TravelStream™ news feed for member fintan on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/fintan en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sat, 26 Apr 2008 11:48:43 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1165302420/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1165302420/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1165302420/tpod.html Sat, 26 Apr 2008 11:48:43 -0400 Two Wheels to the Wild Frontier - The Adventures of an Occasional Cyclist in the American West and Mexico

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Arcata, California, United States

From late fall through to early spring warm moist air from the tropics blows ashore across the Pacific seaboard of the U.S. North West and Canada. The phenomenon, which is commonly known as the Pineapple Express, gives rise to the often-violent tempests that entice a steady trickle of (quite possibly certifiable) tourists to small towns along the Oregon coast during the quiet - or 'storm-watching' - season.I arrived in Florence (pop. 7,263) towards the front end of a six-day storm that dumped a dozen inches of rain onto the town and rendered the prospect of going anywhere on a bicycle wanton lunacy. The best part of four days I spent in a motel room, flicking between doom and gloom on The Weather Channel and election coverage on CNN. Aside from the fact that the Republicans seemed likely to lose Congress, the only redeeming feature of my confinement was that I'd managed to hit the coast far enough south to avoid the worst of the deluge. Elsewhere in Oregon and in neighbouring Washington State a downpour of epic proportions was in progress - Lees Camp in the Oregon Coast Range saw 14.3 inches of rainfall in one day alone. Across the region hillsides collapsed, rivers flooded and a number of people were swept to their deaths.Squalls rippled continuously across the ever-expanding pool of rainwater that masqueraded as the motel parking lot, ensuring that my occasional forays out into Florence began and ended with a vigorous dousing. Wherever I went, be it bar, bicycle store, library, Laundromat or diner, business was slow and the streets were deserted - all but a few were indoors or out of town.One evening I fell in with Doug, a volunteer fire fighter, over a couple of beers. Though wildfires were understandably scarce just then, the fire department had its hands full - clearing up road-accidents and keeping highways open. My companion had landed a plum job for himself: flood-prevention at the low-lying local casino. Doug readily confessed to having spent the better part of his day heroically chatting-up female croupiers.On election night I gate crashed a staff-only soirée at the local library. Wine flowed as a large screen disseminated the latest results. I helped myself to a glass of white and a couple of vol-au-vents; and went a-mingling. Introducing myself as a storm-chasing Irish cyclist with a taste for U.S. politics, I engaged the librarians in small talk. The big issue of the night was not the Republican v Democrat battle for control of Congress but the fate of the Lane County ballot-measure that, if approved, would fund a new library for Florence; and that wasn't being covered by any of the major networks. Anxious faces looked on as the head-librarian telephoned the counting centre before reporting that the result still hung in the balance. Everyone had another glass of wine and a man called Randy offered me a bed for the night.Finally, on Thursday morning, as I ate breakfast at the local diner, the sun appeared. I finished the remains of my omelette and raced back to the motel to load up. A few minutes later I pedalled south across the Siuslaw River Bridge on Interstate 101, committed to putting as much tarmac between Florence and myself as was physically possible before the day was out.The highway twisted and climbed through thick pine forest for several miles before arriving at a scenic lookout. A break in the trees revealed an undulating corridor of dunes that fell away to the shore. The sand on the dunes, still wet from the rains, glinted gold in the bright morning light; and across the sparkling-blue sea beyond rode waves, their white frothy lines lengthening slowly before linking together to collapse with a low booming rumble. Continuing along an exposed ridge, the highway granted extensive views into the interior where low ranges of pine-smothered hills stretched off towards a hazy horizon. Out of this wilderness flowed a broad river, the Umpqua, its brilliant-blue waters contrasting with the pine-green hills that enclosed it. The river curved briefly to the south before turning west one last time to discharge into a broad sandy estuary. I raced down the hillside and over the truss bridge that led to Reedsport (pop. 4,378). A rain-shower swept over the town as I ate lunch at the local shopping mall.A couple of miles south of Reedsport, at Winchester Bay, I turned off the Interstate, to follow a detour to Cape Umpqua. From a harbour filled with gently bobbing boats a narrow by-road wound its way up to a promontory that was topped by the gleaming white tower of a lighthouse. After pausing awhile to admire the view over the bay, I climbed to the summit of a wooded ridge and thence to the Interstate and its long tunnel of pine.A cantilever bridge carried me across a broad estuary and into North Bend (pop. 9,544). I followed signposts west through the coterminous city of Coos Bay (pop. 15,374) and out along a busy road that followed the southern side the eponymous bay. By now I was racing to keep pace with the sun, which was just then dipping behind a low range. A bridge over a narrow inlet led to the small fishing port of Charleston from where a short sharp climb through darkening woods brought me to the crest of a hill. I hared down an empty road, arriving at Sunset Bay a few minutes later. Waves crashed onto a beach amid the shelter of a rocky cove while, out at sea, a dark band of cloud sat atop the horizon, transforming an alluring place-name into somewhat of a misnomer.Darkness had fallen when I left the campground on foot to go in search of food. I hadn't got far when I heard loud voices and saw a light ahead. As a foot-party approached I could distinguish a bald man with crazy eyes, a stout woman with greasy hair and a young girl of about ten years. The adults wanted to know who I was; why I talked funny; and what I was doing out walking after dark. I told them as best I could and, in return, I learned that they were staying in a trailer nearby. The couple kept talking loudly over each other and I had difficulty in understanding what they wanted of me - at first I thought that they were drunk but then I couldn't smell alcohol. It transpired that they wanted to borrow a phone in order to call a taxi but I couldn't get a signal either and was unable to help them. Becoming emotional, the man told me that his great-grandfather came from Ireland - from non-existent County Meagher. He then told me that he loved me; and that he wanted to go to Ireland to kiss the Blarney Stone - source of the legendary 'gift of the gab'. I made my excuses and left, walking towards Charleston at a brisk pace.On arrival in Charleston, I made my way down to the waterfront and found a bar. A group of cantankerous fishermen argued loudly at a nearby table as I washed down a plate of flavourless fare with a couple of beers. A light fog had descended by the time I emerged to walk the three miles back to camp. The light of the moon imbued the mist with an eerie glow and ghostly shadows flickered in the woods. The soothing sound of water breaking on sand - a tonic for my over-active imagination - accompanied me as I retraced my steps across Sunset Bay. Arriving back at camp, I discovered that hungry raccoons had ransacked my pannier-bags.I lay awake in my tent, forced to listen as slamming doors echoed like gunshots around the campground. Deranged male voices roared bloodcurdling threats while a woman howled like a banshee. An engine revved up, brakes screeched and finally peace was restored. I wondered whether the strange goings-on involved the couple that I'd encountered on the road earlier.The wind whipped in across the bay as I ate breakfast in Charleston the following morning. Although the sky was heavily overcast and visibility was poor, the day was still dry. When a pretty waitress asked whether I was really planning to cycle I responded 'Aye!' with only a hint of bravado.I left Charleston on The Seven Devils Road, a quiet back road that zigzagged across the wooded slopes of a steep-sided mountain. After considerable effort I gained the ridge and paused to catch my breath. Rugged brown hills, their sides sheathed with gorse, stretched away to the south and west. A fierce wind gusted across the range, shifting intermittently between these same compass points, as rapid descent alternated with sharp climb and I exchanged ridge-top for valley; then valley for ridge-top. I'd knocked off all seven of the devils and had commenced my descent through pine-forest - along the quaintly named Whiskey Run Road - when the first droplets of water began to fall. Arriving at the Interstate, I turned south towards Bandon (pop. 2,833), to be pounded by stinging rain, lent extra force by an unrelenting headwind. Two miles short of town I pulled into Bullards Beach State Park and set up camp in the lee of a pine-copse.The storm blew itself out overnight and I pedalled across the Coquille River Bridge into Bandon the following morning beneath a blue-sky flecked white with fluffy cloud. Breakfast taken care of, I headed for the sea front and a beach that was littered with driftwood. Across the entrance of the bay, a chain of rock-stacks stood amid a sea of raging surf: there were giants - a couple of hundred feet wide and a few dozen tall; and closer in, ground down by the power of the ocean, rounded stumps and jagged pinnacles.From the harbour I followed a road that wound sharply uphill and then along the edge of a low line of cliffs. I paused atop a promontory to take in the view south along the coast. Below me, groups of weekend strollers patrolled the beach, negotiating courses between rock-pillars left stranded by the tide. Out at sea, reflecting sunlight silhouetted clusters of whale-like humps and jagged fins of submarine stone sharks. After regaining the Interstate, I pedalled south through a monotonous pine-enclosed corridor for a score of miles to Port Orford (pop. 1,153). After pausing to eat lunch and tumble-dry my still-sodden shoes, I continued south. As I crested a rise on the edge of town the coast opened up dramatically before me. Above a broad sand-fringed bay, dotted with rounded stacks of rock, steep wooded hills swept around to a point at the foot of Humbug Mountain, a triangular dome over which hovered brooding black clouds. A series of hazy headlands tapered off to the horizon beyond. The highway wound around the slopes overlooking the bay before climbing around Humbug Mountain through a wooded ravine. From a saddle at the back of the mountain a wild stretch of coastline presented itself. As the fiery afternoon sun sank ever closer to the ocean's blue-grey expanse I coasted downhill ecstatically, my progress punctuated by towering sea-stacks in the waters below. Some way off, a thin white mist of sea-spray clung to the dunes by a long lonely strand.Some time later, I stood on the desolate beach as waves thundered in and the sun, which had promised so much, sank limply behind an ominous grey band that divided the sea from the sky. Racing once more against descending dusk, I disappeared into thick pine forest, from which I emerged to cross the elegant seven-arched Rogue River Bridge into Gold Beach (pop. 1,897) only after night had established itself. The anticipated weather system rolled in off the Pacific the following morning. There was nothing to be done except find a motel and sit it out. For two days and two nights the storm raged, cutting the town's power-supply on a couple of occasions.By Tuesday morning blue skies had returned - a perfect tonic for my deep-rooted cabin fever. As I raced south past empty beaches and giant sea-stacks I had only one thing on my mind - California. The highway disappeared into thick pine-forest, climbing then dropping, climbing then dropping again. Occasionally the corridor of conifers would part to give a tantalising glimpse down to a rocky cove or a deep ravine below. By lunchtime I'd made it as far as Brookings (pop. 5,774).A couple of miles south of Brookings I passed the sign that I'd so long looked forward to: 'Welcome to California - The Golden State'. Such was my elation that I broke into the following refrain:California über allesCalifornia über allesüber alles Californiaüber alles CaliforniaBut the sobering realisation that the Pineapple Express had not yet finished with me brought an end to my short-lived punk celebration.I left the Interstate to follow back roads across a narrow coastal shelf. The rich scent of slurry filled the air amid an idyll of green pastures, lowing cattle and milk-sheds. Beyond the settlement of Smith River - self-proclaimed 'Easter Lily Capital of The World' - I wound through a landscape of brown bulb fields on quiet country lanes. With the sun dipping behind yet another dark cloud band far out to sea, the woods swallowed me up again. I arrived in Crescent City (pop. 4,006) just as darkness fell.Some strange things happened in Crescent City the following day. Firstly, I saw two cyclists, their bikes burdened with panniers both front and rear, examining a map by a road-intersection. Curious to find out who else would be crazy enough to cycle that part of the Pacific Coast in November, I pedalled over to say hello. 'Holy fuck!' was my reaction when I learned that Alice and Andoni, who were Belgian and Basque respectively, had been on the road for the previous two and a half years. They'd cycled all the way across Europe and Asia before setting out on a north to south traversal of the Americas. They were searching for the municipal library - I wondered whether it was a long-distance cyclist thing - but I was unable to help. After wishing them good luck in their quests I set off into the gloom. As I pedalled south I felt substantially less hardcore.A few miles beyond Crescent City I entered Redwoods National Park. Slender poles of grooved red-brown timber soared upwards on either side while an evergreen canopy blotted out the light and vehicle headlights illuminated a rusty blanket of detritus covering the forest floor. As I progressed further into the trees along a long steep incline I became weighed down by a sensation of claustrophobia. Arriving at last at the end of the climb I began the long descent, sweeping down through the forest, curve after curve, an occasional break in the trees allowing a glimpse of the ocean, dark-grey under an angry sky beyond.'Did you hear about the tsunami today in Crescent City?' asked the man who welcomed me at the motel in Klamath (pop. 651). 'You're shitting me?' I felt like saying but didn't.I flicked on the TV to find it was true. A powerful earthquake had taken place off the Japanese coast, triggering tidal waves across the northern Pacific. A two-metre surge had struck Crescent City, uprooting docks and sending boats bouncing around the harbour, at around the time I'd met the two cyclists. Fortunately nobody had been injured.The storm had come ashore by the time I ventured out to explore Klamath. Despite the wind and the rain, knots of youths loitered aimlessly outside the general store, lending the place somewhat of a down-at-heel flavour. I picked up some supplies and headed back along the main drag. Over a great log-built hall a sign announced 'Headquarters of the Yurok Tribe'. A couple of dozen pick-ups filled the parking lot outside. By noon the following day the sky had cleared up. Eschewing the promise of 'Las Vegas Style Magic' on offer at an ugly steel barn on the edge of town, I pedalled south over the Klamath River Bridge and began climbing though the forest again. After a couple of miles I turned off the Interstate onto a 'Scenic Parkway', a quiet back-road that wound its way down through ancient groves of redwood trees. On either side broad poles of deep red wood stretched skyward through long ladders of coniferous branches.I chained my bike to a fence and followed a trail deep into the forest. As only a small amount of sunlight filtered through the canopy the air was cold and still. I proceeded across an ochre carpet of nuts, needles, nuts and cones around the decomposing trunks of fallen giants that were two or three times as wide as I was tall. I paused to listen to the sound of the forest but heard only the occasional chirp of small birds. Passing beneath an arch formed by two trees that had grown together over the passage of time I arrived amid a grove of colossi, a score of trees that had stood for some fifteen hundred years. As I stood, minnowed, at the base of one particular behemoth which was thirty-feet in diameter and three hundred and fifty tall, I felt very humble indeed.After retracing my steps I pedalled down the Parkway past aptly named Elk Prairie to the intersection with the Interstate. Outside somebody's house a stag with antlers three-feet high nonchalantly munched away at the front lawn while, a little further on, an elk-herd grazed in the grounds of a gaily-coloured wooden schoolhouse. After briefly rejoining the coast, the highway climbed to the crest of a hill. In the hollow below, a lagoon shone invitingly in the hazy afternoon sunshine, enclosed on three sides by low wooded hills. Faint traces of smoky-white mist clung to the treetops while the ocean crashed ashore beyond a sandy spit. Having descended to the water's edge, I followed the highway around the lagoon's leeward shore and up to the hillcrest beyond. The waters of another, almost identical, lagoon spread out before me. As I climbed away from the shore of the second lagoon I spotted a fellow cyclist weaving precariously across the hillside in front of me. Within a couple of minutes I'd reeled him in. Grant, a student from Montana who was on his first trip to the coast, had seen out the previous night's tempest in a bivouac in the forest - and looked somewhat bedraggled as a result. I wished him good luck and continued on my way. Sometime later, I stood on a low headland, looking north as waves pounded on a long empty strand and spray drifted onto the dunes behind. Further on, tree-topped sea-stacks guarded the entrance to Trinidad Bay while, to the west, a burning ball of red fire sank spectacularly beyond the ocean, its parting rays setting a wispy sky alight with a flame that turned slowly from orange to pink. For the first time in my travels along the coast the dark cloud-band that had been such a feature of previous sunsets was missing.ENDS
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1225467060/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1225467060/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1225467060/tpod.html Sat, 26 Apr 2008 11:33:03 -0400 Two Wheels to the Wild Frontier - The Adventures of an Occasional Cyclist in the American West and Mexico

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Portland, Oregon, United States

When the Corps of Discovery under the command of Lewis and Clark paddled down the Columbia River in the late summer of 1804, they found a river of salmon-rich waters, aboriginal fishermen and impassable rapids. During the twentieth-century the U.S. Army Engineering Corps constructed a series of dams and locks, thus opening the river to shipping.Today the Columbia is a long chain of man-made lakes; salmon is an endangered species; and the native peoples who used to depend on the fish have long-since been moved elsewhere. Though barges still ply the river, most produce is transported downstream on the railroads that run along its banks. Forty percent of U.S. wheat exports pass through the port of Portland, Oregon, on the lower reaches of the Columbia.I spent my first night by the Columbia camped out, beneath a star-filled sky, at a beach on its southern shore, ten miles east of Umatilla, Oregon (pop. 4,978). The sweet sound of water lapping gently on sand lulled me to sleep.By contrast, the crackle of gunfire roused me from my slumber the following morning. A man, who was camped nearby with his dog, explained that there was a firing range just beyond a nearby ridge. The firing went on as the man told me his story, which had all the makings of a bad Country and Western song. Since his wife had kicked him out, two years previously, he'd been camping out across Oregon, moving on, in accordance with state campground regulations, every fortnight or so. All he had in the world was a Golden Labrador, a beat-up old car, a tent and a few simple possessions - I couldn't blame him for seeming so deadbeat. After a chilly bathe down at the river's edge I said goodbye to my erstwhile neighbour and pedalled west in search of breakfast. To my dismay a headwind of considerable force was blowing up the valley. By the time I arrived on the outskirts of Umatilla an hour or so later I felt absolutely ravenous.After taking on some carbohydrates at a gas-station breakfast-counter, I crossed a bridge to the opposite shore of the river and turned west onto Washington 14. Dark clouds closed in as the wind gathered strength. I hadn't gone far when a carload of whooping rednecks sped by and a bottle sailed through the air towards me before exploding into a myriad of glass-shards. I was still taking stock of this aggression when a farmer pulled over to offer me as many apples as I could take from the back of his pick-up. I stuffed half a dozen into a pannier-bag and pedalled on, feeling nonplussed. Then the heavens opened and cold rain poured down. I kept my head down and continued pushing the pedals, seeking out the next milepost. A steady stream of trucks hurtled by, each one spraying me with freezing water and reducing me almost to standstill with its back draught. I put away my wet useless glasses and followed the blurry white line along the shoulder, the dirt in the spray stinging my eyes. After fourteen miles of discomfort a truck stop appeared and I went in to enjoy a brief respite. The waitress who brought me a cup of hot coffee was incredibly rude but I soon realised that she treated all of her customers exactly the same. I finished my coffee and wished her a nice day. Outside, I laughed along with a truck-driver who'd experienced her contempt as well. For a brief moment I harboured hopes that he might offer me a lift but the moment passed and his truck disappeared along the highway.I struggled on, into wind and rain, periodically molested by passing trucks. The highway wound its way back and forth across a bleak grassy moor for a further fourteen miles. Finally, late in the day, an islet topped by a steep grassy knoll came into view. I limped across a causeway and into the lonely campground at Crow Butte feeling as if I'd been shat on from a great height. That night I prayed for better times ahead.My supplication went unheeded, for the next day dawned to reveal a dark threatening sky. On leaving the shelter of the wooded campground, I was exposed to the full vigour of a brutal headwind that was blowing up the valley from the west. I gritted my teeth and dug in, my head low to reduce resistance. After much effort I reached the first milepost of the day - just as the first spots of rain began to fall.As on the day previous, truck traffic was steady - one after another they rumbled past. The theme of a well-known road-movie, starring country singer Kris Kristofferson, came to mind:<i>'Cause we got a little convoyRockin' through the night.Yeah, we got a little convoyAin't she a beautiful sight?Come on and join our convoyAin't nothin' gonna get in our way.We gonna roll this truckin' convoy'Cross the U-S-A.Enveloped in a cloud of spray, pummelled by a forceful back draught, I ground to a halt again. As the back of a truck receded into the distance I envisaged a bearded Kristofferson behind the wheel with Ali McGraw, dark and smiling, at his side. My patience had expired: 'F**k you and your convoy!' I screamed into the gale. And so I continued, mile after tedious mile, through wind and rain until, at last, the sun peeped out from behind clouds and began to dry my sodden clothes. White horses pranced across blue water; yellow flowers speckled barren hillsides; and I imagined that I was by some sea-inlet on the west coast of Ireland, enduring a warm wet wind that blew in from the Atlantic. I longed for a bowl of stew, a pint of stout and a turf fire.A dozen or so wooden houses clustered behind a line of poplar trees at Roosevelt (pop. 79). It was a tiny, God-forsaken place with a rail-depot and a bar that served burnt pizza. The waitress informed me: firstly that, according to the forecast, the wind was forecast to gust at up to fifty miles an hour for the rest of the day; and secondly that there would be no services along the highway for a further thirty-two miles. Chewing on a blackened crust, I consulted map and watch. It had just taken me three hours to cover eighteen miles. I felt utterly exhausted.I stood by the side of the highway with my thumb out. I was hoping for a pick-up truck but, for once, these were few and far between. Nobody would stop for a stranded cyclist it seemed. Heavy trucks snaked down a winding road to the railhead where they deposited their containers before setting off up the hillside again. I watched this process repeat itself dozens of times before I gave up and erected my tent in the lee of an embankment that carried a road-bridge over a dried-up creek. Then, after a brief entreaty to the powers-that-be with regard to the prevention of flash flooding, I crawled inside and slept for a couple of hours. Darkness had fallen by the time I retraced my steps to the Black Pizza Inn where I spent a solitary evening over a dismal plate of lasagne and a few bottles of beer.My mission the next day was clear-cut - to get as far away and as fast away from Roosevelt as was humanly possible by bicycle before nightfall. To my delight, the wind had dissipated and the sun was high in a bright blue sky - escape was feasible. From the crest of a rise a couple of miles beyond Roosevelt, the snow-capped tip Mount Hood appeared, faint but perfectly conical, eighty-odd miles to the west. Highway 14 dived down to the Columbia as it flowed into a gorge, great bluffs of black basalt rising on either side of calm blue waters. Rocks to the right, railroad adjoining the river to the left, I kept the bike in high gear, maintaining a steady momentum. The valley swept broadly around from northwest to west, and the grey wall of John Day Dam came into view. Breaking out to the north, the highway twisted up across the face of the gorge via a series of switchbacks to emerge at a pass beneath a rocky outcrop that overlooked the dam. As I ate lunch, perched high on a sunny ledge, I checked my progress on the map and felt contented. A few minutes later, as I coasted down past ranch houses and cattle pastures, I reflected on how good it was to be home on the range.Beyond the turn off for Biggs Junction the highway climbed across a steep hillside that was bare but for a sage-grass cloak before swooping down towards the water's edge through fruit orchards and long rows of vines. It was late in the day and the river spread out before me like a sheet of mirrored glass, the reflection of Mount Hood's hazy pyramid inverted on its smooth shiny surface. I glided on through the golden light, weaving a course between pine copses and rock tors and then, just as the sun dipped beyond the long blue ridge of the Cascades, a dam appeared and a little beyond it, a bridge. I rolled across to the Oregon shore, feeling tired but happy.The city of The Dalles (pop. 12,596) sits on the south bank of the Columbia River at the point where it enters the Cascade Ranges, from which it has carved a deep gorge, some eighty miles long. In times past, this section of the river was characterised by a series of treacherous rapids, of which The Dalles - which has long since disappeared beneath the waters - was one of the most perilous.I spent an afternoon wandering around The Dalles, wondering where its population could have gone. Murals featuring Lewis and Clark befriending the natives and pioneers coming west on The Oregon Trail adorned gable ends along Main Street. The quest for a Laundromat brought me to a retail park on the edge of town and lo - the mystery of the missing folks was solved. On a Sunday morning resplendent with autumn sunshine I followed 'Historic Highway 30' - so-called because it has been superseded by freeway that runs nearby - west from The Dalles. Above me, stands of pine clambered across precipitous slopes - it was perfect ambush country. When the thunderous staccato of machine-gunfire shattered the calm of the forest, I felt suitably alarmed. Rounding a bend I came upon the source of the outrage: half a dozen men with long black guns in their arms were stood in a line across the entrance of a disused quarry. I watched, incredulous, as they took in turns to empty their weapons at a row of targets which had been propped up against the rock-face a score of metres away. Guns crackled, cartridges spewed onto the dirt and cardboard boxes tumbled, mortally wounded. I wanted to speak with the overweight gunmen, to find out if any among them would allow me to fire their weapon but, to a man, they were so engrossed in the process of firing and reloading that they didn't even notice me. Eventually my ears could take no more and I pedalled off up the empty highway into the woods. When the gunfire faded and the peace was restored, I half-wondered whether the surreal encounter had actually occurred. 'Yes' I told myself 'You are in the United States'.A series of switchbacks, stacked one on top of another, led up to Rowena Crest, a promontory popular with picnickers on account of its superb views along the gorge in either direction. After pausing awhile to admire the scenery and watch as the breeze steered a model-airplane onto the rocks below, I swept down across slopes planted with orchards and vines to the waterside settlement of Mosier (pop. 410) from whence a paved track followed the course of the old highway up into a cool pine-forest and across a hillside that fell away sharply below. Parties of weekend excursionists - strollers, cyclists and dog-walkers - passed by in the other direction. The path continued across the slopes and through a pair of old tunnels before commencing a winding descent, down through the trees and into the town of Hood River (pop. 5,831), a popular windsurfing centre. My enquiries led me into the foothills, to a lonely forest park where I set up camp. It was a lovely spot with a rushing river and views of nearby Mount Hood. The Hood River Valley is a major fruit-producing area, to which Latino migrants flock to find work in orchards. It is on the southern outskirts of town that their impact is clearest: tabernacles preach rival interpretations of the gospel en español; bilingual billboards advertise televised football; and taco-joints cater to the homesick palate. At the municipal library, where I spent a couple of afternoons dodging bad weather and catching up with my writing, an altar celebrating Día de Los Muertos, the Mexican equivalent of Halloween, was adorned with replica skulls and other macabre objects.By midday on Wednesday it had ceased to rain, though the sky was still a little overcast. I set out to the west again along the shoulder of the freeway. After ten miles of relentless heavy traffic, I was relieved to be able to escape onto temporarily resurrected Highway 30. In the shadow of towering bluffs I followed the empty two-lane highway through dense pine forest where it began to climb steeply. But I didn't mind because it felt great to have the road to myself again - to be free - and, in any case, ascent soon turned to descent. Shortly thereafter I rolled out of the trees and into the Cascade Locks (pop. 1,135) where I paused for some refreshment. A leaf-encrusted track led me out to Eagle Creek where a fish hatchery nestled in the woods by a minor tributary of the Columbia. Suspended in a pool beneath a bridge, having done their bit for the furtherance of the species, hundreds of salmon waited inertly for death. I watched awhile as the odd fish would leap from the water to protest against its fate. Then I remembered that I had a date with Portland and it was time to be gone.Jutting out from the valley floor on the opposite bank of the ever-broadening river, the great incisor of Beacon Rock signalled that I had at last arrived at the lower reaches of the Columbia Gorge. I followed Highway 30, now in its third avatar, along the base of a great escarpment from which, every few miles, a waterfall would plunge, entering the forest with a deep rumble. The highest of these cascades, Multnomah Falls, tumbles almost seven hundred feet and is a popular tourist attraction. I found several coaches drawn up in the parking lot of the restaurant at the foot of the falls. The flash of my own camera joined with those of others to light up the early evening gloom. To my chagrin, the section of the old highway beyond Multnomah Falls was closed for maintenance so I was obliged to rejoin the shoulder of the freeway for the remainder of the day's ride. As twilight descended and heavy trucks rumbled by I consoled myself that it was only fifteen miles to the city limits. My exploration of urban America was about to begin. ENDS
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1161098400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1161098400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1161098400/tpod.html Sat, 26 Apr 2008 11:23:38 -0400 Two Wheels to the Wild Frontier - The Adventures of an Occasional Cyclist in the American West and Mexico

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Clarkston, Washington, United States

Sandpoint is a resort town set amid a bowl of green hills at the western tip of Lake Pend Oreille in the Panhandle of northern Idaho. In summer it draws the boating crowd and in winter people come to ski. Accessible by road and rail, Sandpoint (pop. 6,835) is indeed a pleasant place for the traveller to unwind.I'd known about the road links of course, having come in from Montana on Interstate 200. Feeling bedraggled after an early evening cloudburst on the northern shore of Lake Pend Oreille, I'd set up camp in the lee of an embankment that was cloaked in a dense thicket of shrubbery. Sandpoint's rail connection I learned of much later, on being jolted awake by the slow grinding advance of some terrifying mechanical beast, which turned out to be the first of many. I was still telling myself that the odds of a derailment were infinitesimal when the last train rumbled by sometime after four.Next morning, bleary-eyed, I wandered over to the municipal beach. A steady breeze blew across the lake and the resultant waves hurled spray over a scaled-down replica of the Statue of Liberty that stood atop its own little pier. Out among the white horses, a red sailboard raced hither and thither, intermittently catapulting its rider into the chilly depths. Underwhelmed at the prospect of another day on the Interstate, I headed back to camp and fell fast asleep. After leaving Sandpoint next day via the mile-long bridge that carries busy Interstate 95 across Lake Pend Oreille, I was confined for several hours to a rough stone-littered shoulder, which, as well as slowing me down, inflicted a couple of punctures. My vain attempts to escape across the rumble-strip onto the smooth stone-free surface of the highway itself were invariably greeted by angry horn-blasts from fast-approaching trucks to my rear. Several times I fled back onto the shoulder in claxon-induced terror, having been reduced to size. Occasionally, especially if the perceived aggressor's Idaho license plates bore the slogan 'Famous Potatoes', I would vent my spleen, shouting 'You can stick your f**king potatoes up your ****!' at the back of his truck. After one particularly close call, it dawned on me that it was best just accept the maxim "Might Is Right". For the remainder of the forty-five miles to Coeur d'Alene (pop. 34,514) I stuck firmly to the shoulder.It was late afternoon when I arrived on the outskirts of the city, the largest in the Panhandle. Still feeling somewhat fraught after my experiences on the Interstate, I made my way to a trailer park situated in the midst of a vast suburb of retail outlets and fast-food joints. The superintendent told me that, while she normally catered for itinerant workers and those who couldn't afford housing, I was welcome to pitch my tent. Having temporarily joined the ranks of the 'trailer park trash', I went out on foot after dark to investigate my new surroundings. I soon discovered that these consisted of a dreary commercial sprawl that I didn't much care for. Islands of cheap nasty architecture, adorned with lurid neon signs, floated in a sea of tar macadam on which fleets of vehicles were anchored beneath the fluorescent orange glow of streetlights. Outside automobile dealerships, giant Stars and Stripes flags fluttered over lots filled with the latest merchandise: pick-up trucks built like tanks and SUVs the size of small buses.I ventured into the heart of the city the following morning for a look around. Like Sandpoint, Coeur d'Alene is a resort town set on the shore of a lake - with a clutch of stylish boutiques, up-market galleries and trendy eateries. Determined to avoid the monster-truck extravaganza on Interstate 95 at all costs, I called into a cycle shop to pick-up some inner tubes and seek advice on route finding, a quest that met with only partial success.Later, I found my out through the eastern suburbs to a cycle-track that ran for a number of miles along Lake Coeur d'Alene's northern shore, past dog-walkers, joggers and marinas filled with shimmering yachts. When the track ran out I joined a quiet back road that climbed steeply away from the lake, over the freeway and up into the hills beyond. Several miles further on I found myself on a gravel track in the middle of a mountain forest with a deflated back tyre and no idea as to where I was headed. Fortunately, a passing motorist, with the aid of GPS, put me right and, shortly afterwards, I emerged from the trees high above a narrow blue finger of lake, having wasted a couple of hours on an unnecessary detour - I learned subsequently that riding on the freeway shoulder is legal if there is no alternative route.It was late afternoon when I joined Idaho 97 at the northeastern tip of Lake Coeur d'Alene. Clinging tight to the base of a steep wooded hillside, the road followed the southern shore of the inlet for a few miles before curving round into a secluded cove lined with boat-jetties and rambling houses, then climbed sharply into the hills beyond. I laboured upwards around a series of tight bends to emerge atop a broad promontory, the sun sitting low in the sky to the west. Light flooding through the trees, I raced down a long shallow grade to meet the eastern shore of the lake's slender main body where a succession of small wood-fringed inlets host the stylish summer homes of the boating fraternity. I skipped from cove to cove as the setting sun filled the lake with liquid gold. By the time I rolled out of the woods and into the village of Carlin Bay the waters had become a sea of pink. It was time to make camp; but the glamorous blonde lady who ran the trailer park had other ideas. 'We don't do tent camping' she informed me with a disdainful regard.Amid falling twilight, I rode off into the trees cursing the miserable bitch for all it was worth. By now the only traffic on the road were the deer that leapt out of the forest around me, intent on a Friday night guzzle down at the water's edge. The highway began climbing, bend after bend, for what seemed an eternity to a man as frightened as I was. Headlight fixed on the twin gold lines in the centre of the road, I worked the pedals until, at last, I arrived at a pass from where I could see the lights of a settlement in the distance below. Sounding my tinny little bell at intervals to ward off wildlife, I coasted down off the mountain and over a bridge into Harrison (pop. 265). It was just after eight when I arrived at a lakeside campground, grateful to have defied the odds again. I hadn't been there long when a man, who introduced himself as Gary, came over from a nearby trailer, bearing a plate of hot food: 'I guess you'll be needing that' he said - and I didn't argue. After bolting down the meal I spruced myself up and went off in search of the amber nectar.Before long I was sat at the counter of the local tavern with a beer in front of me. A very attractive blonde took the next barstool and began chatting to me in a forward, flirtatious manner. I regaled her with my tales of life on the road and she exclaimed 'Oh my Gawd, I love your accent. Tell me some more!' She laughed uproariously at all my witticisms and then introduced me, inevitably, to her husband who, just that minute, had finished a game of pool. If he was jealous he didn't show it for he bought me a beer and began waxing romantic about his new wife. They were 'aquaholics' he told me, whose shared love of boating had brought them together after failed first marriages. After a while some of the couple's boating friends came in and I found myself invited to a party back on a boat.A silver half-moon illuminated the water as half a dozen of us ambled down to the dock, sharing an illicit cigarette. But my vision of a midnight cruise along Lake Coeur d'Alene was to remain unfulfilled for it transpired that there was a problem with the boat's electrics and, despite hubby's best efforts, it wasn't going anywhere. Blondie, thoroughly pissed after a few more vodkas, seemed disappointed, judging by the invective she flung at her hitherto placid partner. The time had come to make my excuses and leave. As I wandered back to the campground I wondered who would get the misfiring boat after the divorce.As I stood on the shore next morning contemplating what a glorious day it was, Gary, the man who had fed me the night before, appeared at my side with a cup of coffee, which I gratefully accepted. As we looked across calm blue waters of the lake to the wooded green ridge opposite, Gary gave me a quick geography lesson: the lake's depth had been augmented by a dam near the city of Coeur d'Alene; and the Saint Joe's River, which I'd crossed the night before on my way into Harrison, was the world's highest navigable river. As for the name Coeur d'Alene - well, that meant 'heart of awl' and it came from the name that French-Canadian fur-traders - les voyageurs - gave to the local Indians on account of their sharp business practices. An awl, he informed me, was a tool for boring wood.Gary and his wife had retired to Idaho from Los Angeles to escape the rat race and lead a simple life. When I told him that I was on my way to California he went back to his trailer, re-emerging a couple of minutes later with a road atlas. We sat down at a picnic table and spent the best part of an hour poring over maps, planning my route to the coast. Eventually we came to California:'Son, do you have a gun?' he asked me earnestly.I laughed, though from the expression on Gary's face, it was clearly no joking matter.'You oughtta be real careful when you get to California' he warned.Soberly, I asked why.'Cos it's full of assholes.' Gary brought his gun with him whenever he went on the road. So far he'd never had to use it. But that meant nothing - one day he might run into 'a real asshole'.I thanked Gary for his assistance and set off south along a cycle-track that ran along the lakeshore on the route of an old railroad. Knots of weekend cyclists called out greetings as they whizzed past in the opposite direction. A mile-long trestle bridge carried me across the shallow reed-filled waters at the southern end of the lake. Beneath its main span, squadrons of duck assembled around a narrow channel, rising and falling on the wake of passing boats. Continuing south on the lake opposite shore I emerged onto sparsely trafficked Idaho 5. Proceeding east along the southern edge of the lake, the calm was disturbed only by an occasional shotgun blast from a hunting party in the marshes below. Leaving the lakeshore for the last time, I began to climb up through the trees around a series of sharp bends. Wreathed in sweat, I arrived after some time at a mountain pass where I paused awhile to catch my breath and drink in my first sight of the unfamiliar realm to which I was bound. The valley of the Saint Joe's River spread out before me, bathed in sunshine, and beyond, range upon range of forested hills stretched away to a far horizon.I hared down the far side of the mountain and out of the woods to arrive the town of Saint Marie's (pop. 2,652). My initial enquiries took me three miles out along the banks of the serene Saint Joe's River to the padlocked gate of a campground that had closed for the season. I returned to Saint Marie's where I took a room in Bed And Breakfast establishment run by a man named Brick.On hearing that I was bound for San Francisco Brick went directly to his bookcase and retrieved his road atlas. My arrival, it seemed, had the makings of a project. As we looked over the maps together, Brick confided that, in his younger days, he had been a keen cyclist. He was retired now, but once every so often, he would take his bicycle out of the garage and go for a ride. Speaking slowly and softly he debated aloud the merits of going over the Cascades - a possibility of snow - or through the Columbia Gorge - could be windy. I focussed my questioning on more immediate issues, namely the route that I would take for the next three days. Choosing his words with the utmost deliberation, Brick advised me that the route that I had chosen would take me through some nice country, then cautioned that it would be remote and I'd be lucky to find anyplace to stay.Early the next morning, after a hearty breakfast and some more words of wisdom from Brick, I set out southbound under a sombre sky. There was an unmistakeable chill in the air. Idaho 3 climbed steadily through thick forest for several miles, one bend following another. The ascent seemed to require a lot more effort than it should have; eventually I realised grimly that I had a slow puncture. I pulled over onto the shoulder and started going through the wearyingly familiar routine. But something was missing on this occasion, something that I should have picked up on but didn't, perhaps because part of my brain was still slumbering back in Saint Marie's. So I reloaded the bike, gained the crest of the hill and commenced the long descent, coasting effortlessly for mile upon mile until, before very long, I'd left the forest behind and found myself amid open grazing country. Looking down to check how far it would be to the next town I discovered a dizzying void between my handlebars, a void where my map-case should have been attached to the bag that contained all my valuables: my money, my credit cards, my passport, my phone and my camera - a bag that was now missing. The realisation came like a shock of electricity to me.There was no time to lose - I had to get back up that hill. I threw down the bike and stood in the road, flapping my arms about wildly, until an SUV pulled over, a woman at the wheel and three young kids in the back: 'Sure', she'd give me a ride. I consoled myself that I didn't appear dangerous; then chained my bike to a fence and climbed into the passenger seat. Time dragged infinitesimally as the vehicle climbed the hill. Eventually it arrived at the spot where I'd changed the inner tube. My heart sank - there was no sign of a bag; but I dismounted nonetheless. I scoured the shoulder; then veered off into the scrub where, an hour or so previously, I'd answered a call of nature. There was nothing, not even a trickle of piss. I was thousands of miles from home, alone, without a dime to my name - completely fucked.For several minutes I wandered back and forth along the shoulder, desperately clutching at straws. There wasn't much I could do but go to the police in Saint Marie's hoping that a passing motorist had handed in my bag - after all most people were honest, weren't they? Suddenly another thought occurred to me and, for the second time that morning, I started frantically flagging down traffic. A mud-spattered pick-up pulled over and I dived in. The driver was a lumberjack with a face full of whiskers. I told him my story. 'Bit fuckin' cold to be cycling', he drawled, flashing me a toothless smile.Back in town, I headed straight for Brick's place. 'Well, you didn't get very far', said his wife, surprised to see me again. I went out to the garage and there, behind the door, I found my handlebar bag - in the place where it had been sitting, unnoticed, for the past couple of hours. Somehow I'd managed to go through the whole process of unloading the bike, changing the inner tube and loading the bike up again without noticing that it was missing. I felt like the immensely relieved idiot that I undoubtedly was. Brick, thoroughly amused at my ineptitude, drove me out along the highway where I was re-united with my bicycle. I thanked him for his troubles and set off on my way, still trying to make sense of the morning's events.Sometime later I approached Santa (pop. 115). On the edge of town I ventured into a bar that offered hot food. There were no elves or reindeer present - just a few people sitting at the counter watching a NASCAR race on TV. A bartender wearing a ball-cap embossed 'Save Idaho - Castrate Non-Hunters' fixed me a burger while I quizzed a couple of locals about campgrounds along the road ahead. They mentioned a few possible sites; then told me how an Internet company had paid the 'city' $30,000 to rename itself. On leaving the bar I spotted a sign by the roadside: 'Welcome to secretsanta.com'.A few miles further down the highway I arrived in Fernwood (pop. 684), where I stopped at a supermarket to pick up some food, before continuing south into the woods. The sun had by now ceased its half-hearted struggle to break though the blanket of grey enveloping the sky and the temperature was dipping again. A dozen miles beyond Fernwood I came upon a rudimentary campground in a cedar grove by a gurgling stream. Reckoning that there would be enough remaining daylight to get a fire going and cook up a meal before the wildlife came on the scene, I wheeled my bike around a barrier sealing the campground entrance and picked a site that couldn't be seen from the road.A few minutes later I was sitting on a pit-toilet amid the pungent odour of last season's shit when I heard a voice calling outside. I cleaned myself up and went out to investigate. A short stocky man wearing a ball-cap walked purposefully towards me -a forest ranger, I assumed. But instead of telling me to get lost because the campground was closed, the man introduced himself as Chuck and asked if I want a ride to 'Moss Cow'. Slowly it dawned on me that I'd met him before - at the bar in Santa. I assured Chuck that I was absolutely fine but he was having none of it:'Have you ever met a redneck logger?' he asked. I thought back to the guy who'd picked me up in the midst of my crisis that morning and, it was true - he had had somewhat of a 'Deliverance' aura about him. But I remained unfazed - I would stay put. 'OK', said Chuck, trying to save me from myself, 'Do you know how cold it was here last night?' I had to admit that I didn't. 'Fifteen degrees below', he told me emphatically. I didn't need to perform the conversion into Celsius to know that that was damn cold. Together, we strapped the bike to the back of his jeep; then set out for Moscow, Idaho.Chuck told me that he'd been keeping an eye out for me since I'd left the bar. He owned a welding business over in Washington State and was in the early stages of building a weekend retreat near Santa. He'd camped out there over the weekend.Sipping hot coffee, we proceeded south along an undulating corridor of never-ending pine beneath a leaden sky. Occasionally, the forest cleared to reveal huge stacks of lumber destined for the sawmill. After passing though a couple of desolate logging towns, we turned west onto Idaho 8. I felt grateful that Chuck had made the effort to track me down. On arrival in Moscow (pop. 21,291), where it was suitably cold, I took my leave of Chuck and headed to a motel.I checked out next morning and headed to the main drag. Finding a diner that was popular with students - Moscow is home to Idaho State University - I ordered a Denver Omelette and sat down to watch the 'rockumentary' Spinal Tap which was playing on a television set. Having killed the best part of an hour through this entertaining diversion, I got back on the road just after midday. Riding out of town I reflected that while Moscow, Idaho, might have lacked a Kremlin, it did have some awesome grain elevators.Interstate 95 climbed south out of town, its surface horribly pitted. Mercifully, traffic was relatively light and I felt confident enough to abjure the stony shoulder and stay to the 'road side' of the dreaded rumble-strip. The road levelled out amid a gently undulating sea of wheat, and, for the first time in days, there wasn't a tree to be seen. The sky was blue and cloudless, though a cold easterly wind that blew in across the plateau kept the temperature down. My morale was boosted when the Interstate divided itself into two newly built carriageways, enabling me to increase my momentum over a silky-smooth surface. It was mid-afternoon when I arrived at the plateau's western extremity and paused at a vantage point that looked out over the canyon of the Snake River at the point where it met with that of the Clearwater. Far below, around the confluence of the broad shimmering rivers, the twin cities of Lewiston and Clarkston, linked by a pair of long thin bridges, spread out over the valley floor; and to the west, beyond the canyon rim, bare-brown hills stretched away into a haze of high desert. Immediately before me, a sinuous ribbon of black tarmac unwound itself across the hillside. I pushed myself forward and began the descent. ENDS
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1206211320/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1206211320/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1206211320/tpod.html Sat, 22 Mar 2008 14:50:00 -0400 Two Wheels to the Wild Frontier - The Adventures of an Occasional Cyclist in the American West and Mexico

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

London, United Kingdom

It's almost a year since I got back from New York - it seems like longer. And I still haven't finshed the account of my travels! But I will, rest assured, because I am one stubborn hombre. No writings of late - I've simply been too busy with that toad, work. But hopefully a window of opportunity will open soon and I can get down to it again. So watch this space ...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1172263620/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1172263620/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1172263620/tpod.html Wed, 02 Jan 2008 12:31:25 -0500 Two Wheels to the Wild Frontier - The Adventures of an Occasional Cyclist in the American West and Mexico

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Acapulco, Mexico

A speedboat buzzed across the conch-shaped bay and a multi-coloured parachute sailed by overhead. Its adrenalin-filled pilot called out greetings to a group of gringos who were loudly shouting encouragement from the beach. Before long another among their number would have an almost-identical feat of derring-do digitally recorded for posterity. Further out, a myriad of gleaming yachts sat at anchor in the sheltered water. Launches ferried their crews back and forth across the bay and children with body-boards rode ashore on the wash - that was as wild as it got in the Bahía de Zihuatanejo.I sat down on the sand to dry off. A steady procession of flesh made its way along the Playa de la Ropa. Broadly, it comprised of two categories of norteamericano: couples in their twenties or thirties who'd flown down to Zihua for a weeklong romantic break; and snowbirds who were spending the season in México. The snowbirds strode confidently along the beach having long-since ceased to feel any guilt about body-hair, excess flesh or brown leathery skin while the pasty-skinned lovebirds who walked by looked self-conscious in newly-acquired bathing costumes.Across the flanks of the green crescent of hills enclosing the bay spread variegated tiers of low-rise development - hotels and holiday-apartments no doubt. Closer at hand, a densely packed row of bars and restaurants fronted onto the beach, each with their own little empire in the sand. White-jacketed waiters scuttled to and fro attending to clients in beach-attire. 'Cuanta cuesta una cerveza?' I asked. The camerero held up the fingers on both hands and replied 'Diez pesos, señor'.Evening fell and I returned to camp - a patch of earth in a backyard a couple of blocks from the beach. The sweet scent of bougainvillea combined with a sickly stench of human waste to fill the warm tropical air. My neighbour, a silver-haired gringo in a campervan, informed me that the municipality was in the process of upgrading the sewage system.Jack kindly invited me over for dinner. Laurent, a Québecois who was parked next to him, supplied the wine. The two old boys talked while I, in the main listened. Laurent was a lovely man, a retired banker who was still coming to terms with losing his wife to cancer. Jack, on the other hand, was a complete rogue. He hailed originally from San Diego, California and had spent the best part of his life working as photographer for various publications of dubious repute. The happiest days of his life had been spent in Cuba before the revolution. Misty-eyed, he declared: 'Cuban pussy is the best in the world!' Though he'd long since retired, Jack liked to keep his skills up to date. By day he would tour Zihua on a scooter, chatting up women and trying to talk them into disrobing for the camera. 'You shoudda seen the nineteen-year old I brought back here last week!' he bragged and made a kissing sound with his lips.How come the old-timer with the tache gets the girl?Early next morning I wandered down to the beachside bazaar in search of breakfast. A warren of narrow alleys hosted stalls dispensing beachwear, crafts and tourist trinkets. As I sat in a café eating huevos rancheros stallholders began to arrive and take down the shutters in preparation for a day's trading. A group of female sun-seekers on their way to the beach paused to browse at one of the stalls. Seconds later the morning calm was shattered by an outburst of shrieking. I looked up from my breakfast to see a panic-stricken herd of bikini-clad backsides wobbling back up the alley from whence they'd come. The source of the outrage, a rat of some considerable size, sat still as a stone in the middle of the passageway, until finally a broom-wielding youth appeared and took a swing at it. The startled rodent disappeared through a gap beneath a shutter and the hunt was on. I forgot about my breakfast and headed back to the campground to load up my bike.Beyond the airport Highway 200 reverted to two lanes with an intermittent shoulder about half-a-metre wide on either side of the road. Contrary to my fears, traffic turned out to be mercifully light as I pedalled southeast into a hitherto unknown realm, of which the barren foothills of the Sierra Madre, shrouded in haze to my left, were to become an ever-present feature.Unknown creatures - snakes, lizards, rodents or birds - rustled around in the bone-dry scrub along the roadside; empty Coca-Cola bottles accumulated on the shoulder next to signs forbidding littering; the decaying corpses of dogs lent a tang to the air; and all the while the morning heat intensified. I rolled past groves of tall, slender coconut palms; through dusty villages prowled by squads of noisy, tire-biting mongrels; and by noon I'd made it as far as Petatlán, a hot, sweaty town of several thousand souls. Here, I stopped to eat lunch and kill sometime on the Internet and by half past two, having escaped the worst of the heat; I was ready to move again.Beyond Petatlán the highway climbed gently and I caught sight of a body of water through the treetops to my right. Arriving at the crest of a hill, I ditched my bike and followed a rough trail through dense undergrowth for a short distance. The muddy brown waters of a mangrove-fringed lagoon unfolded before me. And on the far side of a thin coastal strip, beyond a verdant canopy of palm fronds, the ocean, shimmering blue, decanted its frothy-white vigour onto a desolate strand.After gaining the coast at the hamlet of La Barrita the highway clung tight to the shore for several kilometres: a steep, scrub-covered hillside rising immediately to one side; and the broad blue expanse of the Pacific extending to the horizon on the other. The road climbed gradually before emerging atop a low promontory where a stunning prospect awaited: a broad arc of golden sand stretched away towards a distant point where the bare brown hills of the interior dipped down to meet the ocean; and the crescent of coastal shelf that lay between the mountains and the foaming surf glowed emerald-green with the foliage of coconut-palms. As I glided past the plantations the day's work was drawing to a close. Harvesters walked homewards with machetes dangling from their belts while their women-folk transferred the coconuts that were stacked at intervals along the roadside onto the beds of pick-up trucks.Two kilometres beyond the little town of Papanoa a track led down to the long lonely strand that I'd looked out upon not a couple of hours earlier. A fiery sun sank ever seaward, making silhouettes of half-a-dozen youths who were frolicking amongst the breakers. I let my bike fall to the sand and waded out into the warm frothy brine.I woke next morning early, to the rumble of the ocean and the irritating drone of greedy mosquitoes. Bleary-eyed, I moved along the empty beach, daylight advancing with my every step. Pelicans hovered on the breeze, their beady eyes scanning the waters for fishy prey. Every so often one of the winged predators would plunge headlong into the depths to emerge, after a few seconds, with a silvery breakfast lodged in its giant beak.A dull thud followed the sound of a clinking blade and I crawled out of my tent to investigate. A couple of groundsmen from the solitary hotel nearby were out harvesting coconuts. While one held a ladder against a slender palm-trunk his companion aloft wielded the machete; and one by one the coconuts fell to the sand. As I decamped and loaded up my bike the pair approached and we ended up shooting the breeze awhile. Before I departed the hombre with the machete sliced the top from a coconut; and I drank back its cold sweet milk.Leaving Papanoa behind, I climbed sharply to a low crest; then swept down the far side of the hill to a junction where men in blue uniform were not-so-busy manning a checkpoint. Forsaking the main highway I followed a narrow byroad that twisted and climbed its way across a parched brown hillside before plunging down to the little harbour of Puerto Vicente Guerrero. A bright two-storey building, onto which the word 'Armada' had been fixed in black lettering, sat atop one of a pair of piers that jutted out into the bay. The boats of the navy were away at sea and life in the settlement that abutted the port seemed decidedly sleepy: old men swung around in hammocks wherever there was shade to be found while little knots of barefoot children ranged the dusty lanes. My enquiries took me out of the village along a bumpy dirt track.From the brow of a hill I looked down upon La Playa Escondida: a pale crescent of sand curling gently around the edge of a broad cove enclosed on either side by twin headlands. A line of wooden shacks extended along the length of the beachfront and alongside each of these structures palapas - open-sided shelters with a roof of palm fronds - had been erected to offer relief from the sun. Arriving at the beach I drew up at the closest establishment. Aside from a large rooster, which strutted imperiously across the makeshift floor, the restaurant seemed deserted; then suddenly, from the shade beneath the palapa a hammock rustled and la dueña appeared with a menu in hand. I ordered a beer and sat down to contemplate the strand. Along its entirety there was not a soul to be seen.The weight of the ocean crashed in repeatedly around me. Sometimes I would elude its power by diving into a wave just as it was on the verge of collapse; sometimes I would resist the tyranny, standing Canute-like before a breaker until I was overwhelmed with a boom, dragged along with the surge and then dumped on the shore like a limp rag-doll; and at other times I'd venture further out and just float on my back and gaze up at the azure sky - though the sun was high - and think how wonderful everything was. As I scuttled over the beach its pale powdery sand would scald the soles of my feet. I'd sit down awhile and eat or drink or write my journal and then, when the heat of the sun had dried the drops of liquid from my skin, I'd scythe across the sand and into the warm embrace of the sea once more. And so time passed until it was three o'clock: time to settle my bill; and time to leave the 'hidden beach'. I retraced my route along the bumpy lane, through the sleepy village, up the steep incline above the port and down the parched slopes on the other side of the hill until I arrived at the checkpoint and the junction with Highway 200. By the entrance to an adjacent school a line of students neatly dressed in blue and white uniforms waited for transport to their native villages. I checked the map - fifty kilometres separated me from a bed for the night.The road was straight and even and the terrain was flat. Lush palm groves alternated with scrubby cattle ranges and, every so often, the grey waters of a distant lagoon came into view across the treetops; while, to my left, the unbroken barrier of the Sierra Madre stretched off beneath an ever-present haze. Traffic was sporadic: camionetas - pick-ups with benches and a sun-awning mounted on the rear - filled with students who would wave and shout greetings to me as they passed; military trucks lined with green-helmeted soldiers who were too engaged in holding their rifles upright to acknowledge my waved greetings; and the occasional long-distance bus en route to either Acapulco or Zihuatanejo. After a while the friendly school-kids ceased to pass; and I stepped up the pace.Time passed and the shadows of palm trees grew longer. Machete-carrying pedestrians began to appear along the roadside, signalling the end to another working day. Slowly a cleft revealed itself in the chain of mountains ahead; and the highway began a gradual climb. As the sun dipped beyond the horizon somewhere to my rear I pedalled over a bridge spanning a broad but shallow river. On the far side of the water lay my destination, the town of Tecpan de Galeana.I awoke the following morning with my head groggy and my skin ablaze - the effects of sunburn and dehydration. It was eight o'clock and from the street outside came the sound of an amplified voice - the inane blabber of an advertising man. I turned up the overhead fan and tried to sleep but it was no use; the voice jabbered incessantly about the merits of branded washing powder. Finally I could take no more; and, still in my briefs, I strode out onto the balcony ready to do battle. Already the street was thick with people on their way to do the business at the nearby market. My oppressor was operating from an old VW Beetle with a mounted loudspeaker, which was parked below. He sat in the car - windows wound-up firmly - reading a newspaper while his taped announcements tortured everyone within a hundred-metre radius. Enough was enough and it was time he moved on! I tried to communicate these sentiments through the use of vigorous hand gestures; but succeeded only in providing amusement to a group of passing schoolgirls. With as much dignity as I could muster I retreated inside my room.Banda el RecodoI laid up for the day enjoying liquid refreshment, the soothing down-blast of a ceiling fan and satellite TV. I flicked between ESPN's coverage of the Champions' League and BandaMex, a channel dedicated to Mexico's favourite musical genre.Like a greyhound from a trap I bolted from Tecpan the following morning, intent on reaching Acapulco by nightfall. The scenery was not dissimilar to that which I'd seen two days previously: to the left, the haze-covered foothills of the Sierra Madre; to the right, the occasional hint of a coastal lagoon; and on either side of the highway, where the trees had been cleared, was pastureland. At intervals rivers came down from the hills to feed the lagoons and the highway would pass over a bridge. I'd pause awhile to look down on tranquil waters where pink flowers colonised the margins and wading birds stood sentinel for passing fish; and then be on my way.One sleepy roadside settlement gave way to another. I would slow down for the ramps and then pedal hard to outpace any mutts who fancied their chances, swinging a boot if necessary; or if I felt thirsty I'd pull in by a shop, buy a drink and sit beneath a palapa making chitchat with whoever was - often literally - hanging around. Sometimes as I pedalled through a village mischievous kids would call out 'gringo'; and I would smile and pedal on, figuring that they could be throwing stones at me instead.By early afternoon I'd covered the sixty kilometres to Coyuca, a bustling town of several thousand souls set on the southern bank of the Rio Coyuca. After a bite to eat I spent an hour or so in the air-conditioned comfort of an Internet café before setting forth on a back road bound for the coast. The winding byway carried me through shady palm-groves close to the riverbank. The further I travelled the more alluring the broad body of water, shimmering beyond the tree-trunks, became; so when I came upon a wooden shack that styled itself a restaurant nestling among the trees I dismounted and went in search of cerveza. A hitherto somnolent youth sprung from a hammock and asked me to choose my poison. Cradling a cold bottle of Indio I ambled over to a small wooden dock where a bucket containing half-a-dozen lifeless fish lay unattended. Beneath the great blue bulk of the distant mountains the channel emerged from amidst twin curtains of lush green foliage and swept gently around to the pier whereon I stood before continuing its progression to the sea.A sudden splash startled me; and I looked down to the foot of the dock where a strange glistening creature had just come to the surface. The man wore a snorkelling mask and cradled a large spear gun on which a fish was impaled. He placed the fish into the bucket, re-positioned his mask and disappeared beneath the water again. Satisfied that crocodiles were no longer a threat I disrobed and plunged into the warm, murky depths.After splashing across the river a couple of times I dried myself off and went to fetch another beer. On my return to the dock I found a well-dressed man who introduced himself as Ramirez, a dentist who lived locally. He'd come to collect fish that he'd ordered for a barbeque that he was hosting. Ramirez went on to tell me the Rio Coyuca had been used as a location for some of the scenes from the movie Rambo: First Blood, Part Two in which a heavily-armed Sly Stallone travels to Indochina to take on Charlie. Although I hadn't actually seen the movie I could see how, with a little imagination and a lot of conical hats, the tropical Rio Coyuca might pass for 'Nam.After declining an invite to Ramirez's party I headed off on my bicycle once more. A couple of kilometres further on the road ended abruptly on the northern shore of a broad channel linking Coyuca Lagoon to the ocean. By a dock boatmen waited to carry passengers across the water. I agreed a price with one of their number and lifted my bike into his launch; and then we were off.The sun's last rays, reflecting off the inlet's choppy surface, imbued my passage with a golden hue. Boats buzzed across the water; pelicans perched on mooring-posts or circled overhead; and, along either shore, humble homes nestled beneath the palms. A dock came into view, we approached and a short time later I was standing at the limit of La Barra de Coyuca, a twenty-kilometre long sandbar that separates Coyuca Lagoon from The Pacific. Dilapidated buildings, run-down hotels and graffiti-sprayed block walls lined the arrow-straight road running down the centre of la barra. Mean-looking youths sped by on motorised scooters. Free-range mongrels loitered mid-thoroughfare forcing me to brake or swerve on a couple of occasions. The dereliction continued unabated for several kilometres while to the west, beyond the barrier of palm that blocked my view, the sun was setting. Slowly, twilight fell, and with it came signs of the prosperity afforded by the tourist dollar: comfortable-looking hotels; appealing restaurants; tree-lined avenues filled with expensive cars; and an absence of litter or graffiti.At Pie de la Cuesta where the road from la barra joined the now-busy Highway 200 I flagged down a bus. The driver nodded his assent and I scrambled to force my fully loaded bike through the rear doors of the bus; but it got stuck and would not budge; until a couple of passengers within, seeing my predicament, took hold of the handlebars and pulled the bike up inside.As the bus slowly made its way through the suburbs of Acapulco I acquired an admirer, an attractive woman of around thirty who questioned me closely about my journey. She herself had spent the day on the beach at Pie de la Cuesta along with her younger, prettier sister and the sister's friend, a forty-something fair-haired man whose face had seen too much of the sun. I addressed the man but he did not understand and asked me to speak English, a language of which he himself appereared to have only a limited grasp. It transpired that he was down from Quebec on a week's vacation. Three of four times during the journey my newfound admirer asked me for my impressions of city. Each time I would look out of the window, slightly nonplussed, and see a hillside full of lights and reply 'Hay muchas luces' (there are lots of lights) and she would affect to be highly amused at my hilarity. When finally, we arrived in the city-centre and I was manoeuvring my bicycle towards the bus's rear exit she thrust a piece of paper into my hand, looked me deep in my eyes and implored me to call her. As I wandered off towards the zócalo I wondered 'What price a bit of fun?'
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1193954400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1193954400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1193954400/tpod.html Mon, 10 Dec 2007 18:23:38 -0500 Two Wheels to the Wild Frontier - The Adventures of an Occasional Cyclist in the American West and Mexico

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Leon, Mexico

Leon
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1172790000/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1172790000/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1172790000/tpod.html Mon, 10 Dec 2007 18:19:55 -0500 Two Wheels to the Wild Frontier - The Adventures of an Occasional Cyclist in the American West and Mexico

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Real de Catorce, Mexico

Peyote cactus
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1167778800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1167778800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1167778800/tpod.html Mon, 10 Dec 2007 18:13:25 -0500 Two Wheels to the Wild Frontier - The Adventures of an Occasional Cyclist in the American West and Mexico

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Batopilas, Mexico

Canyon country
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1167692400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1167692400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1167692400/tpod.html Mon, 10 Dec 2007 18:11:08 -0500 Two Wheels to the Wild Frontier - The Adventures of an Occasional Cyclist in the American West and Mexico

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Chihuahua, Mexico

How much is that doggie in the window?
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1180892580/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1180892580/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fintan/america_2006/1180892580/tpod.html Mon, 10 Dec 2007 18:01:39 -0500 Two Wheels to the Wild Frontier - The Adventures of an Occasional Cyclist in the American West and Mexico

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Zacatecas, Mexico

American Country & Western music of the most appalling variety belted out across the Public Address system as we took up positions ringside in a sun-baked bowl at the end of a dirt track somewhere in the outer suburbs of a city in the north of México. Brightly coloured houses spread up the flanks of a crag capped hill beyond the half-dozen tiers of concrete that enclosed the arena. Along the terraces, which were more full than empty, vendors moved, some dispensing snacks and soft drinks while others pedalled leather apparel. Here and there, wives and girlfriends lent colour to the crowd, but in the main the rodeo was a male affair - <i>norteño man and boy united beneath the white cowboy hat. Trucks came and went, disgorging cattle into a corral adjacent to the ring. Each time a new consignment arrived a squad of cowhands sprang into action. Armed with electric prods they manoeuvred their loudly protesting charges into ringside pens. Meanwhile, the crowd swelled slowly and a larger-than-life compère jabbered incomprehensively to a country beat.30 second challenge - direct from Nashville The aural assault continued - steel guitar, mawkish lyrics and twanging vocals. 'Jessica', an airhostess from Taipei, was the first to crack. I laughed into my beer as she approached the director's box to ask for a change of music. Our guide, the broody Guillerme, reacted by sinking his head into his hands, but he needn't have worried, for the compère, swayed by her abundant charms, was more than happy to oblige. Several hundred hat-clad heads turned to gawk as an announcement welcomed the 'foreign guests' - a middle-aged Canadian couple, La Taiwanesa and myself - to the rodeo. We smiled and waved and felt like celebrities while Guillerme looked mortally embarrassed and tried to hide under his baseball cap. A few seconds' later the sound of <i>banda - exuberant flourishes of trumpets backed by the 'oompah-oompah' of tubas - filled the arena. Never before had I been so appreciative of Mexico's favourite genre. After a long wait a group of bull riders strode out and formed a line across the centre of the ring. There were eight in total - a motley selection of fresh-faced youths and meaner looking veterans. They sported blue denim with flared leather chaps as leg coverings. In the all-important headwear department black and white were level at four apiece. At each end of the line stood one of a pair of clowns, their faces smeared with paint and their bulky forms clad in a uniform of baggy black pants and white shirts striped blood red. The music died and the compère announced that it was time for prayer. The crowd fell silent and the performers stood with heads bowed and arms clasped tight to their breasts. We prayed together for the safety of the riders and for a successful day's competition. Finally the performers turned and walked back towards the bullpens. The resumption of high-tempo Country and Western signalled that it was time for the rodeo to begin. First up was a novice, a young man who'd been looking forward to getting his first ride for months. The guy looked a bundle of nerves as he clambered up onto the rails above his mount, which was writhing and bucking in its pen. After a couple of minutes he seemed in place and the gates flew open. The bull exploded into the arena, rider less, and thrashed its way across the ring pursued by the clowns. Cowhands emerged from the adjacent corral and tried to lasso the beast as it cavorted around wildly. Eventually, someone got a rope on the animal's horns and it was dragged, kicking, out of the ring. Somewhere on the floor of the bullpen, sat a humiliated virgin, his pride in tatters. The compère offered some words of consolation as he crept away unseen through the rear of the pen. Next up was a rider with a few years' experience under his belt. The gates sprang open and he emerged into the ring atop an animal that looked like it too had been around awhile. With a brown and white patchwork torso and a dopey white face overseen by stubby parsnip-tip horns, it looked a docile creature. After a brief, half-hearted attempt to throw its rider - who quickly established his dominance - the beast loped around the arena in a near-perfect circle, earning its master a generous round of applause. For good measure, the rider took his mount around the ring a second time before disappearing into the corral at a canter. A third rider came out on a skinny black beast with long curved horns. The animal bucked and writhed awhile before ceding control to its rider, who guided it effortlessly around the ring a couple of times before entering the corral with plaudits ringing in his ears. I began to think that rodeo was easy. Then rider number four appeared. His mount was a more formidable proposition, muscular andangry. The rider struggled to cling on as the bull thrashed its way across the arena, saliva spewing from its flared nostrils, tail flailing wildly behind. It was fortunate that the rider was wearing a helmet as the bull suddenly stopped short and the rider hit the wall beneath us with an almighty thud. The clowns, anxiety painted across their faces, rushed towards the enraged bull, aiming to distract it before further damage was inflicted on the fallen rider. A couple of hard slaps to the rump later the animal took off in hot pursuit. From the corral emerged men with ropes, ready to bring the bull to ground. The rider lay prone on the sand, surrounded by concerned cowboys, while the compère rattled on about the rodeo's safety precautions - the helmets, the padding, etcetera. I wondered when a doctor was going to appear. After a few minutes the injured rider, still evidently stunned, was helped to his feet. Clutching a damaged shoulder, he was led across the arena to an accompaniment of sympathetic applause. The rodeo continued. A couple of more rides passed off without serious incident and then it was audience participation time. A clown popped up before us and beckoned me to join him in the ring. I clambered over the low wall, feeling slightly bemused, and dropped onto the sand below. 'You're on my team' said Bobo, before turning his attentions to my Canadian <i>compañero. Across the ring, the other clown was busy recruiting his team. Sports bags were placed on the ground to form makeshift goalposts at either end of the arena. It had been a while since I'd played football but I fancied my chances nonetheless. Granted, it wasn't the Aztec Stadium but it was as close as I would get. 'Just go out and enjoy it!' I told myself. There were five of us in all - Alberta Bill, Bobo The Clown, Miguel, Alejandro and myself. Bobo called us together for an impromptu team talk. The clown spoke machine-gun fast and most of his tactics were lost in translation. I decided just to slot into midfield and take it from there. Then Bobo mentioned <i>el toro. Alberta Bill looked real worried and then <i>el toro got another mention and the alarm bells started ringing for me. Seeing the lack of comprehension in our faces, the clown indicated one set of 'posts' and enunciated the word 'g-o-l' in the manner of someone addressing a gathering of the educationally subnormal. With a grand sweep, he turned towards the cowhand stationed by the entrance to the corral and, slowly mouthed the word 't-o-r-o'. I felt my bowels begin to loosen. The gate was opened and a black bull of medium size emerged into the arena looking mightily pissed off. A member of the opposing team stood directly in the animal's line of sight and began waving his arms and shouting like the raving nutcase he evidently was. The enraged bull wasted no time in charging and the opposition scattered before it. One by one the players clambered onto the relative safety of the wall encircling the arena, a tactic that I took good note of. Thwarted, the bull turned towards us with its nostrils flaring and its horns glistening in the sun. Alberta Bill muttered something about travel insurance and I exploded in a fit of nervous laughter. As the bull approached I climbed onto the wall leaving Bobo and the others to attempt to goad the bull through the posts. Flapping the arms and shouting abuse were the main tactics. One by one our players withdrew to the wall as the hapless bull turned this way and that, provoked by some new feat of bravado. The goal remained intact. Slowly, the opposition encroached from the rear. One of their number gave the bull a hefty slap on the hindquarters and raced off across the arena as fast as his legs could carry him. But it wasn't fast enough and the bull caught up with its assailant bringing him to ground with an almighty prang in the ass. The crowd howled with anguish as the animal stood over the fallen player, preparing to deliver the <i>coup de grace. In the nick of time, the rest of his team, led by Bobo's counterpart, arrived on the scene. A couple of slaps later the livid bull had forgotten about its victim and turned its attentions towards another of its tormentors. The dishevelled looking <i>hombre got to his feet and bolted for the wall, which he scaled in double quick time. Amid the mêlée he left behind, the bull pursued a teammate towards the posts at the far end of the ring. A cheer went up and it was one-nil to them. The game continued in the same fashion: the bewildered animal goaded from all directions; occasional drama as a player was felled, then rescued by his teammates; and, now and then, a 'goal' at either end. Still not quite believing what I'd got myself involved in, I remained outside the fray, taking to the summit of the wall if the bull so much as glanced in my direction. After what seemed like a long time the gate opened and the exhausted bull disappeared back into the corral. I breathed a sigh of relief and started heading back towards my seat. Bobo asked me where I was going - it was only half time. The appearance of a brown bull in the ring marked the commencement of the second half. The animal, though medium-sized, seemed angrier than its predecessor and its horns were sufficiently large to inspire fear. With verve and vigour the animal began charging its would-be tormenters. I wondered how many bulls I would have to face and longed to be back in my seat nursing a cold beer. Suddenly the bull had me in its sights and was careering headlong towards me with a look that was less than friendly. I about-turned and bolted <i>toute de suite. Mercifully, the wall was near at hand. I was over the top before you could say 'First World War'. Adrenalin pumping, I clung to the brickwork as the beast rampaged around the arena in pursuit of some other fool. Alberta Bill was a jovial rustic sort with lanky chestnut-brown hair and a luxuriant moustache. In his younger days he'd worked with bulls, experience which he was about to put to good use. He stood a dozen yards in front of the bull, legs apart, arms outstretched, felt hat in hand. The bull rushed forward and off Bill went, straight through the posts, the animal hot on his tail. Fortunately for Bill, Bobo was on hand to cause a diversion. It had been a neat bit of work from the <i>gringo and the crowd applauded generously. The scores were close and everything was still to play for. Bill's contribution had shown up me up. A fired-up Bobo demanded more effort on my part. I shuffled further towards the centre of the arena and flailed my arms about half-heartedly, hoping that the bull wouldn't notice. But the bull did notice. I swivelled round and inadvertently lost my footing in the sand. As I regained my feet, I could sense the irate beast closing in on me from behind. Adrenaline surging, I struggled to get away, but it was too late. A freight-train impact to the rear end lifted me up and propelled me through the air. I fell crumpled in a heap at the foot of the wall. Time slowed right down. The animal was there above me, poised to strike again. The sun had disappeared behind its silhouette. I expected the worst. Voices closed in. Feet appeared. The clowns did their job. The shadow vanished and the sun reappeared. The feet retreated and the voices faded. I clambered to my feet in a state of shock. Everything worked. I felt no pain, only relief, profound relief. I thanked God, I thanked the clowns and I thanked my arse for cushioning the blow. Some eejit screamed at me to 'follow the bull'. I screamed back 'Get fucking lost!'A short while later it was all over. The bulls were safe in the corral and Country and Western music rang out across the arena once more. We shook each other's hands and slapped each other's backs. The compère turned down the music and summoned us over. Amazingly, our team had won. After making the announcement across the PA system, the compère called me forward and presented me with the microphone. The crowd applauded generously. It seemed that I, the <i>gringo with the soon-to-be-sore arse, was the man of the moment. 'Señor. What are your feelings at this moment?' he asked. I hadn't reckoned on a speech. 'You are all totally fucking crazy!' was the best I could manage. But I was proud that I said it in Spanish. I thought that the crowd probably took my remarks in the humour with which they were intended. Clutching, my first cowboy earnings, a six-pack of Tecate, I headed back to my seat. ************************************************************ *************************** The road extended across the <i>meseta - wide, arrow-straight, good for cycling probably. Low, scrub-covered ranges extended along the horizon left and right. A glassy film blurred my vision and the haze of tequila swirled through my mind. An invisible knife was lodged in my throat and the taste of ashtray filled my mouth. A whispering man in a desert western extended his hand feebly and pleaded '<i>agua, agua'. Guillerme sat beside me at the wheel. He wore the pained green-tinged expression of a turtle which wanted to retreat back into its shell, but couldn't. We suffered together in silence. From the rear of the van came bright American voices. There were the two girls who'd been in the nightclub and a young couple from Kansas who I hadn't seen before. La Taiwanesa was absent, gone away on the early bus to Guanajuato. The dull ache in my backside brought me back to the previous day's events: the raging bull, the surge of adrenalin, the horror of impact, the jangling nerves, the oriental beauty and the soothing alcohol. The rodeo had continued with more bull rides before the women were lured down into the ring. This time there were to be no bulls, only a drinking game. The competitors had to down a can of Tecate in one go, run around the arena and then spin around until they fell over. Alberta Bill's wife, a petite blonde lady called Martha, was first up. Bill told me that she was good living and hadn't touched a drop for twenty years. She poured most of the beer into the sand, ran around the arena and spun around half a dozen times before collapsing, to the great amusement of Bill and the rest of the crowd. A couple of local women had their turns and then it was down to La Taiwanesa. She downed the beer in double-quick time and raced around the arena. The compère counted to <i>quince before she hit the deck. Jessica got up smiling and, to the accompaniment of boisterous applause, bowed first left, then right and centre. She'd finished runner-up to a large lady with a low centre of gravity who'd taken at least twice as long to get around the arena but just wouldn't seem to fall over. Sporting a fetching pink cowboy hat, which complemented the rest of her fiery ensemble, La Taiwanesa clambered back onto the terraces. I congratulated her and went off to look for a cigarette vendor. A low grey hill stood apart from the range, squat and angular. We turned off the highway and onto a side road. The outline of ruins revealed themselves as we drew close - Chicomostoc. We spilled out into the sunlight beside a small booth in an empty parking lot. The ticket vendor seemed happy enough to see us, until we came to pay. Entry cost thirty-eight pesos a head and predictably, the guy had no change. Various bills were passed around between us and eventually the matter was sorted. Guillerme retreated to the shade of a tree and the rest of us ambled up a dirt track that led to the archaeological site. Ahead, weathered stone fortifications extended up the hillside amid a jumble of scrub-covered terraces. I went off to carry out my ablutions while the others lingered by the entrance of a small museum. Everyone was in high spirits on arrival back at the hostel, which was buzzing with weekend arrivals. We grabbed some beers and adjourned to the kitchen to consider the afternoon's proceedings. We recounted the events to the newcomers, embellishing each other's tales and teasing out additional detail. I proudly told anyone who would listen the story of how a bull had anally penetrated me in front of a couple of thousand cowboys. Ernesto, the hostel's<i> dueño, smiled but kept his counsel. Cold water numbed my face and shocked me back to my senses. A sudden voice caused me to pull my head out of the sink and water spilled down my front and over the floor. The young American had been sent as an emissary to find out whether I was coming or not. I smiled a sheepish grin and followed him out into the warmth. The three girls were busy consulting a large notice board containing a plan and some sketchy historical information about the site, which had yet to be properly excavated. Little was known of Chicomostoc, except that it had been constructed by bloodthirsty heathens, whom even the cuddly Aztecs had considered barbarous, around fifteen hundred years ago.We followed a stony trail that climbed across the flanks of the hill. Lizards scurried about in the undergrowth and small birds flitted from bush to bush. The valley opened out below as we scaled crumbling steps, emerging onto a grassy platform topped by a small two-tiered pyramid built of tightly-packed stone, squared off on top to provide space for a sacrificial altar. The others, who had hitherto been animatedly discussing shared Oregon connections, fell quiet to admire the surroundings. Peace descended across the valley, which was empty save for swathes of nopal cacti and the shimmering waters of a nearby reservoir. A gentle breeze blew in off the mountains to the west. I could think of worse places in which to die.Banda Rodeo de Morelos I thanked Ernesto for his language tuition and headed over the road, feeling slightly embarrassed but otherwise ebullient. A Saturday night buzz rose to greet me as I descended into the bar - a hubbub of laughter, chatter and clinking glasses. I recognised a few familiar faces and they recognised me, the cyclist who never seemed to cycle anywhere. Chacho fetched me a beer and I joined La Taiwanesa, Guillerme and some friends around a table where dominoes were being played. 'Hey, Irishman! How is your ass?' asked someone to loud guffaws. A long steep stairway led up to the skyline. I laboured my way up and arrived at the top wreathed in sweat. The dry-stone walls criss-crossing the summit plateau were of limited interest but the view was stunning - three hundred and sixty degrees of desert and mountains. Eagles hovered in the thin air and butterflies fluttered around in the warm sunshine. The silence was golden. Were it not for the long walk back to town, I would happily have lain down and slept. Chirpy American voices drew me from my slumber and a quirky conversation drifted through the ether to the hippie-loving, bike-infested streets of Portland, Oregon. Momentarily I left the desert to revisit the land of mountains and forests, of rivers and coast, through which I'd cycled a couple of months previously. I'd won a few pesos playing dominoes in the pub, money that I soon re-invested in tequila. Then a taxi was at the door and we piled in, headed for the rodeo after-party. The inside of the nightclub was hot, stuffy and thronged with people. Once again we found ourselves surrounded by men in white hats. A cacophony of ear-splitting <i>banda reverberated across the dance floor. Alberta Bill was there, boogying with his missus, who waved over. To my consternation I saw that a three-deep scrum extended along the bar. Salvation was at hand. Guillerme had somehow arrived at the club before us. We found him in a corner, in conversation with two American girls. He'd managed to save us seats and the drinks were on their way. The girls had arrived earlier in the day from the north. Cory was raven-haired with big blue eyes and full of dramatic gestures. She told me the story of how they'd been robbed by opportunist thieves on the overnight bus. I didn't understand why she was so worked up about losing a music player even if it meant going for six months without hearing her favourite punk bands. After all, there was always <i>banda. She shot me a strange look. Meanwhile, on the other side of the table, Guillerme was trying in vain to work his charm on the dark-haired, Spanish speaking Belinda. I did my bit for tourism, trying to convince Cory that not all Mexicans were thieves and bandits and that, actually, it was a great country and, after all, you could get your music player stolen on a night bus anywhere. She'd decided to stay anyway, to go to Oaxaca and fight the fascist cops. I could admire Cory's punk rock attitude without sharing it. Confrontations with the pigs were not my style. We were four in the taxi on the way back to the hostel - <i>las Americanas, Guillerme and myself. It was a civilised ending to an enjoyable evening. We would see each other again the following morning for the trip out to the Chicomostoc. I hadn't quite forgotten La Taiwanesa though La Taiwanesa had certainly forgotten about me, having long since disappeared into the night with one of the dominoes players. Dominoes - like five-a-side with bulls - a game of chance mixed with not a little skill. I fell asleep with the tiles still clicking in my head. We walked downhill from the ruins to find Guillerme dozing in the van. In sleepy silence we travelled back towards Zacatecas. About halfway through the journey we passed some cowboys on horseback and shortly afterwards, a small open-air arena, its terraces populated by a couple of hundred white hat dudes. Through the entrance a bull could be glimpsed, trying to shake off its rider. Guillerme drew the van to a halt at the side of the road and switched off the engine. Then he turned to me and asked earnestly if I would like to ride a bull. I wondered what was Spanish for 'not bloody likely'.ENDS
]]>