La Paz en La Paz

It's astonishing, how the cards are dealt sometimes. Only yesterday I was barging through yet another scorching harsh desert afternoon, parched and nervous after having run out of water, fighting tooth-and-nail against the... Hell, I don't have to mention the winds anymore. I was actually getting somewhat weary of it all, to be honest. Not like get-me-on-the-first-plane-outta-La-Paz weary, but certainly get-me-the-F-outta-this-desert weary. When I think about it, however, I reckon the Baja Peninsula is the perfect length: I only had that quittin'-time notion once, on the last day. How convenient!
I was approached by Robert and Kathy while I sat in the shade of a small deposito (beer store) near the La Paz marina, enjoying my ritual post-ride cerveza. A retired couple from California, boaters who sailed down from Alameda, they are currently renting a small apartment in town while their boat undergoes some crucial repairs. Robert also happens to be an avid cyclist, one who has completed the brutal RAAM (Race Across America) a couple times. Needless to say, they were good folks to run into, good folks period. We shot the breeze for a few minutes and I was cordially invited to stay for a few nights.
So just like that, I find myself lounging idyll in a small-yet-comfortable marina-side apartment, drinking too-strong coffee, wearing nothing but mychones and chanclas (undies and sandals), listening to Steely Dan (naturally - what could be more appropriate?) and just feeling stoked. I plan on catching the Sunday evening ferry to Mazatlan, then continuing my tour down the Pacific coast of mainland Mexico. I'm having a blast, still enjoying (mostly) every minute of it, but for just a couple days, I'm happy to be off the bike. With minimal celebration but ample relaxation, I'm done with Baja. Onto the next adventure.

Paradise

The space in between those imaginary lines, referred to as Tropics, has created that word which we all know so well and which elicits similar and specific imagery for good reason. Tropical. Conjures up palm trees, azure waters, lizards, snakes and maybe the odd monkey, sun and humidity. It's all true - after crossing that magnificent line, The Tropic of Cancer, the changes are immediate, the most obvious being barometric pressure. Simply, what had since been hot and dry is now hot and damp. As anyone who has been through a summer in New York or Chicago, in New Orleans or Miami, in Bogota or Rio or wherever will attest: You'll sweat bullets in this kind of heat. Disregard the FDA's eight 8-oz.-glasses-per-day recommendation, here you'll want four times that. With strenuous cycling, I'll often go through two-gallons-a-day, nearly all lost in sweat! And it doesn't stop when I stop - I made the first-night mistake of sleeping in my down bag and woke up parched and drenched. Whew! But I'll stop with the personal physical evaluation - It's good to be here.
Edward Abbey wrote of the desert, "The strangeness and wonder of existence are emphasized here...by the comparative sparsity of the flora and fauna: life not crowded upon life as in other places but scattered abroad in spareness and simplicity..." I certainly agree, yet i wouldn't say "life crowded upon life" in reference to the (what is here relatively arid) jungle. Everything seems to occupy and be content with it's own space (Who knows? I can't ask the trees and birds!), but it's just everywhere. Mango trees have taken the place of the ubiquitous cacti, green the place of brown-orange-red, the buzzing of insects is now ten-fold and accompanied by the incessant chatter of thousands of birds. It's so full of life - a veritable Garden of Eden. Which brings me to another Abbeyism, which popped into my head as I ecstatically descended a heavily-jungled mountain, en route to San Blas. A canopy of one hundred shades of green flew past overhead, to my left and right, shafts of golden morning sun bursting through. The smells of rotting tropical fruit and burning leaves blew across on the sea breeze. Invisible and unnameable birds sang mysterious songs from all around me. On the horizon, the beautiful Pacific Ocean.
"Paradise is not a garden of bliss and changeless perfection where the lions lie down like lambs and the angels and cherubim and seraphim rotate in endless, idiotic circles, like clockwork, about an equally inane and ludicrous - however roseate - Unmoved Mover... That particular painted fantasy of a realm beyond time and space which Aristotle and the Church Fathers tried to palm off on us has met, in modern times, only neglect and indifference, passing on into the oblivion it so richly deserved, while the Paradise of which I write and wish to praise is with us yet, the here and now, the actual, tangible, dogmatically real Earth on which we stand."
Amen, Brother.

Brotherhood of the Traveling Hat

Seems I've got a thing for finding hats on the roadside in Mexico. Or maybe there are simply a lot of them flying from heads hither and tither, what with the ubiquity of pick-up bed passengers, and they've got a thing for finding me. Regardless, sometimes they're sweet ones, like the "Caballo" hat I found on my last tour, which I gifted to Manny, a true vaquero if only in the metaphorical sense. Thus far, I've seen at least three on this trip - most of 'em passable - but one caused me to stop, backtrack and retrieve it. "100% Borracho" (translation: Drunk) read large white letters, while a stereotypical and borderline-racist image of a drunk campesino snoozing beneath a cactus (you know the one) lounges embroidered on the left.
"Haha! 100% Borracho..." I chuckled to myself as I picked it up, sure it'd find its place amongst the "I'm With Stupid --->" t-shirts and Zubaz parachute pants in my nonexistent ironic apparel collection. "But then... Maybe I am 100% Borracho, in the metaphorical sense." High on life!
Unfortunately, I've found the hat to be some kind of sinister self-fulfilling prophecy. See, whenever I sport it I'm possessed by the undeniable urge to drink beers. No kidding! It could be eight in the morning, coffee just finished brewing, and I'll put the evil thing on to shield my eyes from the rising sun. "Hmm... This coffee looks pretty good," I'll think to myself, "But a caguama of Tecate sounds pretty better." Luckily, I haven't given in to the full, deviant power yet. I'll wise up and quickly put my Campy cycling cap on, often just in time. My coffee will still be warm.
But I've gotta wonder: Was the hat abandoned by the roadside for a reason? Did some true borrachón finally have a revelation, and with an angry "Fuck this devilish hat!", throw it forcefully from the window of a speeding truck? And was it fate that I should chance upon it, while struggling up some desert hill in Southern Baja? Why me?! Furthermore, what should I do?! I feel like Bilbo Baggins with this omnipotent, inauspicious thing.

Oceanic Liberation

I.

There are some days where something just ain't right. This turned out to be one, for whatever reason. Started out good, great even, but come the hottest part of the day I found myself struggling down a sandy road in San Blas, biting gnats swarming around my profusely sweating face, yelling at dogs for yelling at me, sick of being on my bike... Just pissed, and not knowing why or what to do about it. On top of all that, feeling really alone and not wanting to be. I knew these days would come on this trip, but foresight didn't make it any easier. I finally made it to the beach and chose one of the numerous and nearly identical palapa restaurants, to have a beer and sort myself out. Nursed an ice-cold Pacifico (maybe the single best earthly beverage on a day like this) and watched the waves come in, realizing it was the first time I had seen the ocean in a while, too long.
"Another?" the waiter asked.
"Maybe later," I replied, "I gotta swim."
I quickly and nimbly speed-walked across the hot sand and into the water - blue-clear and salty and just the right coolness. Plunged my head beneath the surface of the Pacific, and whatever it was that wasn't right disappeared. To paraphrase my Uncle John, avid surfer and wise man of the ocean(s), "Sometimes that's all it takes."


II.

8:30 am at a small cafe in Playa Chacala, Nayarit. I was here three or four years ago and it was much different. The influence of tourism is clear: The "RV Park", really just a large beach side grove of palms with a few pit toilets, is now fenced off and inaccessible. I asked the security guards what was up. "Future hotel," they said. Go figure - what was once a locals' weekend camping/fiesta beach is soon to be another resort destination. Progress? Some might say so. A cryin' shame? Others would agree. Regardless, it's still incredibly gorgeous, and it's still possible to have an epic, free night here (for how long?). A small, secluded, azure bay with a beach no more than 200 yards long - tranquil and quiet, save for tourists getting drunk at the palapa restaurants, but a short walk to the south side will get one away from all that. Which is where I went - pushed my bike through the sand to a group of slightly more primitive palapas, approached the small shanty home behind them, and asked the señora, "How much to stay here?" "Nothing!" was her answer. "Sold!" I said.
After dinner I set up camp and went to sleep early. So early in fact, that I awoke at 5 am, still completely dark, the stars penetrating the night sky in the millions. With relief, I noticed that high tide had come up to within 6 inches of my tent. Oops! Tourist mistake. You'd think I'd be aware of these things, growing up so near the ocean. No matter, I thought an early-morning swim would be perfect - a pre-coffee stimulant - so I got naked (not even the fishermen awake yet for me to exercise modesty) and ran in. After getting past the small breakers, I noticed that beneath the surface my body was enveloped in sparkling green. Phytoplankton! Also know as "red tide" (why? maybe they're red in the sunlight?), these tiny little creatures are bio luminescent - glowing fluorescent green when agitated. It looks like a thousand submarine fireflies twinkling around the skin, leaving psychedelic tracers as an arm or leg sweeps through. Magical and beautiful. It had been maybe ten years since I'd last seen it so powerful, in San Diego, and now I was in it. Stars above, stars below, floating weightless in the cool waters of the Mexican Pacific Ocean.

Always Listen to Your Brother

I sit beneath the night sky on a secluded roadside rise a few kilometers beyond El Tuito, Jalisco. The elevation is higher, the air cooler, the atmosphere more clear. The stars are seemingly infinite and the moonlight almost bright enough to write by. The only sounds I can hear are a static chorus of nocturnal insects and the clanking of a lone cow's bell in the valley below. Smells of manure and wild grasses on the breeze. Peace.
It's really good to be camping again after having spent the past two nights in the relatively big city of Puerto Vallarta. I stayed at a hostel there, Oasis, which had plenty of good to offer: friendly people, comfortable beds, warm showers, free breakfast, an awesome rooftop terrace on which I spent most of my time. But it was still a hostel, all stereotypes withstanding: kids getting smash drunk to Bob Marley, night after night. Not really my scene and not really my idea of a vacation well spent but... diff'rent strokes for diff'rent folks, y'know? I'm not here to judge. Regardless, I deliberately left my "100% Borracho" hat there. Figured someone would appreciate it more than I do.
It's so nice to be out in the sticks again.
I spent just about the entire day climbing, from sea level to about 3,000 feet. Enough to witness a change from tropical to coniferous forest - what that means in zonal elevation down here, I don't know. (Have to ask a forest ecologist.) Everyone I spoke to in PV urged me to take a bus or hitch. I almost did, I had my sign made and everything, then just before leaving I read this electronic message from my brother Jackie:
"The ride out of PV was also one of the most beautiful rides I've ever done, and well worth the shitiness of getting out of town. From my journal: Rode from P.V. on one of the longest, but most breathtakingly beautiful climbs I´ve ever ridden. Up and up through miles of thick jungle, a river raging through the valley below. Parrots streaking by over head. Dripping sweat in the midday heat. Pouring sweat by nightfall. You should ride it. It's so worth the trouble."
So there you have it. Sorry, everyone else, but I'm gonna go with who I know. I'm so glad I did.
It was a gnarly climb, no doubt. (You can generally get an idea of what's in store using your nose: If the acrid stench of burning brakes follows the downhill traffic, you've got a ways to climb!) But all things considered, the dangers were not nearly as clear and present as everyone (else) claimed they would be. The natural wonders of which my brother had wrote were indeed amazing, and I took further advantage of the setting with a mid-climb visit to the Botanical Gardens. If you're ever travelling south of Puerto Vallarta, do yourself a favor and stop there. It's fascinating, beautiful, informative - just as a botanical garden ought to be. And if you really want to treat yourself (which I did - when is the next time I'll be here?!), the food in the restaurant there is phenomenal, some of the best I've had in Mexico. The river of which Jackie wrote runs through the gardens, however less raging and more rolling. As I blissfully floated away the apex of the day in the cool waters, surrounded by rapid-sculpted rocks and lush, green jungle, I thought to myself, "Aren't you glad you didn't just blow past all this beauty in the bed of a pick up?" Yes. Yes, I am glad. Always listen to your brother...

100 Miles of Bad Road

"Mexico: ocean, beaches, palm trees. This is the tour of tours, some may think who look at the map. But the Mex 200 along the coast is rough terrain with a lot of exhaustion and little reward. It is hot, damp and unbearable. Besides, you wont be able to access the ocean because the coastline is too steep. Seeing the water and not being able to get into it. A torture program for bicycle masochists..."

Thus reads the introduction on cycling the Mainland coast, in Pascal's German bike touring guide to Mexico. I was skeptical when he first read it to me, in fact I even scoffed, "Pshaw! What do they know?" Well, the joke is on me! The old German bike tourists perfectly described (at least) the Jalisco coast. Might I add to the negative review by reporting that the roads are busted. I don't know if the state of Jalisco simply can't afford highway maintenance (if that money is being diverted to tequila production - carry on, señores) or if they need to send their carretera department back to paving school or what, but their tarmac is the hands-down worst I've ridden in Mexico. Uneven, rocky, potholed, "repaired" sections worse than the original, you name it: like the worst blocks in Brooklyn, for a few hundred kilometers! Comparatively, the next Southern state of Colima was a breeze - relatively flat and scenic, wider shoulders on smoother roads. Michoacan seems to be Jalisco terrain (harsh) on Colima roads (good). Get yer shit together, Jalisco!
Four years ago, I was traveling down this road on a vehicle in which road maintenance doesn't matter much: a 4WD truck, on a roadtrip/surftrip with my girlfriend TQ. Passing through Michoacan, we passed a touring cyclist. "Goddamn, I wanna do that!" I thought, "Looks pretty gnarly, though. Maybe I should stop, I'll bet he'd love a cold beer." Well, four years later and goddamnit, I'm doing it! Yes, it is pretty gnarly, but not as seemingly impossible as I had imagined it. And yes, you should definitely stop and offer me a beer.
As luck should have it, I found myself in this very section - the most mountainous and challenging of the Michoacan coast - after an entire day in the saddle. The sun was flirting with the peaks behind me, suggesting that I had about one remaining hour of daylight, but against better judgement I pushed on. I had to - I had neither food nor water. The terrain became worse: steeper climbs and windier descents, one after another, snaking through valleys and over craggy peaks, around gnarled fingers of land reaching, skeleton-like, from Mexico into the Pacific ocean. Just when I thought it would end, I'd reach a point only to view three more just like it in the distance. But I kept hoping.
I ran into a woman by the roadside who graciously filled a water bottle for me, from her deeply jungle-obscured home. She assured me it wasn't too far to the beach, so I pushed on. With water, at least I could stop for the night, eat plain pasta (drink the cooking water, of course) and continue in the morning. However, this was a rare section of Mexico 200 with barbed wire lining the highway, and nary a suitable camp spot regardless. Push on.
At this point I was quite nervous: It's almost universally recommended to avoid even driving on Mexican roads at night and here I was - in the pale, fading light of dusk - on a fucking bike. The terrain remained the same: brutal and utterly inhospitable. I finally reached Tizupan, like an oasis in the desert, and loaded up on supplies. I asked a few locals for the whereabouts of the beach, any camp spot. "Only three km down the road. You'll be there in fifteen minutes!" They seemed totally unconcerned with the fact that I was cycling the highway at night, which was strangely comforting. And once I got back on the home stretch, now in complete darkness, I realized, "Hey, there's no one else even on this road! I could hear a car coming from a mile away and simply get off for a minute. What the hell am I afraid of?" Just the conditioning, I guess. The knowledge that it's something you shouldn't do. Hmm... With this new found perspective, I made sure to thoroughly enjoy the last cool, quiet, moonlit mile to the beach, secure in the knowledge that I'd never do it again.

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.