DAY TWO: SAN LUIS POTOSÍ TO REAL DE CATORCE
Hail yes!
I awoke early to meander a somnolent San Luis Potosí Sunday morning, savoring my short time in this fine Centro of a city.
After a wonderful traditional SLP breakfast of Enchiladas Potosinas, the iconic dish of the state, I was ready. They are made with corn dough mixed with guajillo or ancho chili sauce, which gives them their reddish color. They are filled with cheese, folded like quesadillas, browned on a griddle, and fried—truly a plateful of Umami.
On the road at noon, my navigation showed a 3½-hr ride to Real de Catorce. With a stop on the way, I would still arrive well before the 5 PM cutoff, when the people managing traffic through the tunnel to Real de Catorce end their day. After that, you are on your own. The Ogarrio Tunnel is the only non-mule way in and out of R14. It’s three meters tall and one car wide for nearly 2 km. After the guys leave, you may or may not make it without meeting another vehicle. I could manage with my bike, but even then, it would be a tight squeeze.
My route today took me through the Altiplano Potosino, a high plateau of semi-arid lands, open sky, and endless horizons. The narrow paved road was in immaculate condition, encouraging high-speed cruising. Even the Harley rider I came upon was going almost fast.
My midpoint refueling and rest stop was Charcas, a town founded by Spanish conquistadors in 1578 as a mining center. The moto riders wear mining hats instead of helmets, so it appears that is has once again become a mining center.
I had taken up a park bench on the plaza in front of the church and stretched my legs. Before long, a teenager and a middle-aged working-stiff guy started a conversation. Using Google Translate, Tarzan Talk, Advanced Sign Language, exaggerated facial expressions, and pointing at mobile phone screens, we discussed International Economic models and globalization. The talk veered into Fission and Quantum Mechanics.
And then it happened. A thundercrack jolted me from my intellectual soliloquy on Cosmology. My face surely resembled that of the old RCA dog. What the hell! While we were talking, afternoon thunderclouds had amassed. Someone lit the fuse.
I said my Adioses, quickly geared up, and sped out of town, confident knowing I’d quickly outrun it. The execution of the plan was perfect, but the plan was wrong. Within minutes, sheets of rain were in my future, about a kilometer of the future ahead. I pulled over to put on my rain jacket. I tore through my side luggage, but it wasn’t there. Meanwhile, all of the contents were getting soaked, as was I. The thunder followed the lightning by less than half a second, and the smell of ozone was in the air. I remounted, hoping that a moving target is less likely to be hit. That’s bullshit thinking, but it’s all I had. Certainly, riding in the rain gets you wet much faster than standing in it. But then, why would one stand in the rain?
Riding through the pelting rain and pea-sized hail—that’s my kinda adventure. In 10 minutes, the hell faded, and it wasn’t long before I rode in sunlight and warmth. I dried out in an hour. But oh crap, another challenge: I was running tight on time. I dialed it up to 130 KMH, about all my little KTM 390 can summon.
The last 26km to the entrance of the tunnel is challenging cobblestones. Being from San Miguel, I was not unfamiliar with this road surface. I followed cars going 20 kph for a bit, but that was torture. I found that, once I sped up to 60 kph, everything smoothed out and the bike floated effortlessly.
I arrived at the Ogarrio Tunnel at 4:53 PM, with only seven minutes to spare. I dallied about taking a few photos, so I could be the last vehicle to cross before the guards stop controlling single-lane flow, making for really dicey conditions when you meet someone.
To make the introduction, R14 (as those in the know call it) is a jewel, an old Spanish mining town, now a popular Pueblo Magico. It’s high up at 2,730 meters (8,950’) in the Sierra Madre Oriental Mountains. It is so rich in history and stories that I’ll spread them over three posts.
Adrenaline now drained, I craved a drink and dinner. I wanted a damned good meal and a stiff Mezcal. A fundamental part of my travel is studying and devouring the local cuisine. Restaurante La Migaja was this night’s logical answer as they serve Italian food. Never mind that their sign indicates it’s a panaderia (bakery). I was hungry and didn’t have many choices. And it was raining here, as that storm came north, moving a bit slower than a KTM moto rider, but steadily determined. Walking in the dark, dodging puddles, I came across a well-lit sign and, before me, a monumentally steep and narrow set of stairs. My kinda welcome mat. I arrived, tired, and lightly moistened.
I was greeted by a youngster who seated me at my table, welcomed me, and presented me with a menu. I asked if there was a local Mezcal, and he asked, “Naturel or Curado”? That little shit was not going to foist some kind of flavored Mezcal swill on me. “Naturel!” And it better be good, I said under my breath. After all, best to show your manners in front of a 12-year-old server.
I had an amazing Italian dinner by candlelight. The pasta was perfect, and the focaccia was equal to the best I’ve had. As the night progressed, I met the family: Martin, Mom Maria, Server Extraordinaire Angel, and much younger brother Matias.
What a fine meal, and so special to meet this family. I got a full restaurant tour, and to reciprocate, I took photos and posted them along with a rave review. The next morning, I was walking down the street and heard a young boy’s voice: “Randy!” I turned around, and it was Martin and Matias walking from school. That’s what this trip is about.
I nodded off to the surprisingly muted roosters’ crows and the distant rumble of thunder.
Today’s expenses: breakfast 187 in SLP, first gas 260 pesos, 2nd gas 220 pesos, catorce tunnel 70 pesos, dinner w/mezcal 340 pesos, room a budget-busting 1,440... It’s a tourist town.