Chapter 7: Mexico – Thresholds of Fear and Grace
Crossing Bridge 1 and descending into a land feared by many, but misunderstood by more.
I rolled over Bridge 1 into Nuevo Laredo with an explorer’s curiosity—tempered by a chorus of sensible warnings that now echoed louder than any exhaust pipe. Friends, family, even strangers had urged me to skip Mexico entirely. Fly over it, they said. Don’t risk it alone. But that was never the plan. I entered with caution, yes—but also with an open heart. Behind me stretched months of effort and miles; ahead, something far less certain. What met me first were quiet streets and lazy dogs—not the aftermath of the gunfight that had lit up the city just hours earlier. I wouldn’t learn about that until days later. In the moment, there was only stillness and the low hum of possibility.
In Laredo, Joe Vera at Border Town Bikes had prepped my rig like a trusted pit crew chief. New drivetrain, tuned brakes, fresh tires—all waiting for me, thanks to parts I’d shipped from Georgia. Joe had more than tools: he had advice. So did his clients. One, a border patrol agent, told me: Ride straight through. Don’t stop in Nuevo Laredo. Obey the traffic. Look like you belong. I did exactly that. I trusted those strangers who quickly became friends—and already, the fear of the unknown began to subside.
From Laredo, I could see the mountains near Monterrey. I’d glimpsed them on earlier trips to Texas and once visited Monterrey on a bus ride with a girlfriend in my twenties. In all cases, the abrupt rise of stone from the desert plain left me awestruck. But this time, I wasn’t passing by. I was riding into them—into the Sierra Madre Oriental and the vast altiplano beyond. This high plateau stretches for hundreds of miles into central Mexico, a broad, elevated region shaped by folded sierras and ancient volcanic peaks. As I approached Monterrey and then Hidalgo, I realized I was deep inside this geological heartland—an uplifted spine of the continent, rich with history and raw in beauty. And so far, I’d encountered no harm, no threat—only curiosity, and a quiet, watchful kindness.
Still, I was uneasy. Joe and his crew had helped calm my nerves, but I was riding alone into a country many warned me against. For two days I pedaled toward a town that I later learned offered affordable camping. I skirted the eastern edge of Monterrey and crossed into Hidalgo—another medium-sized town, outwardly similar to those I’d already passed through, but with something different in the air. Climbers from all over the world came here for El Potrero Chico’s limestone walls. With them came budget lodging, humble campsites, and a community of movement and reflection. Each morning they walked or pedaled to the cliffs; each evening they returned to share stories, stretch sore limbs, and reconnect.
For three nights, I stayed in this unexpected haven. I camped. I practiced photography. I joined communal meals at the colorful Finca El Caminante and sipped coffee at El Búho, talking with travelers and climbers alike. The pace slowed. My mind’s engagement with fear softened. I quickly integrated into a community amidst a spectacular landscape. I was no longer alone—and would never feel that way again in Mexico. The friendship given to me by Eduardo, the owner of Finca El Caminante, certainly amplified all the others. He checked in and provided advice even when I was well south of Mexico.
When I finally moved on, I was no longer the traveler that crossed at Laredo. I felt a belonging, a kinship, that continued to grow as I explored Mexico and, eventually, all of Central and South America. But kinship withstanding, I was also a gringo surrounded by latinos and latinas—an inversion of their experience in the United States. To be at the mercy of another culture, to surrender comfort and familiarity, was not just humbling—it was transformative. Like so many encounters on this journey, it revealed the richness found in vulnerability and the strength found in shared humanity.
The road to Saltillo climbed again. One of Joe's clients had taken my number and was relaying my progress to friends as I made my way south. As I approached Saltillo, one of his contacts stayed in close communication with me—checking in that day and the next, to be sure I had no needs or issues. I arrived late and decided to stay in a proper hotel: Hotel Nuvo. Many floors above the town, the view was both enormous and useful. Looking outward from that privileged perspective, I took time to process, to visualize, and to come down—free from road noise and other harsh intrusions that are inevitable parts of a long-distance bicycle journey. The light the next morning was gorgeous, filtering through an atmosphere that suggested no proximate air pollution. I departed feeling confident.
From there, I wound through the folds of Nuevo León and arrived by evening in San José de Raíces, where the app iOverlander had noted a monastery that welcomed overnight guests. After a long conversation in Spanish—as best I could manage—I didn’t feel entirely comfortable staying, so I offered my thanks and moved on.
Not long after, I found a small shop. The owner smiled as I spoke; he understood my poor Spanish and quickly went to find his daughter, Jazmín. She introduced me to her husband, and together we checked out a nearby guesthouse. But Jazmín ultimately decided it wasn’t the right place to leave me. Instead, she walked me to her father-in-law’s home.
By nightfall, I had eaten with a dozen members of her family and was given a room that hadn’t existed as a guest space until that very evening. A bed was hauled in on the back of a truck. The family swept and cleaned, prepared the room, made the bed, and brought in a chair and other furnishings. All the while, others worked nearby preparing the evening meal over an open fire.
It was a gesture so layered in generosity—strangers moving in unison to make space for someone they’d just met—that I was left overwhelmed. Grateful, of course, but also acutely aware that I had nothing to offer in return. No way to repay their kindness beyond my heartfelt thanks and a quiet, enduring promise to pay it forward for the rest of my life. The next morning, at Jazmín’s suggestion, her father-in-law made coffee and we sat together, Mexican TV murmuring in the background, talking as best we could. My Spanish was still minimal—I hadn’t yet studied in Guatemala—but the connection was unmistakable.
These weren’t tourist encounters. They were real, quiet affirmations that hospitality doesn’t wear uniforms or wait for payment. It just is—a natural force, unassuming and universal—and Mexico, without question, is no exception.
After another day exploring lightly trafficked roads on Mexico's high plain—its vast altiplano—I arrived at something unexpected: an extensive cobblestone road stretching 12 to 14 miles uphill. Brutal and unrelenting, it ended with a two-kilometer tunnel carved through solid mountain.
Emerging on the other side, I found myself in a high valley between painted summits—green, red, yellow, and orange pigments stained the slopes from centuries of mining. The terrain felt surreal, like a forgotten page of history rendered in earth tones. The road itself seemed to announce that I was entering a place set apart, a town with memory etched into stone.
At 9,000 feet, I was met by Thomas at Mesón de la Abundancia, a man mentioned back in Laredo, of old-world charm and modern generosity. He invited me to stay in the hotel for two nights as his guest, a gesture that underscored his kindness. Over dinner and walking tours, he introduced me to brewers, locals, and legends—ghosts included. One charismatic Italian poured his homemade beer as he shared stories of spirits that haunted the cellar. I believed him.
When I departed, Thomas rode with me for the first section out of town—a quiet show of solidarity I won’t forget. His presence, even for those few miles, reminded me how meaningful a simple act can be. I had arrived in Real de Catorce a stranger and left feeling like part of a story much older and more enduring than my own. That memory traveled with me.
Then came Charcas, then the colonial heart of San Luis Potosí. I skirted the city, then dove in. It was here that history thickened: cobbled streets, cathedral squares, a rhythm carried in sandals and brass notes. By Dolores Hidalgo—cradle of Mexico’s independence—I’d passed into something mythic. I visited Father Miguel Hidalgo’s home, now a museum, and read about the bell he rang that launched a revolution. Outside, boys played fútbol in the plaza. Life went on.
From Dolores to Guanajuato, the land climbed again. The ascent into the mountains surrounding Guanajuato was long and gradual, then steep and twisting. For hours, I climbed through switchbacks and high passes, surrounded by ridges and canyons that folded into one another like ancient paper. The landscape was dry, layered in ochre and stone, and deeply quiet.
The descent was equally demanding. Long and winding, it tested my brakes and my body. By the time I reached the city’s edge, my wrists ached, my hands were tired too, and my shoulders reminded me to breathe to avoid a flare up of tension and associated pain in my right shoulder, an older motorcycle injury. It was a ride that earned its destination, and Guanajuato did not disappoint.
The city presented itself from up high like a fever dream—colored facades, tunnel roads, stairwells that twisted like memory. I stayed three nights, caught in its magic. Here, art and architecture blur, and you move less like a tourist than like a character in someone else’s painting. I wandered its callejones, climbed narrow steps, and breathed the soul of a place both ancient and alive.
After Guanajuato, the ride pressed southeast—past lakes and small towns, past fences and fog, into Cuitzeo, where I met Ray. Born in Mexico, raised in the States, Ray straddled two nations in one life. We shared tacos in the square, then walked under stars, talking about movement—not just physical, but existential. He stayed in touch for months after.
In Ciudad Hidalgo, I camped again for the first time in weeks. The ground was familiar, the solitude earned. It was a reminder: even in Mexico, even with its warnings, the rituals of the road remained intact.
And then, Angangueo. The gateway to the monarchs.
I arrived dreaming of wings and silence. From here, I hired a guide and ascended El Rosario Sanctuary on foot. Pines whispered as we climbed. Upward, to 10,600 feet, where oyamel firs hold the weight of a thousand lives per branch. Monarchs clustered like fruit, waiting for the sun. As light broke, they stirred—flickers of orange, thousands rising in the hush of morning. I stood still, smaller than I’d ever been.
From there, the ride became harder. The road dropped toward Toluca, then climbed again—one of the highest ascents yet—10,400 feet en route to Tepoztlán. I arrived spent. EKKO Hostel took me in. Art, compost toilets, communal dinners, open hearts. I stayed longer than planned. I needed to. I wanted to stay forever.
I visited the Pirámide de Tepozteco, though I couldn’t summit—it was a day when the facility was closed to the public. I ate roasted crickets, spoke of meat and protein and sustainability on camera. Then I left, southbound again, through Huajuapan, where Teresa took me in, and where I nearly broke. Heat, fatigue, sorrow. I left her home stronger.
On Christmas Eve, by then deep in southern Mexico, I rented an economical room and wandered Oaxaca’s old town. I made a nourishing pilgrimage to Monte Albán and stood among ruins built long before any border I’d crossed.
Monte Albán was the ancient capital of the Zapotec civilization, which flourished in this part of Mexico for over a thousand years, beginning around 500 BCE. Perched high above the Oaxaca Valley, the site served as a cultural and political center, strategically placed to overlook the surrounding valleys. The Zapotecs traded, warred, and interacted with powerful neighbors like the Mixtecs to the west and the Maya farther east, leaving behind a legacy of pyramids, ball courts, and carved stones etched with glyphs and histories.
The city wrapped me in music and warm air—a final embrace before I turned again to the road.
The road from Oaxaca to the coastal plain was a journey in itself—extensive, mountainous, and dry. I wound through switchbacks that carved their way across remote ridgelines, often following desert rivers as they dropped into valleys, only to climb again over high passes separating one drainage from the next. The heat was a constant companion, rising from the asphalt and radiating off canyon walls, sometimes pedaling for twenty minutes without passing another vehicle or person. The terrain was harsh but beautiful, and the solitude was complete. It was rural Mexico at its most elemental—dusty villages, weathered landscapes, and long silences broken only by my voice or birds foraging nearby.
By the time I dropped from elevation toward sea level, I had absorbed something of that terrain’s endurance. The coast was a new world, but I carried the stillness of the mountains with me.
I crossed the Sierra Madre, passed through furnace heat in Chiapas, and followed the same road walked by migrants from Venezuela, Ecuador, and beyond. Children cried from blistered feet. Men and women wore shirts as hats. I gave what I could—gestures, words, presence, and on one occasion, cash. But it wasn’t enough. It never is.
That final stretch of Mexico—its extremes of climate, history, and humanity—left an imprint I hadn’t yet begun to process. The journey had already changed me, but I sensed it was still shaping me, even in ways I wouldn't understand for months.
On Day 110, I reached Tapachula, a humid border city tucked into the southern edge of Chiapas, just shy of Guatemala. It marked the end of my long traverse through Mexico—a country that had become far more than a waypoint.
After a confusing interaction with Mexican border authorities and no passport stamp, I crossed into Guatemala—where I did acquire an entrance stamp. The road ahead rose like a wall, the road behind fell away like a long, slow exhale—months of effort, thousands of miles, and a country that had reshaped me from the inside out.
Mexico had changed me. I carried its mountains, its voices, its kindness in my bones.
In Laredo, Joe Vera at Border Town Bikes had prepped my rig like a trusted pit crew chief. New drivetrain, tuned brakes, fresh tires—all waiting for me, thanks to parts I’d shipped from Georgia. Joe had more than tools: he had advice. So did his clients. One, a border patrol agent, told me: Ride straight through. Don’t stop in Nuevo Laredo. Obey the traffic. Look like you belong. I did exactly that. I trusted those strangers who quickly became friends—and already, the fear of the unknown began to subside.
From Laredo, I could see the mountains near Monterrey. I’d glimpsed them on earlier trips to Texas and once visited Monterrey on a bus ride with a girlfriend in my twenties. In all cases, the abrupt rise of stone from the desert plain left me awestruck. But this time, I wasn’t passing by. I was riding into them—into the Sierra Madre Oriental and the vast altiplano beyond. This high plateau stretches for hundreds of miles into central Mexico, a broad, elevated region shaped by folded sierras and ancient volcanic peaks. As I approached Monterrey and then Hidalgo, I realized I was deep inside this geological heartland—an uplifted spine of the continent, rich with history and raw in beauty. And so far, I’d encountered no harm, no threat—only curiosity, and a quiet, watchful kindness.
Still, I was uneasy. Joe and his crew had helped calm my nerves, but I was riding alone into a country many warned me against. For two days I pedaled toward a town that I later learned offered affordable camping. I skirted the eastern edge of Monterrey and crossed into Hidalgo—another medium-sized town, outwardly similar to those I’d already passed through, but with something different in the air. Climbers from all over the world came here for El Potrero Chico’s limestone walls. With them came budget lodging, humble campsites, and a community of movement and reflection. Each morning they walked or pedaled to the cliffs; each evening they returned to share stories, stretch sore limbs, and reconnect.
For three nights, I stayed in this unexpected haven. I camped. I practiced photography. I joined communal meals at the colorful Finca El Caminante and sipped coffee at El Búho, talking with travelers and climbers alike. The pace slowed. My mind’s engagement with fear softened. I quickly integrated into a community amidst a spectacular landscape. I was no longer alone—and would never feel that way again in Mexico. The friendship given to me by Eduardo, the owner of Finca El Caminante, certainly amplified all the others. He checked in and provided advice even when I was well south of Mexico.
When I finally moved on, I was no longer the traveler that crossed at Laredo. I felt a belonging, a kinship, that continued to grow as I explored Mexico and, eventually, all of Central and South America. But kinship withstanding, I was also a gringo surrounded by latinos and latinas—an inversion of their experience in the United States. To be at the mercy of another culture, to surrender comfort and familiarity, was not just humbling—it was transformative. Like so many encounters on this journey, it revealed the richness found in vulnerability and the strength found in shared humanity.
The road to Saltillo climbed again. One of Joe's clients had taken my number and was relaying my progress to friends as I made my way south. As I approached Saltillo, one of his contacts stayed in close communication with me—checking in that day and the next, to be sure I had no needs or issues. I arrived late and decided to stay in a proper hotel: Hotel Nuvo. Many floors above the town, the view was both enormous and useful. Looking outward from that privileged perspective, I took time to process, to visualize, and to come down—free from road noise and other harsh intrusions that are inevitable parts of a long-distance bicycle journey. The light the next morning was gorgeous, filtering through an atmosphere that suggested no proximate air pollution. I departed feeling confident.
From there, I wound through the folds of Nuevo León and arrived by evening in San José de Raíces, where the app iOverlander had noted a monastery that welcomed overnight guests. After a long conversation in Spanish—as best I could manage—I didn’t feel entirely comfortable staying, so I offered my thanks and moved on.
Not long after, I found a small shop. The owner smiled as I spoke; he understood my poor Spanish and quickly went to find his daughter, Jazmín. She introduced me to her husband, and together we checked out a nearby guesthouse. But Jazmín ultimately decided it wasn’t the right place to leave me. Instead, she walked me to her father-in-law’s home.
By nightfall, I had eaten with a dozen members of her family and was given a room that hadn’t existed as a guest space until that very evening. A bed was hauled in on the back of a truck. The family swept and cleaned, prepared the room, made the bed, and brought in a chair and other furnishings. All the while, others worked nearby preparing the evening meal over an open fire.
It was a gesture so layered in generosity—strangers moving in unison to make space for someone they’d just met—that I was left overwhelmed. Grateful, of course, but also acutely aware that I had nothing to offer in return. No way to repay their kindness beyond my heartfelt thanks and a quiet, enduring promise to pay it forward for the rest of my life. The next morning, at Jazmín’s suggestion, her father-in-law made coffee and we sat together, Mexican TV murmuring in the background, talking as best we could. My Spanish was still minimal—I hadn’t yet studied in Guatemala—but the connection was unmistakable.
These weren’t tourist encounters. They were real, quiet affirmations that hospitality doesn’t wear uniforms or wait for payment. It just is—a natural force, unassuming and universal—and Mexico, without question, is no exception.
After another day exploring lightly trafficked roads on Mexico's high plain—its vast altiplano—I arrived at something unexpected: an extensive cobblestone road stretching 12 to 14 miles uphill. Brutal and unrelenting, it ended with a two-kilometer tunnel carved through solid mountain.
Emerging on the other side, I found myself in a high valley between painted summits—green, red, yellow, and orange pigments stained the slopes from centuries of mining. The terrain felt surreal, like a forgotten page of history rendered in earth tones. The road itself seemed to announce that I was entering a place set apart, a town with memory etched into stone.
At 9,000 feet, I was met by Thomas at Mesón de la Abundancia, a man mentioned back in Laredo, of old-world charm and modern generosity. He invited me to stay in the hotel for two nights as his guest, a gesture that underscored his kindness. Over dinner and walking tours, he introduced me to brewers, locals, and legends—ghosts included. One charismatic Italian poured his homemade beer as he shared stories of spirits that haunted the cellar. I believed him.
When I departed, Thomas rode with me for the first section out of town—a quiet show of solidarity I won’t forget. His presence, even for those few miles, reminded me how meaningful a simple act can be. I had arrived in Real de Catorce a stranger and left feeling like part of a story much older and more enduring than my own. That memory traveled with me.
Then came Charcas, then the colonial heart of San Luis Potosí. I skirted the city, then dove in. It was here that history thickened: cobbled streets, cathedral squares, a rhythm carried in sandals and brass notes. By Dolores Hidalgo—cradle of Mexico’s independence—I’d passed into something mythic. I visited Father Miguel Hidalgo’s home, now a museum, and read about the bell he rang that launched a revolution. Outside, boys played fútbol in the plaza. Life went on.
From Dolores to Guanajuato, the land climbed again. The ascent into the mountains surrounding Guanajuato was long and gradual, then steep and twisting. For hours, I climbed through switchbacks and high passes, surrounded by ridges and canyons that folded into one another like ancient paper. The landscape was dry, layered in ochre and stone, and deeply quiet.
The descent was equally demanding. Long and winding, it tested my brakes and my body. By the time I reached the city’s edge, my wrists ached, my hands were tired too, and my shoulders reminded me to breathe to avoid a flare up of tension and associated pain in my right shoulder, an older motorcycle injury. It was a ride that earned its destination, and Guanajuato did not disappoint.
The city presented itself from up high like a fever dream—colored facades, tunnel roads, stairwells that twisted like memory. I stayed three nights, caught in its magic. Here, art and architecture blur, and you move less like a tourist than like a character in someone else’s painting. I wandered its callejones, climbed narrow steps, and breathed the soul of a place both ancient and alive.
After Guanajuato, the ride pressed southeast—past lakes and small towns, past fences and fog, into Cuitzeo, where I met Ray. Born in Mexico, raised in the States, Ray straddled two nations in one life. We shared tacos in the square, then walked under stars, talking about movement—not just physical, but existential. He stayed in touch for months after.
In Ciudad Hidalgo, I camped again for the first time in weeks. The ground was familiar, the solitude earned. It was a reminder: even in Mexico, even with its warnings, the rituals of the road remained intact.
And then, Angangueo. The gateway to the monarchs.
I arrived dreaming of wings and silence. From here, I hired a guide and ascended El Rosario Sanctuary on foot. Pines whispered as we climbed. Upward, to 10,600 feet, where oyamel firs hold the weight of a thousand lives per branch. Monarchs clustered like fruit, waiting for the sun. As light broke, they stirred—flickers of orange, thousands rising in the hush of morning. I stood still, smaller than I’d ever been.
From there, the ride became harder. The road dropped toward Toluca, then climbed again—one of the highest ascents yet—10,400 feet en route to Tepoztlán. I arrived spent. EKKO Hostel took me in. Art, compost toilets, communal dinners, open hearts. I stayed longer than planned. I needed to. I wanted to stay forever.
I visited the Pirámide de Tepozteco, though I couldn’t summit—it was a day when the facility was closed to the public. I ate roasted crickets, spoke of meat and protein and sustainability on camera. Then I left, southbound again, through Huajuapan, where Teresa took me in, and where I nearly broke. Heat, fatigue, sorrow. I left her home stronger.
On Christmas Eve, by then deep in southern Mexico, I rented an economical room and wandered Oaxaca’s old town. I made a nourishing pilgrimage to Monte Albán and stood among ruins built long before any border I’d crossed.
Monte Albán was the ancient capital of the Zapotec civilization, which flourished in this part of Mexico for over a thousand years, beginning around 500 BCE. Perched high above the Oaxaca Valley, the site served as a cultural and political center, strategically placed to overlook the surrounding valleys. The Zapotecs traded, warred, and interacted with powerful neighbors like the Mixtecs to the west and the Maya farther east, leaving behind a legacy of pyramids, ball courts, and carved stones etched with glyphs and histories.
The city wrapped me in music and warm air—a final embrace before I turned again to the road.
The road from Oaxaca to the coastal plain was a journey in itself—extensive, mountainous, and dry. I wound through switchbacks that carved their way across remote ridgelines, often following desert rivers as they dropped into valleys, only to climb again over high passes separating one drainage from the next. The heat was a constant companion, rising from the asphalt and radiating off canyon walls, sometimes pedaling for twenty minutes without passing another vehicle or person. The terrain was harsh but beautiful, and the solitude was complete. It was rural Mexico at its most elemental—dusty villages, weathered landscapes, and long silences broken only by my voice or birds foraging nearby.
By the time I dropped from elevation toward sea level, I had absorbed something of that terrain’s endurance. The coast was a new world, but I carried the stillness of the mountains with me.
I crossed the Sierra Madre, passed through furnace heat in Chiapas, and followed the same road walked by migrants from Venezuela, Ecuador, and beyond. Children cried from blistered feet. Men and women wore shirts as hats. I gave what I could—gestures, words, presence, and on one occasion, cash. But it wasn’t enough. It never is.
That final stretch of Mexico—its extremes of climate, history, and humanity—left an imprint I hadn’t yet begun to process. The journey had already changed me, but I sensed it was still shaping me, even in ways I wouldn't understand for months.
On Day 110, I reached Tapachula, a humid border city tucked into the southern edge of Chiapas, just shy of Guatemala. It marked the end of my long traverse through Mexico—a country that had become far more than a waypoint.
After a confusing interaction with Mexican border authorities and no passport stamp, I crossed into Guatemala—where I did acquire an entrance stamp. The road ahead rose like a wall, the road behind fell away like a long, slow exhale—months of effort, thousands of miles, and a country that had reshaped me from the inside out.
Mexico had changed me. I carried its mountains, its voices, its kindness in my bones.