The direct road to my hotel in Celestino was impassable.
Following the hotel’s moto guide on the back way in, someone had fashioned a six-inch-wide detour along the railroad embankment. I laughed nervously and exclaimed, “No fucking way!” He spoke no English but understood perfectly.
I left September 17th and rode through the states of Nuevo León, Coahuila, Chihuahua, Sonora, and Sinaloa in 19 days, then rode a few more days to get home to San Miguel, a total of 4,201 kilometers. Five more states completed.
Not once did I speak other than restaurant Spanish because I can’t. Not once did I meet a gringo, except for a medical convoy, but I don’t count that since they weren’t in the wild. I got home on October 9th.
And I had nearly called this whole thing off. Too far, too hot, too dangerous. The most arduous leg is now complete.
My original trip plan dissolved when I met Hurricane Polo in Sonora and danced with Hurricane Rachel in Sinaloa, which never made landfall but flooded the roads. I made new plans daily. As I detoured around the weather, I discovered places and things I would have otherwise never experienced.
The Sierra Madre was the backbone of the trip: severe limestone mountains and a rhythmic descent out of Linares; then, farther west, the climb from Cuauhtémoc toward Yécora and the descent toward Obregón. Streams, meadows, monsoon greenery, narrow deteriorating pavement, fallen trees, and an active rockslide that almost nailed me.
And then there were all the people I met:
Irvin in Matehuala, who ran a combination boxing ring/barber shop. We are now following each other on Facebook. That’s how I learned he is running for mayor.
Restaurant server David in Torreón, who exuded confidence, enthusiasm, and ambition, told me, when I mentioned with his skills and personality, he’ll someday manage the restaurant, “I’d rather be riding a motorcycle across the country like you.”
Arturo and Sayra at the Airbnb in Cuauhtémoc, who so kindly took me in as a fellow rider. They even offered to let me stay for free anytime I was in the area.
In Rosario Tesopaco, Salvador told me about his family, let me sample his cheese, and found me bacanora early on a Sunday morning.
The Celestino housekeeper: my butler and cook in a cockroach-infested hotel, who dressed up in a beautiful blue dress and hat for my departure.
The Mexican bicyclist near Acaponeta: injured, three months into his ride from his home in Baja Sur, with no fixed endpoint.
You cannot schedule the people who make a place matter.
The Álamos flood watch party, with the econobox driver supplying the entertainment by sacrificing his bumper to the floodwaters.
Parral was a delight, with Edmundo Chacón’s 6,000-bottle tequila collection and standing in the spot where Pancho Villa was assassinated.
The north wasn’t one landscape: I rode through limestone mountains, open desert, wet pine country, irrigated plains, and coastal wetlands. And the “Do Not Travel” state of Sinaloa was as uneventful as a Nebraska Sunday ride.
On this long trip through Northern Mexico, some places had looked disposable on the itinerary. People made them matter. The plan kept falling apart, and the trip kept getting better.
Which brings me back to that flooded road in Celestino. I told him that I could navigate the six-inch-wide path if I could take his small, light dirt bike, and he could take my KTM. In perfect English, he said, “No fucking way!”
So happy you made it home happy and well!