"Mexico: ocean, beaches, palm trees. This is the tour of tours, some may think who look at the map. But the Mex 200 along the coast is rough terrain with a lot of exhaustion and little reward. It is hot, damp and unbearable. Besides, you wont be able to access the ocean because the coastline is too steep. Seeing the water and not being able to get into it. A torture program for bicycle masochists..."
Thus reads the introduction on cycling the Mainland coast, in Pascal's German bike touring guide to Mexico. I was skeptical when he first read it to me, in fact I even scoffed, "Pshaw! What do they know?" Well, the joke is on me! The old German bike tourists perfectly described (at least) the Jalisco coast. Might I add to the negative review by reporting that the roads are busted. I don't know if the state of Jalisco simply can't afford highway maintenance (if that money is being diverted to tequila production - carry on, señores) or if they need to send their carretera department back to paving school or what, but their tarmac is the hands-down worst I've ridden in Mexico. Uneven, rocky, potholed, "repaired" sections worse than the original, you name it: like the worst blocks in Brooklyn, for a few hundred kilometers! Comparatively, the next Southern state of Colima was a breeze - relatively flat and scenic, wider shoulders on smoother roads. Michoacan seems to be Jalisco terrain (harsh) on Colima roads (good). Get yer shit together, Jalisco!
Four years ago, I was traveling down this road on a vehicle in which road maintenance doesn't matter much: a 4WD truck, on a roadtrip/surftrip with my girlfriend TQ. Passing through Michoacan, we passed a touring cyclist. "Goddamn, I wanna do that!" I thought, "Looks pretty gnarly, though. Maybe I should stop, I'll bet he'd love a cold beer." Well, four years later and goddamnit, I'm doing it! Yes, it is pretty gnarly, but not as seemingly impossible as I had imagined it. And yes, you should definitely stop and offer me a beer.
As luck should have it, I found myself in this very section - the most mountainous and challenging of the Michoacan coast - after an entire day in the saddle. The sun was flirting with the peaks behind me, suggesting that I had about one remaining hour of daylight, but against better judgement I pushed on. I had to - I had neither food nor water. The terrain became worse: steeper climbs and windier descents, one after another, snaking through valleys and over craggy peaks, around gnarled fingers of land reaching, skeleton-like, from Mexico into the Pacific ocean. Just when I thought it would end, I'd reach a point only to view three more just like it in the distance. But I kept hoping.
I ran into a woman by the roadside who graciously filled a water bottle for me, from her deeply jungle-obscured home. She assured me it wasn't too far to the beach, so I pushed on. With water, at least I could stop for the night, eat plain pasta (drink the cooking water, of course) and continue in the morning. However, this was a rare section of Mexico 200 with barbed wire lining the highway, and nary a suitable camp spot regardless. Push on.
At this point I was quite nervous: It's almost universally recommended to avoid even driving on Mexican roads at night and here I was - in the pale, fading light of dusk - on a fucking bike. The terrain remained the same: brutal and utterly inhospitable. I finally reached Tizupan, like an oasis in the desert, and loaded up on supplies. I asked a few locals for the whereabouts of the beach, any camp spot. "Only three km down the road. You'll be there in fifteen minutes!" They seemed totally unconcerned with the fact that I was cycling the highway at night, which was strangely comforting. And once I got back on the home stretch, now in complete darkness, I realized, "Hey, there's no one else even on this road! I could hear a car coming from a mile away and simply get off for a minute. What the hell am I afraid of?" Just the conditioning, I guess. The knowledge that it's something you shouldn't do. Hmm... With this new found perspective, I made sure to thoroughly enjoy the last cool, quiet, moonlit mile to the beach, secure in the knowledge that I'd never do it again.
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