The One That Got Away: My Missing Motorcycle
You don’t forget a bike like that. The roar of the engine, the vibration in your bones, and the way the world blurred at 100 mph as the highway melted beneath your tires. I’ve ridden a lot of motorcycles in my day, but there’s one that still haunts my dreams, and for good reason. It was a dark-blue Suzuki DR650 with just enough miles to be trusted, but not so many that it was on its last leg. This bike wasn’t just a machine to get me from Point A to Point B — it was my ticket into an underworld I had no business being in, and eventually, my way out.
This is the story of the one that got away: the bike I lost on a wild trip to Mexico while chasing down a cartel story that nearly got me killed.
The Job of a Lifetime
I wasn’t new to high-risk journalism. I’d done my time embedded with outlaws, rebels, and thrill-seekers, but nothing could prepare me for this. In early 2016, I got a lead on a story that promised an exclusive look at the motorcycle culture within one of Mexico’s most notorious drug cartels. Cartels don’t just run drugs — they run entire economies, and they’ve got a passion for fast, dangerous machines. It’s an unholy marriage of horsepower and power plays, where a Harley or Suzuki can be just as much of a status symbol as a new Ferrari.
The job? Go undercover, get the story, and get out. Easier said than done, but I wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. I packed light: my usual gear, some pesos, and a reliable bike I wouldn’t mind parting with if things went south. What I didn’t expect was how fast I’d fall in love with that machine — or how quickly I’d lose it.
The Bike
When you’re going undercover with cartel members who value machines almost as much as money, your ride matters. I knew I needed something that wouldn’t draw too much attention but could hold its own in the mountains, on rough terrain, and on open highways. Enter the Suzuki DR650, a dual-sport beast capable of eating up both dirt and asphalt. Its single-cylinder engine purred with just the right amount of menace, and its off-road capability meant I could disappear into the wilderness if things got dicey.
It wasn’t the flashiest bike in the cartel’s stable — that honor went to the custom Harleys and Ducatis the higher-ups rode. But the DR650 had its own swagger. It was tough, unassuming, and damn fast when it needed to be. This bike was my partner-in-crime, a silent accomplice in what would become one of the most intense trips of my career.
Into the Fire
The plan was simple: I’d work my way into the cartel’s inner circle by posing as a journalist covering their motorcycle operations, getting a firsthand look at how they moved both product and people across Mexico’s highways. I hooked up with a contact I’d met at a moto rally in Baja, a low-level runner who promised me introductions to some of the bigger fish.
The first few days were relatively tame. I’d follow the group as they made runs between safe houses and delivery points, occasionally pulling over for a few cervezas or to fix up their bikes. They liked me because I could ride and didn’t ask too many questions. But the deeper I got into their world, the more I realized just how far down the rabbit hole I’d gone.
One night, as we camped out in a remote part of the Sierra Madre, things took a turn. A group of rival cartel bikers showed up, guns drawn and engines revving, and what had been a casual evening around the fire suddenly became a scene straight out of Sons of Anarchy. Shots were fired, bikes were stolen, and I knew it was time to make my exit.
The Escape
I’d grown attached to that DR650, but when bullets start flying, you don’t have the luxury of sentimentality. In the chaos, I jumped on the first bike I could get my hands on — a dusty old Yamaha that one of the cartel lieutenants had dropped when things got hairy. I remember looking back as I gunned it down the mountain road, the blue Suzuki still parked near the fire, untouched but out of reach.
The Yamaha wasn’t in the best shape, and it felt like riding a tin can compared to my Suzuki, but it got me out of there alive. I rode hard and fast, cutting through the night until the sound of engines and gunfire was a distant memory. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d left something behind — not just the bike, but a part of myself.
A Close Call
I eventually made it to a small town just outside of Mazatlán, where I ditched the Yamaha and caught a bus to Mexico City. The story I got was explosive, shedding light on a cartel subculture that most people would never even think to explore. But it came at a cost.
Weeks later, as I sat in a café back in the States, safe and sound, I couldn’t stop thinking about that bike. I’d ridden dozens of motorcycles before and since, but none quite like that Suzuki DR650. It wasn’t just the machine itself that stuck with me — it was the adventure, the danger, the thrill of pushing limits and riding on the edge of disaster. That bike had been my freedom, my escape, and in the end, my sacrifice.
I often wonder what happened to it. Did one of the cartel members snag it after the shootout? Is it sitting in a garage somewhere, collecting dust? Or did it meet a more violent end, like so many things in that world?
The One That Got Away
As bikers, we all have a story about “the one that got away” — that perfect machine we lost, whether to time, money, or circumstance. My story just happens to involve a cartel, gunfire, and a stolen bike. But in the end, it’s a story about freedom, about living on the edge and embracing the unknown. That’s what riding is all about, after all.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this whole experience, it’s that sometimes the best rides aren’t the ones you plan for. They’re the ones that take you by surprise, that force you to adapt, to survive, and to make tough decisions in the heat of the moment. And even if you lose the bike, the road never leaves you.
The DR650 may be gone, but the memory of those mountains, that cartel campfire, and that mad dash into the night will stick with me forever. That bike was more than just a ride — it was a symbol of the life I’ve chosen, a life of adventure, risk, and the constant search for the next great story.
Ride on, my dudes.