¡Orale, Vata!

In Ayurvedic medical theory, I'm said to have a Vata, or Wind, constitution. Would that mean I'm completely in my element, riding against the roaring headwinds of Baja? No more than a Pitta would be, riding through Fire, I suppose. Because really, there's nothing more difficult about bike touring . Strong headwinds take one to a different world, one reduced to extreme physical exertion and infernal noise. Sure, it's a simple world, but not one I ever wish to inhabit for long.
Unfortunately, I had little choice, in the Northern desert stretch from El Rosario to El Progreso. The kilometers passed by slowly as I struggled into the wild wind, further and further from civilization. About 40K in, I stopped, exhausted and kind of frustrated with my battle against the elemental forces of nature. You certainly can't win - just gotta keep on riding...
I walked into the hills a short distance, when an incredible and slightly intimidating feeling hit me. To be deep into a massive desert on a bicycle, and/or on foot, is to observe nothing but a seemingly endless expanse of sand, rock, desert flora - gnarled shrubs, towering cacti, wild grasses - in all directions. There's a single road - the only one that could've got you in, and the only one that'll get you out - disappearing into the horizon. The only sounds are wind in your ears, songs of birds, buzzing of insects and, once every five minutes, a passing vehicle (lose even this, if you dare walk out far enough). It could be similar, I imagine, to being in the middle of an ocean, on a small boat. The closest thing I've felt to complete solitude, and freedom, in years. Though I couldn't revel in it for long. A pesky voice in my head kept asking if I'd brought enough water. It was time to move on.
Maybe another 30K, and I came upon a sign of human life - a small roadside restaurant. A sign read "Cerrado desde Junio", "Closed until June", but I heard voices from indoors and chose to investigate. Well, the sun chose for me - it was going down. A room full of weary, filthy workers all sat around plastic tables, laughing and drinking beer. They all turned as I walked through the door.
"Can we help you with something?", one asked.
"I need some water for the night," I replied, "And I'll gladly pay for one of those Tecates, if you can spare it." Beer was looking really good.
"Sure, amigo, here you go," he said, pulling a warm can from a shrink-wrapped cardboard pallet on the table. "Sit down, take a load off!"
"Thanks! Don't mind if I do."
The group of eight men turned out to be miners, from all over Mexico, come to work the season in the nearby copper mines. Their work schedule sounded brutal - twelve hours a day, seven days a week, for a calender quarter - but, supposedly, the money was good. Their tenacity astounded me; They had spent the previous night partying in Ensenada. That meant: Working twelve hours in a copper mine, driving four hours north, partying for four, driving back four (presumably drunk - this is why you stay off the Hwy.1 at night), then going straight back to a twelve hour day in the mine - no sleep, just back-breaking hard labor, drinking and driving, for thirty-six hours. My God, it made the hardest-working/hardest-partying days of my own absolutely pale in comparison. They were still in good spirits, but one by one, they disappeared off to bed. I spent a few hours chatting and drinking warm Tecates with Consuelo, the one who had wisely declined the previous night's exploit. I was fed by the resident cook, care-taker and, perhaps, unofficial motivator - a tough, funny and gregarious woman named Silvia - and I gladly accepted when asked if I'd like to camp behind the restaurant.
In the morning, the men were all gone to work, but Silvia offered me a substantial breakfast of chilaquiles and coffee. She staunchly refused when I offered to pay for anything and everything they had given me. Generosity and human kindness are huge down here. Viva el gente de Mexico.
I hit the road again - well fed, well rested and happy: There was a good tailwind.