El Gringo Perdido: Part 2
White-Knuckled In The Dark Tunnel
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The sunset outside Real De Catorce
BLOG POST #019 - El Gringo Perdido (The Lost Gringo) Part 2
White-Knuckled In The Dark Tunnel
How I learned to ride a motorcycle, speak Spanish and not die. Riding solo in search of adventure from Detroit to Argentina.
When the route is easy, riding La Barra is similar to warm—fuzzy-sex while half asleep.
It's no wonder why bikers name their motorcycles like lovers. As I cut south through central Mexico towards Real de Catorce, I amused myself for hours thinking about this.
It was a warm breezy day under brilliant blue skies. Most of the roadway surfaces were in good shape and traffic was sparse.
The scenery changed from raised concrete freeway, to two lane highway with broad stretches of desert on either side. Once in a while a line of vehicles would wind slowly around low hills for a few miles, before emptying out into wide open spaces again.
Expecting a five-hour-journey, I had to leave early to make sure I would arrive before dark. My normal concerns about riding conditions; police checkpoints, or getting lost in sketchy-places never materialized. It was smooth sailing and my mind had time to wander.
La Barra and I were in our “sweet-spot,” humming along making good time. The physical connection between us had that familiar harmony as making love—without the boner of course.
Random chuckles came over me all morning as I contemplated the similarities of ridin’and-a-lovin'. Both activities require a lot of leaning, shifting, and holding certain positions. Limbs are always moving in different directions, fiddling with a side mirror or flicking switches on and off.
Listening for her to make all the right noises is very important. It is always satisfying to arrive together for a big finish. However, people that really know what they're doing enjoy all of the bumps and curves along the way, just as much.
I don't think I've ever done the sex-thing for a non-stop five-hour-ride. But otherwise the two pastimes really do have a lot in common. The key discipline in both: is PAY ATTENTION!
I'll leave the rest to the imagination, because I am “classy-AF. “ I don't ride and tell.
Before I knew it I was getting close to my destination, so I had to pay more attention again. The landscape changed as I turned off of the main freeway, aiming head-on at the wall of mountains in the distance. The road itself was made out of strange, slippery, black cobblestones. I couldn't figure out if this was done to be frugal so they would save money or if it was done to be extravagant so they would attract tourists. Either way, it looked expensive.
In a carefree and happy mood, I stopped for a random desert-dance-party. My little speaker was thumpin’ with house music as I thrashed around in circles. Being happy, wild, and free is a magnificent thing. There was nothing and no one around in any direction, as far as the eye could see.
Road trip dance party for one
At one point, I "thrashed" a little too hard, got dizzy, and tripped on the cobblestones. That made the whole scene even more entertaining. It turns out I can do the “pouncing-cat” like a "nini-girl” just as hard on the ground, if the music is right.
Back on the bike I carefully pressed ahead, along this strange empty roadway. It went on for several miles, with no lines or markings of any kind. For some reason it reminded me of the long pathway up to a dragon's castle where death awaits yet another knight on his steed.
Inching my way forward at thirty miles per hour, I was careful to keep control. My front tire would wobble and slip on the polished, bread-loaf sized stones the road was made of. Far too tensed up, I was fighting the bike as it teetered under my seat. There was no real danger of crashing, but the random slips one way or the other were very disconcerting. Falling on this surface would surely break something of bone, bike, or otherwise.
Just then a pair of Germans on BMW motorcycles casually flew past the other way, standing upright on their foot pegs at triple my speed. It's like they were rubbing it in, reminding me of what a noob I was. There's no telling that they were Germans for sure. Judging from matching black leather motorcycle jumpsuits, helmets with microphone extension arms, and stainless steel luggage panniers, Germans seemed like a sure bet.
“Preserve your rights!”...wait, what??
The only street signs along the way said, "CONSERVE SU DERECHA."
I pondered this for a long way, "PRESERVE YOUR RIGHTS." What a strange message, reminiscent our American hyper-patriotism. It reminded me of the, "Don't tread on me!" bumper stickers on every F-250 Super Duty truck back home. Later, when I looked up the translation it definitely made more sense, "STAY TO YOUR RIGHT." Yet again, my struggling Spanish skills made me laugh.
I'm learning the local lingo at a fairly decent pace. Oddly, I tend to have the most trouble with Spanish words that are similar to English. For example, "hotel" is written exactly the same in both languages. I have to practice the Spanish pronunciation over and over, or I will default right back to my American accent. I had a few interactions where people utterly did not understand me. So I practice the word as, "oh-TELL" over and over, hoping the Mexican sound will stick in my noggin. Then when critical the moment comes, I still mess it up with great comic flair in front of confused strangers.
From then on I write the word exclusively as "oh-TELL", partly to help me remember and also to make it my own little running joke.
After a few miles the road turned dusty, sloping upwards. I followed each turn and switchback along the carved mountain wall. The ride became dangerously enchanting. Gazing out upon the abundant beauty, I felt it could easily lure me to my death if I wasn't careful. I marveled at the blue and purple colors of the mountains in the distance, before being shocked back to reality. The close-call air-blast of wind from a truck screaming at me from around the bend without warning, brought me back to focus pretty quickly. Elbow shaped curves in the road jutted out over the drop. Their pleasant views coated with slippery gravel, tempted me towards that edge-of-no-return.
At the top of the mountain there was a large archway with the town name of "Real De Catorce" announcing my arrival. There was not much to it other than a few shops and a parking area. The road abruptly head-butted into the high mountain wall. A small black opening in the shape of a mouse hole was where the tunnel cut through the center of dense, brown, clay-colored rock.
I thought to myself, "Where have I seen this before?"
I looked around suspiciously, expecting to see the Road Runner cartoon character with a paint brush.
In my best Wile E. Coyote voice, I declared, "I'm not falling for that ole fake tunnel optical illusion trick."
There was a line of cars off to the right. I wasn't sure if they were waiting to go through or if it was normal to park there.
I'm thinking, "Do I pass them and cruise right through?"
A mile and a half of playing chicken with oncoming trucks and horses in the dark
In the past few weeks, I had learned that motorcycles get special privileges in Mexico. They have their own lane at toll booths, passing at no charge. They don't wait in line at police checkpoints, instead—they cruise right past en masse. Bikers often ignore basic rules of the road, disregard red lights, and roll right around the dude holding the stop sign at construction lane closures. This is just how bikers ride. Not knowing any better, there have been several times when I queued patiently in line with all of the cars, until I got the hint, after a pack of bikers ripped past without stopping.
During my travels , I am in a constant state of wonder about what the hell I'm supposed to be doing at any given moment. Approaching the tunnel entrance slowly, I held my chin up high with purpose, trying to convey confidence. An unkempt, squat, middle-aged man in a high-visibilityvest flagged me down once he realized I wasn't going to stop on my own. He babbled way to quickly for me to understand. One way or another, I got the hint that I was not allowed through.
It often happens that I only figure something out a week or two later when I write about it. That tunnel crossing was a classic case where I had no idea what was going on at the time, but then it dawned on me after.
Over the next few days I got it all down. There were a lot of rules for the tunnel. Everyone waits. Motorbikes do not get to go first or on their own. There are pinch-points inside the tunnel where it would be very bad to run into other vehicles head-on. Horses are still used for transport, so they are given special right of way through what is a very dark, wet, enclosed space. Just like all the cars, I had to pay a toll. You can only use the tunnel during certain hours. On the other side, the town itself is a former silver-mining outpost. Everything was built into steep hillsides and surrounded by mountains, so there is limited horizontal space and almost no parking. For this reason, not many cars are allowed through. There's nowhere to put them.
I'm no stranger to intense situations, but this was pretty high on my list. Knowing that mathematically there was enough room in the tunnel, it still freaked me out like the walls were closing in.
After paying my toll I got in line. It wasn't clear to me what we were waiting for, but they did have a system. Once oncoming vehicles cleared certain single-lane parts of the tunnel, then it was ok to have two-way traffic. At the right time, someone radioed ahead to our tunnel-flagger and we all started our engines.
I'm no stranger to intense situations, but this was pretty high on my list. Knowing that mathematically there was enough room in the tunnel, it still freaked me out like the walls were closing in. Once traffic started passing the other way, it was downright tight. Meanwhile I was trying not to get squished between the car in front and the truck in back of me. Water was running down from the ceiling in places, pooling in low spots and making the smooth tiled roadway even more slippery.
The noise of rattling engines and tires splashing through puddles echoed off the walls. Choking exhaust wafted hot against my face and up my nose with the black stink of diesel. Yellow mining light fixtures broke up the darkness every fifty yards, with a dull glow. Layered on top of this, the strobe of bouncing headlights on the walls created a frenetic vibe. The sensory overload was like some PSYOPs torture room in Al-Mubarraz where the CIA tries to get terrorists to crack.
As I got deeper into the tunnel, the occasional smear of horse sh*t with a tire track through the middle of it added a nice touch to the whole scene. Such things can be a real problem for a motorcycle. Everything is a hazard when you're on two-wheels. Never mind the sudden slip of my back tire this caused, I really didn't want the chunks of grass-filled stankkk flung up into my luggage.
Cars and trucks flowed past, but most of the traffic was made up of horse-drawn carts full of tourists. This reminded me of Halloween hayrides back home, made of wood with large wagon wheels. People sat face-to-face on park bench type seating, bouncing through the mottled flashes of light and dark. These were all Mexican tourists, enjoying themselves. Some were talking or singing along the way.
I was the only motorcycle in the tunnel. For some reason it was common for oncoming traffic to prank me. It seemed like they were hoping to see the motorbike guy to flip over. I don't think it was a gringo thing because it wasn't easy to see who I was with my helmet on. Trucks blasted their horn at me from close range. The horse cart drivers would lean close and crack their whip near my ear. They laughed and hollered like it was all part of the show for the tourists. I did not give them the satisfaction of flinching or wobbling. Everybody seemed to be having fun, a little bit at my expense and also at my non-consensual peril.
"F***kers," I thought.
Around the halfway mark there was a temple carved into the rock wall. It seemed like an odd place to build such a thing. I'm guessing it was a memorial to miners that died digging this tunnel.
Why do I feel that someone died here?
Later, I learned that I can cross after hours when no one is in attendance. There is no toll but the catch is that I proceed at my own risk of a head-on collision.
A few days later on my way out it was still precarious, but much more calm without traffic or water streaming down.
After ten minutes, I came through the other side and emptied out into the blinding light.
My first view of Real De Catorce did not disappoint as the place hummed with activity. This was going to be fun.
NEXT POST COMING SOON: July 9th, 2025
