Published in: Rides
Standing on the side of the road holding two dirty tire irons, I realized how quickly things can change when traveling by motorcycle. Several hours before, I was riding east along Mexico Federal Highway 180, side by side at 70 mph with my travel partner, staging up for our videographer to record us riding off into the horizon. It was exhilarating until I looked ahead and realized I was lined up perfectly with a menacing pothole. My arms relaxed as I hit, the handlebars jerked violently, and then my bike continued along the highway as if nothing had happened.
When we stopped to assess the damage, my rim had become something that was distinctly not round. Although the tube continued to hold air pressure, we pulled into a hardware store in Villahermosa to buy a two-pound sledgehammer to straighten the rim at the hostel that night.
On our way again, everything was fine until I got the nagging feeling that my bike was not responding properly. As the handlebars began to wobble uncontrollably, I gently trailed the rear brake to reduce speed to something more manageable, squeezing my eyes shut because I fully expected to meet the pavement and do some “gear testing.”
To my surprise, I managed to stop upright at the end of a long, gravel driveway! By now the tire was completely flat, and the rim rested firmly against the ground. As the three of us jumped into tire-repair action, an older woman got out of a car and walked towards us. She asked if anything was wrong. I’ve studied Spanish for years but couldn’t remember any textbook scenario that discusses the conversational intricacies of hitting potholes at high speed. So I simply said, “My tire is broken.” Ahhh well…..
She refused to accept that we were okay even though we had an array of tire irons, patch kits, bead breakers, and tubes lined up on the ground. Instead, she disappeared down the gravel road, and minutes later her son Jorge came riding towards us on a Honda CB250 Nighthawk with his daughter sitting on the back.
Jorge immediately jumped into the fray, clucking in concern at the bent rim, and feeling the tire sidewall for damage. His mother returned with Jorge’s wife, Marteli, and the couple’s other young daughter. All eight of us leaned in when we found that the sidewall had split upon impact with the pothole. The newly exposed broken steel mesh inside the tire had chewed at the tube for the past 100 miles, resulting in a sudden, nearly catastrophic loss of air pressure. The men patched the tube, glued the sidewall back together, and sledgehammered the rim so that it was “mostly straight.”
But this isn’t the story I wanted to tell. The real one came later. After the repair the family invited us to stay the night on their front porch. They gave us mattresses to put beneath our tents, while Jorge’s mother went inside with Marteli to create an amazing dinner just for us. Marteli also did our laundry, washing and hanging the items on a clothesline to dry. And, the two little girls were immensely entertaining—language barriers don’t seem to exist with children. They took great pleasure in nicknaming my travel partner “Fuchi” (that means “Stinky”), as he chased them around the yard, their parents smiling gleefully.
After dinner, Jorge regaled us with photographs of his motorcycles on his iPad. He’s owned and ridden many bikes and is actively involved with several motorcycle groups. The photo show continued with great fervor until he cocked his head and said that he heard motorcycles. We craned our necks and soon began to pick out the unmistakable rumble of a group of motorcycles traveling down the highway. Before we knew it, headlights were dancing up the gravel road into the yard. My initial thoughts were, of course—PANIC!! What was going on?!
Like a wagon train circling a fire, we found ourselves surrounded by a Suzuki Boulevard 800, a BMW G650GS, a Kawasaki 636 Ninja, a gloriously white BMW R1200GS, and a Honda CBR600. The riders got off their bikes and made robust introductions; it was like meeting a group of long-lost friends at a motorcycle rally! I walked around with a huge smile on my face, looking at these pristine motorcycles, suddenly realizing that both my travel partners were somehow engaged in conversations—with neither speaker nor recipient understanding each other’s languages! They were members of the Moto Club de la Sierra and the Tribu Sin Ley Ciudad Pemex, and were excited that a group of ADV riders from the U.S. had landed in their backyard.
The best part of the evening was when a man stepped forward, pointed to the three of us and said, “Ustedes están viviendo nuestros sueños.” With tears in my eyes, I translated his sentence to my travel partners: “You are living our dream.” As they left, each person gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. It’s incredible that no matter where you travel in the world, there are others who share identical dreams, who spend their evenings imagining traveling to foreign lands. Their backyard was part of our adventure, and one day I hope their adventures will include my backyard.
The goodbyes were difficult the next morning, leaving the home of the most loving, generous family I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. But within an hour, the sidewall managed to chew through its patch as well as the new tube, and my tire was once again, quite flat. Darn it!
Christina Neiss Tkacs is a veteran traveler of 19 countries canvasing three continents with her travel credentials still growing. Her experience as a woman traveling with some of the biggest names in world travel adds flair and perspective to her colorful writing style.
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