The festival that existed for twenty years was gone.
Cada año, el festival Acamoto convierte las calles de Acapulco en un escenario donde la tradición choca con el orden institucional. Esta edición, más de 850 efectivos desplegados desde el jueves esperaban a los motociclistas en la Costera Miguel Alemán, y cuando los participantes tomaron el bulevar como lo han hecho durante dos décadas, el Estado respondió con gas lacrimógeno, detenciones y fuerza. Lo que ocurrió en la madrugada del viernes no fue solo una dispersión policial, sino el reflejo de una sociedad que negocia, con dificultad, los límites entre la fiesta popular, los intereses comerciales y la autoridad.
- Cientos de motociclistas tomaron la Costera Miguel Alemán pasada la medianoche del viernes, repitiendo el ritual de dos décadas ante un operativo policial sin precedentes en el festival.
- La Guardia Nacional en equipo antimotines empujó a los participantes hacia las banquetas; la resistencia derivó en golpes, detenciones y finalmente en el lanzamiento de gas lacrimógeno que afectó también a familias con niños.
- La asistencia cayó drásticamente a unos 1,250 motociclistas frente a ediciones anteriores, y las infracciones aumentaron un 81 por ciento, señal de que la presión institucional ya estaba surtiendo efecto antes de los choques.
- Hoteleros y restauranteros divididos —unos con barreras en sus fachadas, otros defendiendo el beneficio económico— evidencian que el conflicto no es solo entre el Estado y los riders, sino dentro del propio tejido comercial del puerto.
- Con ocho muertos el año pasado como antecedente, las autoridades apostaron por la fuerza masiva desde el primer día, dejando al Acamoto 2026 como un festival sitiado cuyo futuro permanece en vilo.
La primera noche del Acamoto terminó en confrontación. Pasada la medianoche del viernes, cientos de motociclistas ocuparon la Costera Miguel Alemán para hacer lo que llevan dos décadas haciendo: caballitos, aceleraciones, los rituales propios del festival. El bulevar frente al mar volvió a ser suyo, al menos por un momento.
Pero esta vez las autoridades habían llegado primero. Desde el jueves por la mañana, más de 850 efectivos —policía estatal, municipal, Guardia Nacional, fiscales federales y marinos— estaban apostados en puntos estratégicos de Acapulco con 174 patrullas, 58 motocicletas y grúas. Los retenes en la caseta de la autopista y a lo largo de la Costera tenían un propósito declarado: verificar cascos, licencias y alcoholemia. El propósito real era impedir exactamente lo que estaba ocurriendo.
Cuando los motociclistas se negaron a despejar la avenida, la Guardia Nacional en equipo antimotines comenzó a empujarlos hacia las banquetas. Hubo forcejeos, golpes, detenciones. Luego llegó el gas lacrimógeno, que se extendió por el bulevar y alcanzó a familias con niños que habían ido a ver el espectáculo. La noche inaugural terminó en dispersión.
Detrás del operativo había meses de tensión acumulada. El municipio había dudado hasta el último momento antes de otorgar el permiso. Hoteleros y restauranteros amenazaron con boicot comercial; algunos hoteles levantaron barreras en sus fachadas para impedir el acceso de los participantes, mientras otros empresarios defendían el beneficio económico que el festival representa para el puerto.
Las cifras contaban la historia de un evento reducido y acorralado: unos 1,250 asistentes frente a las multitudes de años anteriores, 219 infracciones emitidas —un 81 por ciento más que el año pasado— y 54 motocicletas remolcadas. El antecedente pesaba: en 2025, el Acamoto dejó ocho muertos, 30 heridos y 45 detenidos. Con ese historial, las autoridades apostaron esta vez por la fuerza desde la primera hora, dejando claro que el Acamoto sin restricciones de las últimas dos décadas no volvería. Lo que quedó fue un festival bajo asedio, con sus participantes superados en número y en armamento, y su continuidad en el aire.
The first night of Acamoto, Acapulco's annual motorcycle festival, turned into a confrontation between riders and the state. Just before midnight on Friday, hundreds of motorcyclists moved onto Costera Miguel Alemán, the beachfront avenue that has been their stage for two decades. They came to do what they always do: wheelies, acceleration runs, the rituals of the festival. The street filled with the sound of engines and the sight of bikes performing stunts. Traffic backed up. The city's main artery was theirs.
But this year, the authorities were waiting. Over 850 officers—state police, municipal police, National Guard soldiers, federal prosecutors, and marines—had been positioned throughout Acapulco since Thursday morning. They arrived with 174 patrol cars, 58 motorcycles, and tow trucks. Checkpoints had been set up at the highway toll booth and along the Costera itself. The stated purpose was straightforward: check helmets, verify licenses and registration, screen for drunk driving. The real purpose was to prevent exactly what was happening—a takeover of the avenue.
When the riders refused to leave, the confrontation escalated. National Guard soldiers in riot gear began pushing the motorcyclists toward the sidewalk. The riders pushed back. What followed was a street-level clash: bodies colliding, some riders beaten, others loaded into patrol cars. Then the authorities deployed tear gas. The chemical cloud spread across the avenue, affecting not just the riders but families and children who had come to watch. The festival's opening night ended in dispersal and detention.
The heavy response reflected months of tension. Throughout the year, Acapulco's authorities had been ambiguous about whether to allow the festival at all. Hotel owners and restaurant operators had threatened a commercial boycott, refusing to house or feed participants. Some hotels had erected barriers on their facades to keep riders out. Other business owners argued the opposite—that the festival brought economic benefit to the port. The municipality, responsible for granting permission, had wavered until the last moment before allowing it to proceed.
The numbers told a story of a festival diminished and constrained. Around 650 riders arrived Thursday, with another 600 on Friday—roughly 1,250 total. In previous years, the festival had drawn far larger crowds. By Saturday, authorities had issued 219 infractions to motorcyclists, an 81 percent increase over the previous year. They had impounded 54 motorcycles for missing documentation or riders without helmets. Three people reported minor injuries, though authorities did not specify whether these occurred during the Friday night dispersal.
Last year's Acamoto had ended in eight deaths, including a woman struck by a motorcycle, along with 30 injured and 45 detained. Cleanup crews had collected 300 tons of garbage. The festival had become a flashpoint—a collision between tradition, commerce, public order, and the state's determination to control the streets. This year, with overwhelming force deployed from the opening hours, authorities made clear that the old Acamoto, the one that had run largely unchecked for two decades, would not be allowed to return. What remained was a festival under siege, its participants outnumbered and outgunned, its future uncertain.
Citas Notables
The operation seeks to prevent motorcyclists from blocking the Costera and performing stunts with their bikes.— Federico Argumedo Rodríguez, Acapulco's Public Security Secretary
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did the authorities wait until the riders actually took the street before moving in? Why not just block it beforehand?
That's the question, isn't it. They had checkpoints set up since Thursday morning, but they let the festival happen anyway. Maybe they wanted to see how many would show up, or maybe they needed the riders to actually commit the offense before they could justify the response. Either way, it created this moment where the riders thought they had won—they were on the avenue, doing their thing—and then suddenly 850 officers descended.
The tear gas is what strikes me. Children were there. That seems like a deliberate choice to disperse a crowd, not a last resort.
Yes. Once the riders resisted, once it became a physical confrontation, the gas was the tool to end it quickly. But you're right—it wasn't a mistake that children were exposed. It was the consequence of the authorities deciding that clearing the avenue mattered more than the discomfort of bystanders.
What changed from previous years? Why this level of force now?
Last year someone died. Eight people, actually. That changes the calculus for any government. After a death, you can't just let the festival happen the way it used to. The hotels were threatening boycotts. The business community was divided. The municipality was under pressure. So this year they came prepared to prevent the very thing that had happened before.
But the attendance dropped dramatically. Fewer riders showed up. Does that mean the heavy-handed approach worked, or does it mean people were scared away?
Probably both. Word gets out that there will be 850 officers and tear gas. Some riders decide it's not worth it. Others come anyway, thinking they can still have the festival. But the point is, the festival that existed for twenty years—the one where riders could take the street with relative impunity—that's gone now. What's left is something smaller, more controlled, less like a celebration and more like a permitted event under surveillance.
What happens next year?
That's the real question. Do the riders accept this new reality, or do they push back harder? Do the authorities escalate further? Or does the festival simply fade because it's no longer what it was?