The Guatemala/Mexico border-crossing is a long, single lane bridge across a gorge, with a good-sized river flowing underneath. It’s a hot day. I arrive at the border during Guatemala’s siesta, so I wait. I finally get my papers stamped and cross over the bridge. It’s narrow, and with the railway lines and melting tar, it’s a tricky crossing.
I arrive on the other side and ride up to the Mexican border post overlooking the bridge. They have just closed for their siesta time, so I sit and wait again.
Then, a rare sight: another motorcyclist is coming up behind me. As he comes off the bridge, he slips in the wet tar, falls off, and his baggage is strewn all over.
He recovers quickly, uninjured, ties his gear back on, and rides up to me at the border post. I explain that they are closed, but he goes up to the door, rattles up the guards, says something in Spanish, and we are both processed immediately. Then we are off down the road together.
He is Lou Henderson, United States Army Lieutenant on leave from the Panama Canal Zone. We are heading the same way: Veracruz on the Caribbean coast, then Mexico City.
We travel up the west coast a bit to a small town, Pijijiapan, and book into a hotel, leaving our bikes in the foyer. The next day we follow the west coast a bit more, then head inland over some high, barren, cold country—a long ride—and finally drop down to Veracruz on the coast. It’s very warm and tropical here. We arrive in the town looking stupid with our cold weather gear. The town is very touristy with lots of cafes, bars, and music. It’s great.
The day’s ride has been one of the longest, at 554 miles, all on good sealed roads. Lou rides a 500cc Suzuki—a good bike.
The ride to Mexico City starts very hot in the lowlands, and then moves up into the mountains, where it becomes cold, with periods of rain. It rains continuously for the last 90 miles of the ride; this is the worst weather I have ridden in, and I would have avoided it if I were riding by myself.
We arrive in Mexico City just before dark. At this point we split up; Lou is off to a hotel where air hostesses stay, and I have the address of some friends from Quito.
Lou has been good to ride with the last couple of days, but he’s on leave and in a bit of a hurry, faster than I prefer to travel. On parting, he gives me his army sheath knife that they get issued when they do their first parachute jump. He can’t get over the fact that I’m riding unarmed. Many times I have been asked what type of gun I carry.
After two days in a very polluted Mexico City, and having delivered a small present to Humberto and Karren, I move on, heading northwest 312 miles, to Guadalajara. I find a residencia to stay at, but for the first time I feel strange and light-headed. I struggle upstairs with my gear and instantly crash out on the bed.