Lead, Follow or Git Outa the Way!

[pegasus1300]

Thanks for a great break in the winter doldrums. Can't wait to hear about Cabo San Lucas. I was there in November but took a ship.

[Calimusjohn]

Well Pegasus 1300, here are a few memories . . .

When I mention that I ride my motorcycle in Mexico, people often ask, “Aren’t you afraid?”

“Afraid of what?”

“Crooked cops. Kidnapping. Food poisoning. Everything.”

“No! My first ride to Cabo San Lucas occurred in 1976. I’ve been back many times. I’ve not met a crooked cop, been kidnapped, or had food poisoning. Perhaps it’s because I don’t go down dark alleys, attempt to buy drugs, drink excessive alcoholic drinks, and flash a large bank roll, or eat at places that look quirky.”

Are there crooked cops, kidnappers, cases of Montezuma’s Revenge? Yes. I’m sure that there are incidents in every country in the world. I recall reading of cases happening here in the U.S. of A.
Here are a couple of things that happened to me in Mexico.

After a day where plans went sideways, I crossed the border into Tijuana late in the afternoon. I resisted the calls inviting me to sample wares in the hundreds of small shops. I followed the signs leading to the toll road to Ensenada.
A traffic accident further delayed my progress. The sun sank into the sea. I arrived in Ensenada in the dark. Like traffic in most cities, it was bumper to bumper. I traveled in the slow lane looking for motels. The cars suddenly stopped beside me as I sailed solo through an intersection.

My head swiveled. “What the?” A pickup truck directly behind me displayed red and blue flashing lights. DRAT! I pulled over and stopped beneath a streetlight. By the time I peeled off my gloves and helmet, a gentleman wearing a green windbreaker tucked behind a holstered revolver stood beside me.

He pointed and began speaking in Spanish. My blank face clued to him that I was not bilingual. He switched to English. “You just ran a stop sign. I’ll have to write you a ticket.”

“What stop sign?”

He pointed again. The sign was on the opposite curb. I shook my head, dug out my wallet and fished for my driver’s license. The policeman stopped me and tapped my wallet. “Let me see that.” He pointed at an I.D. card next to the license. The card showed that I retired from the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department.

“You were a cop.”

“Yes.

“I’m still writing you a ticket.”

“You should. I missed the sign. I didn’t stop.”

“Aren’t you going to try and talk me out of it?”

“No.”

“Okay. I won’t write you. Where are you headed?”

“Cabo San Lucas. Right now, I just need a safe place to spend the night.”

The policeman led me down side streets for five kilometers to a motel named, “Jokers.” It had an enclosed courtyard for safekeeping vehicles. A restaurant sat right next door. If I had known I’d get such great help, I’d have run a red light seven miles back.

In La Paz, a city of 250,000 inhabitants, I was stopped by the police three separate times. On each occasion the police officer was riding a Vstrom like mine. They wanted to know where I’d purchased the lowered footpegs, handlebar risers, L.E.D. lights, saddlebags, and other farkles. They then led me across town to my destination with their lights flashing and siren wailing. What a hoot!

Again, in La Paz. About fifty parked motorcycles lined the curb. I stopped to see why. Men wearing the “colors” of outlaw motorcycle clubs quickly surrounded me. My Oregon license plate brought an English speaker to the front of the crowd. ‘What’s going on?” I asked.

“It’s a wake for a fallen rider. He was killed while rescuing two children from a burning house.”

I paid my respects in the mortuary. The riders invited me to join them at a “Celebration of Life” party to be held the next weekend on a remote beach.

Military checkpoints can be intimidating. Soldiers that look like they are twelve years old carry large guns. Ninety percent of the time, motorcyclists are waved through checkpoints. I often stopped.

Soldiers looked confused. I speak Spanglish and asked, “Donde agua?” They looked more confused. A sergeant who spoke English explained that they don’t provide water to tourists. I could purchase water in the next town. Meanwhile, I fumbled a wiffle ball out of a pocket. I tossed it up and caught it, tossed it up and missed the catch. A soldier recovered the ball, and a game of catch began.

The soldiers spend three months in isolated spots along the highway before moving to another isolated location. They were bored to tears. Soldiers shouted, “Do wheelie!” as I left my new friends.

Mexico is a really scary place.

All Americans should stay at home behind closed doors with 911 on their cell phone speed dials.

Or . . . discover . . . what a truly wonderful world we live on

[Calimusjohn]

Another memory.
Motorcycle lying in snow.jpg


OOPS!

[Calimusjohn]

Here is a photo of a memorable moment.
Motorcycle lying in snow.jpg

[ARtraveler]

Here is a photo of a memorable moment.
Motorcycle lying in snow.jpg

Rats! I hate it when stuff like that happens.

[pegasus1300]

And out in the middle of nowhere too. At least you were alright enough to take a picture.

[Calimusjohn]

Yes, pegasus 1300
Nothing hurt or damaged other than my ego.
With an ego as big as mine, I could afford a small donation.

[pegasus1300]

[doncanfix2]

Preface: Background information explains some of my actions and reactions. My sciatic nerve was crushed several years ago. The resulting pain comes and goes. Seventeen days before starting this tour, I participated in the Rattlesnake 1000. The “Snake” is routed down two-lane back roads of Oregon, Idaho, and Washington. Two hours into the ride, I dropped the bike and broke two ribs. Twenty hours later, with the ride complete, I qualified for membership in the Iron Butt Association.
Day two. I started in Ellensburg, Washington. I planned to ride to the Canadian border, find a campground and kick back. A pleasant 72-degree temperature greeted me as I climbed aboard my trustee steed. The temperature rose as the day progressed. At the border, cars lined up for a mile, awaiting passage. My boots slipped on the melting asphalt. Cement walls on either side of the road concentrated the heat. My handlebar-mounted thermometer read 119.2 degrees. No way am I sitting here! I pulled out of line and sped forward. I spotted a spot of shade under the roof adjacent to the Custom Agent’s kiosk. I no sooner parked than I found myself surrounded by uniformed shouting men. “Put your hands up!” “Don’t move!” “Get down on the ground!” “Put your hands on your head!” This was not my first rodeo. I sat. Hands on handlebars. Silent. A senior agent finally asked, “What are you doing?” I explained. “I sat in the sun, I would probably die from heat stroke.” He assigned a guard to prevent me from stealing the shade. I sweated water faster than I could drink.
Eventually, I crossed into Canada on an unknown holiday and encountered a traffic jam of monstrous proportions. Cars and trucks parked at angles, jamming the road. Radiators steamed. People cursed. Honked horns. Waved arms. Sat. Stuck. I couldn’t split lanes, ride in the ditch or escape. People splashed in the water-filled ditches, trying to survive the heat. A lady in a motor home refilled my four water bottles―twice. Three hours and fifty miles later, I was free. The best/worst sight of the day had to be a couple on a Harley. He wore a Speedo, she a string bikini. He rode with feet stretched forward. She was lying back with her assets pointing skyward. Both sported shower shoes and an incredible red sunburn.
Oh, I apologize to anyone I offended when I stood in the middle of the traffic jam and peed into an empty water bottle. A teenager asked, “You recycling that?”
All motels, hotels, campgrounds, parking lots, church yards, any place to spend a night, were rented or filled. Gas stations ran out of gas. Convenience store shelves were empty. After riding 265 miles, a country store provided me with cold drinks. Its single gas pump spit out 5.5 gallons of gas to fill my bike’s 5.7-gallon tank.
A roadside diner delivered two pieces of dead chicken which I think was a road-killed seagull, a glob of lumpy potatoes, and seven green beans for $16.
A woman speaking Cantonese or Manderin, I can never keep them straight, rented me a motel room in Grande Cache, British Columbia. I was done in. Captain Morgan washed down ibuprofen tablets in an effort to appease my sciatic nerve doing the hokey-pokey and jostling my sore ribs. We celebrated surviving the day.

Your initial sentence caught my eye... when I was 17, I broke my neck! Crusted two vertebrae, destroyed the disk, and what was left fused together... spent 5 weeks in skeletal traction... and lived to tell about it! Funny thing, the neck's fine, but the lower lumbar, shot. No more lifting, bending, twisting... I feel your pain! And that's why I luv my Spyder! Ryde on! - Don