The first week in Mexico had been full on, but wow the second had chunks of insanity. 

 

It started gently enough in Urique with breakfast at Restaurant Plaza, run by a lady who had been part of making Urique world famous via the book Born To Run.

 

The book told the story of an American who used techniques from the indigenous Tarahumara people to run long distances without injury. He started an annual ultra-marathon now titled Caballo Blanco ("white horse") in his memory.

 

After hearty goodbyes, my new mates left one way for home, while I headed the other to Batopilas.  This was an amazing ride, the most challenging on the DR so far. It rose steeply up from the river via a tight rocky (wish I had a peso for every time I've used that word) path. The summer rains play havoc on roads here - erosion had left long deep ruts and the surface had fixed and loose chunks. 

 

In mostly first gear, the bike lugged its way ever upwards, always responding well to more throttle. I'm so glad I'd stayed with the lower gearing (down one front tooth from stock). The technique needed was constant momentum, but not too much, so there was at least the illusion of control. That and making rapid steering changes as the hill decided to shatter the illusion. Dave Bailey and Dad, it was like the tougher slopes along Lees Creek Track near Briagalong. 

 

Apologies for no photos of the gnarly  stuff - I was too busy hanging on. See the videos from others in the previous chapter for a good idea.

 

When I took a breather, the vistas were magic. 

This spot was a highlight. At that property down the hill, a rooster was declaring his territory. Behind at another property his rival replied, warning to stay away from HIS girls.

A Ramámuri girl maybe 8yo, Imelda, walked up and offered a colouring in page. I gave her half of my apple and a coin. She hadn't heard of Australia or kangaroos. The title seemed apt.

 

The run into Batopilas was pleasant, especially dropping down the steep but easy gradient. The final piece of interest was a causeway with more current than it first showed. Easy enough, just a bit sphincter tightening imagining a drop into the river. 

 

I thought of you, my DR riding friends John P, Keith and Dave B; each of you would LOVE the Copper Canyon area.

 

Batoplis is a cute town. It's a long strip of brightly painted buildings beside the river. It's an ex mining town that now lives off tourism. The nicest part was chatting with fellow tourist Abel, an interesting, earnest fellow who'd worked for years in the US. Our chat went beyond trivial. 

 

The way north from Batopilas is a good tar road. Well, it would be if it never rained, but it does. A lot. Often.

 

The previous day one of the many landslides had blocked it to all traffic. By now, road crews had cut a path. There were still big patches of debris, but the Bush Pig likes to get slapped around, so it was still an easy brisk ride.

Not so easy for Caesar and Katarina on their big Harley. My first sight of them was Katarina walking up the hill and Caeser trying to get the big beast upright again in a pile of dirt. His mate Julio and I gave him a hand. 

Julio was on a gorgeous cream Goldwing GL1500.  I told him I had one back home in Australia. We laughed.  I didn't admit that my Goldwing was actually a pile of broken pieces in the living room, after a highside. It wouldn't have sounded the same.

We paused at a lookout for a cold beer from his pannier. 

 

With good eyesight you might spot the herd of goats way below and with excellent vision, their shepherd sitting on a rock above.

 

Our new foursome rode into Guachochi, where I managed to lose contact, only to find them next morning in the same hotel. We enjoyed breakfast together but somehow afterwards I was unable to call them. A pity, they were good people.

 

Parral is an interesting city, again an ex silver mining town. The famed Mexican revolutionary hero Francisco "Pancho" Villa was assassinated there. Juan led a tour of the museum that honours him. Even with our miniscule common language, his passion for the general was engaging. 

See the white figure resting against the hind leg? That's an adult lady, for size reference.

 

Q. Why "gringo" ?

A. Mexicans shouted at retreating US troops "GREEN (uniforms) - GO home".

Or so Juan said.

 

I'd noticed 1) unusually, many big cruiser bikes 2) robust folk wearing black tops, cartoons up their arms and bulk facial hair plus 3) a concert stage being constructed right out the front of my hotel. Oh bugger, the Concentración Motocyclista was on, a big bikie get together. No sleep tonight.

Harleys were everywhere, riders and passenges wearing serious looks but no helmets. Those machines must have twenty gears each, judging by the constant throttle blipping.

Local kids on loud small singles were doing clichéd monos down the street.

All a bit mad.

Not my scene.

 

So I was wandering through downtown Parral (population 110,000 plus 8,000 visitors for the event). While stopped by a stream of shiny cruisers, bugger me, up rode Julio that I'd met two days earlier with his huge smile and now a Harley. "Gavin! Jump on friend!".

 

As explained previously, I follow ATGATT. I was wearing shorts and regulation floral shirt. Ok, I swung a leg over and off we roared, cutting up traffic, all at 200 dB. A slab of beer and ice went into the pannier before we headed to the central action.

By "central action" I mean standing in a plaza, sinking tins of beer with his mates, laughing and crapping on. I met many of Julio's friends and family, including brother Jorge Yamaha R1, a charming man whom I yarned with for ages. Julio, the Jorges, Juan ... all these good Spanish names starting with that guttural "h" sound did my head in. Julio ran off and returned with gifts: a Concentración Motocyclista black top and cap. Hugely generous. Thanks mate! 

 

Eventually I gave apologies and headed across a few streets for bed. Thing is, the concert was going full swing, so not much point hitting the hay. Instead I watched the band and people dancing. It was lovely, everyone enjoying the night. I dunno if an Aussie biker shindig would have families and couples dancing in such a festive mood.

 

I ambled around, chomped down some good street food and checked out the bikes.

 

Then it got properly weird.

While inspecting a Honda ST1300 (love these), a handfull of smiling young  blokes in matching gear waved and one called out "Australia?". Huh?

Blow me down, he'd recognised me from a Facebook photo Julio had posted - the same shot above of the four of us near Batoplias. To reiterate, this time I wasn't in riding gear and in a different silly Hawaiian shirt. Just the same ugly face. We laughed our heads off. In fact we laughed a helluva lot over the next couple of hours while we downed Coronas from a different ice filled pannier.

¡Hola Ramon y amigos! Salud!

 

What a night.

 

A personal triumph was had in a supermarket: asking where cheese was, ordering a 200g block and going through the checkout, all without completely falling on my face. I only became unstuck when the deli lady asked "anything else?". It took a few moments to hear it.

 

By and by I got to Durango, but found the big city a little off putting, so headed down Espinóza Diablo "Devil's Backbone" - an irresistible name. Highway 40D is a big modern toll road to the coast. In contrast highway 40 without a D is the old road, beloved by riders with good reason: approx 330km of serpentine tar.

 

Aiming to suck the most out of it, I stayed overnight at Mexiquillo, a small town with an interweb recommended hostel, intending for an early start on the particularly curvy stuff.

 

It didn't work out that way.  I dropped my phone. Somewhere. Dunno where. This made finding the hostel challenging, especially being kinda useless in Spanish. 

 

Buy me a coffee some day and I'll give the details, but the guts of it was: much anxiey overnight, worrying about possible banking implications, loss of recent photos / contacts blah blah, but! all fixed by late morning via:

- Apple Find My Devices cleverness

- Gustavo, a confident and eloquent school aged kid

- honest locals 

- helpful hostel staff 

&

- a heap of perseverance 

 

Might take two coffees.

 

Anyway, once sanity was restored, I swung a leg over. As always, all worries evaporated once the wheels were turning.  Evan at 11am the fog made it hard to see, so I bumbled along at ~40km/h, watching for locals up my bum.

 

The Sierra Madre teased with her clouds until she finally revealed her beguiling shapes.

 

All the while I was alone. So peaceful.

The curves invited brisk riding ...

... but it was best to keep things in check somewhat given the cattle (plenty of dung on the tar), horses, dogs, chickens, squirrels and occasional pebble.

 

Suddenly a bunch of twenty bikes flashed past, like a Moto 3 race pack heading into T1.  Minutes later there were bikes parked on both sides, smiling riders talking and munching at roadside stalls. The motorcycling faithful from Mazatlán were out to worship on Sunday morning.

The polite thing to do was join the congregation, so I shook hands with Teo BMW K1600, Juan BMW 900XR, Leonardo and others. Juan made top food recommendations and stories were told.

 

Most riders were heading further inland where I'd come from, but Teo generously offered to accompany me to the coast. Off we went, the big German machine purring on all six while playing soft music, the Japanese single rattling away its own mechanical melody. 

 

Why am I crapping on about music?

Likely because I'm tapping on a balmy seaside evening in Mazatlán where a Mariachi band is serenading beachgoers. More next time. Too many words already.