We left the next morning feeling a little scared and in low spirits. Maybe it would have been better to have just continued on, blissfully unaware. But, despite the added sense of fear, we were already theoretically past the worst of it, so there was nothing to do but keep moving. We rode through Zihuantanejo and turned off back onto the 200 toward Acapulco, crossing the Michoacan border into Guerrero, an equally notorious state. As we rode through the interchange some random dudes with cowboy hats tried to block us with cones, obviously looking to collect a toll of their own. They clearly didn’t realize how quick and nimble the FZ can be.