Chase the Sun
San Carlos, Mexico
By Dennis Brown
In Colorado’s bitter snow and wind, a warm fantasy is better than cold reality any day. Ten members of Rocky Mountain Church and Evangelical Free Fellowship of Estes Park, Colorado, collaborated on a “Chase the Sun” motorcycle ride, designed to escape winter’s assault. Only the strong ride. At departure time Saturday morning, 0600 hours, four riders chose warm living rooms over cold, hard bike seats.
“It’s their loss,” said Don Darling, a Road King warrior. “Besides, they ride whimper cycles anyway. Real guys ride Harleys.”
This was my first ride with the church “wild bunch”. I asked them an important question before mounting up. “If Jesus was here today, would He own a Rolex? Not likely, but I’m certain He would ride a borrowed Harley.” I was the oldest biker on this ride. My old Heritage Softail provided me the comfortable ride my behind required.
The sun slid between two palm trees and out of sight into the red desert as we arrived in Albuquerque, New Mexico. We managed to stay just out of reach of a major winter storm that ravaged most of the nation. After a day of many miles on the road, we spent a comfortable night at the Holiday Inn. The next morning we faced a sky thick with clouds and heavy with moisture.
“This storm is about to overtake us. We need to drive hard toward Tucson. We’re in a weather bubble, the only place likely to remain dry.” We trusted Bruce Gregg, leader of the pack, a true alpha wolf, to make the decision. The road clogged behind us with snow and ice, but we arrived in Tucson dry.
On Monday morning festered skies warned us of nasty weather developing. Mark Westover, an Ultra Classic enthusiast, owned a time-share about two hours south of the border.
“I’m not interested in getting wet. It’s raining in San Diego and all snow behind us. Let’s go to Mexico and find a sun-warmed beach,” Mark suggested. “I’ve been there a lot of times. It’s a piece of cake. You can trust me on this.”
Without a dissenting vote, six Harley’s raced toward Nogales, Mexico, at the maximum allowed speed.
“Let’s chase the sun.” Dave Gregorio spurred us on as he hit the start button on his “03 Ultra Standard.” He takes three to four trips each year with this church bike-riding club. His previous ride took on new meaning with a stop at Barnett’s in El Paso, Texas, where he purchased a $19,000 T-shirt. They threw in a new Harley in appreciation.
Nogales border guards waved us through the crossing without delay. Highway 15 goes through the middle of town, and as we passed all the tourist traps, it became apparent that we were a parade. People waved, whistled, and honked their horns. High school boys dressed in preppie uniforms gave us “the bird,” and young ladies fanned us with gusto.
“The sign said ‘Perimeter Road’, so how did we end up at the city dump?”
“Relax, Bruce.” Steve Irish was always calm and collected as he sat astride his emerald Ultra Classic. “The paved highway is behind us about a mile. We’ll make a right turn at the blacktop and be back on track.”
“La Frontera” is a second border crossing approximately 30 miles past the international crossing. We were shocked when the officials there denied us access because we didn’t have passports. Loud protests came wafting through the pack.
“We spent forty dollars each at Sanborn’s for insurance, and now we can’t go on.” They were angry with me for bringing them this far for nothing.
“Guys, simmer down and listen. Take a few one-dollar bills and roll them up in your hand. Make sure the end of the roll is visible and stand around the entrance of the tourist shack looking like a litter of homeless puppies.”
In a few minutes, the young guard came out. “For ten dollars, I get you a pass to Guyamas.” Sixty dollars later, we had our visas in hand and a sticker on our windshield.
We were adventure bound!
San Carlos is a lazy beach town about 200 miles south of the border, just north of Guaymas. White buildings against the turquoise Sea of Cortez welcomed us. Route 15, an improved toll road, passes to the east. The well-maintained surface surpasses many of the roadways in Colorado. The posted speed is 100 KPH or 60 MPH. If you wish to exceed the posted speed limit, it is advisable to cruise behind an eighteen-wheeler or a bus. These moving 75 MPH billboards warn you of speed bumps, potholes, and radar cops. My nerves usually fray before the driver ahead of me tires, but this strategy helps increase my speed by 10-15 MPH.
Whenever possible, I avoid trip planning. I delight in finding a surprise around every turn. I noticed the Hotel Fiesta in San Carlos as we drove toward Club Med. We were looking for value and fun. The beachfront rooms with balconies extending over the palm-lined shores were exactly what our butts needed after 1500 miles of wear and tear. With a little negotiation, we acquired three rooms for twenty-five dollars each. The manager was reluctant to include a hot breakfast, but with a little foot-dragging and a faked departure, he reconsidered.
The main street in San Carlos is more than two miles long and follows the shoreline. The ride up and down this lovely strip was void of people or cars. Tourists must not have discovered this place yet. Somewhere along our pass through town, we picked up six riders on BMWs. Later, three retired Canadians on Heritage Softail bikes joined our pack. Fifteen motorcycles make a great parade, but this time there was no one to wave.
After dark, an assault of fifteen bikers pulled hogs and toys up into the parking lot of the San Carlos Grill. There were four guests dining inside when we arrived. They quickly gulped their meals, declined dessert, and quietly slipped away.
“Looks like we were a bit much for those diners,” speculated a BMW rider.
“Not likely,” a Harley guy commented. “If you can’t hear it, you don’t fear it.”
Yellow-fin tuna, two-inch thick steaks and a pile of shrimp completed our meals. We topped off the main course with flan and coffee. No one complained about the fare.
“Okay, guys, feed the hogs. Pull up two abreast in front of the door. Let’s show those Beamer boys what real bikes sound like.” Our alpha wolf leader mounted his Ultra Classic with pride.
Our engines roared to life, and black stripes stained the cobble-stoned street. Windows shook and car alarms belted. We accelerated down the block, made a quick U-turn, and sped past the restaurant with thunder rolling from a dozen exhaust pipes. Doing sixty in a twenty-five mile zone, we showed those “whisper rocket” riders!
For the pack, everything is prey, except flashing red lights. There they were! Red and blue lights came from behind, working their way toward the front of the pack. I didn’t want to make their job too easy, so I rode on until they waved me over. I feigned surprise at seeing them.
The three town cops were polite as they jabbered in Spanish. The few words I understood were violations, fines, and jail. The younger cop kept thumbing the hammer on this new pistol. I felt confident that he had no bullets until he produced some. Things were looking grim. Then the six Beamers showed up to taunt us.
“What’s coming down, hogs? Get pulled over for a little too much noise?”
“Not at all. They stopped us hoping for a ride on some real bikes. We don’t want to wound your egos, but they’re not interested in riding your ‘James Bond’ stealth scooters. If you can’t hear it, you can’t see it.”
“We’d like to believe you, but it looks like you hogs are going to jail.”
“Not so fast, Beamers.”
I turned to the oldest cop and put my arm over his shoulder. “Get on the back. We’re going for a ride.”
“Really?” He spoke perfect English.
“Have your two buddies follow us to our hotel. We’ll buy you a beer.”
I lit the fire and bellowed down the road.
The officer behind me yelled, “Faster, faster.”
When I failed to crank on enough power, he reached around me and rolled it on. The cop car pulled in behind me with lights flashing. Behind him came the Harley pack blasting victory. The Beamer bikers stood in silence with their mouths agape.
At the hotel, the three Mexican cops shared beers with us. We laughed together until our ribs ached. After about an hour, we agreed to meet the next night and do it all over again.
Real men drive Harleys, others stand in silent awe!
