I'm thoroughly enjoying a plate of chilaquiles and a cup of Nescafe in the shade of an outdoor restaurant in Ciudad Constitcion. The heat is tolerable, yet warming, and the wind is favorable, yet turning. Solo Dios sabe what this day may bring. I left the relative tranquility of the Sea of Cortez yesterday; I'll see it again in about two or three days, depending on how fast I ride. Then I'm done with Baja! But I digress, there's a bit more of a story to be told here.
My traveling partners and I spent one night at a small RV park (the Mexican version of campground) in San Lucas, just south of Santa Rosalia. It was a good evening, despite dragging my foot across a submerged broken bottle, while attempting to scare off stingrays with my shuffling. You're damned if ya do and damned if ya don't, I guess. Anyway, there we met Chuck - a grizzled, gray pony-tailed old man, who assured us of the route from coast to valley, "You gotta climb this BIG mountain, but then it's this gradual 50 km slight downhill, all the way to Ciudad Insurgentes!" I've wisely learned to take any and all advice from non-cyclists with a grain of salt (Read my brother's story, "It's All Downhill From Here": http://jackiemusick.blogspot.com/2009_04_01_archive.html), but something about this old guy felt legit, maybe it was the tall morning glass of Viva Villa! (dirt-cheap cane liquor) he was nursing. I'm not always the best judge of character.
Just like I'd eventually anticipated, my companions and I split up. Nothing personal: They simply wanted to relax and I wanted to forge on ahead. I spent a few more nights on the Gulf shore, waiting out Semana Santa weekend, then headed for the hills. The old man was right - the climb out of Ligui was pretty harsh, especially with the Semana departure traffic. A word to motorists: I know you're just being friendly, but when you lay on your horn while speeding up from behind me, it's far more likely to elicit a middle finger than a casual wave. Sorry, it's just my reaction when I'm scared shitless. A tiny tap will suffice, or even an "AAAAYYYYYEEEEE, GUERO!!!". Just go easy on the horn, por favor.
After the initial climb, there's a long plateau one must cross. And it was hot - uncomfortably, almost painfully hot. But I had a 50 km descent to look forward to, right? Well, yes and no. After a final challenging ascent, the Valle Santo Domindo lay below, in all of it's enormous, flat and arid magesty - not unlike California's Central Valley. The road began it's gradual descent, just as Chuck had promised which, much to my good fortune, was synchronized with an ever-increasing, ever-more-direct headwind. Aaarrrggghhh! You again?! With a vengeance.
The following potentially-awesome thirty miles were thus about as awesome as another huge mountain climb. Do you realize how much it sucks to be seeing downhill yet feeling uphill? It does awful things to the mind. Try as I might to maintain a calm, Buddha-like demeanor, a larger gust would occasionally send me over the proverbial edge, unleashing a string of expletives into the void. At whom, or what? Nature? God? The Elements? Life, the Universe and Everything. As I've said before: A bad headwind brings madness, and I must have certainly appeared a madman, yelling furiously into nothing, had there been anyone around to see me.
Yet, as all things pass, this did too. I rolled into Ciudad Insurgentes with the sunset - dirty, sunburned, sore and exhausted, bruised but not broken. There was nary a motel to be found in the small town, yet I struck up conversation with a kind man who offered me an empty storefront of his, for the modest sum of about three dollars. The upshot to all of this self-imposed suffering? The sleep of baby angels....
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