If there is a God of Adventure bikers, he is probably laughing his a$$ off right now. Must be related to Loki or Pan by the nasty mischievous streak that shows up when you least expect it. This God probably has an incestuous relationship with Lady Luck. It was last Thursday when my DR 650 was all packed up and ready to go south. Four years of previous trips had evolved to this point. This one was to be the furthest longest adventure ride to date. True, it is late in the season, but with loose ends to be tied up there was no getting around that.
Who of us hasn’t been inspired by the exploits of fellow road warriors? I couldn’t imagine how tough it can be, until I found myself totally exhausted trying to simply unload my bike in the dark, in a Troy, Illinois Motel 6 parking lot, 290 miles from home. It was only the first day! I had broken my first cardinal rule of never riding through Chicago on a weekday. Early Sunday mornings has always been departure time. Now I had to wait for traffic to die down. With a winter storm system approaching from the Rockies, it was already pretty late in the season to be leaving from the upper Midwest. My goal for the day was to reach the opposite side of St. Louis. Having ridden Route 66 four years earlier, I was looking forward to the fried chicken in Sullivan, Missouri. My first real meal of the day would be a feast, I kept repeating to myself. Five hours into the ride, I would have been satisfied with just crossing the Mississippi River.
The medium sized North Face duffle was to be the largest bag I have ever packed for a trip. Previously, a smaller old canvas bag has worked well. I was taking along a mosquito net, sleeping bag, collapsible camp chair, more tools and more stuff for the intended extended trip. I tried to keep to my self-imposed rule of carrying the majority of personal luggage into a motel room in one trip. Makes sense from a security stand point when traveling solo. Not so much when most tired at the end of a riding day. I slid the bag off of the rear rack and almost fell over on top of it.
What made six hours of interstate riding so difficult? It was nothing short of the wind. A ride that has taken me just over four hours, ended up taking six. I have ridden in worse winds through “Grant’s Pass in New Mexico and longer across Minnesota but never so bad, for so long as to be passed by trucks with trailers. Wobbling through the motel foyer doors, my mind and body crashed once I got into the room. That was one long corridor. Thank goodness there were not stairs. There is usually some first day relief that goes along with the exhilaration, but this just felt wrong. No rash decisions, I recognized hitting a crisis point and decided to eat my first real meal of the day and to sleep on whether or not to continue.
Across from the motel is an easy walk to the Fire and Smoke restaurant. Locals know what a treat the food served here is. Sitting alone at a table I phoned the day’s ride report to wife, son and friend. They were most supportive to whatever decision I would make. With a belly full of bar-b-que ribs, pecan coated sweet potatoes and coleslaw, I returned to my room with the intention of sleeping on it. Part of me wanted to continue, the other half to return home. Woke up at 3 am to a weather report of slick roads across Texas and a storm system approaching the upper Midwest. I would return home, get an early start and try to beat the coming storm.
On the road before dawn with the wind at my back, all was good. Dressed more appropriately this time, I wore my winter riding suit as opposed to the hoodie worn the previous day. I had been sweating bullets the previous morning. Found myself too lazy, too occupied, and in too much of a hurry to change into something more appropriate even as the wind picked up during the day and the temperatures fell. Now this was sailing. Cannot tell you how many times I would approach an exit and be tempted to just turn around and continue south. For the first time of this trip, I could ride and clear my thoughts. The return trip was uneventful. The plastic collapsible warning triangle required in Panama no longer stuck into the small of my back. The riding suit held up against the rain, even though my duct taped covered boot laces did not. The return took less time, with worse traffic and a full sit down breakfast.
So I’m back. My Sunday riding buds at the Full Moon Restaurant were more than supportive of my decision, some having been in similar situations. Only really got teased once. “He would go for a ride today, but we’re not sure as to whether or not he would finish.”
‘Down but not out,’ they say. There are other ways to ride out this winter available. I could do a Wild Riders rental in Costa Rica as I did three years back. I could just fly into Mexico and backpack. And there is a third option, which involves a different bike ‘gasp!’

Thanks for sharing.

It ain’t over till it’s over. More of the pieces are lined up so it’s time to give adventure travel another shot. True, it is late in the year. The plan, fly to San Jose, California where a 2003 Honda Nighthawk has been stored for the last four months. Get her out of moth balls. Try to recall what maintenance was done since and continue on from there. Tires were last changed on this newly acquired bike last spring. Since then, we’ve been on alternate morning rides around home, a day ride to Springfield, Ill., a ‘see what she can do’ to Gettysburg and a ‘stretch her legs’ cross country to California. We’ll need new tires.
Could find a shop somewhere along the way. Get goin’. Fix it, when it needs fixing. That would be time consuming and those odd sized Honda tires (had the same problem with the Shadow) are hard to come by. 17 and 18s might be found in stock Dunlops. That would mean some layover time and I would much rather go with longer lasting road tires like Bridgestone Battleaxes. That means ordering online pronto with two day delivery promised. Not thrilled with the prospect of carrying tires if not absolutely necessary. There is the option of ordering tires through a dealership and paying a premium. Arrive Friday, get the bike running and have tires mounted Saturday, piece of cake. Just find a place that can be ridden to, without having to deal with too much obscene traffic.
Riding a bike through big city expressways scares the bejeezus out of me. A town like Chicago is best attempted during early Sunday morning hours. The loonies, druggies and boozers are mostly tucked away, off the highway and out of my lane. At first light, you can best run the gauntlet with some semblance of safety. Approaching any downtown, I hug the express lane, do my best to match speed, find a ‘lead car’ which can be seen through to get a heads up and hope for traffic to eventually die down. You can get some tricky cities like Chi-town, where cars will merge from the left. Fortunately, you will not find that very often.
I pick the express lane for the obvious reasons that lane changers can only come at you from one side. In a quick stop situation, there is a left emergency lane to duck into. On the slow side, you have to contend with cagers who are approaching from the on ramp or other vehicles that just so happened to remember, at the last minute, this was their exit.
We have all had our moments. I recall being pushed out of my lane in Cusco because I just happened to be only a bike while he had ‘might is right of way’ in a car. There was the surreal experience in Minneapolis, St. Paul remembering to move over into the left lane, missing the lost rolling tire that happened to fall out of a pickup truck bed. My worst nightmare was traveling east through Kansas City where seven lanes merge into three choices. Pick one, pick it fast and whatever you do, don’t hesitate. What the hell!
The check in bag weighed in at 20kg. Felt more like 40. Upon arrival in San Jose, the bag was examined by security. Perhaps motorcycle chains are suspect?

Right on cue; it’s almost an hour before sun up. Here in Fremont the roosters are cockle doodle dooing. With their ultra-red sensitive capability, these urban birds get a head start on the new day. Kind of a rural feel to it for metropolitan Fremont, California, but who am I to say? Charming, but then again I'm an early riser two hours ahead. Sunday morning and true to form, it's time to take another stab at this trip. This abbreviated week-end has put the 'really gonna do it' into it.

It has been great catching up with son and his wife over the last couple of days. We did not have that much to do, but it seems there was always something that needed to be done. I am grateful for this occasion for the face to face time with them.

Traffic towards San Jose from here is what one might expect on a week day. True to form, this is Sunday morning. What better time than today to head out?
Google Maps states that it takes 3 hrs. & 48 minutes to get to my arbitrary day's destination of Bakersfield. Why Bakersfield? It's off the coast with more economical plentiful lodging along the coast. For those who follow economical motel lodging, I’ve found a 30% discount in pricing since having visited last summer. Off season discount? My direction is south, but cannot imagine being in this area without experiencing the scenic beauty of Route 1. It has been many years since I last drove this national treasure. Now it's time to ride it with the ocean on my right, albeit into the sun. That’s why they created sunglasses.

The course describes my mind set for this trip. I could ride directly to Bakersfield and beyond. See how far I could make it in a fresh first day. But then there would be all of the sights and twisty roads missed along the way.

The moment is perfect. A morning’s worth of motorcycle road miles south has left the bike and myself at a secluded vista off of Route 1. This is the break we need from a morning’s worth of flushing out our intakes with ocean air. Don’t know what time it is, but it’s ideal for breakfast/lunch in somebody’s time zone. My first meal of the day consists of Fremont Chinese leftovers. The reusable plastic container is filled with a combination of Chicken chow mein, mushu pork, and broccoli beef. There must have been a sale on the broccoli ‘cause there isn’t much beef. Plastic water canteen off to the side is my beverage of choice. This is pretty cool. I get to stand overlooking a tremendous view. The crashing surf, the salt air, a waft of eucalyptus, and the savoring of yesterday’s meal, all without the sit down wait time. The chain gets lubed and I get to shed the cold weather riding suit.

Good thing, I prepared for the cold with morning frost on the rear view mirrors. That First Gear riding suit will take me through the morning cold, act as a rain suit and in an emergency be my sleeping bag. Hondas are cold blooded and take forever to warm up. That worked out well as that 20 kg of checked luggage required a bag bigger than the one used last trip. The North Face could not only be tied down, there was enough room for me to squeeze in, and to act as a back rest.


The ride south was uneventful but fun, riding sandwiched between the San Lucia Mountain Range and the Pacific Ocean. The easy going twisty curves in very light traffic were just what was needed to break in new tires. We’d get the occasional passing biker wave or heads up from someone in a car. Illinois plates have to be rare in California this time of year.


Any stop is an occasion for someone to notice the bike and start a conversation. At one vista view point I met up with Aaron from Hawaii. Stranded temporarily on the mainland, he lamented the fact that he cannot ride his 2002 Yamaha V-twin Warrior. At a stop for gas there was the Shell attendant, David. He offered me a newer V-Strom for $10. Smiling, he jokingly mentioned that the bike belonged to the guy ahead. He introduced me to his female Staff. and her two pups. What a nice dog. Riding, bikers, bikes and dogs, life is good.

Traveling on just past the elephant seals basking in the sun like so many washed up torpedoes, there are signs for the Hearst Castle. Check the sun, there’s at least four plus daylight hours left in the day. Go for it. The state park tour was moderately priced, included a movie, and started in 25minutes. Hell yes. The bus trip up to the castle helped build the anticipation. One could imagine how past celebrities drove up the hills passing by herds of cattle interspersed with buffalo, goats, deer and zebras. The place is magnificent. Think of yourself on the movie set of Citizen Kane. Walk through the grand halls and grounds. Now press the palm of your hand up to keep your jaw from dropping.

There is a Motel 6 nearby and I have a reservation. Attend to the bike, shower, laundry in the sink and a well-deserved meal concludes the day.

David's Puppy


Eating an egg salad croissant in an empty Albertson’s grocery store parking lot, helps put things into perspective. The sandwich slides down a little fast, my stomach does not complain. The sheep skin seat of my bike is littered with plastic. There is the venerable lunch box, an assortment of fruits for later and a gallon jug of water to be transferred. I do not know what goes where with California’s recycling regulations. The litter is placed in a shopping cart. I eat in peace. Having just crossed the mist covered Lucia mountain range, this is a well-deserved break from riding.
You pay a small price for the beauty of the Pacific Ocean coastline. Wireless, internet and texting are poor. Few service workers can afford to live in this expensive area, others must commute. There aren’t any grocery stores. A small bottle of water runs between $2.50 and 3.79. With the exception of the Hearst Ranch, water is polluted with fertilizer run off. Have decided to put on faster miles between me and my origin. Reminder to self, not to cross mountain ranges in the early morning hours. Schedule for midday when the fog lifts and it’s a lot warmer. Traffic is minimal, cars oncoming, people off to work.
The day’s route takes me from winding coast road 1 to the straight shot east on Hwy. 46. The tradeoffs are fertilizer smells for salt air - oil derricks & grape vines for coastline. The derricks are packed so close together, it appears as if they are competing with one another. The road has its claim to fame. I slow down at the marker of James Dean’s memorial. The last place he stopped before a crash ended his life. I drive on.
Los Angeles would not be the same without at least one expressway wrong turn off. I am taken towards Santa Monica but quickly adjust and get turned around. I grew up in this area as a kid. What happened to the place? Too many cars, too many people. Thank goodness it is off peak hours. My foot goes down for a quick stretch only a few times during the ordeal. The carpool lanes help when available. I do not attempt lane splitting when they are not.
With the memory of the egg salad long past, I can avoid Mc Donald’s and opt instead for the rest of the fruit and some carried along nuts. Gas up, check in at home, head out. Later, at another stop, a Del Taco calls to me. I am pleasantly surprised at the pollo asado bowl: seasoned grilled chicken, an avocado slice, salsa, on top of rice and beans. Not bad for this first visit attempt at fast food healthy.
Have managed to keep mistakes to a minimum. Cannot believe that with all of the packing and unpacking, I managed to bring the wrong camera battery charger. A short ride from the Motel 6, comes Walmart to the rescue. Not only do they have a similar model of camera, but it is on its last discounted price. Do I want it for $25.00? Oh Yeah! An SD card, sandwich, blueberries and a Caesar Salad accompany me to check out.
The bike is holding up well. She burns a little oil when pushed over 5,000 rpm. Better than I am. The tradeoff for the purring straight four cylinders is its ergonomic nightmare. With the DR, I can ride all day in comfort. That bike vibrates, feels like an egg beater but I can stand straight at the end of the day. The Nighthawk purrs as the engine revs, but having the seat professionally reworked, adding a gel seat pag, floor tile pad, sponges and a sheep skin cover do little to help the discomfort. My lower back cramps up as the day progresses. Mindful of posture, back straight, chest out makes no difference. I made it here. I’ll make it back. Will remove the gel pad to lower the seat. See what happens.

Hearst Castle View

Interstate miles are tough. You drive, this is not riding. Sure you make time. Your travel map icon moves along further & faster. The truth is that I’m too engaged with the vehicles around me. The meditative monotone of the ‘open road’ is clouded by car and trucks that pass you by or you’re maneuvering around those that can’t. I’ve had enough. With a full tank, we veer off of Interstate 10 and take route 113. There is a stop sign at the top of the overpass, but little else. This is more of a ranching access road than a proper exit. Two lanes of asphalt take me south. Both sides are fenced with the occasional ranch entrance. The occasional hawk flies overhead or sits on a fence post. There is no road shoulder. Next gas is about 150 miles. I have the road to myself; I’m riding again.
It’s kind of cold to the extent that shedding the winter riding suit is out of the question. Continuing eastward, the sky is filled with clouds. The sun gets in an occasional wink. The wind makes it challenging at times. I pass Patagonia, Arizona and stop for roadside walnuts.
113 stops at route 9 which also happens to parallel Mexico. The town of Hachita, N.M. with a population of 49 marks this intersection. There are homes in the distance. The food mart/gas station is boarded up. A trailer behind displays a for sale sign, a harbinger? I get off, stretch and break out yesterday’s ABC leftovers. Most of the vehicles that stop at the intersection are Border Patrol. Further heading west, I pass stationed border patrol SUVs interspersed every few miles. Sometimes they are situated on top of a rise, parked near a tower sensor or pulling a trailer for horses or ATVs. Oncoming 3 wheel ATVs return my biker wave. The road has the occasional curve to keep things interesting and even dips to remind me why I got off of I 10.
El Paso is a big town with at least seven, Motel 6s. A quick exit takes me right to a motorcycle repair shop. The manager, in short shorts quickly appears. She is helpful. I end up with an extra can of chain lube and have the clutch handle readjusted. The mechanic does not charge me for the two bolt loosening, realignment and retightening. I am advised against this Motel 6 and continue on for a few more exits. Yes, there is a single non-smoking room available. No, due to construction there is no Wi-Fi. They can’t all be winners.

It was colder today, though thankfully not as cold as the storms brewing up north. During a fuel stop break to warm up, I saw ice on my seat. Water had leaked from my canteen. Could not remove the ice from the sheep skin. Late in the day, I did cross paths with another solo biker coming the opposite way. In the brief moment, he appeared to be on a Harley. Dressed to the max in leathers, he looked like a buffalo on two wheels with all of the layers he was wearing. I probably appeared as a synthetic version of the same. Biker waves not to be missed.

It was windy too. Dapple has responded to most everything I’ve asked of her. Today at full throttle, riding into the wind, she could barely reach 60 at some points. Gas mileage has been cut by more than half to 23 mpg. More stops are an excuse to go inside and warm up. Sometimes you just had to, because the credit card slot was frozen. The riding suit with a down under sweater has worked well. In restrooms, I’d open up my suit, and head for the hand blower. Shove the suit panel underneath and flush out the cold air. Did the same for gloves, shoes and socks. I’m glad to have opted out of electric hand grips. Don’t need them for this bike. With a squat, low to the ground little burro like Dapple, you can easily warm your fingers. Lean down a little, the engine top end provides warmth. Your right hand will require the aid of cruise control. Valve covers are right there. How’s that for Honda engineering?

We pass Hancock, Texas. That's where Andy Dufresne and later Red crossed into Mexico. Sorry, no postcard. Today’s destination is the border town of Del Rio. Then it’s a straight shot to Saltillo, Mexico. Dapple will get her first taste of roja gasoline.

Every cashier at each stop wishes me a safe journey. Warming up at a fuel stop, I am pleasantly introduced to Texas politeness. A man calls out, ‘how ya doin’ brutha?” A man my age, wearing a cowboy hat passes saying, “you’re a lot braver than I am!” Midwest translation: Boy, are you ever crazy.

The sun falls fast in these parts. We’ve been flying for the past six hours. How did it get so cold so fast? Must make it to today’s destination. GPS batteries do not fail me now! Running on the spare fuel tank, must keep head down, so as not to lose my AGV helmet visor. That would be catastrophic. Try finding a clear visor on the road, in the dark, in fast moving traffic. One of the two !@#$ plastic button that holds the essential part of the helmet in place, just happened to fall off at the last fuel stop. What bad timing!

How in the hell did I get in this predicament? I’m normally the careful one. No riding in Mexico after dark, I’ve told myself and others. This all started the afternoon upon arrival in Del Rio, two days ago. Being a Johnny on the Spot, I called the local Sanborn’s Insurance Office requesting a policy for tomorrow. She found me on the computer from last year’s Mexico trip. Yes, she has my information and is aware that I entered then from Laredo. No, I am riding a different bike this time. Would I please excuse her, she has a waiting customer. She will call me right back. That was 4:30, Areola’s Insurance Agency closes at 6. She never called me back.
The place opens at 9:00. It’s 279 miles to Saltillo. Plenty of time to sleep in and catch up on that e book. Enjoy a warmer start to the day; yesterday, I was on the road by 7 . Promptly at 9, I called. Yes, they were open. No, the voice was unaware of who took my call the other day. I’ll be right over. First in a growing line of locals, I am seated in front of a large desk, the broker types up my information on a computer screen. She seems to be having one problem after another, by the look on her face. Wearing the riding suit, I quickly shed it and the down sweater. It’s hot in here and looks like a much warmer start to the day. She calls an associate over. Together, they cannot seem to figure out the problem. The system won’t let her issue the policy. She calls the main office. She apologizes. “This has never happened before.” More typing, more of the same expression. “Can I use your bathroom?” The posted sign states ‘No Public Bathroom.’ “I”ll have to ask the boss.” I wait some more and go over the owner’s office. He is with a client. “Pardon me, can I use your bathroom?” “Sure.” More typing, another call, I am quoted $279 for 6 months of coverage. Sounds about right. No, it does not have a $4,000 value. The bike was purchased third hand a year ago for $2,450. No, I only want liability coverage. We go on and on until another call to the main office provides me with a $161 policy. I am out of there headed for the border. It’s approaching 11 o’clock.

“Where do I find immigration and customs,” I had asked. “It’s right there over the bridge,” she replied. I cross over a bridge, the signs are all in English. I continue on and ask for directions. “Oh! you mean there’s another bridge?” “It’s all at the base of that bridge; can’t miss it.”
My limited experience with bike border crossings is limited to last year’s Laredo entrance. While the place on River Rd. is a witch to find, it is efficient once you find the place. The other side of Del Rio is called Acuna. Its offices would be just the opposite. I arrive at the designated section. Nobody comes to inquire. I call out to a passing guard. He asks to inspect my four bags. Immigration and soldiers surround the place. “How much cash is inside?” Unusual thing to ask, I think, as I replied. I intend on using mostly my debit card. Removing my bag is not the big deal it was a few days back. Somehow the bag does not feel as heavy as it once was. I place it on the stainless table. He makes a cursory inspection. I put things back and am told to park my bike around the other side of the enclosure. “Can’t I leave the bike where it’s at?” No, but I can park it in that corner. I push the bike next to a pickup truck being unloaded with boxes of toys. The owner and I exchange knowing glances. Thankfully, immigration is almost empty of travelers at this hour. I am directed to station one. All the required documents have been prepared, I’m ready for this. It is hot in here, waiting at station 2, the Banjercito. They do not accept debit cards, only cash. Prepared, I’ve change money at home. They also take dollars. Alright! The lady behind the counter is having a problem. I shed my riding suit once again. With a folder full of documents, I am directed around the enclosure to the building with the arches. I show my documents. Do I need a copy? No, I am prepared. He makes a copy of my copy and hands me a plastic entrance permit. No waiting now, but as I stand at the window, people are stating to enter the office. There is a trainee working at the computer at the only open station. He types a few numbers, looks above at the screen. Looks back and types a few more numbers. He must get the VIN absolutely correct as his supervisor looks over his shoulder. The last requirement is a $358.00 payment, of which $300 is a deposit to ensure return of the bike to the States. It would be $400, but my bike is pre-2008. I hand him my debit card. It is declined. What!! I called the credit card company last week and was assured that all was good to go in Mexico. “Please run it again,” I asked. He did. No go. No, I do not want to put up a cash deposit. Damn! I left my phone in my riding suit. Back to the immigration parking lot, I call the local number on the back of the credit card. Place the correct sequence of numbers to get to a representative. Friday the operators are busy. The hold message notes that the market is up for the day. I return to customs still waiting for my call to be answered. A guard instruct me that no cell phones are allowed in the building. It’s much colder outside. I grab my fist full of documents, credit card and folder and continue to hold outside. After an interminable wait, I get a voice, explain my situation. She is with the investment side. She will direct my call to the Visa section. I am placed on hold. And get disconnected. I try another number and again tap in the required sequence of numbers and am again waiting for a representative. The customs office is filled with seated people. Options race through my head. Hope being so close to the border, this is considered a local call. 60% cell battery life. What can I do? Go back stateside? Get the bank card thing straightened out and try again tomorrow. That would double the customs, backing out and in again. I could continue the three hours onto Laredo, which is closer to my Saltillo destination. Same customs issues, but I aware of what and where to expect. Pissed off, I could frig the whole trip and return to San Francisco. No way! I could return and spend the next few weeks traveling the South. I call a different number. My bike and gear strewn on top are left exposed. Can there be a safer spot to leave keys, gloves and suit? I return to the immigration office, the guard sees the exasperation on my face as he listens to my story. He allows me to use my phone inside as I explain my situation. He offers me a bottle of water which I gladly accept. I put the speaker on, battery life falls faster. After an interminable wait, I am connected to Justin in Indianapolis. We go through the security questions. He is helpful. I had put a $300 limit on my account. I thought that was only for cash advances. Yes! I’ll increase the limit to 400.
A second window has opened. A lady reviews my documents. The credit card is accepted. Sign here, here, here and here. My file travel folder is full. I am elated and return to immigration with both arms extended
upward. “Gooooooooal” I shout out to the friendly guard. He smiles.

I am ready to go. It’s 1:30. My gear is just as I had left it. We review my options. It’s about six hours to Saltillo or is it three by car? I could find a motel in town amongst the titty bars and tourist bric a brac. I could continue to the half way town on Monclava and find a place there to stay. My cousin is expecting me this afternoon in Saltillo. I stop at a light and ask directions. The man in a wheelchair replies. I maneuver through the maze of streets searching for signs to Monclava. I ride through town. A firecracker goes off just ahead. Kids. Am too full of adrenaline to be bothered. Further along past Acuna, chickens and dogs line the two lane road. I’m in Mexico. It’s a bit greener, the architecture is different, there are warning signs for bears and the signs are in Spanish. Bears?? I’ve been dreaming and imaging of this moment for months. I soak it all up.

There are three road speeds in Mexico. There is the posted speed of 100km./hr. There are the slow moving local vehicles, some loaded to the max with stuff probably gotten in the States. Kid bikes are a popular item, but I see most anything you’d find at a second hand store. Slower vehicles travel halfway extended into the emergency lane, making it easy for vehicles and especially a motorcycle to pass ahead. Left turn signals usually mean it’s safe to pass. Finally, there is the other, a faster limit, driven in newer cars and empty pickup trucks. They fly by these slower vehicles. I attempt to keep up with my 16T front sprocket at 5k rpm, 75mph, 120km/hr. I’m covering asphalt here. Is this the time discrepancy I heard before? Back spasms have been replaced with only an occasional twitch. I know when I’m in the grove, tunes start popping into my head. The bike purrs on her first taste of 91 ‘Mexican proof’ octane Roja Gasoline. 14 liters in 79 miles, she sucks through fuel at these higher speeds; she is not burning oil.

Within what seems the blink of an eye, I am in Monclova. Traffic has slowed down. I search for a Pemex station. I am able to split lanes and do so alongside a federal police car. A U turn takes me to the pump. “Lleno roja, por favor,” I ask. He complies with the usual questions about the bike. Damn! I have lost one of the two helmet visor buttons. I am prepared. There are two backups somewhere in my bag. The visor holds in place so long as I do not lift it. I am okay with that, for now. I do not bother to clean the fine layer of road dust. There is still plenty of daylight and I can just make it, if I hustle. I pass a Love Motel. People are leaving work for the week-end. Traffic piles up. The maneuverability of the bike allows me to ride alongside and pass lines of cars. Watch out for topes. Finally, on the main thoroughfare. I place my four fingers up to the sun to determine how much time is left before sundown. Do I measure from the sun’s top or bottom? Don’t care, don’t think! Ride. I’m going for it, a 15o miles to go. Clouds do not help for making accurate calculations. As the sky darkens, I am forced to keep pace with a well-lit vehicle up ahead. He is too slow for me, but I have no choice.

Thank Goodness the headlight on the Honda is much better than on the DR. I turn on the GPS to give it time to find my location. It works! There is a blank illuminated screen with a straight arrow. The screen turns dark after a while to save battery life. Good GPS. It’s pitch black outside, but I can see the lights of Saltillo in the distance. It suddenly seems to have turned much colder. Damn visor is fogging up with all of the dust. Signs appear, GPS do not fail me now! The arrow indicates a right hand turn. Damn!! Wrong right hand turn. I am on the toll road to Monterrey. The toll booth is empty. Do I maneuver around the gate and try to turn around? It is so dark. Probably a great star gazing night. A lady carrying a roll of toilet paper walks towards me warning me to return back to the booth. No, there is no way to turn back from here around the gate. The only way is to double back to the fork I came in on. Yes, it’s a one way stretch, but there shouldn’t be much traffic at this time of night. A three point turn points me in the right, wrong way direction. Luckily, no cars approach. I make it to the fork and gun the throttle. We are on our way. We hit town traffic, the engine stutters. I know that sound. We have really burned through some gas. Petcock is turned around 180 degrees. I keep my eyes posted for a station. They are all on the other side of the expressway divide. I get an indication warning from the GPS that battery life is running low. Do I wish to continue?

Mercifully a Pemex station did appear. The GPS held up long enough for me to recognize some landmarks. Hooray! I’ve made it. The doorway gate is open. I am expected. They were worried about me. Hah! Piece of cake.

It was a day to recharge and sleep in late. I arose at 7:30 and lazily spent the morning writing up the previous day’s events. Normal morning prep involves a walk and jogging, today replaced at a kitchen table in front of a laptop, most of the afternoon on the couch. I’ve been staying at my cousin’s home. This is not new to me, but this is a first for this time of the year. Last night, I had the privilege to attend a pre-Parado gathering. Not a direct member of this family, I was immediately accepted, though as one whose Spanish was definitely deficient. This opportunity gave me a chance to compare cultures from more than one observation.

The Parado is an event nine days before Christmas. The day has religious significance. Parados occur before Easter and other religious holidays. I guess it’s like a warm up. I gather the day is an excuse to extend the holiday.

First off, it is cold in the mornings and nights this time of the year. An gas heater serves the whole house. Electric blankets or small heaters make up the difference. You wear flannel, wool or fleece a lot. Layering goes well as the temperatures rise and fall throughout the day. Energy efficiency goes a long way here and it is not just a matter of economics.
Christmas is BIG here. The insides of homes are decorated to the max. There is at least one obligatory tree and nativity scene. The surface of every table is covered in Santa figurines. Doll sized Santas cover parts of the floor. Christmas trees are lit. Couch pillows and table cloths are replaced with images of Christmas. Santa takes top billing, but Christmas trees, wreaths, poinsettias, snowmen, reindeer all share in the season. I have never seen Santa so active. His figure is portrayed as coming down the chimney, sports Santa, at the piano, in his workshop, in his sleigh, riding a bicycle, motorcycle, car, truck, plane, train, in multiple poses; you get the idea. Outside, you’d hardly know Christmas is around the corner. Inside it’s a festive green, red and white explosion.

I break the couch comfort to drive my cousin to the nut shelling house. In this part of the country, most houses come with pecan trees. Loaded with about 15 pounds of pecans, I carry them to a normal looking house along a regular looking block. You get about 50% of your original weight back in raw nuts. The foyer floor is littered with large sacks full of nuts. What a great idea! You pay about 3o pesos/kg for cleaned nuts or about 6o cents a pound. Wait a few days to weeks and voila, you’ve got pecans to last you and your entire clan the entire year. Depending on the size of your tree, ‘sometimes you can’t even find enough people to give them away to.’ Sure beats the Costco price.

I finish the e book. Lunch is the main meal of the day. A chicken based vegetable soup in large quantities is followed by guacamole, corn tortillas and chicken in a savory mole sauce. I eat a guayaba for dessert. The fruit is light yellow in color, fragrant, eaten like a tomato with the seeds, and tastes like a mild pear. I will have another later on. A nap soon follows. The high point of the day is a gathering of my cousin’s husband’s family. Of course the two of us are invited. We will be there close to 9 pm, dinner much later on.

The similarities of the two homes are evident. Christmas is everywhere. We are cordially invited inside. Introductions are made. Everyone is either wearing a jacket or heavy sweater. There will be 14 of us. The ages of family members ranges from late teens to 86. The matriarch of the family is seated in a place of honor. Every person is given something Christmasy to wear. Women get a green and red apron with a Santa headband, men an elves’ cap. Everyone is getting into the spirit of the season. The conversation quickly livens up. I wish I understood more, but make do with the jist of things. Marena’s son who sits across from me has just passed his entrance exams and has been admitted to medical school. Husbands and wives look lovingly at each other or are in close physical contact. On the table, there are olives, potato chips, and other snacks. The discussion livens up. Gratefully, American politics are not discussed. There are a couple of people who take center stage. Conversation covers a wide variety of topics. There is a jovial atmosphere. Some of the people speak excellent English. Some of the finer points of jokes are explained. Alberto emphatically states, “I am the boss in my household. I determine when I do the laundry, the dishes and the cleaning in the home.” I ask the youngest female in the group how she perceives her family will be different from her mother’s. She is bright, respectful and a group discussion follows. These are educated, family loving, good people. Can’t help but love them.

The hostess brings out a second course of snacks. Ritz-like crackers are served with a various assortment of cheeses. Two nut filled cream cheese Christmas trees make for the base of green covered sprinkles, chopped nuts and red pomegranate berries. A cheddar cheese star tops each tree. The penguins are made of white cheese, black olives, their beaks and feet of carrot. I attack the trees with gusto. The penguins too pretty to devour.
Conversation moves to food. We are directed to the festive dinner table. First course is a tossed salad of Romaine lettuce, served with Thousand Island dressing. The main course is sliced brisket with mashed potatoes. You ask for ‘puree’ if you want more of potatoes. Carrot cake is the main dessert. Afterwards, everyone gets a small glass jar filled with jellied candy, labeled ‘el postre.” And then the games begin.

This isn’t the real Christmas but a preamble. The atmosphere is just the same as if it was. Everyone brings two presents. One is a regular present, the other is a joke. The game involves the simple roll of the dice. Even you win, odd you pass the tray of large dice onto the next person. The snack table has been cleared off and filled with the brought presents. Some are in gift bags, others exquisitely wrapped in papers of gold and silver with ribbons and bows with bells and Santas. Their sizes vary. There is excitement growing in the air. “I’ll take that one.” “Oh no! I wanted that one, someone jokingly chimes in.” Wait, the game is not over. Once all of the presents have been dispersed, the die continues to roll. Again, odds-you pass the tray, even-you get to select now, from someone else’s present pile. Someone eyes the platinum wrapped box on the elder’s lap. She fends remorse and reluctance to give up ‘her’ prize. Excitement grows as the next person rolls the dice. The good will and fun is palpable. Hell, even an old cynical Grinch like me, can’t help but get into it. Coalitions form as the good presents are traded back and forth all depending on the toss of the die. Anticipation grows as the last round comes to an end. The unwrapping of present booty begins with the youngest and continues around the room. Layers of wrapping are quickly removed to reveal present or joke. Presents reveal a green chili, a Christmas clothes pin, a plastic cockroach, toothbrush, Tupperware, key clip, towels, pot holders, empty soap wrapping, cosmetics, you get the idea. I end up with the clothespin, a silk scarf and candy bottles of tequila filled chocolate. The Christmas spirit is alive and well. I ask my cousin if it would be alright to give my pin and scarf to the matriarch lady of the family. The Lady is moved by the gesture. I keep the candy.

The guys inquire about my trip and talk about their days of enduro riding. I ask, as I tend to do ‘what they are looking forward to.’ Hobbies of music and the anticipation of a grandchild one man replies. The younger Alberto mentions family travel. He his wife, teen-aged son and daughter rented a Chevy Cruze in San Diego a few years back and toured the western part of the U.S. Can you imagine two teenagers in a small car traveling for three weeks? They stayed in motels whenever they got tired and saw a good portion of the States. “It was an experience the entire family will fondly remember,” he said.

The conversations continued. We left at 1:30 and wasn’t especially tired. Hugs were exchanged. “You are welcome here anytime; you are family.” I was touched.

What a better day than Sunday to chill? Midday short sleeves and some cousin time made for a relaxing time. I had to ask some pertinent questions regarding rules of the road. In Mexico, you do not move into the middle of an intersection when making a left hand turn. You do not wait for the light to change and continue on here. You are either free to turn or you wait. The left turn signal is still a dilemma. Does he mean to turn left or is it an okay to pass?
We walked through a Sunday market. The variety of colors and people with their wares always makes for a pleasant experience. I got an insider’s look as what to look for when buying produce. I filled my carry along bag with extra pineapple, jicama, and papaya.
We caught up and had Sunday lunch. Afterwards, I had to visit a Costco to compare stores. Almost identical in setup and merchandise, even the food menu is the same. The only exception was the picture of the hot dog. Along half of its side were cradled a line of jalapenos not relish. Prices were similar, some more some less. The chocolate covered pomegranate candy was on sale for $6.00 about half of what you would expect to pay at home. Sunday afternoon at the lunch hour is family time. The place was almost deserted.
Traffic along the town plaza was bumper to bumper with cars. People were taking their ritual Sunday stroll.
Tomorrow, I will be looking for a place to change my oil. Purchase the oil at Walmart, check to see if they carry the Honda compatible Super Tech ST 6607 oil filter, there may even be a do-it-yourself place to do it in town. Let you know.

Fellow Driver stuck in traffic



Costco on a Sunday afternoon

Monday, is to be a time to get ready for tomorrow’s trip continuation. It also happens to be the Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe. A walk over to Walmart gets me three liters of motorcycle oil with somewhat of a selection. Cost for three liters about $13.oo for Mobil 1 motorcycle 20-40w oil. The 20W will be fine in these current short sleeve days. I was told and hoped that there was a mechanic or do-it-yourself place. Auto Sun turns out to be a translation of Auto Zone and we all know that you can’t change your oil there. A few places around town and we finally opted to do it at home and turn over the used oil to an auto mechanic (50 cents). Quickly worked up a sweat in the sun in this day heat. Wah Wah, I know. Don’t recall foamy motor oil at change time back home. Anyway, the old oil is out.

After lunch, returned to start prep. This goes here, better that goes there and so on. Chain, oil and tires. What the hell! Rear tire pressure is 13. Front is fine. Go over tire to find that the rim is a bit out of whack. Some soapy water confirms the diagnosis. “Do you have a hammer,” Diana? Whack, whack, whack…… and she seems to be holding. Will re-check it tomorrow morning. A call out to friends back home for other ideas. Let’s see what cards fate has dealt us.





Could not wait. Took the remains of a hammer, part of a broom handle and continued to beat on the thing. The pucker looks a bit better and shiny too! Unfortunately, there is a slow leak. so I could.....

1. Leave it at that...... count on my portable air pump. (Nope)

2. Add some Slime or the equivalent. (Not a fan)

3. Take it in tomorrow and have someone who does this stuff all of the time evaluate it. (Seems like the best option at this moment)

4. Send home for a new one and have it sent here. (Time consuming)

5. Return home and come back after the holidays with a new one. (+-)

6. Sleep on it and see what tomorrow brings.

Did I jinx myself with this Title?

The morning had started out a bit colder than yesterday. I believe it’s going to be 2 degrees F today, in Chicago. Sorry, no more mention of temperature variations from me. The rear tire started out last night at 37.5 (digital reading) psi and went down to 35 overnight. My whacking may actually have done some good. Options race through my head. I quickly get dressed and go for my ritual morning walk. I have somewhere to be. An e mail out last night to a distant cousin, Ricardo has directed me to Pa-Su Moto. The owner/mechanic Pablo worked on Hondas elsewhere, before he opened this shop. A quick search on Mapquest puts the place 8km away and opens at 9. Alright. I memorized the directions from the internet since my Garmin cannot find the address. Who knew that there were so many Saltillos? Cities in Tennessee, Texas, Pennsylvania and Mississippi also bear the name. Might make for an interesting connect-the-cities ride one day.

Mapquest had me turning right on Pablo Orthon (probably a revolutionary hero, likes the other street names, I’ve passed) a couple of streets ago, another quick right and it’s supposed to be right there. Not to be. I am directed back the way I came. A couple of more stops to ask directions and yup, storefront looks just like its web site picture. The shop is still closed, I’m early. I raise my visor and the button from the same side pops out. Good thing I was advised to cover the thing up. A circular piece of duct tape prevented me from having to use my last spare. Pablo promptly comes to open up, I introduce myself and show the problem. A quick nod reply brightens my outlook for the day. As Pablo removes bikes from inside, an Italika bike rider shows up. We chat. He proudly describes the places he has ridden to. I can tell he’s a fellow adventure rider by the tone of his voice. I jokingly ask him if he would be interested in exchanging motorcycles. A quick shake of his head and smile reveal what we already know. We’re married to the beasts.

I am informed that the repair will take half a day; at least we’ll have a prognosis. Trip will be delayed for a bit. I’m cool with that. Hat and long sleeves are in order, not for the cold, but protection from the sun. Sorry, could not resist.

The rest of the morning is spent walking to and around the Liverpool Mall. The only noted differences from anywhere else are gated security (12 pesos for the first hour) and a mall cop that happened to catch my eye. She stands at a stocky 5’ with a standard sized hat and uniform. At an ATT kiosk, I am informed that a two month telephone chip active in Mexico and Central America goes for $20.00. No, they do not accept foreign credit cards. Visa is international, I contest. There is a selection of ATMs in the mall. Good to know further down the road. With a phone, Skype and the internet, I feel my communications needs are met. If you are anyplace in the world and happen to come down with culture shock, go into a mall. I promise you, the symptoms will quickly subside. Malls, the international way station.
Calls four hours later reveal that the wheel has been removed and the rim sent out for repairs. Excellent! This is not the first time a pot hole has been kissed by a rim. The rim is in experienced hands. When will it be done? He will call when the tire is on and ready to go.

Diana calls at 3, since she has a lady’s club meeting to attend at 4. Will the bike be ready by 7pm closing? The rim is back, he is putting the wheel on now. Doesn’t take much time to get us ready. I inspect the work. The rim looks great. There are tire markings for where the tire was placed. The tire is about 15 degrees offset from its original valve placement. A way to balance the tire? Anyway, the rim looks good and air pressure set to the loaded 38psi. Cost for the work done, 450 pesos. I happily walk up the flight of stairs and pay. This trip has been salvaged. Pablo has put some Phoenix into Dapple. Recheck pressure tomorrow morning and we’re off to cut some breeze. Pablo lubes the chain with a foaming aerosol spray. I would buy a can if I hadn’t already done so in El Paso. A couple of pictures, a GPS waypoint taken for next time and it’s back to base for packing and celebration. We’re good to go.

We get up early in preparation for the 7:22 sunrise. Dapple has been roaring to go ever since she sprained her ankle. Diana is up especially early to prepare my lunch box for the road. The gear packing seemed to fall into its old routine. A teary eyed farewell signals the end of this family visit. I depart for points further south. I comfortably fit in-between my gear and tank bags. The winter suit is morning essential at this altitude with a down sweater underneath. We’re cutting wind again.

Headed for San Louis Potosi is a straight course with a few mountains thrown in to break the monotony. This part of Mexico’s highway system is a lot like ours with toll roads and the equivalent Seven Eleven Marts to fill up at. The differences are that you do not have to drive far off of the highway; gas and snacks are a short turn off. Do be careful at those station pumps. The slightly elevated smooth concrete floor can be quite slippery. The attendant will fill your tank for rounding up your bill. Be sure he starts the fill at 0. Doing the math in my head, which by the way cannot to be counted on, getting about 40 mpg cruising at 5k rpm which equates to 70-75 mph. at $3.00/gallon.

You can expect to see cows and goats being herded alongside the highway. Occasionally, a horse grazes at the median strip. A local on a moto bike may come along your side’s shoulder in the opposite direction. There are a variety of road surfaces. There is mostly truck traffic. Broken concrete and asphalt repairs make for strategic driving. There were miles of backed up traffic coming the opposite way at the San Roberto inspection site. Great place to split lanes if you ever get that way. Save yourself some time and then head east towards Linares. The mountain curves are great fun. Faster going than the Tail, with more in/de-clination. Did that last year on my way back towards Monterrey.

Every gas station tries to separate itself from other Pemex stations. There is a central theme. I have passed station fronts showing wooden carts, race cars, a jet airplane, farm equipment, cannons, and a tractor made to look like a motorcycle. Makes you want to discover what’s next down the road.
I’ve learned that the average pay for unskilled labor here is $5.00/day. There are a lot of Help Wanted signs. How far would you go, what risks would you take to improve the standard of living of your family and children, to make in an hour, what normally would take you all day?
Small towns pass quickly. At midday, it becomes too hot for the riding suit; I switch to lighter gear. Gas up, stretch, lunch box and I’m ready to go. Six hours into the ride, signs for my destination appear. “The expensive motels can be found on the periphery of town,” I’ve been told. “The less expensive, older hotels are near the town center.” I aim for downtown, but apparently miss it. Through this part of town there is a sensory bombardment of heavy traffic, kids coming out of school, street vendors, grilling going on, fumes and a loud speaker blaring. I continue on to an expressway, until signs for the Hotel Zone appear. My first stop is the Caprice Motel. Yup, it’s a love motel. Don’t care. At $14.00 a night, I can stay on budget doing this. Hope that they do not kick me out in the middle of the night! Hope that isn’t an hourly rate. The room is spacious and clean. It would appear like any other motel room, ‘cept for the barrier entrance, no key or internet, a drive in garage, absence of a closet and hangars, two electrical outlets, and a dildo brochure.

There is a mall across the expressway. An overpass walk bridge takes me safely over. The mall is what you would expect. The difference between this mall and the previous one described is that security is not based on roaming ATVs but a watchman on a lifeguard towner. There is a multiplex movie theatre, but any flic worth seeing does not start until 9pm. There is an intermittent free Wi Fi zone. I try to e mail and Skype with variable success. Have come to depend on my evening face to face time. Solo riding has its perks and pitfalls. I eat Mall Chinese. The chicken with vegetables comes with jalapenos. A Subway sandwich will take me through tomorrow’s lunch. Looking forward to a luxurious shower, some in the sink laundry, dishes and the start of another e book. Think they get the Disney Channel here?



Pablo & the Biker

There are many day’s events to reflect on, in this minimalist room in Puebla. Rain is pouring down. No worries, Dapple is safe, enclosed with overhead protection. At half the price, yesterday’s Caprice Luv Motel is a better deal than tonight’s Inigo Hostel. No complaints, I am comfortable, dry and have good internet. They cannot all be winners.

Highway 57 south from S.L. Potosi is in better shape except for those places where it is not. There are the same road hazards with booby topes and the ‘flip you over, if you don’t slow down bordas,’ the larger ‘than back home’ tire truck gators, miles of torn up asphalt and today, cloudy sections of dense fog.

I want to avoid the capitol’s traffic. Do I turn off at 85 or is it 88? Head for Puebla, have the GPS set if I get lost and keep a sharp look out for signs. For the first half of the day, I’m cruising at 70-75 mph, either passing slower trucks or waiting for trucks to pass even slower ones. There is a police presence. I am not concerned as there are much faster cars on this road. Cars are stopped, can’t tell for what though. My only police contact to date was at a mandatory stop for all vehicles. The man was very professional; he asked where I came from, where I was headed, and waved me on.

The majority of vehicles encountered have been road wise polite. Trucks move over for you as much as possible to allow safe passing. The exception came abruptly, when I was suddenly cut off by a combi-truck. A quick honk of the horn slowed his progression, as I braked, maneuvered into split lanes between the intruder and a car. The three of us in two lanes made for real-time excitement.

At the half way city Quetaro, there happens to be a toll plaza with long lines. A Harley rider pulls up ahead of me. I maneuver alongside. “Where are you from,” he asks. Within the conversation confines of our helmets, we introduce ourselves. He leads through the maze of cars and trucks. In tight spots, he raises his cruise pegs, a starship preparing for warp speed. At the toll both, I’m taken by surprise as he offers to pay for the both of us- A Classic Biker Brother Gesture. We go through the gate together. He will act as my guide to the Puebla ‘North Arc’ exit. Thank-you.

At the next backup, I ask if he is aware of motorcycle adventure forums. “Sure, known as ‘Captain of the Army’.” The golden eagle tank artwork on his bike is amazing. I’m following in his wake or sometimes am able to take the lead. I knock over a road cone with my saddle bag. Past construction, the Easy Rider miles fly by. Does not take long to see that I’m getting low on fuel. I try to gesture and honk my situation. I have to stop at the next exit and do so. We lose contact. A quick fill-up and am back on the road. I’ve lost my guide. Faster, newer, more expensive cars on this road require additional vigilance. Down the highway, I see Army Captain along the shoulder. He was waited for me. I try to wave and slow down. He catches up, thumbs up all around. He indicates my “75” Puebla exit and we pull over to the side of the road. I give him my biker business card with address and e mail. We’ll keep in touch. Gracias, Hermano.

The tollway around Mexico City is four lanes of pristine roadway. There are so many route numbers 115-117-85-75 to my destination that I end up looking for Puebla signs. Think maps are resigned too. As the two lanes descend down mountains, the sky fills up with fat cumulus clouds. The surroundings have changed from desert to green. Dapple takes in a fresh breath of air. Roadside cactus pears have been replaced with strawberries and cream and coconut milk. There is winter corn in the fields. Sheep take the place of goats along the road.

Puebla Centro is a witch to get to at this time of the day. High traffic makes it hell. At an intersection, I ask a Yamaha sport rider for directions to a nearby hotel. Manuel not only obliges, but leads me 20 minutes through fumes and bumper to bumper traffic to a downtown hotel. The sun is at full blast and opening zipper and cuffs do little without a breeze. We shut our engines off at long red lights. He stops in front of the hotel and continues on. For its location, the place is reasonable, but there are no vacancies. Plowing along, the next one is too expensive. I’m on overload in this traffic. The search continues with poor results. Any hotels are back behind me, I’m told. Am not about to go through that again. I aim for the expressway I came in on. There’s a hotel sign.

My evening promenade in search of food and water directs me to Walmart. During my walk, I come across the Los Angeles Pozole restaurant. Place has eleven tables and is packed. A cook, cashier, and two waitresses hustle. There are no wasted steps here. I miss out on the last available table. One by one, three other men form a line behind me. Looks like it’s going to be a bit of a wait. I introduce myself and state that there’s no sense for the four of us not to be seated together as soon as the first table becomes available. “The food is good here,” they say. In conversation, “since I’m new to the city, I should buy for the four of us” he says. I reply, “Wasn’t born yesterday,” with a grin. They all happen to be local truck drivers. I order the chicken based corn pozole soup. If anybody should know, I can’t help but ask about hotel and motel travel accommodations. “If all you want to do is sleep, then a luv motel is fine.” However if, he motions….”nope, my wife is the jealous type,” I reply showing the ring on my finger. And would… using a cutting motion, they laugh & nod. Doing like those around me, I add lettuce, onion and radish to my bowl. The chili powder is way too hot. The meal ends with a tostada and taco dorado. They were right, the food is good here. It’s late, time to continue my supermarket quest. I place 100 pesos on the table, enough to cover my part of the bill and leave a good tip. The bank note is returned. “It’s on us.” Wow, what a gesture, what a day!!

Dinner Companions