Winter was just about history and the beach was calling. Not just any beach, but Mazatlan. The storied land of the Spring Break and margaritas and Coronas. A couple of weeks seemed about right for the trip…after all, it was only about 1400 miles south of Albuquerque. We were ready to get the hell out of Dodge. With the bikes serviced, shorts and sandals and sunning oil packed, Mexican insurance in hand, and two copies of every piece of paper we could think of, we, Steve Roe and I, Tom Panowski, left Albuquerque about noon and headed south. We were both riding BMWs…Steve on his R1100GS and me on my R1100RT. That first day we made it to Douglas, Arizona. We dined and rested there, and the next morning we made the border crossing into Mexico. If you are planning to take a vehicle to Mexico, you must prepare carefully. Get two copies of your driver’s license, title and/or registration, and proof of citizenship (passport is best, or voter registration) Be sure to have a valid MasterCard or Visa Card, or prepare to hand over $300 cash deposit (only $120 of which is returnable when you bring the vehicle back). If you use a credit card, the charge is only about $10. |
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After the paperwork was processed and the tourist sticker duly attached to the windshields of our respective bikes, we headed south. The first part of the trip is across a very curvy stretch of Mexico 2 from Agua Prieta to Cananea. Bikes are the only way to enjoy this road, since it is heavily populated with trucks and buses. The quick acceleration ability of a bike definitely facilitates timely passes. |
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| The typical spring winds began to pick up, and as we entered Canenea, a mining town with a large open pit copper mine, the dust from the mine created a surreal landscape. I decided to pull off for a picture, figuring Steve would stop when he realized that my bike was no longer in his mirrors. I was concentrating on getting the photo, and apparently missed the fact that Steve passed me backtracking. I continued on toward Santa Ana at a brisk pace, hoping to overtake Steve. |
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When I arrived at a Federal Police checkpoint, I asked about another bike. No, they had not seen one. By this time I realized that we had become separated, and since Steve had virtually no command of Spanish, I also became a bit nervous. I passed through the checkpoint and parked in the shade to wait. One of the officers came over and said he had received a radio report that a red bike was on the way from Cananea. Soon I saw Steve’s headlight, and we were quickly reunited. We then made a contingency plan for any future separations—closing the barn door, as it were. We intersected the toll road, Mexico 15, at Santa Ana and began covering some serious mileage. The speed limit was marked at 120 kph (about 72 mph). We were going considerably faster than that. The buses were doing 85mph, and we did not want to follow them especially. We passed straight through Hermosillo and set off toward Guaymas. There was still plenty of daylight when we arrived in Guaymas, and we decided to keep going. More miles today translated to fewer tomorrow. |
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Our target for stopping for the night was Ciudad Obregon. About 20 miles north of there, the toll road detoured to local roads through small villages. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper, and the roads were dusty. We did not realize just how much the nature of the land had been changing until we began passing sugar cane fields. After an hour of meandering along the back roads, we finally rejoined the main highway. But we had somehow completely bypassed Ciudad Obregon. We could see its lights, now several miles to the north. The sun was just setting as we decided to press onward toward the next small city, Navojoa. |
It was about nine when we pulled into Navojoa, tired and running low on gas. We stopped at a large Pemex station to fill up. A van we had played hopscotch with all along the detour pulled into the same station—we knew it was the same one by the park bench strapped to the top. The driver approached us and asked if we were planning to stay in Navajoa. When we answered in the affirmative, he said he owned a motel, was also a BMW owner, and would give us a discount because we were on bikes. He even had covered parking next to the room, and a security guard to patrol the grounds all night. We agreed, and followed him to the motel. After 700 miles a flop house would have looked great. After a meal and some local vino tinto, we retired to the room for a well-deserved rest. |
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In the morning we set out south again. We were now in the state of Sinaloa. We noticed a curious phenomenon at the toll gates. In Sonora, the tolls were generally the same as for cars. But in Sinaloa, the toll attendants would often collect only one toll, and let both bikes pass. Or in several instances they let us ride around the barrier, collecting no tolls. It was gratifying that bikes were getting special consideration in Mexico. After a couple of hours on the road, Steve pointed at his gas tank. It was time to look for a Pemex station. They had always appeared in plenty of time to avoid fuel anxiety. A few more miles down the road, Steve had slowed to 50mph to conserve fuel. Then he began to weave. This was not to avoid flat center strips on the tires, either. He was running on fumes. After another several miles and no Pemex in sight, Steve really slowed, and eventually stopped…out of gas in Mexico. |
| The first thing we looked for along side the road was a container to drain some gas into from my tank. No luck. Then a hose for siphoning. No luck. Then a means of securing a tow strap (which we did bring). No luck. We finally rigged a bungee net around the forks on Steve’s bike and attached the strap to that and to the luggage rack on my bike. Only three or four feet separated our bikes, so caution was the first order. We started out slowly, gradually increasing to 40 mph. It was working. We went around a corner only about 400 yards from where we had stopped, and there to our surprise was a Pemex station. We could have walked to it and back in a few minutes. We pulled in and gassed up, laughing at ourselves the whole time. |
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The road turned toward the coast, and soon we were in sight of the ocean. The road hugged the coast the rest of the way into Mazatlan. We took an early turn-off, which led to the northern end of the Zona Dorada—Golden Zone—of Mazatlan. This is where most of the newer hotels are located, along with many of the businesses catering to tourists. |
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We located a hotel a block from the beach that cost only about $30 per night, a third of the going rate for the on-the-beach high rises. And we were able to park the bikes right in front of the room. A 24-hour guard controlled access to the compound, so security was assured. |
| The next several days passed in a whirl of beaches, sun, and cerveza. All too soon it was time to head back toward home. We decided to go inland for the return. The first stage took us through the Sierra Madre Mountains to the silver mining town of Durango. The straight line distance was only a hundred miles or so, but the road was a constant series of hairpin turns, switchbacks, and short sweepers. The pavement was in excellent condition, making for an incredible ride. |  |
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We stopped for breakfast in the small mountain town of Coyote. The old hotel was quite rustic, and we were seated outside on the front veranda overlooking the grounds. The bright flowers attracted several varieties of hummingbirds to keep us company during breakfast. We tried to rationalize remaining at the hotel for an extended stay, but reality rudely intruded, and we forced ourselves to continue toward home. |
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We soon left the mountains and the road became a long drone through mostly desolate high desert terrain. We made it all the way to Chihuahua, where we spent the night. The next day took us to the border. We turned in our vehicle permits at the inspection station south of Juarez. After some false starts, we found the right queue of cars waiting to cross the border. After a half hour creep, we finally arrived at US Customs. After a few perfunctory questions and a quick once-over by the ubiquitous drug dogs, we were motioned through. |
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The last part was a freeway drone back to Albuquerque. We had covered about 3000 miles during the trip and acquired a wealth of memories and Mexico experience. My Spanish received well-needed practice. There had not been a single instance of less than very friendly and open reception on the part of everyone, even including the Federal Police. At one checkpoint we were motioned over to the side. The officer there just wanted to tell us to accelerate rapidly so he could appreciate the bikes’ performance. The Federal Police has changed its image to a much friendlier, and less confrontational attitude. In fact, at most of the checkpoints, officers wore slacks and polo shirts with only a small emblem to show their affiliation. And no weapons in view. Definitely a positive departure from the earlier days of military style uniforms and automatic weapons. |
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Mexico is a great place to ride—we are in the planning stage for another trip right now. But first the Monterey Peninsula, Big Sur, Highway 1, and the World Superbike races at Laguna Seca. Look for our article later this summer along with photos of the incomparable coastline and ride. |