The Tres Hombres do MEXICO!

The Tres Hombres do MEXICO! As seen by Bob Van Stee, Don Simone, and John Austin (well, partly by John anyway). Well, it’s time to boogie! I had my Suzuki V-Strom loaded like a pack mule with soft saddlebags, a duffle across the back seat, and a tail trunk. Enough clothes for two laundry weeks and enough pills to open a small pharmacy—anti-nausea, anti-diarrhea, antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, anti-malaria, and painkillers strong enough to drop a rhino. Immunized against everything short of zombie bites. The only real question: Was Mexico ready for the Tres Hombres? I left work and headed to Laughlin. Don had a short hop from Vegas. John left Reno after work and earned a special “I-shouldn’t-have-passed that-cop” award. His sleeping bag looked like it had already lost several fights. John’s report: “Only weird event was going down Six Mile Canyon when a truck tried to flag me down. Turns out my sleeping bag had slipped out and the bungee hook caught it. I was dragging it behind me like a dead parachute and had zero clue!” Perfect omen. My day: 255 easy miles. Our first full day got us to the border at Douglas. We blasted through Phoenix and Tucson, slowed for Tombstone and Bisbee, then hit a Walmart so John could replace his traumatized sleeping bag (old one left on a bench with a note: “Free to a good home… or any home”).

Motel 6, border paperwork, ATM for pesos, and back to the U.S. side. 479 miles. No casualties yet. Morning crossing into Mexico was smooth. Familiar roads through Copper Canyon country: Nuevo Casas Grandes near ancient Paquimé, Buenaventura, Temosachic, and finally Creel at 8,000 feet among the pines. We’ve stopped here so many times it feels like our Mexican living room. Dramatic views at El Divisadero and Tarahumara baskets for sale. 392 miles—plenty of time for dinner and pretending we were tough explorers. Next morning: heavy frost. Bikes started anyway (unlike some of us). From Creel came 200 miles of glorious twisties through pine forest— lean left, lean right, repeat until your brain melts. Traffic so light we saw maybe three vehicles. Through Parral (where Pancho Villa met his end), past his old rancho and random Hollywood movie sets, into Durango. We rode the bikes straight through the hotel lobby onto marble floors. Nothing but the best for our iron steeds. 474 miles, dinner, and people watching in the plaza.

Leaving Durango we entered unfamiliar territory and deliberately chose the twistiest, remotest routes. Success! Desert, pine forest, rainforest, horse carts, and donkey riders. My highlight: a spider that crawled into my glove and expressed its displeasure by chewing on my thumb. It swelled. I swelled with regret. It got better. We reached Ciudad Valles just before the sky

exploded. Perfect timing. 467 miles. The next day started stunning—twisty roads under moss-draped trees that felt like riding through a green cavern. Then Mother Nature filed a complaint. East of Pachuca a black thunderstorm brought marble-sized hail that stung right through our jackets, followed by torrential rain. We got diverted onto a red-clay-mud construction detour that turned into a slipping, sliding river. Cars and trucks fishtailed everywhere. Then Don dropped his bike. Foot trapped under the saddlebag. John and I rushed over while a policeman redirected traffic. We looked exactly like the Tres Stooges. Don’s yellow jacket became terra-cotta. Our bikes became brown. His foot swelled impressively. We were filthy, battered, and having the time of our lives. Into Tulancingo after only 260 miles. Don went straight to ice and Vicodin. Around 3 a.m. John returned with two doctors and an accountant. The doctors confirmed a sprain (“stay off it 15 days,” they said, laughing). The accountant was just there for the party.

Rain washed some mud off overnight. Easter traffic slowed us. John stopped to fix a latch and vanished into the traffic. We waited at the meeting point like idiots while he sailed past. We crossed an insane bridge made of giant iron pipes—had to walk the bikes across while drivers patiently waited. Don’s bike started misfiring (factory defect on a fuel injector clamp—fixed in minutes once we tore into it). After 339 miles we stopped in Cosamaloapan. Around 3 a.m. John magically appeared after riding all night on dirt roads. I greeted him in my underwear. Two passing girls found this hilarious. John looked like he’d been dragged behind a truck. Life is good.

John had to head home, so now it was the Dos Hombres. Easy riding took us 330 miles to beachside Ciudad del Carmen. We walked the sand (therapeutic for Don’s foot) and dodged wild parrots that treated the hotel like their personal jungle gym. Nobody spoke English except one guy from Mexico City on the beach. Friday (day 9) was a short 130-mile hop to Campeche. We explored the old walled city that finally got tired of being sacked by pirates and built itself a proper wall with cannons. Our friend Paco (an American living there to learn Maya and become part of the local culture) put us up— bikes parked carefully in his living room with room left for a hammock and a cot. Laundry done. Next day we bused to Edzná ruins.

One of the workers rode with us and pointed into the jungle: most of the site is still swallowed by overgrowth. We saw only a fraction. Later Paco took us to the restored Fort San Miguel museum. Easter weekend brought political banners, heavy police presence, and peaceful people-watching in the square. Sunday breakfast: I ordered Huevos a la Mexicana and received delicious chilaquiles instead. Oh well.

Then the ultimate adventure day: 261 miles to Palenque. Low traffic, good roads, and large lizards with triangular spines darting across the highway instead of jackrabbits. We checked into a jungle cabana right at the edge of the ruins. The main site is huge and spectacular. Don rode the collectivo back to rest his foot (no longer black-and-blue). I found a jungle trail

and wandered to more ruins, waterfalls, and eerie movement in the brush. That night we ate under a big open palapa (filet mignon… or was it filet de monkey?) during a raging thunderstorm, serenaded by one of the best flamenco guitarists I’ve ever heard and the constant sounds of the jungle. Power went out. A kitchen worker climbed an aluminum ladder in the pouring rain to fix the panel. He lived. We cheered. It would be hard to top that night. Back on the road across Chiapas toward the Pacific. We missed the bypass signs and rode straight through rush-hour Tuxtla Gutiérrez during a protest that had the downtown sealed off by police. Side streets saved us. Into the little coastal town of Salina Cruz after 368 miles. We were probably the only tourists. Hotel a block from the square, good food, more people-watching. The next three days felt like 1,300 miles of Pacific Coast Highway— except we were in Mexico. Tuesday: good weather and roads. Roadside restaurant—both ordered fish tacos, both received chicken enchiladas. Don’t ask. Fought through Acapulco rush hour, then pampered ourselves just north of town in a three-room suite on a hill with a pool right outside the door and peacocks wandering the grounds. Bikes parked by the pool, swim, hammock, excellent meal. Hard to complain. Wednesday: 425 miles of mostly twisty roads through Zihuatanejo to Santiago (just north of Manzanillo). Tired, so we grabbed the first convenient place on the main street—a dumpy little room. Sleep was the priority. Goal: Mazatlán by Friday afternoon for the ferry to La Paz. We took it easy Thursday, rolled through Puerto Vallarta and Ixtapa without drama, and arrived at Tim Bateman’s beautiful three-story beach house (pool, four Jacuzzis, Ridgecrest transplant). That night we went to a restaurant where the daughter of a friend of Tim’s was performing. Good meal, both shows, great time. Morning: booked the afternoon ferry (only 12 miles away), had an exquisite fish lunch watching the harbor, then got the bikes tied down and settled into a four-bed cabin so we had room for all our “stuff.” Smooth overnight cruise to La Paz. Arrived about 9 a.m. Military inspection went faster than usual. Turned in the temporary vehicle permits (not needed in Baja) and headed the 103 miles to Cabo San Lucas. Four glorious days of nothing: pool time, walking the marina and streets, sampling as many restaurants as possible. Pure recovery. Wednesday morning we started north. Breakfast at Hotel California in Todos Santos (always excellent). Stopped to visit a local family we’d met the year before—soft drinks, snacks, the girls got rides on a bike, and I’d photographed their new puppy. Great reunion. 320 miles to Loreto with perfect weather and roads. Early arrival, exploring on foot, good food, and a tiny hotel that inspired design features in my own house. Thursday: mid-day stop in San Ignacio—the village atmosphere, the magnificent mission church on the square, and the beautiful lake. 262 miles to Guerrero Negro, home of the world’s largest industrial salt operation. Friday brought cold weather and a string of military checkpoints. For the first time ever I sailed through every single one without being searched. We looked like Michelin Men on overloaded motorcycles. Officer would say something. I’d reply “no Español.” He’d look at the mountain of gear and just wave us through. Brilliant strategy. Rain hit hard as we reached Ensenada. Unloaded fast, then walked downtown for dinner and ice cream once it stopped. The road from Ensenada to Tecate is always fun. Across the border and straight to the Dulcera Café—our long-time “greasy spoon” breakfast stop full of local characters. With Mexico in the rear-view mirrors and home in the sights, we faced the most dangerous part of the entire trip: California freeways. 340 miles later we rolled up my driveway in Inyokern. It only looks like the journey is over. Great trip, new territory, plenty of ridiculous situations. But two weeks before we even finished, Don and I were already talking about how rushed we’d been and the places we missed. We’re already planning the next one. Adiós, Mexico—you beautiful, chaotic, spider-biting, mud-sliding, underwear-greeting beast. Stay tuned for the next Tres Hombres misadventure.

Bicycling and Marriage Proposals in a Foreign Land - 2012

I was bicycling randomly up the coast of Spain, heading toward France with no particular agenda. Every day brought new sights, new experiences, and new people to meet. One day I rode only a mile and three-quarters before stopping for the night. Another day I covered 62 miles. That’s the way I usually ride my bicycle, especially when I’m traveling solo. Most days for lunch, when the weather was nice, I would pick a restaurant with outdoor seating. That way I could park my bicycle right by my table and watch the local people go by while I ate and enjoyed the sunshine. One day I was eating at a table near a tree, with my bicycle parked right beside it. I was nearly finished with lunch when I noticed a group of eight or ten young women—upper teenagers or in their twenties—walking past. They were all talking at once, a cheerful chatter in Spanish. Because I speak very little Spanish, I noticed them but didn’t pay much attention. Soon they were gone. I was just about to set my fork down when suddenly, out of nowhere, all eight or ten of them appeared right in front of my table. The girl in the center started speaking to me in Spanish. I immediately put up my hands and said, “Stop, no español.” She looked at me and said, “Oh good,” then continued in English. “Will you… ah, will you…” She hesitated, turned around, and whispered to her friends. They huddled together for a moment. Then she turned back, looked me in the eyes, and asked, “Will you marry me?” I realized she was probably trying to win a bet or complete a dare from her friends. They were all giggling and clearly having fun, so I decided not to ruin the moment. I looked her up and down, then met her eyes and said, “Yes.” All the girls jumped up and down, screaming, yelling, and laughing with delight. The one who had proposed ran around the table next to me, and they all started taking pictures. I thought, This is just too much fun. After the photos, I casually said, “I’ll finish my bicycle ride and be back for the wedding.” When I looked up, they had already disappeared as quickly as they had arrived. I got back on my bicycle and headed up the road, laughing for at least the next ten miles. This is one of the wonderful things that happens when you travel solo by bicycle in foreign countries.1 The funniest part, though, is that for the rest of the trip, every time I passed a newspaper stand, I would glance at the front page. I almost expected to see my picture with a headline like: “Princess Maria of Andorra, Heir to $45 Billion, Heartbroken When Fiancé Fails to Show Up for Wedding.”

When I was a kid, I was fearless....

She was the complete opposite of me. I was a walking advertisement for “retired and sensible”: no tattoos, no jewelry, and hair that used to be the thrilling color of damp cardboard. She was a walking fireworks show — tattoos from here to tomorrow, a silver stud bullseyed dead-center in her chin like she’d lost a bet with a piercing gun, and bright shimmering purple hair that was clearly trying to outshine the Bonneville sun itself. I liked her immediately. My inner old-man radar went off like, Warning: cool person detected. Do not embarrass yourself. I was at the Bonneville Salt Flats trying to set a national speed record on my motorcycle, because apparently turning 71 doesn’t come with an off switch. Every time I blasted down the salt like a slightly arthritic missile, this purple-haired force of nature flagged me off. During a break she took my picture — and honestly produced the best photo anyone has ever taken of me on two wheels. When I asked her name for credit, she flashed a grin and said, “Rocky Wingwalker.”

Not a stage name. She really walks on airplane wings for fun. Like those gloriously unhinged people at airshows who treat physics like it’s optional. I was equal parts impressed and concerned for her life choices. As we talked, her bulletproof confidence and “fear is for quitters” energy were infectious. Then she hit me with it: “You should try wingwalking.” I laughed the laugh of a man who still gets dizzy on the second rung of a ladder. Look, as a kid I had zero fear and negative common sense. Speed was my love language. Mom calls “lunch!” one day and I turned the hallway into Talladega. The scar I still rock in the middle of my forehead is proof that drywall beats forehead in overtime. I also pioneered several terrible aviation experiments: rooftop bedsheet parachute (failed), classic umbrella drop (failed harder). Gravity kept the receipt. Miraculously, I never outgrew the speed thing. At seventy-one I finally set that national motorcycle record at Bonneville. Boom — checked. Heights, however, betrayed me like a bad ex. I developed a perfectly rational, soul-deep terror of becoming a messy pancake. Stand me near a drop-off and my brain starts drafting my obituary. Put me on a ladder and I enter monk-like focus mode, refusing to acknowledge that “down” exists. Yet somehow — possibly possessed — I found myself at the Mason Wingwalking Academy. In the hangar I rehearsed the routine like a man training for the apocalypse. Three points of contact at all times. Special foot spots so I didn’t accidentally kick a hole in a perfectly good airplane. I was so locked in I almost forgot I was secretly terrified of heights. The instructors promised muscle memory would take over up in the air. They are professional liars. We’re cruising at 3,500 feet over the Strait of Juan de Fuca when the pilot gives the signal. I unbuckle and stand up into a wind that immediately tried to delete me from existence. Muscle memory? Gone. Brain? Factory reset. I’m fumbling around like a drunk toddler on a jungle gym. At peak dignity I’m balanced on the fuselage like a confused garden gnome when I commit the ultimate sin: I look down at the water thousands of feet below. My body instantly voted to shut down. Full prehistoric shutdown. This is how it ends — as a temporary hood ornament. Concentrate, you fossil, I snarled at myself. Hand here. Foot there. Swear word. Other hand. Somehow, through sheer stubbornness and mild panic, I clawed my way onto the top of the wing, jammed my feet into the loops, and buckled that safety belt like it owed me money. Only then did I peek. Holy crap. The fear evaporated. The view was stupidly gorgeous. I gave the pilot the thumbs-up. He took that as permission to try and peel me off like a price tag — loops, hammerheads, rolls, sky and ocean playing violent musical chairs. My face skin was flapping like a loose tarp in a hurricane, my heart was redlining in the stratosphere, and I was laughing like a complete lunatic. Best panic attack I’ve ever had. Climbing back down required the same white-knuckle focus. The second my butt hit the seat and the belt clicked, my legs filed for divorce and turned into wet noodles. Some people say facing your fears conquers them. I faced mine, laughed like a hyena in their face for a few glorious minutes… and then they moved back in, redecorated, and raised the rent. I still hate ladders with a burning passion. Would I go wingwalking again? Are you kidding? Sign me up yesterday. Thank you, Rocky, you magnificent purple-haired enabler. You ruined my perfectly good fear of heights… for about twelve minutes.

Bicycling the Camino de Santiago.

A few years ago, I was dying on one of the ugliest climbs of the Camino de Santiago — legs on fire, 12% grades that felt like they were personally offended by my existence. It just kept going and going like a sadistic Spanish staircase to heaven. Way up the road I spotted four cyclists. Little by little, I reeled them in like a determined snail. Three were riding together, chatting away. The fourth was dangling about twenty feet behind, looking like he was questioning every life choice that led him there. As I pulled alongside the straggler, I heard English and assumed they were British. Up ahead, one guy was joyfully roasting his friends: “Come on, you slow bastards, my grandmother climbs faster than this!” I was somehow still feeling fresh — one of those rare unicorn days. I looked over at the guy next to me and said, “Sorry mate… I’ve just gotta do it.” I stood up, mashed the pedals like I owed them money, and dropped the whole group like they were parked. I hammered over the top and stopped at the big monument to St. James, sucking wind and feeling pretty smug. A few minutes later they rolled up. We started chatting and I discovered they weren’t British at all — three from mainland Spain, and the quiet straggler was from the Canary Islands. That’s when things got weird. The Canarian guy wouldn’t stop staring at me. Full laser-focus, mouth slightly open, like he was seeing a ghost. Finally he stepped forward, voice shaking with excitement: “Pepe… can I please have a picture with you?” I laughed. “Why would you want a picture with me?” He looked at me like I’d just asked why water is wet. “Because you’re Pepe Benavente!” Apparently Pepe Benavente is a big famous singer from the Canary Islands. And this dude was convinced he’d just met his musical hero halfway up a random mountain in Spain. I tried to be honest: “Look, the only money I ever made singing was when someone paid me to stop.” The joke cleared his head with six feet of altitude to spare. Now his buddies caught the fever. Suddenly all four of them were crowding around me like I was Taylor Swift on the summit. One by one they lined up for photos, arms around my shoulders, huge grins, while the others snapped away like paparazzi. I was laughing so hard I was shaking in the pictures. They still didn’t suspect a thing. Before I rode off, I couldn’t resist. I muttered just loud enough for them to hear: “Darn it… I can’t even go on holiday without getting recognized.” Then I clipped in, pointed the bike downhill, and descended like a thief escaping the scene of the funniest crime I’d ever committed. I still laugh every time I think about those four grown men proudly showing their friends photos of “Pepe Benavente” they met on the Camino — while the real Pepe was probably somewhere sipping a drink, blissfully unaware he had a body double crushing mountain passes in his name.

May 13, 2018

So today we are right in the middle of Bask wine country. Tomorrow we were told that we will be riding right along the "divide". Like our continental divide, water that lands on one side of the line flows into the Atlantic, and water that lands on the other side flows to the Mediterranean. So, during the presentation, a lady pops up and asks if there will be a place to pee so she could know which side of the line she was on. Another lady then adds, that if both her shoes get wet, then she would be right on the line. Hmmmm, wondering what kind of a group I got myself into.  😁

May 11, 2018

One day before the bike ride to Santiago begins. Storefront in Pamplona,  Spain. Even has a countdown clock 'til the running of the bulls. 56 days, 19 hours, 45 minutes and 27 seconds and counting.

Walking in Barcelona.

Walked 13.6 miles (so far) in Barcelona today. Got to see a lot of the town. Tomorrow is another travel day.