Mazatlán reminded me of Honolulu - a flourishing seaside city that comes alive at night, has hot weather and is chockers with visitors. If one took Waikiki, added dusty backstreets and the odd police patrol with automatic weapons, turned the volume up to eleven and quartered the prices, it wouldn't be far off.

The energy of the place is exciting. In the evening, crowds from all over Mexico take over the bars, restaurants and beaches. A million shitbox cars, bikes and quads fang up and down the seaside strip, each generously sharing their own favourite music with anyone within ten miles. 

Mariachi bands blast from restaurants and even the beach. The diner with the black cap in this shot is bald. Moments earlier the tuba player had whipped his hat off and leaned the big horn right over the guy's shiny head.

This bloke's act is to stand on a rocky outcrop, some fifteen metres above the water, twirling fire sticks for attention. Hundreds gather to watch. A mate works the crowd, gathering cash. When they have enough, he dives into the Gulf.

Thing is, in July it's hot. Bloody hot. Fine for relaxing in a seaside bar, rehydrating with a Modelo Negro (favourite national beer so far), but not much chop for energetic movement. I went for an early morning jog to Isle El Crestón, a local outcrop offering a great view back to the coastline. Forget about running up the steep path to the lookout, all I could manage was a semi-brisk walk. Even the Mexican summer holiday makers were sweating buckets at 9am.

A few university students from Mexico City and I shared an impromptu language lesson while we joked about how much one of them sweats. Who knew that arriba means "up"? The best conversations have been with folk that know a little English. We often laugh as we mangle each other's language. 

To (re)escape the heat, I returned to the hills. Setting off had me slimy with perspiration within minutes; about an hour later the temperature became pleasant. Teo had recommended taking the toll highway with its impressively engineered bridges and views. However I chose to repeat the Devil's Backbone. It was just too much fun.

Durango is like all of the former colonial Spanish cities so far - a central historic area, surrounded by a busy larger city. Staying in the "Centro" is nice, having the bike tucked away securely, being able to wander amongst the old buildings, indulge at numerous eateries and enjoy evening festivities with other visitors.

Another nice chat started at a hamburger stand with a young dad, when I laughed at his daughter playing with a spray can of "snow". Turns out he works at a flower nursery in Alabama. In crook Spanish, I replied that my Kim also worked at a nursery when 18yo. Smiles all round.

Pauline, if you need another source for your black T-shirt collection, check out "Metal Storm" in the Durango nightlife district, not far from the biggest cathedral in town (a good balance hey?). The middle of the shop had LPs, with cassettes and CDs shelved close by.

En route to Zacatecas was a lunch stop in Sombrerete, where I met Francisco ("everyone calls me Pancho"). He'd like to travel the world on a bike, thought I was living the life. 

The first brush with petty crime was in a supermarket carpark. I was a few metres from the bike, jabbering away with Kirsten, wishing her well for her last day of work (yikes - no longer a kept man!). A man on a small motorcycle was taking a keen interest in the Suzuki. He was just lifting my second phone/GPS from the handlebars when I got there. I grabbed his forearm and yanked him over. My bike came down on top of he and his ride. After righting both bikes, he had the audacity to offer a handshake. I told him what to do. I reckon he got the gist of my expletive, as he did indeed leave quickly.

Next up was Zacatecas. In hindsight, it's more interesting than Durango, but I was still simmering from the tea leaf. Also, confusing two Spanish words had me not at a recommended biker friendly hotel, but an overpriced tiny place on the main drag, with no off street parking. Sheez, I was grumpy. However, I'd tired of riding a busy city in the dark and pissing rain, so just moved all my crap upstairs and hoped for the best.

Funny how life improves once the sun rises. Early morning Zacatecas was lovely. Mexicans seem to come alive a lot later in the day, leaving a pretty city with peaceful clean washed streets to wander alone. Even the cafe staff apologised for the coffee machine not being ready just yet.

There are heaps of old VW Beetles. At the first I spotted, I gave the driver a big thumbs up, in a "nice classic car mate" kinda way. I later realised that while some Dak Daks are pimped out, many are just yet another old car.

My immigration lady back at the border crossing had nominated San Luis Potosi as a special part of her country. Now maybe she meant the STATE of SLP, but the capital city didn't grab me. Sprawling with dirty light industry for miles before a stupidly busy Centro district, I found it ugly.

It didn't help matters upon arrival having the USB charger crap out yet again, making accomodation searching and direction finding more challenging. Yeah, I know that travellers managed just fine pre internet. The most anxious moments have been when the modern tech has been unusable. Bloody computers. Hate 'em.

Oh, and I stepped in newly laid concrete. Pity for the workmen, having two Doc Martens impressions to remove. The only positive part of the evening was wishing dad Happy Birthday.

I was still in a bit of a funk the next morning, unsure where to head. This was no good, so I paused in a cafe to take stock. What a great move. My friendly proprietor cheered me up, then suggested San Miguel de Allende. I'm glad he did. What an ace city.

With so much energy, light, happy people, surely there was a festival on? Nope, just a summer holiday evening. Musicians serenaded lovers, giant cardboard puppets ("Mojingas") walked the plazas, young gents snapped their girlfriends in seductive poses with ornate buildings behind and the ever present street vendors had food, drink, toys, jewelry, artwork, flowers, the lot.

Unusually there were many young things parading in shapely dress. Short skirts, boots, long legs, all a bit .. ah .. confusing for an old man.

If all the private thoughts became too much, one could always repent in one of the many open cathedrals. Boy, the old catholic church has collected wealth over time. Being a devout atheist I struggle a bit with such institutions, so I tend to stay away. All the same, far out, they've built some impressive pads.

San Miguel has a large US expat community. For the first time other Anglo types were noticable, different dress, skin colour, face shape. Guess this is what I look like to the Mexican folk?

I met a few expats while walking around town the next morning. Nori ("think of sushi rolls") was ex Florida, running a non profit empowering local women via micro lending. She was hilarious, full of life, looking like a leopard print beach ball. Susan helped me find a local lookout, walking a kilometre or so together, discussing travel, life in this "island in a sea of cartels" and so on.

Another night, this time a Sunday, surely quieter crowds? Nup, just as populous. I stumbled across a coffee vendor offering a "flat white" - an odd description in these parts. Turns out some Australians had persuaded him to list that item. Obviously a gentleman like this should be supported, so even at 9:30pm I had a milky beverage.

If I end up working again, maybe I'll open a motorcycle workshop. A local one changed the DR's oil. Now I've slopped old oil on the garage floor a bit over the years, but it couldn't have been as much as this bloke. Still, they sorted me out straight away, so with nice clean 10W40 on board, it was time for the next spot on the map.

Guanajuato was only 77km away, but for interest I took a longer route because the map lines wiggled more. Riding conditions are rather nice up in the mountains - a mild chill at speed, no crazy heat and a 50/50 chance of afternoon rain.

Guanajuato makes San Miguel look like it's on valium.

Without exaggeration I cannot recall being in a place so visually interesting and with such buzz. It's spectacular. 

For starters, there's the terrain. Buildings adorn steep hills. A series of tunnels afford access across town, both motorised and pedestrian. Even the locals will walk downhill into the centre, then catch a bus back uphill. 

It's not worth riding around. Far better to walk the narrow, paved laneways. Massively confusing though. You are in a twisty maze of passageways, all alike.

The Pipila is a lookout that attracts big crowds; it's close by my Airbnb. Getting back up the hill from downtown is literally breathtaking. Five times so far.

Where the previous Centro areas were mostly laid out regularly in a grid, Guanajuato's has no straight streets. Numerous plazas each have their own character. At night, musical groups are everywhere, some staying in one spot, others leading their audience around on foot. Of course there are numerous food and drink vendors on the street, retail open late and huge energy.

Tonight I walked downtown via a tunnel my airbnb host had shown me earlier in the day. I couldn't recall exactly which way we'd been, so did some backtracking underground. With the geographic confusion, oncoming car headlights (mostly - some had no headlights), fumes and close walls, it was properly weird. 

Upon finally emerging, boom! the nightlife sights and sounds were startling. 

Like the big landscapes to date, I could take a thousand photos, but they still wouldn't portray it well.

Funny how the heart works. This morning the stooped elderly gent here dropped breadcrumbs for the pigeons. I couldn't help but remember singing along with Kim to Mary Poppins: "Feed thd birds .. tuppence a bag". I sat down and had a good old cry.

Much better news from home this week. Kim now has "Star", a lab/goldie cross. Three year old Maremma "Momo" is scared of the little tail wagging lump - some guardian!