The Journey Across the Americas
From Ushuaia to Alaska Chapter 7 – Mexico City to LA
Diego Rosón’s Epic Adventure on a Royal Enfield Classic 500
After thousands of miles already behind him, Diego’s journey was far from over. In this chapter, the road unfolds with powerful moments: a desperate push to reach Mexico City against freezing winds, the emotional rescue of his beloved Frankie, unexpected celebrity encounters, the breathtaking crossing of Baja California, and swimming alongside the majestic whale sharks of La Paz.
Every mile between Mexico City and Los Angeles tested his spirit and his machine. Mechanical breakdowns, sudden friendships, and landscapes that stirred the soul turned this stretch into one of the most memorable of the entire expedition.
Join Diego as he navigates challenges, chases wonder, and rides ever closer to the dream of reaching Alaska, proving once again that the greatest adventures are born when you least expect them.
Frankie’s Arrival at the Workshop
At 5:45 a.m., I set out to cover the last 87 miles (139 kilometers) of uncertainty toward a workshop in Mexico City. I was determined to end Frankie’s transmission troubles once and for all. In my rush, I forgot to check the weather; the cold slammed into me as I climbed the mountain pass dividing Puebla from the capital. My fingers cramped with pain, forcing me to stop and layer up, a brutal reminder of the cold rides in Patagonia near the 50th parallel south.
My chest swelled with pride as I finally rolled into Royal Enfield Polanco, grateful for Frankie’s iron will to keep us moving. It might sound crazy, but for two days I’d been talking to her, urging her not to quit, and I swear she heard every word. She gave far more than a simple mechanical performance, there’s heart, passion, and a rich history beating under that classic chassis. Frankie’s got grit, no doubt about it.
This trek was “Free & Solo,” but I was never truly alone. Countless people and brands supported me, including Royal Enfield, which helped me across the Americas. My end of the deal was to arrive by Friday morning, and I did. With Frankie now in good hands, I accepted an invitation to Royal Enfield Mexico’s headquarters, where Martín and Valentín awaited with smiles, grilled burgers, and gifts of riding gear. Right before I could book an Uber, the team at Polanco surprised me with an Interceptor 650 as a stand-in ride while Frankie was in the shop, an unexpected but invaluable gesture during my stay. I’d been living out of the same few clothes for 20 days, so the new gear was more than welcome. Space constraints forced me to leave some shiny items behind, but I was grateful for every bit of support.
By afternoon, exhaustion caught up with me. I found a bed and crashed for a few hours, knowing I had dinner plans with my agency’s Mexico team; rockstars who managed work while I roamed the Americas like Indiana Jones. “I’m a fan of this crew!”
A Hero’s Welcome in Mexico City
Saturday brought excitement: Royal Enfield had planned a meet-and-greet, and a group of customers wanted to meet me. “Me? What?!” I felt a bit awkward playing the celebrity. But as my daughter Martina once said, “I’ve never had money or shame!” So, wearing the brand-new clothes I’d been gifted, I walked down the hotel stairs with faux confidence.
I checked on Frankie at the showroom, this was only our second night apart. Rich, her mechanic, gave me a reassuring report, so I headed inside to greet the curious crowd. Soon, René and Sandy from the motorcycle media arrived for interviews and photos. “If I make it to Alaska, what’s next; my statue?”
Just in time, my friends Alonso and Luis from the agency appeared, as did Valentín with mate and medialunas, an Argentine morale booster. The event became a fun hangout full of stories, laughter, and endless photos.
With the formalities over, I spent the rest of the day exploring Mexico City with my friend Marichu. We had lunch, walked around, and got swept up in weekend crowds. Later, dinner with Martín at an Argentine bodega ended the day perfectly; a Milanese Napolitano to celebrate my time in this vibrant city. Tomorrow, the road beckoned once again.
Exploring the City’s History and Traditions
My flawless plan for Sunday; flying the drone at dawn over the Ángel de la Independencia and filming a dramatic motorcycle circle; failed miserably. The Ángel was the starting point for a massive marathon. Rather than film thousands of runners, I pivoted and explored other sites.
Locals recommended visiting Chapultepec Castle right at opening. It sits atop an extinct volcano and once served as a strategic defense against U.S. invaders and as a home to viceroys, emperors, and presidents. By the time I finished, the castle grounds were swarmed with vendors and day-trippers.
Before reaching the National Museum of Anthropology, I got sidetracked by the mesmerizing Voladores de Papantla ritual: a centuries-old dance asking for rain, with four “flyers” descending from a towering pole. Their colorful ribbons mirrored a rainbow, and as they spun downward, it felt like a sacred, timeless performance.
After a quick museum visit, I emerged past noon, exhausted and famished. The city was brimming with weekend energy, so I grabbed lunch and returned to my hotel to plan the next leg of my trip; Baja California was calling my name.
Into Mexico’s Storied Roads
The coming days would take me through regions famed for beauty and cautionary tales. Friends and strangers alike had warned me about potential dangers along these roads, with some even suggesting I hire security. I wasn’t keen on overreacting, but I took the advice seriously.
My route from Mexico City to Morelia, a “Pueblo Mágico”, was mainly highway, a safer option still offering beautiful views. Riding at dawn meant cold weather at 9,200 feet (2,800 meters) above sea level, something my light gear was not designed for. Once again, I layered up, recalling the harsh cold of the higher latitudes.
The scenery featured rolling hills dotted with agave fields; a sign I was in tequila country. After navigating some winding curves, I fell in with seven bikers from the Marabunta Moto Club. We stopped at the same gas station, started a conversation, and continued as a mini convoy. It felt comforting, especially after all the cautionary advice.
Morelia welcomed me with scorching heat. Too hungry and tired to resist, I scarfed down a sandwich and collapsed for a nap. Later, Valentín from Royal Enfield Mexico introduced me to Ari, a local motorcycle influencer who wanted to interview me for her social channels. We met in the historic center, and she arrived with her boyfriend Isma and a small production team. They filmed as we explored Morelia’s colonial charms, from the cathedral to a highly spicy gazpacho that almost made me breathe fire. At the historic Colegio San Nicolás de Hidalgo, I learned about Melchor Ocampo, a liberal leader whose heart was preserved after he was executed for supporting President Juárez.
It was a fascinating day, revealing both history and modern-day stories. Tomorrow, I’d face more of Mexico’s legendary highways.
Closing the Gap to the Ferry
I’d grown accustomed to waking up with Argentina’s time zone in my head, four hours ahead. This gave me a head start on the road, letting me finish by midday. Today was purely about logistics, getting as close to the ferry in Mazatlán as possible.
Michoacán’s landscape was a tapestry of blue-green agave fields, reminiscent of Oaxaca’s mezcal country. I considered staying in Tequila but still had daylight to burn, so I pushed on. Compostela looked promising until I learned there was nowhere safe to park Frankie overnight. My fallback, a nature reserve called La Montaña, was a wild goose chase. The distances were wrong, the road turned into treacherous gravel, and I found nothing but frustration. “Don’t mislead travelers!” I muttered.
Eventually, I ended up in Tepic, found a hotel with secure parking, and performed some bike maintenance. It also ended up being my first decent meal of the day, a combination of breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Tomorrow, I’d finally reach the ferry and set my sights on Baja California.
Crossing the Sea of Cortez
The ferry left at 16:00, and I had only roughly 170 miles (278 kilometers) to cover. Still, I prefer early arrivals to avoid surprises. After losing track of my fuel range, I filled up in Tepic, recalculating Frankie’s consumption the old-school way—220 miles for every 4 gallons (350 km for 15 liters).
The ride was calm, with few distractions. My relief grew as I left behind the regions everyone had warned me about. By midday, I reached Mazatlán’s port, where the check-in process included weighing and measuring every vehicle. Then came a minor crisis: I needed unique straps to secure Frankie in the ferry hold, but the shop selling them was outside the port. Luckily, a dockworker offered to sell me a pair.
Crisis averted, I boarded for the 14-hour crossing to La Paz.
On deck, I met four Mexican bikers; Guillermo, Fermín, Antonio, and Pepe, intrigued by my Argentine license plate. Once they believed I’d ridden from Argentina, they adopted me instantly. We launched into five rounds of drinks, one per person, until I passed out in my seat before midnight, happily drowning in camaraderie
Swimming with Giants in Baja California
The ferry arrived late, leaving me barely 30 minutes to find a small port outside La Paz, where a group awaited me for a bucket-list experience: swimming with whale sharks. There was no time for breakfast, but adrenaline kept me going.
The water was calm but cloudy, which was challenging for photos. Still, some moments are best lived in the mind’s eye. Suddenly, the dorsal fin surfaced. The guide yelled, and we dove in. I kicked with all my might to keep up with this gentle giant, a 33-foot (10-meter) marvel gliding effortlessly through the sea. My lungs burned from the chase, and at one point, its massive tail flicked so close it nearly brushed my face. Unforgettable.
We found another shark soon after, repeating the breathtaking dance. Back on land, hunger hit me like a hammer. I devoured food all day, wandering along the Malecón and soaking up the vibrant energy of La Paz. A live band at a beachside bar provided the perfect soundtrack for the day. Tomorrow, I’d head deeper into Baja.
Balandra Beach and 18,640 miles
Everyone insisted I visit Playa Balandra in La Paz, known for its breathtaking turquoise waters. Authorities now restrict entry due to high demand from 8:00 to 11:30 for the first session. There was a line of cars when I arrived, and I barely got in. I strolled across two pristine bays until I reached the famous Mushroom Rock, which looked better from afar than up close. Despite the hype, it was undeniably gorgeous. But as two buses of tourists arrived, I quietly left.
The day’s ride to Cabo Pulmo was only about 95 miles (153 kilometers), winding through cactus-dotted mountains. At Buenavista, I fueled up and chatted with a local woman on a scooter, who assured me the Eureka River was dry. She failed to mention that the route was pure sand. The following 45 minutes felt like a mini Paris-Dakar, slipping and sliding on a vintage bike not built for off-road.
Eventually, the avement returned, and I reached a significant milestone: Frankie and I had officially traveled 18,640 miles (30,000 kilometers) together. I paused by the sea to celebrate in silence, toasting our endurance.
Coordinates can be just numbers; 23°40’06”N, 109°41’55”W; but for me, they marked the spot where Frankie hit 30,000 kilometers. I was far from home yet never felt closer to fulfilling this dream. Baja California Sur embraced me like an old friend.
Cabo Pulmo, a reborn marine sanctuary once depleted by pearl hunting, nourished with life. It was one of Jacques Cousteau’s favorite “aquariums,” I couldn’t wait to dive in. Even more exciting, my brother Mariano was arriving from Los Angeles to join me for this final stretch of Stage Three.
Diving Cabo Pulmo’s Underwater Wonderland
Today was all about the sea. At 8:00 a.m., Mariano and I met Otto, our dive guide. After final gear checks and a thorough briefing, we cruised to a sheltered bay. The underwater world here was mesmerizing. Manta rays glided gracefully over the sandy floor, a shy sea turtle peeked out from the coral, and schools of colorful fish swirled around us in a living kaleidoscope. Even a tiny moray eel made a cameo, flashing toothy grins like a minuscule sea dragon.
By 2:00 p.m., we were back on land, elated and hungry. Lunch turned into a cheerful toast to the wonders below. Worn out from hours of swimming, we retreated for a well-deserved rest. The town’s main street transformed into a lively volleyball court as the sun dipped. We watched from the sidelines, wanting to join but craving rest more. Sometimes, you have to know your limits. Tomorrow, the road would lure us onward.
Riding the Southern Edge of Baja
We started at 7:00 a.m., bike packed, ready to follow the southern coastline of Baja before turning north. Mariano’s presence changed the dynamic entirely, riding solo has its magic, but sharing the journey is a different kind of wonderful.
Two routes led to Cabo San Lucas: a straightforward highway or a scenic detour along the Pacific. Naturally, we chose the winding option. Towering cacti, golden ravines, and free-roaming donkeys made the ride feel like an offbeat postcard. The road sometimes led us to secluded beaches where motorhomes dotted the sand, surfers catching the early waves. Then, as if on cue, four whales surfaced offshore, breaching and spouting columns of mist against the morning light.
We passed San José del Cabo and reached the glitz of Cabo San Lucas, where English signs abound. After a quick lunch by the iconic arch, we continued to Todos Santos, a “Pueblo Mágico” from 1733, home to the mythic Hotel California, rumored to have inspired the Eagles’ song. Though the story isn’t true, the legend persists.
Frankie’s battery began to fail again, so we push-started her down a convenient slope and returned to La Paz just as she gave out. With no time to fix her that night, I left her in our trusty hotel’s parking lot, our third night apart, and rested.
Troubleshooting in La Paz and Heading to Loreto
I arrived at a mechanic’s shop half an hour before opening, armed with messages from Royal Enfield Pilar suggesting possible fixes. The mechanic seemed puzzled by my Classic 500, but he got on board once he heard about my trip. An electrical specialist named Enrique quickly diagnosed a fried voltage regulator. Finding a replacement in Baja California Sur was impossible on short notice, and my permit to remain in Mexico expired five days later.
Plan B: Fully charge the current battery, buy a spare, and add a powerful jumpstarter to my kit. As soon as Frankie roared back to life, we hit the road. The first stretch to Ciudad Insurgentes was flat and unremarkable. Still, after that, the scenery morphed into a wonderland of towering cacti and twisty mountain paths that culminated in a majestic view of the Sea of Cortez. By sunset, I arrived in Loreto, once a vital launching point for Spanish expansion in the 18th century. Settlers had set out from this place, eventually founding missions as far north as San Diego and beyond.
Frankie was still hanging on. I was grateful for every mile she kept running.
From Paradise to Purgatory
The morning brought heavy news: my friend Mariel had lost someone close to her. The sobering thought spun through my mind as I rode, reminding me that life can be cruelly short. It reinforced why I do this, to explore, to take risks, and to collect experiences worth sharing.
The ride from Loreto to Santa Rosalía was paradise, a coastal road revealing pristine beaches like El Requesón. We stopped at several, nearly tempted to pitch a tent. But we pressed on toward Guerrero Negro. In a swift transition, beauty gave way to harshness. Cold winds hammered us, the temperature plummeted, and 143 miles (230 kilometers) felt endless. By the time we reached Guerrero Negro, I was chilled to the bone. This desolate spot offered the basics, fuel and a place to sleep. It’s all I could manage.
The Route to San Felipe
A hot shower didn’t make me any fonder of Guerrero Negro. At least the morning was mild, and by 7:00 a.m., I used my portable jumpstarter, my new best friend, to fire up Frankie. Each time she roared to life, I couldn’t help but holler, “It’s alive!”
The day’s ride crossed the peninsula to the Sea of Cortez again, winding through spectacular desert terrain. It felt as if a master landscaper had arranged this place. At one point, the road was flanked by clusters of yellow wildflowers and giant white boulders, it was impossible not to stop and marvel.
We rolled into San Felipe, starving after a morning of relentless riding. The local malecón was lined with colorful eateries, which we attacked with ravenous glee. Looking back, every corner of Baja California Sur had amazed me, except Guerrero Negro. Hopefully, the northern half could keep up with the magic.
Final Miles in Mexico and the U.S. Border
Leaving San Felipe, I said a silent goodbye to the Sea of Cortez. “I’ll be back,” I promised. Home was on the horizon, and I started craving family, friends, and a celebratory asado.
The morning was frigid and the winds fierce. Mariano, filming from his car, had to bundle up as much as I did on the bike. Along the way, he blew out two tires on the rough roads, and a convoy of the Mexican National Guard helped us with an electric compressor. After a pit stop in Ensenada, where we visited La Bufadora (a blowhole that drenched us in salty spray), we skipped the vineyards to beat an approaching storm and headed straight for the border.
Crossing into the U.S. went smoothly, until I realized I hadn’t canceled my Mexican vehicle permit, meaning I’d forfeit my $400 deposit. Furious at myself, I decided to return at dawn to fix the oversight. Still, Mexico’s warmth and generosity were too vivid to let bureaucracy spoil the experience. That night, I took solace in a hot shower and some chocolate, promising to right this wrong in the morning.
Crossing Back for My Deposit
I wasn’t about to lose my $400 deposit to disorganized border offices. When entering Mexico, paying the fee was straightforward, but collecting a refund was a messy scavenger hunt. Out of sheer stubbornness, I rode Frankie back across the border. Luckily, motorcycles skip the queue, so it was fast. Within an hour, I’d recovered my money and was back in the U.S., setting a personal record for the most crossings in 12 hours.
Today also marked the end of Stage Three. Given Frankie’s electrical issues, my plan was to stop as little as possible, but I had two must-see spots. First was the USS Midway Museum in San Diego, a colossal aircraft carrier moored at the harbor. I parked my old Classic in front for a photo, and within seconds, a group of Chinese tourists swarmed around us, taking pictures. I still felt odd about the attention, but they seemed delighted.
The next stop was the San Gabriel Arcángel Mission, where eleven families arrived on foot from Loreto in 1779 to help found Los Angeles. They had to endure quarantine, 40 days to rule out smallpox, which gave birth to the term “quarantine.”
Finally, I navigated L.A. traffic en route to the Hollywood sign. I’d dreamt of this since I left Bogotá, bringing “Frankie to Hollywood,” a nod to the old band Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Even though every red light risked draining the battery, it felt like the perfect place to close Stage Three. My portable jumpstarter saved the day repeatedly.
At 5:00 p.m., I rolled up to Royal Enfield Glendale, coasting downhill with the engine off because Frankie was spent. I’m immensely proud we both gave everything on this stretch, down to the last drop of juice. Now, my beloved Frankie is with the experts, and we’ll both rest up for the final stage: Ushuaia to Alaska on a Classic 500. We’re making history, and we’re almost there.
Reflecting on the Impact
Today felt surreal, knowing I’d accomplished my goal while also realizing how one dream can inspire others. Throughout this journey, interest in what I was doing grew. Royal Enfield’s support helped draw more attention to my story. Since Ecuador, messages have multiplied from fellow riders, fans of the brand, and curious people celebrating a dreamer who set off alone across the Americas. The farther I got from home, the more I felt everyone’s uplifting energy.
The trip sparked a wave of interviews: starting with Ñata in Ecuador, then Steffani in Colombia, and my first English interview at Pro Italia in Los Angeles. When I return to Buenos Aires, I’ll speak on a radio show and share stories for a newspaper piece. BTA Magazine started publishing an account of my trip from Ushuaia onward. In Mexico City, I did a meet & greet, plus photo sessions with René and Sandy from 400 Magazine. In Morelia, Ari showed me around town for a playful interview on her channels. My friend Peter calls me “Inspiration,” which feels strange, but maybe he’s right.
All the support fueled something even more significant: it inspired my brother. Motorcycle travel lifts your soul, fostering positive changes and more profound gratitude. Whenever I come home, I want to be better, a better father, husband, friend, and professional.
Wanderlust helps you appreciate time, relationships, and the kindness of strangers. It reminds you to cherish resources like water, the power of a hug, and the generosity of those who hold down the fort so you can chase your dreams.
Seeing Mariano catch this spark has been the most rewarding part of the entire journey. In that spirit, we swung by a Royal Enfield dealership, where a brand-new Classic 350, odometer at zero, awaited him. I got to witness him step into a world that brings me so much happiness. Hopefully, we’ll ride side by side one day, just like we’ve always walked through life.
Agoura Hills, Los Angeles, USA
The waiting game has begun. Frankie’s off getting much-needed care, and I’m restless to continue. It’s tough leaving her behind, but we both need to recover before the fourth and final stage…
Wiiiilsoooooon!
This is my family, the Big Rose Team. Even though Frankie’s a single-seater, they’ve all been with me at every mile, in my thoughts and heart. Our unit has made more mistakes than I can count, yet we bounce back every time, forging optimism and camaraderie. We’re siblings and cousins, children, parents, and friends, guided by two angels who taught us to stick together and believe in each other.
Among us: the world’s best communicator, an honorable dentist, an aspiring artist, a legendary ski instructor, a dedicated ceramist, a filmmaker and producer, a sharp kinesiologist, a DJ, a resourceful mechanic, a snowboarder, a marketing whiz, a style entrepreneur, and a pair of dogs, one channels Kill Bill, the other drives like Schumacher. And, of course, Frankie, part machine, part heart. We all strive for happiness and self-improvement, and I admire them more than words can say.
They’ve been part of every single step. It’s my most excellent fortune to have them in my life, cheering me on, reminding me why I chase these dreams.
Wanted: Good People
If you see them, don’t let them go! They’re rare, and having them close is the greatest gift. They’ve changed my life, and I wouldn’t be the same without their friendship.
Total gratitude!
Cesar Branda, Guillermo Ortelli, Henry Von Wartenberg.
Where the Road Beckons Onward
As you read these final lines, remember: this journey doesn’t end here. Diego’s quest from Ushuaia to Alaska on his Royal Enfield Classic 500 is far from finished, and BTA Magazine will continue sharing every thrilling moment. If you feel that spark of adventure, let this story ignite your own path, there’s never a wrong time to chase a dream. Stay tuned for the next installment as Diego embarks on the fourth and final stage: Los Angeles to Alaska, completing his epic ride across the Americas.
Follow Diego’s journey in real time on Instagram: @diego_roson.
Words by: Diego Roson, Mike de la Torre – Photo Credits: Diego Roson
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