I rode south beside the Sea of Cortez, bashing my bike on more topes, wondering how much more it would take. Somewhere north of Puerto Vallarta, the roads became narrow, mountainous and twisty—perfect for the incredible power my bike had. It was white-knuckle thrilling because the roads were filled with semis and I could accelerate like a bat out of Hell around them.
One problem is my bike didn’t have good range and with every abandoned Pemex station I passed, my stomach would tighten for fear of running out. One time I saw a farmer filling his tractor from a 55-gallon drum and I talked him into selling me a gallon. I also bought tacos from his roadside stand. Delicious.
Another time I ran out several miles from a town at night. I hid the bike off the road and hitched a ride into town. Gah. Nothing says rob me like a 6’4” white American with a porcelain head hitchhiking in rural Mexico in the dark. A store was open that sold milk in plastic gallon bottles, so I bought one, poured the milk out, put gas in the bottle from a nearby station, and got a ride back to my bike.
I wondered with all the banging of the bashplate, the daredevil passing of trucks, and running out of gas, how would Toni take this? As it turned out, she canceled. She had abdominal pains and had to schedule surgery for adhesions. I offered to come straight home but she insisted I continue. However, once again she insisted I had lost my mind and, well, the evidence was on her side.