Puerto Vallarta – San Sebastién del Oeste – Mascota – Atenguillo – Ameca – Tequila – Guadalajara: 418 km

The road is always calling. There’s always a new town on the horizon, a new mountain to climb, a new path to find and new people to meet. Always new unknowns and adventures around the corner of every day. And so, we say our goodbyes to Tom. I will remember him fondly. He’s up there with one of the best Warm Showers hosts I’ve had these past 15 months.

Today is our last stretch of coast for a long time. I will miss the sea, the camping on the beach, the sunsets and the wide never-ending views over the hazy blue water. We make our way to Puerto Vallarta, where we have another Warm Showers host, Gabi, who we’re staying with for two days with. On the road we meet an overly excited supporter. At a small supermarket where we’re resting, we’re treated to sports drinks and have to make a bunch of pictures with him. When he passes us later, he stops his car twice, once to film us passing by, once to just honk and wave. It puts a smile on our faces and gives us energy.

Puerto Vallarta is a nice town, albeit quite touristic. We sit on the beach, work on our bikes and go out for some drinks with Gabi. She’s an enthusiastic host with strong ties in the local cycling community and makes us feel right at home.

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And then, yet another side of Mexico. We’ve cycled through the desert of Baja, the lush rainforest-like vegetation and humid towns on the coast, and as we make our way into the mountains, onto the Central Mexican Plateau, everything changes once more. These highlands are created by tectonic plates, resulting in volcanos everywhere. Reaching San Sebastién del Oeste, we climb almost 2000 meters. And we’re getting even higher in the days to come. The coolness we’ve been praying for we get. The plants change. On the higher peaks we’re surrounded by pines and oaks, it reminds me of Italy sometimes. We ride from Puebla Magico to Puebla Magico (Government appointed ‘magical towns’), often originally Spanish settlements. All build around twin-towered churches and squares with small ‘kiosco’s’ in the middle, the next town is more beautiful than the last. What they also have in common are the cobblestones. They sure do look cute, and give the streets an air of historic significance, but they suck to ride over. Our bones shake in our bodies as our tires struggle to find grip and our paniers rattle against our racks. Northern France would be proud.

Riding out of Mascota, a town where we have the best torta ever, I feel something is wrong with my bike. It’s more wobbly than usual. We soon find the diagnosis; broken rack mount. It just snapped clean off the frame. This bike is not even 2 months old. It hurts all the way down in my stomach and for a moment I’m not sure what to do. Luckily, we’re just 10 kilometres into the day and Mascota is close by. I get a ride back into town in the back of a farmers’ truck. The plan is to find a welder. Literally as I’m unloading my bike another truck stops. In perfect American English the driver asks if he can help.

“Yes please. I’m looking for a welder.”

“Follow me!” 

Half an hour after the break, it’s fixed. The welder doesn’t let me pay him. But I’m pretty angry with All City, the manufacturer, and I long back for my Trek. Angrily, and somewhat nervously about the new weld we continue and still make it to Atenguillo, where we set up camp just out of town next to a river.  

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We wake up in the clouds. At least, in mist that is so thick we can hardly see 30 meters ahead. Everything is wet when we’re packing up, but it will have to do for now. Once we cross our first peak, the mist dissipates and the day slowly gets sunny. It’s perfect weather to cycle in these mountains. The cool fresh breeze cools our bodies on the climbs, sometimes even making the descents brisk. A comfortable 20 degrees during the day, a sweet 10 degrees at night. So too in Ameca, a village we enjoy thoroughly and where I get a free haircut on the town-square. Without exception, these squares function as a gathering place for the whole town. Old ladies walk hand in hand out of the church, men with cowboy hats pluck their moustaches, overlooking the kids who ride their bikes from corner to corner, while street venders fill plastic cups with all sorts of flavoured water, and steam hisses from the boiling pots of corn. It feels neighbourly and harmonious, like every day is like this and everybody would be completely fine with it if every day is like this forever to come.

Then, Tequila. Not only a drink, also a town. Just like champaign, it’s a protected name, to be used only by manufacturers from this region. To get there, we ride through agave fields as far as the eye can see. It’s yet another Puebla Magico, and we can see why. Beautiful little streets lead to the main square, where a grand church overlooks the mainly Mexican tourists, sipping from their little glasses on the many terraces. And we came here over actual bike infrastructure that lasted for hours, a rarity in Mexico. Of course, we drink Tequila on arrival, maybe one to many as the night progresses. It’s fine, tomorrow is a short ride, and we’re sleeping in an actual bed in an actual hotel room.

Although the ride to Guadalajara is short, it is busy as can be. Busy enough to feel the soot of the fumes on our teeth whenever we close out mouths. But I’m excited for what’s to come; Guadalajara. Granted, I’d never heard of this city before, but it’s a sprawling metropole that 1.5 million people call home. And it will change my plans drastically.