Blood Moon in Mexico: On Leading Tours While Your Heart Rides East

Lunar eclipses, hard trails, and tiny dragons

When I landed in Mexico City that night, sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated, and jet-lagged, and made my way to Queretaro, the sky greeted me with a lunar eclipse: the moon hanging high, a blood orange-red dot in the darkness. I didn't clock the significance then – and maybe there isn’t one - too busy thinking about the expedition ahead, the things I needed to do, the people I was about to meet. See, I was there to lead an all-female motorcycle tour.

Oh, I've ridden Mexico before. I love Mexico. I can never get enough of Mexico, and its mountains, and its people, and its uniquely Mexican magic.

But this... this was different.

After a couple of hectic days in Queretaro meeting our host Francois, putting some finishing touches on the tour, and linking up with my crew, I was sipping coffee outside a little mountain hotel in San Joaquin staring at the impossibly gorgeous Sierra Gorda mountains - and knowing this might be my last rodeo for a while.

This hidden pocket of wilderness in the heart of Mexico, where crumbling Franciscan missions meet pulque artisans and canyon trails disappear into nowhere, is where I chose to begin my last Big Little Rides women's tour before heading East.

When Jurga and I create Big Little Rides experiences, we pour everything into them. Because the fact that women from all over the world come to ride with us? That they trust us with their adventures, their fears, their breakthroughs? Each time, we're just stupidly grateful.

We want each rider to feel special (because they are), have an unforgettable time (because time is everything), push their limits (but not to the breaking point), and snort-laugh their way through it all because taking yourself too seriously isn't exactly a recipe for adventure as we understand it. We want each rider to squeeze all the joy, the awe, the courage, the views, the roar of the engines out of every single day of the tour – because somewhere between those riverbed crossings and stunning canyons, between the campfire stories in San Joaquin and the shimmering city lights from Casa Aurora's rooftop in Queretaro, each woman finds something personal, something awesome, something important about herself.

But this time, while watching my riders discover their own magic, I was carrying a secret weight.

The tour itself was a brilliant chaos of emotions – equal parts exhilarating (holy hell, we’re HERE, we’re DOING this, this raggedy band of lady riders are absolutely CRUSHING it every single day!!) and stressful (what if that riverbed’s too difficult for some, too easy for others; are the hotel rooms OK; is anyone hungry yet; can we get that campfire going, and how do I make sure everyone’s heard and supported and appreciated because fuck, I DO appreciate everyone so.damn.much). Every moment felt heightened, more precious, more significant, as if the whole world was suddenly in sharp Technicolor. Maybe because I knew what was coming. Maybe because that blood-red moon was still haunting me.

And because I knew what awaited me once this trip was over: another journey, this time to Lithuania, to join the Territorial Defense. Another mission across Europe, organizing Rally 4x4 Ukraine. And one more - to Ukraine itself in the summer months.

Try explaining that while passing around mezcal at the campfire. I didn’t, because that wasn’t the time or the place. My riders were there for the adventure; our host Francois was there for the support, the trails, the bikes; my spirit animal, support rider, and axis of awesome Anika was there for all of us and for herself.

So I found myself in this strange space between worlds: being fully present for my riders while my mind wandered Eastward, keeping it lighthearted while my heart was the heaviest it's been in a long while, taking in Sierra Gorda's rugged beauty while already feeling the loss of it all.

At night, under Mexico's starlit skies, I often wanted to howl. More than once, I screamed into my pillow, then got up the next morning and rode. Because that's what you do when you're leading tours while your heart is already packing for uncertainty - you show up, you smile, you encourage, you celebrate. But it’s an acutely lonely place to be sometimes.

Here's the thing about knowing you're leaving: everything becomes bittersweet. The trail dust tastes different. The sunset hits harder. Every laugh around the campfire feels like a memory even while it's happening.

And the pull to just keep riding… hell, that pull is strong. That whisper: just keep traveling. Just keep going. Keep exploring. Keep being Perpetually Lost Somewhere And Writing Things.

That's the crazy part: I don't have to do any of this. I don’t have to go to Lithuania, I don’t have to join the volunteer corps, I don’t have to organize vehicles for Ukrainian frontlines. No one is asking or expecting me to do any of it.

But I also can't not do it.

Because sometimes the hardest trails are the ones that lead you home.

Even when - especially when - you don't have to take them.

The thing about making decisions and lofty declarations is that it’s the easy part. You make up your mind, you set your sights on the thing you need to do. Then, do it. Right?

Not quite. Because that decision needs to be made over and over again, every morning, every night. Ever since Mexico, it’s like there’s a tug of war in my mind: every fiber of my being is screaming, lady, who the hell do you think you are? Just chill. Just keep being an adventure rider, a tour leader, a wanderer, a writer. And on the opposite side, there’s this inexplicable steely clarity that says, no. You had a good run, girlie, you had an obscene privilege to roam the world, you had all the freedom and all the opportunity, and you’re being called up now. And you’ve got to go. You’ve got to do your part. No half-assing this one, sweetpea.

The Sierra Gorda mountains feel like a dream now - those stupidly beautiful peaks, the hidden trails, the laughter of my riders echoing through canyons. Part of me still wants to jump on a bike and keep heading south, keep getting lost, keep chasing that horizon.

But the East is calling. And this time, it's not asking politely.

In ten days, I'll be setting my GPS for Vilnius, Lithuania, and heading home with Nala, Kafka, and the little bastard Maurice in the back of my VW Shitsmobile. I hope the thing holds to get us all home. Home, where I thought I’d never return except for a brief holiday.

But I guess sometimes, being almost there means exactly where you need to be.

And, look, I need to check myself here for possibly being overly dramatic; it’s not like I’m heading to actual war (not yet, anyway; hopefully, not at all). It’s not like going to Lithuania is final; I will still have the freedom to lead tours, to race a rally in Peru, to write, even to repeat the Mexico awesomeness again in the fall. Hopefully.

But if I’m honest, I’m still scared shitless. And my alleged Midlife Crisis back in January now seems kind of cute. And, I’m still alternating between that steely clarity and the temptation to stay in the comfort zone on the road. Every single day.

But that blood orange-red moon that greeted me in Mexico two weeks ago now lives on my forearm, right above a tiny black dragon soaring upward. I got a small tattoo in Queretaro – for the lunar eclipse, the heart of Mexico, and the fireflies who become dragons when least expected.