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
Monday, August 30, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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 |
 |
| 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
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Regarding Broken Spokes
It usually goes something like this:
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Riding for ROMP and the guys from the bike shop. Carlos is the baller in pink. |
Sunday, August 15, 2010
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.
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
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.
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| 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.
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| 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
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| Paintball Mexican style |
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
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.
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
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
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
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.
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!
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