OK, I think I have it right… it’s November 7th and I am in Durango. I didn’t make it down to Batopilas as the road construction had the rode tore up pretty badly. After reflecting back on my ride through Copper Canyon I have to admit I didn’t want to push my luck…
After leaving El Fuerte I rode east following the map given to me by Ray. The ride varied from hard packed clay, 4” deep silt, deeper sand, to ruts you could throw a body into and boulders bigger than my fat head. I dropped the bike twice. Both times were on steep left hairpin turns. The first drop was in sand and I was doing OK until the back end spun out from under me. I was able to get the bike up without too much difficulty and I continued on my way. I rode into the afternoon without another incident and I was starting to feel pretty comfortable despite the cliffs and what seemed to be a bottomless canyon only a few feet away. It was quite intimidating at times and I choose not to look down the canyon too often in fear that I may be crawling out of there.
I am not good with heights. The second time I dropped the bike I tore off the left hard case. Once down I spun the bike around on the head cover as the hill was too steep, and the rut to deep, to lift the bike. Even after doing this I couldn’t lift it and I was preparing to take off the luggage when a fella stopped and gave me a hand to stand it up. I wired the box latch closed, and it has been holding together ever since. Time went on and I was getting quite concerned that the sun was setting on me. I wasn’t sure if I was on the right road and I had no idea where I was going to spend the night. I was starting to pay attention to small clearings on the side of the road where I thought I could pull off and camp without getting run over in the night. This was a legitimate concern as I had stopped earlier in the day to buy a pop and some junk food and while I enjoyed my break no less than 3 vehicles pulled in for more beer.
One truck load of teenage boys were so drunk they literally stumbled into the store, bought a couple of 6-packs, slurred some profanities at me for not speaking better Spanish and sped off. They were plastered! Ten minutes before it got dark I rolled into a small Pueblo where I managed to get a bed, a flush toilet, a hot shower, dinner, and breakfast for about $12.00. It wasn’t the Hilton but it was God sent. Overall the next day went fairly smoothly until I met up with the dump truck. The road was very narrow and I pulled as far to the cliff side of the road as I could. I stopped the bike and waited for him to pass. The mistake I made was thinking I should stay on my side of the road. The mistake he made was seeing how close he could get to me instead of the wall on the other side. It was like a well placed hip check when his rear tire hit my side case. He hit me hard enough to knock me off center and towards the edge.
I had nowhere to put my right foot down. I let go of the clutch, stalled the bike and grabbed onto the truck. I swear it was the second miracle on that trip. I was holding on or going over the edge. It wasn’t the steepest part but it was at least 300 feet down. I think my bike would have been broken forever. I managed to get the bike into neutral but I couldn’t move it. I couldn’t let go so I couldn’t start the bike or get it into gear. The driver got out, said something in Spanish and it came to me… ‘Empuje’! I had never used the word but have read it on a million doors… ‘Push’. He pushed me past the tire. I got my foot down, started the bike, and squeezed past the back of the truck. I didn’t stop and I didn’t look back, and I tried not to think.
I was really grateful when I got to the hard top road. Looking back at it, it was a little foolish. While I made it alive and the views were amazing; I don’t recommend doing this trip alone, regardless of your riding skills. One drop to close to the edge or one drunk driver and you won’t be found for a very long time and you will probably be dead.
After leaving El Fuerte I rode east following the map given to me by Ray. The ride varied from hard packed clay, 4” deep silt, deeper sand, to ruts you could throw a body into and boulders bigger than my fat head. I dropped the bike twice. Both times were on steep left hairpin turns. The first drop was in sand and I was doing OK until the back end spun out from under me. I was able to get the bike up without too much difficulty and I continued on my way. I rode into the afternoon without another incident and I was starting to feel pretty comfortable despite the cliffs and what seemed to be a bottomless canyon only a few feet away. It was quite intimidating at times and I choose not to look down the canyon too often in fear that I may be crawling out of there. 
I am not good with heights. The second time I dropped the bike I tore off the left hard case. Once down I spun the bike around on the head cover as the hill was too steep, and the rut to deep, to lift the bike. Even after doing this I couldn’t lift it and I was preparing to take off the luggage when a fella stopped and gave me a hand to stand it up. I wired the box latch closed, and it has been holding together ever since. Time went on and I was getting quite concerned that the sun was setting on me. I wasn’t sure if I was on the right road and I had no idea where I was going to spend the night. I was starting to pay attention to small clearings on the side of the road where I thought I could pull off and camp without getting run over in the night. This was a legitimate concern as I had stopped earlier in the day to buy a pop and some junk food and while I enjoyed my break no less than 3 vehicles pulled in for more beer. 
One truck load of teenage boys were so drunk they literally stumbled into the store, bought a couple of 6-packs, slurred some profanities at me for not speaking better Spanish and sped off. They were plastered! Ten minutes before it got dark I rolled into a small Pueblo where I managed to get a bed, a flush toilet, a hot shower, dinner, and breakfast for about $12.00. It wasn’t the Hilton but it was God sent. Overall the next day went fairly smoothly until I met up with the dump truck. The road was very narrow and I pulled as far to the cliff side of the road as I could. I stopped the bike and waited for him to pass. The mistake I made was thinking I should stay on my side of the road. The mistake he made was seeing how close he could get to me instead of the wall on the other side. It was like a well placed hip check when his rear tire hit my side case. He hit me hard enough to knock me off center and towards the edge. 
I had nowhere to put my right foot down. I let go of the clutch, stalled the bike and grabbed onto the truck. I swear it was the second miracle on that trip. I was holding on or going over the edge. It wasn’t the steepest part but it was at least 300 feet down. I think my bike would have been broken forever. I managed to get the bike into neutral but I couldn’t move it. I couldn’t let go so I couldn’t start the bike or get it into gear. The driver got out, said something in Spanish and it came to me… ‘Empuje’! I had never used the word but have read it on a million doors… ‘Push’. He pushed me past the tire. I got my foot down, started the bike, and squeezed past the back of the truck. I didn’t stop and I didn’t look back, and I tried not to think.
I was really grateful when I got to the hard top road. Looking back at it, it was a little foolish. While I made it alive and the views were amazing; I don’t recommend doing this trip alone, regardless of your riding skills. One drop to close to the edge or one drunk driver and you won’t be found for a very long time and you will probably be dead.
Angelo’s (right) English is really good and it made the difference as my Spanish has a long way to go. Hector (left) is the father of the group and the life of the party (he kinda reminds me of Daryl) with his son and nephew. Toss in more amigos and amigas from the club, a hundred friends from all over, and another 3,000 bikers and we had a party that lasted all weekend long. It was the real Mexico to the core. ‘Viva Mexico Cabaronnes!’ What went down… Something that was either a destruction test or a loudest muffler competition was very popular. Bikes were doing brake stands everywhere. Modified trikes, quads and bikes were popping wheelies dangerously close to wild fans while all the time the live band is rocking to an old Led Zepplin song in the background (and doing a very good job too). Broken bottles and empty cans were everywhere. Girls were stuffed into leather pants. Over powered, under muffled, smoking, screaming motorcycles were put to the red line. The police were watching everything very dispassionately. Hell, they even lead the whole drunken bunch on a parade. I had to step away in the photo or surely I would have been killed by something. It was a blast! What great people! And then I just slept in the street again, but this time I didn’t have my van… Ha! Just kidding… Remember the first lady I met? Her family made sure I found a good hotel that was walking distance to the festival. They also took me for breakfast and invited me into their home just to make sure I survived the weekend. This was another opportunity where I only planned to stay a day and ended up staying for a bit longer due to ‘super bueno festival’. I plan on meeting up with the Gladeadores again in Guadalajara and I will also call back on Ignacio and his family when I pass through Los Mochis again. I got a map to Creel from Ray and I am set to go up the Copper Canyon on bike via El Fuerte.