It was the middle of March and the days were becoming hotter even while the nights held onto their chill. Soon the spring winds would pick up as they did every year, and riding a motorcycle through barren stretches of desert would become trying. Fortunately, the day we left Albuquerque, the 18th of March, 2011, dawned clear and still, almost as if the sky itself were holding it's breath. I, too, felt still and calm, even though the blood was humming in my veins.
I would be riding my Yamaha XT225, a little enduro I'd kitted out for the trip (see the photo album "pre-trip motorcycle maintenance and mods"), and Andrew, my boyfriend of nearly two years, would join me for the first week of the trip on his BMW R7/5, a black, rumbling beauty of a bike. Both machines were in the driveway, purring away and ready to ride. As I stepped out of the house in my riding gear, helmet in hand, I took a last fond look at Andrew's small house with it's peeling yellow paint; even though it was not my own place, it was the closest thing to a home I would have for the next five months, and walking out it's front door was a momentous act.
I swung a leg over my bike, pulled away from the house, and followed Andrew out of the city. The vibration of the bike reminded me just what I was getting myself into, and I began again, for the umpteenth time, to worry. Never before had I gone traveling with something so conspicuous and expensive, something requiring extra wariness and constant maintenance and care. I was new to the whole motorcycle-thing, still operating under the memories of being on the back of a bike in Africa, a bike that was not my problem, but someone else's. I got all the fun and freedom, with none of the work or responsibility. This time, it was all my problem. Was I up to the challenge of keeping this large machine, with all it's various moving parts, in good enough working order to get me to Panama and back?
The worries, as disheartening as they were, were not strong enough to keep the thrill at bay. I watched as Albuquerque and all that was familiar to me dwindled away in my mirrors and eventually disappeared.
And I smiled.
This was gonna be good.
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A few hours and 170 mi later we were ready for lunch. Although tired and sore already, I was feeling darn good about the trip so far. I'd tackled the scary prospect of highway speeds and riding on interstates, the bike was performing well, and I hadn't lost the self-created tool tube. And the scenery has been stellar: 170 miles of open vistas of scrubby desert, russet-colored escarpments, and the constant backdrop of the Gila Mountains to the west. Part of the drive had taken us through the famous Bosque del Apache Wildlife Reserve, where we'd cruised along the shores of numerous playa lakes dotted with ducks, and where a pulsing, sparkling cloud of Easter-white snow geese flew overhead against the azure backdrop of the sky.
The town of Truth or Consequences, where we were to grab lunch, was not as scenic. The town acquired it's comical name in 1950 when the popular gameshow of the same title promised to visit the first town to legally change its name to Truth or Consequences. New Mexico won, and it was a fitting name for a western town in the desert.Every May for the next fifty years, the gameshow visited and a festival was held. A rolicking good time was had by all, especially by the Hatch Chile Queen.
But still, it's not a pretty town, but thats where Andrew's rear tire decided to go flat. Good thing we were in a town! Or not. No one would so much as look at a BMW. So he had it towed to Silver City, the day's destination, courtesy of AAA. That left me alone for the last 80 miles of the day's drive.
It was glorious. I'd never before ridden on such curvy, windy, FUN roads! The rhythmic weaving back and forth, left and right, up and over the pass, through the wild, untamed, unmanaged forests of the Gila Wilderness, which may still provide a refuge for jaguars; past the horrible and mesmerizing open-pit copper mine of Santa Rita, and finally, cold and shivering, into the old mining town of Silver City, where Andrew awaited me with a hug.
We spent the next morning, a Sunday, getting the wheel off the bike so we could get it fixed at a shop Monday morning. The rest of the day was spent in the town at various cafes and bars, hanging out with the friendly and back-woodsish residents. Monday morning the tire was patched, and we had an easy 200 miles to Tucson, through deserts dotted with Seussian cacti, such as the long-armed saguaro, its eyes and mouth carved out by industrious woodpeckers, reaching up at the sky in an eternal raindance; the short, dumpy barrel cacti; the tall, stout trunks of yucca, with a crazy Afro blob of hair half way up, topped by a swirly, whirly curlycue of a headpiece. I could easily imagine them all up and walking around, speaking in rhyme.
In the city, we stayed at a friend's house while he was out of town, and while there we looked up the highly recommended ZMW bike shop. And that's where our easy three-days-to-San Felipe plan became irreparably derailed.
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ZMW brought with it good news and bad news. The bad was that my stock chain, rear sprocket and front brake pads needed replacing, so we were stuck in Tucson for a dew days. The good news was that Frank, the owner, and Chris, the other mechanic, were awesome guys who were not only able to diagnose my bike from a distance, but were also funny, genuine, knowledgable adventure riders and, now, friends.
During the days in Tucson, Andrew and I explored the UA campus, visited the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum, and drank beer. It was a really fun time, and we couldn't have gotten stuck in a better place.
But, like all good times, it had to end. Because Andrew had to be back at school on Monday, he was no longer able to go to San Felipe with me, so on the morning of the 18th, we said goodbye. After a couple days of singing along to KT Tunstall and eating waaaay too much ice cream, the bike was up to par for a trip to Panama and back, and I headed for Yuma, alone.
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The best thing about Yuma was the 3G. Enough said.
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When I left the next morning for the Calexico/Mexicali border, I was legitimately nervous. After all the border crossings I'd done, this was the first one I'd done overland, by myself, with my own vehicle. I made sure my documents were appropriately stashed, topped up on gas, and drove into Mexico.
No, really. I left the US, via a guard asking if I had anything to declare, and then I was driving the streets of Mexicali. I had to ask myself the glaring question, where the hell was Mexican immigration?? I was driving around Mexico with no stamp in my passport, and no permit for my bike. Great.
40 miles of driving in circles, directions from ten people, and an eventually-easy seven mile drive east along the border put me at the other Calexico border, the secondary Calexico border, and yet the only one with a vehicle importation office. Go figure.
With that behind me, I could finally enjoy Baja. Famous Baja!! I was there! I could seek out all the beaches and desert my heart desired, maybe with some mountains and whales thrown in there, too. The road south was smooth and easy, with the exciting exception of three detours, one of which was the most technical off-roading with full panniers I'd ever done.
At one point I had to stop and just look and listen to the wind and sand and sky. I pulled over at kilometer 80, at the most desolate and striking stretch of road I'd yet seen. It looked a little something like this:
And it sounded a bit like this: whooooooooooooooooooosh. Hoooowwwwwwwllllllll. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
I also passed through my first military checkpoint, where they actually stopped every single vehicle, had everyone get out, and searched everything in the vehicle. Seriously thorough. For me they searched the panniers. The guards were nice young guys, curious about me and the bike. The only disconcerting thing that happened was that two separate guards in two separate conversations asked me, "Aren't you scared?" Of what? I thought to myself. Be more specific. Loneliness? Hell yeah. Other people? Sometimes. That I'm in over my head with this bike stuff? Yup.
Of Mexico? No.
And then I arrived in San Felipe.
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Week one technical notes:
1. Calexico/Mexicali crossing: Cross at the eastern border crossing just about 5 miles out of town; the other border, the one in Calexico has no facilities for immigration once you enter Mexico, and figuring out where to go and how to get there is uber-confusing. I'm unsure whether or not gas and insurance are available at the eastern crossing, but they are both avaiable at the main intersection in Calexico.
2. To get my rear wheel off the ground, I first turn the handlebars all the way to the right and secure them with a bungee cord. Then I lean the bike far over on its kick stand, until there's enough room under the right foot peg region to reach over the bike and slide the tool tube under it, vertically. See pic. Gets the rear wheel off the ground, and it's super-stable. Takes a little practice to get the move down.
Bike supported by kickstand on left side and tool tube on right side. Handlebars secured to the right side. My tool tube (13" long) works perfectly for me, but any similarly sized object will work. Thanks again, ZMW!
