Saw this on the Xtracycle Blog and thought I’d share.

http://www.dothetest.co.uk/

Unfortunately, we were robbed this morning in the quaint little surfing village: Puerto Viejo.

Two digital cameras, one pocket-knife, and one Gerber Tool now floating around on the black market of Costa Rica.

Pura Vida

“Look what the wind’s brought in!” joked one of the oil-stained dockworkers as we approached the ferry to Ometepe. Motor purring idle, ropes disentangled from its moors, our boat seemed to have been anxiously awaiting our arrival to venture out upon a turbulent Lake Nicaragua. Such was the volatile temperament of the lake that I felt that I was facing a storm stirred ocean rather than the land locked body of fresh water.

As the boat began to pull away from land, the few tourists remaining on the observation deck rushed into the passenger saloon. Water gushed in after them threatening to flood the cabin, but the deck hands followed close behind to brace the doors against the stormy waves.

Despite the splashed and misty side windows it was impossible not to be fixated in awe at Volcan la Conception, whose tapering form towered towards the heavens. It was the earth’s mighty bosom that appeared to heave and swell as if undergoing dramatic transformation (an impression most likely caused by the erratic swaying of the boat, but which I romantically attributed to its inner volatility. La Conception, after all, had erupted in both 2005 and 2007). Growing in immensity by the minute, I was convinced that by the time the boat reached its destination the volcano would blot out the whole sky.

Soon however, my attention was diverted to the saloon entertainment system, on which a curious music video entitled “Mi Abuelo” was playing. Old wrinkly men were shown guzzling down forty ounce bottles of malt liquor, joining biker gangs, and rolling around in bed with young women. Each singer constituted a different member of the ‘grandfathers’ extended family –including a young granddaughter, and some random midget wearing the French Hose and Spanish Bonnet of Elizabethan era wardrobe. Rather then deploring the debauchery, they shrugged off their grandfathers stiff dedication to the pimpin lifestyle, almost taking pride in the fact that he was ‘keeping it real’ till the grave.

Why was it that the saloon entertainment couldn’t offer passengers a sense of placement in the world? This short ferry service from Rivas to the island was the only real opportunity for tourists to get an understanding of the unique (yet fleeting) ecological Phenomenon of fresh water Bull Sharks (surely the boat operators could find some badly rendered, but thrilling presentation of a submarine struggle between a Bull Shark and its prey). Theoretically, below this very boat these seemingly displaced creatures could be swimming, anticipating a lavish feast of shipwrecked gringos. Yet fresh water sharks were rarely ever seen, even by local fishermen, and a recent article from Prensa Latina described the creatures as being on the verge of extinction .

Disembarking the ferry I was surprised that my first images of Ometepe were void of promiscuous old men groping at half-nude women. Arriving as we were in the dead heat of mid-siesta time, the streets were barren. In less than five minutes we were beyond the sleepy port town of Moyogalpa, and out onto a fast dusty road that circled the base of Volcan La Conception. Soon the behemoth slope was eclipsing the sun, conferring upon us unlimited shade. After some time of passing only the numberless piles of Plantains heaped on the road, I could see a fellow gringo cyclist coming up from the opposite direction.

“My god you’re a brave lad.” He said; eyes wide in bafflement as I sped past him.

Before I could think to stop and inquire his meaning, his distant figure was blurred with the haze of my dust trail. I was left to imagine for myself what formidable obstacles lay ahead (perhaps the fresh water sharks, rather than submitting to extinction, had spawned legs and were now running around Ometepe chewing the heads off birds of paradise).

To my dismay, the rest of our ride was uneventful. We crossed the hourglass isthmus that joins La Conception with its shorter counterpart, Volcan Madera, and found refuge for the night just above the village of Balgüe at Finca Magdalena; a coffee plantation offering rooms to travelers out of its rustic hacienda. Perched a hundred meters up the flank of Volcan Madera, we were half dragging our bikes up the path to the café-terrace, half spellbound at the view behind us. The fiery glow of a vanishing sun accentuated pastel colors in the clouds that whirled around La Conception’s cone. Before even reaching the steps of the hacienda we could hear conversations in a variety of languages intermingling with the drones of a dense diversity of jungle life forms.

Finca Magdalena was the ideal destination for a band of nomadic cyclists. There were plenty of hammock spots with views of the Lake, volcano, and of their garden of vibrant tropical flowers; numerous showers with intermittent hot water supply; rich organic coffee grown and roasted on the premises; and an international backpacker scene that was daily renewed with characters ready to hear and relate travel stories.

The hiking trail that led up to the peak of Volcan Madera was conveniently located behind the Plantations’ grounds. Apparently, hiking the trail without a guide hikers had disappeared on the mountain and that the discovery of their bodies brought the flow of tourism to a trickle) yet Jacob, Russell, and I managed to navigate without assistance the only trail (rather, a sticky mud trench) through the cloud forest. After cresting Madera’s saddle we hiked down into the lagoon filled crater where several tourists were standing around zipping up their jackets in response to the chilly change in climate. Their respective guides, standing at a comfortable distance from their clients, stared blankly into the rolling wisps of fog. They looked immaculately clean and improbably patient in their role of chaperone. Despite the cold, Russell and I swam out to the center of the Lagoon, and both conferred upon hearing an eerie sound like the buzzing of an electric current (reminiscent of that creepy-crawly vacuum machine that cleans suburban lap-pools).

Russell and Jacob opted to run the entire way down the steep slip and slide trench to the Volcano’s base. The effort was considerably straining on their physique. For several days afterwards the both of them were whining about sore legs.

The day after our hike we migrated to the opposite side of volcan Madera, (nearly completing our circuit of the entire island) to the village of Merida. There we met Bryce and Deirdre, an incredibly active married couple that, together, had bike-toured all throughout Europe, Australia, Central America and Africa.

“I think we’re perhaps the first people to have successfully ‘Bike-toured’ the Thames River.” Boasted Bryce.

At first not one of us knew what to make of his comment. For clarification Deirdre brought out her I Pod Classic and showed us a video that she and her husband had put together. Sure enough there they were pedaling their bikes on the river’s surface beneath the London Bridge. Their regular touring bikes were mounted on outrigger floats, drive shafts connected to a gearbox that turned a propeller, and the steering column was connected to a rudder. They could literally ride their bike across water.

“The whole system packs down pretty small.” Relates Deirdre “But it weighs a ton, so it’s not really worth carrying around on a tour unless you plan to be traveling as much on water as on land.”

“I don’t know…” I think out loud. “I might have carried it this whole trip just to avoid taking that ferry ride from Rivas. Those outrageous music videos… did you by chance see ‘Mi Abuelo’?”

“Actually, they showed some random clips of movies.” Bryce explains. “First they put on the original Godzilla which… man… where the hell do a bunch of boat operators find an antique like that. Then they showed a bit of Halloween. People are already queasy from the choppy waves, and then they’ve got these gory scenes of Michael Myers hacking up teens in front of’em.”

“That’s exactly the point when you jump ship, mount your bike and leave the boat to wobble in your wake.” I said, still mesmerized by this ingenious new concept.

Our two camps exchanged stories and caroused late into the night, officially violating the Hostel quiet hour. The next morning the hostel manager gave us a stiff lecture. Surprisingly he didn’t mention our disrespect of quiet hour time, rather, complained to us for a good while about ‘backpackers’.

“…They just come here with this idea of the Shoe-string budget and so each and every one of them is a cheap-skate, looking to pay as little as possible, without considering the impact of their consumer role.” He barks at us. “Do you know why hostels in Granada are so inexpensive?” He doesn’t wait for a shot in the dark. “Because nobody charges the mandatory 15% federal tax to their guest’s account. That is money that could be going to public education, but the manager’s concern is only about keeping the backpacker happy. And they spend nothing on infrastructure so the whole place starts to stink of sewage. This kind of greed goes on even in the up-scale resorts…”

Luckily the manager enjoyed se bikes himself. We were ‘bikepackers’ not those inconsiderate ‘backpackers’ he condescended to on a daily basis in accepting their money.

After enduring the lecture Goat and I went out to inspect the Hostel owner’s new sailing yacht when a young lady from Philadelphia named Kori made our acquaintance. She sat at the edge of the pier and set down her treasure of cacao jam (it had been canned by “the blessed Italian ex-pats” to resemble their native Nutella) between the three of us.

I was captivated by Kori’s intelligent expression. Fluent in Spanish, and always ready with a relevant bit from her many journies to add flavor to the conversation, she described her activist projects in the states, her time picking coffee berries side by side Nicaraguan locals, and her expansive travels through South America. In a few days she would return again to Caracas, Venezuela, where she had been conducting research for her dissertation.

“In the streets of Caracas, sometimes you need to stop, turn abruptly, and stare hard at the person following behind, to let him think twice about what it was they were about to carry through.” Random assault and robbery being so prevalent in Caracas, she has, many times, had to follow this piece of worldly wisdom. “…Because they’re still human, and susceptible to that feeling of suddenly being made vulnerable, of having the intent uncovered. When confronted first, they are more likely to back off.”

After conversation we all swam out to the island of exiled white-faced Capuchin monkeys. In our pockets we carried green oranges that we would roll onto their turf to determine if indeed they are as aggressively territorial as the rumors allege. The monkeys delighted in ripping the peels apart and tearing the flesh to bits. As soon as we make an attempt to approach, however, their moods turn sour; they stood up on their legs, manically waved their arms and screeched like banshees.

Being a good distance from the pier, the swim out to Monkey Island had left us spent. Recuperating with spoonfuls of Cacao jam Kori blurted out quite suddenly: “Margaret is damn amazing.”

“Margaret is indeed a dear” I agreed.

“I mean really, I think the real reason I’m here…,” gesturing to the hostel behind us. “Is to affirm to her, each and every moment that what she is doing is good, and immensely beneficial to these kids.”

My introduction to Margaret had occurred the same night the two belligerent biker camps had taken over the hostel bar. One diluted shot of Aguardiente had vaulted her into a giggling fit; yet she was an already jovial lady by nature. Hailing from Canada, she was engaged in a volunteer program at the hostel in which she received room and board in exchange for her teaching services. She was much determined to get her rowdy bunch of pre-teen kids to learn English. Without a word of Spanish at her disposal, her prospects for success would seem to anyone a little farfetched. Yet she had more than enough heart to compensate for the lingual barrier.

I figured it a good idea to brew Margaret a cup of coffee since last time I checked, she had forgone breakfast. She also appeared to be expending much energy in getting her students to admit that they had taken home all the school supplies that she has purchased from out of her own purse.

At her classroom I found her dwelling on a familiar theme.” There were… Forty Markers, twenty-five erasers… Now there are two and six.” She beams into the eyes of her unreceptive students whose ages range between six and fourteen. “You are more than intelligent enough to know what I am talking about. Now please….”

With the steaming mug of brew held high above my head I am able to catch her attention.

“Wow, this is special.” She looks relieved to take a breath. “I don’t have my money right now, but later on…”

Ah jeez, I thought, interrupting her with a frown and a wave of dismissal.

“You know, I don’t know if you guys are going to be busy later on, but it would be great if you could play a ball game with the kids.” rolling her eyes now, “My morning class needs to get up and move around, if you know what I mean.”

“I do indeed.” I graciously accepted, knowing that ‘the guys’ she had referred to, my hard-core biker gang, would be much too busy convalescing with aching joints to partake in such rigorous activity.

My students for the day were quickly assimilated into teams that when set side by side, appeared to me, to be incredibly unfair. I soon realized that one kid on the opposing team had the footwork of a featherweight boxing champion. He was barefoot, wore a pink mitten on his left hand, and scored three goals against us in the first five minutes. At first I had thought it prudent to play ‘half-speed’, but after shaking off the dazed feeling of being outmatched by a twelve year old, I realized my team might turn against me if I didn’t keep alert. Toward the end of the match two of the boys began to insult and provoke one another into a brawl. After the last point was scored I had to intervene when the smaller of the two aimed a boulder at the head of his persecutor.

After the kids had dispersed, I found Margaret alone in her classroom poking indifferently at a plate of sparsely touched Gallopinto (fried rice and beans). She beckoned me to take a seat.
“Do you know that the manager of this place wants to suddenly change my contract.” she gestured for me to finish off the remains of her plate.

“He didn’t even have the nerve to tell me about it face to face, even though we see each other everyday.” Her mouth wavered on the threshold of uttering the next sentence as if fearful it’d be too bitter for her palate.” He e-mailed me a whole new set of rules governing my volunteer work.”

“He told me to take notice that he would have to start charging me for food and Board.” She paused to shake her head. “I just don’t have that kind of Money. And if I have to return early it’ll be the kids who suffer in the end.”

I had heard rumors before that the owner of this beach side hostel, also (volunteer teacher program, bike and kayak rental shop, and buffet breakfast and dinner café…ect.), was greedy and that perhaps he inherited his land. Talk of land inheritance in Nicaragua is sure to raise eyebrows. It could mean possible military ties, in other words connections with the corrupt Samosa Family of the early Contra revolutionary times. Yet I knew better than to draw any conclusions from idle gossip.

“But get this.” She smiles, wags her finger at the crux of the matter, “he wants me to travel with him to Managua to petition The Nicaraguan government on his Behalf. He wants funding for computers that … yes, will partially be used for the children’s’ education, but the majority of the use would be from travelers for Internet time. And so of course he’ll be profiting from this. But because I’m a foreigner, whose ideas for educational investments are favored above the locals… we’ll I’d be the one to initiate his little scheme.”

“That Scoundrel!” I yelled. The more this charming old lady went on elucidating her misfortunes, the more my sympathy grew. She had ‘just survived a car wreck’ which had led to “phone battles with insurance agents complaining about the price of her back surgery’.

After carrying some books for her back to her room Margaret shakes her head, wondering what it was she was about to do next.

“You were about to take a walk along the beach”. I interfere on her behalf. “And I think I might have a word with the head man.”

Unfortunately I failed to relay that word. Too much food had been cooked that night for the hostel buffet. Not being one to let waist be noticed, the hostel manager let the garbage disposal bikers intervene. My appetite being thus satiated I felt my motivation to vent these vague grievances dissipate. ‘Don’t bark at the hand that feeds’ the saying goes.
(In a recent correspondence with Margaret she informed me that a visitor had written ‘[the manager] is arrogant’ on the hostel message board. “He came up to me to ask what the word arrogant meant,” wrote Margaret, “And I just had to smile and say: “I want you to take notice that I will not answer that question for you.”)

The next day we made our escape from Isle Ometepe. Instead of the fancy passenger ferry with in-saloon entertainment system, we boarded the top of a smaller boat. We tossed our bikes in a pile to one side, which considerably threw the boat off keel, yet nobody said anything nor made any attempt to secure the considerable load.

“Ciento vente cinco.” Barked the ticket collector.
The price was nearly double what we paid going the opposite way. When questioned about the incredible rise in rate, the man shouted: “Expresso! As if at any moment auxilary engines would kick in and propel us at warp speed. The boat chugged along at the same exact pace as before.

A small gang of boys that had helped unfasten ropes was standing around the top deck in their swim-shorts intently watching the buildings of Moyogalpa fade into the distance. Just before taking off, one had shoved another off the side to crash into the water, inciting the remaining dozen onboard to rambunctious cheering and leading me to believe some game was afoot. They stood in focused silence, each waiting until the distance to the coast was just right before gracefully swan diving into the sea. At first I thought they were waiting for the boat to get further down the coast so that they could swim directly to their neighborhoods. But then it became clear that it was a race, each competitor assigning themselves a starting distance relative to their skill. The ones to jump in last made impressive sprints to overtake the ones with head starts. It was entertaining to watch, but really I had a strong craving at that moment for blood bath horror movies and sex plastered music videos. Certainly with the exorbitant boost in price, these trivial amenities could be provided. Where else would I find my trashy media fix before resuming the long haul southwards.

National Geographic Traveler runs a blog called, Intelligent Travel: A Blog about Authentic and Sustainable Travel. Updated daily with unique travel related posts, and often showcase amazing photography.

Check out a recent writeup about RtS by clicking on their logo.

The world is a little larger than we imagined, and our efforts to explore the non-paved roads and trails has extended the duration of the trip an extra year.  Without the support of major sponsors or deep pockets, we are having to raise money to continue our journey. 

With the help of Coast to Coast Adventures and John Yost, an exciting bike adventure  has been organized to help us earn money.  Come join us for an extraordinary section of our trip across the continental divide alongside Volcano Miravalle, and on to Arenal Volcano and lake.  Click on the Picture for more info:

Not interested in joining but still want to help?  You can donate to our trip by clicking here.

Or help us spread the word. Print out the trip itinerary and post it on the bulletin boards of your local bike/outdoor stores.

We have been on the road for exactly a year now, and are still pedaling south.

Two days of climbing into the mountains allowed us to escape the miserable humid heat and hellish hotel strewn beaches of Puerto Vallarta coastline.  Two night ago,  the sky cracked open and filled with lightning and thunder.  The storm soaked our tents and robbed us of our sleep.  Rockslides were inevitable and terrifying while riding.   We are now in Mascota and the skies are bright and blue.  We are heading to some lake to camp for the night.

 Thank you everybody for visiting the website and supporting us in our bike trip.

Pantomimed Culture Shock:

We were proceeding with a bold new experiment: rising with the dawn then cooking and eating rapidly to avoid biking in the ferocious sun. The first day worked out well; in just three and a half hours we rode the paved highway eighty kilometers through the flatlands between Choix and El Fuerte; by comparison we had averaged about twenty five to thirty kilometers a day on the rugged dirt roads between Batopilas and Choix. Situated along the banks of the Rio El Fuerte (The strong River) the climate of the town was humid sub-tropical. Laden with towering palm trees, several water fountains, and a lush garden, the central plaza was the most decadent of any city we had visited. I quickly fell in love with Agua Frio de Melon o Sandia (incredibly refreshing chilled drinks made from puréed cantaloupe or watermelon) that were sold along with Horchata and Pina Colada in the many nieverias throughout the town.

Jacob set to work updating the website at an internet café, Nate and Goat contented themselves with their books under the shade of the plaza’s Gazebo. Surmounted by the increasingly oppressive heat, I ventured off to find the best swimming spot in the river. Taking a dirt road down through the city outskirts, I passed a pleasant neighborhood –where older ladies watered their lush gardens- then a house with a few grazing animals –accompanied by the noxious stench of a rotting corpse- then a small tourist resort consisting of buildings with rooftops made of woven palm leaves. Finally I came to a riverside park, where several families were enjoying a relaxing Sunday outing. To my delight the water was cold; nearly as cold as the mountain spring waters of Basaseachi. Lying on my back, watching the wispy Cirrus clouds unfurl in the sky and the tiny islands of Hyacinth plants float by, I felt content to stay in the water forever and let the swift current propel me out to sea. When I finally climbed my way back up the river embankment, I was attacked instantly by a swarm of Mosqoes (tiny black biting flies). Conveniently my rear tire was flat, and so I sat with my patch kit and air pump and tried not to notice the endless pricks to legs and arms as hundreds of insects imbibed my blood.

A policeman rolled up to me on a four-wheeler.
“Una Espina?” He supposed that a thorn had punctured my tire.

I nodded. He began speaking rapidly, telling me about himself, and his family, praising the city of El Fuerte for its beauty and its friendly people. My Face on the other hand, poured more sweat than words. I managed on occasion to respond relevantly to his questions, which only encouraged him to complicate his stories more. After about ten minutes I lost the man’s train of thought completely, spaced out, yearned to throw myself back into the river for good. Luckily two girls passed by in skimpy swim suits with inner-tubes around their waists. They were certainly no older than sixteen, but the policeman didn’t miss a beat in intercepting them with stout flirtation. Hurriedly I pieced my bike back together and parted ways the chatter-box.

That night our beloved public plaza was transformed into a venue for an arts festival. A small stage was built up against a statue of a disembodied bronze head of some important city figure. Several performances involving the cultural traditions of Sinaloa were to be staged by students of the University of El Fuerte. By dusk the Plaza was flooded by locals of all age; little kids running around sucking on fruit popsicles, older couples sharing nibbles of roasted ears of corn topped with chili and lime, teen aged boys in groups of formidable size all with slicked back hair, serious expressions, and dapper attire marching through the crowds in search of chicas. The first performance involved a large band of college aged musicians. There were four guitarists and one bassist; they spent way too much time tuning their instruments between songs, so much so that at one point the sound engineer played tapped music to relieve the restless audience of the wait. Their songs were delicate and sluggishly off tempo. Sullen voices seemed to relate a despair that only deepened with the passage of time; I wondered if the singing would bring the audience to the brink of irreconcilable melancholy.

Luckily the next performance was conducted with a bit more vigor. A duo mime team enacted three rather puzzling stories – it was difficult in any case, to fathom any relevance to Sinaloan culture. In the first story, set to German industrial techno, the female mime is exploring some ancient tomb and awakens a terrifying mummy who chases her through intricate catacombs –invisible to the audience. In the second story, both mimes go fishing and end up fighting over the catch; it ends with the male mime being tricked into taking it just as a police officer comes about and arrests him for lack of license. The third story was set to psycadelic new age electronica music and involved some kind of sci-fi gun battle; both mimes getting trapped in force-fields. After the three Mime routines were finished Nate turned to me and asked if I had gotten anything out of the show. I had to admit that whatever theme the festival was adhering to was beyond my imagination.

For the last performance, a man and woman performed a style of dance from a Sinaloan native tribe. Both man and woman had miniature deer heads strapped on top of their own heads, maracas in each hand that they would scrape against a beaded belt fastened around the waist, and other shaker instruments strapped around the ankles. Their movements appeared painstakingly calculated, as though afraid that each step could awake some dreaded spirit in the shadows. Their alert eyes darted about the ground, sky, and surroundings as if intuitively compensating for their vulnerabilities to lurking predators. Both dancers were agile and well coordinated; their show made for a memorable ending to the night.

We spent the next day lounging around town till late in the afternoon. Jacob had tried organizing a basketball game with some locals – who had fed him beer and ceviche the day before – but had confused the appointed hour with morning time, when the locals meant to play at night. So when the temperature became somewhat bearable for athletic function we left the town. Along sidewalks paralleling the highway out of El Fuerte hundreds of people were getting in their hour of aerobic exercise; jogging, walking, pushing strollers or biking in a procession some three kilometers long. After experiencing nightly parades of families packed into automobiles driving endless circles along the main boulevard in Creel, we were happy to witness people taking their evening promenade without the use of fossil fuels.

Nonchalant in No-Man’s-land:

That night we slept upon a vast field of scorched earth. The ground bore gnarly scars of deep cracks and fissures in lightening bolt patterns; it was land long rendered impotent victim of some industrial agro-chemical. As I set up my therma-rest chair, I wondered what subterranean creature would crawl out from the mini-abyss and eat me alive.

As our cooking pot began to boil a high powered spot-light illuminated our camp sight. A half dozen or so soldiers jumped with boot-camp-precision over the barb-wire fence along the highway as if they were ramparts designating no-man’s land in wartime. Simultaneously cocking their weapons, they promptly had us surrounded. Instinctively we raised our hands over our heads and sat quietly and respectfully while the commander tried to understand who the hell we were.

“Somos gringos,” says Goat. “We’re just here to cook food and sleep. We’ll be biking to Los Mochis in the morning”.

The commander was hesitant to believe us at first. He had his men make the usual haphazard look over the surface contents of one or two of our bags, then all the men retreated back over the barbwire barrier and continued on down the road.

This being the second night-time raid of our camp in a week, it seemed probable that we would have to get used to the hands-in-the-air routine of diffusing volatile situations. Reflecting on the predicament we figured we might as well stake out a big sign advertising ‘Camp Gringo’, so that word would circulate that there are a bunch of crazies high on bikes.

Peace did not exactly descend upon our camp once the soldiers were gone; there was plenty of party activity down the street as some rural household blasted mariachi music until the late hours. A pair of rodents –or some rat sized creatures- were getting it on in a nest of twigs built up in a tree right above my sleeping area. Luckily however, no nightmarish creature crawled from the fissured earth to lay claim to my blood.

Jacob and Goat fell ill the next morning. Goat managed to eat all his breakfast, but Jacob had no appetite at all. Still he mounted his bike and began the big push to Los Mochis –about ninety kilometers. In the early morning hours Goat and Jacob stopped several times to relieve themselves on the side of the road. At any opportunity Jacob would buy Gatorades, cokes, juices, anything to help relieve his dehydration. While intent on reaching Los Mochis by mid-afternoon –so that we would still have enough sun to bike well beyond its urban limits- we stopped and rested every twenty kilometers or so, making sure Jacob didn’t suffer a physical collapse from the exertion on a zero calorie diet.

Closing in on Los Mochis proved a hectic twenty kilometers of continuous suburban sprawl. School had just been dismissed, and we found ourselves dodging caravans of buses pulling over into the shoulder to let out or pick up uniformed girls who offered mischievous ululations to our passing.

Los Mochis itself was a blur of near death experiences with merging city traffic. Nate, Goat and Jacob hung out inside an internet café while I –unsuccessfully- tried to develop some film. During that time, someone stole Nate’s helmet off his bike. A strange choice, since Nate’s helmet was liberally covered in duct tape – probably the least appealing available item and because no one in Mexico seems to ever wear a helmet. In just thirty minutes of being within the limits of Los Mochis we had cultivated such bitter distaste for its congested urban environment that we didn’t even bother picking up groceries for the evening’s meal. Nate bought a new helmet and we left for the toll-highway that would take us all the way to Mazatlån.

Running ‘Official’ Errands:

At first the toll road proved to be a terrifying experience. One semi-truck after another blasted passed us, each engaging its Jake-brake – the noise of which you can feel as tremors in your skull, as if the machinery itself were operating up against your temples. Nearly every single passing car honked their horns to expressing amused solidarity.

After the first ten Kilometers of toll road, Goat went into warp speed mode and passed us all by. Within fifteen minutes I had lost sight of him completely. I decided it better to wait at a convenient store to see how Jacob was fairing. Understandably he felt like a wreck, having biked 120 kilometers without ingesting any solid food. The three of us pushed on at a moderate pace hoping to catch sight of Goat before the dwindling twilight snuffed our safe passage along the highway shoulder. On the outskirts of Ruiz Cortines there was a turn-off for an alternate route heading east. Baffled at Goat’s disappearance, we felt it prudent to pull over and get a good nights rest.

Unfortunately finding a decent campsite proved problematic; the open land around Los Mochis was all large scale farm fields. We checked out a small side road that skirted an ancient corn processing plant with grain elevator. A sign on the high razor wire fence read ‘For rent or Sale’, a few men drinking beers by a water pump for field irrigation yelled jovially to us as we flew by, and a few dogs chained up inside the compound went wild as we skirted around the plant’s perimeter. We found a discreet location beneath a large tree, and attempted to settle down to a restful state of mind. Still suffering from some nervous energy, I decided to take my unloaded bike into the town of Ruiz Cortines to drink a few beers before bed. As I was hauling my bike over the dirt mound that blocked off the dirt road to our camp from the main paved road, a truck pulled up alongside of me. An older, disturbed looking man stepped out and immediately began interrogating me in Spanish.

“What are you doing here? Where are your other friends at?” He barked.

I explained to him that we were just riding our bikes toward Mazatlån, that we couldn’t find a place to pull over for the night, and wanted to sleep on the road skirting his field. Then I asked to verify if it was indeed his field; he nodded his head gravely that it was.

“You cannot sleep on this land; this is private property. I’m going to get the police to deal with you.” He immediately started signaling down the road where indeed there was a cop car; apparently the landlord had already notified the authorities of trespassers.

I tried reasoning with the landlord. “look… We’ll leave your land. We don’t want any trouble, we’ll leave and continue down the road… find a hotel.” I kept repeating the words, ‘No queremos problemas’, but the rest of my Spanish was slow and I was disoriented with this idea that someone could be this upset with simple bike bums. The land lord wouldn’t listen, and soon the police car came squealing to halt beside my bike. Three massive men with automatic rifles jumped out of the back of the car, immediately searched me for drugs. After this fear tactic had been invoked, the chief police officer –a relatively calm and young looking man much thinner than his cronies- asked me what I was doing. After a lengthy explanation, he quietly spoke, as if reflecting to himself, ‘you can’t sleep here’. I asked if there was a more convenient place nearby where we wouldn’t have any problems. He nodded and spoke of a few places –I only understood one word to mean a sort of public park area. Then the chief had his men go interrogate Jacob and Nate. At that point it was my understanding that they’d be made to pack up their stuff, and the police would show us to a better choice of sleeping arrangements. With that thought in mind I asked the chief man if I could go with the other officers to retrieve my bags, since they were left behind.

“No you have to stay here.” He declared sternly.

I persisted, but he ignored me. Then he asked my reasons for venturing back onto the road. All I had really wanted was a cold beer.
“Groceries.” I replied. “I just needed to get some food to cook a meal.”
“What is it that you eat?” he inquired.
“Just oatmeal, with fresh fruit.” I replied

A long silence passed and I wondered how much more I could bear being at the disposal of this officer. Then the man pointed up to a black helicopter that was roaming over the fields. It was maneuvering and surveying in stealth, without running lights, shedding no spotlights, not even the faintest glow of interior cabin lights (the pilot must have had to learn to operate the controls like a blind man).

“This is the drug enforcement people”. The chief commented.

Presently the three armed giants walked back, Nate and Jacob however were not trailing them as I had expected.

“Get your bike into the car”. Ordered the chief officer.
“Porque?” I protested; I really began to fear the worst.

They said some things that I didn’t quite catch. Finally, after having repeated ‘grocery store’ several times did I snap out of my paranoia. It became evident that they wanted to drive me to the grocery store. They assured me that we would be able to camp where we were without any further problems, and so relieved I went along with the plan.

I jumped into the back of the pickup truck, with my bike, and drove around with the law and order crew; we turned many heads –mostly young girls interested in the peculiar gringo. Once in front of the market the chief officer basically dragged me by the hand, asking me what it was I wanted. He walked very fast and looked increasingly pleased with himself for knowing the grocery store inside and out. I said I needed some mangos. He went through the slim selection of mangos feeling each fruit with his hand, then turned to me and said, ‘they’re no good, you should pick something else’. So I grabbed a bunch of bananas, and some avocados, while the officer made ready plastic bags to receive my selection. When I had everything necessary for a meal, the officer led me to the check out counter, and just before I was about to pay threw a book of matches at me without explanation. Maybe he was making sure that I’d have the ability to start a cooking fire? Having followed this peculiar leadership long enough, I figured my intimate time with the police would draw to a close. Unfortunately they insisted on driving me back to the campsite. This time they had set up a small stool covered with a towel for me to sit on. No doubt they all believed gringos to suffer emotional breakdowns when deprived of luxurious comforts for too long and had a good laugh in offering me this belittling throne. Once on the highway the chief officer pushed the accelerator to the floor, weaved around several cars, and probably hit over a hundred miles an hour before pulling off. One of the automatic-rifle-wielding giants laughed his head off while the oncoming wind threatened to remove mine.

They returned to the site of the initial confrontation. I wondered what happened to the angry landlord and how the police managed to pacify him. Before the officers left me to stumble back into the fields they imparted one last piece of advice.

“If you see our lights flashing like this…” the chief officer flipped the switch on his siren lights to illustrate. “It means there is trouble and you should leave.”

Approaching the campsite I found Jacob and Nate on the verge of passing out.
“Man, you left at the perfect time.” Said Nate. “These buff police guys came around a while ago. They didn’t say much, just listened to our usual gringo explanation and then left us alone.

“Yeah, sounds pretty rough.” I responded.
“How was your beer?” Jacob asks.
“Didn’t get around to it. But I was certainly more sociable than usual.”
“You mean, you’ve been hamming (conversing) it up all this time?” A weary Nate tried to understand.

“Man, the people of Ruiz Cortines aren’t satisfied until they’ve done everything in their power to make you feel at ease.” I tried to clarify my experience. “I’d go so far as to say I connected with some people on a spiritual level this night. By the way, I’ve got a bag full of dank food.”

It was tough work falling asleep that night; the climate too warm and muggy, the mosquitoes too noisy. In place of dreams I kept replaying a scene from the movie Full Metal Jacket in my head. A marine makes the comment: “We’re jolly green giants, with guns. When we go back to America we’re really going to miss not having anybody around who’s worth shooting at. I love these people!”
I wondered if my law enforcement friends would feel any pain of loss if there weren’t any strange gringos for amusement. Who else would be worth scaring the sh*t out of on a nightly basis?

Friends of the Lafitte Corridor is still working hard to create a bike friendly greenway in New Orleans. If anybody has pedaled a bike through a city, it can be hectic and dangerous. This path will be crucial to restoring and supporting the community, as well as securing safe routes for children to bike/walk to school. They are looking for donations and membership support. Please visit their site and find out how you can get involved.

Here’s a quick news update from their site:

Bikes Belong awards $10K for the Lafitte Corridor Greenway! Bikes Belong, a national coalition of bicycle suppliers and retailers working to put more people on bikes more often, made the following announcement on January 29th:

” New Orleans ‘ Urban Conservancy, in partnership with Friends of Lafitte Corridor, will receive $10,000 to create a planning document for a bike/ped greenway linking the French Quarter and Canal Boulevard . This path will connect neighborhoods, cultural features, historic sites, retail areas and public spaces while providing a safe route for children and bike commuters. The City of New Orleans has already secured Recreational Trails and Transportation Enhancements funding for the project. However, in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, the city’s planning budget was reduced significantly. Bikes Belong’s funding will ensure that the Lafitte Corridor Greenway is professionally designed, with the needs of bicyclists and pedestrians in mind.” This award was one of five presented to “outstanding bicycling projects” in the United States.

Spencer Wright of Traffic Cycle Design and Goat are creating a monster.

Contrary to popular belief in the Flagstaff community, we are actually not planning on becoming permanent residents (just yet). We have, however, had an incredible time riding and spending time with one of the most solid bike communities we have ever encountered. Steve Garro and folks from Team Hobo taught us how to “shred” on our mountain bikes. The Pay-N-Take has done wonders to quench our thirst for fine ales and good people and the epic trails offered plenty for us to do. If there was any place to be sent to by the Feds, Flagstaff would be the town of choice.

After leaving Flagstaff, we began to realize how incredibly trashed our bikes have become and were forced to make some serious adjustments to some of the bikes. I switched from an old titanium Litespeed frame with whacky mid 90’s racer geometry to a stout Surly Instigator with plenty of crotch clearance and more comfortable slack geometry. It is about 3 times as heavy as my old frame, but I can depend on it lasting the rest of the trip and can weld it if necessary.

Steve Garro of Coconino Cycles added some custom braze-ons to run complete cable housing and attach 4 footman’s loops to secure my Dromedary Bag in the front triangle more securely. I got to hang around his shop for a day while we drank Tecates and listened to one of the best punk rock collections I’ve ever encountered. He was recently awarded the Frame Builder of the Year accolade at the National American Handmade Bicycle Show. After watching him work for a few hours it became very clear why. His ability to manipulate metal is super human. I watched him fit-up a headtube joint with such precision, that the pieces fit together so well they were watertight, BEFORE he brazed it. He put a lot of thought and effort into his frames and was proud to know how many frames he built that are being ridden around the globe. He is an incredible guy who makes incredible bikes…it is worth your time to check out his website.

We were lucky enough to receive custom Xtracycles more tailored and reinforced for extreme mountain bike-touring. Additionally, the folks at Xtracycles hooked us up with tons of spare parts to get us ready for the barren northern Mexico section we are approaching. The folks at Xtracycles have been awesome to us throughout our journey. We couldn’t have chosen a better a product/company/community to help us out on our trip.

Goat helped Nate fix up his bike and get him ready for the bike tour. Spencer Wright of Traffic Cycle Design custom bike fabrication put together an extra burley touring frame. Nate is going to try the new Titec H-Bars with Paul Thumbie Friction Shifters.

In other exciting developments, Surly has offered to let us test out the Big Dummy when they come out in a few months. After Sean destroyed his DEAN titanium frame at the 24hrs in Old Pueblo, we decided to let him have at the innovative dedicated Xtracycle frame offered by Surly in the near future.

Spencer Wright of Traffic Cycle Design  is also helping Goat create one monster of a bike. It is basically a hybrid Pugsley and Big Dummy and is impossible to describe at the moment. But we will be sure to post a thorough article about this creature when it comes to life.