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.
