Invariably, the first question most people asked when I mentioned I was riding my motorcycle down there was: “Where is that?” And when I told them: “In Mexico,” the predictable second question followed: “Ooooh, aren’t you afraid of the bandits?”
Both questions left me somewhat at a loss, though I guess I shouldn’t have been all that surprised. I mean, it’s no secret that Americans are, speaking generally now, notorious for their geographic ignorance. Most Yanks couldn’t tell you the difference between Shangdong and Shinola. And yes, Mexican banditry has earned legendary bogeyman status, especially among those who don’t ever venture beyond the walled compounds of resort hotels.
But ever since I heard of the Copper Canyon in my callow youth, it had earned a spot high on the list of places I wanted to visit. And the fact that I could ride a motorcycle down into it, albeit with some difficulty, only bumped it up a notch or two on that list. Plus, it was right next door, as it were. No major logistical undertakings involved. Just hop on the bike, ride a few days, and presto: Adventure! Who wouldn’t have taken note of such a place? And having noted it, wouldn’t jump at the chance to go there?
As for those famous banditos, well, let’s just say that I am much more likely to come to harm traversing the average American cityscape than running afoul of any putative pistoleros.
No, if the chance to head south came around the bend, I was going to roll on the throttle.
Well, around the bend it came, and so, on a chilly Tuesday morning in May, on the only day without measurable rain for 40 days and 40 nights in my little corner of soggy Oregon—a favorable sign from the gods for sure—I headed southeast past Mt. Shasta and down into the Great Basin on my way to the border.
It was still very cold, even for early May, and I kept my electric vest going full blast under several layers of clothing until well past Reno. It was still fired up as I rode south past Walker Lake, and the huge (soon to be shut down) Hawthorne Army Weapons Depot.
The desolate landscape in central Nevada reminded me a lot of Tibet, with scrub-covered plains giving way to towering, snow covered peaks in the distance. Even the white, conical VOR transmitter outside of Coaldale looked remarkably like a Buddhist stupa.
But if this had been Tibet, the plains and peaks would have been a good ten thousand feet higher. And the scruffy range cattle would have been shaggy yaks. And instead of racing across a smoothly paved highway on a fine German-engineered motorcycle, I would have been bouncing around the inside of a Land Cruiser over muddy tracks with two jolly Austrians and three tubercular Hindus. Other than that though, just like Tibet.
My destination for the day was the Motel 6 in Beatty, Nevada (The Gateway to Death Valley), where I was greeted in the lobby by a sign warning lodgers of an infestation of Japanese Beetles. I didn’t know what menace a Japanese Beetle might be to me, having only a dim idea of what one looked like, but figured, as dangers go, an insect couldn’t hold a candle to the 18-wheeler that had run me right off the road just south of Walker Lake. And the motel clerk was reassuring. Just pick them up and toss them out of your room, she divulged. Well OK then.
I wonder. Are they called American Beetles in Japan?
In any case, I didn’t even see any of the little critters until early the next morning, when I made my way downstairs to the bike in the predawn darkness. The early start courtesy of the 900-pound Nevada highway workers who began their day by stomping around their room directly over mine at 4 o’clock in the morning.
Approaching Las Vegas
Still, rising early and hitting the road has its advantages. Less traffic to contend with, cool air, rays of golden sunshine slanting over the landscape, the anticipation of a yummy, calorie-laden breakfast at the next gas stop.
But getting an early start guaranteed my hitting Las Vegas right at rush hour. And boy did I ever hit it. Like a Japanese beetle hitting a windshield.
Las Vegas has grown about 20 miles to the northwest in the three years since I had last rolled through there. And the morning traffic in the city that never sleeps is about as bad as in any other major metropolitan area. It just covers a lot more area than it once did. So I had more traffic to traverse, loping along behind smog-spewing cars filled with sleepy busboys, cocktail waitresses, and card dealers going to (and from) work.
But I made it through to the other side eventually, and after crossing the Hoover Dam and stopping for breakfast in Kingman, I blazed across blazing Arizona to Tucson, where I stopped to 1) see an old high school friend and his wife and kids, 2) have knobby tires mounted on the bike, and 3) bed down at another Motel 6, this one without Japanese Beetles.
Dinner with my old friend was a hoot, and watching the circus of putting the kids to bed through the fog of two (or was it three?) Bombay Sapphire martinis was worth the ride south by itself. We breakfasted together the next morning before I mounted up again and sped south to Douglas to meet the ride’s other participants at, you guessed it, yet another Motel 6.