March 7 - 13

As we began cycling north in the Mexican state of Sinaloa we pushed high mileage, for several reasons: the road was very flat, there was not much to see with little variance in the landscape, and there were few towns along the way. Also, we were all looking forward to being back in the U.S. On the first day we rode 78 miles aided by a light tail-wind, despite several setbacks due to Nico unluckily popping three flat tires. The second day, March 8th, we started out in a dense fog which lasted all morning and left droplets of dew on my armhairs, and soaked my shirt, which remained wet all day so that I was quite cool later in the day. Even though we travelled nearly due East on the ferry, the temperature was lower on the mainland, which we attributed to the different geography. We stopped in Navajoa, where I enjoyed getting lost in the huge chaotic marketplace full of vendors selling shoes and clothes and various foods. Towards the end of the day it was evident that my right pedal, which had been making unsettling noises for awhile, was breaking. Sure enough, the next morning immediately after getting back on the road the thing broke off completely. I had to ride 16 miles to the next town while exerting an inward force with my leg to keep the pedal's spindle inserted in the crank, but it actually wasn't so bad and we kept up a reasonable pace. But the fact that a large city was that close was lucky. Even more remarkable was that a bike shop there had clipless pedals (the kind I needed); it was the first place we'd seen them in Mexico. The package was dusty and on sale, causing us to believe they were perhaps the sole pair of clipless pedals in the entire country!

It began raining after we left that city, and we rode maybe an hour and a half in the light drizzle. Since I don't have fenders on my bike I got muddy and my spirits were low. My cycling computer got wet and didn't work properly for the rest of the trip. But the rain let up and we had a nice sunset. Without a stove we didn't cook anymore, so Dave and my breakfasts consisted of dry cereal and baked goods if we had them. That particular morning we had muffins and mixed six combinations of dry cereal. We rode to Guaymas, and while we were having a snack in the plaza we talked to another gringo from Arizona who vacationed there often. Some might say he was a lonely old man, but I sense something genuine in a person who chooses solitaire, or rather finds comfort in the extremes of living - in cold places and the desert. I would prefer a true life alone than a false life in society, equally isolated. But maybe that's all mumbo-jumbo, a young man's heavily-influenced romanticizing of ideals.

We cycled on to a beach outside of San Lucas (we didn't make it all the way in to the gringo town). I tried to enjoy the splendid afternoon, feel the breeze and take in the beauty of the nearby hills - the first landscape worth looking at in a while. I thought, "Before I know it this trip will be over, so I should try harder to live in the moment and commit this to memory." Ahh, if that were possible, to distinguish in the banks of my mind the thoughts and feelings of some particular times of this trip, for they drift away even the same evening. Perhaps I push them away, and am merely trying to put a good light on what is in actuality painful, difficult, monotonous, and sometimes boring! Maybe that's why I was tired that day, which is okay, because the past few days had been boring and challenging, a dire combination. Later I gained a more elevated disposition because we were at a fine place where pelicans dove for fish and a soft sun descended behind spiky hills, where my body and spirit found comfort and rest. Then we wrestled in the chilly ocean. Dave and I drank a bottle of tequila, and I wrote this poem:

Could I live on rice alone?

Sustained by the sun and wonder at the vitality of the earth.

Muffins...contain flour, eggs, sugar. I just wish I didn't care,

That stimulation through my stomach, whether by special food or coffee or alcohol, was not the highlight of a day.

That these wouldn't divert my curiosity from here, now, this place, the sun sifting through the breeze,

So please elevate me above that lowly, sluggish cavern of acids, high above the seas splashing over their container.

We watched the pelicans diving. They float along the wind until spotting a meal ten yards below, then pause mid-air for a moment adjusting their trajectory before diving straight in. They tuck in wings just before splashing in, and resurface almost immediately to gulp down whole their prize if their mark was true. Their long, pointed beaks streamline the impact of the water. At night I looked at the moon through binoculars and thought how awesome it would be to witness a large asteroid strike it - no stream of fire for warning, just a giant mushroom cloud of moon dust leaving a new crater to wonder at on clear nights.

The next morning was pleasant riding, but the rest of the day was not so enjoyable. I got a bad rash from my riding shorts, one of my new pedals developed an annoying clicking, I got a flat tire on the trailer when I hit some of the metal from all the 18-wheeler tire shrapnel on the damned highway, and it felt like we took too many breaks throughout the day, including over an hour at a gas station where we played hacky-sack and Dave took a nap. Still, we made over 60 miles. We opened a gate to a radio tower, and found a nice spot near a rocky outcropping to camp. With plenty of sunlight left, Nico and I took a short hike. We walked through grassy areas with lots of space between the trees and bushes, nice terrain for walking, the type you could cover great distances off-trail. When the land began to slope up to the hill we planned to climb the cacti and brush thickened, and we were slowed to stoop and squeeze around all sorts of poky things. We made it halfway up the slope, and sat down to enjoy the view. We walked back in golden sunbeams, and I wondered at its beauty and the place we were. After dinner we all lay and watched the full moon move behind the clouds. It was still up early in the morning when I climbed the little rock hill above our camp, so that the glow of the sun was before me and the moon behind. It was cold and windy up there.

We cycled into Hermosillo, the capital and largest city of the state of Sonora (which we'd crossed into days before), pausing above the city to note the smog that hovered over it. The city was big, and difficult to navigate. While taking a break in a plaza, we were approached by a reporter. Dave and Nico told them our story, they checked out our gear, and took a picture of us with some high-school girls (which made for some jokes later). (A link to the pic is on the right side of this page. More pics to come). The article was online, and on the front page of the Metro section the next day.

Dave and I found an inexpensive hotel, and Nico stayed with a couchsurfing.com host. I spent the afternoon washing my clothes by hand, since there was no laundromat nearby. The hotel manager was nice and opened up a little room with a large sink and wash-board, and I got to experience the drudgery of the way in which much of the world washes clothing. The second part of the afternoon I cleaned my bike and patched tubes, until Nico and his host, Joel, came by so we could all go out. Joel was a big nice dude in his mid-twenties, and we all got to know each other while I finished patching tubes. Then we got pizza at Joel's cousin's shop, stood outside making jokes, she flashing a bright smile while smoking cigarettes in her apron. We drove around to a bar; I was glad I don't have to drive in Mexico. It was a karaoke bar, packed with talent on a Thursday night. I think all Mexicans are blessed with the ability to whistle and sing. When the microphone was passed to the average Jose or a señorita, he or she'd stand up and belt out a sonata to melt your heart. We went to another place after that with a loud jukebox, and Dave put on "Hey Jude." The box had a TV screen on top which played the music video, and I stood entranced. It's one of my favorite music videos, check it out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YXG83p2nkHw. Later on after some good Queen songs, we enjoyed meeting two more couch-surfing members.

I was so exhausted and slept in until almost 8am (I know, that's so early!). We got out of the busy city and were so happy to get off of Mexico highway 15, onto a peaceful two-lane road, with great scenery as we approached mountains. We passed some trees, real trees, and I felt like they were the tallest trees I'd ever seen, though they were just mid-sized. They seemed to offer copious amounts of shade after we'd previously huddled under a little bus-stop pavilion to escape the noon sun; Nico said, "What a waste of shade." We made the hills late in the day, where there really aren't places to camp, and we had to lower our standards to a short pull-off just by the road, from where we saw and heard loudly the trucks down-shifting, but the stars were nice. Dave and I had a typical meal, one which comprised the majority of our cook-less dinners: tortillas, a bag of beans, fresh-made guacamole, a can of veges, and cheese, and for dessert crackers with Nutella. Even without a stove we still ate like kings.

My rear hub became loose and in tiny Ures we asked around if there was a bike mechanic, and an old man showed us all the way to the hole-in-the-wall mechanic. Really it was the front room of a house, but the fat man helped us fix the wheel, hardly said a word the entire time. He charged us like a dollar. Experiences like that are priceless, precious. Honestly, it's unbelievable that all this happened in a week. How fortunate we were to experience that!

More Baja California

After a month on the road I felt like I had a better idea of what cycle touring is about.  I'll be honest that it was still challenging.  It never gets easy, and much depends on the state of mind.  I find that going uphill my mood is usually lower, I don't appreciate the surroundings, I think about how hard it is and poor me, but it's about strengthening my mind against those thoughts.  On the other hand, going downhill I smile, look at the beauty around me, think constructively, run favorite songs through my head.  Going really fast can be euphoric - the rush of air, sometimes a great view of mountains.  Cycle touring is not all a vacation; there are good times and bad times.  But a month into our trip I really start to love it.  My body was used to the daily strains, I had great books, we were more comfortable with Mexican culture and finding food and places to camp.  The ambiance of Baja is so chill.  We could always camp on the beach for free.  The eggs aren't refrigerated, the speed limit is lower, the coffee is weaker, a serviceman fills your tank for you at the gas station.  I think the most stressful thing in Mexico are its soap operas.

The second half of February we zig-zagged a few times between the Pacific and the Sea of Cortes as we made our way south.  Most of the towns we passed through were small, with one or two shops.  It seems like the official sponsors of everything are Coca-Cola and Tecate beer, which takes its name from the city where we crossed the border.  We were in straight up desert.  I was thankful for my RidgeRest sleeping pad, which I also put down for protection from the thorn-laden desert floor during meals, reading, or changing a flat.  Not to brag, but it's really nice because I just pick out the dozens of thorns that stick in it, while Andrew and Dave's air pads both were punctured.  It has a black side and a green side; I keep the green side  up.

A few days we rode completely flat, featureless land; a great plain scattered only with tundra, and little to hide our campsite from passing vehicles.  Other days huge mountains roared before us as we came over a small summit, but we put those behind us.  There were huge mesas, one with a towering basilica guarding it that only needed a flapping flag from the peak to be an impenetrable palace of granite grandeur, and we put that behind us as well.  

We heard coyotes many nights; one night a pack of them ran through camp, and left the food but strangely took a jug of water.  I guess they were just thirsty.  We didn't see much other wildlife, mostly birds and a few lizards.  Much of the land is cattle farms.  Lots of roadkill though - dogs, cows, even horses; every day we smell decay at least a few times.  

We continued to have perfect weather, with sunshine fit for Thoreau.  One fine morning I arose early and took a short walk in the stillness, the early glow perfect, the desert tingling in the part my heart where "place" makes its home, whispering that I might need to come back here to fully understand its beauty.  I went about hoping to find a tarantula searching for an early morning snack, but I lacked the keen eye and quiet feet for it to be a fruitful search.  I never did see a tarantula.  A very good walk though, and then tea, and oatmeal with an array of dried fruit, all made for a memorable morning.  Towards the end of February it began to get very hot in the afternoon, so that we took a siesta for a few hours, tried to find a shady spot until it cooled off and we got back on the road.  Mornings became my favorite time to ride, while it was still cool and I had fresh legs.

Almost all Mexican people are Catholic.  There were a lot of small shrines beside the road, inside which people lit candles with a picture of the Virgin Mary or a saint on the side.  We also visited a handful of missions, built by the Spanish in the 17th century or even older.  I was intrigued by the symbolism of Catholicism, with large crosses and pictures around the cathedral walls depicting the Passion.  

We went whale watching in Guerrero Negro.  The bay is a favorite spot of the grey whale for breeding and raising their young, and we saw hundreds of the huge creatures breaching the surface, exhaling through their blowholes, and frolicking together.  Some came right up to the boat, a mother and cute baby.  I barely touched one with the tip of my finger, the boat leaning way over to one side as all the people on that side reached for it.  

In the mission town of San Ignacius we stayed at a campground beside a river, where frogs croaked and mosquitos buzzed while we cooked dinner, really the only mosquitos on the trip.  There was a whole mess of fan palms; probably the village was built at an oasis.  There was a wooden rowboat anchored at our campsite, and Dave and I sat in it eating our dinner and later enjoying a few beers.  We'd crossed the 28th parallel and the time change meant the sun set an hour later, which was really nice for riding and camping.  I was perplexed why we crossed a time change going south, since usually time changes occur when you travel east or west.  I later learned that for convenience the line jumps sideways at the border between the states of Baja California North and Baja California South.  

We encountered powerful winds leaving San Ignacius, and hunkered down to wait it out, but the next day they were just as strong and we were forced to ride through it.  Though it was some of the toughest riding mentally for me personally, it was shorter than expected, and before we knew it we reached the coast.  A deep blue in the distance, it was soon out of view as we unexpectedly plunged into a long gulch that escalated quickly into steep grades along a ravine, over which spectacular rock walls and mesas rose.  Cacti dotted the bottom of the landscape.  I smiled and pulled my eyes momentarily from the road rushing past ahead of me, taking it all in. Soon we passed out of the hills and beside the sea, and arrived in Santa Rosalia.  We took a brief exploration of her streets, and fancied the French architecture unique to Baja, the homely yellow and pink of shops and homes spread out on both sides of the hills beside the bay.  We found a hotel for less than $10, and took advantage of the freedom of leaving our bikes in the room.  Dave and I went out for coffee and pastries from the famous bakery, and later we all went out for dinner.  On the second day just before leaving town we met another cyclist, Nico from Belgium.  Up until then he was the third cyclist we had come across.  At another time we crossed paths with a guy from Germany on the road for fifteen months and 15,000 miles.  Andrew remarked, "that's one thing about cycling - when you think you've gone a lone way, you meet someone who's gone a lot farther."  Nico was on tour already for nine months, starting in Alaska and including a side trip to Hawaii.  It was great talking to him about his country.  His diet consisted of choco sandwiches, or bread and Nutella, breakfast lunch and dinner on some days.  We met up with him again a little down the road and he rode with us to Mulege where he stayed with a couchsurfing.com host, while we camped on the rocky beach.  Cars drove down the beach late into the night, some of them whooping at us if their lights found our camp, but it was nothing more than annoying.  Not as annoying as cleaning up the bottle of mustard that exploded in my trailer.

We rode on to Conception Bay, and some of the most beautiful coastal scenery of Baja - mountains on both sides flanking the deep blue water of the inlet, a few fishing boats casting about lazily.  We stopped for lunch and a quick refreshing dip at one of the beaches, before riding on.  With a tip from a Canadian woman on her 35th or something visit to Baja, we camped at a gorgeous  place with natural spring pools.  I've never felt cleaner after I slipped into the cool cartesian water of the largest pool.  That night my brothers and I had a time of true communication over dinner, and we worked out some of our issues.  It was really great.

As we neared La Paz and the end of Baja California, we considered our options for continuing our travels.  In a few towns we used our daily siesta to do internet research. Also at this time we met up again with Nico as well as three other cyclists, Jason, Jackie, and Jessie.  We camped together as one big group, and shared a meal and Jason played his mandolin.  I was interested in contrasting our own traveling style with another group's.  For example, we ride close together while the others cycled spread out down the road.

Nico joined us to La Paz, a port city, the second largest in Baja.  We found an inexpensive hostel, while Nico had a warmshowers.com host.  We all met up later, the Yapps and Nico and his host Laura.  She took us to an authentic Mexican restaurant, and later on we met up with one of her friends and went to a bar.  Two times that evening I drew back and thought, is this really happening?  The first was hearing waves lap through the open slats near the roof of the restaurant's bathroom, and second seeing the collective rhythm of the young bar crowd behind our half-circle of merry friends and family.  So great!

We all met up for brunch the next day, and I enjoyed the sights and smells of the Mexican food market.  We walked to Laura's house, and it made for an interesting time cooking for so many people with so few dishes, but we made it work.  Later on we stopped at a bike shop, where I picked up new tires for the trailer, as the ones I started out on were almost worn through.  We met up again with Laura that evening, and her niece drove us to a huge mall near the edge of town.  It was just the second time in a car in two months.  Bowling was pretty chill.  Back at the town center, we walked the wharf where they were setting up a carnival - at 10pm!  Apparently these things go all night.  I was exhausted, but still had to patch my tires back in the room.  The desert can do terrible damage to tires, and I had seven patches in all.  A big disadvantage of the trailer is I have two more tires to watch out for.  I don't think Andrew patched a single tire the whole trip, a combination of experience and luck.  

In the morning we departed La Paz, to make a circle of the bottom of Baja, through Cabo San Lucas and Todos Santos.  We reached the 2000 mile mark of the trip, and Andrew gave me a congratulatory water bottle spray on my head.  As with the rest of the trip, that week held good times and bad.  I cursed the busy highway, silently criticized in touristy Cabo San Lucas; I sweat gallons and wiped the salt residue off my face at night.  I both mocked the people and loved the people.  I love the way they great each other, with many handshakes, a hug and kiss on the cheek.  I laughed during horseplay with Dave and Nico in the ocean break so close to shore.  Flying down a hill with the Pacific below me behind some cactus and a low golden sun, I stood on my pedals and felt the wind rush past and I felt, truly, like I was the king of the world.  I shared the feeling with desert hawks soaring up over the hilltops.  The majestic coast was how we shared our last ride all together back to La Paz.  Dave and I had decided to take the ferry from La Paz to Topolobampo on the mainland of Mexico, and then ride north back to the U.S along with Nico.  Andrew would take the ferry to Mazatlan and ride across Mexico to Texas.  Andrew learned he needed to take the ferry that same day we returned to La Paz, so he spent a few hours getting everything together, and we split up group gear.  We saw him off around 5 o'clock, onto new adventures.  Of course, he's still writing about his journeys (and has more photos) at www.lifebybike.blogspot.com.

Dave, Nico, Laura and I cooked a meal in the hostel's kitchen, and went out later for ice cream.  On the morning of March 6th we said goodbye to Laura for the last time, and cycled to the ferry.  There we waited around for a few hours, played hacky-sack.  Finally we pushed our bikes on the huge vessel and found seats in the cabin. It was a six-hour ferry, arriving on the mainland at 9pm.  We put on headlamps and rode a little ways out of the tiny port town and found a campsite.  Nico's bike is equipped with a headlight and taillight, and if I ever do another tour I will have at least a taillight.  But that's our story up until the mainland.  We're riding back to the States!

Finally...Feb 2 through Valentine's Day

Mexico.  In a word...marvelous.

About February 2nd we crossed into Baja California in the city of Tecate, rode across without showing passports or anything - there wasn't even anyone in the booth.  We purchased tourist visas, which we never actually needed to show, but it was good to have them anyways.  I'll say right off that despite the present state of turmoil, I personally never felt endangered as a tourist.  The violent occurences which we knew of only through contact with friends and family in the U.S. are almost completely restricted to disputes between drug parties, while the rare cases involving foreigners, accuentated by the media, happens when people are in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Most Mexicans are friendly to visitors.  That out of the way, back to our adventure.  We grabbed our first Mexican meal at a nice restaurant - our first sit-down meal in a while; sat under umbrellas beside the popular town square, and enjoyed deciphering the meal options.  I used my Spanish dictionary for first time of many.  After lunch we got groceries which was a fun experience, figuring out names of various items and the prices in pesos.  We were excited about the bakery, which had great chocolate cake and muffins.  There are delicious baked goods at most grocery stores.  How this works is you grab a tray and tongs, and go around selecting from the many fresh baked goods, then take these to the register where they bag them for you.  We took advantage of this system many times.

We rode out of Tecate on the busy two-lane highway with trucks growling past, but once out of the city the road was single-lane and less busy.  There is essentially one road down Baja - Mexico 1.  There is no shoulder, so we had to ride half in the lane.  It's as safe as in the U.S. though, with less traffic making up for the lack of shoulder.  Also, Mexican drivers gave us plenty of room as they passed, so we never really had a problem.  The first thing I noticed was the annoying reflectors on the road, located every 15 yards literally right where we cycle.  They were especially peeving for me with the trailer, having to dodge them with four wheels instead of two.  My other pet peeve is the snot I have to constantly blow out of my nose, which runs when air rushes past it, especially cold air.  

Our destination was a campsite indicated on the map, but as the day went on it became apparent that we had either missed it, or it didn't exist.  Near dusk, we were forced to find a spot to camp beside the road, but we found a pretty nice sheltered place down a small path.  The trucks were pretty loud all night as they downshifted down the hill, but other than that we enjoyed the place.  After dinner we made tea, and tried not to spill it as we climbed down into a ravine.  Dave slipped and slid a bit which was one of the funniest things I've ever seen (sorry Dave).  Down by the little stream, we made the smallest fire ever and roasted marshmallows, made smores with Nutella.  The marshmallows were strawberry and vanilla flavored, which was interesting, but delicious nonetheless.  In the morning we were startled and a little nervous when two men walked down the path beside our camp.  They said good morning and didn't give us any trouble.  We had yet to learn about Mexican people, their generally relaxed attitude and warmth towards visitors.

The morning was chilly, and hurt my hands while I changed a flat tire.  It warmed up to another beautiful day as we rode to Ensanada.  With only a few downhill miles to go, we pushed hard and arrived in the big city around 10am, and spent an hour finding an inexpensive hotel.  We pushed our bikes into the room, and explored the city.  Near the marina under the huge Mexican flag, I watched clowns entertaining a crowd, and watched the people walk the wharf, enjoying the gorgeous weather.  Later, Andrew Dave and I ate tons of food at a Chinese buffet.  Back in our room, we caught the end of the Superbowl.  A big city near the border like this had plenty of American television stations.  Dave and I went to see a movie, and were surprised it was in English with Spanish subtitles.  It was nice to relax like that after a few weeks of camping.  The following morning I took advantage of the sink in our hotel room to patch my punctured tubes.  I pushed the tubes underwater and looked for bubbles to find the hole (or holes), and glued a patch on.  We cycled on in the afternoon.

We rode easy along the coast to La Bufadora, and paid a man to camp on his property atop a little hill overlooking beautiful rocky cliffs.  The town was a single street lined with shops and venders selling trinkets, leather goods, and cigars to tourists.  We got beer and cooked a fine dinner of enchilladas and watched the sunset.  More smores.  A perfect night!  While I was reading I felt something on my collar, and pinched it with my gloved hands (it was chilly) - a small white scorpion!  That was a little nerve-racking, but cool - I'd never seen a scorpion in the wild before.

In the morning we rode back into town to see the blowhole - where the ocean waves collide with the cliff and spray as high as fifty feet.  It wasn't shooting very high that day.  Dave and I tried a fresh coconut, drinking the milk out of a straw.  At the grocery store, the parking assistant guy used a whistle to direct cars.  He whistled us into a place for our bikes; so serious about his job, and a bit comical for us.  But he told us to try the seafood salad nearby.  We did, and it was chopped fish, octopus, clams and oysters all mixed with a kind of bruschetta, ketchup, and squeezed lime.  It was pretty good on crackers and tostadas.  Afterwards, we rode on into lush rolling hills so much greener than I expected, and so beautiful.  We decided to take a turnoff to a beach twelve miles away.  The first ten miles were good, but then the road became miserable dirt and rocks.  We finally reached the hostel near dark, and the American working there kindly let us camp for free.  We did laundry and sat at the bar and I loved the classic rock he was playing.  Music is one thing I really miss.  Andrew was sick that night, probably from the seafood.  I felt bad for him, up all night wretching.  He felt poorly the next day, and I give him mad props for riding on.  

We restocked on groceries in San Quintin, and planned to have a rest day at the beach.  The road, however, was pretty bad so we ended up getting a cheap hotel, and paid for the low price with little sleep from a noisy bar and people walking up and down the stairs just outside our window.  Our situation improved when we made camp on a quiet beach the next day.  We pushed our bikes through a few hundred yards of sand to get there, which is no easy task.  Hurray, vacation!  We threw frisbee, went in the water, and then it started to sprinkle.  We set up our tents, and dried to stay dry inside.  The sand at that beach was magnetic, and left a fine black covering on our feet like graphite.  My tent started to build up with sand.  That night it rained for the first time on our trip.  The next day Dave and I went for a jog along the beach, and watched some locals digging for clams.  They parked their cars right on the beach, and took little pitchforks and bags to collect the clams.  Clouds reflected in the film of water we ran over as it receded back into the waves, sliding beneath us making it seem like we were running sideways; what does it feel like?  Vertigo?  No, horizontigo, yes that's what it feels like.  

There was a bar a little ways down the beach, and Dave and I walked there in the evening through a massive expanse of shrubbery, slipping through wire fences to cross sandy roads.  After dinner, we walked back, taking off our shoes to wade through the estuary which had formed the night before.  Unfortunately, it was Dave's turn to be sick that night.  That meant we were staying a third rest day.  But it was an intense day.  Early in the morning Andrew's calls woke us up; I heard waves, and looked outside my tent to see waves encroaching about two feet away.  The tide had risen immensely, rivers had formed through the low areas around our camping area, and water was rushing into the estuary.  Quickly, we scrambled outside and moved the tent to a higher hill, and Dave went back to sleep.  But I kept hearing sand falling into water, and I reluctantly crawled back out into the cold wind and rain to inspect the stream flowing a few feet away.  The bank of our little mound of sand was receding slowly each time a big wave pushed a surge of water to the estuary, eroding the edge until part of it collapsed.  I watched it come closer and closer to the tent, maybe two feet while I stood there, until I was cold and went back inside.  It didn't reach the tent though, and the tide eddied eventually by the time we woke up for good.  We were surprised that the entire landscape of the beach had changed, the estuary had quadrupled in size, and there was now a wide channel a few feet from my tent where our bikes had been before.  Dave's bike was covered in sea grass, and mine was rusted.  We had to carry everything through the estuary to get off the beach.  We went back to the bar for dinner, but it gave me an upset stomach all night.  I didn't get sick, but I had the same digestive "issues" that my brothers had.  It rained again, and my "sand castle", as Dave called my tent, became a mud castle.  Andrew and I rode into town the next day, and the dirt roads were thick with mud.  I was covered in mud, as was my bike, and it caked up around the breaks.  I cleaned the dry mud off my bike for weeks.  So finally we headed out after 3 1/2 rest days, and rode just 35 miles before we needed to make camp, the next place with water 72 miles away.  That was when I felt sick, so we needed another rest day.  I was tired of resting, and wanted to make progress!  I stayed in the tent all day and read, out of the strong wind outside.  Andrew made fried quesadillas that night - all I can say is "wow."

So finally we headed out and rode 75 miles, a new record.  The region took on a much more desert appearance as we moved inland, with many cacti of various types, most notably the several-pronged saguaro type that is the quintessential symbol of the southwest states.    Throughout Baja the road was generally very good, with just a few poorly  maintained sections.  Occasionally it was immaculate blacktop, over which we glided effortlessly, almost floating above the soft sing of our tires.  There were more long sections without much to see, and just a few houses along the way.  Still, I liked it out there in the desert, where the wildness of the earth shows through and reflects the nature of its maker.  I was grateful for a backrest against a gnarly white tree as I journaled, beside peculiar plants that stick way up and then sometimes wave over horizontally at random.  Everything is spiky...

We departed the coast on Jan 17, after an enjoyable last night in a campground where we slept under a patched canopy of bright stars, stretched out at the foot of tall trees that shoot 60 feet up before there are any branches. Large sticks fall interminably from the heights, knocking every other branch silly before crashing to the ground. We burnt some of them and had a nice fire; I don´t know why they keep falling. We are sad to leave the coast, already wishing I could relive that week, yet excited to experience bigger and better things! We are anticipating less-travelled roads, and not having to pay for camping.

We picked up a map of SoCal, and planned a route to Joshua Tree National Park. Filled water bladders before starting out in the morning, since the availability of water is not as gauranteed as along the busy coast. We rode 45 miles, until it grew dark and with no place to camp beside the road which was lined with fencing, we inspected a small side road, and chose a flat patch of grass beside a switchback to make camp. Next day similar ordea, stopped for lunch and a restful break at a burger joint, where Dave and Andrew enjoyed some burgers after like a week of eating vegetarian. I munched happily on hummus, tomato, and cheese sandiwches. After the rest, however, a headwind picked up and I discovered that wind can be a worse bain to riders than hills. Hills work on your muscles, see, but there´s always an end, the summit to overcome. The wind strains your spirit, because there is seemingly no end, and the discouragement builds as you prod slowly onward. After two hours of this riding, we made our way off Route 166 onto a road that I don´t know the name of, an old pass through the mountains that was on the map but its name wasn´t. An old wooden sign said that constructed in 1905, the road was considered an engineering marvel as it saved 40 miles from going around the mountains. As we began to climb we were relieved of the wind. I was exhausted by nightfall, but again there was no protected cove to camp, so we just pushed our bikes into the ditch, hidden somewhat by a small mound of earth, and pitched tentsbecause it was terribly cold. It felt like our toughest day yet, gaining 2000 ft or so of elevation, and I gobbled down my dinner and then could barely keep my eyes open, falling asleep at like 8 o´clock and sleeping the whole night until light glowed through the tent and cars again hummed past on the road near and above us.

It was burdensome to begin the next morning; it was very cold and I was sore, and we muddled about warming our hands between bites of delicious oatmeal and bagels and later while packing up, so that it was after 9am and already trucks were passing our camp when we clipped into the pedals. Soon we were sweating though; it was uphill all morning as we climbed somewhere above 6500 ft, straining to get over the pass. Finally we made it, high-fived each other and pulled into Pine Mountain Club where we had a splendid lunch and rest, refilled on water, and I got a coffee to warm up. That was a bad choice, because we continued to climb afterwards, and I felt realy bad, couldn´t catch my breath and had to take breaks often. I resolved that caffeine is strictly off-limits in the middle of a ride. But once we got over the second string of peaks we cruised downhill for miles, not pedalling once, left the cold and snow behind us (yes, there was snow on the ground at that elevation). In a nice town called Frazier Park we got more water, and used the sweet touch-screen information board with internet access that was mounted on the outside ofa store to get directions. We found our way onto N2, and were graced with a safet spot to camp, as the glow of twilight hung over the distant still mountains.

After covering about 30 miles before lunchtime the next day, we arrived in Palmdale, CA, where we asked someone for an information center, and ended up riding out of our way to get to it. We didn´t find the information very helpful, but we stopped at a bike shop and picked up a few things, then got groceries, and it was 4pm by the time we rode to a campsite at Saddleback Butte State Park, 15 miles away. We rode real hard, but it was dark when we got there. We had covered 68 miles, our farthest yet, but the work was not over and after dinner we took turns washing our clothes, taking advantage of the plentiful water a campsite offers. This was a new experience for me; a few drops of soap in the collapsible bucket we have, fill it with water then wring the clothes in it. They were surprisingly dirty. Then rinse with another bucketful of waer. Hang to dry overnight on tree branches, bushes, picnic tables, or overhanging pavilion rafters. The next morning my achilles tendons were very sore, so I requested a rest day. This was good because my clothes were not completely dry. We made pancakes, and had a restful morning reading. I washed more clothes, then in the afternoon I took a water bottle shower, since the campsite had no showers. The name pretty much explains it, just rinse by repeatedly filling a water bottle from the sink, soap up, then rinse off. It was cold and took a pretty long time, but so refreshing! Later, Dave and I hiked up Saddleback Butte, and were afforded good views of snow-clad mountains and the surrounding landscape, from which other similes buttes sprang up from flat ground at random. Back at camp, Andrew had ridden to town and gotten special food, and we had a good lunch. ¨It´s 5 o´clock, should I put the beers on water?¨, he said. ¨Definately.¨ It was a good rest day.

We began again in rain, but thankfully not too much; a hard day, 61 miles, we ate lunch on a sidewalk, and rode on through awful sprawling suburbias of Victorville and Apple Valley. The start of a serious argument, when we should have gotten water for the night, but decided to get it at the next town 11 miles further when it was already 4pm. But we stopped at the first place to fill up, the Burger Depot, where the kind owners offered us the grasy plot with picnic tables beside their restaurant to stay the night. Then the couple bought us dinner, a generous act that helped ease our tensious predicament beyond the delicious food. Oh my gosh, that strawberry shake was incredible. The next morning, while we were having an early breakfast, this dude sarted talking to us; he´d climbed Anapurna or some mountain in Tibet, did a triathlon, and he asked us about our trip. Then he walked across the street to his house and brought us back vitamin water, fruitcups, and a bag of almonds. Simple acts of kindness are great! What a friendly place.

We made our way to Yucca Valley and got groceries, then up a 5-mile climb to Black Rock Canyon, a campsite in Joshua Tree. We´d made it to this place, which on a whim back at home we´d thought might make a good destination, an excuse to circumvent L.A. and cross the border somewhere other than Tijuana. After a good dinner and bonfire, I called my best friend, then sat up late writing, my sleeping bag wrapped around me for warmth, heard a few coyotes laugh and sing.

We spent half the next day back in town at the library to use the internet, at an outdoors store, and geting food and water for three days in the park. We all packed extra water since the campgrounds don´t have any, and had to lug it up the climb to the park entrance, but soon the terrain levelled off. This place is a high-elevation desert, which gets its name from a surly, gnarly tree that is actually a huge cactus, with spiky arms that extend in all directions. We ride easy to take everything in, stopping at each info plaque, learning about life in the desert and the geological processes that made the ridiculous rock formations. After diner and cookies at the campground, the young folks at the site next to ours invited us over to their fire, and we made new friends. We warmed ourselves from the chilly, crystal-clear, see the most stars ever night. Some more people showed up and gave out shots of Jack, very warm. Cold, as I retreated to my tent for a short read and long sleep.

We woke and broke camp in a heavy wind, but the day warmed quickly. We stopped at Jumbo Rocks, a big-kids playground where we spent a few hours bouldering, scrambling, exploring endless canyons til we grew hungry. It was so much fun clamboring over gargantuan rocks, squeezing into tiny caves, crawling under tunnels and finding endless paths to somewhere else, all within a few acres; you could spend a long time checking it all out.

We pressed on and continued to be awed by the desert landscape, finally pulling into the last campsite in the park, and one with water. Here we had half a rest day, taking an 8-mile hike in the morning to Lost Palms Oasis, a welcome stop for miners and other past travelers, a true oasis. We had lunch beneath the tall fan palms, and returned to ride out of the park. It was almost all downhill, and we cruised through the Colorado desert region, of which the flora comprrises the area all the way down the Baja. Salty hills loomed before us - You mean I have to pedal? But no, the road carved right through them, and we passed through the artery of dusty canyons, whose veins splayed out parallel to the road on both sides, to splice into a dozen capilaries, then split again. We made camp beside a shining lone tree on a dazzingly green little hill, and Andrew and I went to explore some of the canyons. We walked not far before it was apparent that these were flash-flood formed; I try to climb up a cliff but the ground is like sand and breaks off in my hands. I swear this is where they filmed that scene in Star Wars where R2-D2 has just parted ways with C-3PO on Tattoine, and he gets zapped by the Jawas (it´s great being a nerd). There were S-curves where the flow had undermined the soft sediment, and deep gulches which drop 12 feet and where there must have been a waterfall when the rains came. Andrew found a way to the top, and I scrambled up and we watched the glow of the sun. From above the system of ravines look like a miniature mountain range. We head back for supper. Perhaps one drawback to cycle-touring is you´re constrained to the road. The way we are equipped, where the pavements ends we stop. I´ve done a bit of hiking and I take pleasure in being away from cars and right in there amongst the forest and roots. But with cycling you can travel a lot farther and therefore see much more, albeit from a road. Andrew used to do (and still does) a lot of backpacking before he got into biking, and when I asked him why the transition, he merely replied, ¨The food´s better.¨ It sure is mate, it sure is.

The next day we coasted through Mecca, got groceries, and later stopped at a state park campground for a delicious free shower. We camped further down the salton Sea, at 228 feet below sea level. We stopped the next day in a small town and washed all our clothes at a laundromat (thank God), wearing raincoats and pants with nothing underneath while all our clothes washed. While we waited, we went through our gear and picked out 10 pounds of stuff we weren´t using and sent it home. After that we took a side trip to Salvation Mountain, a colorful and amazing folk-art structure built by one man out of straw, adobe, tires, and lots of paint of all different colors, 100,000 gallons of it according to one yellowed newspaper article pasted on a wall inside one of the rooms. It was declared a monument, and thus protected by the government. Aong with a couple of paint-covered delapidated vehicles, the mountain peppered with Bible verses, hence its name. We were given a special private tour by Leonard, the architect and builder. Salvation Mountain has been his project for the last 17 years.

We were happily advised to visit Slab City, the last free place to live in America. It´s a trailer park, but no ordiary place. People come and go, but every Saturday there´s a talent show with dancing. I wish I could have stayed and learned more about that place, gotten to know some of the people and heard their stories. We got some food at the free potluck and rode on.

We traversed an awful road, rough and bumpy and bone-jarring, not fun at all. But we were given our own personal fly-over by a pair of Blue Angels from a nearby Air Force base. Near Brawley we discovered the worst campsite in the world, right next to a cow CAFO (concentrated animal feeding operation). The smell was horrific, it singed the nostril hairs. The densely-packed animals´ braying, no, pleading, accompanied us all night, and I felt bad for the beings and their lot in life, confined with not much room to move around and no grass and little opportunity to just be cows.

We were forced to ride 10 miles on highway 8 and over some mountains, since there was no other way. Thank God we made it through that safely, two lanes blaring past while we slowly ascended a couple thousand feet. But the rest of the day was sweet coasting, down a beautiful country lane that made me try to remember Frank Sinatra songs so I could belt them out; we flew so fast they got lost in the whipping air. We set a new speed record of 45 mph going down those hills. We passed near sections of the fence, or wall, that lines the border between here and there, it doesn´t matter where, but it makes tangible the forces that clash at this place, namely economic forces, or economic disparity, a comfortable way of saying that some people are greedy(us). Walls are awful, symbolic of ineptitude to thoughtfully and compassionately deal with difficult issues.

So we pulled into a camp, our last night in the U.S., and had an amazing hot shower, and that was it, we woke up the next day and rode just an hour before crossing into Mexico. Hurray! A new chapter of our journey begins.

Writing this I sit on the bed in a small motel room with tile flooring in Lazaro Cardenas, Mexico, six days across the border, almost 1200 miles since we started in San Francisco, sit contented in this clean, well-lighted place, grateful for a bedstead to lean up against after a handful of short nights holding myself up to read with nothing to rest my back on; while what seems to my unaccustomed ears the typical brass and accordion of Latino music drifts through our window and the smoothness of a small amount of generously given and graciously received pure agave tequila weighs heavily on my eyelids, seemingly affecting more than usual my body which is susceptible to stimulation in its current state of elevated metabolism and water flux. But before I get ahead of myself and backtrack to the termination of my last post, I feel I owe an explanation for my lack of updates on our travels, an explanation that is multifaceted: first, I am lazy. But it isn´t my fault! After a day of riding it is seriously difficult to get motivated to write, cold on my fingers to hold a pen, and much easier to read in the warmth of my sleeping bag, finishing one of my five books so I can discard it and lift its weight from tuggging down on my conscience up every hill we climb. (I brought too many books, but each one has been better than the last, as good books always are; there was a collection of short stories by Count Leo Tolstoy, then One flew over the Cuckoo´s Nest, A History in English Words by Owen Barfield, Down the River by Edward Abbey, and The World is Flat by Thomas Friedman; each presents an intrigue on my intellect that is a welcome contrast to the diminished rate of neuron firing due to the physical exertion that comprises the majority of each day. I find that if I receive fulfillment merely from a book, the rest of life is that much richer). Second, I´m afraid, because this lies outside the scope of my descriptive abilities - how can I express miles of sights, days of scenery, or the nuances of fireside conversations, without falling short of reality, of feeling, in short, of the truth? I cannot. I am petrified by reading the greats; I run dry even as I am awed by Thoreau (quoted by Abbey), ¨We walked in so pure and bright a light, gilding the withered grass and leaves, so softly and serenely bright, I thought I had never bathed in such a golden flood, without a ripple or a murmer to it. The west side of every wood and rising ground gleamed like the boundary of Elysium, and the sun on our backs seemed like a gentle herdsman driving us home at evening.¨ Or Abbey himself: ¨A countryman has a place on earth that is his own, and much as he may love to wander...he loves the wandering more because he has a place to return to, a place where he belongs. A place to live and when his time comes, a place to die. The earth has fed me for half a century; I owe the earth a body. The debt shall be paid.¨ Or by Vikram Chandra in Red Earth and Pouring Rain, the last novel I have, from the same words in the first chapter that caused me to climb a tree at night over a month ago: ¨We are blessed, and how strange it is that we can learn to hate even this; that we forsake these gifts and seek release; the sheets are cool and smooth below me, and this I am grateful for, surely, this must be enough, to feel these things and to know that all this exists together, the earth and its seas, the sky and its suns.¨ Anyways, the point of these quotes, besides maybe promoting some good reading, is to credit every author who has benefited me by purging the way before, for nothing I write is my own, it is all a collection, a reflected myriad of everything I have ever read. Perhaps if I triple the number of books I have read thus far in my lifetime, I will have the ability to come up with something original. But whatever I write, let it be truth. Thoreau again: ¨Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth.¨ Or of course Lennon, ¨Just give me the truth, all I want is the truth.¨ Finally, my favorite, an appeal for truth through its primary conveyance - language: ¨Respect for the word is the first commandment in the discipline by which a man can be educated to maturity - intellectual, emotional, and moral. Respect for the word - to employ it with scrupulous care and an incoruptible heartfelt love of truth - is essential if there is to be any growth in a society or in the human race. To misuse the word shows contempt for mankind. It undermines the bridges and poisons the wells. It causes man to regress down the long path of his evolution.¨ - Dag Hammorskjolk, quoted in A History in English Words. So read books, and seek truth.

A significant portion of each day, more than I preconceived about the trip when I romanticized its cycling aspect, is taken up by the mundane tasks of camping. Of 26 days so far we have camped 24, by far the longest stretch in my relatively short career. Each night we pull into camp around 5pm, not long before it becomes dark, into a state park or in some sheltered place off the road. We change out of used clothes into other used, but less sweaty, clothing. We assemble the stove, prime the fuel, get water from a spicket if we´re in camp or pour it from one of the water bladders we carry when we know we will be ¨stealth¨ camping, boil it, cook the pasta or rice or whatever. Eat, wolfing down the food before it gets cold and because we´re so hungry. Then have some cookies with peanut butter, lean back and heave a sigh, satiated and stalling to be the one to wash the dishes. By now we don´t even use soap, we just give em a quick rinse and run over with chilled fingers, gosh I can´t even think how many times I´ve smoothed out the crusted bumps coating the inside of my metal bowl, till it shines and one more swish of rinse water for good measure. The dishes we leave out until morning, when the process will be repeated with tea and oatmeal, an essential rhythm we found after like two days. By then it´s probably 7pm and we set up tents, or more lately skip the tent and just diverge to our respective carefully selected place on earth that is our own, to unroll a sleeeping pad and slip inside a sleeping bag to read by headlamp until eyelids make full use of their clout, otherwise we converge around a fire, discussing plans and checking maps, finding excuses to argue, arguing for an excuse to converse (seriously, we´re brothers). Bedtime is 9pm.

I awake every morning at 7am naturally, a constancy which I appreciate compared to the college schedule. Someone eventually succombs to hunger and staves the cold to heat some water, for tea and oatmeal flavored with walnuts and raisins and other dried fruit, then we have bagels with cream cheese or peanut butter. On special days we have pancakes, Andrew cooking one at a time and continuously mixing batter until we are all stuffed with flour and syrup. After breakfast we air out our sleeping bags in the sun while we change into riding clothes, then pack everything up and head out usually around 8:30am, removing layers of clothing within the first 15 minutes after warming up from riding. A snack around 10am, lunch around 11:30 and maybe a longer break to digest a bit or avoid the hottest part of the day, another snack in the afternoon, stop for groceries or to refill our water bottles, and hopefully reach our destination or find a suitable spot beside the road before it gets dark. That is sort of a typical day.

We really eat like kings though - gourmet gorp, freshly-mixed guacamole, sandwiches of cheese and hummus, pesto pasta or Thai peanut stir-fry, all the peanut butter and cookies we want; I never end a meal unsatisfied. We snack on fruit; once we bought like 10 pounds of bananas for a buck and they were gone the next day. One of my favorites is wheat tea - green tea made with the water drained from cooking whole-wheat pasta. Mmmm!

So the first week we were on the coast, riding down Highway 1, or finding bike lanes to pick our way through towns. We camped on the beach a few times, wiling away the afterning reading after a leisurely day of 26 miles, or taking a quick dip in the frosty breaking waves, shock therapy on sore muscles. We make whips out of sea plants washed onshore, then have a throwing contest with a 12-foot long thick seaweed cord, Dave wins. Andrew and I explore another cliff cove, cilmbing over slippery rocks and inspecting sea urchins or whatever they are that close when you poke them. I read on the steps that access the beach down the cliff until the sun goes down, head back to camp and change before we spread out search-party style to scrounge for firewood in all the vacant campsites´fire rings. Or another day of 60 miles, ending in a long mentally straining climb which I prided myself in overcoming. We took two showers that first week; not a big deal after the 9 days I went showerless this summer working in the mountains of Colorado.

My legs blew up to twice their size in the first few days, pumped full of blood from throttling up and down every last Pacific coast hill. Every night the first two weeks I was sore, but felt better after a nightly stretch routine. I love stretching, it feels great and is so relaxing. I stretch in the morning too. I am sore in my butt from the saddle, on my quads and inner hamstring. Muscle soreness doesn´t bother me, it just means I´m gaining muscle. Joint pain is bad though, and my right knee was starting to bother me after a few days, until I checked my shoe cleat and noticed it was ever-so-slightly askew, which was turning my foot slightly inward. That´s not so bad for a little while, but over 30,000 revolutions per day (I approximate), it becomes a serious issue. The pain dispersed after I straightened the cleat. I´ve also had problems with tightness and pain in both achilles tendons, which was alleviated after more shoe and saddle adjustments. Bicycle issues have been moderate; Dave´s bike popped three tubes in two days, I´ve had to patch three myself. I ran over my sunglasses with my trailer, and had to pick up a $3 pair. I also lost a water bottle over an awful road, but replaced it with a regular water bottle.

We passed several elephant seal colonies, ate lunch beside a beach strewn with hundreds of them, laughing out loud at their snorting and fart-like noises, barking at each other as they flub huge bodies past each other.

That´s all I´ve got time for now. I miss everyone and wish you all the warmth we´ve got here in Mexico! Asta luego.

On the morning of January 10th I shuffled all my gear into my trailer, and for the first time of many donned one of the two pairs of spandex riding shorts I brought. We walked our bikes down the elevator, saddled up and set off. It was clear skies and 65 degrees at 10am for our maiden voyage. Weaving between walkers and other cyclists along the popular coastline boulevard, we made our way in the general direction of the Golden Gate Bridge. "To the bridge, get to the bridge!" It reared up fire-orange in the morning sun, and we reached it before long without directions. The bridge has a pedestrian lane on both sides; we took the right lane which turned out to be used more by walkers, so we slowed often to pass them. It was a singularly windy experience, intense, noisy, and thrilling. We were afforded fantastic views of San Francisco and Angel and Alcatraz islands. It didn't take long to get across, we stopped, took a group photo by a sign marking the San Francisco coastal trail, 775 miles to Mexico (we will be taking a longer, roundabout way). I am cameraless, but Andrew has been posting photos on his blog at www.lifebybike.blogspot.com. And then we were off, heading south back over the bridge, this time on the side unofficially designated for cyclists (we didn't need to go over the GGB to begin our journey, but ya got to!)

Once out of the city, we tracked onto Highway 1, soon passing a sign reading "Hills next 74 miles." Great. The road was good quality, smooth with few imperfections. You don't notice this so much in a car, but on a bike you feel on your rump every single crack, bump, loose stone, dip, drain, tire shred or any other debris you hit, and we avoid these relentlessly. Highway 1 is frequented by cyclists, and has a wide shoulder and often a designated bike lane. Still, it takes a good deal of concentration to keep trained on the shoulder with a good distance between passing cars, avoid pock-marks in the pavement, and adjust gears for the road grade, all simultaneously. And changing gears was something we did a lot of that first day. There was no easing into this touring business, from the start I was thrust into gruelling hills. Shift into the highest gear, nothing for it but to spin away, panting at a 4-7mph sprint for several minutes to the top until the sweat drips off my face and soaks my shirt. But then, hallelujah we immediately coast down the other side, flying at a maximum speed of 36.8mph, tucking down to reduce drag, until my clothes are nearly dry by the time we reach the bottom. We go so fast a little bit of dribble leaks out the right corner of my mouth; I train myself to close my mouth on the downhills. But alas, soon my brow is pouring sweat again up the next hill, exacerbated by the sun beating down (sorry everyone back in Michigan). Up, down, up, down, repeated all day. Darn those tectonic shifts. But the California coast is stunning, cliffs on our left, always the ocean on our right as we orient south. Crescent bays with patches of sand seventy-five feet below us, a wispy layer of condensation suspended halfway up. Stone nuggets of all size dot inlets of water, dominating the breaking waves for no reason at all. We shoot through Devils Slide, a pair of towering spikes between us and the sparkling Pacific, pinching the road to the sheer rock on the other side. The narrow shoulder caused one friendly motorist to remark out his window, "You guys are idiots!" Ah, the everlasting friendly rivalry between those who burn fuel and those who burn carbs.

Around 3:30pm the sun casts long shadows of our bikes, stretched-out to look like one of those old wooden bicycles with the huge wheels that you have to climb a latter to get onto or else rebound off another strongman. Alyup!

It's 4:30 and almost too dark when we pulled into Half Moon Bay state park and got a campsite for $9. It's right on the beach and we watch the sun set, just a glowing ball becoming a thin line, not too dramatic without any clouds. Afterwards, while we cooked and wolfed down our dinner, we were presented a bottle of wine from our charismatic neighbor Sean. He was a middle-aged self-chosen homeless man who was "done with society." Sean wore boots and pedalled around on a heavy-duty mountain bike pulling his belongings in a single-wheeled trailer equipped with a shock absorber. He was very friendly, loved to talk and could go on for long stretches without stopping except to laugh. He was generous and truly likable, if a little rough around the edges, but maybe just because he was half drunk, which he kept apologizing for. I joined him after dinner by his fire, and we talked about life. His was almost unbelievable, clean of hard drugs for 15 years, imprisoned for equally long, disenchanted with society, a lover of technology (he had a 3" TV which picked up shows in Japanese, and talked half the night about the projector screen he wants to power from a generator in his trailer). But he was not bitter, he told me that; he absolutely loved life and you could tell because it bubbled out of him as he repeatedly remarked on the beauty around us, the bright big moon and canopy of trees we were under, waves lapping in the distance, fully in the moment.

Our talk turned more philosophical, with me agreeing with nearly everything he believed, except what he referred to as "universal balance" I called Peace. He was equally animated in discussing God and surfing. The fire dwindled. No problem, he switched on his headlamp, stumbled from wine as he hopped on his bike, "See you in 15 minutes." He was back in 10, his trailer loaded with scrap wood from a nearby house under construction. What a riot. Our fire burned on, and so did the good time. Our conversation became heated over the topic of appearance - he thought that personal looks mattered, I disagreed. He did tell me I should thicken up my eyebrows and grow my hair out, which I think I will. I was glad to meet Sean. He said goodbye the next morning as we left the campsite.

We rode 62 miles the second day, more of the same draining hills, well worth it for the endlessly varying epic coastline. We opted for a state park in a redwood forest to camp, but it turned out to be farther than we thought. It grew dark and dangerous to be on the road. We were finishing the day up a steep climb, shadowed by the towering trees, when I "bonked." I think "bonking" is cyclist jargon for "hitting the wall," when your energy is completely drained and you cannot push one more pedal. I ended up walking my bike up the steep hill as the cars whisked past. Finally, sometime after 6pm, we pulled off into what ended up being a system of trails, and ended up camping under a warm canopy of mossy trees. Andrew went for the half-hour round-trip back to town and got 2 gallons of water for cooking and drinking. We slept in the open, full of good food and happy to have made it safely. We were off to a good start.

Train Ride

At 4:45am on Tuesday we departed from Ann Arbor, dad drove, while I sat in the back corner of the van, on a small rectangular area on the floor surrounded by boxes. Sitting backwards, I watched home recede, and knew I would miss Michigan at least a little, despite the weather.

An hour later we were at the Toledo train station, buying luggage insurance as we warily handed over our bike boxes to be checked on the train, hoping they arrive intact. Then it was a four hour nap to Chicago Union Station. In the Windy City we had a four-hour layover which we spent ambling from restaurant to bookstore to any random place to keep out of the cold. At two o'clock we boarded again, and I started my watch chronograph as the train's wheels turned out of the station. I took another nap, read a short story by Tolstoy, dinner, nap, shared a beer with my bros. Lincoln, NE my chronograph read 10 hours, and I tried to sleep, which is easier than on a plane; the train seats tilt back pretty far with lots of leg room, but still it's difficult. Sooner or later I drift from ethereal thoughts to sleep, waking much through the night. I felt pretty refreshed in the morning though. We had 45 minutes in Denver, so we quickly walked and got a hot breakfast, enjoying the warmer weather and beautiful morning above the Denver skyline. 20 hours 37 minutes, Granby, CO, right next to the YMCA of the Rockies where I spent last summer working.

The hours crept by. Our activities are eat, sleep, and read, so I mix and match for variety: sleep when I'm bored, eat when I'm restless. Later, the fading sun swept the horizon in pink and yellow and reminded me of two days earlier running on the dirt roads near home and watching the Michigan sunset, and it occurred to me what we were: a snake of captive fish, mostly unmoving, but sometimes swimming back and forth in the sterile air. But the thought is not an unhappy one, since it carries hope and possibility. Since I could run and enjoy the sunset back home, I can do it here too. This new thinking is comfort to the stark impossibility I've watched slide past the windows for the last few hours - the impossibility of exploring every nook and cranny, climbing every craggy slope, rocketing down each valley like I want to. The slant dimness revealed less and less of the landscape: endless rusty crowned plateaus, crumbling eonic layers of scree, miles of rolling hills like a bunched up sheet with pebbles poured over it, yet the possibilities of doing, of achieving, were actually opened up. The burn to achieve just one orange highlighted peak is more powerful than the petrifying immensity of thousands of them that the view from our 35-40 mph clip affords. Our world is one small hill at a time.

Salt Lake City, UT, 33.5 hours. Reno, NV, 43 hours 5 minutes and another night of tossing and turning, getting up to put on long johns and my coat for the cold of the coach car. Finally, 5:40pm on Thursday, 53.5 hours later, we arrive at Emeryville, CA, after riding the entire length of the California Zephyr route and passing through two time zones. We boarded a half-hour bus that stopped at the famous Fisherman's Wharf of San Francisco, our final destination. Whew, it feels great to be here. We assembled our bikes right on the touristy pedestrian boulevard, while walkers and bikers watch us unload our boxes, luggage, and bikes until they are strewn across the pavement. After an hour of attaching wheels and handlebars, inflating tires, adjusting seats and throwing our gear in panniers or trailer, we took a wonderful evening ride to our hotel, and walked our bikes right into the elevator, first class. Man, it felt great to lay out on a bed. We walked the wharf, eyeing the fresh-caught lobster and smelling all the other fishes, but settled on a carry-out pizza in our room. We all slept on the bed like three peas in a pod.

Next day, we took a six-hour walking tour of SF, enjoyed the pastel colors and embellished architecture, and checked out Haight-Ashbury, the center of the hippie movement in the sixties. At night, we shopped for groceries, divided up the group gear, and repacked everything properly for departure the next day. The weather is gorgeous.

Two Hours Before Departure

The time has come. We have received our shots and have malaria pills for when we reach mainland Mexico. Two days ago Andrew, Dave and I packed our gear. To carry all our stuff Dave and Andrew have panniers (bicycle saddlebags), and I am using Dave's trailer which he pulled coast to coast two years ago (Andrew also completed a trip across the U.S. a few years before Dave, while this will be my first ride longer than an hour and a half). Besides helmets, water bottles, cycling gloves, and maps, we have basic camping gear - two tents, a stove and pots, sleeping bags and mats, and a first aid kit. We are each equipped with tools for minor bike repairs, several spare inner-tubes, an air pump, plus one spare tire which squeezes awkwardly into my trailer. Since our carrying capacity is greater than travelling on foot, we are afforded some luxuries - books, including a workbook to improve my Spanish, an extra pair of shoes, a cellphone (which I will use until we cross the border - call me!), and nail clippers...stuff I would never take backpacking. Still no pillow though.

Last night we packaged our bicycles into boxes for the train. This required removing the front wheel, handlebars, and saddle, and placing them alongside the bike in the box. The rest of the space was filled with panniers, my disassembled trailer, and bike shoes and helmets. We filled three more smaller boxes with our gear and taped everything closed with "Yapp" and our final destination written on the outside - our boxes will be checked all the way to San Francisco. We are each using a pannier for our carry-on bag. I've stayed up all night to take care of a few last-minute things, and so I can sleep on the train. The boxes are in the minivan, we've had the last shower for a few days, and we are ready to go!