It's All Downhill From Here.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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....