit (ok, a lot) of time and a very annoyed taxi driver to find it again. The rest of that night was uneventful, with the exception of the unsolicited midnight concert that was being broadcasted from the various sections of the hotel complex...
Heading into the desert west of Saltillo.
Within a few minutes after the accident, the municipal police was on the scene and actively investigating. You can see the dent in the driver's side door of the Toyota Tundra. If you look closely, you can even see my hand imprinted. Ok, just kidding on the last part.
This was the site of the accident. I wanted to go straight, and the truck came out of the gas station, trying to cross the highway get to the exit to Parras. At the time, there were 18-wheelers parked a bit further behind of where they are positioned in this picture. The truck came out between two 18-wheelers onto the highway.
Finally on the road again after over four hours of dealing with the accident in the desert heat. This picture was taken about 23 miles SE of the town of San Pedro.
Auto motels have "private driveways," in this case with curtains that can be closed behind the car.
I tried not think of what kind of life this bed has lived.
A pink & white bathroom. Because nothing screams romance quite like this. Or something.
The sign on the door offered everything from drinks to shampoo. The sign on the left offers help to victims of extortion.
Enchiladas verdes for dinner.
Day 4: Torreón, Coahuila → Victoria de Durango, Durango (164 miles)
After rolling out of bed and feeling like I had been run over by a truck, I did a relatively thorough mechanical check of the bike. The forks were moving freely, so even if they were a bit tweaked, it was possible to continue the trip. The rest of the damage was largely cosmetical, although the gear shifter had taken a bit of a beating and had to be rigged back into place. I actually felt good about being able to move on toward Durango, and took Mex-40 southwest through the desert.
I did a quick lunch stop near Los Cuatillos, and reached Victoria de Durango by the early afternoon. This city of roughly 500,000 people sits at an elevation of 1,880 m (6,168 ft), causing the bike to show the first signs of altitude sickness as the carburetors were starving for oxygen. This started a routine of adjusting the idle, which basically continued on a daily basis throughout the trip. Eventually I became so used to adjusting the idle that I would often do it while sitting at a traffic light.
I stayed at Hotel Paso Real for the proud sum of 270 pesos (approx. $14.40), which got me a decent room with a moldy shower, a non-working fan, and secure parking in the back of the hotel. The town itself seemed lively, and I spent the rest of the day exploring it on foot.
Early that morning, I went through the bike to assess the damage from the accident. The DR had come out surprisingly well.
What you call overloaded, others call efficient. Photographed near Cuencamé, Durango.
No frills, but at least there was no midnight concert involved here.
Some of the Mexican Walmarts sell small-displacement motorcycles. Cost: 15-17,000 pesos (around $729-826 dollars).
A small concert was taking place at the main plaza.
Durango's cathedral, Catedral Basílica de Durango.
Another church, Iglesia del Sagrado Corazón de Jesus.
This place was practically next to my hotel, so it was perfect for dinner.
My favorite dish for dinner: enchiladas verdes.
Dinner is never complete without dessert, just like a plaza is never complete without an ice cream shop. I tried the tequila ice cream, but that concept didn't really work for me.
Day 5: Victoria de Durango, Durango → Concordia, Sinaloa (200 miles)
I was excited to leave Durango the next morning, because this would mark my crossing the Sierra Madre into Sinaloa, and, hopefully, seeing the Pacific ocean in Mazatlán by that end of the day. The way to coast offered two strongly contrasting routes: you could take the brand new tollway (Mex-40D) through 60 mountain tunnels and many brides, including Baluarte Bicentennial Bridge, the highest cable-stayed bridge in the world at a total length of 1,124 m (3,688 ft), and sitting at 403 m (1,322 ft) above the valley below. The second option is to take the old highway (Mex-40), which beautifully snakes its way through the Sierra Madre, but is also notorious for being hazardous and time-consuming.
The decision was easy: I was going to do both. This required some careful time management, so I decided to take the toll road until near the town of El Salto, then switch to the old highway to ride around the area of Parque Natural Mexiquillo, a place that is known for its breathtaking natural beauty, and finally continue until I was in Sinaloa, at which point I could backtrack to see the Baluarte Bicentennial Bridge.
The new highway was exactly as one would expect: mostly flawless pavement and Texas-style straight road as far as the eye could see. This allowed me to make good time and it was easy to find the branching point to cross over to the old highway near El Salto. The old highway instantly won my heart over, as the scenery was breathtaking and the riding through the Sierra Madre was nothing short of spectacular. The pavement quality was mostly good enough to have fun on, and the view was intoxicating. It didn’t take long for the effects of the new highway to become obvious, as there were very few vehicles on old road, and many vendor stands and shops that had been abandoned. I spent several hours of carving through the mountains, and only encountered about a handful of other vehicles.
At some point I stopped in a village to get some gasoline, when suddenly the serenity was interrupted by the sound of about half a dozen ATVs and side-by-sides that came screaming up a nearby dirt road filled the air. They aimed straight for the gas station, and quickly inundated the place from every angle. The first thing that struck me as odd was the fact that these were all super high-end vehicles, and most of them looked like they had just rolled off a showroom floor yesterday. The guys riding them were mostly young and all of them were in full gear, with a few wearing ski masks. I glanced at the gas station attendant, who was pumping my gas, but her look was stern and she refused to look up. The entire situation was bizarre and unexpected, and made my inner alarm bells go off. A couple of them pulled around the gas pump to the side that I was on, and seemed surprised by my presence (I think being on the far side of the gas pump had initially concealed me). They looked at my bike and me, and I, not knowing what else to do, gave them a friendly nod. A couple of them nodded back at me, then they all roared back down the same dirt road that they had come from.
I’m not the type of person that is easily spooked or quickly jumps to conclusions, and while there are people who ride ATVs in these mountains, this group created a set of dynamics that were both unnerving and unpredictable, and I was glad to get out of there. Every Mexican national that I’ve ever told of that encounter was convinced that they were narcos, since the area is known for its narcotics activity. Whoever they may have been, they did have some good taste in offroad equipment.
When I finally reached the tollway again, I was already in Sinaloa. I backtracked until I reached the famous Baluarte Bicentennial Bridge, and stopped there to take a break and eat some snacks at one of the food stands. When I finally arrived in Concordia, I was exhausted from the long ride in the heat. Concordia is a small town of about 8,000 people, and is located about 30 miles East of Mazatlán. After a bit of searching, I found the house of my couchsurfing host Eduardo near the town center. He is a young guy who builds electric guitars for a living, and enjoys meeting travelers from all over.
We decided to spend the evening in Mazatlán, and took a local bus for the 45-minute journey into the city. Mazatlán is absolutely everything that everyone always claims it is: a beautiful oceanside town of about 440,000 people with a strong colonial history that served as the capital of Sinaloa in the 19th century. We made our way to the beach, and enjoyed some local ceviche while watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean. After that, Eduardo decided to show me the nightlife of Mazatlán, and off we went on what essentially amounts to a pub crawl, during which we partied like rockstars. We were having such a good time that we missed the last bus and ended up having to take a taxi all the way back to Concordia, which cost us 500 pesos (approx. $27), and was well worth it.
The bike is ready to go after spending a night in the "secure parking" area of the hotel, which was essentially a back room.
This was the type of landscape that was found west of Durango City. Photographed about 12 miles NE of El Tecuan National Park.
On the old highway, about 1 mile N of the village of Las Adjuntas, Durango, and the Río Presidio.
The old highway is phenomenal for riding: the pavement is (mostly) great, and the scenery is spectacular. This was about 1 mile W of Los Bancos, Durango.
Fantastic riding in the mountains near the Durango-Sinaloa border.
The elevation was now approximately 7,500 ft (2,286 m), and not a soul in sight.
Not only the bike was feeling the elevation. This was in the middle of the Sierra Madre in Sinaloa.
The Tropic of Cancer in Sinaloa.
The town of Potrerillos, Sinaloa.
Once I was finally back on the new highway, there were lots of tunnels to pass through.
And, of course, Baluarte Bicentennial Bridge, the highest cable-stayed bridge in the world at a total length of 1,124 m (3,688 ft), and sitting at 403 m (1,322 ft) above the valley below.
The main plaza in Concordia, a sleepy little nest of about 8,000 people, located 30 miles East of Mazatlán.
The San Sebastian church in Concordia is about 350 years old, making it the oldest church in all of Sinaloa.
Finally at the house of my couchsurfing host in Concordia.
Secure parking. Bedroom parking, even.
This was a cute little house with the coolest doorways.
The yard was used to grow Aloe vera, among other things.
The bathroom was essentially an outhouse, which worked just fine.
A short bus ride later, and we were hanging out in Mazatlán.
Mazatlán was dynamic and fun. I could get used to this!
And yes--the Pacific Ocean!
We picked a neat spot to enjoy some seafood, drink beers, and watch the sunset over the Pacific Ocean.
I always considered for Costa Rica to have the best ceviche, but Mazatlán was giving the Ticos a run for their money!
Watching the sunset at Mazatlán. Therapy for the soul!
Day 6: Concordia, Sinaloa → Guadalajara, Jalisco (295 miles)
I woke up with less of a hangover than I had anticipated, so I was able to get an early start. My goal was to make it at least as far as Tepic in Nayarit, and ideally all the way to Guadalajara. Not being quite at 100%, I opted for the toll road and took Mex-15D into Nayarit and past Tepic (where I was hit by a bird with questionable navigation skills), at which point I figured that I had enough energy in my tank to make it all the way to Guadalajara. I briefly considered stopping at Tequila, but ultimately decided to stay two nights in Guadalajara instead (blasphemous, I know). My couchsurfing host there wasn’t expecting me for another day, so I grabbed a hotel room in the center of town. It was called Hotel Dali Plaza, and was a solid step above the class of hotel that I normally prefer to use on these trips, but at 495 pesos (approx. $26.40) it was still within the scope of my travel budget.
Driving in central Guadalajara wasn’t as bad as you it could have been, but still, it did entail a crash course in lane splitting and creative passing that would end up serving me well later in the trip. Everything essentially boils down to one simple principle—if there is space, take it or someone else will. Note that ‘space’ is a rather loosely defined term, and can mean anything from a part of a lane to a part of the shoulder or even off-road. Regardless, if you’re not using that space, someone else will.
I ate dinner at a restaurant called La Chata de Guadalajara, which turned out to be absolutely amazing. The wait was about 45 minutes (it was a Saturday night), but the food was absolutely incredible and well worth it. Lengua en salsa verde (beef tongue in green sauce) turned out to be one of the best dishes that I’ve ever had in Mexico, and was nicely complimented by some Jose Cuervo 1800. Afterwards, I sampled a few of the bars on my way back to the hotel, but after that crazy night in Mazatlán, Guadalajara actually seemed comparatively tame. Nonetheless, this was a fun Saturday night in the center of town.
Props to one of the coolest-ever couchsurfing hosts for an epic adventure in Mazatlán!
The streets of Concordia were even sleepier than usual when I left that morning.
On Mex-15, about 4 miles S of Ojo de Aqua de Palmillas, getting ready to cross into the state of Nayarit.
Splurging on a tourist class hotel room. Low on adventure, high on comfort.
The center of Guadalajara was filled with people and all sorts of activities.
The cathedral at the Plaza de Armas in Guadalajara. This is by the main square in the historic center of town.
La Chata de Guadalajara served me one of the best meals of the trip with this beef tongue in green sauce. Delicious!
Jose Cuervo 1800 and a couple of unidentified chasers for good measure.
Day 7: Guadalajara Centro → Zapopan, Jalisco (6 miles, in-town riding only)
This was my first day off, but I still had to ride across town to reach my couchsurfing host Humberto, who lived in Zapopan, which was northwest of the center of town. Navigating in a metropolitan area is usually the most difficult (not to mention annoying) part of motorcycle travel, and this was no exception. My GPS refused to acknowledge that his address existed, so I was stuck using creative measures to aim for a location that was close to my actual destination. Getting to the right part of town was easy, but finding the actual street was another matter altogether. Eventually everything lined up, and before I knew it, Humberto and I were drinking beers and watching the Copa America on tv. Humberto was one of the most laid-back people that I have ever met, and he pretty much seemed impossible to offend or even get a rise out of. He teaches English classes to Chinese students online, so he gets to work from home and have a flexible schedule.
For dinner, we went to a local taco stand that had some ridiculously good tacos. There were so many choices that I decided to just take one of each. It rained cats and dogs that evening, and I kept hoping that the weather would pass by the next morning, which it fortunately did.
The author Robert Heinlein once said that one should not attend even the end of the world without a good breakfast. Like the one I had at a place called La Fonda de San Miguel Arcángel, in Guadalajara.
My couchsurfing host Humberto lived in Zapopan, which was a bit less scenic than the historic center, but the tacos there were to die for.
Secure parking in front of Humberto's place.
I need one of those taco stands on my street as well, please. At each end. And one at work as well.
These guys may look like regular Mexicans, but they're actually magicians. Those were definitely the best tacos that I've ever had.
I didn't really know what to order, so I just got one of each, which included sausage, intestine, steak, and a few other things that I do not recall.
Day 8: Zapopan, Jalisco → Pátzcuaro, Michoacán (182 miles)
The eight day marked an important part of the trip, as this was the beginning of the part when I would travel through the states of Michoacán and Guerrero, which are considered to be high-risk areas. Both of those states have a very rich history and culture, but they have also been marred by periods of unrest and violence. To be honest, I spent a disproportionate amount of time planning that section of the trip by digging through every shred of information that is available on the security situation in those two states. As it turns out, there is an abundance of disparaging information out there about those areas, but a careful analysis shows that much of the violence is restricted to cartel-related issues, and even that is commonly reported through the eyes of fear and sensationalism. There is no doubt that some of those areas can be quite dangerous, but it is also a fact that a combined eight million people live in those two states, and most of them are able to avoid the violence every day. I planned on being one of them by setting a few rules that have always served me well in the past:
1. Never ride at night. I have previously done a significant amount of nighttime travel in rural Mexico by car, and there is no doubt that it increases the associated risk exponentially. Daytime Mexico and nighttime Mexico can be two very different places. A number of Mexican nationals with first-hand knowledge of the situation in those areas also confirmed that the vast majority of the operational end of narco activity occurs at night.
2. Query the locals. Get a consensus from multiple local sources with obvious knowledge of that particular area. In my experience, reliable sources include taxi drivers, truck drivers, and soldiers of the Mexican Army.
3. Use common sense. If I’m in a high-risk area, I’m much more likely to stick to primary roads, and do not feel as tempted to explore random routes that look like they could lead off the beaten path. A lot of those rural areas that do have narco activity have tons of lookouts and informants, so people will know about your presence long before you actually encounter them. If an area looks like it might be a bit too adventurous, I have no qualms about turning around and losing a few hours, rather than shortening my own life expectancy.
So off I went down Mex-15D across River Lerma into Michoacán, and continued on the tollway until near Churintzio, then headed south on Mex-37 until near Carapan, at which point I turned southwest on Mex-15 toward Lago de Pátzcuaro. I stopped in Zacapu for lunch, and just past Comanja the road became deliciously twisty. Unfortunately, the sky opened up shortly thereafter, giving me my first rain ride of the trip in a mountain section, of all places. The ride around the lake (Lago de Pátzcuaro) was incredibly scenic, and I finally arrived exhausted but happy in the town of Pátzcuaro. This place was founded sometime in the 1320s and has since played a major cultural role in Michoacán.
I spent the night in Hotel Pátzcuaro, which was located near the town center, for 395 pesos (approx. $21). The room was tiny but clean, and secure bike parking was available in the lobby. The city has a very colonial look to it, and many of the streets are paved with cobblestone. Throughout my travels I have always noticed that as elevation increases, the local cultures tend to also become increasingly distant, making it more difficult to have genuine interactions with people. Pátzcuaro (elevation 2,140 m [7,020 ft]) was no exception to that rule, and it wasn’t always easy to get people to engage in conversations.
A quick pre-departure shot with my couchsurfing host Humberto, the chillest dude you will ever meet.
Entering Michoacán.
Lunch stop in in Zacapu, Michoacán.
So, so good. I wanna go back to Zacapu, just to eat at that restaurant again.
Tzintzuntzán, is a small town (with a cool name) that sits on the northeastern shore of Lake Pátzcuaro in Michoacán.
Plaza Vasco de Quiroga is the main plaza in Pátzcuaro, a place that has both a rich culture and a lot of history. Also, you don't see a lot of sportbikes outside of the metropolitan areas, so the red & white R6 was noteworthy.
The plaza was dedicated to Vasco de Quiroga, a bishop who took over the town at a time when the Spanish were ruling the place with an iron fist. This fountain is honoring that same bishop.
The Ex monastery of San Agustin.
Dinner at Restaurant Lupita with a mug of Indio, my brew of choice in Mexico.
For a good local cuisine, the staff recommended "Pollo Placero," which were essentially Pátzcuaro-style enchiladas, stuffed with cheese and onion, as well as sauteed carrots and potatoes.
Hotel Pátzcuaro was a decent hotel, located in the center of town.
Secure lobby parking.
Day 9: Pátzcuaro, Michoacán → Zihuatanejo, Guerrero
Heading down to Zihuatanejo had been on my mind for a long time, even though it wasn’t part of my original itinerary. The accident in Coahuila had slowed my progress and I had already burned a couple of my “flex days,” but I thought, what the heck—I’m already here. I took Mex-120 South into the mountains. There was a police checkpoint at the northern end of the town of Opopeo, and they took their time thoroughly examining my TVIP documents, which was a first on this trip. Those cops were edgy and grumpy, and I was happy to be on the road again after about 15 minutes of answering questions and showing documents. Mex-120 looks like your typical primary highway on the map, but as soon as you pass Santa Clara del Cobre, it instantly becomes a very desolate mountain road. The scenery was absolutely gorgeous, and the views of the Sierra Madre were a treat for the senses, but the isolation and sense of vulnerability on those desolate mountain roads—whether real or just perceived—was eerie.
When I got to the southern end of La Huacana, there was a checkpoint where I was signaled to pull over. Traveling in Mexico means passing through lots of checkpoints, including both police and military versions. But this one was different. It was manned by a guy in civilian clothing, his maroon-colored 90s model Nissan Sentra parked off the road, and clutching an AK-47. Going through a police or military checkpoint is one thing, but I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of being questioned by someone without any sort of uniform or official designation. Finally I noticed a patch on his sleeve—Fuerza Rural, one of the autodefensa (self-defense) paramilitary/vigilante groups that were originally created by local civilians in an attempt to fight the cartels. After some initial successes battling the cartels, the situation had quickly became complicated, and several of those groups were ultimately dissolved after evidence emerged that their leaders were themselves involved with the cartels.
The guy asked me who I was and what I was doing there. I was sporting the most disarming demeanor that I could muster, and told him that I was just a traveler passing through the mountains on my way to the coast. He stared at me in disbelief and said that this area was very dangerous, upon which I assured him that I was heading straight for the tollway at the earliest opportunity. At that point, he got on his cell phone and reported to someone on the other end. “Yeah, I got the motorcycle.” Not ‘a motorcycle,’ but ‘the motorcycle.’ That one word sent chills down my spine. He appeared to be receiving instructions, which he acknowledged with an occasional grunt. Almost a bit surprisingly, but much to my delight, he told me to be careful and let me go on.
I was relieved when I finally reached the tollway Mex-37D, which ran straight to the coast. It was already late afternoon when I crossed the Atoyac River, the natural border between Michoacán and Guerrero, eventually reaching Mex-200, which runs right along the coast. The sight of the Pacific Ocean instantly gave me a huge second wind, even though I had to dig out my rain gear for one part of the final stretch.
As I was approaching Zihuatanejo, I couldn’t help but to think of Harry Devert, the 32-year old New York native who was murdered while on his way to ride to the World Cup in Brazil in January 2014. His remains were later found near Zihuatanejo, and a local gang leader was eventually arrested for his murder. Everybody in town and the surrounding area was familiar with the case, and it was rather interesting to hear the various local perspectives. Most of the locals feared the mountains, but Zihuatanejo itself was considered to be relatively safe. The consensus was that Devert’s main mistake was breaking one of the golden rules: he rode at night.
Guerrero is considered to be at least as high-risk as Michoacán, so I had a strong interest in the security situation. One lady told me that she had been abducted by narcos a few years ago, and that she had been held captive for several months. At some point she managed to escape, but has never been able to return to her hometown in the mountains out of fear of the narcos there. Stories like hers were not unusual, nor were reports of mutilated corpses being found off the mountain roads.
After a quick walk through the center of town, I decided to stay at a small hotel called Hotel Ada, named after the lady who owned it. It took a bit of haggling, but we finally agreed on a rate of 250 pesos (approx. $13.25), which got me a nice and clean room with a ceiling fan and lobby parking. The main beach near the town center features a combination of restaurants and infrastructure for local fishermen. One of the main attractions are fishing tours for tourists, and there are lots of private vendors who are offering to take you out in their boats. Local restaurants are even advertising to prepare and cook your own catch of the day for you. That evening, I enjoyed a nice dinner at the beach, and found the town to be unexpectedly charming, in spite of the abundance of tourists.
Heading South on Mex-120, about 2.5 miles N of Opopeo.
Crossing the Infiernillo Reservoir on my way into Guerrero.
After a long mountain ride, I finally made it to Zihuatanejo. Nothing cures fatigue like the sight of the ocean.
Hotel Ada, my home-away-from-home for the night.
The room itself was nice and clean.
A statue dedicated to the State of Guerrero.
Zihuatanejo seemed vibrant and energetic, the way you'd expect a beach town to be.
Fishermen at the beach of "Zihua."
Zihua even has a humane society.
There are lots of restaurants along the beach, some of which will cook your own catch of the day for you, if you feel so inclined.
A statute dedicated to Jose Azueta, a Mexican Navy Lieutenant who died while fighting against the U.S. occupation of Veracruz in 1914.
The pier at Zihua.
Had I not been exhausted from a long ride, I probably would have chartered a small fishing boat to catch some dinner. Next time!
Some of the finer things in life come in small packages. At least that's what I keep telling myself when I'm hungry and the portions are small.
Day 10: Zihuatanejo, Guerrero → Taxco, Guerrero (262 miles)
After a nice breakfast in Zihuatanejo, I backtracked on Mex-200 along the coast for a bit, before heading northeast into the mountains on Mex-134. I ran out of juice in Coyuca de Catalán, so I stopped there for some lunch in the form of my usual favorite—enchiladas verdes. The way to Taxco proved to be long and tedious through the never-ending sequence of blind but beautifully scenic turns through the Sierra.
At one point I became concerned about running out of gas, so I stopped at a farmhouse and asked if they had any gas for sale. They didn’t, but pointed me toward another farmer that lived nearby, and that person was nice enough to sell me five liters of gas. The road was extremely curvy and full of switchbacks, and seemed to drag on for hours. Every time I passed through a village, a lot of curious eyes seemed to examine me, and I did my best to offer a friendly nod or a wave everywhere I went.
Shortly before reaching Taxco, I was exhausted and running low on energy, when a local rider passed me in a particularly celebratory fashion that woke me up and got my juices flowing again. We ended up in a friendly race for the last ten miles to Taxco, and he turned out to be a solid mountain rider, complete with a couple of kamikaze passes into blind turns.
The GPS estimated about 6.5 hours for the route, but the actual time was every bit of 10 hours. I pulled into town right as the sun was beginning to set, so I had no time to waste if I wanted to explore Taxco a bit. I booked a room at Hotel Real de Taxco for 420 pesos (approx. $23.85), which included a neat accommodation, a fan, hot water (!), and secure gated parking.
Taxco is a city of about 52,000 inhabitants, and is known for its silver mining and smithing. It is set in a very rugged and steep part of the mountains, and some of the streets are among the steepest that I have seen anywhere. Curiously, the vast majority of the taxi cabs in Taxco are Volkswagen Beetles that have been customized specifically for that purpose.
That evening, I decided to spoil myself to a nice dinner at a fancy-ish restaurant, which included a regional speciality called mole rosa, which entailed chicken breast in a chocolate-based sauce, and was followed by platano flameada (flamed bananas), prepared with tequila and orange juice, and was absolutely delicious.
Just a few houses here and there were all that you'd encounter in the Sierra Madre of Guerrero.
I was able to buy some gasoline from the farmer who lived at this house. This was about 8 miles N of Vallecitos de Zaragoza.
The road itself featured a never-ending series of turns as it wound its way through the Sierra Madre.
Absolutely breath-taking scenery in the Sierra Madre of Guerrero.
Not an unusual sight in Mexico, and one of the reasons why hauling tail would be ill-advised.
Luscious green everywhere you looked: Finally climbing out of the Sierra.
Having left the Sierra Madre behind, the road began to straighten out accordingly. This was about 10 miles S of Coyuca de Catalán. The mountains ahead mark the state border between Guerrero and Michoacán. (To be precise, the actual state border is formed by the Ayotac River that runs through those mountains).
Lunch in Coyuca de Catalán, Guerrero.
A clean hotel room with hot water. What more could you ask for?
Parroquia de Santa Prisca y San Sebastían, the official name of the cathedral at Taxco.
As is usually the case, the main plaza was adjacent to the cathedral. Notice the white VW beetle taxis, which seemed to be the standard for taxis throughout Taxco.
After searching for the right hole-in-the-wall type of restaurant, I decided to treat myself to some fancy grub at El Rincón del Toril.
Mole rosa was a local delicacy that is said to be based upon an Aztec tradition, in which tomatoes, vanilla, and spices were mixed with other ingredients. It might look unorthodox, but this stuff is delicious.
The streets in Taxco are steep. Really, really, steep. Much steeper than it appears in this picture. If you learn how to drive with a manual transmission here, you're probably going to be fine driving anywhere else in the world.
Some of the streets don't look like actually using them would be a good idea.
The crowds were out and about in the evening, strolling around the main plaza.
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