Don't Go Chasing Butterflies

Toluca, Mexico

6,116 km

The morning after the car accident the sky was mostly clear but sharply cold. I left around midmorning as Male and her sister and their parents left for work. Male apologized profusely and I sarcastically thanked her for the excitement. Soon I was out of the city and heading west on the free highway. The first danger came when I arrived at a patch of highway construction where deep grooves were cut into the lane parallel with the direction of traffic. The grooves are to hold the new tarmac when it is poured but they are a terrible hazard to a motorcycle because the front tire can get caught in the groove and loose all traction. This was made worse because here the highway twisted through hill country and I had to make leaning turns amidst the grooves in the tarmac.

Soon it grew very cold. It started to rain, then it rained hard, then the rain became hail. It pelted my helmet and the gas tank and I could feel the staccato sting through long johns, trousers, and rain pants. I pressed on and the downpour continued sometimes as rain and sometimes as icy pellets. It pooled in the center of the highway and then broke into rippling mudflows. Occasionally the rain stopped and the skies cleared but then the wind rose and I had to lean against it and the leaning means less tire touching the we tarmac and so less traction. Finally, I passed Zitácuaro and then I turned north on a secondary highway towards Angangueo. Before there, at Ocampo, I saw the signs for the El Rosario butterfly sanctuary.

The road meandered for 15 kilometers up the hillside in two lanes paved in rough, bone-jolting stones around two narrow tracks of smooth stone. Water flowed downhill as I climbed, soaked and shivering, trying to stay on the smooth tracks and trying to stay perfectly vertical to lose no traction to a lean. The rain turned to hail and struck hard and the downhill flows grew heavier and cut the road crossways rushing at times perpendicularly against the tires.

At the entrance to the butterfly there was a small open-air hut where old men and women bundled up and huddled against the stinging cold and did not come forward to greet me. I parked the bike and approached. The said there would be no butterflies today, which of course I knew. I said I wanted to get something hot to eat and drink in one of the structures a half kilometer ahead. They wanted to collect 20 pesos as a toll and I – cold, wet, and exhausted – became somewhat indignant and replied there was no way I would pay if there are no butterflies. The shrugged their shoulders and said that I could pass but now, bizarrely there was a principle to stand on, so I remounted, made a U-turn and returned the way I had come.

The descent was more harrowing than the ascent. To climb you apply throttle: you exert force against contrary force – you turn wheels against gravity, push water between treads, heat cold rubber, and this creates traction. But descending, gravity is no longer against you; you no longer create traction by exerting force against contrary force. Worse now was that the hail had frozen in sheets across the smooth paving stones and it was a virtual slalom for 15 kilometers until I arrived, shaken but not beaten, at Ocampo, where I took shelter in an open-air taquería and drank a hot coffee to settle my nerves.

A Road Accident in Toluca

Toluca, Mexico
5,843 km

The motorcycle appeared to be running well again so I spent a few more days in Mexico City before I shoved off again. I made other small repairs and had a new rack built for the saddlebags because the high speed vibration was causing wear on the vinyl. I spent a very fine day visiting the Plaza de la Constitución and the Catedral Metropolitana. Inside, standing before an enormous backdrop of carved saints and martyrs brilliantly leafed in gold, the priest sermonized of the “enfermidad del sexo, alcohol y oro” (“sickness of sex, alcohol, and gold) and I appreciated the irony of the latter. In the afternoon I visited the Museo Nacional de Antropología where a casual visitor could fill several days and an aficionado could lose himself for weeks. The museum is a marvel and the exhibits dispelled any prejudicial doubts I had that Mexico is poor in cultural heritage.

In the evening Memo and I had dinner and a few drinks. He told me of the terrible Mexico City earthquake of ’85. He was very young but he and friends obtained a truck and drove water and food into those in the affected area. He spoke of the poverty of his country, of his family members in the Oaxaca region that still go without shoes. There was great sadness in his eyes and his voice and I saw the soul of a good man.

The evening of the next day – the 14th of January – I left Mexico City for Toluca, which is on the way to Ocampo in the state of Morelia where I wanted to visit the monarch butterfly sanctuary the following day. In Toluca I stayed with a young lady, Male, that I had met through couchsurfing.org. In the afternoon we went to the Cosmovitral, which is like a cathedral to this natural and beautiful. Stone paths meander among lush flower gardens and bubbling fountains and streaming tinted sunlight pours through enormous stained glass images of cosmic creation that decorate the simple gray stone walls.

In the evening, Male, her sister, Erica, and I took the car to go out of dinner. It drizzled and the night was dark but for the rushing headlights along the freeway. Male drove in the fastest of the three traffic lanes. Rising on an overpass she noticed an approaching car traveling fast. She moved to the center lane to let it pass but quickly found that she was approaching too quickly upon the car ahead of her. She swerved left too hard and then back again right to compensate. The sedan hydroplaned and went into a uncontrolled spin as though the wheels were skies and the rain slicked tarmac icy snow. We made a turn and a half as we barreled to the right, clipped the car that Male had tried to avoid, and careened backwards into a concrete-reinforced rail post at the top of the overpass. I saw the whole thing happen in slow motion, aware of everything – of the spinning, of the crashing, of the broken glass shattering inward upon me from the rear window – fearless, strangely, but also impotent, powerless to control an uncontrollable situation.

The reinforced post halted us and prevented us from breaking through the railing and falling the dozen or so meters to the pavement below. There was a moment of shock before the three of us reacted. Male launched into hysterics but her sister, Erica, was cool and levelheaded; I was impressed by her. After we calmed Male into a stunned silence, I said that we needed to call the police. Instead the girls called their parents and then the insurance agent. Eventually, but only eventually, the police arrived, although they had not been summoned. A woman in the other car had severe whiplash and I thought it a terrible thing that the police were barely an afterthought. The police regulated traffic, which had mostly ground to a standstill and much later I head the approach of an ambulance but it was ages in arriving because in Mexico nobody yields the roadway for emergency vehicles.

The injured woman was finally taken to the hospital and Male was reviewed and released by the paramedics. Male and Erica’s parents came and the insurance adjuster came and began the paperwork. It was wet and very cold and the middle of the night now, the rain still falling in a light sprinkle. Eventually we were taken to the police processing station and there was more waiting while we waited for word to come from the hospital regarding the severity of the woman’s injuries. Eventually the terms of the restitution were agreed upon and we left. At the house, cold and exhausted, we had hot tea and quesadillas and talked little before we went to bed.

The Best and Worst Ride of My Life

Mexico City, Mexico
5,728 km

My way took me next to Metepec, which is a large city high in the hills to the west of the capital. Here I met some people through couchsurfing.org and ended up drunk and somewhat stranded at a house party until after 4 in the morning. It was a good time and a fine, unexpected experience but the next day I was riding back to Mexico City and back to the motorcycle shop because the old problem had come back riding up into the thin air of the mountain around Metepec.

At the motorcycle shop I was greeted with friendly surprise by the mechanics. I said that I had come back because I missed them and Tocayo, after listening to my explanation that the mechanical problem had come back and borrowing my favorite Spanish expression, said, ‘Hostias, man! Find another excuse for visiting us.’ Memo was very upset because he takes much pride in his work but also he was intrigued because he likes nothing more than to take on a good mechanical challenge. He did some more tinkering and again the problem appeared to be solved.

In the afternoon Memo had to go to a Sam’s Club on the far outskirts at the other end of the city to activate a newly purchased motorbike. He rode the small shop bike and another mechanic rode passenger and I followed on my bike to see the city and test the repairs. No traffic can possibly be so bad as how Mexico City commuters describe the traffic of their city; however, if any traffic can even come close to the horrors of gridlock that they describe, then it is the traffic of Mexico City – and this was the first day back to school! Also, Memo is a devil on a motorbike. He rides as hard as I’ve ever seen someone ride and doesn’t let a cc of potential go un-exerted towards propelling the bike forward. He rode a small bike with a passenger and tore through the traffic, weaving among cars and cutting lanes with a hair’s breadth of clearance.

We did more than 100 kilometers within the city and it was the most challenging motorcycle ride of my life. At lunch, after the work was done at the Sam’s Club and we knew that we would be returning through the city during rush hour, I said to Memo, ‘Si muero, dile a mi mamá que morí como un valiente – if I die, tell my mother that I died valiantly.’ But coming back was not so hard because the bottleneck traffic brought the motorcycles as well as the cars to an almost complete standstill. The cars were packed so tightly that frequently there was no room to cut between lanes and, when we could, there was often a bottleneck of motorcycles backed up along the dividers. Downtown we stopped at a wholesaler and Memo purchased cleaning supplies in bulk for the shop and the mechanic that was his passenger whom everyone called ‘Jim’ rode with boxes under his arms and bags in hands so that the vehicle now looked twice the size as it had. I also strapped what I could to my bike, which was already fully loaded with my gear. Like this we drove through the historic center and stopped as long as we could in the Plaza de la Consitución so that I could take it in and snap a picture before a police officer hurried us along.

We arrived back at the shop at dusk, alive and well and with no trace of the sickness that had been plaguing my motorcycle. It was a great ride, one of the finest I’ll ever have, and one that I hope never to do again. That evening we went for dinner and finished my first beer in two long pulls.

Breakdown in San Miguel

San Miguel to Mexico City, Mexico
5,379 km

After the New Years I spent a couple more days in San Miguel de Allende. Then, when I was packed and ready to leave, I couldn’t because my motorbike wouldn’t start. The battery was dead and, after a quick revision, I discovered that the battery was completely dry. It was a new battery so I took it to a motorcycle shop and had them refill it and put it on a slow charge. They didn’t have one in my size so if this didn’t work it would be eight days to get another from the capital. Eight days to send a motorcycle battery 300 kilometers from Mexico City – crazy, right? Fortunately, the battery took and held its charge. But my problems weren’t over. Now she would start but when next I set out she performed miserably and the engine kept cutting out. It was early in the morning so I found a motorcycle shop in San Miguel and waited in the parking lot until they opened. When the shop opened we wheeled the bike inside and a young mechanic listened to the engine and felt the exhaust pipe and, finding that it was not warming properly, he determined that the front piston was not working. He discussed the situation with the manager and they decided that the piston would have to be replaced. I was quoted a price and a timeline.

Obviously, I was suspicious that a mechanic, no matter how good or experienced – and this kid was neither – could determine that a piston needed to be replaced based on how quickly the exhaust pipe warmed. I decided to call a motorcycle shop in Mexico City that the Yamaha main offices had recommended. The shop owner asked some questions and was noncommittal but suspicious about a motorcycle needing a piston replaced after only 10,000 miles. He offered to drive the truck to San Miguel and haul me and the bike back to the shop in Mexico City for 1000 pesos, about $80. I accepted.

During the drive, Guillermo (Memo) and I slowly became friendly and by the late evening we were at the shop in Mexico City. The mechanics were in the process of closing up but everything stopped and they gathered around the gringo with the sick motorcycle, amazed that I had come this far on this bike – I didn’t yet know what they meant by ‘this bike’. Memo started the engine and felt that the pipe did not heat propely but then he tested the compression in the cylinders and found that both were the same and within the proper limits. In one, thirty-second diagnostic he had disproven the need to replace the piston.

Over the next few days, Memo and another mechanic, Eduardo, whom they call Tocayo, which is what you call someone that has the same name as you only no one else at the shop is named Eduardo, took apart the carburetors, cleaned them and replaced seals, they adjusted the engine valves and conducted a the rest of a full tune-up. At the end no obvious culprit for the severe performance problems had been identified but at least now she was running well and strong and I thanked them all and went on my way.

Christmas in Morelia and New Years in San Miguel

Comala to San Miguel, Mexico
5,371 km

From Comala I rode northeast on a good highway through forested hill country south of the Laguna de Chapala to the small town of Mazamitla where I stayed for two nights. The town is built on the slope of a hill and its streets are narrow and some are very steep. They are made of smooth, round, irregular rocks with no mortar between, which is the style in many Mexican towns. For this reason and for the steep slopes people drive ATVs through the city streets. The central plaza and the church that stands adjacent to it were lovely in the twilight, as lovely as they are in any town in Mexico, and here, also, the air breathed cool and clean into my lungs and it smelled strongly of the pine trees that cover these hills. In the evening I walked among the pine forested hills above the town where the locals have built cabins that they rent or sell as weekend retreats.

From Mazamitla I rode to Zacapú, which is of little note except that it is between Mazamitla and Morelia. The winds were strong during the day, making a great dancing undulation of the trees and the bushes along the highway, and slowing my progress so that I did not reach Morelia as I had planned. I reached Morelia first thing in the morning of the next day, which was a breezy, sunny Christmas Eve day. I walked around during the day and in the evening I drank hot chocolate at a café across from the Plaza de Armas. Some people attended mass at the cathedral and others enjoyed the evening in the plaza with their families and I enjoyed watching them. I noticed that there was an pleasant calm across the city. The next day – Christmas Day – I slept in and then walked around the city and then I returned to the hotel to take a nap. The city is beautiful for its Spanish colonial architecture. In the evening I walked among the plazas and pedestrian streets, which were aglow from the strings of white Christmas lights that hung along the walls and along the archways. There were many people out but I didn’t talk to anyone, except for a group of bikers wearing Harley-Davidson jackets because the evening was cool and because they liked the look.

The next morning I breakfasted at a restaurant across from the Plaza de Armas and the cathedral and drank hot coffee until the sun rose above the closer of the two towers of the cathedral. The city was completely still, although the holiday was over and it was now a work day. In the midmorning I rode to Guanajuato, which a city in the nook of a valley and, impossibly, it is even more beautiful than Morelia. Around every bend is a fountain or a statue or a plaza or a garden or a combination of these, and everywhere there are the facades of wonderfully preserved colonial buildings. The streets are a tangle of narrow, curving, cobblestone alleys and below the city center there are dark subterranean passageways with stone walls and vaulted ceilings that seem as though they were once used for something sinister but are now used as a parking lot.

That night I stayed in a dormitory room at a hostel and I immediately regretted the decision. The sheets were dirty and there was someone snoring and, worst of all, all the lockers were filled. I secured my gear to my motorcycle but my toiletries I kept atop my boots beside my bed and it was my toiletries bag that was stolen during the night. I awoke very early to find the bag gone and the snoring man gone and that was too much of a coincidence but there was nothing to be done and I grieved the loss of my Sonicare toothbrush.

That morning I was grumpy and the best thing to fight the mean reds or the cold blues or a bad case of the grumps is to go for a motorcycle ride. So I rode along a road that follows the ridge around the valley and saw the city from every side as the early morning sun cast long, deep shadows. Leaving the city, I followed another harrowingly corkscrew canyon road. After Dolores Hidalgo the highway straightened and my speed increased but I was in no hurry because San Miguel de Allende is not far away. In San Miguel I found Erssel’s house, which is in a quiet neighborhood about 20 minutes walk from the central plaza. I met Erssel through couchsurfing.org, which is a project that connects travelers with hosts and something I had been persuaded to try by a group of devotees that I met in Zacatecas.

San Miguel de Allende is another charming little city, small enough to be intimate but big enough to keep your interest. It is a city of about 100,000 and half of these are foreigners – most are retired North Americans. Erssel is one of them. He lives in a large house with high, vaulted ceilings of red brick. His friends are an endearing ragtag group and his neighbors, Jeff and Arnie, are a pair of likable roughnecks. Jeff is talkative and crass and a hard pill to swallow and Arnie is mellow and laidback – he was a professional wrestler years ago before it became a phenomenon. Now they build water features on homes and golf courses.

On New Years Eve we went to the central plaza and we stood before the church where a group of mariachis played traditional songs that come from the state of Veracruz. When the New Year arrived we danced and whistled and some people kissed and we all clapped and held small firecrackers above our heads that shot off sparks the color of dry Champaign.