Why Do We Fall?

It seems almost poetic that my worst day of the trip to date should follow one of my best, but life apparently has a sense of irony. I left Monterrey fairly early, in order to make the 5-hour ride to the area of Real de Catorce with daylight left to spare. Though I stuck to the carretera once again, the route away from Monterrey had its share of interesting scenery and sights. It also turned into the longest continuous stretch of riding I'd had since starting the trip; starting out from Monterrey with a full tank, I paid little attention to the decreasing frequency of gas stations until it occurred to me, on a straight, desolate stretch of road kilometers from anything, that I was in genuine danger of running out of fuel. For reference, the Africa Twin holds five gallons of fuel; according to the bike's trip computer, I was averaging around 42 mpg, with 170 miles showing on the meter. You can probably do the math. About 10 miles later, I found a Pemex and all my fears were relieved. I filled the tank with a grand total of 4.3 gallons, and resolved not to pass up fuel opportunities again.

As the miles wound away, I started to see more changes in the landscape, as I had while traversing Texas. More hills and mountains were popping up, and while I was most definitely still in the desert, the land and flora were turning from dull tan and grey to green, painting a scene that could have come out of a travel guide.

Along with the change in scenery, the temperature was finally changing; in the space of an hour, the 100+-degree temperatures I'd been experiencing since Corpus Christi fell to high 70's even with the sun out, enough that highway speeds with all my jacket's vents open actually started to feel cold!

The closer I got to Real de Catorce, the more I started to see signs that I was progressing into mining country. The route to the area follows a heavily used railway line, dotted at regular intervals by tiny towns with names like Estacion Catorce and Estacion Wadley that had clearly once fed the mining industry, but were now all but dormant. I would be staying in one of these small towns for the night, but after dropping my things off, I wanted to explore Real de Catorce itself. Nestled in the middle of the Sierra de Catorce plateau, Real sits at over 9,000 feet of elevation; once a center of silver mining with a population of over 15,000, the town was nearly abandoned when the mining industry collapsed in the early 1900's, and the current population is less than 1,000. There are two routes in an out; one from the north, following a 27-km cobblestone road up a mountain and through a 2.5-km tunnel that exits at the edge of town. The other is an 8 km route that, on a map, winds through the mountains and ends in the central plaza of Real de Catorce.

I, of course, opted to take the mountain road, hoping for an exciting ride and gorgeous views. Signs along the road starting in Estacion Catorce warned "SOLO VEHICULOS 4X4s." "No problem," I thought to myself. "I've handled dirt, gravel, and steep hills on this bike before, I can handle this." And for the first 7.5 km of the 8-km road, I was more or less right. The mountain road started out as winding pavement, quickly transitioned to smooth dirt, and then, to my chagrin, to rough rocks cemented together with gravel. Anything over 20 mph shook me and the bike so viciously that I was concerned about losing parts, so slow going was the rule of the day. In addition to the rough surface, the left border of the road was a sheer rock wall, and the right edge of the road was the sky; an ever-increasing steep drop down to the floor of the canyon whose side I was traversing. Still, carefully working the clutch and throttle, I made it nearly all the way up, enjoying the beautiful mountain vistas along the way and stopping to take some photos at an abandoned silver mine.

You'll note, in upper left of the first photo, the steep, winding rock path that made up the road, and the old, heavily modified Jeep wagons used as transport along it. Real de Catorce lay just over that ridge, a mere half kilometer from where I had parked. I thought I could make it using the same careful technique that had worked for me thus far; I was proven spectacularly wrong when my front wheel caught in a gap between two rocks, knocked me off balance, and the bike tumbled unceremoniously over on its right side. I was unhurt, as was the bike other than some scratches on the crash guards, but one of the Jeeps was coming up the road behind me and I was frantic to get out of the way. I tried the practiced technique for bracing a heavy bike against the ground and pushing/lifting it back up onto its wheels, but to no avail; I couldn't get the wheels on the ground, and the bikes' 500+ pounds were coming back to bite me. Luckily, the Jeep driver stopped, and along with two of his passengers, we got the Twin back upright and on my way again.

...for another couple of hundred feet. This time, trying to stay as far from the sheer edge of the road as I could, I overbalanced again, ham-fisted the throttle, and sent the bike over on its left side with a sickening crunch and the sound of breaking plastic. When I picked myself up off the ground for the second time, I found that I'd shattered the windshield and left-side mirror against the rock wall, and badly bent one of the metal guards surrounding the handlebars. For the second time, the occupants of the Jeep following me helped me back up and into the seat where I found, worryingly, that the handlebars had shifted in their mounts and apparently twisted, limiting how far I was able to turn them to the left. I was embarrassed at having fallen over twice with an audience, I'd smashed up my bike, and I'd very clearly strained my back trying to pick the bike up alone. I angrily powered up the rest of the hill without incident, and realized once I got to the top that I should have been doing so all along. Live, fall, and learn, I guess.

Despite the ordeal involved in getting to the town, the anger at myself that I could scarcely keep down, and the pain in my back, I couldn't help thinking that Real de Catorce was worth the difficult ride. The town exuded history and old age; were it not for the few cars and motorcycles parked along its steep streets and the electric lights illuminating the many restaurants, shops, and the central plaza, one could be forgiven for thinking they'd stepped back to the 1900's.

I found a restaurant in which to get off my feet and enjoy some delicious gorditas, and then took a short walk around the town. Real de Catorce is fairly small, but very much worth seeing, both for the views of the surrounding Sierra Catorce, and the atmosphere of antiquity that pervades the town. As it happened, I ran into the passengers of the Jeep who had helped me up off the ground earlier, all of whom were happy to hear that I was largely unhurt, and astounded when I answered their question of where I'd come from with the story of my trip from Nashville thus far with the help of one of the younger childrens' surprisingly good translation skills. Even in the low moments, Mexican hospitality was making everything better. After stopping in the ornately decorated church and taking another lap through the central plaza, I got back on the bike and headed out of town.

Having no desire to break anything else on the bike, I took the main route out of the city, starting with the old mining tunnel-turned-road mentioned earlier.

Riding through the one-way tunnel was a borderline surreal experience; several smaller tunnels appeared to branch off in either direction, clearly relics of Real de Catorce's former industry, and riding in complete darkness under a mountain with only my headlights illuminating the way was most definitely a new experience. Once I emerged onto the main road, I was hopeful that I could try to relax on a much longer, but much smoother route back to my hostel.

No such luck.

The 27-km cobblestone road descending to the main highway was every bit as rough as the mountain route I'd taken in, though thankfully over a gentle downward slope and not a steep grade. Bouncing and shaking my way down, the thought that I'd rather be somewhere else entered my head for the first time. I was tired, I was sore, I was on one of the most uncomfortable rides of my life and, due to the time I'd wasted falling over, I was about to break my cardinal rule of not riding at night in Latin America. I was thankful when my wheels finally hit the smooth asphalt of the highway, and even more thankful to make it back to my hostel and fall into bed. It had been, without question, the hardest day of the trip so far, but on the flip side, I was still alive, wasn't permanently hurt, and other than the worrying twist of the handlebars, nothing critical had been damaged on the bike; it still started, ran, rode, and stopped as competently as ever. I hadn't ended up in a broken heap at the bottom of a canyon, and I'd still been able to see what I wanted. Sure, I'd fallen, but assuming that I could make an 8,000-mile trip through nearly all of Central and South America without falling over at least once would have been the height of arrogance. Most importantly, both mentally and physically, I'd gotten back up and pressed on.