Disfruta Lo Malo

"Here is just a little reflection piece from me explaining the highs and lows of my journey on Tour de Frankie." By Devin Armstrong

800 kilometers, 13,800 meters of elevation from Mexico City to Puerto Escondido.

Director Evan Molyneaux 
EP Devin Armstrong
Producer Taylor Peliska AFAIC
Riders Devin, Carlos and Luis

The race started at 1am in Mexico City.

We rolled out in a mass start that felt like a parade lap for 20 miles through the city. Lights being blown through, traffic controlled by the organiser on a cargo bike. We were moving at about 20mph, just flowing through the streets together in the night.

It didn’t really feel like a race yet. Then the climb started. The pace lifted straight away and I didn’t even realise I was near the front until I glanced back on the climb. Somewhere in that early chaos I started feeling like I needed the bathroom. I held it off for another 10 miles, thinking I’d just stay with the group and sort it later.

Eventually I had to peel off.

I figured the pack wasn’t moving that fast and the descent wasn’t for a while anyway. But the moment I got back on the bike, they were gone. Every corner I came through they were disappearing further ahead. I wasn’t far behind, but I was behind.

Then came Paso de Cortés.

Fourteen miles. Four thousand feet of climbing. Around 8,000 feet of elevation. It was cold. Proper cold. Breathing got harder with every metre. By the time I got to the top at checkpoint 1, I could barely feel my fingers. I couldn’t even open my bottles to refill them.

The sun was coming up but it didn’t matter much. Carlos was already descending. Luis was just sitting there like it wasn’t freezing. I had half a hot coffee, filled my bottles, and dropped straight into the descent. And then it flipped. Every corner I went through the temperature got warmer. I started getting feeling back in my hands. I was almost emotional just from how good it felt to be warm again.

From there it was full gas. The plan was simple again - ride hard until midday, try and claw back what I’d lost, and see where I was.

By checkpoint two we’d regrouped with Carlos and Luis eventually came back in. The lead group was still only about 30 minutes ahead, but the race was already changing.

Hard packed dirt roads locals used, a bit loose in the corners, a bit chunky in places. But the real problem wasn’t the surface. By the afternoon it was pushing 110°F. Everything started to feel slower. Heavier. Like every decision had a cost.

Luis started to drift off the back. Carlos and I waited in one town for about 20 minutes. Then another for 30. Then another for 30 again. Still no Luis.

At first we were worried, but knowing Luis he was probably just sitting somewhere in a town, cooling off and having a good time. So we kept moving and said we’d regroup at the next stop. That’s when the race stopped feeling like a race.

Somewhere out there, a family had set up an unofficial feed zone on the side of the road. They’d done it every year the race came through. Homemade food, water, snacks, just people being kind for no reason other than that we were passing through. It broke me a bit.

After gels and bars for hours, this was the first real food I’d had all day. I actually felt emotional. The kids were asking for signatures on their shirts. Everyone was smiling. It felt like we’d rolled into someone’s backyard more than a race checkpoint. That moment stayed with me. Not because it was hard. Because it wasn’t. It was just kindness. And that kept happening.

Every small town we passed through, kids would run alongside us yelling and laughing, asking where we were going. People would come out of houses just to wave or offer water. It was like the whole country was watching and somehow part of it. At checkpoint after checkpoint, it wasn’t just logistics anymore. It was people. Then the nights got harder.

The climbs got steeper, and the fatigue started to stack. I remember riding through the early hours of the morning, barely keeping my eyes open, and getting woken up by dogs barking and chasing the bike through villages. At the time I hated them. Now I think they probably saved me from crashing. By checkpoint four, everything felt different.

We were deep in it now, around 50 hours in. I hadn’t even hit my original milestone goal of 240 miles, and it was starting to sink in that the 60-hour finish wasn’t going to happen. I tried to push it out of my head. Just keep going.

When Carlos arrived the next morning, he looked wrecked. Then he just said it straight. “I think I’m going to drop out.” His knee was swelling badly. Every pedal stroke was painful. We both knew it wasn’t something you push through.

That was a strange moment. Seeing someone you’ve been in it with from the start decide it’s over. But it made something clearer for me too. I wasn’t racing the clock anymore. The pressure just… dropped. And once that happened, everything changed.

It wasn’t about 60 hours anymore. It was just about finishing.

After checkpoint four, I came to terms with it. I wasn’t making the 60-hour goal. Once that pressure dropped, something weird happened, I actually relaxed a bit. The race stopped being about the clock. It became about finishing.And that changed everything. I started spending a bit more time in towns. Not rushing every stop. Just moving through it. The next big climb was brutal. Thirteen miles. Over 5,000 feet. Some sections hitting 30%.

My gearing started failing me on the climb, and I ended up buying a pair of chanclas just so I could walk sections without destroying my feet. I ended up walking for about six hours up that climb. It sounds ridiculous, but it worked. By the time I got to the top at sunset, I was completely out of water. I rolled into a small shop and just slammed everything I could get - gels, bars, bottles, anything. Turns out one of my bottles had been leaking the whole time. That explained a lot.

The descent that followed was the roughest gravel I’ve ever ridden. I had to stop multiple times just to let my hands recover. By checkpoint five, I was hanging on. Then things started stacking again.

My bike computer died.
My lights were fading.
I flatted right before the next climb.
No spare tube.
I thought that was it.

But Miguel came through with a battery pack, and somehow a tube that barely fit my wheel. Without that, I don’t think I make it through. From there, we pushed into the night.

The final climb under the moon was one of those surreal moments. Everything lit up. Mountains in the distance. Quiet roads. It almost looked like a painting.

At the top, I just stopped. Laid the bike down. Waited for the others. And then I fell asleep on the side of the road for about an hour. I kept waking up thinking something was sniffing around me. Dogs, wind, who knows. Eventually a car passed and that was enough to get me moving again.

My rear light was dead. The others still weren’t there. I couldn’t wait anymore. So I rolled on. The descent into the morning felt like a reset. Sunrise came up over the valley and suddenly everything felt alive again -dogs barking, birds, all the noise of the world coming back.

And then it hit me. Final 100km. That was it. I almost couldn’t believe it.

From that point on, every kilometre started to disappear in my head. I was counting everything. Time, speed, distance, trying to convince myself I was closer than I was.

It became a mental game. Then I blew up. With about 10 miles to go, I completely bonked. I started looking for anything, especially a cold Coca-Cola. Eventually I gave in, stopped at a roadside shop, and drank one straight down. Best Coke of my life. It felt like it hit every part of my body at once. Within minutes I was back.

The final run into Puerto Escondido was surreal. Dirt roads turned into highways, then city streets. Lights everywhere. Traffic. Noise. And then suddenly it was done.

I rolled into Puerto Escondido and just stopped. No fanfare. No real moment. Just quiet. And waves in the background.

I came here chasing 60 hours.
I didn’t get it. But somewhere along the way, that stopped mattering.

What I got instead was everything in between.

The family on the roadside feeding strangers. The kids asking for signatures. Carlos making the hard call to stop. The dogs waking me up at 2am. The people in every town just being kind for no reason. That’s what stayed. Not the clock.

And honestly, I’d do it all again. Next time… maybe I’ll even stop for a mezcal on the way.