Monday Mar 17, 2008
Acambaro to Zimapan, 152 miles
Being a bad boy
I have two days to get home. After carefully studying all my maps and options this morning, I decide I really can't go to Zimapan and Tamachunchale on my way back home. After all, it would be 1020 miles from Acámbaro to Austin, via Zimapan (Hwy 120 to San Juan del Rio, Tequisquiapan, Cadereyta, then cut across to Zimapan and Hwy 85 (mountains), to Tamachunchale, Cd Valles, and on to Reynosa/McAllen). On the otherhand it's a more palatable 870 miles from Acámbaro to Austin via the more traditional Queretaro, San Luis Potosi, Saltillo, etc 4-lane slab route. Yeah, I decided Zimapan was definitely out. Can't afford the time. It's pay-back time. The long putt home. And I was so not looking forward to 2 days of Interstate style highways.
Then, I just said, to heck with it. And did what I dang well pleased anyway, regardless of rationality, and ended up in Zimapan, stuck, well, that is its impossible to make it home by Wednesday morning from here. I guess this is just one of the things that happen when I travel alone.
Chemin, tha man
An amazing thing happened today. I left my little basic motel, all clean and fresh headed home, got 30 miles into the ride and my dang clutch cable snaps. Well, that's it I thought. The nearest Harley dealer is Leon. Leave the bike, go home, return for it later.
I had pulled over into a kind of a rest area outside of Jejécuaro. I was having trouble shifting gears. Well, no wonder the cable was on it's last thread which snapped before my very eyes. So then an ambulance pulls up, and Jose speaks some English, he used to live in Arkansas. (These days, EVERYONE has put some time in the States and they love to practice their English.) So the ambulance guy, Jose, says he has a fire to attend to but he'll be back. Next thing you know he's back with a couple of guys that start right in dismantling the clutch cable. I'm wanting to be broke down in San Juan del Rio, but I'm thinking "whatever", at the same time trying to maintain some control over the situation. The clutch cable is useless anyway. Well Chemin is one of these hyper guys like on natural speed. Talks so fast and into everything, I'm saying, "Hey, tranquilo, dude". Jose the ambulance guy's got to go pick up some dead person. Chemin and his ayudante disappear down the road walking, with my clutch cable.
"Hey," I holler at 'em. They stop. "You got a phone number or something, just in case?"
Oh, yeah, the ayudante has a cell phone, #'s exchanged. Jeez.
Well there's a rest area here cause its the local fishing and swimming hole. A couple of dudes are down by the water smoking pot. Another one fishing. A young couple are meticulously detailing their beat up car. I'm, like, chillin'. Many people stop and ask if I need help. Mostly they know some English.
So next, another Jose pulls up in a pick-up truck and says he's here to help me buy a new clutch cable. Turns out he's completely unrelated to the other folks already helping me, he just heard in town some Gringo on a Harley was broke down out at the fishing hole. So the word has spread. Well luckily I have a little piece of paper as to where the clutch cable went and, well of course he knows Chemin so off we go into town to find Chemin.
Wait. The bike? With all my luggage? Well I guess I forgot to mention this other old dude, didn't catch his name, who is selling bee honey and flower pollen there at the rest area/swimming hole. So everyone knows everyone and we get the honey dealer to promise to watch the bike, which is out in the middle of the open area, albeit partially dismantled. Tools lying around. Did I mention I had to remove the battery support to get to the clutch cable? Oh, yeah. Had to tell Chemin, "cool it! I'll do this part". (4th time this trip for me but who's counting.)
Anyway, Jose used to pick grapes in California, and we find Chemin. He's wearing glasses now which make him look more intelligent, at first I don't even recognize him. So Chemin has done a bang-up job wielding a blob onto the end of the clutch cable and then milling it to exactly fit the clutch lever.
Back to the bike at the fishing hole we reassemble, do a parting final tool check, (Chemin's impressed I have "puro Craftsman"), and then a test ride. The ambulance guy returns, and we are all one happy family. I am basically flabbergasted.
3 hours after loosing my clutch I'm riding off down the road shaking my head in sheer disbelief. Chemin charged me $10 for the wield job, and Jose with the pickup truck refused any compensation at all. I didn't get anyone's address. I visualize Jose, the ambulance guy just cruising around doing good deeds.
Zimapan reservoir
Part of the purpose of this insane excursion into the mountains when I should be headed home was partly to check out the tunnels at Zimapan reservoir. Three in all, one a mile long. The dam itself is an amazing project, damming up a huge narrow slot canyon with sheer walls. Army guys with submachine guns were guarding the dam pretty well, no stopping here. Got to love the Mexican simplicity. No body searches or car searches. Just guys with submachine guns.
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