Bienvenido a Mexico

Not unlike a similar phenomenon in my younger days, one which pertained to job interviews, I've found that I frequently begin bike tours with a hangover. Why? Perhaps it has to do with leaving town, with the fact that I'm often not just taking a trip, but finishing one life chapter, in order to begin another. And a sense of closure sometimes calls for a little going away party. Admittedly, it's a lousy way to crack the proverbial spine before digging in, and tends to make the inevitable setbacks, which seem to mark the first day of any tour, that much harder.
I arrived at the Encinitas commuter train station at 7:30 am, and immediately heard over the intercom that, due to a freight train derailment, my ride would only go as far as Sorrento Valley. SV is just that, a deep valley lined with hideous business parks, so it looked as if my day's ride would begin sooner than expected. Aching and bleary-eyed, I rode up and out of the valley, through the UCSD campus, where only the more studious seemed to be awake, down and around Mission Bay to Old Town, where I finally caught the trolley to San Ysidro. Apparently, there was once a bike path, which now leads into a fence, so to cross the border you get to ride on the freeway! Once over, I hit immigraciòn to get my tourist card, only to find that there's a $30 fee and, like a dumbass, I had no cash. Conveniently, the nearest ATM was downtown, so my second detour of the day took me to Avenida Revoluciòn and back, where I finally got my official stamps. Getting out of Tijuana wasn't as bad as I thought it would be - like riding in NYC, with worse streets - but the ruta libre (free road, the one cyclists have to take) climbs and climbs out of the city. By noon, the day's heat, exacerbated by the heat of thousands of passing cars and trucks, was kind of brutal. Construction workers and pedestrians alike sought shade wherever possible - in the shadow of a bulldozer, under the stairs of a pedestrian overpass - while I ground my teeth on the headwind sand and sweat out the remnants of my hangover. As the laws of physics will command, what goes up must come down (usually), and the descent into Rosarito was incredible. At some point the wind shifted, becoming a benevolent tailwind, and I don't think I've ever gone that fast on a bike. I awarded myself with an amazing plate of fish tacos, at a small taqueria on the outskirts on Rosarito.
Upon seeing the sign that Ensenada was still 80 km away (about 50 miles), I felt a bit discouraged, but decided to push on. The road between Rosarito and Ensenada is beautiful (with the exception of the sparsely placed, yet monolithic, jail-like hotels), and I got lost in memories of past surfing and camping adventures along that coastline. I had made a decision to seek out a cheap motel in La Misiòn, about halfway to Ensenada, but upon rolling into the small town, I approached a local and heard some bad news.
"There's nothing here, and all the hotels back near La Fonda are quite expensive. You could find something in Ensenada but it's far, and it's a lot of climbing." (He kept repeating "subir", or "climb", which I quickly added to my vocabulary.)
Well, shucks. What choice did I have? I encouraged my already exhausted body up La Misiòn grade, ending up on a plateau of sorts, which extended a staggeringly beautiful, yet indeed very hilly, twenty miles before finally, finally dropping back down to the coast. Mind over matter - the body keeps repeating, "Stop. Please, just stop!", while the will says, "Not yet. Not yet. Eventually, but....no." Fortunately, I encountered another cyclist on the descent. Carlos talked my ear off while we pedaled together to Ensenada, and while I only understood every third word, it was encouraging to have company, so I just kept laughing and repeating, "Si, si, claro..."
We rolled into Ensenada just as the sun was setting, and said our goodbyes. I stopped for a dinner plate of sopes, too tired to be amazed at what a long day it had been. One of those days that feels like three, at least. Without further ado, I got a room at the first hotel economico I encountered, and went to bed, lulled into deep sleep by the distant sound of a Norteño band. Bienvenido a Mexico, viajero cansado.