I left Panama during the rainy season. From Panama City I had 3,000 miles to go before reaching Mexico’s northern border. My twin cam engine was overheating every day now and if I ran into trouble I knew of only two Harley dealers in Central America. Mexico had several dealerships but outside of the USA my warranty would be as worthless as my roadside assistance. I rode through the tropical heat hoping that any mechanical problems would wait until I was safely home.
Everything was going good until Honduras. I rented a room for the night in a village just across the border with Nicaragua. I was getting something to eat in a local cantina when two guys came through the door. They were drunk and one of them was armed with two pearl handled pistols. I looked them over and thought these must be the bad guys. One of the men came over to my table and said something about me being a “Norte Americano”. He had both hands on my table while leaning in towards me. I looked him straight in the eye and said, “Buenos tardes” with a half smile. His buddy with the pistols pulled on his arm and nodded towards me before they went and sat down. I figured they were either drug dealers or bandits or maybe even drug dealing bandits.
The waitress seemed nervous. I didn’t feel comfortable. I didn’t want to let these guys think I was rattled so I ordered a shot of whiskey. Then looking over at the guy with the pistols I held up my glass nodded and drank it down before slowly getting up to leave. Once I was down the street I thought, “Whew, close one” and was relieved to only be spending the night.
Early the next morning I was riding through the mountains when the idiot light on my dash panel began flashing. I wasn’t sure what that light was indicating but I figured it wasn’t good. I still had a two days’ ride before reaching the Harley dealer in Guatemala City. All I could do was keep riding and hope for the best.
I entered El Salvador and began following the road signs for San Salvador. I was outside of San Miguel when I remembered that I had been warned that the Pan-American Highway was under construction between here and San Salvador. It was too late to turn back. I continued riding hoping the road construction wouldn’t be too bad. That turned out to be wishful thinking.
The entire road had been tore up for miles. Giant earthmovers and trucks were digging up the old road and traffic, I had to go around the construction driving on hard pot-holed dirt. The dust was so bad I couldn’t see past the car in front of me. Oncoming traffic would come out of the dust cloud and be visible just in time to avoid a head on collision. It was like a scene from a “Mad Max” movie.
Some how I managed to keep up with traffic and I arrived in San Salvador by late afternoon. Later when I examined my bike I discovered that one of the bolts on my rear sprocket was bent and a large gouge was now in the bottom of my primary cover. I spent the night in San Salvador and made the 130 mile ride to Guatemala City the next morning.
I arrived at the Harley dealer late in the day. The mechanic hooked my bike up to a handheld meter and after running some test told me the bike was ok. I didn’t believe him after starting the bike and seeing the light come back on.
Once I got back to my hotel room I took out my map and looked for the shortest route back to the Texas border. I still had two thousand miles to go and didn’t want to risk having major engine trouble in the middle of nowhere.
I plotted a route that would cut across southern Mexico. At its narrowest point it is only a few hours ride on mountainous country roads from the Pacific coast to the Gulf coast. I could be in Texas in five days if my engine held up.
I left Guatemala City the next morning and crossed over into Mexico later that afternoon. I spent the night in the border town of Tapachula then rode 250 miles up the pacific coast on Highway 200 until I reached the town of Juchitan.
In the morning I took highway 185 to 180 and rode another 250 miles to the gulf coast city of Vera Cruz.
My engine was running hot. Once I stopped I would have to wait until it cooled down before I could get it started again. I would check the oil level and at one stop it would show being low then the next time I checked it would show being overfilled. I suspected the oil pump was failing and that the oil lines must be blocked. I just had two days left and I would be back in Texas.
Vera Cruz is a large city on the water. I relaxed a little knowing that I only had about 550 miles to go.
The next day I planned on riding half way to the border and stopping in Tampico for my last night in Mexico. I almost made it. About ten miles outside of Tampico in a place called Tampico Alto my engine just stopped running while I was sitting at a red light. I let it cool down but no luck. It would start, go a few hundred feet and die.
Tampico Alto is nothing more than a truck stop with a gas station and small hotel including a few streets making up the town. I got a room in the hotel and hoped the bike would start in the morning. It didn’t. Once I got the engine running it would run for a few minutes, backfire and die.
I spent the next two days in Tampico Alto trying to figure out how to get my bike back to the border. I could have called my friend Gil and he would have came down or sent someone from Mexico to help me out. But after riding so far and being so close I was hesitant to ask for help.
It seemed that everyone in Tampico Alto was trying to figure out how to make some money off of my misfortune. The hotel clerk and his friend wanted to work on my engine. I asked what experience they had. They said that they fixed washer machines. I declined their offer. The guy who ran the bus stop wanted to stick my bike under one of the busses going to McAllen. We tried lowering my handle bars but it wouldn’t fit in the storage compartment. The guy then wanted to lay the bike on its side but I turned down that offer also.
I found someone who spoke English and they called a tow truck company. We asked how much to get to the border. We were told several times that it would be 110 US dollars. I agreed and when the truck showed up the driver tried to tell me it was 110 dollars for him to come out and another 800 dollars to go to the border. I told him to get lost and we called another tow truck that said they would do it for a few hundred. I agreed and waited for the truck to show up.
While I was waiting the phone in the truck stop rang and the clerk told me it was for me. “For me?” who the hell would be calling me here? The clerk handed me the phone and it was a girl from the first towing company speaking English. She was telling me I owed them 110 dollars for the service call. They had driven less then ten miles from Tampico. I said I was told it would be 110 dollars to the border. When she kept insisting I would have to pay for the service call I began to say “no hablo español”. She replied “sir do you understand me” and I would say “no comprendo”. She spoke perfect English. I keep going on with the “no comprendo” waiting for the tow truck to show up. When it did I hung up the phone and helped load my bike on the truck quickly. I thought that she was going to call the police because I wouldn’t pay 110 dollars for nothing. My imagination was running wild now. It was dark as we drove towards the border town of Reynosa, Mexico. I kept looking in the mirror expecting to see the Mexican police.
We arrived in Reynosa around three in the morning. The driver helped unload my bike close to the border. I turned the ignition and hit the starter. The bike fired up and I rode across the border to the American side. I asked the border patrol officers how far it was to a Harley dealer. While looking over my passport and bike they gave me directions to the local dealer.
I was happy to have made it back to Texas and fell asleep next to my bike in the parking lot of the Harley dealer while waiting for them to open. In the morning the mechanic looked over my bike and said it was the sensors and changed them out again.
I made it to southern New Mexico and again my engine died. I took it to the dealer there and yet again I was told it was my sensors. I couldn’t believe that for the third time I was being told it was sensors. Again the sensors were replaced and I got back on the road. About a hundred miles from home the bike died again. I called the dealer who had just replaced the sensors and they came and got the bike. My engine was completely destroyed. The mechanics had no idea what caused the problem but at least this time no one was trying to tell me it was my sensors. I left the bike at the dealer and got a ride home. It would be five and a half weeks before the dealer had my engine rebuilt.
That was nearly 100,000 miles ago and since then we’ve been half way across the planet and back, just me and my wide glide.
When I’m asked why I ride alone and so far I just smile and think of an old Grateful Dead song, you know the one that goes;
Truckin got my chips cashed in
Keep Truckin – like the doodah man
Together – more or less in line
Just keep Truckin on….
