Howling at the Moon

Last few weeks.

2011-01-25T17:40:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since I posted anything. here's some images from the last few weeks.

Full Moon Fever.

2010-07-31T18:54:00.000-07:00

Quick Trip Home

2010-04-21T10:09:00.000-07:00

Had Enough?

2009-05-18T14:36:00.000-07:00

If you'd like to see more (better) photos, check out Anthony Musick's photo blog at:

www.stokedleucadian.blogspot.com

Mexico 2009 VI

2009-05-17T18:45:00.001-07:00

Mexico 2009 V

2009-05-17T18:37:00.000-07:00

Mexico 2009 IV

2009-05-17T18:30:00.001-07:00

Mexico 2009 III

2009-05-17T18:22:00.000-07:00

Mexico 2009 II

2009-05-17T17:53:00.001-07:00

Mexico 2009

2009-05-17T17:45:00.001-07:00

Fine, we didn't want to see your stupid ruins anyway! or I rode my bike all the way to Cancun and all I got was this lousy porcine influenza.

2009-05-11T07:57:00.000-07:00

Do ever get the feeling that god is mad at you? Not vengeful, strike-you-down-where-you-stand pissed, but just a little upset? Maybe it was that empty bottle you left on the beach in a minute of lazyness and weakness. Maybe it was that time you took a couple bucks from your mom's purse without asking...whatever the cause, I haven't been able to shake this feeling that I'm paying for something, some minor karmatic infraction that has been hounding me for the past week.
The town of Campeche lies sleepy and stoic on the shores of the gulf of Mexico. So sleepy in fact that we were kind of creeped out by the place. Empty streets, closed businesses, an eerie quiet about the place, compunded by the fact that everyone we DID see was wearing a blue medical mask over their mouth and nose, giving the whole scene some strange, cinematic, post-apocaliptic feel. We'd planned a full day off, but after just an afternoon, Campeche quickly lost it's old world charm and became, well....just kind of weird.
Left Campeche and the gulf coast into a howling headwind that would seem to follow us for an entire week. If we were headed east, the wind was from the east, if the road turned north, the wind was from the north. Haunted by this phantom wind, we pushed eastward through the flats of Campeche state. Pushing all day through flat, unchanging roads. Spent the night on a vacant property just outside of the town of Hopelchein, a small, agricultural town, much like others in the area, yet with the unexplicable pressence of lots of white, midwestern-looking farmer types. Mennonites, I think, judging by the way the wowen dressed, but I never did get the full story.
The next day brought more of the same. Headwinds, Long, drawn-out roads. Headwinds. Headwinds. Headwinds. Attempted to stop in at an archeological site to spend some time off the bikes and were greeted by a closed gate and a sign. "Closed indefinitely due the the Influenza epidemic". Now, I'm sure that the media in the United states has blown this whole influenza thing way out of proportion, but it has been pretty prevailent down here for the past couple of weeks. The first sign was when we were in Palenque. We'd been in the museum at 8 am, went to check out the ruins for an hour or so, then returned to find the museum closed. Didn't think much of it at the time, but as the days wore on, the headlines got bigger and the medical masks more prevailent. Now a full closure of all archeological sites in the country. And here we were. Thousands of miles from home. In the Ycatan peninsula for the first time, one of the richest archeological regions in the world, with some of the most beautiful, magical places. All gated up and off limits. Indefinitely. What'd I say. God's a little pissed.
Cinco de Mayo. Mexican Independence day. Not the least indication of it. Rode hard all day, sweating in the unimaginable heat of the tropic lowlands, our only "respite" a howling headwind. The road lined with thick brushy woods for mile after mile, the only thing breaking up the landscape the occasional town and a a stone arch marking our entrance into the state of Yucatan. Arrived in Piste (the tourist town that services the ruins at Chichen Itza) to a campground with a pool and the great news that the ruins would be reopening the next day!
Woke the next morning with a swim in the cenote Ik-kil, a sort of natural pool at the bottom of a deep stone hole in the earth, some of the clearest, purest water I've seen in my life. Swam for several hours, washing every last vestige of dirt and sweat from ourselves, then headed out to see the remains of the center of the Mayan empire. I guess I was a little disapointed that you can no longer actually climb any of the temples at Chichen Itza as you undoubtably once could, and still can at Monte Alban and Palenque. None the less, the place is incredible. Just the scope and size of the place is dizzying, the architectual and engineering mastery displayed phenomenal.
Rode all afternoon and the entire next day into, you guessed it, a howling headwind. Worst yet. A 70 mile slog through more low lying woods, the only change in scenery at the Quintana Roo boarder, where instead of cutting back the brush 10 feet, they'd let it grow right up to the road.
Rolled into Tulum by early afternoon, beaten and weak from the wind. Limped the final 4 k.m. to the beach, finally, to the Carribean sea, and it seemed like the curse of the past five days just washed away. Cristal clear water shining an unworldly blue off shore, talcum-fine, pure white sand. Camped two days on that beach, the near full moon rising over the ocean and shining daylight-bright on the white sands. Woke one morning at sunrise, the sun hanging low, just above the emerald water. Dragged myself out of the tent, bleary eyed and drowsy with sleep. Walked directly for that shining sea and dove in, the water cool and clean and so so clear. Swam out and looked back toward the beach. Palm trees and palapas, the world bright and alive, and down the beach on the distant cliffs, the morning sun reflecting yellow and orange off the ancient stones of the ruins of Tulum.

Highland Nightmares, Gulf Coast Dreams

2009-05-04T16:27:00.000-07:00

Our last night in san cristobal found us still awake at 2 a.m. deep in conversation and maybe a little too deep into the booze. Sitting in a little bar in the center of town, not wanting to go to bed, not wanting to say goodbye to such an incredible and beautiful city.
24 hours later I've got my head in the communal toilet of a cheap motel in Oxchuc, Chiapas, Wretching violently and quickly losing every ounce of hydration left in my sore and sleep deprived body.
The day had passed easily enough, with a late start from San Cristobal. Faced with hills, rain, then hail, we were carried through the sour weather, our pounding headaches and wavering stomachs by some of the most beautiful riding yet of the trip. Wide, pastoral vistas reminicent more of the Norweigian countryside or the french alps than of anything you might expect in mexico. Women in traditional dress hearding sheep by the roadside in the rain. Passing through E.Z.L.N. occupied autonomous territories. Fighting of the sickness rising in my belly, passing it off as a self inflicted result of one too many, thinking all I needed was a solid meal and a good nights sleep.
And now this. Kept up all night, diarrea and vomit, vying for the one toilet with the drunken revelers from the room next door. Lying down only to have the sickness rise in my gut once more, sending me scurrying across the parking lot to the bathroom. Hoping to make it in time.
Now, before you point fingers, before you assume that I got what was coming to me, this was no run-of-the-mill-post-night-of-drinking sickness. This was some food or water borne bacteria, something nasty, something my body wanted out. Quick. And out it did come.
Hours pass and the sun is coming up. Completely drained and finally able to lay down for more than five minutes, I nodded off to sleep.
That's when the fireworks started.
I'm not kidding.
For some unknown reason, someone, somewhere, began shooting off large, concussive fireworks very near the motel. At sunrise. I tossed and turned, now dozing now jolted awake by another blast. Now dozing again as the fireworks halted.
Then they started with the powertools.
Yep. powertools.
About 7a.m. they began, for whatever reason, making cabinets in the small parking lot of the motel. At this point I threw up my hands, got up and got dressed. Not sure what I was doing but sure that I couldn't spend another second in that room. Anthony was up and suggested that we try to find something I could stomach, something to start rehydrating me from the long night before.
"Sounds like a plan" I said, struggling even, in my weakened state, to stand up from the bed....."Awwww, FUCK!"
"What is it?" Anthony asked innocently.
"I just shit my pants."

Needless to say, when the first thing you do after waking up is soil yourself, you're not going to have a good day, and this was no exception. Walked out into town, into a bustling open market, where, among the wide-eyed stares and catcalls from the locals (Oxchuc is a purely indigenous city, and we were the only white people in a fifty mile radius), among the rats (both cooked and raw), tamales of dubious variety, and rotting vegetables, I finally found something I thought I could stomache.
A single banana.
It seemed to me that riding would not be an option that day, especially considering that i hadn't slept at all, we were in the mountains, and I couldn't so much as stand up without... well.... you know....
However, getting back to the motel (the only in town) the cabinetry was still in full swing and the thought of lying in that tiny room all day with a power planer running just outside the door became less and less of an option. So we left. I honestly don't remember anything of the day. There were lots of hills, I think, and I stopped a lot. All I remember is that we rode to Ocosingo, got yet another motel (this one with a private bathroom) and I immediately fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Woke the next day feeling bright and well rested. Definitely through the worst of it and on the mend. Got an early start and immediately plunged into what was easily the most beautiful single riding day of the entire trip. One minute riding through a green and lush tropical valley, the air thick with the scent of passionflower and wet grass, then after a short fifteen minute climb, on a wooded mountainside covered in pine. Bombing through jagged, jungled volcanic hills, feeling the exhiliration of riding roads not adhereing to the strictness of american safety standards. Tight, tight corners boardered by sheer rock faces (either straight up or straight down, depending on what side you hit). Steep, steep pitches. Feeling the wheels fly beneath us. temperature rising quickly. Air growing thick and wet.
We arrived at agua-azul falls with plenty of light to spare. Marveling at the bright, opaque, turquoise water rushing over the rocks. Amazed that such an incredible natural phenomenon wasn't fenced of, monopolized, and made off limits. Cooling my still recovering and filthy body in the mineral rich waters of the falls, finally waking up. Finaly feeling human again.
We'd heard that camping at Agua azul wasn't the safest thing, so it was no surprise when the operators of the campground approched our tent in the evening and suggested that we move it closer to a light source, closer to where others might be. It wasn't a surprise when after nightfall we were approched again and told we might be better off renting a room.
We assured them that we were confident that we'd be safe.
"No, you don't understand, it's very dangerous here."
"Oh, no, it's cool. These other kids said we could store the bikes in their room and we're gonna be here, right under the light."
"No, you don't understand, it's VERY dangerous!"
We began to wonder, who was playing who.
"Nah, I think it'll be cool."
"No. I don't think you understand: If you stay out here, there's a good chance that you will be robbed." The only thing missing, it seemed, were some well placed winks and nudges.
We paid for a room.

Bug bitten and sweating, we passed the night in our reluctantly purchased habitation, cursing the local scam but finally lulled to sleep by the falls rushing just meters away from our screenless and wide open window. Woke to a dip in the river and hit the pavement once more. Beautiful riding again. Slowly working our way out of the mountains. Long valleys spread out before us. The same river that feeds agua-azul falls shimmering all bright and pale in the distance working our way to Palenque and the ruins of the Mayan city therein.
Finally crested one last big climb and looked out upon the flats of eastern Chiapas, with Tabasco and Campeche in the distance. Not a single hill in sight so far as the eye could see. Rolled into Palenque right around dark and found a campground near the ruins of the ancient city, all deep and thick jungle. Scorpions (this time full sized) scrurrying across the beam of my headlamp and into the dark. Howler monkeys calling in the depth of the night, a bizarre and unearthly call. Throaty and breathy, like manevolent spirits moving through the trees.
Daybreak had us up and riding to the ruins, hoping to catch the sunrise from the top of a pyramid, but our romantic notions were crushed when we arrived at the gates of the city to find that they wouldn't let us in untill an hour later. Reguardless, sunrise or no, the ruins of Palenque were unbelievable. Too much for words. I spent hours just ambling in the heat of the day, eyes glued at the enormous feats of engineering and mystical knowledge all around me, all scattered along a thickly jungled hillside. Lush and green and impenetrable.

Out into the agricultural flats. Roads that go forever in one direction. Unwavering. Unchanging. Where a hill is an event and a turn is worth celebrating. Past into and out of the state of Tabasco in 15 minutes. Literally. Into Campeche without the slightest indication of change. Set up camp at the edge of a town called Aguacatel, just on the bank of a slow and murky river. At nightfall a man approached us and asked if we planned on camping there.
"Is that a problem?"
"No not really." he said. His face obscured by the dark, "It's just a lot of drunk people come down here at night. You'd be a lot safer staying up at my place."
Carlos and Paty's place was a one room, tin roofed shack that they shared with their two young kids, Angel and Jesus, up above the river bank. There was a small grassy area along the back were we set up for the night and after an hour or so of conversation in our halting spanish, fell asleep for the night. Carlos woke us early with coffee ready to go and invited us inside to sit down. Besides the furniture (a table, two chairs and a bed), and a small electric clothes washer, there was less in that house than I am carrying on my bike. It made me feel small and humbled, experiencing such great and unsolicited hospitality from people who could use every sip of coffee that we took, every cracker that they had offered as breakfast.
We departed Aguacatel amoung smiles, handshakes and promises to return If we ever passed through again. Again through the boredom of a flat and featureless landscape, again into the headwinds that roar across this part of the country. Pushing out the miles through the heat and pressure of a tropical afternoon. Trying to make it to the gulf. Another body of water. Not knowing what to expect, but dreaming of a beach, a swim in the ocean, a new ocean to the both of us. Of white sands and palapas again. Sunshine and cold beer.
4 p.m. rolled around with 60 kilometers still to the gulf. It'd taken us all day to do the first 75. With nothing but the desire to see that water, that unbroken horizon, we put our heads down and pushed our muscles to the point of total exhaustion. Fighting the headwind and the dying of the light. Finally, just as the sun began its final dip into the west, we hit the beach, water glowing red and orange over its deep aquamarine. Stripped off our clothes and ran for the sea, knowing that if we swam due North we'd hit Biloxi, Mississippi. Maybe even New Orleans. Amazed at how far I'd come. Amazed, as always by the vastness of the ocean ahead of me and of the sky above. Thinking about the miles of highway and countless little villages. About Jason and Jessi and where they are now. About Parker and whether he's ever made it up that damned volcano. About how much I'd done so far and how much more there was to come. Then it all jsut stopped.

And I dove in.

It's All Downhill From Here.

2009-04-22T08:49:00.000-07:00

It's 2 p.m. and we're holed up in the shade of a small grocery. El Camaron, Oaxaca. It's 2 p.m. and the temperature in the shade is creeping up on a hundred. Out in the sun, out on the blacktop of the highway, its 41 degrees c.. Damn near 106 farenheit. Needless to say it's hot.
Damn it's hot.
Anthony is in conversation with the proprietess and I'm nursing a lukewarm coke, eyes closed, dreading the road before us.
"Don't worry, joven," I overhear, "the road's a little bit curvy just ahead, but it's all downhill from here!"
Ten minutes later we're sweating through out meager, dirty clothes. Panting and sunblind. 3 k. into what would turn out to be a sweltering, steep, 15 kilometer climb.

But rewind a little bit. Leaving ciudad Oaxaca we passed through a long, flat valley surrounded by distant peaks. Dry agricultural land marked by acres of agave and small dusty towns. We'd passed El Arbol de Tule, "the largest tree in the world" according to some, a 2000 year old mountain of a tree which made up for it's lack of altitude in sheer volume. Over 60 by 25 feet at it's base and rising from a churchyard, all but blocking out the sky above. We'd passed through Mitatlan, Mezcal capital of the world, stopping occasionally in antiquated distilleries big and small. Sampling (against out better judgement) Mezcal after Mezcal, still made in small batches using the same tried and true methods centuries old. Some burning down the throat like piss and turpentine, some melting on the palette like warm caramel.
There were short climbs and long, wind-swept descents. We'd watched the landscape change again. A return to the desert, to cactus and sage, to empty river gultches and scorching, dry heat. Passed a night on the rocky bank of a small river, sweating through our sleeping bags, dreaming of the morning and a dip in the cool clear water that rushed by our squatters camp.

But remember now, we're still climbing.

Cursing that woman and her infernal (though well meaning) advice. About Halfway up the hill, 7 kilometers in, we ran into two other bike tourers, the first I've seen since Baja. A man and a woman, from spain and chile respectively, riding all the way to Tierra del Fuego, the southern tip of the Americas. 8 months in and 15 to go. We exchanged pleasantries and stories. Glad to take a moment in the shade. Glad to know we weren't alone in our suffering. We say our goodbyes, our goodlucks, and move on into the afternoon.
Finally, a peak, a descent and as much needed meal in the shade of a small restaurant. Minutes after sitting down, a pickup pulls up and one of the cyclist we just met piles out and joins us in the shade.
"I ran out of water on the climb and those guys gave me a ride." she said. "they work in the area and they said it's all downhill from here to the coast."
I should have been skeptical, but she was right, these guys drove this road all the time. If anyone knew, these would be the guys to ask. We were sure of it. An exchange of smiles. A long collective sigh of relief.

And yet, more climbing. Sure there was SOME downhill, but for every descent there seemed to be a climb of equal or greater length and height. I was beginning to get the feeling that we were the butt of some cruel joke. Some local tradition of telling all passers through exactly what they wanted to hear.
With night falling we climbed into a small village to purchase water and food for the night. Always vigilant about our intake and need (especially with water, especially in the desert) we asked once more for the distance to the next town.
"Oh, it's about 12 kilometers down the road, but don't worry, it's all downhill from here!"
I kid you not.
It was all we could do to suppress the laughter rising in our guts.

The next day brought us, miraculously, some steady and gradual downhill followed by miles of perfectly straight, flat road, and a steady tailwind. Blazed through marshlands and tropical flats. Passing town after town, village after village. Stopping only occasionally for water or food. The air heavy and damp on our skin again. The mountains and the heat had taken its toll on us however, and by mid afternoon we were both dead in the saddle. Limped into Juchitan, chafed and saddle sore, and sought out a meal (Iguana tamales!), a beer, a shower and a bed. Fell into an early and deep sleep. Oblivious to the unwavering heat and blaring noise of a friday night in the city.
Rose with the sun and rode out into another blistering day. Some one would later tell us that April and May were the hottest months in this part of the country and I would later ask myself just what the hell I was doing here. Still, the miles flew and it felt good to let the legs spin, to feel the kilometers dropping off behind us minute by minute, hour by hour. Swam along side a heard of cattle in a murky yet refreshing river. Pushed our bodies and bikes hard until nightfall. Squatted an unfinished concrete building in a mango grove just outside of San Pedro Tapanatepec, the whole town ripe and fermenting, the smell of unpicked mangos rotting on the ground for acres all around us.
Back into the mountains. Before the road turned eastward and upward, we passed a military checkpoint and for the first time since entering Mexico I was searched and questioned at length. After explaining my knife/multi-tool (which they described as a concealed weapon, but ultimately didn't confiscate) and the requisite quieries and denials, the young man questioning me made a motion toward my beard.
"Are you Bin Laden's brother?"
THIS AGAIN!?!?!
"Actually, Sir," the snappy retort rushed through my brain, "I am Bin Laden. I'm also Ted Kazinski, Fidel Castro and Subcommandante Marcos. I'm the ghost of Che Guevarra, Karl Marx and Emilliano Zapata! There's an 800 billion peso price on my head, and congratulations, Sir, you have captured me!"

Instead I just shook my head, did my best to look amused and said:
"No."

Climbing. Once again. 25 kilometers into the foothills of the Sierra Atravesada. Crossed into Chiapas with jagged mountains shooting from the earth, threatening to rip holes in the sky and send the heavens tumbling all around us. Emerged in an immense, flat highland plain. More straight and rolling highway. More howling wind at our backs. Heavy traffic and an inordinate amount of roadside memorials keeping us on our toes all day. Passing cars coming within inches of our handlebars. Camped the night at the edge of a steep ravine and in the morning decended 713 stairs (I counted) to a series of cascades literally pouring from the lush and jagged cliffs. The pure and mineral rich waters of an underground river falling a hundred fifty feet to the valley floor. Bathed our sore and sunburnt bodies in that magical place, crawling in and out of caves dug into the rock by hundreds upon thousands of years of punishment from the waters falling from above.
One more day on the highland plains. Toward Tuxla Gutierrez. A giant, sprawling metropolis at the foot of the Seirras. Eyeing the mountains in the distance, knowing we'd soon have to turn upward for the final 80 Kilometer push towards San Cristobal.
And turn upwards we did. With dark falling fast, short on water and nearly out of food, we began the first part of what would ultimately be a 12 hour long ascent into the mountains of Chiapas. Climbed for about and hour and a half, putting a ten Kilometer dent in our next days ride. Just before total darkness, freaked out and cursing ourselves for not stocking up on supplies, we stumbled upon a construction site and begged a liter and a half of water from an old man who was working late. With fingers crossed and spirits renewed we managed several more switchbacks before finding camp for the night. A small cut on the downhill side of a turn, hidden from the road by and embankment and overlooking the sprawling lights of Tuxla Gutierrez shimmering in the valley below. Home for the night. The only drawback a mysterious layer of black wood ash on the ground that whipped into billowing clouds of choking black dust in the blustery night.
Rode out early in the morning into a cool and misty sunrise, the temperature already noticably cooler and the sun blocked by overcast skies. A strange feeling. What was it? Something I haven't felt in months now.
I was cold.

The road stretched up and up. Winding through foggy switchbacks peaks appearing suddenly out of the mist only to fall out of site again. Slogging kilometer after kilometer with no respite from the ascent. Four figures appear out of the mist before us. Four women in native dress, all bright blues and deep purples. Rugged, resilient, beautiful women, headed to work in the fields armed with long, curved cane knives and smiles like God's light.
The climb lasts for hours. Legs burning, screaming for rest. For a descent. Just for a minute. The air keeps getting colder and colder, though I'm still sweating in a t-shirt and shorts. Small villages begin to appear at the roadside, their residents staring at us like they would mischevious ghosts gliding through the fog.
Finally, a decent, a short, last burst of climbing, and we reach San Crisatobal de las Casas. City in the clouds, a strange mix of modern and ancient, a city European in architecture and purely Mexican in population, many still maintaining the Native clothing and language that's been in these parts for hundreds upon hundreds of years. A few days off. A lumpy bed. Too much excellent coffee for my own good and a chance to wind down from the past few days. Finally wearing the hooded sweatshirt and jeans that I've been hauling around since Baja. Finally cold at night after so many weeks.
Tomorrow we leave, no doubt into the mountains for a while then the long decent into Palenque and beyond. Afterall, we're at 6000 feet and Cancun is at sea level.
I mean, it's all downhill from here. Right?

The Pilgrimage

2009-04-13T14:06:00.000-07:00

I guess you could say that my pilgrimage began several weeks ago. Spaced-out and exhausted after a long ride and examining the intricacies of a small, blue, twenty peso bill. On the backside was a picture of a flat topped mountain, covered in ruins. The tagline, Monte Alban, Oaxaca.
Monte Alban, why did that seem familiar.? I seemed to remember my grandfather talking about it. The long trecherous road to the top. The mystical city itself. It was decided. I would go. By hell or highwater I would stand on that mountain and feel its energy. Its magical alignment with the universe.
Turns out Monte Alban lies just above the city of Oaxaca, which Anthony claimed to be "the best city in Mexico", so when I suggested the detour from the coast, his enthusiasm was limitless. It was settled. We were going.
Leaving Pinotepa National drew us through a series of long climbs and decents. Due to a huge blank spot on my map (i still don't know why an entire highway was left out) we missed the direct route into the mountains that we'd hoped to take and ended up in the coastal lowlands of Oaxaca state. Long, flat stretches of agricultural flat. Mostly grazing land for Brhama cattle, goats, poultry farms.
In the heat of the day we stopped in at a cantina in the small town of San Jose del Progresso for a beer. The cantina was nothing more than a small concrete room with several plastic chairs. The "bar" was protected by a mesh of chickenwire and consisted of a cooler and several bags of various snacks. Had to literally step over a man passed out face down on the floor to enter the building. No one seemed to mind his presence or position. He'd groan occasionally and roll over, fall back asleep and continue his afternoon nap. After two beers each and some conversation, we left San Jose with the full bar in attendance. waving goodbye and wishing us luck.
Spent ONE LAST night on the beach at Cerro de Hermosa, a gorgeous small beach at the head of a long lagoon. Bathed in the sea one last time knowing that we faced at least several long and dusty days ahead.

We really had no idea what we were getting ourselves into.

The next morining brought us to the crossroads for Oaxaca. Stopped in at a small roadside stand for water where an old woman gifted me three of the most delicious mangos I've ever eaten. Noon brought us inland to a small stream where we stopped for two hours bathing and relaxing in the shade, the crystal clear water and small rapids re-energizing and so cool. Had to fight to draw ourselves away and back into the afternoon sun. Climbing out of the river valley, we began to taste the mountains for real. The road became curvier at first, then steeper, before I knew it I was grinding up tight switchbacks in my lowest gear (24x30. For those of you who cant picture it, that's really, REALLY, low). It was like climbing a spiral staircase and nearly as slow...for 20 miles. Grasslands then tropical plants began to give way to pinetrees. The air begins to cool and waterseeps begin flowing from the hillside. The road steepens yet again (a concept I found impossible) then turns to a semi-paved, semi-dirt construction zone, then turns to nothing more than a small dirt jeep trail. Constantly climbing. Up and up and wondering finally if it will ever end. Bikes are dismounted and pushed. Streams are forded, shoes get soaked.
Spent the night in a small forrested cut just off the road. I'm not really a proponent of fence jumping or gate passing, but darkness was setting in and we were forced to cross a barbed wire fence to make our camp, with no traffic save for the occasional construstion vehicle passing in the night.
Woke the next morning to a short climb and finally a peak of sorts. Looking down into a vast, steep valley, we could just see the town of Santa Catarina de Juquila at the valley floor, the church, like in many small mexican towns taking center stage, dwarfing the smaller buildings surrounding. Dropped into Juquila on a four mile dirt and sand hill-bomb to find the small town absolutely overrun with people. We could barely ride the streets for the pedestrian traffic. The entire central square and churchyard was a market which spread for blocks in any direction. What we didn't know, could not have known, was that we had stumbled upon an annual pilgrimage to Juquila. In honor of it's virgin, Santa Catarina.
After a short visit and some quick lunch, we left Juquila to another brutally steep climb, back out of the valley we had only just recently entered. Aty this point the Pilgrimage became evident in all it's force and glory. Heavy, heavy traffic in the opposite direction. Cars Busses, pick-ups all filled to the brim with people, loaded to the gills with camping gear, food, blankets, furniture, anything you could imagine. All with a picture of The virgin of Juquila roped to the front grill. Passed a crew of cyclists, 50 strong, making the ride from Toluca, Estado Mexico (about 400 mkiles away). Cheered them on and they cheered us, each going our own direction, each on our own pilgrimage.
Continuing the climb, I passed a group of men parked at the roadside and resting in the shade. As I passed I heard a comment shot in my direction. It wasn't spanish....what was it that he said?
Then it hit me.
"Bin Laden." That man called me Bin Laden.

I gotta do something about this beard.

Another climb, another decent. With a small town in the distance, the thought of a cold beverage racing through my mind, and nothing between me and that goal but a steep downhill, I heard a disconcerting snapping noise, then moments later a loud rubbing sound and a feeling of strong resistance to my downward progress. Stopped to take stock and found that the left side rack eyelet of my frame (the part where the cargo rack attaches to the back of the bike) had snapped clean off, causing the rack, with all my gear to cant off to the left and rub on my rear tire.
This is not good.
Walked my bike the last 500 Meters into town where Anthony immediately sought out a beer and I immediately set about finding a welder, a mechanic, a hardware store, anyone or anything to hopefully resecure the rack to the frame. To spare me the 100 mile walk to Oaxaca city. All I could find was small, disorganized garage. Tried to explain my needs, a welder, a hoseclamp. Got a twist of bailing wire to hold the rack to the seat stay. Bike repair, mexican style. By any means neccessary. I love it.
When I got back to the center of town (if you could call it that), Anthony deep in conversation with an entire family outside of a small grocery store. They were all standing around drinking, and the patron of the family, the father, handed me an ice cold Corona. More Pilgrims, on their way to Juquila. Spent about two hours there in the shade with them. Maybe seven people in all. Grandparents, parents, children and grandchildren. More beers were purchaced and given to us. Toasts were made. They gave us some tortillas and fruit. I had to dump some weight on account of the broken frame, so I gave them my tent.
Next two days are more of the same. Climbing to peaks decending to valleys. Constantly up and down. Passing pilgrims all the way. Slept in a dry riverbed and in the morning stopped at what we thought to be a roadside foodstand. Turned out to be a mobile kitchen for a group of 100 pilgrims on foot, walking nine days from Tehuacan, nearly 300 miles away. Potato rolled tacos, eggs, juice and coca-cola. Served to us for free from the hands of strangers by the grace of god. Amen. Buying locally produced Mezcal from a roadside stand. The proprietor serving it into plastic liter bottles fom a murky looking glass carboy. Camping just off the road on a graded drit platform overlooking a small valley. Churchbells at six a.m. dragging us out of our much needed slumber. Finally finding a welder who spent about half an hour working on my bike, welding it back together, and asked for nothing, saying: "I'm a machinist, not a welder".
Finally, Oaxaca city. Beautiful, bustling town surrounded by mountains. Evening thunderstorms. Walking the streets late at night and watching the lightning dance in the distance. Mole negro and the best chocolate you'll ever taste in your life. Deep fried crickets by the bag (actually, half a bag was plenty for me).
Sunday Morning, Easter sunday. Skipped mass and headed for the hills. Finally. The end of my Pilgrimage. Monte Alban. Stood at the top of the tallest temple and whispered my thanks to the cardinal directions. Stood on a sacrificial altar. The exact spot where hundreds of human souls had left their earthly bodies. Despite the crowds, the vendors, the comercialization that unfortunately pervades even some of the most sacred places, standing on that mystical site, I shut my eyes and for a moment, a brief fleeting second, I was the center of the universe.

Going Slow to Go Fast.

2009-04-13T09:23:00.000-07:00

Well, he made it! After several long weeks of waiting and hoping for pipe dreams to become a reality, I'm now on the road with my brother, Anthony. Jason is back in Alaska and actually enjoying the cold and the snow and the dark (somedays I don't blame him, it's been brutally hot the past week). Parker packed up a backpack, left his bike in safe hands and took off hitch-hiking, ultimately trying to make his way to the summit of Izta, an 1800 foot Volcano outside of Mexico City. I was tempted, but the arrival of my brother and a desire to continue Southeast and see as much of Mexico as possible compelled me to keep the bike and continue on the highways.
The ride from Zihuatenejo was an excercise in patience, knowing I had more than enough time to cover the ground to meet up at the Acapulco airport. Passing the days slowly, getting up in no rush, stopping often, gennerally passing the time and taking in the scenery. Spent each night on a different beach, sometimes walled in by Palapas, sometimes with nothing and no one in sight. Spent my 29th birthday just as I had envisioned, on a completely solitary beach in the middle of nowhere. El Carrazal. I took a long dip in the Pacific, toasted the sky with a lukewarm Victoria (beer) and built myself a simple cake out of sand and watched the ocean swallow it whole. Made some pasta, started eating just as the sun went down and was immediately set upon by a swarm of mosquitos the likes of which I've never seen (must've been the swamp just opposite the beach). Gathered my things and ran for the shelter of my tent, but not before receiveing no less than sixty mosquito bites on my exposed legs and feet. Only other thing I got for my birthday was a flat tire.
Next day, March 30th I saw two pigs killed in cold blood, each more gruesome than the next. First, passing through a small village, hearing a commotion at the side of the road, I looked to my right. A pitbull had grabed a rather large pig by the neck and was flapping the thing around like a seal on sharkweek. The sight made me shutter, but hell, it's a dog. A pitbull none the less. That's just what they do. Later however, taking a detour along the coast along beautiful, cool palmlined roads and sporatic little villages, I witnessed a large pickup with "Jesus es mi señor" plastered over the top of the windshield, swerve with intention and hit a small piglet in the middle of the road. Passing the dying piglet, twitching and gasping in the throes of death, I could only think one thing: "Fucking rednecks". It's the same everywhere. I just hope that one day when that man reaches the pearly gates, St. Peter opens his big book and goes:
"Hmmm....everything looks in order, except this one thing.....looks like you're gonna have to spend some time in that other place."
And I`m not talking about purgatory.

Later, on the same road, I reached a large uncrossable river, and for the second time on the trip had to pay to be taken safely across a body of water. This time on a tiny, handmade, fiberglass bottomed boat, piloted by a young mother and her even younger son. The trip took about three minutes, cost about 15 pesos and left me in Pie De La Cuesta. Just several miles North of Acapulco. Seached out the beaches for nearly an hour and finally found a dirty patch of private property to call home for the night.
Acapulco is another huge, bustling port town focused mainly on gringo tourism, yet maintains more of a "mexican" big city feel than say, Puerto Villarta or Cabo San Lucas. Cabs everywhere, all blue and white VW bugs, passing, speeding and generally wreaking havoc all throughout the city like a swarm of angry bees. Only slightly worse are the busses, which all bear their own (often hilarious) names over the front windshields. Some of my favorites were "Amour Prohibido", "Resident Evil" (yes, like the video game), and even better, "Poison" (yes, like the band).
Being that I was a day early to meet Anthony, despite my efforts to keep things really slow, I broke down and got a hotel in the outskirts of Acapulco, as far as i could from the large gringo hotels and resorts. Exhausted from the heat, smog, and general anarchy of the acapulco streets, I more or less holed up for the day, napping and reading, fan on full blast, leaving only to grab the occasional bite to eat or another cold beer.
Finally the day came and I made the short, but brutally steep climb out of Acapulco and toward the airport. The reunion went off without a hitch, only a short delay in landing, and Anthony stepped off the plane into the tropical afternoon, just hours after boarding in San Francisco (it's taken me how long?). Needless to say, it was good to see him, good to know that for the next six weeks or so I'd have one of my closest friends and dearest family joining me in the fun. Unpacking, rebuilding and setting up the bike (oh yeah, he brought me a new wheel too!) too some time, and we barely had time to get away from the airport and to the beach before dark. Ended up camped on the future site of a large hotel, where a very friendly security guard insisted we camp for our own safety, where he could keep an eye on us. Not exactly the ideal for his first night in Mexico, but when pressured, we do what we must.
Fortunately, the next days long ride brought us to a beautiful wide, sweeping beach and the shade of a Palapa overhead. Playa Ventura (aka Juan Alvarez). One of the prettiest beaches I've been on so far. Happy that Anthony could finally breathe in the salt air and realize "I am here". Camped below a family restaurant and generally lived the good life for a day and a half. Catching up with each others lives, drinking beer, eating fish that the proprietor had pulled from the ocean that very day, the waves just yards from our tent in the event that the day got too hot. I didn't want to leave, and after two nights it was like pulling teeth to drag ourselves back onto the hot and sweaty highway.
Spent last night and the day here in Pinotepa National after a long and grueling ride through the flats of the Guerrero Oaxaca border and the foothils of the Seirra Madre. Tomorrow we turn east. Into the mountains for (five or more) days of steady climbing (according to my map we'll just barely skirt a 8990 ft. peak!). Toward Ciudad Oaxaca and the ruins at Monte Alban!

Break. Breaking-points. Break-ups. Point-breaks.

2009-03-26T14:19:00.000-07:00

Slow weeks. Lots of time and little space to cover. Parker was to meet his Dad and Sister in Zihuatanejo on the twenty second, giving us 5 days to travel 160 Kilometers. Slow moving, almost too slow. Break time.
The road out of La Placita was harsh. Up and down steep, jagged shoreline. Riding which reminded me more of the Oregon Coast than of anything we'd seen so far in Mexico. Camped nights on some beautiful beaches. Always taking the time to wash of the days sweat and dirt in the cool sea before setting up camp for the night. Watching the sunrise almost over the ocean (I forget that at some points, even though we're following the ocean, we're now heading more East than South). Still at just 40 kilometers a day we'd start late and end early.
The night before reaching Zihuatanejo, we scouted out a campsite just beneath a giant highway bridge in the bed of a small trickling river. Woke in the morning surrounded by cattle, strange, leathery beasts that looked more akin to a sacred Indian animal than to the big, clean, black and white Holstiens of the American west. Turns out, they heard these cattle along the riverbed to higher pastures every morning, and we were right in their path. Great thing is, nobody really seemed to care. The cowboys just nodded and waved. The cows sniffed at our bikes and moved on up the river. I got up and made coffee.
In Zihuatanejo we were able to get into the apartment that Parker's dad, Stan, had rented a little bit early, the night before his arrival. After a wild chase around town, we finally found the building and were let in by the caretaker. Incredible. Beautiful airy apartment, almost completely open to the ocean side. I know i'll lose a bout a billon "punk points" for this, but it was great. After nearly two moths of sleeping on the ground, cooking on the ground, reading, writing, relaxing on the ground. We had it all. Kitchen, tables, chairs. Things taken forgranted. Immediately ran out and bought a bunch of fruit and vegetables. Made a huge dinner of all the freshest things we could find. It's funny what you miss when you carry your life on your bike or your back. I almost hugged the refridgerator.
The next day, Parker's dad and sister arrived. We met them with yet another huge, homecooked meal, making the most of the kitchen at our disposal. It was fun to meet Parker's family, to see where he'd come from and to see them together. It was great. Definitlely made me miss my family.
And then the news came. I got an e-mail from my brother, Anthony, saying he was sick of reading about my fun and wanted to join it. He'd be in Acapulco in 7 days and could I meet him at the airport? Yes. Of course! I'd be there in a week.
After a few nights more in Zihuatanejo, checking out the towns, enjoying the luxury of a roof over head and a cold beer at arms reach, I decided to go check out a small surfing beach about 40 kilometers back to the North. My Dad had told me that some friends of his, Rick and Jan, were staying up there and I should go look them up. Having plenty of time to make the 230 kilometers to Acapulco to meet my brother I figured why not? Maybe get some surfing done too...
Jason and I rode out of Zihuatanejo after a brief goodbye to Parker and family (they'd invited us to stay when we passed back though). Climbing the steep accent out of town, Jason Pulled along side of me.
"I think I'm just going to go to the airport. Go back to Alaska."
This had kind of been a running joke with him, but this time it sounded different. Something had broken inside of him, and I could tell. I stopped riding.
"You're serious this time."
"Yeah, I'm just over this shit. I'm over touring."
"Honestly Jason, I'm sick of hearing just how over it you are."
"I know, and you shouldn't have to be party to my drama."
And that was that.
It was an uncerimonious goodbye, though we both held back tears. We hugged on the side of the road, split up some gear that we'd been sharing, and went our separate ways. As he rode away, I called after him.
"Oh yeah, and Jason?"
"What?"
"The airport's back that way."
"Shit. Really? Thanks." He turned his bike around and headed down the right road.
I'd been feeling that Jason's heart wasn't in this thing all the way from the get go. He often seemed distant, joked about jumping the next plane, spoke often of Alaska and going back, sometimes downright admitted how road weary he was. Then he'd brighten up, get really stoked on life and the trip and the beauty of it all. Then a few days later he'd be bummed again. It was starting to wear on my own spirits, but
reguardless, we were in this together. We had fun together, and helped each other along, cooked for each other and played music and sang songs and part of it all was that we put up with each other when things weren't going well. He'd just reached his breaking point, and we both knew it was time.
There's a lot I didn't say to Jason, but this is not the time or place. I'll just say this, in case you're reading.

I hope you find what you're looking for.

Saladita. Not quite the surfers paradise I was hoping for, but pretty damn close. Unlike most Mexican beaches as pretty, Salaladita is not lined entirely with Palapa restaurants and tourist shops. There's two small restaurants (purportedly owned by two sisters) and some large, but not incredibly gaudy houses. Enough undeveloped (though still private) property to squat on, and a nice, long, peeling Left that breaks from about three or four hundred yards out all the way to the beach. Not perfect, but good enough for me.
Spent the last two days lounging under a palapa, reading books, drinking beer, and surfing. Looked up my dads' friends and dropped in on their vacation for a while.
Now I'm back in Zihuatanejo. Probably spending one last night here with Parker and his family, then heading out of town. Alone for the week. Likely be spending my birthday alone on some desolate mexican beach (29 on the 29th this year). Crazy. I'll build myself a giant cake in the sand and surprise myself with a tube of "Chokis" (the mexican version of "Chips Ahoy" and my favorite Mexican energy bar substitute). Then on to Acapulco, my brother, and the south. Ever south. Wait, no, make that East......

Out with the New and In with the Old. Or, Bike Repair, Mexican Style.

2009-03-19T15:11:00.000-07:00

It´s been a rough couple of days. Phisically, mentally trying times interspersed with moments of extreme beauty and clarity.
It all started in Salulyta. Dreamed of a secluded surfers paradise and got a white washed fucking gringo tourist nightmare. Beaches overflowing with people, more American and Canadian license plates than I´ve seen since, well, California. Not a word of Spanish spoken in the streets. Looking for a cheap place to bed down for the night, another gringo overheard our queries and attempted to help.
"How much you looking to spend?"
"No more than three fifty, total."
"Pesos? You´re kidding." A smug smile spreading across his fleshy face. "You know you guys aren´t in Tijuana anymore."
"Really? Hmm...that´s weird. Well boys, it looks like we must´ve taken a wrong turn somewhere!"
I don´t think he shared our humor as we rode away, laughing.
Too tired and road-weary to care anymore, we ended up staying at one of these overpriced, youth-oriented campgrounds that feels more like a hip hostel than the beautiful palm grove that it´s set in.
And the young gringos are almost worse than their older Canadian R.V.ist counterparts. I for one, am sick of their puka shell jewelry, their unfortunate body piercings, their dreadlocks, drums, drugs and their whole fucking pseudo-alt-recycled-neo-hippy culture. Excuse my french.
Next day brought a short but beautiful ride through a luscious Jungle. Parker´s bike began acting up again and we decided to camp at Punta de Mita, just at the edge of the Urban sprawl that is Puerto Vallarta. Hoping to dash into the city in the morning, buy some bike parts and be well clear of the whole mess by nightfall the next day. Despite the huge timeshare condos taking up much of the water front, Punta de Mita had a gorgeous public beach. Enough privacy for skinny dipping in the clear, cool water. Camp stove lentil soup, homemade margaritas on the beach under the stars, just enough wind to keep the mosquitoes at bay. Finally feeling back at home, only us and the Mexican fishermen on the beach in the morning.
Puerto Vallarta is a sprawling mass of hotels and tourist industry. Billboards, all in english, line the highway for miles outside of town. Hotels, restaurants, strip clubs. Think Las Vegas on the edge of what would otherwise be an amazing Pacific coast bay. Rolled into town a little later than we had hoped. Had a hell of a time finding a bike shop. Tired and dirty and smog choked from the ride into town. Finally Jason cracked.
"We´re staying here," he said, pointing at a hotel, the first in sight. "I´m paying".
O.K. I know I just threw us in with the whole tourist culture that I´ve been cursing for paragraphs, but I´ll admit it: A warm shower, and a large, air contditioned room were exactly what i needed. A chance to sit down, take stock, and breathe for just a night felt oh so good.

My friend Jasmin once told me this saying that her mother used to console her in times of trial and sadness. She´d say,
"Todo en la vida tiennes solucion, menos la muerte."
Everything in life has a solution except for death.
It´s become a mantra of sorts these past few days.
Before leaving P.V. we found a small bike shop and bought the parts needed to fix Parker´s bike. Switched his ten speed integrated shifting system into a jury rigged 8 speed friction system by mounting a cheap plastic mountainbike thumb shifter to the bottom of his drop bars. (for those of you who aren´t getting this, don´t worry, pictures will come sooner or later). Basically took off all the newest, highest end bike technology and replaced it with something much older. Works 100 times better now.
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.
Camped in a small cut off the road and woke in the morning with a flat. By noon I´d patched the tube twice. By three, four times. By five I took the rear wheel off one last time and found that the rim I´d replaced only a month and a half ago in Ensenada had failed. Spokes starting to pull though the rim once more. Hairline cracks where each driveside spoke met the rim.
Next day, rode into a small, nameless town on a Mavic x517 laced to an XTR hub with an 8 speed 11-32 cassette and rolled out on a single walled wheel with a six speed freewheel and (as a nod to Bikesnob NYC) a big, bright pink pieplate spoke protector. It wiggles and it shakes and I can´t use my rear brake, but it´ll get me to Acapulco....I hope.
Now crossed over into estado Michihuacan. Amazing rocky shorelines and Banana fields forever. Climbing up a steep, steep headland, Jason turned to me.
"I think something´s wrong. My bike seems kind of squishy."
Reached the top of the hill to find that part of his extracycle (the kind of cargo carrying addition to the bike) had broken clean in half near the left drop-out (that´s where the wheel attaches to the frame). Descended into La Placita on a wing and a prayer. Hoping that the rear half of Jason´s bike wouldn´t snap clean off, sending him careening over the roadside and into the pacific. Praying to find a soldera, a muffler shop, someone with a welder and the know how to tack the thing back together. Found a blacksmith/welder, but at 5 o´clock on a Sunday it was no wonder that he was closed. The next morning he´d weld it back together with an antiquated migwelder in about thirty seconds, for 20 pesos (that´s a dollar fifty american). Made our way to the beach and ended up being invited to stay with two young guys from Mexico city, Gabriel and Santiago, and a gringo ex-pat, Randy, who are trying to set up a restaurant on the beach. Passed a peaceful night under their palapa, Drinking Cuygamas of Corona and watching the waves crash upon the shore.
Woke this morning and Jason had flat tires front and rear. Fixing his front flat, he discovered two broken spokes. Replaced those, no problem. Fixing his rear flat he noticed that his wheel had suffered the same fate as mine. After nearly 11,000 miles, the spokes had torn out through the rim, not all the way through, yet, but definitely failing. It´s only a matter of time. It´ll get him to Acapulco...I hope......

Always Listen To Your Mother

2009-03-10T19:18:00.000-07:00

After hearing the news that our traveling partner, Jessi would be leaving us in La Paz to head of on her own return to Canada, my mom wrote me back with these words:
"It’s too bad Jessi has to stop now. You are just getting to the best part of Mexico!".
Always listen to your mother.
Caught the ferry out of La Paz on a sunday afternoon. Not much to be said about 18 hours on a boat except that I never, never, want to be lost at sea. Ever. Looking out over the moonlit water, no land in sight and only the silent vastness of the ocean in every direction made my stomach churn and my head spin, even from the deck of a giant ship. Imagining floating in that empty darkness still haunts my dreams. So much for a life at sea. I´ll stick to my landbound ways, thank you.
Arrived in and consequently departed Mazatlan as fast as possible. Out of the city and into open country. Immediately aware of the change that had taken place. Vegetation everywhere. thick, green, and wet. Pepper fields on either side of the highway. Cutting off the main road and along palm lined beaches. Iguanas skittering off the edge of the road, three armadillos crucified on a barbed wire fence. A warning, perhaps, to would be sqatters like ourselves. You are not welcome here.
Heading south and the jungle becomes deeper. Strange birds overhead, giant, bright green butterflies, strange calls in the night. Huge mangrove trees and stands of palms, coconuts, bananas, camping out in a huge mango orchard. Knowing what to eat by whats in the bed of the pickups passing by. Jackfruit, huge and spiky and piled high in the back of a rusted old ford. Cantelopes straight off the vine. Getting lost twice at dead ends, cursing the lack of detail on my map ("but this shows the road goes through!"). Long days on the relative safety of the toll highway (free for bikes!). A hundred miles with a nice, wide shoulder and a chance to enjoy the passing scenery.
Decided one night to camp at a place called Playa Chacala. A small beach village catering mostly to Mexican vacationers. Tired and hungry, we stopped in at a small restaurant for a meal and a drink. Looked out on the beach and saw a familliar face at a distance.
"No way....it couldn´t be......that´s.....PARKER!"
Parker and I met in Beverly Beach, Oregon, and rode together almost all the way to San Francisco, Ca. I knew he was in Mexico, but he started nearly a month before us. Never would have expected to run into him like this, here. Just sitting on some random beach, 9 km. off the main highway. He´d hit a dog and messed up his bike. Said that he´d been on the beach for almost a week. Jason and I joined him for a day day on the beach. Waking up with a swim in the warm clear water. Bought fish from a fisherman staight from the sea. Gutted and cleaned them on a piece of driftwood for lunch. Slept to the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. Lulled to sleep again by that same vast ocean.
I spent an afternoon in the sand with his ailing bike and got it back to some fuctioning capacity. Now we are three again. Heading south. Taking our time. Enjoying the beaches and the jungle. Enjoying the beauty and magic of every moment. We´ve truely reached the best part of Mexico.
Always listen to your mother.....

Empty Bottles, Broken Spokes.

2009-03-04T09:02:00.000-08:00

Ciudad Constitution. Five p.m. and the thermometer reads 34 degrees celsius. That´s 93 farenheit, and the sun is already way past the apex of its daily arc. Only two days out of Loreto and dreaming of a shower, a cold beer, anything to clean me off. To cool me down.
Two nights under the stars on top of my sleeping bagin the salt incrusted shorts, the same stained and rancid t-shirt I spent all day riding in. Two nights bug bitten and sweat soaked. Too hot to sleep. Snakes under my bags in the morning, Tarantulas (small ones granted, but still....) skitteing through the beam of my flashlight at night.
Climbed out of Loreto and into the mountains, a long steep grade winding through the hills. Heard the first spoke go about ten miles in. My rear wheel´s trying to tell me something.
"I´m tired. I can´t take it anymore".
"Well me too. Shut up. Just get me through the day and I´ll fix you later."
Uh oh. Talking to the bike again. Must be the heat. Gotta remember to drink more water.
Camped in the sand of a dry riverbed under jagged, moss covered rock peaks. Decended into the agricultural flats of Villa Insurgentes and Ciudad Constitution. Leaving camp before sunup and putting in as many miles as possible before being forced to wait out the miday heat in the shade of some dusty roadside tree, some crumbling cinderblock structure. Rationing our water, nervously aware of our empty bottles and hoping that the next chance to refill is just around the next turn, just over the next rise. Hearing the muted but unmistakable "ping" of spokes finally giving out under the weight of my load. Two days. Three bikes. Seven flats. Enough said.
Now three days and three nights later. Three sunburnt and red eyed days of hoping for that next glipse of the sea. La Paz. Bustling capital on the gulf. A turningpoint. A Nexus. Here´s where Jessi splits off. Leaving us and making her way back to Victoria, Canada. Back to life. To friends. To Family. To work and save and plan for next years adventure. She´ll be missed dearly. The balance she lent to the group and her level headed coolness in every situation. We´ll see you in Victoria, Jessi.
Jason and I are catching the first ferry out of dodge. Out of the desert. Crossing the Tropic of Cancer into Mazatlan. The next leg. The mainland. 954 miles in. A third of the way there....

Sickness and Stabwounds

2009-02-27T14:34:00.000-08:00

"It has been said, and truely, that everything in the desert either stings, stabs, stinks, or sticks. You will find the flora here as venomous, hooked, barbed, thorny, prickly, needled, saw toothed, hairy, stickered, mean, bitter, sharp, wiry, and feirce as the animals. Something about the desert inclines all living things to harshness and acerbity. The soft evolve out." Edward Abbey.

The viscaino desert being no exception. Seems like weeks of pulling stickers out of my socks, out of my tires, my tent, sleepingbag, the rubber soles of my tennis shoes for chrissakes. Left the pacific side of Baja to howling tailwinds, flat roads, and 217 kilometers of wide open desert between us and the other coast. Night in the sand outside of Viscaino Junction on the grounds of an old oil transfer station, fog in the desert in the morning, burning off to a blazing day. Highway stretching for miles in either direction. Evening brought us upon San Ignacio, a desert oasis in the true sense of the word. Camped upon the shore of a lake in the shade of a grove of date palms for two days and two nights, Jason nursing the first in a series of stomache ailments. La tourista. Montezuma´s revenge. Call it what you will but its not pretty.
More desert. Finally the Gulf coast. Santa Rosalia. Colonized by the french. Think of a poorer, less sophisticated New Orleans. Onward through Mulege. Camping too expensive due to the droves of canadian r.v ists. The scurge of the broke traveller. For every r.v willing to pay 20 bucks a night for a place to park their "rig" is a campground owner with the nerve to ask 7 bucks a head for tent camping. No thanks. I´ll take the desert. The cactus. The seedpods that stick not only through the leather on your shoes, but through your tarp, your tent, your sleepingmat AND sleeping bag keeping you awake all night.
Finally, finally, finally. The beach. White sands and blue green waters. Bahia de conception, Coyote beach. Our own little Palapa and nothing but the sea the sky and the mountains across the bay in front of us. Out of the salt caked and rotten, sun baked bike shorts. Into the water. Cool and clear and so good on the skin. Walking out into deeper waters, something attacks my foot. Sharp pain shooting up through my leg. I stumble and then duck into the water, pulling my feet from the sandy floor and hoping for the pain to subside. Not doing. Swim to shore Even in the shallows, weary of touching bottom again. Foot bleeding from what is only a 1cm knick in the top. Blood somehow thick and stringy. Pain becoming unbearable. Something´s wrong.
"You get hit by a stingray?" It´s the old man in the neighboring campsite.
"Don´t know what else it´d be." I reply, wincing throughn the pain.
"Well, get some hot water on that, as soon as possible, as hot as you can bear. It´s mating season I hear. Those things are everywhere."
"Thanks for the tip." I say, trying to stay cordial, thinking, "little late for the warning you old fucker."
All annoyance aside, the old man´s advice did do some good. Pouring boiling water on the wound seemed to drown out the pain, now pulsing through the entire foot. Hours pass. Any number of half-assed and improvised home remedies. Hot water, lavender oil, Mezcal, Beer, sleep.
Wake to the sun rising over the bay. Glowing gold and bright in the morning sky. The water clear and glassy as a lake. Foot looks like a baby´s all padding, not definition. To fat to fit into a bike shoe. Wouldn´t be going anywhere anyway if Jason weren´t already doubled over, clutching his stomache. Up all night vomiting. Not going anywhere.
Not a bad place to be stuck though, on a sandy mexican beach in the shade of a palapa on a beautiful bay. Not to bad. Not bad at all.
Two more days on the beach. Sleeping under the dome of the stars. Watching a pod of dolfins play in the pitch black waters, their movements made visible only by the bioluminecent red tide. Breakfast infront of a fire at sunrise. Sea Kyaking at dawn. Exploring the islands off shore. Swimming naked in the cool, clear, water of an untouched, deserted beach (with a rock bottom this time) enjoying life despite its pitfalls.
Now. Loreto. Foot back to its former size. Jason now only sore from all the heaving. a return to the city and some sense of normalcy. Moving slowly but enjoying it. May hit La Paz in a week or so. Then ferry to the mainland. What´s the rush anyway?

La Carretera de perros muertes

2009-02-23T08:23:00.000-08:00

South of Ensenada the land opens up to a wide open agricultural plain. The road flat and long and lined by dead dogs, small, dusty farming villages, too much traffic. Just before El Rosario the road turns inland and we caught our last glimpse of ocean for several hundred kilometers. Spend a night at El Consuelo, a little secluded beach right where highway one turns inland for El Rosario. Bathed in the cool blue of the Pacific ocean and watched the sun set over the waves. Didn´t want to leave, but when you can only carry 8 liters of drinking water at a time, sometimes concessions must be made. Heading east, we climbed steadily for what seemed like a full day or two. Into the high deserts, Cirio (boojum) trees appearing slowly, then more frequently as we headed east. Cholla cacti, sagebrush, creosote and the acient Seguaros covering the land to the mountainous horizon. Spent the night on a small dirt trail just off the highway (out of sight behind a small rise). Kept up all night by the semis jake-braking into, then grinding out of the valley. A sprinkling of rain, but woke to clear skies and pushed on. The land changing again from rolling hills to wide fields strewn with giant boulders (most near the highway covered in crudely painted graffiti). Absolutely incredible. Made Cataviña that night, a small town in the middle of nowhere consisting of two motels, a market, and a man selling gasoline from cans out of an old trailer. Jason wanted a might off and foot the bill for a motel. Good thing. Woke to rain and howling wind and clouds to the horizon. No one argued when Jason suggested we stay and see if the weather broke. Around 3, the sky lightening, fueled on coffee and hours of inactivity, we all three walked out into the desert. finding the largest Hill and making for the top. About a mile in the sky broke open, soaking us through. Pushed on for the top,scrambling over boulders and dodging 100 different species of spiky plant. Just as we crested the peak the sun broke through the clouds, drowning the valley below in golden light, casting two rainbows across the endless rock gardens. Mountains in the distance glowing red in the twilight. Two more nights in the desert. Leaving the rocks and cacti for a rainswept steppe, fighting headwinds and rain and the ubiquitous mexican truckers for mile after mile. Camping under a near full moon in the shadow of a thirty foot, 200 year-old Saguaro. Finally turning south again and blasting into Guerrero Negro at 23 miles per hour, the sun shining and the wind full at our backs... Tomorrow we ride back into the desert. Heading east again for the Gulf of California. Can´t wait to feel that cool water on my skin again.

Welcome to Mexico!

2009-02-16T10:18:00.000-08:00

Ensenada. Now only 60 miles and a world away from the U.S. border. It´s saturday and me and my riding partners Jason and Jessi are just laying low and taking care of some last minute things before heading farther south.
Left leucadia on wednesday morning and rode to san diego to meet up with Jason and Jessi. Spent the night in San Diego just hanging out and helping to get things organized. We had planned on shooting for Rosarito (or there abouts) on wednesday, but despite our early start, took a long while getting to the border. Jason is using and extracycle (kind of an extension off the back of the bike that permits carrying large amounts of cargo). Unfortunately jason was having major issues with the thing. His cargo kept pushing against the rotor for his disk brake (rule no.1, don´t tour with disk brakes). The immediate solution, remove the brake all together. Reached the border a little later than we would have liked and decided to play it safe, stay in San Ysidro (right by the border) then ride through tijuana in the morning.
Contrary to our presumptions, there was absolutely no wait or hassle at the border. The bike lane was closed so we actually had to get on I-5 and ride across the border with all the other vehicle traffic. Riding in tijuana is like nothing I´ve experienced. Huge potholes, traffic everywere, exhaust and dust burning your eyes and lungs. You can´t take a bike on the toll roads, so we had to climb out of t.j. along the rutted and broken asphalt of Mexico 1 libre. Approaching the ridgeline, before the decent into Rosarito, I heard and odd sound coming from my back wheel. Maybe it was the roads, maybe it was riding 1700 miles fully loaded on a used wheelset, maybe just bad luck, but one of my spokes had actually torn through the rim of my rear wheel, leaving the spoke and nipple hanging and a half inch wide tear in the rim. Fuck. Not ten miles into mexico and the rear wheel´s dead. Decided to pull the spoke out of the way and keep riding, keeping my fingers crossed that I´d make ennsenada (and be able to find a replacement wheel there).
Continuing on the long decent into rosarito, tearing downhill, pushed by a tailwind, I turned to check on my riding partners only to see Jason carreening towards me, dragging the heel of his shoe on the ground. He flew past me just narrowly averting running headlong into a ditch on the shoulder of the road. His front and (remember) only brake had failed somehow. Forcing him to bomb brakeless to the bottom of the hill...me folowing and hoping that he wouldn´t go flying off the road (luckily the road only had large, gradual curves). Jason managed to make the long run out at the hills base and finally came to a stop. Panting and wild-eyed, heart undoubtably racing.
Safe at last in the flats, a pickup truck pulled over to us, the driver leaning out the window.
"your friend" he said "she fell. Shes o.k but her wheel´s like this." making a wavy motion with his hand.
I left jason at the bottom of the hill and rode BACK up to find Jessi no chalantly changing a flat on the side of the road. She had run over something big and blown out her rear tire, losing control and falling to the side of the road. Her wheel was bent, but not to bad. After the flat was fixed, the brake re adjusted and Jason joined us back at the top of the hill, I brought up what no one else wanted to say.
"we´re ten miles into mexico, we´ve got four good wheels and four brakes between us (do the math). Hate to say it, but maybe we should head back, take care of this stuff and try again tomorrow." Luckily both Jason and Jessi said what I wanted to hear.
"No. No turning back. We´ll figure it out."
And here we are. Ensenada. Tecate and fish tacos (I know, it´s typical and kind of cheesy, but what the hell.) Jessi´s wheel is fixed. I found a new rim and am rebuilding my wheel this afternoon. Jason jury rigged his extra cycle and has two brakes. We figured it out, as I figure we´ll have to over and over and over.
Despite everything, even just two days into all this, it´s been amazing. Beautiful, long rides. Epic landscapes, super friendly people, always lending a hand, curious about the trip, drivers offering a large breadth when passing on the highway (except the trucks, sometimes). Just touring in a new country is great. so different that Washington, oregon, california. Sixty miles down, 3000 to go.

Futuristic technology!

2009-02-04T11:06:00.000-08:00

Mexico is amazing. Only several days in and something blows my mind every day. Too much to write about now. One of my fellow travelers has this crazy gps device. You can track our progress here:

http://www.camel-hippo-tour.com/RouteInfoJournal/spotmenow/tabid/444/Default.aspx

At least until the batteries run out or Jason throws it into the sea.

off again

2009-01-25T01:48:00.000-08:00

Well, after almost two months in Leucadia (san diego county), I'm finally going to be back on the road. This time heading south into Mexico and beyond. I'll probably be checking in every once and a while with stories from the road, but there probably won't be many new pictures up for a long time. So for now, stay stoked, and keep riding....

Done for, part 2.

2009-01-09T21:52:00.001-08:00

Done for, part 1.

2009-01-09T21:44:00.000-08:00

Showing off, part 1.

2008-12-20T14:15:00.001-08:00

Here's a bike frame I built. Can't wait to ride it...

Bicycle Epic 2008: California Dreaming.

2008-12-12T17:21:00.000-08:00

Even though I grew up there, and will always love it, Southern California is fucking weird. There's just so much excess: too much money, too many cars, too many people. Despite it all though, there's still much beauty to be found...and burritos...so many burritos.

Coolest Mom.

2008-12-11T12:30:00.000-08:00

These little kids were tearing around the hiker-biker site in Big Sur. Just killing it. Check out mom in the background: cruisin' along...watching the kids....sippin' a beer...awesome!

Bicycle Epic 2008: Central Coast

2008-12-09T19:39:00.001-08:00

After taking a week off in San Francisco, my friends Tim and Ryan escorted me out of town for a day. It was super fun. That's Ryan in the cool shades and Tim taking a rest on some artificial grass at the cemetery at the top of highway 92. Visited my friend Pete on a sheep farm in Watsonville. They just had a bunch of lambs so a bunch of the cute lil' buggers were running around. Then into the majestic beauty that is Big Sur......absolutely clear and beautiful that day. I think the picture speaks for itself.

Road Kill.

2008-12-07T23:28:00.001-08:00

ewwwww....

Worst Day, Ever.

2008-12-07T23:11:00.001-08:00

After getting held up in Fort Bragg on account of the weather I realized I kind of had to haul to get to San Francisco by election day to vote. Unfortunately that meant riding trough some of the worst weather I've ever been caught in. This day was 20 mph headwinds with 60mph gusts, pissing rain, and super limited visibility. I can honestly say that this was the worst day I've ever had of riding, ever.

From top: Parker, contemplating killing me. Clowning after we were both literally blown off the road. We actually ended up pushing our bikes up most of this hill cause the wind and visibility were so bad...

Bicycle Epic 2008: Mendocino Coast to S.F.

2008-12-07T22:50:00.000-08:00

I want to live on the Mendocino coast, seriously. It's so incredibly beautiful there. Rocky seascapes to the west and rolling farmlands to the east. Riding out of Humbolt county I ran into Parker again, as well as three kids from Leadville, CO. We all kind of played leap-frog all the way down the coast. All five of us got caught in a horrible storm in Fort Bragg, went splits on a hotel and a bunch of pizza, and yard-saled our stuff to try and dry out. That's Brian in the last picture with San Francisco in the background. He owns a bike shop called Cycles of Life in Leadville. Look him up if you're ever there.

Sometimes You Just Gotta....

2008-12-07T22:41:00.000-08:00

I paid THREE DOLLARS to ride through this tree! Of course the photo didn't turn out either...
Sometimes you just gotta do the touristy stuff too, even if it is a waste of time and money, I mean, have YOU ever ridden through a tree? That's what I thought.

Bicycle Epic 2008: Stony Pony

2008-12-06T21:12:00.000-08:00

Pretty much everyone you meet in Northern California grows or smokes weed....lots of it, and it's kind of no wonder, the landscape is just so conducive to various forms of stonyness. From top: Parker on the 6 mile decent through the redwoods to Elk Prarie, Fern Canyon and the single track we rode to get there (i got three flats this day, the only three on my entire 1700 mi trip), and at bottom the night sky over Arcata. Oh yeah, I also saw a lady riding a horse on the street, barefoot, talking on a cellphone....see, what did I tell you.

Bicycle Epic 2008: Oregon Coast

2008-12-06T20:58:00.001-08:00

Not much can be said about the Oregon coast that you haven't heard. Go there. Its amazing. Met this kid named Parker on the road. That's him in the middle photo. We ended up riding almost all the way to San Francisco together. Below is a self portrait in front of the Rouge brewery in Newport, Oregon. 10 a.m. about to get some samples...

That's what I'm talkin' 'bout...

2008-12-06T20:53:00.000-08:00

Bicycle epic 2008: Rainy Days.

2008-12-06T17:24:00.000-08:00

Thing about the Olympic peninsula is that it's a rainforest, so even when it's not raining, it's soaking wet. Got caught in a few days of rain and never dried out, despite my best efforts. Even with full fenders my bike ended up completely caked in mud.
The graffitti pic was taken from the ocean side of this barrier, meaning unless you were on the desolated, freezing beach, you'd never see it. I kinda thought it was funny, imagining a bunch of bored peninsula punks spraying this for no one but the whales....and the random cyclist stopping to take a piss.

Bicycle Epic 2008: Olympic peninsula

2008-12-06T16:59:00.000-08:00

Heres some photos from my first days out. the olympic peninsula is super nice: bikepaths, rad trees , epic sunsets and amazing camping. This was early october...