William B . Kaliher Avalance
As I mounted my red , Honda SL 175 combination bike a cool drizzle sprinkled Mexico City . The city only had seven million inhabitants then , but still presented a puzzling maze my three week visit hadn ’ t deciphered . Today ’ s tourists complain about the lack of highway signs but there were even fewer in 1971 . Two possible potholed roads led to the Gulf coast but , but I had no idea how to reach either of them .
I rode Avenida Reforma and took a right where I had been instructed and hopefully headed northeast . Cars zipped by inches from me , spraying my legs with dirty water . At 7,400 feet above sea level , my heavy coat and Army ground cloth / poncho kept me warm . Mexico City ended like a curtain dropped in those days . One second , I was among low adobe houses and then empty , treeless vastness sprawling ahead .
The absolute last building stood far to the right within a gigantic gritty rock and dirt parking area . I crossed through a morass of heavily laden three ton trucks and 1950s model autos to reach the combination mechanic shop , tire repair and trucker ’ s restaurant . Speaking little Spanish I dismounted and approached some guys in heavy , greasy ponchos . “ Veracruz , Veracruz . Donde es Veracruz ?”
They grinned and stared . After a moment of amazement over my fair skin they started repeating my poor pronunciation until they figured out what I had asked . The one missing two upper front teeth took my arm , and the four of us walked through the rain past the edge of the restaurant where we could see to the right . He pointed down a narrow broken ribbon of black asphalt that ran across the valley floor and disappeared into huge mountains miles down the highway . “ Veracruz . Veracruz !”
I thanked the fellows , checked my bike and gear and mounted . It was mid-afternoon and I only possessed the simple map inside a three-year-old guide to Mexico . I didn ’ t see much sense in consulting it and headed down the road toward the high mountains as the rain fell harder . Few cars littered 1971 Mexican highways so virtually the only traffic was slow-moving trucks and buses belching diesel exhaust as they climbed .
Somewhere up in the mountains , depending on elevation , fog or heavy mist filled the air despite the rain falling even harder . Mexico ’ s broken and potholed roads didn ’ t bother me even after pure blackness took the earth . The road crawled through the mountains at eight to ten thousand feet . No guard rails protected against a tire leaving the pavement and I felt sorry for the outside truckers squeezing by one another . I could glance over the edge and down three or four thousand feet . Sporadic lights indicated life in these high valleys . About ten o ’ clock no more trucks passed heading west to Mexico City . Occasionally I caught and passed trucks lumbering east , but the road remained lonely .
The night remained cold and wet as I continued . About one in the morning I pulled up behind a long line of stalled traffic . Truckers spoke to me rapidly and kept pointing ahead and up . I couldn ’ t really understand what they were telling me . But , I could hear occasional rumbling in the distance I marked down to thunder . After a few moments I remounted and began passing the stalled trucks . Surprisingly the line stretched around curves for well over a mile . Finally , I reached the lead ten-ton truck and stopped . Their lights illuminated a muddy clear road . A good quarter mile ahead two caterpillar bulldozers pushed boulders over the mountain ’ s edge . I quickly made friends with the three guys driving the lead truck . I had , no we , have a problem . It wasn ’ t thunder I had been hearing over the bike engine .