El Fin

There comes a time on any journey when you know it's time to call it quits, particularly one in which constant challenge and exhaustion are par for the course. Take a bike tour, for instance. When the scales become unbalanced and the bad begins to outweigh the good: that's when the quittin' seed is planted. For me it happened somewhere back in Jalisco, as I underwent the the "torture program for bicycle masochists". I knew the harsh times would pass and that the good times would return, and they did, but too late. The seed had begun germinating and, like a cholla cactus, it's a tenacious and dangerous plant. Don't get too close - it'll jump out and bite you!
The last week found me in a minor race against time. See, my father was flying from California to Zihuatanejo, for a much-deserved retirement surf vacation. I didn't have to get there before he arrived, but I wanted to - I remember how happy I was to be greeted by my brother at the Acapulco airport last year. Zihuatanejo is almost 300 miles south of Manzanillo. I had five days to do it, but unbeknownst to me it was the most arduous section of the entire trip, the Michoacan coast, which I reported on last chapter. Now, if there was one way to water, fertilize and grow this metaphorical plant of which I've spoken, it was to pit myself against the clock on an extremely difficult portion of the trip, but I didn't think that way. I couldn't - if I did, I'd have rolled up in the fetal position and cried. Just gotta take the old hippie adage and keep on truckin'.
Crossing the Michoacan-Guerrero border, I knew I had made it. Seventy more kilometers to Playa La Saladita, and I was a day ahead of schedule. I felt like something had been slowing me down, however, so I gave my rear wheel a cursory glance. Out of true, rim rubbing against the brake pad with every rotation. Gotta fix that if I'm gonna make it today, I thought. I unloaded my bags and flipped the bike for a quick on-the-fly repair. Went to turn the drive-side spoke that needed attention and.... Oh shit. The spoke in question and those to either side were all pulling through the rim. Cracked aluminum, unrepairable short of a wheelbuild, the 700c 32-hole type required rather unlikely to be found outside of Mexico City. A brick wall. The end.
"YES!!!!" I shouted as I thrust both fists skyward, an ecstatic smile spread across my face. Who knows how much further I would've traveled? Honestly, this was just the excuse I'd been subconsciously hoping would end this epic adventure. And the timing was impeccable.
I knew the busted wheel would hold for the last leg, as long as I hit the topes (speed bumps, all over Mexican highways) cautiously. And it did - I made La Saladita that night, camped out, and rode the remaining 50 km to the airport the following day. I welcomed my father as he walked through the terminal and he was stoked - didn't expect to see me there! And that was that... Now we're back in Saladita for one more week of proper do-nothing kind of vacation. Surf. Eat. Rest. Then return home.
So, goodbye to the seemingly endless miles of broken rocky tarmac, dump trucks spewing clouds of black diesel, buses passing way too close for comfort, sight and smell of innumerable road kill, perpetually (often burning) garbage-lined shoulders, unrelenting headwinds, dogs lying in roadside ambush, bone-jarring topes, exhaust deposits in tear ducts, constant sweating, chain-losing, saddle sores, sunburn and spirit-crushing loneliness.
Goodbye, as well, to the ecstasy of long jungle-mountain descents, the magnificent sights and sounds of colorful birds, the sweet smell of mango on the warm wind, the time-warp rustic villages, the excitement of beautiful children waving from the beds of passing trucks, the incredible kindness of strangers, the refreshing pleasure of a mid-ride coco frio, the satisfaction of a well-earned cerveza con limon, the vistas of blue-gray smokey mountains, weather-beaten coast, austere desert, balmy jungle and expansive ocean, the star-spangled night sky, the feeling of accomplishment at the days end, the wild, inexhaustible freedom.
Hasta la proxima, Mexico, 'til next time.