Knuckle Draggers Hash House Harriers Motorcycle Club

 21st Run Trash
The Black Cloud Run 

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Chipinquie!

 Land of the Squirrels

I sometimes wonder about biker fixation with skeletons and skulls often engulfed in hellish flames. A lot of T-shirts, do-rags, motorcycle club colors, patches and helmets seem to use death as a central motif. It’s ironic that an activity so associated with danger, by most people, should apparently be tempting fate. Maybe there’s a philosophical tie to the ancient peoples of Mexico who considered the death mask as a symbol of living, not of dying. Nothing makes you feel more alive than traveling down the highway with the wind in your face, God’s incredibly beautiful landscape all around and the pavement going by in a blur, just inches below your boots. I guess it’s fitting that this chapter from my cycling experiences happened when it did and how it did. None of my usual riding buddies would consider taking their bikes into Mexico. Every guide book tells you not to travel in Mexico after dark, especially not in the dark AND in the rain. But I’ve always broken the rules. Well, here we go again...

 Dia De Los Muertos – Day Of The Dead

All Saints Day. Friday, November 1, 2002. Corpus Christi, Texas to Monterrey, Mexico. 350 Miles. 

We met at Chemo’s house at 7 AM with nine bikes gassed up and ready to head south to Mexico, the ‘land of enchantment.” After a month of e-mails, we should have proper documentation for both ourselves and the motorcycles. For a country hungry for the American dollar, they sure make it difficult to get there to spend it: passports or original birth certificates, titles, vehicle registration, permission from lenders, proof of U.S. insurance as well as Mexican Insurance – the more documentation the better, with most required. This will be a “Knuckledragger’s run,” the motorcycle club offshoot of the Hash House Harriers, a “drinking club with a running problem.”  

Talk about a cornucopia of varied personalities and interesting people: a dog handler and trainer with the U.S. Navy, a substance abuse counselor, a retired Navy Surface to Air rescue swimmer, paramedic and helicopter pilot now designing, troubleshooting and repairing robotics on offshore drilling platforms all over the world, a website designer and mother of two, a Navy minefield specialist, a U.S. Air Force flight instructor, a shipyard superintendent, a traveling pediatric nurse and myself, background and present occupation unknown - five Harley Davidsons, two Hondas and a Suzuki. The only common denominators are that we’re all Hashers and love to ride. “Big Mike” is going along as a guest on his new Police Special, Ultra Classic. 

The weather prognosis doesn’t look good, with soggy conditions forecast all the way to Monterrey through Sunday, our day to return. A persistent, easterly flowing jet stream is hanging right over south Texas, picking up moisture laden air from the Pacific coast of Mexico where it will collide with a stalled out cold front also in our area. The end result will be rain, how much we don’t know, but we have been warned. We get away around 8:30 after our old friend, F2, arrives in his truck, with motorcycle ramp and tools on board, from Houston. He fell off the tower of a drilling rig some months back and two back surgeries have limited his motorcycle riding to short hops. 

            Gaylord, the trip organizer and founder of the club will lead us south or “Hare”, as we call it in the Hash, on his Softail Springer. He was born in Mexico City and has family both in McAllen, Texas and Reynosa, Mexico, our point of entrance, and speaks fluent Spanish. Better yet, he also has good practical knowledge of Mexican laws and customs and has friends all over Mexico. 

            The weather is cloudy but not too threatening with temperatures in the mid-sixties as we motor toward Riviera where we will turn west to Falfurrias and a gas stop for the three riders with smaller gas tanks, two 4-cylinder Honda Vulcans and a Suzuki Intruder, “one banger”, fearlessly ridden by the smaller of our two “Harriettes”, CS. Cherry rides an ’87 Harley FXR, handed down to her by her mother.  

            Just south of Falfurrias, we picked up the first splatters of light rain on our windshields, not enough to warrant rain gear, but cause for some concern. We made it to McAllen close to 11 AM and found the Sanborn’s Insurance office. It warmed to 70º and the skies opened up and began to pour. After procuring Mexican insurance policies and filling out the Tourist Visas to be filed in Reynosa, we suited up in rain gear and made a run for the border. We stopped just shy of the Rio Grande where we gassed up with “cheap” American, high octane fuel and procured pesos for purchases and possible palm-greasing down south. Then we filed across the International Bridge, two-by-two. Everyone but me got the green light to go on; I was flagged to a stop for a cursory inspection of my saddle bags. 

            We traveled the short distance to the Customs House as the streets began to flood and we did our best to avoid both seen and under-water pot holes. As soon as we made it under the overhanging roof of the government complex, the rain stopped. Three tedious hours later, we were admitted into the interior of Mexico with these exceptions: F2 would have to leave his company-owned truck in Reynosa and Gaylord was denied permission to take his bike past the thirty kilometer check point. There was another vehicle still on his name from a year ago that had never been checked out of the country even though it had been returned and sold in Hidalgo, Texas. Since it was now 3:30 PM., it was too late for the Texas department of motor vehicles to send a statement to Mexico. Case closed. Gaylord’s grandfather couldn’t pull enough strings to fix the problem. Even “mordida” (translation: little bite) couldn’t bend the law - what is this country coming to? To make matters worse, Guam’s Vulcan wouldn’t start; the recurrence of an old problem, and the constant cranking had drained his new battery. Naturally, it began to rain even harder as we push-started his bike and it reluctantly grumbled and snorted to life. 

            Off we all paraded through the flooded streets towards Gaylord’s grandfather’s restaurant on the other side of town. The tumult of rush hour traffic, pot holes, flooded streets, strange traffic lights and wrong turns, all in the rain, made our introduction to Mexico a challenge. One monstrous, under water hole engulfed the bottom third of each bike as we rode through the street/river in single file. You can imagine the difficulty of keeping nine bikes and a truck together through it all. As it turned out, the bikes miraculously stayed together; F2 got stopped by a traffic cop. Rim Raider had supplied us with three radio transmitters, one in the truck, the other two with helmet-mounted headsets: Gaylord in the lead and R2 riding drag. F2 was frantically calling “May Day, May Day” as the cop led him down a side street, but we had no idea where he was. The cop vented about the motorcycles and said his “ticket” could be taken care of by an immediate $30 payment in US currency – no questions, no paper work, and no defensive driving class. This renewed my faith in the old tried and true way of doing business with our good neighbors to the south.  R2 and I had stopped in the downpour to mark the turn off the main street to the restaurant and R2 guided him in on the radio.  

We parked our bikes and entered the comfortable Mission Cafe just as the rain subsided. We were all famished and sat down at a large table, joined by Gaylord’s family. Steaming plates of fajitas, refried beans, chimichangas, migas, tostadadas, chicken caldo and wonderful tortillas as well as guacamole were all served family style, by a uniformed waiter. What a feast, all compliments of our gracious hosts. While we were eating, Gaylord collected 200 pesos each and went to the local bank to pay for our six-month Tourist Visas. When he returned, he sat down to his meal and finalized the rental of a mini van which would serve as the chase vehicle on to Monterrey. We stored the truck and two bikes in an enclosed garage next door. We took advantage of the down time and applied the green vehicle importation stickers to the inside of our windshields. 

            By the time the van arrived and we transferred baggage, it was well after 6 PM, dark and raining once again. We lined up by the busy side street and began to roast as we waited. Goggles and night glasses began to fog. The rental agency porter had left with the van keys, so we loosened what clothing we could and waited. You can’t be in a hurry in the land of manana. Chemo was on my left and idled right into a deep hole in the street despite my yelling and waving. His fogged glasses had obscured his vision - he pulled them down around his chin. 

            Finally we were off once more, weaving through the chug holes and trying to avoid deep water and kamikaze drivers all while following the tail lights of the van in the rush of Friday night, holiday traffic. On the outskirts of town, traffic began to thin. Out of the mist, a form darted across the beam of my headlight in the darkness. As I passed, I could see the dog as big as a goat as it disappeared in the night. It was time for a deep breath and a “Thank You” to whatever Saint is watching over me. 

            At the thirty kilometer checkpoint, we were waved through by the uniformed agents, hopefully marking the end of governmental intervention until our departure from Mexico. F2 and Chemo traded places, with F2 now riding Chemo’s Low Rider. Chemo piled into the back seat of the van, sipping from the two-gallon, plastic jug of home-made tequila from Jalisco and listening to tunes in warm and dry comfort and making sure we all knew it. Thirty minutes later, we encountered a real rain storm which slowed the pack in the gloom. We were stopped at the entrance to the first leg of the toll way, where Gaylord paid 165 pesos for everyone from communal funds and we then went by in single file. We pulled to the side of the road to re-group and to fill the smaller gas tanks from the five-gallon plastic container we carried with us. CS’s rain pants from Academy were in shreds and resembled a bright yellow hula skirt. The chivalrous decision was made for Guam to ride her bike onward to Monterrey. 

            The rain came down steadily, and illuminated by my headlight in the enveloping darkness, resembled a halo over my bike as I momentarily looked up into the inky, black sky. I knew it was an illusion, not a message from above. 

            As we neared the huge, industrial metropolis of Monterrey, refinery complexes loomed out of the darkness, brightly lit and festive-looking - far from the stark reality of daylight. We stopped at a large Pemex station and gassed up with 93 octane fuel. We invested in refreshment for a celebration we planned after our arrival and Big Mike bought a package of chicharones. I fumbled under my bulky rain pants for a one peso coin for the turnstile to the rest room. We were only one toll way away from Monterrey and Gaylord mounted Cherry’s bike to lead us in after checking a huge map of the city. Unfortunately, Cherry’s turn signals didn’t work, so it was up to me to see his hand-signaled lane changes and signal electronically to the rest of the pack trailing behind as we navigated our way through the busy and winding freeway system in the rain. At slower speeds, the rain beaded in large drops requiring clearing the windshield with the back of my rain glove every few minutes. 

            Monterrey is a sprawling, modern city with many monuments and parks going by in the night. The local restaurant chain seemed to be “Cabrito King” with red neon outlining the buildings. Next door was a bar advertising a weekend “transvestito” show going on. The traffic was lighter than we were led to expect and we quickly made it through town with Gaylord’s excellent guidance.

            We had reservations at the Hotel Chipinquie, high atop the mountain with the same name, in the center of an ecological park overlooking Monterrey. As soon as we exited the freeway, the wet road narrowed and began a steep, winding climb. The rain had changed to a heavy, wet and cold mist and fog had closed in, limiting visibility to only a few feet. It was well after midnight and even though we were all weary from the trials and tribulations of the day, our senses returned to high alert from the dangers that began to unfold in our headlights. 

            The road now steepened unbelievably. Luckily, it was too foggy to see beyond the unguarded edge into the precipice below. At a bifurcation in the road, we took the wrong fork and descended to a gated, guarded, high fence and were turned around after Gaylord got directions from the guards. We now encountered one obstacle after another. You might round a hairpin turn and a huge boulder would block a lane of the road. Another switchback might reveal an entire section of the outside pavement missing and replaced by a gaping chasm. A traffic cone would appear out of the fog - which way should you go? To the right, you live, to the left you die? Or is it the other way... Then there was an over fallen tree or a huge pile of mud. Some repairs had been made with cobblestone, a hindrance in itself. Mounded, metallic traffic dots often ran perpendicular to our path, designed to slow traffic, not designed with two-wheeled motorcycles in mind. If you didn’t hit dead-center between them, your tire would slide off, putting you in a swerve – one wheel then the other. Are we contestants on “Fear Factor?” Through it all, I had to constantly clean beaded moisture off my windshield. The four kilometers up the mountain seemed like forty and if we had a gear below first, we would have used it.  

            Finally, a small guardhouse appeared out of the fog, marking the entrance to the park. As we stopped, I turned and thankfully, everyone was accounted for. $3 Bill, who was riding behind me on his Fat Boy, remarked “it was like coming out of the twilight zone.” We were able to relax a little, since we knew we must be near our destination, but the roadway remained remarkably steep and tricky all the way to our suite, nestled into the side of the mountain. 

            We parked and secured our bikes and began the unloading process. The landscape was covered with dense undergrowth and massive trees. It was as if we were in a rain forest as condensed moisture from the heavy fog rained down on us from the leaves and branches it had collected on high above. 

            After we had settled in and everyone had a bed, air mattress or cushions to sleep on, we relaxed and enjoyed a well-deserved beer or shot of tequila. Naturally, the conversations concerned the fact we had endured unbelievably treacherous roads. I’ve seen lots of bad road and nothing could compare to this, either in steepness or in obstacles. $3 Bill, who is a Major in the U. S. Air Force, related a story he was told at the beginning of flight school. 

            Their flight instructor told them that they will be figuratively given two bags. The first is full and filled with “luck.” The second is empty and will hold “experience.” Throughout their careers, they will draw from the first bag which becomes experience when it is added to the second bag. If all goes well, the bag for “experience” will never be completely filled and the bag of “luck” will never be completely emptied.  

We had drawn our share from the lucky bag today!

            Our room was decorated with wet clothes and soggy boots as we drifted off to sleep shortly after 2 AM. 

Day of the Dead. Saturday, November 2, 2002. Monterrey, Nuevo Leon, Mexico. 

            The weather was a carbon copy of the previous night: heavy fog, temperature in the mid-fifties - cold and damp. Some of the heartiest of the group were eating soggy pork rinds washed down by Cuba Libres mixed right in the two liter coke jug when I finally made it down stairs. The logs had never quite started from last nights attempt at a fire in the fireplace so boots and leather gloves were still cold and clammy. When it was my turn to shower, the intermittent trickle spitting from the shower head became a study in valve control. When you had it adjusted just right, the temperature would oscillate to the other end of the Celsius scale. It was like there was a trickster on the other side of the tile wall opening or closing the hot water valve. 

            Our beautiful machines looked pitiful and lifeless – paint and chrome covered with water dripping off the trees and with an ugly, brown patina picked up on 250 kilometers of muddy, Mexican road. 

            We trudged up the steep and winding path to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. Just walking was difficult enough, apprehension and self doubt creped back into our heads when we thought about taking our motorcycles down the mountain on the wet road. The decision was made to give the bikes a day of rest and tour Monterrey by taxi. 

            Mexican breakfasts are the best: steaming and flavorful coffee, huevos con machacado,

pancakes, refried beans and tortillas, all spiced with salsa and roasted, salted, fiery-hot, anchoe peppers. We walked around the spacious grounds of the hotel, took pictures and saw where there was normally a panoramic view of the Monterrey valley far below. Unfortunately our view was limited to only a few, grey feet in the heavy fog. 

            We arranged for the hotel van to take us to the Harley shop where we would start our tour of the city. We had planned a side trip to Saltillo that would have to wait until next time. The ride in the stuffy van was more unpleasant and far less exciting than last night’s momentous trip up the mountain. 

            The hotel employee driving the van filled some knowledge gaps in local lore and information, again thanks to Gaylord’s skill as an interpreter. The mountain is twenty-five-hundred meters tall and the road up is four kilometers. “Chipinque” is a nahuatl word from the language of the Aztecs and translates as “the land of the squirrels.” Black-ringed, brown squirrels were the only indigenous wildlife we saw in the fog enshrouded park. 

            We checked out Monterrey Harley Davidson which looked like any other I’ve seen, with the motorcycles priced in U.S. dollars, but 35% higher. 

            We spent the rest of the day getting dropped off in three different places by three different taxis, playing pool and drinking beer. 

Sunday, November 4, 2002. Monterrey, Mexico to Corpus Christi, Texas, USA. 560 Kilometers. 

            When we awoke, the fog had lifted somewhat, but visibility was still limited with the temperature in the high 40’s. After the bikes were packed and the room double checked for hidden belongings, we dried off bike seats and windshields and cranked their engines. They all roared to life and we dusted off our cobwebs and maneuvered the steep trail up to the hotel’s restaurant for a final breakfast of Mexican comfort-food. Then we pooled our pesos for the cuotas back to the border with enough left over for a petrol stop in between. We posed for a group photo in the fog and lined up for the final descent. By now a group of locals had assembled with video cameras to send us off. 

            With better visibility, the road was still challenging but not as treacherous as we remembered coming in. We were soon navigating Monterrey’s freeways with only one missed exit to a tunnel which sent us on the scenic route by a huge soccer complex. The pack tightened in staggered formation to keep together through lights, lane changes and last minute freeway exits. A Mexican motorcycle cop on a white Harley momentarily fell in with our procession out of town. F2 and Guam were in the truck and thought they had been nabbed again. 

            The temperature had warmed into the 60’s, under overcast skies and the roads were dry for the continuation of our adventure back to Texas. We saw the mandatory Federale’s check point beyond a toll booth as we stopped for a break. There were several green-uniformed soldiers armed with AK 47 assault rifles and with menacing looks on their pubescent faces. 

            Some people just never grow up and I’m real familiar with one. I couldn’t resist a disguise to throw off Interpol, and slipped on my backwards ball cap with long, stringy, blond hair and “Bubba” teeth, left over from Halloween, for the Federal inspection. As the stern-faced soldiers rummaged through my saddle bags and barrel bag, I tried to look as serious as you can when you look like a buck-toothed freak. There was absolutely no reaction or any indication anything was out of the norm from anyone but my fellow riders trying to mask their snickers and taking pictures in the background. 

            Soon, we were good to go and heading back to the border. When we exited the last leg of the toll way at the outskirts of Reynosa, traffic began to back up and intensified as we slowly maneuvered through the narrow, pocked streets. They were now dry, so dodging and warning the following riders of upcoming obstacles was less of a challenge than before. Most of us elected to leave our vehicle permits in effect for the full six months – this trip deserves to be repeated in more favorable conditions. 

            Gaylord’s family was waiting for us at the Mission Cafe where we loaded Guam’s bike in the bed of F2’s truck for the return home. After bidding the DePenas a fond farewell, we wound our way back to the International Bridge. We hoped we would be able to “jump line” and avoid the long string of cars waiting to cross. Unfortunately, the motorcycle-unfriendly Mexican traffic cop unceremoniously turned us around to wait our turn to idle across the bridge with the rest of the peones. 

            Once again, my C2HASH personalized license plate was cause for concern with the Border Patrol agent in the kiosk back in Texas. Border Patrol agent: “American citizen?” C2Hasher: “Yes sir.” Border Patrol agent: “Bringing any hash into the country today?” C2Hasher: “No sir.”

             Ironically, I spent my last silver-ringed, bronze peso coin at the bridge and after a gas stop we motored back to McAllen for a late lunch, close to 5 PM. The skies looked a little friendlier, so most of us traded rain-suits for leathers in the damp cool of the early evening. Ten minutes later we were sorry we did. Near the short section of four-lane leading to Edinburg, an ugly cloud did a number on us once more. We hit intermittent rain showers off and on all the way north to Falfurrias where we stopped for gas. Some of the warier then packed away leathers and pulled on slickers.  We turned east and as we neared the coast, the rain intensified and visibility declined correspondingly. 

 Outside Kingsville, there must have been a long, deep, undulating groove in the right side of the wet highway. The half of the pack on this side, starting with me, was in for a scare. I felt my bike swerve uncontrollably from one side and then to the other, putting me into a “high speed wobble.” Luckily, I recovered, but I’m sure I was as white as a ghost. Time to slow down. The last to experience this was Big Mike in the back of the pack directly ahead of Guam and F2 in the truck. “Big” Mike is aptly named and his massive Ultra Classic was affected the most. He swerved from side to side, they said at least twenty degrees each way, and it’s a miracle he didn’t do down. Thank God for $3 Bill’s lucky bag and all the Saints once again. 

            We stopped to ponder the advisability of taking the back way into Corpus Christi; part of it is on low ground and floods easily. The decision was made for the truck and Big Mike to take the lead, Mike is familiar with the road and the truck could signal back if we needed to stop. The low spot was passable and the bright lights of the city soon were looming out of the wet darkness. The temperature had dropped well into the 50’s and the wind was howling out of the north, driving the rain into the left side of our bikes. My left eye began to sting as the rain blew past my windshield, an unusual thing to happen when you’re wearing goggles. When I finally slowed for a stop light, I found that the lens had blown out. 

            I gave everyone a “thumbs up” as I made my departure for the fireplace and the warmth of home in the inhospitable, cold downpour. 

            Once again, it was an adventure - new roads, good friends, no accidents. “It’s all about the RIDE!” 

 All is well in my world.  

Here's to the beer gods and their divine intervention allowing the day to be a successful adventure! Hope the they shined on Guam and Tekillya's wedding as well!

On On

Rim Raider