I headed out from Santa Ana towards Caborca. I was beginning to get concerned about our late start. My map showed the road going up to Sonoyta and then down to Puerto Penasco. At my current pace, I would be looking at riding the road to Puerto Penasco alone in the dark, which is heavily advised against and that particular road had just had a warning put out on it. I arrived in Caborca and decided to inquire on alternate routes.
I rolled up to a fruit stand where an old man with skin like leather and crystal blue eyes was selling watermelons.
“Ruta de Puerta Penasco?” I ask, point in the general direction and shrug.
The old man smiles warmly and nods. “Si, ruta de carreteras.” My Spanish vocabulary is limited, so I ask “carreteras?”. He points behind me at a semi truck. Eek, maybe that’s a bad plan too, I’ll ask if it’s dangerous. “Peligrosa?”. He assures me I’ll be fine, “pequito, pequito peligrosa…” and draws out my turns in the dirt to find the proper road. I thank him and ride off where he directed me.
The road is paved, one lane in each direction packed with large trucks belching black smoke and rattling along around 50 miles per hour. I start out a little nervous, convinced that I am too small and will end up squashed, but as I was contemplating how to overtake without getting smacked by an oncoming truck, something awesome happened. the truck in front of me saw my bike and edged over to the right so I could pass without going into oncoming traffic. One after another the trucks would edge over and let me by, EVERY SINGLE ONE. I soon grew very comfortable with this arrangement and happily sped past the trucks giving a wave of thanks and smiling broadly inside my helmet.
I pulled up to Tommy and Rita’s house in Puerto Penasco just as the sun was kissing the horizon and settled in to their great rental apartment for several days of lazing around before the big Couchsurfing party would begin that weekend.
(Tommy and Rita were my awesome hosts on my first trip down to Mexico back in April. Ride Report HERE)
I relaxed around the apartment for three whole days, only really venturing out a couple times, once to a little margarita bar packed with old expats. They were a little wilder than the San Carlos crew and one woman bought me a drink because I reminded her of her daughter.
Somebody had impeccable taste in golf carts.
A guy started wriggling his tongue obscenely at me from across the bar and I decided to call it a night.
The second time I went out walking in search of breakfast and a pack of dogs came running at me. Now, you have two choices for wild dogs in Mexico. You can pretend to pick up a rock and they will flee, or you can ignore them and just keep walking. I didn’t have time to bend down, so I just continued walking at the same pace. In the past, they had always stayed back 4 or 5 feet looking mean, but this time they were right up on me, bumping their noses against my legs. I just kept walking, chanting “please don’t bite me, please don’t bite me…” and eventually they got bored and went back. Mexico really is more bark than bite.