Day 16: A Soaking Ride from Sombrerete to Pinos
Not a Puppy Dog and Kitty Cat Kinda Day
The forecast was simple: rain where I was, rain where I was going, and rain the day after that. Pinos was 310 kilometers away—about 3 hours and 40 minutes, according to Google. The rain was expected to hit at 11 am. If I left at 7, I’d beat it...barely. That was The Plan. This plan could easily go wrong in the real world, but it was a plan.
I left the next morning, and Mr. Planner was feeling pretty cocky. Fifteen minutes down the road, I encountered some light rain. Then I’d ride through it. But then came another band of rain, a little heavier. I put on my rain jacket. Looking ahead, it seemed darker. Was my mood shifting shades, too?
Now I’m riding in constant rain. My gear is built for warm weather because I ride in warm weather. It’s Mexico. It’s perfect for heat, and terrible for water: if air flows right through it, so does rain. The upper part of my body, covered by the rain jacket, is relatively dry. Any motorcycle rider knows rain gear just delays the inevitable.
About an hour out of Zacatecas, I started negotiating with myself. Maybe stop, dry out, and try again tomorrow. But I was already soaked. The streets would be slick, and I’d still be miserable in the morning. I killed that idea and went with the only real option: ride on. I could do it. Yes, it would be cold and miserable, but I was halfway there. It wouldn’t be that bad. It’s not like rain is cold at 8,000 feet of altitude.
Right about this time in the story, I hit three toll booths in a row. Each one, the same ritual: roll in, visor up, gloves off, and fumble for wet cash. Hand it to someone who wishes you’d hurry up. Oil-slick pavement, numb fingers—twice I dropped my change. Both times, I had to crawl around chasing coins like a half-drowned idiot.
The last attendant looked at me. I was a soaked animal down on hands and knees, searching for my errant coins. No way was I going to be the poster child for some rich American who leaves money lying around. She started to laugh. It was a pitifully kind laugh, but still a laugh.
Out of the last toll booth, Google Maps immediately told me to exit. I complied and rode a few kilometers. Suddenly, the highway became a narrow country lane. Wrong turn. It was too tight to U-turn on the bike, so I did the awkward back-and-forth shuffle. Rain poured down. My visor seriously fogged. Now, back on track, I had to open my visor to see the screen. At 90 kph, raindrops felt like face-daggers.
But I was making progress. Yes, I was fully drenched, with water running down my back and rain seeping through my rain jacket. Still, we were moving forward.
Then it hit. I rode directly into a nasty thunderstorm. Lightning fired up the sky; thunder rocked my boat. Somewhere between thunderclaps, I realized the bike was running on fumes. Perfect timing. Then a miracle: a Pemex sign. The station was open, but all the pump lanes were coned off. No gas. The Oxxo was fully stocked with sugary, salty, fat-laden, industrial fake food. They might run out of fuel, but they’ll never run out of crap.
Fortunately, a little farther down the road, there was a real gas station that actually sold gas. The attendant took one look at this soaked, shivering rider and started laughing. I laughed with him, what else could I do? Not that it was close, but I’ve never put more gas in the bike than on that stop.
I finally got through that hellscape, and the pummeling gave way to a steady light rain. An hour later, it finally stopped. I pulled over, poured water out of my boots, wrung out my socks, shed the rain jacket, and opened every vent in my gear. Here’s the fun part: when you’re soaked, and it’s still raining, the water works like insulation. Once the rain stops and the wind starts evaporating it, that’s when the bone-chill hits.
I got to my hotel. The lady was intrigued to see someone who looked more than a little frayed around the edges checking into her establishment.
I took a hot shower, got dressed in my street clothes, and headed out to buy dinner at the local Oxxo. I bought a sack full of the same junk food I had disparaged a few paragraphs ago. Dark clouds were approaching the village at a high rate of speed. I needed something to eat. Wandering around in a strange town for a restaurant would mean a repeat of the day’s earlier soaking.
Walking back to the hotel, the cloud bank became more impressive. I love storms. I grabbed my camera and climbed a fixed ladder in the back of the establishment that led me to the roof. Awesome black, roiling clouds coming my way fast. I got my shots.
I ate my Takis (fiery-hot, crunchy snack), Pingüinos, and Triki Trakes (low-rent chocolate cookies in a roll). I swilled my Victoria beer and watched the rain come down hard as hell one more time on this peachy-keen day.
With all of that fun behind me, I lay down my weary body and looked up at the ceiling. I was thinking about tomorrow’s plans now. And then, a drip from the slightly leaky ceiling hit me square in the eyeball. I just rolled to the other side of the bed and checked out.¡
Hell no Gringos!
Tomorrow, the Pueblo Magico of Pinos