by Chris MacAskill November 10, 2000 Day 5 |
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I worked out, flagged a taxi and toured impressive historical sites, and made the decision not to go for Belize. There was too much to see here, my wife was too worried, and Belize would offer no room for error in the schedule. I chose Acapulco instead and left that afternoon. Had I known about the miles I could make on the way home, I might have decided differently.
Acapulco is waaay south in Mexico, but only a three-hour drive on the tollway from Mexico City. That's because it's a resort for the rich who fly down that highway in fast cars. A BMW 3-series car blew past me as if he were in the fast lane of the autobahn, so I decided to check his speed. I bolted to 120 but he was out of sight in no time. 120 is my limit. Nada mas. In my mind I debated what the top ten rides in the world were, because I guessed I was on one of them. The road from Mexico City to Cuernavaca is mountainous, green, twisty, and stunning. On to Acapulco, it's remote, high altitude until the final descent to sea level, and dramatic with high bridges over river gorges, and tunnels. |
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Approaching Acapulco, you're given the choice of going to the playas (beaches) por la tunel (cuota) or por la cirma (libre). I didn't know what cirma means, but why not have a little adventure? How nasty could it be? Real nasty. The strict translation of la cirma is "abandon hope, all ye who enter in." Naturally, uh, I arrived at dusk. Imagine if you can a 6-lane road with 7 lanes of honking and mad bus drivers sandwiched in with taxis, pedestrians, scooters, cars, Acapulco Bay is...built up. It's like South Lake Tahoe with immense American resorts. This goes on for miles around the South side of the bay, which I cruised in my winter clothes. It's actually quite upscale from Mazatlan. But the north side of the bay is where all the Mexican hotels are, alongside residences, and I picked a beautiful one on a cliff above the ocean for 450 Pesos (45 dollars). The guy with the pistol on his hip showed me to my room.
It was after 10 and I was starving, but another gunman was guarding my bike so I proceeded on foot. I wandered down a narrow alley and found a home with tacos for sale on its front step. 15 Pesos got me 5 tacos and a coke--and a table with Orlando, who was very entertaining. His daughter, who was drop-dead GORGEOUS, cooked the tacos on a hibachi on the sidewalk. I was given strict instructions to fetch my family and stay in Orlando's casa for a week. I didn't tell him I had a son who would stop breathing after laying eyes on his daughter. |
one fine German riding machine, and some carnival tents and crowds to go with them. Imagine a dump truck losing its load over two of the lanes, and policemen waving us around a fender-bender. Imagine me dressed in warm clothing for the high altitudes I was riding in 30 minutes ago, but now suffering in a tropical climate where nobody else has more than T-shirt and shorts. Imagine having a case of bad gas so that the ultimate riding machine feels like stalling at idle. Imagine this for two hours. La tunel would have taken 10 minutes. I had managed to pack all my stuff in a topbox and leave the saddlebags, which make the bike wide at the hips, at home. I congratulated myself on at least one good decision.
