To my surprise, it was only after I left the Baja peninsular that began to encounter many Mexicans who prefered to speak English with me rather than struggle to communicate through my terrible Spanish. Two of those people picked up their English while living in the U.S. as immigrants.
I met Sam while waiting for a bus to pick up my mom at the Guadalajara airport. White paint speckled his torn shorts and tanktop and besmeared his dark skin. He rambled on and on about the time he´d spent in the US as an illegal alien as he slopped the paint onto the metal fence. He said he did highway work in Santa Barbara for eight years, but was deported after getting in a fight with his girlfriend. I asked him how he got to the US, "Coyote, man," he explained, "I pay two grand and they take me over, no problem." He said he crossed near Tijuana and that it was fairly easy to do back in the mid 90´s. Since then, however, he claims it´s gotten much more difficult.
He seems to have preferred the life he led in California to that in Mexico. The work was hard, but the pay was much better. He did not care for the living expenses in Santa Barbara. However, he also said he regretted spending so much money on alcohol and drugs: "I was stupid, man, real stupid, why I no save no money," he moaned with a grin. Here in Mexico he claims he only makes several dollars a day, whereas he made a standard highway worker salary in the U.S. When I get on the bus Sam jumps on and asks me what kind of music I like. "The driver will play you some nice music," he says, after hamming it up with the driver in Spanish. The driver, while congenial, ignores him in the end.
I met Landi, a sixteen-year-old high school student, while taking a rare meal at a roadside cafe. She learned English while going to school in AZ for eight years while her parents worked there. I never figured out if she and her family were there legally, but she seemed to be happy to be back in Mexico. She said she found passing classes in her native country more difficult. She plans to go to college after graduating in another year. But is spending the summer vacation working at her aunt´s restaurant, where I was eating.
It was hot, I was pooped, and didn´t have the wherewithal to keep a conversation going, but Landi gingerly asked me a few questions about biking, volunteered information about her school life here and in the US, and translated the occassional menu-oriented question for her aunt. She said she doesn´t actually have to correct her English teacher here, althought the teacher often has to prevent her from helping her fellow students with English questions. She´s not sure what she wants to do when she grows up, but seems to be fairly ambitious. I ask if she wants to return to the US, but she says she wants to develop a career in Mexico and then go back to the US, but only as a tourist.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Mexican Road Commentary
After making a quick incursion into Mexico the previous day to buy a tourist card at the San Ysidor crossing, I opted to cross the border with the cars to avoid getting my bike stuck in the turnstyle, then swung onto the walking pathway to avoid the glass-covered freeway cloverleafs that are the only way to drive into Tijuana. Dirty, glass covered streets scored with potholes defined the first few kilometers of the ride. I stopped a couple of times and found my non-existant Spanish surprisingly useful in ensuring I was on the right road.
Though the roads were terrible, cars and buses all gave me a large margin when passing. I didn´t see any other bikers, but once I got out of Tijuana a nice guy in a car sporting a bike rack stopped and gave me a low-down on the roads to Ensanada. He encouraged me to take the toll road, but as noted before I found that, while the shoulder was wide, it also sported many glass hazards, was incredibly rough, and was separated from the regular surface by a brutal rumble strip. I eventually got off on the regular road and found it not that bad. In areas with heavy traffic it sported more than two lanes and otherwise didn´t have much traffic.
That changed after Ensanada. I rode out early, at six. Yet already the road was choked with rush-hour traffic levels and the road shrank to two lanes with no shoulder: a form it would maintain for nearly the entirety of the peninsula. Still, cars were giving me a fair amount of room. It did not make for pleasant biking, but was not as terrifying a ride as some sections of highway 49 in CA, where drivers seemed intent on passing me regardless of the lack of shoulder and oncoming traffic levels, often at speeds that seemed to exceed the 60mph speed limit considerably.
The surface of the carretera peninsulara (the road that goes all the way down the Baja) is mostly good. It has recently been redone and most sections are quite smooth surface-wise. There are two exceptions: inside towns and maybe 30km of road scattered throughout the peninsular that didn´t make the repave cut, for some reason or other.
Traffic levels are for the most-part reasonable. The road will not premit two trucks passing next to a bike. With only a handful of exceptions, truckers inevitably slowed down rather than pass me in the face of oncoming traffic. Sometimes they did so even though they practically had to come to a grinding halt and even though I occassionally moved off the road and signalled them to pass. I don´t know where they got their ettiquette, but it was an impressive display of courtesy. Not all busses and cars, however, follow the same rules. Overall nothing in Baja approached the level of danger I felt on 49, but there were certainly some exciting moments.
Going off of the main road can prove treacherous. In some towns the roads are only sand and my tires would sink in deep and I´d wind up walking. However, I could always anticipate when the ground would about to become a brake. In other areas the shoulder of the road appeared solid, but when I strayed onto it, it proved dangerously soft, almost causing me to wipe out a couple of times. Overall, me and the bike survived, though my gears certainly must have worn more than normal in the face of the sandy conditions.
I did not see a single other cycle traveler during my time on the Baja. However, I heard so many stories from Gringos and locals about all the cyclists coming through that I could hardly feel special.
Though the roads were terrible, cars and buses all gave me a large margin when passing. I didn´t see any other bikers, but once I got out of Tijuana a nice guy in a car sporting a bike rack stopped and gave me a low-down on the roads to Ensanada. He encouraged me to take the toll road, but as noted before I found that, while the shoulder was wide, it also sported many glass hazards, was incredibly rough, and was separated from the regular surface by a brutal rumble strip. I eventually got off on the regular road and found it not that bad. In areas with heavy traffic it sported more than two lanes and otherwise didn´t have much traffic.
That changed after Ensanada. I rode out early, at six. Yet already the road was choked with rush-hour traffic levels and the road shrank to two lanes with no shoulder: a form it would maintain for nearly the entirety of the peninsula. Still, cars were giving me a fair amount of room. It did not make for pleasant biking, but was not as terrifying a ride as some sections of highway 49 in CA, where drivers seemed intent on passing me regardless of the lack of shoulder and oncoming traffic levels, often at speeds that seemed to exceed the 60mph speed limit considerably.
The surface of the carretera peninsulara (the road that goes all the way down the Baja) is mostly good. It has recently been redone and most sections are quite smooth surface-wise. There are two exceptions: inside towns and maybe 30km of road scattered throughout the peninsular that didn´t make the repave cut, for some reason or other.
Traffic levels are for the most-part reasonable. The road will not premit two trucks passing next to a bike. With only a handful of exceptions, truckers inevitably slowed down rather than pass me in the face of oncoming traffic. Sometimes they did so even though they practically had to come to a grinding halt and even though I occassionally moved off the road and signalled them to pass. I don´t know where they got their ettiquette, but it was an impressive display of courtesy. Not all busses and cars, however, follow the same rules. Overall nothing in Baja approached the level of danger I felt on 49, but there were certainly some exciting moments.
Going off of the main road can prove treacherous. In some towns the roads are only sand and my tires would sink in deep and I´d wind up walking. However, I could always anticipate when the ground would about to become a brake. In other areas the shoulder of the road appeared solid, but when I strayed onto it, it proved dangerously soft, almost causing me to wipe out a couple of times. Overall, me and the bike survived, though my gears certainly must have worn more than normal in the face of the sandy conditions.
I did not see a single other cycle traveler during my time on the Baja. However, I heard so many stories from Gringos and locals about all the cyclists coming through that I could hardly feel special.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Almost to Guadalajara
Just a quick update to let everyone (my mother) know that I´m almost to Guadalajara. My apologies for the paucity of updates recently. I just haven´t had the time when internet has been available. I did throw a few pictures up on the flickr page and there will be more to come shortly. Traffic has been busier than on the Baja. It continues to be mostly civil. The people are much warmer than on the Baja, or perhaps it´s just because I´m seeing more of them. More stories to come later.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
In Mexico
After a relaxing week in San Diego and in the face of protests from most of my family I was dropped off at the San Ysidor crossing early in the morning by my uncle. Tijuana was a somewhat rough city to bike through with pot holed streets and questionable water running through the street. I eventually found my way out and made it onto the Carretera Peninsular (the road that goes from TJ to Cabo San Lucas). From there a friendly dude stopped and told me I could bike on the freeway. I tried that as I headed to Ensanada, but found the shoulder full of glass and a brutally deep rumble strip. I went back to the regular road and found the traffic levels tolerable. People were amazingly considerate when it came to passing me when there was oncoming traffic. Trucks especially were not willing to pass me when there was oncoming traffic. Often there was enough space for them to squeeze by, but they refused to do so. I was grateful.
I made it down to Ensanada, all the way under the protection of the marine layer, the clouds that move inland in the spring on the West coast. I had a great home stay with Tomas and Carmen in Ensanada through warmshowers.
The road moved away from the coast and soon had me weaving through cactus forests. I found people quite friendly. Many waved at me from there cars. However, the food was more expensive than I had anticipated. You couldn't really find any taco or soup or burrito or tamale for less than a dollar. I tried to eat at least a couple every day, but also bought tortillas with a can of refried beans to calorie load.
In Rosarito I stayed with Duffy, an expat. He cooked me some great food while we listened to Fox satellite radio and entertained me with stories from serving on submarines and in Saigon.
Five days into Mexico the marine layer took off, leaving me with all sun all day long. The cool air from the Pacific was replaced with warm air from the Gulf of Cortes. The enervating heat made biking a bit more difficult. It felt very hot, even though it was only in the low 90's.
I am now near Loreto with another wonderful Warmshower host, actually taking a rest day.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Over the Sierras
Throughout Idaho and Nevada it seemed like I had to fight considerable amounts of wind. Unlike a hill, a biker can't conquer a hill and get on with the day. The wind keeps blowing and blowing and blowing... When Henry in Winnemucca told me the wind might well continue all the way down the Eastern side of the Sierras I determined it might behoove me to cross them and make a B line for the coast, where I heard the wind always blows South.
Consequently I headed West soon after leaving Reno.
To my surprise I was rained, snowed and sleeted on as I made my way up Carson pass on highway 88. I found a couple inches of new-fallen snow at the top piled on top of huge drifts. Luckily the snow prevented the campgrounds from being open so I had a free place to stay, all to myself that night.
The following morning I found another inch of new snow on my tent.
'This will never stick on the roads,' I thought, observing my unfrozen water bottles.
Well, I was wrong.
They don't really make chains for bikes, or at least I didn't have any, so I just soldiered on and tried to get out of the way of the plows. Usually it didn't snow hard enough to obscure my vision, but the snow kept coming down as I biked off the pass. Unlike many passes, Carson doesn't descend quickly as you come off the east side. I expected at any moment to be able to bike my way to a lower elevation and warmer weather, but the road kept flattening and sometimes even climbed. The weather, it seemed, could last indefinitely.
Finally, however, I managed to drop below 6000 feet. The snow stopped, the roadside greened and the trees turned from hardy high-altitude pine to California redwoods. Signs of civilization appeared. I stopped to fill up my water bottles.
The road descended quickly into Jamestown where I picked up 49, started across the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas and finally shed some layers.
Consequently I headed West soon after leaving Reno.
To my surprise I was rained, snowed and sleeted on as I made my way up Carson pass on highway 88. I found a couple inches of new-fallen snow at the top piled on top of huge drifts. Luckily the snow prevented the campgrounds from being open so I had a free place to stay, all to myself that night.
The following morning I found another inch of new snow on my tent.
'This will never stick on the roads,' I thought, observing my unfrozen water bottles.
Well, I was wrong.
They don't really make chains for bikes, or at least I didn't have any, so I just soldiered on and tried to get out of the way of the plows. Usually it didn't snow hard enough to obscure my vision, but the snow kept coming down as I biked off the pass. Unlike many passes, Carson doesn't descend quickly as you come off the east side. I expected at any moment to be able to bike my way to a lower elevation and warmer weather, but the road kept flattening and sometimes even climbed. The weather, it seemed, could last indefinitely.
Finally, however, I managed to drop below 6000 feet. The snow stopped, the roadside greened and the trees turned from hardy high-altitude pine to California redwoods. Signs of civilization appeared. I stopped to fill up my water bottles.
The road descended quickly into Jamestown where I picked up 49, started across the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas and finally shed some layers.
San Diego!
I successfully completed the U.S. portion of the journey. I was excited to take a picture of myself next to a 'Welcome to San Diego' sign, but there was none. There wasn't even an 'Entering San Diego' sign. I guess they save those for the interstate, and I was thankful not to have to bike on that. My relatives here don't seem to mind if I hang around and eat all their food. It's a good thing I have such a charming personality. 
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
More wheel trouble
The problem with my front wheel was that the brake pad had worn much of the way through the rim. I had the same thing happening with my rear wheel, and soon after getting back on the road after Elko I began kicking myself for not getting a rear wheel as well. This was especially going to be an issue because my route included an 80 mile section of dirt roads.
Sure enough, halfway through the dirt road I noticed a crack developing in my rear rim. This time I was sure I was screwed as not only most of my weight rests on the rear wheel but the road conditions were especially bouncy and certain to stress the wheel past the breaking point. Lacking other options, I continued biking, figuring that I would either have to catch another ride or walk out once the wheel failed.
I continued down the road. I didn't even want to look at the wheel, so I kept going, fighting the wind as usual and steering clear of the large amounts of mining traffic that kept bouncing along the road. The kept holding and kept pedaling until I actually made it to the pavement at the end. The wheel continued to hold until I got all the way to Winnemucca, a town where I had contacted a Henry through the warm showers website. Not only did Henry agree to host me for the night, but he had a basement full of bikes and bike parts.
Henry on our ride out of town.
He was confident the local bike shop would have a suitable wheel for me, but it seemed he would certainly have one if that option failed. To top it all off, Henry turned out to be the most bike-intensive person I have ever met. His knowledge of bike mechanics was encyclopedic, but he had himself done numerous trips including many endurance bike races. For instance, he biked across Australia in a matter of two or three weeks. He did a bike race in Alaska that follows the Iditarod. It's a 250 mile course and he finished in third place with a time of about 24 hours. Suddenly, my 100 mile days didn't seem so impressive.
Best of all for me, however, was the fact that Henry appreciated how biking all day makes one hungry. He fed me plate after plate of food. For dinner we had a three course meal, then later bought ice cream. Breakfast was huge, as was lunch. I left his home at around 1:30pm but didn't have to eat again until 6:00pm, which is incredible as I usually have to stop at least every two hours for food.
When the bike shop did not have a suitable wheel Henry lent me a 26" to haul with me if my breaking wheel finally fell apart. My wheel made it all the way, however, and quite incredibly. I now have a new wheel and am set for the next leg of the journey.
Sure enough, halfway through the dirt road I noticed a crack developing in my rear rim. This time I was sure I was screwed as not only most of my weight rests on the rear wheel but the road conditions were especially bouncy and certain to stress the wheel past the breaking point. Lacking other options, I continued biking, figuring that I would either have to catch another ride or walk out once the wheel failed.I continued down the road. I didn't even want to look at the wheel, so I kept going, fighting the wind as usual and steering clear of the large amounts of mining traffic that kept bouncing along the road. The kept holding and kept pedaling until I actually made it to the pavement at the end. The wheel continued to hold until I got all the way to Winnemucca, a town where I had contacted a Henry through the warm showers website. Not only did Henry agree to host me for the night, but he had a basement full of bikes and bike parts.
Henry on our ride out of town.
He was confident the local bike shop would have a suitable wheel for me, but it seemed he would certainly have one if that option failed. To top it all off, Henry turned out to be the most bike-intensive person I have ever met. His knowledge of bike mechanics was encyclopedic, but he had himself done numerous trips including many endurance bike races. For instance, he biked across Australia in a matter of two or three weeks. He did a bike race in Alaska that follows the Iditarod. It's a 250 mile course and he finished in third place with a time of about 24 hours. Suddenly, my 100 mile days didn't seem so impressive.
Best of all for me, however, was the fact that Henry appreciated how biking all day makes one hungry. He fed me plate after plate of food. For dinner we had a three course meal, then later bought ice cream. Breakfast was huge, as was lunch. I left his home at around 1:30pm but didn't have to eat again until 6:00pm, which is incredible as I usually have to stop at least every two hours for food.
When the bike shop did not have a suitable wheel Henry lent me a 26" to haul with me if my breaking wheel finally fell apart. My wheel made it all the way, however, and quite incredibly. I now have a new wheel and am set for the next leg of the journey.
Wheel trouble
Just as I was about to cross into NV from ID my front brakes started grabbing. Upon investigation I discovered that the rim was bent at the seam. Maybe, I thought, it would be fine. I continued biking and even passed up an offer for a ride into Owyhee and the large city of Elko the next day proffered by a kind Indian gentleman in a white pickup.
By the time I made it to Owyhee proper, however, a small crack had formed in the rim. Disaster, it seemed, was eminent. There was no way that wheel could hold for much longer. I kicked myself for not taking the man up on his offer of a ride. Elko, over a hundred miles away, was the closest place I could possibly find another wheel. I stopped at the only store in Owyhee and bought some peanut butter. Several people came up to me and chatted as I tried to decide what to do about the wheel. A cop I had previously asked about road conditions drove past again and turned sturn. "How long does it take you to go a hundred miles?" she asked. "Well," she continued, before I could reply fully, "there's a hotel here and one in Mountain Home, and nothing in between. It's getting kind of late, just so you're aware." "There's absolutely nothing in between," her partner reiterated.
I found a campsite right outside of town, shielded from the road by willows and right next to an irrigation ditch. In the morning I biked 10 miles to Mountain City, hoping to catch the man in the white truck again. Sure enough, he pulled into town around 8:00am, and drove straight past me. He slowed, however, backed up and offered me a ride again.
Ben turned out to be older than I had thought, and even more gregarious than I had anticipated. He was an 84 year old former heavy equipment operator and truck driver. For the entire ride he regaled me with stories of bronc riding, the Pacific theater in World War II, building dams, hauling stuff, putting up fences and other riders he'd picked up over the years. His wife, Vivian, occassionally interrupted. "Ben," she ordered, "slow down, there's a tractor up there." It turns out Ben had probably not stopped initially because he hadn't seen me. However, between the three pairs of eyes in the truck we made it to Elko in one piece and Ben dropped me off right at the bike store. Amazingly enough, they had a strong wheel that fit. In a couple of hours I was back on the road, having only lost as much time as the ride with Ben and Vivian had allowed me to gain.
By the time I made it to Owyhee proper, however, a small crack had formed in the rim. Disaster, it seemed, was eminent. There was no way that wheel could hold for much longer. I kicked myself for not taking the man up on his offer of a ride. Elko, over a hundred miles away, was the closest place I could possibly find another wheel. I stopped at the only store in Owyhee and bought some peanut butter. Several people came up to me and chatted as I tried to decide what to do about the wheel. A cop I had previously asked about road conditions drove past again and turned sturn. "How long does it take you to go a hundred miles?" she asked. "Well," she continued, before I could reply fully, "there's a hotel here and one in Mountain Home, and nothing in between. It's getting kind of late, just so you're aware." "There's absolutely nothing in between," her partner reiterated.
I found a campsite right outside of town, shielded from the road by willows and right next to an irrigation ditch. In the morning I biked 10 miles to Mountain City, hoping to catch the man in the white truck again. Sure enough, he pulled into town around 8:00am, and drove straight past me. He slowed, however, backed up and offered me a ride again.
Ben turned out to be older than I had thought, and even more gregarious than I had anticipated. He was an 84 year old former heavy equipment operator and truck driver. For the entire ride he regaled me with stories of bronc riding, the Pacific theater in World War II, building dams, hauling stuff, putting up fences and other riders he'd picked up over the years. His wife, Vivian, occassionally interrupted. "Ben," she ordered, "slow down, there's a tractor up there." It turns out Ben had probably not stopped initially because he hadn't seen me. However, between the three pairs of eyes in the truck we made it to Elko in one piece and Ben dropped me off right at the bike store. Amazingly enough, they had a strong wheel that fit. In a couple of hours I was back on the road, having only lost as much time as the ride with Ben and Vivian had allowed me to gain.
Reno
So I finally made it to Reno. This solo bike tripping is kind of tough. With no one to talk to and not much to stop for I seem to do nothing but bike. I'd been biking eight days straight by the time I got to Reno, but it felt more like a couple of weeks. Luckily I knew people here who took me in. Or rather people here took me in even though they barely knew me. Namely, Kyhl and Marian, who already had a house guest named Jim, are getting married in a month, moving in two weeks, and just finished a PhD and found a job or are quitting one job and finding another, respectively. As if one house guest named Jim weren't sufficient to overwhelm people with plates as full as theirs. Luckily, however, they are kind, their apartment is large, and they have to get rid of their food anyway.
Friday, May 14, 2010
To Missoula
My friend Eric joined me from Livingston north up 89 until about Roundup. He had to hold back at the end, but overall we had a tailwind and a fairly pleasant experience. He also gave me a bunch of cookies. Anyone can bike with me if they give me cookies. Actually, anyone can bike with me even if they don't give me cookies, but everyone's happier with cookies.
On the first night I had a visitor: my mom. She was so worried about me being on the road again that she drove all the way to the pass before Helena and gave me tons of food. I ate it all. I guess it's a good thing she came.
The riding has been a bit more difficult than I remember. And now I don't even have the trailer; but I am doing longer days.
I was pretty thrilled to get to Missoula where I knew Chris and Virginia and Matt and Shay would put me up. My enthusiasm ebbed slightly when I realized I had to climb the steepest hill of the trip to get to their house. I got to the top of the hill and found it was a dead end. Then I got to go down the steepest hill halfway until I found the turn that would have saved me going all the way up. Biking by trial and error: only for those with the luxury of time and a tolerance for hills, I guess.
A big advantage to getting to Missoula was all the food that Chris and Virginia have. I made it my duty to eat as much as possible, usually after everyone else went to bed. I ate all their chocolate. Actually, I couldn't find any chocolate, but I would have eaten it all if I had. But I tried to make up for it by cooking a bit. Here we enjoy chicken and dumplings.
![IMG_3485[1]](http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1230/4608299243_cc575a806f_m.jpg)
On the first night I had a visitor: my mom. She was so worried about me being on the road again that she drove all the way to the pass before Helena and gave me tons of food. I ate it all. I guess it's a good thing she came.
The riding has been a bit more difficult than I remember. And now I don't even have the trailer; but I am doing longer days.
I was pretty thrilled to get to Missoula where I knew Chris and Virginia and Matt and Shay would put me up. My enthusiasm ebbed slightly when I realized I had to climb the steepest hill of the trip to get to their house. I got to the top of the hill and found it was a dead end. Then I got to go down the steepest hill halfway until I found the turn that would have saved me going all the way up. Biking by trial and error: only for those with the luxury of time and a tolerance for hills, I guess.
A big advantage to getting to Missoula was all the food that Chris and Virginia have. I made it my duty to eat as much as possible, usually after everyone else went to bed. I ate all their chocolate. Actually, I couldn't find any chocolate, but I would have eaten it all if I had. But I tried to make up for it by cooking a bit. Here we enjoy chicken and dumplings.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Preparation
I will start an accelerated nursing program in the fall. I've just finished a year's worth of prerequisites. I have about 4 months to see how far south I can get before I have to head to Minnesota for the start of school. In 2007 I started a bike trip with a few friends from Beijing and wound up in Paris. We had a more complex website for that trip, but it was kind of a big deal. Luckily, just about everything was sitting around, ready to be thrown on the bike. With the last bike trip I did, I knew what to expect for this one. Finals finished early this week, so I've had a lot of time to ponder what deserves to be taken and what left behind.
We're still getting snow in Montana. I'm not too concerned about that from a biking perspective, but it has impacted my planning as I've been tempted to go skiing instead of packing.
We're still getting snow in Montana. I'm not too concerned about that from a biking perspective, but it has impacted my planning as I've been tempted to go skiing instead of packing.
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