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