I woke up at dawn to the droning of millions of honeybees overhead and immediately thought Peter must have been stung to death through the night. Thanking my lucky stars for having taken the time to put up the tent for myself to protect against the murderous insects, I sat up and looked around. Peter was standing around, admiring the view, and it became clear that wherever the droning was coming from (which seemed to be everywhere), the bees were no where to be seen. The ranges and valleys we had ridden yesterday were painted golden by the morning light.
Peter informed me he hadn’t slept the previous night, since he needed to take some pills to do so, and couldn’t do so without some kind of liquid. I was pretty certain a small sip of beer to swallow the pill wouldn’t cause any issues, despite the warning label said, but he disagreed. He then asked me to run back down the mountain to where he had previously collapsed the day before, as he had lost his motorcycle gloves and camera. So I packed up camp and shot down the mountain, spotting the gloves, but no camera. The rest of the group had already arrived when I returned, with quite their own story about the previous night.
Apparently, they only made it about 2 kilometers in the dark, the terrain no better on the road to El Rodeo. They stopped at a house, and after a few minutes of banging on the door an elderly man peered out suspiciously. Stefan begged for some water, and the man brought out a small cup of water, for all six of them. This went on a few more times until he got the picture and brought a large pitcher for them all, before they slept on some concrete. Temperatures were around 32 degrees the previous night, so it probably wasn’t that enjoyable.
A truck pulls around and Stefan asks the driver if this really is, honestly, the road to Batopilas. The driver assures him this road will take us there, but it’s going to be a rough ride, as the conditions deteriorate quickly heading up the mountain before they get somewhat better on the descent.
Finally we begin moving, with Stefan and Andi in front, then me, and then the rest behind me. As I ride up a particularly steep part of the hill, I look back and notice Peter, who was behind me is no longer visible.
I park the motorcycle in the middle of the switchback, and start walking down, thinking he may need some assistance.
His bike is laid down, hanging over the edge of the road, a drop about 50 feet or so, with no sign of Peter. I rush over and see that miraculously his foot is pinned underneath the motorcycle, which is leaking gas everywhere.
“Peter! Are you ok?”
“Yes, just get the damn bike off of me!”
Of course, if I move the bike first, the guy will slip down the cliff face, and probably tumble down the mountain for who knows how long, especially given his lack of sleep. So I grab his arms and wrench him up, before lifting the bike off his leg. Chris has come up at this point as well, and we finally get everything sorted, but the mental damage has been done.
Sadly I have no pictures or video of the accident (or maybe it’s better that way?), my GoPro having pretty much died the day before.
Peter’s decided there is no damn way he’s riding anymore, and Agnes explodes as well, exhausted and drained from having to get off and on the 1200 GS every few minutes. They want to stay put and have us ride ahead, and send a truck back from Batopilas to pick them up.
I’m not sure how feasible this is, but I find that I’ve lost my patience and after making sure every one is ok, ride up to where Stefan, Ira, Andi, and Noah are waiting and explain the situation. It’s their group, they can deal with it.
Stefan heads down to try and talk to Peter and Agnes, while the rest of us hang out for twenty minutes.
Eventually Chris shows up with Agnes walking beside him, and Stefan a few moments later.
We all have a big pow wow, a come to Jesus moment, a few laughs and press on. There will be no stopping now until we get to Batopilas; the app says it should about an hour but it will turn out to take more like 4 hours.
The truck driver we met earlier was correct, the road gets worse, but there are some spectacular views as the sun climbs higher throughout the day.
There’s one more particularly nasty descent, extremely steep, extremely slippery, and a little frightening to those on the bigger bikes, but we manage to blast through it and keep on keepin’ on.
We climb one more mountain face, and then are greeted with a view of a spectacular valley. And Batopilas! I can see it! Everyone instantly feels better now that our destination is in sight.
- Confidence high, I let the throttle rip and ride hard, stopping every once in a while for a few photos.
I stop at another T-intersection and wait for the rest of the group. Andi and Noah are right behind me, and the rest appear ten minutes later. We hook a left onto a copper colored road, and descend into the valley, passing by locals riding quads every once in a while.
And then, civilization! We’ve made it!
Much hootin’ and hollerin’ follows as we gleefully ride into town as the triumphant adventurers we are. The last two days have been difficult, but we persevered and it paid off.
We pull into the town square, directly in front of the police station as locals curiously look at these spacemen arriving from the mountains. I start to get off the motorcycle and, I’m not sure what happens but I lose control and drop it. So many miles through horrific terrain without a single incident, and I crash at zero miles per hour. As I fall I grab the front brake, it’s tight and then suddenly it’s extremely pliable.
Hmm, that’s not supposed to feel like that.
Andi runs over to help me (I’m alright), and as the bike is put back up I see the front wheel is covered in brake fluid. Closer inspection reveals that I stupidly routed the brake line incorrectly, going on the inside instead of the forks instead of the outside. So, when the forks compressed, the steel braided brake line would rub on the rotor.
And they compressed a lot in the last 48 hours.
For now though, everyone’s tired and eager to eat, drink, nap, and shower off the Canyon. We check into a small hotel called Hotel Juanitas, which is basically this woman’s yellow house, but with a hotel on the backend. She has a tiny ramp you can use to wheel your motorcycle through, passing the living room with the TV on the right hand side into a courtyard.
After washing up, I visited the two local mechanics in town, but no one had anything to help with my missing brake line issue. At least the rear brakes still worked, and they’d just have to get me through the next few miles until I could reach some major time.
The rest of the day was spent recharging batteries, resting and eating, before everyone crashed early, ready to head to Creel in the morning.
