Via Mexico: Chapter 4

        We woke in the morning nervous and excited.  Today we would be crossing the Mexico border at the Nogales port of entry.  Fortunately, the ride from Phoenix to the border was uneventful.  Though Phoenix was experiencing record low temperatures, it was still far warmer then it had been.  We approached the border around 11 AM, a bit later then we had hoped but still within our window of exceptable.  Our plan was to make the crossing, then proceed to push quickly a minimum of 250 miles south to the coast.   250 miles was what we felt would put us a safe distance from the violent border towns.  Interestingly, the Mexican government has put in place an American Hassle Free zone that covers the area from the border to 250 miles south of the border.  Within this zone, if you any issues such as mechanical breakdowns, you are promptly towed and escorted, for free, to the closest edge of the Hassle Free Zone.  

       We approached the crossing with tanks full of fuel and our nerves on high alert.  The final approach directed us onto a oneway, no second thoughts allowed road tucked between two towering concrete walls.  Directly ahead were the gates, Mexican flag and a way of life most Americans will never understand.  We approached the gate slowly, looking through them with anticipation of what lay  ahead.  There we were, on the United States/Mexico border with no one behind us, being waved in by wide eyed Federale watching us awkwardly navigate the series of baseball size pucks placed on the road to clearly define the line.  Bouncing semi out of control we entered a land neither one of us had ever experienced.  Quickly scanning the area for potential threats, we witnessed extreme poverty and suffering.  The faces of the people were not threatening nor scary, they were sad and desperate.  Here we were, 100yds from the border, but years away from America.  It is almost unbelievable how different life can be so close to our border.  

       In addition though, we also noticed the extreme presence of the Federale as a reminder of the violence that was taking place in this country.  Everywhere we looked there were flat bed trucks with flashing blue lights.  On each truck there were 6 troops, covered head to toe in protective gear showing no part of there body, carrying semi automatic rifles.  Rolling through town towards the secondary border crossing 25 miles south, we tucked in behind one of these trucks thinking it would be the safest place for us.  We followed this truck a few miles until the traffic cleared, Noagales was behind us and the truck turned off the road.  At this point we were alone so we rolled on the throttle and raced to the secondary border crossing where we would have to register our bikes and inform the Mexican government of presence.  

      The crossing went smooth.  We procured our necessary paperwork, exchanged some money, smiled and went on our way.  The sun was out and it was finally starting to really warm up.  We were feeling good as we rolled towards the coast, excited to stare at the ocean while eating fresh shrimp.  Along we rode, down new roads, through small towns where the locals tried to sell us trinkets and fresh juices.  We enjoyed the sites, the weather and......."Hey, where's Michael!?" I said to myself while frantically looking around.  

        At this point we were 225 miles south of the border and Michael was no where to be seen.  Immediately I screached to a hault, looked back up the road as far as I could, seeing nothing. I had to get back to him.  I looked at the 50 foot wide, sandy, cactus filled median, grabbed a handful of throttle and went for it.  Getting pretty sideways a couple of times while dodging Giant Senoras I managed to get across, up on the road and sped back to where I came from until I saw Michael standing beside his bike on the road side.  Now, of course, I had to recross this median to get over to him.  Once again, getting sideways and narrowly avoiding impalement from the cacti, I succeeded  in getting over to him.  

Asking what was wrong, Michael told me his rear wheel locked up and the motor died....engine seized.

This was a seriousy bad situation.  So, we did what anybody else would do in this situation.  We took turns jumping on the kickstarter thinking that maybe the combination of that along with a few dozen Hail Marys we would somehow convince this completely destroyed motor to repair itself and start.  Turns out that no amount of praying will repair a seized motor.  Fortunately though, the local policia did hear our prayers and came to the rescue.  Remember that Hassle Free Zone I mentioned earlier?  It was about to come in real handy.  We quickly explained our situation to the police and they explained that they would call a tow truck for us.  Perfect we thought.  We could get ourselves down to Hermosillo and figure it out from there.  While thanking the police for there help and assessing the amount of sunlight left I asked the cop how safe we would be sitting out here in the middle of the desert.  He replied with "you or the bikes?"  I said "either?" he just shrugged and walked away.  

          We were told that the "tow truck" would arrive in about an hour so we felt lucky when it showed up in 30 minutes.  Now, I use the term tow truck rather loosely here.  In reality it was a Ford Ranger, completely lined in tool boxes with a giant antenna bolted to the middle of the bed.  No ramps, no english speaking driver, and no spanish speaking broken down bikers.  Luckily, with our impromptu sign langauge, we were able to convince the driver to drive his truck off the pavement and back the tail gate up to the road where we would only have to lift the bike a couple of feet.  The next problem though was where exactly to put the bike.  We decided on the "cram it and see what happens" method, it actually kind of worked.  With the frame sitting on the tailgate and the front wheel precariously strapped to the side of the truck we crossed our fingers and decided that it was as good as it was going to get. The driver slowly drove back onto the road and  I tucked in behind the truck as we caravanned our way, at a snails pace, the 25 miles to the town of Hermosillo.  For some reason the driver never broke the 25mph barrier, pretty sure he was getting paid by the hour.  

          We pulled into Hermosillo at somewhere around 9pm.  The driver of the tow truck pulled into a rather swanky hotel complete with marble floors and an english speaking attendent.  This would be our home for the next three days.  Knowing there was nothing we could accomplish at this time of night we decided that a warm meal at a local restaurant was in order.  We received a reccomendation from the hotel clerk then proceeded to walk a few blocks to said restaurant.  As expected, the food was great and conversation with the bartender was labored due to the obvious language barrier, but we did meet a nice english speaking local to chat with.  Upon completion of our meal and we turned back to our luxury $50 a night hotel for a good nights rest knowing that the next day could unfold some interesting events.  

           I started the morning by opening the phone book resting on the nightstand, looking for any sort of Harley shop....nothing.  Next, I scoured the pages for what looked like the biggest shop in town.  I ended up connnecting with a Yamaha dealership that not only had an english speaking manager but was willing to send out a truck to recover the dead motorcycle.  Things were looking up.  Though we both knew that there was absolutely no way that bike would leave Mexico in any other way then on the back of trailer it still felt good knowing that it was at least getting to a repair shop.