The Bitter Sweet End

Tuesday September 7th, 2010 is a day that Pat and I will never forget.

After 78 days of cycling 4,000 miles over mountains, through tropical storms, past mudslides, and occasionally through more than 100 degree heat, Pat and I arrived at ROMP's flagstaff prosthetic and orthotic clinic on Tuesday with a caravan of vehicles in tow. Around 2:00 pm we neared the clinic (25 Km), followed by our newfound (as of a week ago) and trustworthy SAG vehicle driver Dave Krupa. Knowing that my brother and the ROMP staff had something up their sleeves for our arrival celebration, I anxiously cycled alongside Pat, waiting for the inevitable surprise. After rounding a soft corner on the highway, the ROMP staff appeared in a microbus with signage and screaming and cheering heads. Not long after, a Guatemalan fire truck joined our caravan of three vehicles and two bikes (should go without saying). With a loud siren and PA system, we were escorted the last 25 Km with roadside fanfare of mainly unsuspecting spectators usually excited enough by the commotion to cheer us along.

We made it!

After what seemed like only minutes (thanks adrenaline rush), we found ourselves rolling through the Zacapa Regional Hospital gate, across a small parking lot, into the ROMP clinic. Pat and I relished the moment, sharing an embrace, kissing the clinic wall, and hugging everyone in sight. We were warmly welcomed by ROMP staff and supporters, including the fire department that came out in full force to show their support. The clinic was lined with baloons and concert size speakers loudly playing "We are the champions" as we dismounted our bikes. Dave doused us with a bottle of champagne, giving us the feeling of crossing the finish line at the Tour De France. After coming out of the hour long adrenaline high, we drank beer, shared stories, and of course had some cake, and ate it too.

Sweet Victory

The day proved to be the ultimate high, but has quickly resulted in a low. We are happy to have arrived, relieved even. But, now that our almost eighty day journey is over, we find ourselves strangely in limbo. Without the daily routine of biking into the unknown, we are saddened. We are looking forward, but find it hard not to look back. The ride proved to be what we all expected, a life-changer. And although we understand its completion and are excited to have successfully arrived, we will also miss the routine of meeting kind strangers, crossing long stretches of desert and fighting against the elements and whatever else Mother Nature decided to throw at us.

It is the bitter sweet end that we expected, but will not know how to accept for some time now.

"Riding for ROMP" has been a success; we have raised nearly $25,000, helped raise awareness to ROMP's incredible mission, met and shared time with incredibly warm and helpful people along the way, learned countless lessons on problem-solving, strengthened our will and of course our legs, and broke, at least in our minds, many misconceptions and false assumptions about the current state of Mexico. Which instead of being the dangerous and chaotic playground of narcotrafficantes and international crime syndicates that the twenty-four hour news would have us believe, was the safest stretch of our journey; where instead we encountered families, smiling children, and Good Samaritans at every turn of the Panamerican Highway.

Thanks to all of your support "Riding for ROMP" has exceeded even our highest expectations and given us the inspiration necessary to continue to work in a similiar capacity. If you ever doubt the good nature of humanity or have been reading the work of German or Russian existential nihilists, then I would suggest riding your bike to work, across town, across country, or even to Guatemala.

Ride on....

Greg

Cunén to Santa Cruz Verapaz

Landslides, Mudslides, Rockslides and Sinkholes

Escaping a sinkhole

Mudslide

This was fun! First I’m thinking, “We’ll get out of town and soon I’ll have a signal on my phone.” The weather is great and the scenery is opening up all around. A policeman told us yesterday that we could not get through on this road and that the crews were cleaning up lots of landslides from the day before. The man at the hotel said that they were cleared by morning. We take a roll of the dice. Again we are lucky. Every 100 yards we pass another landslide. Sometimes they are mud, sometimes rock, sometimes gravel. They are so bad in certain stretches that the guys are walking the bikes across and I’m in four-wheel drive so as not to get stuck. They get back on the bikes and cruise down another half mile to another slide. This becomes the rhythm of the day. In parts the road narrows to one lane, sometimes to ¾ of a lane. We keep going. This is by far the most stunning stretch of highway we’ve traversed. We are in the department of Baja Verapaz and its all mountains, valleys, rivers and tropical forests. Plus, one long, winding downhill after another. We know that it’s leading to another long climb in the afternoon but for now, ENJOY.

This is what a landslide composed of gravel looks like

Uspantan was the largest town on the way. Still no phone signal. We have the best lunch of the trip as we pull up to watch the Saturday afternoon soccer game. We are in the land of the Maya and it’s obvious. We hear more indigenous languages than Spanish on the road. We see more traditional garb than western fashion in the fields. We keep rolling down. On a side note, the people eating breakfast near me are talking about the 4 deaths caused by landslides during the storms two days ago. Good thing we are out of the worst stretches of road now.

A landslide composed of "land"

The descents are faster, the coffee with cream colored-river down below is getting closer. We are nearing the bottom out point for today and getting psyched up for the long climb ahead. We are ten or fifteen miles to the final destination. Check out this cool bridge, the water is rushing by under our feet. The road is pocked with potholes and they are getting bigger and more frequent with every turn. I drive ahead and see that it’s only worse. Finally the road turns to gravel, dirt and mud and I come back with the bad news. We decide to ride to where we cannot anymore and then have no choice but to load the bikes into the car and drive ahead looking for pavement. This part of the route was not very clearly marked on the map and we knew there was a chance we might not get through. We almost didn’t.

Landslide composed of rock

Here we are on safari or an assignment with National Geographic. This is legit indigenous territory. There go the little old ladies carrying bags of corn on their heads. We roll by a small village and see the smoke rising out of chimneys, there is no electricity here. People are working the fields of corn, beans and coffee. The road is in bad shape and even with the car we are progressing slowly. Then, shazammm! A big ‘ol sign saying THERE IS NO PASS! On the sign a little image of people running away from giant rocks that are falling on them. LANDSLIDE ZONE. OK, this is not a landslide, this is the entire face of a mountain that disconnected and tumbled into the valley below. Who knows when and who knows what it destroyed besides the road. It did, however, take out the road completely. A half-mile stretch at least.

We’re screwed!

There’s that feeling like your heart falling through your pyloric sphincter into your stomach.

“How can this be, we have to turn back and go all the way through Guatemala City to continue?” Noooooooo!

It’s a miracle when Pat notices the tiny road going through the landslide down in the distance. It’s so far down that a pickup passing by looks like a Matchbox car. We start looking for the access road and find our way down and across. This adventure is drawing to a close as we emerge into civilization through the town of San Cristobal Verapaz. Pat and Greg begin riding again as we make our way to the Park Hotel in Santa Cruz Verapaz. This place is awesome! It is a self-proclaimed four-star hotel but relatively speaking we put it at seven stars. The owner, Emanuel is an Italian from Rome and he is the man. We showed up at his restaurant, covered in mud and looking like something that cat dragged in. We told Emanuel about ROMP, the ride and asked for two nights. He donated a little cabin for two nights.

The mountainside slide blocking our path

We are reflecting on the tragedy that struck on a stretch of highway we passed a few days ago. On km. 171 along the highway near Totonicapan a bus was buried by a mudslide. A team of rescuers began digging to free the passengers when a second landslide buried them as well. As of today 23 bodies have been recovered and 40 people are missing. This is just one of the several deadly landslides that occurred on Saturday. We were already out of that region of the country travelling through the route about which I just wrote. Guatemala has had a string of natural disasters this summer, making an already tough situation even worse for most of its people.

Pat finds our road to freedom, look at that little car below

Near Accidents, a Broken Chain and the Everest Climb

Without Supplemental Oxygen

Two nights ago we were cut off from civilization, with good reason. The ride from Chichicastenango to Cunén started off like the day before ended. Rain, fog and cold. We all thought, “Will the bad weather cover the most beautiful part of our ride?” The divine power heard our question, interpreted it as prayer and quickly sent the sun to burn off the fog and smite the rain. We paid for these climactic miracles with flat tires a near accident and the first broken chain of the now more than 4,000 mile ride.


Near accident? Unfortunately. We’re entering a small town. It’s still raining and we are early on in the day on Friday. I’m trailing Greg, Pat is just ahead. The highway turns into a cobblestone road. We need to cut through town to reconnect with the main road. All of a sudden a little yellow Ford cuts across traffic from my left hand side to enter the street we are about to turn right onto. The car passes in front of Greg, gives him a split second to brake and turn alongside the car. It’s too late. They sideswipe one another, thankfully at 8mph or so. Greg puts a foot down and stays upright; there is nothing I can do. Amazingly, the driver keeps on going. I’m now chasing this little Ford Focus through town with this gigantic Mitsubishi Montero with tinted windows. Water splashing up from puddles and I’m laying on the horn and flashing the lights. Nothing. The road opens for a block and I manage to squeeze my way in front of the car where I wedge myself in the road and block the driver. That was a real deal hit-and-run. It took quite a bit of berating to make this woman understand that she was driving like a jackass and in the midst of me yelling in Spanish quite a bit of English was slipping out.

Thankfully, Greg was fine just shaken up a touch and pretty angered by the fact that the lady didn’t even stop to ask if he was OK.

Now the broken chain incident.

The pain of having no chain

Greg is on a long descent. I’m following behind. All is good and great in the world. The rain is letting up, and the adrenaline from the near accident is wearing off. We round a corner. The climbing starts again. Greg shifts to a low gear and throws some serious torque into the gears. Bam! (Onomatopoeia).
Chain link busts open. We find ourselves bathed in sunlight, surrounded by cornfields changing a chain. This is where we discover how cool the multitool bike tool really is.

Bridge knocked out of service during last night's rains, good thing we didn't have to go that way

As I said, we paid for the nice weather.

On the elevation map we are looking at this long, killer descent into a valley before the 3000 foot climb jammed into 4 miles of distance. The climb is so steep that the color markers for the 12% and 13% grades are indicated with dark purple and practically impossible killer ninja black. I watch Greg and Pat man-up for just over an hour straight climbing. Their legs are pumping away, spinning wildly at a high rpm that translates into jogging speed. Sunbeams are breaking through the clouds lighting up the shrinking town in the valley below. We reach the pass and cruise down into Cunén past sundown.  Greg says, "No matter how hard that climb was it pales in comparison to what so many amputees have to deal with everyday living without a prosthesis." 

Views halfway up the mountain!

We are now cut-off from the world. No phone signal, no internet, a one horse town and some serious ganas for food and sleep.

Pat makes it to the top

Dave

Phone Number in Guatemala

For anyone interested.  The Riding for ROMP 2010 team can be reached by cell phone in Guatemala.

011-502-5675-9686

This is my (Dave's) phone.  Call anytime during the day.  If we're in a break I'll pass the phone to Greg or Pat.

Dave

Tour de Guatemala - Chichicastenango

There surely is a reward for every sacrifice. The 7200 vertical foot climb of yesterday meant one thing today. Lots of downhill racing. The 8 mph pace of yesterday would drive a cyclist to insanity. In the chase vehicle, using a six cylinder diesel engine to move at that speed, it was just plain mind numbing. Today was like the first sunrise in Antarctica after winter combined with the first cry of a newborn combined with the glory of witnessing a solar eclipse from a yacht in the South Pacific. We were greeted by the sun and expansive 360 degree views of volcanoes and Guatemalan pine forests up at 9000 feet above sea level. More importantly, the four lane highway was flown in overnight seemingly transplanted from a 40 mile stretch of the German Autobahn. Talk about quality construction. Descending from 9000 feet at 40 mph was a rush. I was in a car but could relate to the first test runs of Henry Ford’s internal combustion engine when going 30 mph must have been something to write home about.

Volcanoes above the clouds on a beautiful morning

Just when everything was approaching perfection on earth we were snapped back to Guatemalan reality. Reality came in the form of a huge mud slide that oozed out to block all four lanes probably 12 minutes before we arrived to the site of the obstruction. Road work, accidents and mudslides are so commonplace that mobile street vendors are ready to be called into action anyplace anytime. We didn’t need the drinks, fruit and boxes of hot Pollo Campero (Guatemalan KFC) that was being offered roadside. We took advantage, popped the cooler and proceeded to lunch during the wait while filming the cleanup efforts. The response was surprisingly quick and 30 minutes late we were on our way.

Mudslide!!!

A few blisteringly fast descents later and we were in freezing rain with frigid winds. Nothing that thirty minutes in a parked car with the heater blasting couldn’t fix. This part of Guatemala is gorgeous. Really. Pine trees, exposed cliff sides, indigenous folks and dozens of different languages abound. Soon we could see Chichicastenango in the distance, way down below. This meant one last snaking descent and the most intense climb of the trip. Thankfully, it wasn’t very long but this climb was steep. The guys were passing trucks on the uphill and I felt that the diesel engine could barely give enough to get me to the top. As I came alongside Pat all he could do was laugh and the sheer madness of the last climb into Chichi. Before we could really decide how we felt about it, it was over. We were greeted by the friendly staff at the Hotel Santo Tomas who didn’t quite donate a room. They were kind enough to knock off 50% from the price and kept blazing fires in our chimneys and fired up the Jacuzzi for us after dinner. Talk about a nice reward for a hard day’s work.

The cold and rain before the day's end

30 minute nap in a warm, parked car.  It's cold out there.

This is where it all wraps up. One day closer to Zacapa. Fire crackling in the chimney. Greg and Pat writing overdue postcards and I’m putting the finishing touches on this bad boy blog entry. See y’all later. Next stop Cunen, not sure what’s there. Don’t know if we’ll be able to connect at all.

Chichicastenango, pretty interesting city full of history and indigenous culture

Leaving Chichi in about an hour.  See you soon.

Dave

The Guatemalan Highlands

Crossing into Guatemala

(Photos from Day 1 arrival to Highland climb)

Yesterday, Greg and Pat accomplished a first on the trip.  They climbed more than 7000 vertical feet in one day of riding.  We left Hotel Virginia outside of Coatepeque at 8:45am.  The first 20 miles flew by in a blur of green sugar cane and banana farms.  Even as I trailed them in the SUV I sensed the speeds they were attaining in the long gradual 1000 foot downhill.  It was enjoyable.  By 11am we were at the fork in the road to Quetzaltenango.  To our left (east) the mountain ranges and volcanos of Guatemala beckoned.  To the right (south/southwest) the easy costal plains to Guatemala City.  We've planned the ride through Guatemala to avoid the smog and traffic congestion of the capital city.  We changed a flat tire on Greg's bike that had been punctured with what appeared to be a piece of a stray staple.  By 11:22 the climb began.  All was well at the outset.  No rain, nothing but sun and beautiful vistas all around.  We entered the coffee cultivation altitude somewhere around 3000 feet and continued to enjoy good weather.  Around 1pm we passed an accident site.  The crash had just taken place within the last 45 minutes.  A car, flying around a turn in a downhill busted through a guard rail and flew off the edge of a cliff.  The car was lodged in some trees suspended in the air but the driver and passenger weren't so fortunate.  I would say that they weren't lucky but luck has nothing to do with it.  They weren't wearing seatbelts and flew through the windshield.  End of story.  This only reiterated why we feel so strongly about having the vehicle escort through the roads here in Guatemala.  Unfortunately, people tend to drive like maniacs.  I cannot think of a time I've visited Guatemala and haven't seen a automobile accident.  Yesterday was no exception. 

We enjoyed a fantastic lunch out of the cooler while dangling above a coffee plantation on a suspension bridge. 

That was when the rain started.  The cold too.  Two hours later and we are above 7000 feet enjoying "epic" views of cloud shrouded verdant mountains while cycling through tunnels and along highways hugging the mountainsides.  As I cruised along in the comfort of the chase vehicle I could not help but admire Pat and Greg's fitness.  After 74 days of cross country riding they made this intense climb look easy.  I'm not sure if I could have pulled off just 500 vertical feet on those 7 and 8% grade highways. 

We pulled into Quetzaltenango at 4pm and found a hotel on the central plaza of a place that feels more like southern Spain than highland Guatemala.  A cool spot that we'll barely be able to explore.  Today it's on through the mountains to Chichicastenango.

Hope to have another reliable connection in Chichi but not sure when we will arrive.  It's 8:40am and they guys are still sleeping.  Yesterday really wore them out.

Dave

Guatemala....with subtitles

Three's company too.  At one o'clock this afternoon Riding for ROMP 2010 became Riding for ROMP 2010 with an official SAG vehicle.  SAG "support and gear" for Greg and Pat.  They crossed the border today around 11:45 and I met them an hour later.  This is the final stretch.  Last night, driving from Guatemala City to Coatepeque I was astonished by the absolute downpour, the tropical deluge that was soaking plastic bag covered bicyclists.  Wondering what Greg and pat were dealing with on the other side of the border.  The rains have been heavy during the last few days here in Guatemala.  So bad that roads are being swept away, bridges knocked down and possesions washed away.  This has been the Guatemalan summer, or "winter" as they call the rainy season.  Today was not one of those rainy days.  We switched tires, unloaded the saddle bags, the tools and anything heavy.  After 72 days, Greg and Pat lightened their loads and sped up a bit.  We are now in Coatepeque.  Nothing special here except the whole roasted pig for those delicious 85 cent tacos and the gas station ice cream that seemed a perfect match for the evening's brew.  They two have accomplished something amazing and they're not even done yet.  I'm proud to call one my brother and the other a good friend.

Greg's rear rim is showing some severe signs of stress.  Some cracks are forming and it's time to repair.  We're going into Guatemala City tomorrow to switch the rim.  They'll need the days rest because Wednesday it's a hard climb.  50 miles distance, not much for these two, but a 6000 foot climb into the highlands that won't exactly be a piece of torta.

I have some great photos but the internet is too slow and they wont attach.  Another day.  For now, a good night's sleep.  

Dave

Green is the color of our road

The road is blue-gray, but green is the color of our road.

Seemingly endless spears of broadleaf green grass loosely hang over the road's edge, flowing into an abyss of green landscape- where green palm trees are overshadowed by even bigger collections of green topped Manilkara trees that produce pounds of chicle.

Swinging my head forward I see the brown sun-baked legs of Pat, passing in constant circular motions, starkly contrasting the green-scape that abounds. Few things contrast in such a green place: the occasional black lettered sign announcing a nearing village; the all too frequent roadside memorial that morbidly marks a tragic end of life, reminding us of our own mortality, keeping us keen to our surroundings; the gray-white ox that swings its head as we approach, idly drinking water from a rain-filled watering hole, its black tassel like tail swats off enemy pests that crudely bite at its skin; the wedding-white Heron that stands picturesquely near water's edge, moving only slightly before spreading wide its incredible wingspan and flying evenly into the green forest-scape.

Proudly flying the Mexican flag

A light-green soupy marsh sits in idyllic tranquility, a motionless green mass of soup. And then, an almost black, green faced bull frog emerges with vigor, unsettling the tranquil green soup. Its head emerges as quickly as we pass. Nearby a milk chocolate brown river splits through our green paradise, if only for a moment, dirtying our chlorophyllic filled surroundings, with a cold rush of recent rain-mud mix, that muddies the green as it passes.

Rows of Papaya, Mango, Melon, Banana, Guava, Tomatillo, and Guanábana occasionally cover the landscape, ranging from small to large parcels of land. Symmetrical rows of fruit-bearing trees drop dozens of heavy, sweet filled shells of foreign-looking fruit. The Noni fruit that hang like pear-shaped vesicles from their mother tree, waiting for gravity to do its work.

Feeding our green paradise, like clockwork, small, then large drops of rain start to fall usually in the mid-afternoon. The rain first moistens our hot skin, then progressivley becomes more violent, the rain sometimes sharply cutting into our soft flesh, for miles, minutes, sometimes hours. Our green paradise is flushed clean. Pools of water accumulate on the roadside. The waterlogged soil like an over-soaked sponge, quickly overflows and creates previously uncharted waterways, where spores and seeds no doubt move miles from origin. Like nature's superhighway, the tiny lifeforms spread for miles in every water soaked direction. We stop to drink something other than rainwater, taking a moment to observe the quaggy terrain.

Our Green Road: Oaxaca, Mexico

We approach yet another green shaded hill top. We pedal up, and cruise down, our green colored landscape at its purest design. Green evergreens hang from steep rock-encrusted cliff sides like flying buttresses from Gothic Cathedrals. Bending as if properly designed, the tree limbs arch their way into lower levels of green abyss.

Leaving Guerrero, Entering Oaxaca

This is our green colored road. Our green paradise. If only occasionally marred by diesel filled, almost iron clad, mechanical contraptions: the speeding bus with tinted passenger windows, a speeding torrent of multi-colored sedans, and a cautious motorist that slows to our speed, following our movements for minutes too long. Plumes of dark hydrocarbon smoke trail behind vehicles both large and small.

Watch Out-Rockslide!

We ride through the green. It gives us our deep clean breaths. Until we approach gut twisting, throat-gagging smells, that are otherworldly, that don't belong.

Day 70

After passing Oregon, the entire coastline of California, the Mexican States: Baja Norte, Baja Sur, Sinaloa, Nayarit, Jalisco, Colima, Michoacan, Guerrero, Oaxaca, and now finally Chiapas we are only one long day's worth of riding away from passing into our final challenge, Guatemala.

Our last day of Mexico is upon us, 145 kilometers of Chiapas to surpass, before reaching the chaotic, loud, and busy border town of Tapachula. We look forward to the green highlands of northern Guatemala. Tremendous mountain climbs, with green as-far-as-the-eye-can-see views await; 8,000 foot summits in less than ten mile climbs. We near Zacapa, we near the clinic, we near our goal.

A black-lettered sign loudly announces an approaching village; Poblado Proximo the sign announces. I slow my swift pedal blows, if only to relish for a few more moments, our sweet-green-paradise.

Greg

Regarding Broken Spokes

It usually goes something like this:

Fixing a broken spoke in Big Sur

We are riding through some gorgeous stretch of highway in rural Mexico, somewhere green and beautiful. Little kids laugh and play soccer around fruit stands on the side of the road. The sun is shining, birds are chirping, and right as you begin to think, "My, isn't this lovely," a bright, twangy, metallic pop cuts through the dense jungle air and sends a wincing shiver up my spinal column. That snap is agonizingly familar to the Riding for ROMP crew. That snap means my bike has broken a spoke...again.

Fixing a broken spoke in Baja California

Like myself, many of you following this blog are not completely fluent in bike shop--a terse, highly-tecnical vernacular used primarily by tattoed bike mechanics--but fortunately for people like us, wheels are one of mankind's simple machines, and most all bicycle wheels work like this: in the middle of the wheel you have the hub, which is connected to the outside rim by a series of intertwined rods holding whole thing together. These are the spokes. Alone, they are just small, metal spaghetti sticks you can bend easily with your hands, but if you string them up together and tighten them correctly, they create a wheel that is both lightweight and strong. Strong enough to, say, bike to Guatemala.

Fixing a broken spoke in Manzanillo

The problem with spokes, or I guess my problem with spokes, is that from time to time they break and have to be replaced. I have broken and replaced twelve (12) so far on this journey. There is a long, painfully repetative process for fixing them, and at this point in the trip I could do it blindfolded.

Thanks to these breakdowns, we have continued south down the MEX 200 highway in hurried spurts, riding the sign wave of spoke maintenance (biking through Jalisco--high; spoke breaks--low; fix spoke--high; road with coastal view--higher; break spoke--new low). Even with the continued bike problems and that uneasy feeling in our guts that all could turn sour at any minute, we were still riding through some of the most beautiful coastline on the planet, so we did our best to enjoy ourselves, you know, for ROMP. We soaked up places like Puerto Vallarta, with its touristy-yet-still-worth-it malecon, and Barra de Navidad, home to world class waves and awesome people like Enrique, the shirtless mountian biker who gave me a lift to the nearest bicycle shop just because I spoke Spanish. All over this amazing country we find beauty in the places we visit and the people we meet. But, of all the great people who have helped us, Carlos is by far the coolest in the history of planet earth.

After a record breaking day of dissapointment (4 hours on the road, 3 broken spokes, 2 blown tires, less than 20 miles), Greg and I limped our way into an unexpected dot on the map with a few hotels and a bus station to Colima, a city 100 km inland with a bicycle wholesaler. After only being in the town for 20 minutes Greg finds me and says, "Grab your stuff, we're getting a ride." It seemed as though a local hotel manager named Carlos, a complete stranger, had offered to drive us to Colima in his pickup and help us find the parts to fix our bikes and get on our way.

During the course of the car ride we learned much about our new friend Carlos. In addition to owning a beachfront hotel in Cuyutlan, he also had a spacious home in Colima and operated a farm where he grew mangos for export to the United States and Europe. During the 1980's, he founded the University of Colima's agricultural program and taught courses for decades. Carlos, it seemed, was the man, and he came through for us in a big way.

The bike shop in Colima did not dissapoint. It turns out Carlos' friend used to ride professionally and knew the bike wholesaler in town. The place was an oasis of quality, professional grade bike parts, which we eyed greedily as we skipped through the building like kids on Christmas morning. Elated and relieved, we solved all of our gear problems in one fell swoop, and the next morning Carlos drove us back to the coast, free of charge. Cheers to you, Carlos, wherever you are. You are a prince among men.

Blog update on the spoke-breakage-free Michoacan coast forthcoming.  

Riding for ROMP and the guys from the bike shop. Carlos is the baller in pink.

Welcome to the Pacific

It is a warm day in San Blas, Mexico, and I am sitting on a surf board waiting for the set to come in. I close my eyes and feel the cool water of the Pacific Ocean surround my body; I let my mind go where it pleases. I think of this trip, of the desert in Baja that seems like forever ago. I think about my friends and what they're doing right now, about my family, about my future. Just as I start to debate whether or not Keanu Reeves took surf lessons for Point Break, I hear a prepubescent Mexican voice screaming, "¡Dale! ¡Dale! ¡Dale!" I open my eyes and quickly realize that my 14 year old Mexican 'surf instructor', Jose, has seen a good wave coming. It is for me. I scramble to turn myself around and then start paddling like hell, Mexican kids still shouting all kinds of commands in my ears, until I feel the weight of the board lifted by the momentum of the ocean underneath. "Levantate!" someone yells, and for a brief second I look towards to shore and realize that I, Patrick Mathay, am riding a wave...until I bury the nose of the board into the water and catapult my Gringo body into the churning foam washing machine beneath me. "Next time try for two seconds," laughs Jose as I paddle back. I smile and dig sand out of my ear. About an hour later I return to our palapa and find Greg drying off in a hammock, sipping on a Corona and staring out to sea. We share a smile that says, So this is our new reality. This is life on the Pacific.

Granted, not every day is filled with surf lessons and snorkle trips. We still average about 60 miles a day on the mainland, which means we still spend the majority of our waking hours wearing bike chamois instead of swim suits.  But we definately aren't in Baja anymore. The most obvious indication of this fact can be found in tropical climate and lush green forests that prevail in this part of Mexico. All around you there is green and water and life, compared to the dry and brittle Baja landscape that seems to be actively looking for new ways to squelch life out, specifically yours. Whats more, the highway that led us all the way from Tijuana to La Paz in Baja, the MEX 1, only rarely presented glimpses of the ocean or opportunities to enjoy it. Compare that to the MEX 200, our new best friend here on the mainland, which hugs the coast from Puerto Vallarta almost to the border with Guatemala, and constantly gives us opportunties to stop and enjoy the water. When our heads hit the pillow at night, more often than not we can hear the ocean.

Fittingly, that is how we made the transition from the barrenness of Baja to the lushness of the mainland- with our heads on pillows. After spending a day and night in the lovely Casa Tuscany Inn in La Paz,  we rode down to the dock near Pichilengue and prepared for the overnight voyage across the Sea of Cortez to one of Mexico's largest ports, Mazatlan- the self-titled Pearl of the Pacific.

Our last moments on land in Baja California.

Though our bikes could have easily fit into our cabin, Baja Ferries insisted that we store them in the car bay for 'safety concerns' (and that we pay a fee for this storage service, of course). So, after leaving the bicycles in what amounted to a make-shift janitor closet next to the stairs, we settled into our cabin and made our way to the mess hall. There, under the fishtank-esque florescent lighting of the dinning room, Greg and I were treated to the tastes and smells of the worst meal we have yet injested on this trip. Cheers to you, Baja Ferries.

Riding for ROMP and the family Dulin

Twelve hours later, we awoke on the dock in Mazatlan and were greeted by Lionne Decker, brother of Max Dulin (Greg's Univeristy of Oregon friend), who promptly took us back to his home and cooked banana nut pancakes to help nurture our traumatized tummies back to health. Over the next 24 hours, we were treated to similar culinary prowess at every meal, and enjoyed the company of the rest of the Decker family- Kristin, Kenya, and Sky- as we swam on the beach, played soccer on golf courses, and shot each other with paintball guns. Plus we are all famous. If you tuned into Sinaloa Channel 7 at 8:30 pm on August 7th, you would have seen a commercial featuring Greg, myself, and the Deckers that a film crew shot that afternoon on the paintball course. Everybody yell ¡Gocha!

And finally, this blog post would be wholly incomplete without the mentioning of the following, for it is of a magnitude not often discussed in this forum. In an unassuming tienda next to the small central plaza of the quaint town of San Blas, Gregory Allen Krupa discovered, at preciscly 10:27 pm on July 30th, 2010, what he proclaimed to be the BEST TACOS HE HAS HAD IN ALL OF HIS LIFE. Greg and I eat tacos almost every day. Sometimes more than once a day. A few times we have had tacos for breakfast, second breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And yet, of all of the taco eating he has done on this trip and beyond, those found in that tienda in San Blas have been declared superior to all others to cross Greg's experienced palate. More blog posts, and tacos, soon to come.
Patrick

Paintball Mexican style

The Desert Behind Us

With black stained hands of grit and grease I peel away my rear wheel's black rubber tire; it is hot and stretched, much like us. It is the third tire in less than an hour. I manipulate the tire with a small blue tire iron, peeling it away like a green banana, a firm motion, followed by an upward thrusting tug and the tire is free. A tall cumulonimbus cloud explodes over a nearby sandstone peak, dust is kicked around by random gusts of wind, dancing fiercely in the heat and clogging our gears. Pat has a look of disdain for my bike which this morning decided to will it's tires flat, again and again, and again (if you're counting). We are standing along the Highway One just 25 km south of Loreto, we are days away from finishing arguably the most difficult part of our ride, at least as of yet, and nothing seems to go our way. Not seeing a single cyclist for two weeks- a testament to just how truly unnatural our ride through the Baja is during this hot part of the year. We are told by locals and ex-pats along the way that during the winter season, more sensible minded snowbirds come in droves from Canada and the US. RVs and the occasional cyclist take over the road, which we, with the exception of the occasional pickup truck or semi, have found for the most part to be empty and almost eerily quite.

The Baja desert is a long unrepentant stretch. Fifteen days of empty road, hot dry afternoons that cause the locals to idly hang in a seemingly never-ending state of motionlessness, under artificial shade (real ones being so hard to come by). Several days stand out more than the rest, yet for the most part the heat seems to fuse them all together, one long skin-burning day followed by another.


A day in Baja that left a mark, other than cancer causing, was when Pat and I biked along the Sea of Cortez for a small part of a day's ride between Santa Rosalia and Playa Buenaventura, a small picturesque beach nestled into the last mile of Bahía de Concepción, Conception Bay. After struggling to understand why the Mexican Government had paved the Carretera Una through the thousand mile stretch that is Baja, mostly traversing back and forth the Peninsula, instead of along the beautiful, currently undeveloped coastline, we were given respite along the Sea of Cortez for practically the first time since entering Mexico. The Sea of Cortez is a jade colored sea, that is thought to be one of the "most diverse seas on the planet, and is home to more than 5,000 species of macroinvertebrates"[1].


We decided to stop at Playa Buenaventura, realizing that Pat's bike had yet another broken spoke. We pulled into what we thought was a hotel, but soon realized that it was a vacant shell that once housed snowbirds, northamericans escaping frosty winters, and the like. After fixing the broken spoke we rolled over to the only remaining structure along the beach that could possibly house us, a medium sized beach style restaurant run by a greasy, barrel chested, and round bellied ex-pat and Mexican Native who had fallen into owning the beach land subsequent to a constitutional reform of the ejido, collective land trust, that had been championed by President Salinas in 1915 to gain favor from the peasant farmers who had been largely marginalized by foreign stakeholders. A reform of land tenure rules in February 1992 gave Mexico's three million ejidatarios formal title to their land, enabling them to lease or sell their plots if a majority of members of their ejido agreed.


The restaurant, just like the vacant hotel, and many other places in southern Baja had recently been devastated the prior hurricane season by a massive hurricane, one of many that landfall in Baja Sur.
We found that they were all to glad to feed us, give us snorkelling equipment, and let us camp on the beach, all for a fee of course.

Just like meeting Angel, from Mobility Angels in San Quintin, we serendipitously were hosted by a gracious and energetic hotel owner of La Damiana Inn, Debora, in Loreto, a bustling (for Baja standards) port city along the Sea of Cortez, that overflows with seasonal winter tourists, who's Mexican counterpart, Gerardo, had only a year and a half ago lost both of his legs above the knees to a violent car accident. Gerardo, who has since been overcoming his newfound disability, is still wheelchair bound, yet strongly considering prosthetic treatment. Another moment where “Riding for ROMP” slides into place. We talked, shared ideas and hope to help Gerardo someday soon fly down to ROMP's clinic in Zacapa, Guatemala to receive advanced prosthetic care, empowering Gerardo to walk again.

Padre Antonino- Las Pocitas, Mexico

We spent two more memorable nights before leaving ferry bound across the Sea of Cortez, one in an obscure and empty highway town, Las Pocitas, where we were hosted by a Catholic-Italian priest, Padre Antonino, who has spent forty years in service to the church and people of Baja California. We found in him a strong sense of resolve, love and support; a fellow outdoor enthusiast. Before taking off in the morning, el padre drew both of our profiles, played enthusiastically "We Shall Overcome", and gave us many words of encouragement, all delivered in an Italian-Spanish accent, accompanied by a gray bearded smile.

La Paz, the largest city on the peninsula, was our last stop, before boarding a 12 hour ferry to Mazatlán on Sunday night. In Mazatlan we spent two wonderful days and nights with friends.

Our ride continues south. We are on our third leg of the journey, mainland Mexico, characterized by world famous beaches, rich Aztec history, open air markets, lagoons, tropical jungles, ocean caves, and humidity that soaks through Lycra within minutes of the first pedal stroke. We are south of the Tropic of Cancer, and we feel it.

Greg

Baja- Land of Extremes

Baja is a land of extremes. Daytime highs that breach one-hundred degrees Fahrenheit and nighttime lows that call for long sleeves, wool socks, and a pair of boots (protection from all the rattlesnakes and critters that crawl on the desert floor), nine thousand foot mountains that during winter can become covered in snow and dry arid expanses characterized by cacti, grasses, and clouds of dust.

Without making an exhaustive list of Bajaisms, obvious clichés, and the like, I will instead share the experiences of the last four days in Baja, in particular the recollections of our night spent in San Vicente, Sunday night July 11th.

After situating ourselves in San Vicente, a seemingly unremarkable pueblo just 84 kilometers (yup, we've succumb to the metric system, our ethnocentric bond to miles has officially been broken) south of Ensenada, as usual, we scrambled around in search of food (our most common and first thought). We got some grub in our systems, cold pasta and shrimp, then started to gallivant around the parque central in search of an internet cafe. Instead of finding an internet cafe (sorry mom and dad), we were drawn into a large warehouse full of people, loud shouting, and an overall atmosphere of shadiness and Mexican-like tomfoolery that peaked our interests and immediately redirected our destination. We walked into a pelea de gallos, or as you and I would call it- a cock fight! Have I caught your attention yet? A little you say… nonsense! Let me get to the heart of the story and your blood will curl, your toes will squirm, and your imagination will run wild.

Pat and I situated ourselves around the cock-fighting ring (or is it court?), and began to watch with intrigue. The warehouse was full of 150 or so spectators, seated around the circle in the all too ubiquitous white plastic chairs of all things event like, and a three tiered bleacher where the majority of the ruckus was generated (mainly from, you guessed it, males ranging from ages 15 to 30). The room was dingy, the floor was dirty (covered in beer cans and bottles, and rooster carcasses), and cock (or rooster if you prefer) feathers floated through the air as if in an animal slaughterhouse. The night was young, yet we were exhausted from a full day's worth of biking through, you guessed it, hot and elevated Baja terrain. Where buses and the like pass often times within inches of your handle bars and the shoulder (if you can call it that) disappears from time to time in the most dramatic of ways- large sinkhole like disappearances of road surface. Although we were exhausted and were planning on heading back to the hotel, the night had all too different intentions in mind for us.

After what seemed like seconds of awkwardly observing an organized Mexican style cock fight, a large San Vicente native rolled up alongside us in a wheel chair and in perfect English asked us "What the hell are you two doing here?" After briefly explaining our more than 3,500 mile Ride for ROMP, our newfound amigo, Angel Baeaza of Mobility Angels, fell into a somewhat drunken and shocked form of laughter. He began to explain that he operated a clinic that provided specialized equipment for the disabled, including custom made hand cycles, and, get this, prosthetics!

That's right. We strolled into a cock fight in what most mainland Mexicans would no doubt describe as the middle of nowhere Mexico, and practically landed ourselves seats next to a paraplegic who provided prosthetic and orthotic care to people overcoming disability. Within minutes, Angel realized that he had heard of our ride, being that he was a friend of Hotel owner Valentina, who was providing us with a free night’s stay. Before taking a trip over to Mobility Angel’s clinic (situated just down the street), we spent some time drinking Tecates, hearing about Angel's incredible personal journey (raised in an orphanage by American and Canadian ex-pats) and letting Angel explain, all too passionately, the sport of cock-fighting.

In Mexico cock-fighting is legal. As Angel tells it, it is more than legal, it is an organized, regulated, and income generating (depends on whose telling you I suppose) sport. Just like the gladiator rings of old, cock fights straddle a line between absolute hedonism- violence, gambling, and disregard for life packed into one conveniently sized ring- and a spectator sport that seems to entertain not only testosterone filled men, but women and children as well (whether they are voluntary spectators of the sport is still uncertain). What is certain, however, is that watching cock-fighting accompanied by a resident expert in a dark and scream filled warehouse is not only interesting, but down right informative.

For starters, remember how I mentioned that cock-fights are legal. Well, it turns out that to host a legitimate cock fight; one must obtain a one-thousand dollar permit from the government. Without a permit, cock fighting can land you in the Mexican slammer for five or more years. And, as Angel tells it, the police are very strict when it comes to enforcing this. Cock fights are usually comprised of a series of teams, in this case fifteen teams. Each team has three cocks (if you are counting, that´s 45 roosters). Each team pays an entrance fee, say three-hundred dollars, to the host (remember, the person already set back financially from the thousand dollar permit, and no doubt rental expenses). Before each fight, each team warms up their contender with one of their other cocks, which will also fight later, then the referee (that´s right, a referee) starts the match. The cocks are armed with two-inch razor sharp blades that are wrapped around the cocks' legs. Once the fight commences, the room ignites with loud noises, as the fans passionately root on their cock (that is, the cock that they are gambling to win) and cocks brazenly gouge one another with razor sharp blades.

After watching a fair share of cock-fighting, consuming several Tecates, and learning more than enough to fill another several pages worth of cock-fighting knowledge: including training, cost, technique, rules, and etiquette, Angel and his two teenage sons took us via pickup to Mobility Angels' clinic, which in a town the size of San Vicente didn´t exactly call for motor vehicle to get to. However, what did call for a pickup truck came next.

After touring Angel´s clinic, full of all the trappings of an O&P (orthotic and prosthetic) clinic. Angel told stories of patients, shared ideas, and led us through every inch of the clinic, the lab, the outdoor modification area (that's right ROMP, you're not the only one), and storage facility. Angel, very charismatically then persuaded us to come back to his home, where we met his wife, daughter, and one of his first patients, Chaco.Chaco lost his legs, one above and one below the knee, in an electrical accident that happened while working with his brother at a construction site. Chaco, being that he is young, motivated, and strong (both of body and mind), upon being fitted almost two years ago by Angel, like fish to water, immediately started walking, kicking, running, and to the amazement of all present at the clinic that day- biking. Chaco has since biked in several long distance, fifty plus mile bike rides hosted in Baja.Chaco has become Angel's right-hand man in the clinic, playing a major role as technician.

Inside Mobility Angels' Clinic, San Vicente, Mexico

We were treated with the warmest of welcomes. But, before we could get too cozy, Angel's two teenaged sons nagged Angel enough to convince him to let them go rabbit hunting. Angel had been busy all day, so instead of taking us into the middle of the desert to shoot rabbits, he tossed me the keys and said "take them hunting." Before I could object, I was driving Pat and Angel's two teenagers, in the middle of the night, into the desert. Pat and the two boys were standing on the flatbed of the truck. One of the boys was the shooter (pellet gun that is, guns are illegal in Mexico), the other operated a flood light, and Pat was holding a waist-high aluminum baseball bat, for you guessed it... well, maybe we will leave that up to the imagination. Bunny rabbits should remain cute in your mind, so I won´t share those details.

The Baeza Family

Well, where were we? That's right; I was explaining how I was driving a pickup truck into the nearby snake infested Baja desert. My role was simple. Drive until the three in the back spotted a rabbit, whereby I would stop upon their command, which included shouting or a tapping of the truck's roof. Then the shooter would try a shot or two. The rabbit of course, quickly realizing that its demise was near, would bolt into the dry grass, cacti, and garbage (forgot to mention it was also practically a garbage dump). The three would then shout dale and I would cautiously drive forward, allowing them to get a clearer shot.

After one of the rabbits was hit and became instantly fatigued, the troop dismounted from the flatbed of the vehicle and went after the wounded creature. During that time, Pat, armed with his baseball bat, came across a bona-fide rattlesnake, hissing in the bush. His response, after being egged on by the young boys, was to whack the snack in the skull until it rattled no more.

After satisfying the two boys' bloodlust (I say this lightly), we returned to Angel's house with rabbit and snake lying lifelessly in the back of the plastic bed of the truck. We were greeted again warmly, this time with quesadillas being prepared upon our arrival.

While eating, the boys skinned the rabbit and prepared it for the next night's meal. Rabbit hunting actually providing a form of sustenance, unlike some other aforementioned forms of entertainment- where roosters are so full of performance enhancing dopamine, that after their inevitable demise, they are wasted. Their sole purpose having been to entertain and facilitate a form of gambling that would have animal right's activists in the States running amuck and protesting in the streets. Maybe Michael Vick should consider relocating, playing futbol instead, and hosting legal cock fights, television crews and all. (I’ll save that for another day).

After our meal was over, Pat and Angel skinned the snake, preserving its skin in tact, with rattler and all, for many future Mathays to come. The next day Pat fashioned the snake splayed out, over the back of one of his panniers off the side of his rear wheel. The snake skin has become a mascot for our journey through the arid and dangerous desert.

Pat and his beloved rattlesnake skin. Notice Angel's Handcycle against the wall

Trip Stats to date- 7/13/2010: Nearly 1500 miles cycled, 25 days on the road, countless flats and bike maintenance problems, two happy and stronger-by-the-day cyclists, and almost $25,000 raised for the Range of Motion Project.

Tomorrow we ride into Cataviña, one of the last true vestiges of human life for the next few days of riding through central Baja.

Also, for those of you who are wondering why the Spot Tracker has failed to update our location for the last several days, you are as baffled as we are. The tracker functions, but is failing to send a signal. Hopefully, we will fix this problem soon.

4th of July ROMP style

Happy 4th everyone! The fire danger in dry southern California has made this a fireworks-free holiday for us, but it's still nice to be celebrating it in the USA before riding into Mexico next week.

In the 16 days since leaving Eugene, Greg and I have cycled over 900 long miles. We've tackled the hills of Highway 1 north of San Francisco, seen the largest trees in the world on the Avenue of the Giants, ridden over the Golden Gate Bridge, and taken on the arduous road through Big Sur (well, most of us). More than anything, though, we've met some great people eager to support Riding for ROMP.

James "the Diesel" Shanahan has been a welcome addition to our riding crew the last few days. He played host and tour guide as Riding for ROMP stopped in San Francisco and his been on his bike with us ever since. We'll be sad to see him go in San Diego.

People have been more than generous, welcoming us into their homes or hotels and providing us with both the food and encouragement to keep going. Last night we stayed with a great family in Los Osos, who woke us up this morning to the smell of chocolate chip waffles. Tonight we gorged ourselves on the 4th of July barbeque at the Skyview Hotel in Los Alimos (theskyviewmotel.com). Everywhere we stop, be it for the night, lunch, or just a water break, people are eager to learn about ROMP and our ride, and consistently go out of their way to help us.

Next stop is Santa Barbera. We cross into Mexico in less than a week. Thanks to everyone who have made this leg of Riding for ROMP an incredible and successful experience!