Rain welcomed our arrival into Chiapas. Mountainsides became waterfalls, every other kilometer we crossed a raging river, and the percipitation was so heavy we had to blow air forcibly from our nostrils to avoid drowning.

It did not deter drivers that the highway lay under a few inches of water, they exercized little extra caution. Struggling to maintain that thin line alloted as a shoulder, I waited for the inevitable hydroplaning auto to swerve, collide, and repeatedly roll over my bike and body as it made its way to the bottom of a ditch. It felt at times that we were no longer biking, but tunneling through a wall which resisted with indefatigable force.

Nobody could really see what was in front of them, not me with my fogged glasses, nor the drivers with their wiperless windshields. When we felt like we had tested our luck long enough, we searched for shelter to wait out the torrential downpour. One day I pulled over to a small grocers stand. It had a tin awning providing shelter for the customers who stood outside and conducted business through a barred window. I was thrilled to escape the monsoon until I realized that the roof was full of holes. A stream of water ran down my neck as I asked for some fresh rolls. An old woman slouched against the ordering counter next to me and smiled; not a drop of water had touched her. Her hair even had that frizzy texture reminiscent of a sun baked desert.

“When do you think the rain will stop?” I asked my fellow stranded companion.
“It´s been like this for three days now, and I don´t think it will let up soon”. She replied, continuing to smile.

Had she been leaning up against the same tienda for the past three days? Was that her secret?
“Well, I´m going to be in Guatemala in a day…”
“Ah”. She gasped, “There´s much more water there than here.” She sounded a bit concerned for my wellbeing.

At this point the grocer lady intervened; “Joven (young one) what are you doing riding on this road? You know we have many pretty girls here.¨

The rain seemed to be hiding them; perhaps there were classier tiendas with less leaky awnings upon which they leaned and displayed their voluptuous bodies. Yet now the grocer lady was pointing to a television screen perched on top of her refrigerator, that between intervals of static related a Pan-Latin American dating show.

“Just like them…” she wagged her finger at a Honduras girl, thin as a stick and hair dyed guerro style, her potential male suitor was informing her that she just didn´t have the goods. Her heart exploded into flames that ravaged her amber face. “We have girls like them here! And they aren´t in school”.

She explained something about the school teacher having fled on an unannounced leave of absence.

At that moment Goat rode by. He was clothed only in board shorts. The rain pounded at him like a sledge hammer. I yelled, but he twisted his head wildly in numerous directions, unable to locate the source of the voice. I was close enough to hit him in the head with my stale pan dulce (sweet bread). Being momentarily removed the process of blind highway cycling allowed me the meditation time to observe just how insanely perverse this whole operation was becoming. What the hell was I doing pedaling down this crazy flooded highway anyway?

A feeling of profundity overwhelmed my soul; I was about to make a life-altering decision here and now. Turning to the match-maker grocer I nodded and murmered, “O.K.” What I meant to say was, “You´ve convinced me lady, lead the way to these idle beauties.” Of course at that essential moment my Spanish failed me. The two old match makers laughed and laughed. It must have been etched into the lines of my face that I was already married, that my heart and soul were invested into a piece of cold steel. After finishing off the grocers basket of stale pan dulce I returned to the slow process of drilling through that impenetrable wall.

In Chiapas, towns, farms, and houses were in close proximity to one another. Unused or unsupervised land was hard to find, hence It was becoming difficult to locate campsites that offered suitable trees to string hammocks from. One night as darkness closed in we decided to hang our hammocks from the beams of a high tension tower, not realizing that we were a few feet from a honey bee farm. When the family of bee keepers noticed our presence they engaged us heatedly, asserting the land underneath the tower was not their own, and that we should not camp there. Goat managed to pacify their concerns with some patient dialogue, and later that night the family presented each of us with a bottle of delicious honey.

The following evening we were again in a fix for a discrete location to camp. Much of the late afternoon had been spent navigating Tapachula, a large sprawling urban disaster with labyrinths of congested one-way streets. Luckily we found a beautiful grove of cocoa trees right outside the city limits, just as night approached. Surprisingly no fence obstructed our entrance into the field. Emboldened by the sight a clear sky, the first in nearly a week, I cycled back to town to pick up some beers. Being only ten kilometers from the Guatemalan border I felt that we had reason to celebrate.

A little after dawn we were awakened by heated shouts. Clumsily I twisted my body around in my wobbling hammock to see the source of commotion; a gang of farmers, armed with machetes had surrounded Goat´s hammock. The oldest among the gang talked in rapid fire bursts but it was clear that he wanted us all out of our cacoons and ready to explain our presence. Some small kid felt that Goat wasn´t acting with enough urgency, and proded at his hammock with a sharpened stick, as if tormenting an animal in a cage.

By the time each of us had dressed and emerged into the chaos, two other men had arrived on the scene. Each was barefoot, clad only in boxer shorts. Wedged as they were in a crowd of dark skinned indeginous farmers their paisty complexions screamed of disparity. Their sweaty brows and paranoid expressions revealed that someone had abruptly woken them with severe news; it wasn´t the threat of mere bandits or robbers, but some kind of godless creatures incubating in hovering green cacoons preparing to overtake the property. When the younger of the two -a thin balding man adorned in boxer shorts decorated by Simpsons characters- saw that we were just weird gringos he embarked on a lengthy tirade. The phrase, “puta madre” was applied in many new fascinating ways. When he attempted to reprimand us, the nasal tone of his voice revealed a kind of childish disappointment, like we had just played with his toy train without permission, and belligerently smashed all model freight cars to pieces. “Next time ask, just ask!” he whined. Eventually he pulled his foreman aside and imparted some wisdom, “Next time just ask what they´re doing…” -volley of expletives- “before you get me out of bed”.

There had been an older bigger fellow with a stout white mustache and protruding naked belly, but he was already gone. Early on in the reactionary tantrum, he had been silently dwelling in resentment at the unamusing prank of his early morning rousing. He shook his head, like the gringos were just a weird dream to be cast out the ears, and trotted back to his bed.

Among the faces of the armed gang, expressions betrayed disappointment that a lynching would not be taking place. The boss man told them to disperse, but he and his foreman stayed awhile to chat and diffuse the tense situation, and eventually let us be.

We set about cooking up our breakfast, casually eating, resting and digesting. Then suddenly the boss man was back, still clad only his Simpson boxer shorts, accompanied by his machete wielding foreman. Their reappearance put us back on guard. They asked the same exact questions they had asked the first time, mainly who we were, what we were doing. We were a bit worried that we were dealing with an amnesiac man of volatile temperment who may very well allow his armed farmers to hack us to bits. But then he asked us if we wanted to have coffee, maybe something for breakfast. He was vague. He asked his foreman what he could offer us, and before a response was offered he just took off. I could only fathom that his sporadic departures were due to the high volume of vicious mosquitos buzzing about. The near nude boss man must have been accumulating a devastating amount of bites. The quesiton remains; why, if he was going to reconfront us, wouldn´t he at least put on some shoes? As he parted from our company the second time, I feared his absence would be but an ephemeral gesture, that perhaps he was really lurking behind a tree waiting for us to plunder his cocoa fruit and thus have a pretense to nail us. Hastily we removed our hammocks and packed up our things. Leaving our cocoa tree refuge, we encountered a sign designating the place as Finca de la Paz, (Peaceful Plantation).

One day, while having a lunch of cheese, crackers and hot sauce on the side of a small rural road, Jacob made the observation that our tourist visas were near their expiration date. We were about midway through Guerrero at that time, and looking forward to all the dirt roads our map showed, winding through the massive state of Oaxaca. Our discussion that day, as always, was rather brief. We came to the conclusion that we would get on a toll road and blast through the next fifteen hundred kilometres or so of Mexico like lightening. Maybe it was time for a change of pace; we had long since become intimately acquainted with the country. To the point of recognizing all the popular songs, knowing the names of our favourite regional cheeses, and even being able to predict when to hold our breath to avoid the overpoweringly putrescent stench of rotten animal carcass. It is perhaps, best not to get too attached to things held familiar. A nomad has to know when to move on.

So we blasted through the coastlines of Guerrero and Oaxaca, occasionally finding paradise beaches with only a handful of kids from sleepy fishing villages playing in the waves. In Puerto Escondido we were offered beds at a fire station. The firemen treated us to a meal of Armadillo meat and related stories of the supernatural from Oaxacan folklore.

But mainly we just pedalled our bikes. Grinding out the hours on the straight and flat, there was an overabundance of time to think; time to reminisce on fond memories, or hit the repeat button on your mental music collection. I started to feel like a prisoner of my mind. I wished that something would liberate me from the monotony of the Carretera (high way), but all I could do was sprint at the top pace allowed by the knobby treads of mountain bike tires.

Then one day we rolled into a small town all mad with thirst and completely out of water. Lately we had been filling our dromedary bags from twenty-litre jugs of purified water that we would buy from small grocery stores. It was cheaper to buy purified water than to pump it ourselves ‘factoring in the cost of replacement filters’ and it was tastier to drink water untainted by our iodine purifying solution. For some reason, finding water in this town proved to be a bit of a hassle. One market would send us on to the next; merchants would assure us that what we desired did in fact exist, if not at the next door down then certainly at the gas station. Eventually we came to the gas station they too would not sell us water. I decided to fill my Dromedary bag from the restroom tap, but a heavy set man beat me to the entrance and proceeded to take control of the sink. Hanging from one of his hands was a large bucket containing razors, a bar of soap caked in hair and grit, and cigarette butts. As he positioned himself in front of the mirror, I found myself impolitely staring; was he really going to chain smoke during his shave?

Suddenly overcome with nausea I turned my head and went in search of alternative water sources, but none were to be found. An attendant informed me about the existence of a garden hose that was conveniently located at the feet of the man with the bucket full of shaving equipment. I walked back to the restroom trying to gather the courage to ask the man to step aside for a moment. But when I got there, I found the man with his shirt removed and his protruding belly resting upon the edge of the sink I felt an instant drain of will power. We waited nearly half an hour in a thin strip of shade outside the restroom for the man to finish up with the meticulous care of his face.

We fuelled by the budding excitement of entering a new country and starting a new leg of the journey, we couldn’t adhere to our usual tendency of chilling out — it was hot and our adrenaline was high. We would make it to Chiapas by tomorrow morning, possibly this very night, and then Guatemala was only a few more days away. Driven, unconsciously, to preserve the efficiency of our pace, the shaving man incident seemed interminable. I looked up as the man finally took his leave of the mirror. Whatever he had done to clean up the lower part of his face was eclipsed by a thick drooping moustache.

Fully loaded with water, we once again took to the highway. Spinning over flat plains, we could see the road for miles ahead, every foot covered by traffic backed up by a rickety steam-roller. As we weaved our way through the line of stranded cars, we often had to barge into the narrow space between bumpers when an oversized bus or truck made it impossible to pass on the right side. Drivers glared at us as we executed our impertinent manoeuvre; each awaiting their turn to make the dangerous pass into oncoming traffic. When we finally reached the steam-roller, I was shocked to see the “shaving man” unconcernedly piloting the shuddering beast. With the same drooping moustache, his shirt rolled up over his rounded belly, and a cigarette hanging lazily from his lips. Then, as Goat and I sped past, suddenly the machinery made a bold leap forward, accelerating into chase mode. It felt like a cartoon sequence from the Road Runner Show, where the conniving Willie Coyote operates a contraption on the verge of malfunction to catch a bird madly spinning its legs. Had the presence of oddball gringos disturbed the serene atmosphere of ´Tranquillo´s afternoon shave? Would he catch up and pulverize our bike frames and bones into fine dust? Picturing the Roadrunner’s whirling legs which left in their wake a trail of flames I tried to match his intensity with my pedalling. Eventually, having put enough distance between my rear end, and that noisy wheel of immense crushing force, I could relax a bit.

Up ahead I could see a tow truck crew attaching hefty chains to the burned out shell of an exploded tanker truck. The charred remains were upside down in the drainage alongside the road; it appeared unlikely that the tow truck alone would be able to drag the long crumbling skeleton out of its pit. I wanted to hang around to witness the Herculean feat, yet moments after stopping; I could already hear the roar of the mechanical beast catching up from behind. It was time to move!

Due to our fast pace we had endured the record stretch of nearly two weeks without internet connection. So later that day we, when found a Cybercafé in a small town near the Chiapan border our eyes virtually melted into the warm glow of computer monitors. Before any of us could muster the willpower to rally an exit from cyberspace, the real world had become dark.

Toll roads are much too dangerous to ride on at night, even for short amounts of time, so we asked the locals where the best place in town would be to set up our hammocks. One man encouraged us to go to the central park. Another told us we could camp in trees behind a gas station — there we found a guard with a machine gun who forbade us from venturing anywhere near the gas tanks. Finally, we asked the police, and they motioned for us to set up our hammocks from the pillars in front their office right in the centre of downtown. Throughout the night, young people with expensive sound systems drove by our camp blasting their favourite party music. Sometime near the break of dawn the night-shift-police washed their cars and performed random engine maintenance about three feet away from my head. At seven o’clock sharp the megaphone system of a roving street hawker clicked on. We could count on the merchant listing off his whole inventory of goods for the next few hours.

We were well acquainted with these persistent amplified voices — they rarely took breaks for breath, nor altered their script. Every member of town no doubt knew the inventory by heart. After nearly half an hour of trying to ignore this auditory abuse I heard Jacob mumble: “This would be the absolute worst place in the world to nurse a hang-over”.

Later on that morning we crossed into Chiapas, and the terrain transformed from the marsh wetlands of lower Oaxaca to dense tropical foliage of the Sierra foothills. Studying our road map, we gauged the distance we had covered in the past ten days to be roughly eight hundred kilometres. In that time we crossed a land that daily underwent drastic transformation, passing through towns and villages of diverse cultures and history. It all went by like a blur, my mind focusing on instead the random eccentric encounters, and of course that carrot at the end of a stick; Guatemala. We were just three hundred kilometres of toll road away.

            A substantial roundabout between the states of Michoacan and Guerrero wheels the traffic around like a spinning game of fate.   Roads spoke off to all parts of the country, including Acapulco and Mexico City, but without the benefit of any signs, your path can veer off into uncertainty.  We paused to review our map before entering the endless deluge of cars rushing to their future.  Like a steel bearing dropped into a roulette wheel, we spun madly to circle the roundabout with the flow of traffic.                         

            We were flushed out on a road heading towards Mexico City.  The sky was draped over with a hazy layer of clouds delivering a steady drizzle.  We shared the road with both the speeding vehicles and the ever encroaching jungle that formed an impenetrable six foot wall of barbed plants reaching out to snag us.   No…these conditions were not suitable to our desired mode of travel, but we could find no other options and only could hope that the cars on the road could see us through their rain splattered windshields.

            As the rain picked up, I wiped off my sunglasses and saw Sean talking to some locals resting from the laborious task of clearing a patch of roadside vegetation.  The smell of liquor greeted me as I stopped to chat.  A happy go lucky fella´ with a big machete and even bigger drunken smile made some incomprehensible noises while flailing his arms about in what appeared to be an attempt to communicate.

            “Amigos,” I was able to translate.

            We have had much experience with this apparently universal language of the village borrachos.  They don’t know any English, they’re too drunk to play a proper game of charades or even articulate decipherable Spanish words, and they can’t fathom the gringo speaks Spanish anyways.  This, however, does little to stop them from inventing their own language, which, as far as I can tell only really has one word in it´s vocabulary.  

            “AMIGOS.” 

             “Si, Buenas tardes AMIGO.  ¿Como esta usted?” I said, instantly regretting further engagement in the conversation.

            Again, a wild gesticulation of body movements and boisterous speech was unleashed; this time, he almost lost his balance, nearly floundering into a pile of debris.  But he steadied himself and grinned at his triumph over gravity while his eyes settled in a satisfied, but crooked, uncertain gaze. 

            “Amigos,” We established again.  

            The other guy, 53 years old, had divorced his wife and estranged his family in the United States, to live in Mexico.  He gave no indication that he missed them very much, and seemed quite content with his 16 year old girlfriend.

            “She’s one of about 6 in this village,” he proudly proclaimed in English while the young girl lovingly wrapped her arms around him, attempting to woo him into telling her what he just said.

            “That’s her uncle.” He motioned to the drunk, who was still amusingly staring off into space.  “I just buy this land.” He looked over the lot, nodding his head with satisfaction.  “I bring back a Jeep Grand Cherokee and pay a coyote to smuggle girl into the US and they give me this land.”

            “¿You want to come to my house? Eat authentic Mexican food.  You can stay at my house.” He offered, carefull searching his English Words.

            Helpless to resist the magic phrase, “Free Food,” particularly when accompanied by an invitation to sleep under a roof during a rainstorm, we followed him home.

            Fate works like this in our world.  If we lingered a few minutes longer at that roundabout, we would have spent the night with a tarp as our shelter and the same old meal of rice and beans.  Instead, we feasted on tacos in town and slept inside, only to be awoken by the smell of hot coffee and a traditional Mexican breakfast.   We departed with full bellies and the satisfaction of a good night’s rest.

            Under a sky opened up by the blazing sun, we took to the road through an area called “Tierra Caliente”.  A description for which we could readily vouch as our shirts quickly became saturated with sweat and our gringo skin “tostada”.  Feeling somewhat prematurely exhausted, we set up camp in avocado orchard well before dark.  As we lounged in the shade, we couldn’t help but wonder if something more than the sun was responsible for draining our energy.    

             Our curiosity was soon abated by a collective need to empty our bowels in the middle of the night.  Goat succumbed to a raging fever and passed out en route to the bathroom.  We started the night with a full roll of toilet paper and by the time the sun rose, we were running low.

            The next morning we began eating Imodium AD like candy, to no avail and were forced to camp for two more nights while Goat’s fever broke.  It became apparent that after living on the road with two of your friends for over a year, you run out of things to talk about.

            In an effort seek camaraderie, conversations about bowel movements can become an important bonding experience.  For the next week, discussions about our “stool”  became commonplace and terms like “soft serve” and “explosive” took on whole new meanings.  I wouldn’t let a day go by without knowing the intimate details about their digestive waste.

            Unfortunately, the few days of rest in the avocado orchard did not bring us back to good health; but we had to keep moving.  We each stocked up on toilet paper to keep ”at the ready” in our handlebar bags, and continued across the “tierra caliente”. 

            Chronic dehydration plagued my ability to ride, and I sought electrolytes and cold beverages at every possible stop.  But to put it gently, everything just went right through me.  

             In spite of our health, we slowly and not so surely made our way over a sizeable mountain range before dropping into the town of Iguala.  While squatting on top of the pass looking out over the valley, I couldn’t help but think back to that roundabout and wonder, “What if I had left that intersection just ten minutes later?”   

             Prologue: There was pain and anguish in the time of cholera.  It was not until a heavy course of antibiotics were we able to produce anything but “soft serve”.                                                                      

Upon realizing that my tourist visa does not last a lifetime, I checked my visa to discover that its life expires before the end of the month. 

Instead of our most anticipated bike explorations through the regions of Oaxaca and Chiapas, we struggled over the Sierra Madres on a paved road to the much quicker Coastal Route. 

Our life is palm trees, mosquitos, sunshine and terrifying roads with overgrown spikey foliage where the bike lane would be where it to exist (which it doesn´t).  We are looking forward to getting on the unkown dirt roads of Guatemala.

A river crossing.

An alacran in my bike shorts trying to hitch a ride.

We´re back on our bikes and headed to the state of Oaxaca after a brief hiatus. Check out the photos from our recent travels and check back soon for updates on this next section.

A reminder to check out Riding the Spine in WEND Magazine.

We are not a decisive team and often settle into hopeless puddle of apathy until the levee is broken by a serious game of “ro-sham-bo”. “Live and die by the ´sham´” has become a necessary mantra for our lives. Though, (truth be told), it operates more as an oracle than absolute truth. Despite the prophetic implications of the game, we still approach the event with a practiced level of skill and concentration. The “sham”, at times, becomes more important than what we are shamming for.

And so, it was on a bright and sunny day we encountered a fork in the road. To the left, a guaranteed passage across the mountains to Autla and the main freeway. To the right, Tacotan, via “brechitas”(little roads for burros and 4-wheel drive vehicles) promising better riding, but plagued with uncertainty. It was doubly possible that either we would miss the turnoff for a trail to cross the mountain range, or that it did not even exist. Leaving us with a choice of either backtracking or continuing down to the humid coast where relief from tropical sea’level temperatures would be another 5,000-foot climb back into the mountains.

Ro-Sham-Bo… “Damn,” I cursed.

Ro-Sham-Bo… “Shit,” I cursed again.

“I always lose, and you always go for rock… every single time…without fail.. and I still can´t resist.”

“So who was shamming for what?”

“Ehh.. We didn´t say.”

“Head to Tacotan?”

“Sure.”

We had spent a couple days struggling to get back onto the “Spine,” enjoying each laborious pedal stroke knowing we were that much closer to an environment more suitable to mountain-bike touring.

The coast had taken its toll on our morale and motivation. Cars buzzed by us at alarming velocities, on roads that proved aggressively unaccommodating for bicycles. The sweltering heat forced us to wake up early and grumpy, to ride before the temperature consumed us and subjected us to an obligatory siesta. Every abarrotes en route was a veritable oasis, offering the only thing that mattered in my life, a cold drink. Even the shadows of the night failed to bring relief from the heat as we were subjected to the onslaught of biting insects that thrived so well in the humid climate.

And such easy prey we were without proper bug netting for our tent. With chemosensors attuned to carbon dioxide, warmth, lactic acid, and other bodily emanations (last shower, ehh..10 days), insects effortlessly honed in on any exposed morsel of skin. Our flesh would then be penetrated with needles and scalpels, as they employed siphons, and a large stock of pharmaceuticals, including: anaesthetics and anticoagulants, to get at our blood. We were forced to sweat through the nights under our sleeping bags to escape the torment, wishing we were back in the Sierra Madres.

Life in the mountains hit us abruptly. It started with a visible bolt of light, followed exactly 7 seconds later by a crack of thunder. Then 6.

“Uhh. Maybe we should set up camp?”

Then 5. But it was too late. Signalled by another crash of thunder, the rain poured down. We veered onto a small trail leading to a discreet roadside shrine where we camped. Tropical vines stretched to the high branches of the trees, trying desperately to pull them down. Leaves the size of my upper torso deflected the raindrops, and created an audible sound, much like that of a drum. And the water flowed freely, chaotically across the muddy surfaces.

And seeped through my shelter as the thunder tailed the flash of light be a mere 2 seconds. My sheetbag was soggy and I was for the first time in months, cold. My weary eyes pained for rest, my body, yearned for relaxation; but each bolt of lightning flashed through my eyelids and each crash of thunder changed the pattern of my heartbeat.

Then somebody appeared outside my tent. Apparently, there was a group of about 8 other bicycle tourists camped nearby and partying on occasion of the incredible storm. They summoned me to join them for some drinks. I was so excited that I didn’t even bother putting on my sandals and walked through mud, feeling it squish through my toes at each step.

Girls wearing cowboy hats and metallic clothing, danced around in the creek. Guys in fancy suits played hand drums, oblivious to the water cascading over their concentrated faces. They were such a lively and eccentric group that it did not even occur to me what a remarkably serendipitous event this was.

Or a pleasant dream. I woke up, sad that it was only a dream, happy that I had managed to sleep, and sick to my stomach from something I must have eaten. Instead of the party with a community of cyclists, I got to squat out in the rain. Fortunately, or unfortunately; I wasn´t alone, and could see Goat in the same predicament further up the road.

“Nice night, eh?” He said sarcastically.

“I just had the strangest dream,” I replied.

“At least you slept.”

After I had become thoroughly drenched and done my best to rid myself of whatever “animals” had attacked my intestines; I reached for a large lush leaf. The instant I grabbed a hold, it felt as if it were made of fire; my fingertips throbbed with pain from the poisonous spines.

The affliction followed me back to my sleeping pad, where I laid down in my own muddy rainforest hell to wait for the sun to rise, and hope for sleep while the thunder crashed. 6 seconds. At last, the rain eased from a torrential downpour. 7 seconds. 8. 9. Eventually, I found some warmth and rest in my soggy sleeping bag and dreamed of secret mountain brechitas.

            Guided by an unreliable map we pretend to use and the destiny of the “sham”,  we encountered a sign about 7 miles after the pavement ended, with the enigmatic words “Bosque Maples, Ruta Turisticas”.  And behind it was a road that wound straight towards the clouds.

“The `sham´ is infallible,” I boldly thought.

The rest of the day was defined by a grueling regimen of steep uphill riding. Due to the uncertain availability of water and supplies, we were carrying about 5 days worth of food and a full 13 liters of water, which made its presence known with every pedal stroke. My bike computer wouldn’t even acknowledge my painful efforts with a readout. 0.0 Km/H it would chuckle. Then jump to 3.3 and back down to ZERO.

A couple hours later, we had reached the clouds, and entered a misty elfin forest. Visibility was often slim, and ever shifting, morphing with the contours of the mountains. At times our narrow path would cut through a ridgeline, dropping abruptly on both sides, into an abyss of haze. Sharp turns were blinded by the murky air and shrouded the landscape with mystery.

Red mushrooms decorated with white spots, sprouted from the pine needles, and from the mossy roadside surfaces, large brown mushrooms materialized, some reaching 18¨in diameter. A few succulents lived incongruously in this wet forest, where tropical vines and blackberry patches intermingled in the maze of fauna, below the pine and oak trees.

Through the dark and foggy forest a resonating bass sound travelled languorously from above.

“Couldn´t be a puebla on such a steep grade.” I thought.

The rhythms intensified, reassuring me that it was not merely an auditory hallucination. Around a bend there were a few cars and a canopy set up, while a large family sat around laughing and cooking.

“You want a beer? Something to eat?” A man later introduced as Pedro asked. He was wearing a hat with American and Mexican flags intertwined. Within minutes, we had a bowl full of a carne asada, salsa Mexicana and freshly fried fish, recently caught in nets from a nearby lake. The pain of a fishbone lodged in my gums assured me it was not a dream.

As promised by the good’-natured family, about 5 kilometers further up the brecha; the grade tapered off and wound like an undulating ribbon of mud through a few “ranchitas” with corn fields and forgotten plazas. Briefly, we’d fall from the clouds down a steep technical section of rocky muddy trail, and then swiftly climb back up; a rhythm that continued until we passed San Miguel de la Sierra.

At the edge of the bumpy cobblestone “calle” through town, our trail widened into a smooth dirt road and steadily dropped until the impossible range of mountains opened up with a vista of an expansive valley. I was sure I could see Tacotan and it’s nearby lake. The only thing separating us was an hours worth of smooth downhill riding.

Therefore, it came as a surprise when we sped into the town of….

“Autla!” I said with dismay.

“Nahh.. Couldn’t be.” Goat replied after looking at the map.

“Live and die by the sham,” I said sardonically.

We shrugged our shoulders and pedaled on.

“Autla,” I thought to myself, “The ´sham’ works in mysterious ways.”

UPDATE: WE GOT LOST. WE TOOK A WRONG TURN.

It worked out, just got back onto pavement sooner than we anticipated. These maps are kind of a joke. The concept of a sign in these areas is you finding a person to ask for directions. Which would be one thing if the map gave us the actual names of the ranchitas or towns, but they don´t and when they do, it´s spelled incorrectly and unrecognizable after filtered through by our gringo accents. It was an amazingly beautiful stretch of trails, though, and I will soon update the interactive map with a detailed photographic tour of the section.

Thanks for your support and encouragement.

—————————————————————————————-

That is our planned route (which is NOT recommended by the locals). From Tacambaro de Codallos to Los Currindales and then Montecillo at the bottom right corner of the map. We were hoping for a more “substantial” “brecha(backroad)” to navigate, but just might be lucky enought to get lost on some singletrack.

We are bringing extra food. Wish us luck.

A brief update on an odd series of events while staying at an English Scool in Uruapan.

Goat viciously attacked by a dog in the night. Gnarly puncture wound that continued to bleed for about 18 hours.

At a “rave,” I was almost jumped by a gang of 8 teengers claiming to be from the “South Side” of Long Beach.

We received a test model of the Surly Big Dummy, and while building it up; Sean placed his expensive Fox Vanilla fork in an empty box that was put on the street for garbage pickup. He eventually found his fork at the landfill and had to buy it from a professional dump(ster) diver.

Back to the Surly Big Dummy. A beautiful machine. Hard to believe it is real and I can touch it. I have a hard time taking my eyes off of the bike, and I think mine is feeling little jealous.