Don Simone rolled into my place from Reno the day before we left, and on April 10, 2013, we pointed the bikes south. The usual slog of heavy traffic between Ensenada and San Quintín was every bit as cheerful as ever, but once it was behind us the road opened up. We pulled into El Rosario for the night, put away a solid dinner at Mama Espinosa’s, and called it a day. First night on the road always feels like the real start of the trip.
The next morning delivered exactly what you hope for: great weather, good pavement, and almost no traffic all the way to Loreto. After parking the bikes we wandered the town, scored a chicken dinner and ice cream for dessert, and caught up on email before another solid night’s sleep. Busy day coming.
April 12 was pure progress. We rode from Loreto to La Paz, collected our mainland vehicle permits, and booked the ferry to Mazatlán for the following Tuesday. Then it was straight down to Cabo San Lucas to kill a few days in proper tourist fashion. Cabo treated us well. We did more walking than usual—enough that the legs complained—and hiked out over the rocks to Land’s End, timing the low tide so we could stroll the beach back into town. Early on the 16th we rolled back to La Paz, boarded the ferry, and settled in for the long overnight crossing.
Eighteen hours later we were off the boat in Mazatlán and heading south on back roads, dodging the tolls and anything that looked like a major highway. Small towns and villages slid past until we reached Sayulita in Nayarit. We figured Taxco the next day might be a stretch, but we were willing to try.
It was a stretch. We crawled out of Sayulita and managed only a hundred miles by noon on roads that twisted through one tiny village after another. The pace finally picked up in the afternoon, but by 5:30 we were already hunting for a place to sleep. Nothing appeared until 7:30, when we rolled into a village so small I’m not sure it even has a name—and certainly no restaurants. We found dinner at what looked like someone’s front-yard barbecue. They fed us anyway. Just another day in Mexico.
The following day was pure motorcycle poetry, if poetry includes livestock. Left, right, left, right—three cows in the road—right, left, right—almost collected lunch when a chicken decided the highway was the place to be—left, right, a whole herd of goats, three burros, two dogs, more burros, two cows and a burro, and then a couple of gentlemen in dirty T-shirts and plain pants holding guns who decided we needed a brief roadside chat. That was close. More goats, more turns, and eventually Taxco. We claimed a rest day there, which in Taxco means climbing vertical hills every time you want to go anywhere. The colonial town is built on a serious slope, picturesque as can be, and every destination requires calves of steel.
On the 21st we made a shorter hop up to Puebla and down into Oaxaca for a couple of nights. The landscape shifted from the lush, almost jungle overgrowth of the previous days—tunnels of flowering trees in white, pink, and purple—into drier scrub country. Interesting in its own way. The next day we left the bikes parked (after riding them across marble floors and up onto a walkway inside the hotel) and simply walked the town square. No riding, just exploring.
April 23 delivered another long, fun ride: highly twisty roads out of Oaxaca that started dry and ended in rainforest and jungle. By evening we were on the Gulf coast in Frontera. The plan for the 24th was to cross Isla del Carmen, pass Campeche and Mérida, and reach our friend Pako’s house in Valladolid. We took some toll roads to make time. About fifteen miles short of the finish line I stopped to dig out money for the booth, hit the starter, and got nothing. Not a light, not a peep. Dead battery or worse. Luggage off, seat off, fuses checked—all fine. Don stripped his bike so we could jump it. Mine fired up. Luggage back on, seats back on, ready to roll… and I put it in gear with the side stand still down. Instant kill from the safety switch. Oh, for the love of… We tore everything off again, jumped it a second time, and finally rolled the last stretch to Pako’s with the check-engine light glowing and both the tach and speedometer swinging wildly from zero to full and back. We made it. Don was not exactly grinning by that point.
The next day the three of us took a taxi to a stunning cenote—an underground river so clear and deep (180 feet) that the best entrance method was swinging out on a rope and dropping into the middle. Pure rush. Back in town we hunted for a battery. Yamaha shop: no. Motorcycle repair shop: no. We were starting to wonder if Valladolid was about to gain a permanent resident when we tried a dusty auto-parts-and-bicycle place. Up on a shelf, under a layer of dust, sat exactly the battery I needed. Installed and on the charger overnight. Miracle.
April 26 the three of us bused out to Chichén Itzá. Beautiful and famous, but still second to Palenque in my book. A test ride confirmed the bike was happy again, so the next morning we left Pako’s expecting a partial day and instead rolled into Palenque by 5:00. We Have been here before and just love it! 
Same jungle cabanas right at the park entrance, same favorite outdoor restaurant. Perfect.
We spent the 28th at the ruins—hours climbing pyramids and buildings—then took the jungle trail out past uncleared ruins, streams, pools, waterfalls, and a suspension bridge to the museum. Lunch on the 
walk back. Hard to leave a place that good, but on the 29th we headed north. We’d hoped to see the newly discovered giant Olmec heads near La Venta, but the site is swampy and nearly inaccessible, so the best pieces live in Villahermosa. The outdoor museum there is excellent—giant heads, other La Venta artifacts, and even a small zoo. After that we continued north and stopped for the night on the north side of Veracruz.
April 30 kept us along the Gulf until Tampico, then west toward Ciudad Valles. We blew past the old hotel without spotting it and just kept going, watching for somewhere before dark. A side road led to a little town five miles off the highway that had clean hotels with safe bike parking and enough nearby sights that we immediately put it on the “come back and stay longer” list.
May 1 was easy countryside riding through San Luis Potosí and Zacatecas (old silver-mining colonial town we’d explored thoroughly on earlier trips, including an opera in a gorgeous five-story wooden theater) and into Durango. Our usual hotel is a block and a half from the square and lets us park the bikes in the lobby. The procedure never gets old: up the step, through the big double doors, through another set, past the Brazilian restaurant and its nicely dressed patrons, left at the registration desk, and onto the marble floor. Nothing but the best for the machinery. The square was lively as always.
May 2 gave us the fun roads we’d been waiting for—toward Hidalgo del Parral past Pancho Villa’s old ranch, then onto a little-known pine-and-mountain route through Copper Canyon country that dumped us in Creel at the top of the canyon. Creel never seems to change. Sometimes we just pass through; other times it’s the base for week-long dirt-bike expeditions into the remote canyon. This time it was a pass-through.
Our last day in Mexico, May 3, took us out of the mountains past Buenaventura and Nuevo Casas Grandes to Agua Prieta. We turned in the temporary vehicle permits and crossed into Douglas, Arizona. Don headed home with a Las Vegas overnight; I swung west for a night in Yuma so I could see my son, daughter-in-law, and two granddaughters on the way back.
We’ve never had a bad trip to Mexico, and this one was no exception—new roads, new places, the usual mix of livestock, mechanical drama, and unexpected hospitality. We’ve now ridden in 26 of Mexico’s 31 states. Time to start planning the next one.
