Had to share this video I saw on the Surly blog today. We’ve always dreamed of getting those Alpacka Rafts, backpacker friendly rafts that are super lightweight and packable. These guys are incredible!

Check out more at EPIC and an account of their trip on a forum post HERE

Untitled from Eric Parsons on Vimeo.

The trip is going to resume September 16th. We have been doing our best to earn money to get back on the trip. Though we are all far from any kind of reasonable sum to embark on an adventure spanning all of South America, it is still time get back on our bikes.

Although it was a difficult decision to take a hiatus from the trip, the empty bank accounts helped convince us. Our vision certainly did not include having to travel through time and space via airplanes during the middle of our journey to find employment. However, without commercial sponsorship or parents with deep pockets, we have had to alter our vision to include reality, which sometimes means working. I taught a summer school class and did freelance work on websites, Sean drove a tour bus in San Francisco and Sonoma, and Goat worked as a handyman of sorts.

Overall, It’s been great reconnecting with all the people I had not seen since I started in Alaska. I got to spend time with family and friends, including my niece Aubrey who I got to see for the first time. And now, with a renewed sense of spirit and adventure, I am looking forward to completing this epic journey with the others.

Rumors have it that there might be a total of five beginning this next stretch, more to come on that later.

“Those Gaia Dry Bags work great in the river as well,” Russ said to me wiggling out of his kayak spray-skirt.

Before joining us in Honduras, he had asked for advice on the gear to bring.  Russ is somebody who spends the majority of his time living outdoors, making a lifestyle out of each and every activity that interests him, from climbing to kayaking and biking. In the course of our travels from Alaska to Panama, we have come to realize that our reality relies heavily on the quality of our gear.   Instead of cars, we have bikes, instead of homes, we have dry bags and jungle hammocks.  In the conventional world,  If the roof on your house starts to leak and drip water onto your bed, you will not be a happy camper.  Likewise, you wouldn’t want to open the door to your home and find it filled with a few inches of water; and if we open our dry bags to find everything soaked, we are similarly bummed.

I contacted Sealline about my bags leaking, they replied, “According to the pictures provided you have excessive wear and tear on the dry bags which cannot possibly be covered by the warranty.  I have seen bags 10 plus years old without such abrasions and punctures.  Granted those might only be used a few times a year, but nevertheless held up…. I want to assure you that I have shown these pictures to my co-workers and management and without a doubt your bags will not be covered by our warranty.” Their response didn’t feel right, and when it came time to recommend which dry bags Russ should bring, we had to explore new options.

For us it is really important that the company who sells us gear understands the nature of the outdoor lifestyle – that we are buying the gear to use it, and not just for a semi-annual weekend retreat. After searching around a bit, we thought we’d give Gaia sports a chance, so I emailed them and explained that the dry bags we’d been using weren’t lasting long enough and we needed something we could depend on. 


I got a reply from Sam that said, “You bet our bags will last longer!! ….. Also, our standard dry-bags are much more durable than Sealline, we have PVC and Urethane bags”

We were eager to see how they would do, and with the motto, “If it ain’t dry, it ain’t right,” we were optimistic.  The bags were used day in and day out, constantly exposed to the extreme tropical elements for a good 4 months.  They sat under the blistering sun, and soaked in the torrential rain.  They helped float our bikes across rivers and were used as backpacks for side treks and hike-a-bike sections.  They were brought on the Cricamola River exploratory and were trusted with my expensive camera.  In the end they didn’t fail us once.


The bags we tested were also “Gaia Green,” constructed using only environmentally friendly materials.  And though the material was lighter weight than my previous Sealline Baja Bags, they have proven themselves nicely, and lived up Sam’s words, lasting longer than my Sealline Bags. So, when somebody asks our advice , we happily recommend Gaia Dry Bags.

Russ is currently working rafting trips on the Grand Canyon and spending his free time searching out rivers to run in California. I was stoked to catch up with him for a rafting trip on the North Stanislaus, and happy to hear that the dry bags we recommended lived up to expectations on the river as well as on the bike.

Check out Adventure Travel Magazine for a story about Riding the Spine’s ascent/descent of Central America’s Tallest Peak, Tajumulco Volcano.

Saw this on the Xtracycle Blog and thought I’d share.

http://www.dothetest.co.uk/

“No…seriously man.. you don´t understand.. there are THOUSANDS of them. ”

And that was actually an understatement. The constant itch on my legs had gone unaccounted for throughout the night. That is, until, I clicked on my headlamp and took a closer look.

The moles on my ankle seemed to be crawling around, and the dirt on my leg was migrating up towards my groin and waist. Armies of ticks were marching in droves up my body and every time I brushed them off, reinforcements arrived within minutes.

I was not content with my companions mundane reaction, so I further emphasized the situation, “You guys. This is not all right. I have never seen anything like this. Are ya´ll not getting attacked? How are you NOT freaking out?”

Granted, I have proven myself more susceptible to panicking about insects, particularly swarms of bees and hormigas (ants), but hundreds of ectoparasites seeking accommodations seemed different. Like the ancient naturalist, Pliny the Elder, I shared his thought that ticks are, “the foulest and nastiest creatures that be.”

My companeros simply looked up at me, said nothing and returned to what they were doing: calmly reading. Vectors of more than a half a dozen diseases including Lymes and Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, I had easily and instantly convinced myself that I had read in some guide book that ticks in the area harbored multiple undesirable diseases.

That night we found ourselves pedaling around looking for a suitable campsite, but ran out of light in a populated neighborhood. A large horse corral seemed like our best bet. I had gone to ask the neighbor about camping there and she said it was owned by somebody down the street but he wasn´t home.

She asked me, “Van salir manana?”
“Si, muy temprano en la manana” I replied.
“Creo que esta bien, porque no?”

So, I sat picking off the endless supply of bloodsuckers and wished that she had not been so encouraging. In fact, I even wished I had spent money to get a cheap hotel room. Ten bucks would have been a fair trade just to get all the ticks off my body.

A fundraiser ride across Costa Rica had been organized to help us earn some money to keep our trip going, but the dozen riders who planned on joining all ended up bailing for different reasons. All the same, Goat´s dad; a local adventure race organizer Mike and his son Chris were eager to ride and planned to meet up with us that night. The tick infested horse corral was not what we would have planned for our new traveling companions.

Our good friends Tom and Kenny had driven down from California to spend some time with us in Costa Rica. Tom brought his dog Ottie, a half coyote mutt he rescued while hiking the Appalachian Trail - it´s coat of hair full from the Sierra Nevada winter was shedding wildly, particularly as it began to notice the ticks.
I had convinced Tom of our dire situation and he was busy inspecting Ottie, busily plucking the parasites.

“Whoah. Ottie is completely covered with ´em. There´s no way I can get them off. “ He commented with an equal measure of fear and amazement.

I decided I would fare best in my hammock. With some vigilance, I believed I could get most of the ticks off. With a combination of DEET and about 45 minutes of dedicated seek and destroy tactics I was able to rid myself of all but 4 (discovered latched onto my crotch when I woke up the next morning).

The sound of police sirens encroached on my dreams, and I woke to the reality of three SUVs skidding to a stop, and about a dozen uniformed police officers with bulletproof vests and machine guns arranging into double-file lines. A fourth car, apparently a taxi arrived and dropped off a few more policemen to reinforce their numbers. Quickly in formation, they advanced on our campsite with weapons at the ready. An impressive display.

I opted to get my clothes on and chat with them instead of waiting for them to come and roust me, a lesson learned from previous lynch mob encounters in Guatemala.

I heard the tried and true greeting, “Somos gringos” from Goat or Sean and was not surprised to find them sufficiently collected (guns down) by the time they started questioning me. Always reassuring when they do not approach you with weapons cocked and pointed towards you. We are just a bunch of harmless skinny gringos, after all.

“Pasaporte?” One asked, with a discernible smirk coming across his face that made me wonder if he felt silly to have put on such a show for a few skinny gringos on bicycles.

It seems that neighbors had passed along the street and saw our headlamps, something they could only associate with drug dealers. The cops arrived ready for a showdown.

I handed the cop my passport. He opened it up and found himself distracted by a subtle itch on his hand. Then another somewhat further up on his arms. I noticed a similar phenomenon occurring with the other officers.

Instead of a shootout with a ring of drug smuggling long distance bike tourists, they found themselves fighting against a nearly invisible enemy beginning a dedicated war of attrition. And they didn’t even know it yet.

Soon the whole police brigade was subtly scratching their various itches much to my amusement. After going down the typical list of FAQ´s about our trip, they departed; the last two officers squishing into the back of a taxi.

The so-called fundraiser found its end (after an unforgettable stretch of Costa Rican back roads where my companeros would all eventually encounter a bit of their own tick hysteria) along Lago Arenal at the foot of its respective volcano. We sat, attempting to fish with maggoty pork and finish off a bottle of fine Scotch while the volcano randomly spewed lava down, accompanied by an earth trembling groan and a crackling sound. Our cheers grew louder with each fiery display as our bellies burned from the Scotch and we contemplated the last few days.

Some of Sean´s thoughts on the Big Dummy posted on Surly´s Blog.

It is not always easy having Surly’s Big Dummy for a touring companion. While touring through Guatemala I became afflicted. It was nearly impossible for me not to show off this cargo bike that can carry more than your standard pack animal, doesn’t whine and beg for hay, and has more sexy curves in its frame then your most food deprived lingerie model. Take for example the daily routine of hauling leña (firewood) several miles from the timberline back down to the village. All along dirt roads, highways, or narrow footpaths, strut old men, women, and children hauling burdens that would crush a gringo’s spine like elote into corn meal. Somehow they keep their backs straight and stiff as ramrods, and their burly calf muscles (like knotted tree roots) would put even the most accomplished recreational mountaineer to shame. Without a hint of pain or exhaustion, they handle their business. And yet as I coast along on my extra-long bike, I can’t help but think, ‘hey, I’ve got plenty of room to accommodate those heavy loads, maybe the locals could use a break’.

Click here to read the rest

Unfortunately, we were robbed this morning in the quaint little surfing village: Puerto Viejo.

Two digital cameras, one pocket-knife, and one Gerber Tool now floating around on the black market of Costa Rica.

Pura Vida

“Look what the wind’s brought in!” joked one of the oil-stained dockworkers as we approached the ferry to Ometepe. Motor purring idle, ropes disentangled from its moors, our boat seemed to have been anxiously awaiting our arrival to venture out upon a turbulent Lake Nicaragua. Such was the volatile temperament of the lake that I felt that I was facing a storm stirred ocean rather than the land locked body of fresh water.

As the boat began to pull away from land, the few tourists remaining on the observation deck rushed into the passenger saloon. Water gushed in after them threatening to flood the cabin, but the deck hands followed close behind to brace the doors against the stormy waves.

Despite the splashed and misty side windows it was impossible not to be fixated in awe at Volcan la Conception, whose tapering form towered towards the heavens. It was the earth’s mighty bosom that appeared to heave and swell as if undergoing dramatic transformation (an impression most likely caused by the erratic swaying of the boat, but which I romantically attributed to its inner volatility. La Conception, after all, had erupted in both 2005 and 2007). Growing in immensity by the minute, I was convinced that by the time the boat reached its destination the volcano would blot out the whole sky.

Soon however, my attention was diverted to the saloon entertainment system, on which a curious music video entitled “Mi Abuelo” was playing. Old wrinkly men were shown guzzling down forty ounce bottles of malt liquor, joining biker gangs, and rolling around in bed with young women. Each singer constituted a different member of the ‘grandfathers’ extended family –including a young granddaughter, and some random midget wearing the French Hose and Spanish Bonnet of Elizabethan era wardrobe. Rather then deploring the debauchery, they shrugged off their grandfathers stiff dedication to the pimpin lifestyle, almost taking pride in the fact that he was ‘keeping it real’ till the grave.

Why was it that the saloon entertainment couldn’t offer passengers a sense of placement in the world? This short ferry service from Rivas to the island was the only real opportunity for tourists to get an understanding of the unique (yet fleeting) ecological Phenomenon of fresh water Bull Sharks (surely the boat operators could find some badly rendered, but thrilling presentation of a submarine struggle between a Bull Shark and its prey). Theoretically, below this very boat these seemingly displaced creatures could be swimming, anticipating a lavish feast of shipwrecked gringos. Yet fresh water sharks were rarely ever seen, even by local fishermen, and a recent article from Prensa Latina described the creatures as being on the verge of extinction .

Disembarking the ferry I was surprised that my first images of Ometepe were void of promiscuous old men groping at half-nude women. Arriving as we were in the dead heat of mid-siesta time, the streets were barren. In less than five minutes we were beyond the sleepy port town of Moyogalpa, and out onto a fast dusty road that circled the base of Volcan La Conception. Soon the behemoth slope was eclipsing the sun, conferring upon us unlimited shade. After some time of passing only the numberless piles of Plantains heaped on the road, I could see a fellow gringo cyclist coming up from the opposite direction.

“My god you’re a brave lad.” He said; eyes wide in bafflement as I sped past him.

Before I could think to stop and inquire his meaning, his distant figure was blurred with the haze of my dust trail. I was left to imagine for myself what formidable obstacles lay ahead (perhaps the fresh water sharks, rather than submitting to extinction, had spawned legs and were now running around Ometepe chewing the heads off birds of paradise).

To my dismay, the rest of our ride was uneventful. We crossed the hourglass isthmus that joins La Conception with its shorter counterpart, Volcan Madera, and found refuge for the night just above the village of Balgüe at Finca Magdalena; a coffee plantation offering rooms to travelers out of its rustic hacienda. Perched a hundred meters up the flank of Volcan Madera, we were half dragging our bikes up the path to the café-terrace, half spellbound at the view behind us. The fiery glow of a vanishing sun accentuated pastel colors in the clouds that whirled around La Conception’s cone. Before even reaching the steps of the hacienda we could hear conversations in a variety of languages intermingling with the drones of a dense diversity of jungle life forms.

Finca Magdalena was the ideal destination for a band of nomadic cyclists. There were plenty of hammock spots with views of the Lake, volcano, and of their garden of vibrant tropical flowers; numerous showers with intermittent hot water supply; rich organic coffee grown and roasted on the premises; and an international backpacker scene that was daily renewed with characters ready to hear and relate travel stories.

The hiking trail that led up to the peak of Volcan Madera was conveniently located behind the Plantations’ grounds. Apparently, hiking the trail without a guide hikers had disappeared on the mountain and that the discovery of their bodies brought the flow of tourism to a trickle) yet Jacob, Russell, and I managed to navigate without assistance the only trail (rather, a sticky mud trench) through the cloud forest. After cresting Madera’s saddle we hiked down into the lagoon filled crater where several tourists were standing around zipping up their jackets in response to the chilly change in climate. Their respective guides, standing at a comfortable distance from their clients, stared blankly into the rolling wisps of fog. They looked immaculately clean and improbably patient in their role of chaperone. Despite the cold, Russell and I swam out to the center of the Lagoon, and both conferred upon hearing an eerie sound like the buzzing of an electric current (reminiscent of that creepy-crawly vacuum machine that cleans suburban lap-pools).

Russell and Jacob opted to run the entire way down the steep slip and slide trench to the Volcano’s base. The effort was considerably straining on their physique. For several days afterwards the both of them were whining about sore legs.

The day after our hike we migrated to the opposite side of volcan Madera, (nearly completing our circuit of the entire island) to the village of Merida. There we met Bryce and Deirdre, an incredibly active married couple that, together, had bike-toured all throughout Europe, Australia, Central America and Africa.

“I think we’re perhaps the first people to have successfully ‘Bike-toured’ the Thames River.” Boasted Bryce.

At first not one of us knew what to make of his comment. For clarification Deirdre brought out her I Pod Classic and showed us a video that she and her husband had put together. Sure enough there they were pedaling their bikes on the river’s surface beneath the London Bridge. Their regular touring bikes were mounted on outrigger floats, drive shafts connected to a gearbox that turned a propeller, and the steering column was connected to a rudder. They could literally ride their bike across water.

“The whole system packs down pretty small.” Relates Deirdre “But it weighs a ton, so it’s not really worth carrying around on a tour unless you plan to be traveling as much on water as on land.”

“I don’t know…” I think out loud. “I might have carried it this whole trip just to avoid taking that ferry ride from Rivas. Those outrageous music videos… did you by chance see ‘Mi Abuelo’?”

“Actually, they showed some random clips of movies.” Bryce explains. “First they put on the original Godzilla which… man… where the hell do a bunch of boat operators find an antique like that. Then they showed a bit of Halloween. People are already queasy from the choppy waves, and then they’ve got these gory scenes of Michael Myers hacking up teens in front of’em.”

“That’s exactly the point when you jump ship, mount your bike and leave the boat to wobble in your wake.” I said, still mesmerized by this ingenious new concept.

Our two camps exchanged stories and caroused late into the night, officially violating the Hostel quiet hour. The next morning the hostel manager gave us a stiff lecture. Surprisingly he didn’t mention our disrespect of quiet hour time, rather, complained to us for a good while about ‘backpackers’.

“…They just come here with this idea of the Shoe-string budget and so each and every one of them is a cheap-skate, looking to pay as little as possible, without considering the impact of their consumer role.” He barks at us. “Do you know why hostels in Granada are so inexpensive?” He doesn’t wait for a shot in the dark. “Because nobody charges the mandatory 15% federal tax to their guest’s account. That is money that could be going to public education, but the manager’s concern is only about keeping the backpacker happy. And they spend nothing on infrastructure so the whole place starts to stink of sewage. This kind of greed goes on even in the up-scale resorts…”

Luckily the manager enjoyed se bikes himself. We were ‘bikepackers’ not those inconsiderate ‘backpackers’ he condescended to on a daily basis in accepting their money.

After enduring the lecture Goat and I went out to inspect the Hostel owner’s new sailing yacht when a young lady from Philadelphia named Kori made our acquaintance. She sat at the edge of the pier and set down her treasure of cacao jam (it had been canned by “the blessed Italian ex-pats” to resemble their native Nutella) between the three of us.

I was captivated by Kori’s intelligent expression. Fluent in Spanish, and always ready with a relevant bit from her many journies to add flavor to the conversation, she described her activist projects in the states, her time picking coffee berries side by side Nicaraguan locals, and her expansive travels through South America. In a few days she would return again to Caracas, Venezuela, where she had been conducting research for her dissertation.

“In the streets of Caracas, sometimes you need to stop, turn abruptly, and stare hard at the person following behind, to let him think twice about what it was they were about to carry through.” Random assault and robbery being so prevalent in Caracas, she has, many times, had to follow this piece of worldly wisdom. “…Because they’re still human, and susceptible to that feeling of suddenly being made vulnerable, of having the intent uncovered. When confronted first, they are more likely to back off.”

After conversation we all swam out to the island of exiled white-faced Capuchin monkeys. In our pockets we carried green oranges that we would roll onto their turf to determine if indeed they are as aggressively territorial as the rumors allege. The monkeys delighted in ripping the peels apart and tearing the flesh to bits. As soon as we make an attempt to approach, however, their moods turn sour; they stood up on their legs, manically waved their arms and screeched like banshees.

Being a good distance from the pier, the swim out to Monkey Island had left us spent. Recuperating with spoonfuls of Cacao jam Kori blurted out quite suddenly: “Margaret is damn amazing.”

“Margaret is indeed a dear” I agreed.

“I mean really, I think the real reason I’m here…,” gesturing to the hostel behind us. “Is to affirm to her, each and every moment that what she is doing is good, and immensely beneficial to these kids.”

My introduction to Margaret had occurred the same night the two belligerent biker camps had taken over the hostel bar. One diluted shot of Aguardiente had vaulted her into a giggling fit; yet she was an already jovial lady by nature. Hailing from Canada, she was engaged in a volunteer program at the hostel in which she received room and board in exchange for her teaching services. She was much determined to get her rowdy bunch of pre-teen kids to learn English. Without a word of Spanish at her disposal, her prospects for success would seem to anyone a little farfetched. Yet she had more than enough heart to compensate for the lingual barrier.

I figured it a good idea to brew Margaret a cup of coffee since last time I checked, she had forgone breakfast. She also appeared to be expending much energy in getting her students to admit that they had taken home all the school supplies that she has purchased from out of her own purse.

At her classroom I found her dwelling on a familiar theme.” There were… Forty Markers, twenty-five erasers… Now there are two and six.” She beams into the eyes of her unreceptive students whose ages range between six and fourteen. “You are more than intelligent enough to know what I am talking about. Now please….”

With the steaming mug of brew held high above my head I am able to catch her attention.

“Wow, this is special.” She looks relieved to take a breath. “I don’t have my money right now, but later on…”

Ah jeez, I thought, interrupting her with a frown and a wave of dismissal.

“You know, I don’t know if you guys are going to be busy later on, but it would be great if you could play a ball game with the kids.” rolling her eyes now, “My morning class needs to get up and move around, if you know what I mean.”

“I do indeed.” I graciously accepted, knowing that ‘the guys’ she had referred to, my hard-core biker gang, would be much too busy convalescing with aching joints to partake in such rigorous activity.

My students for the day were quickly assimilated into teams that when set side by side, appeared to me, to be incredibly unfair. I soon realized that one kid on the opposing team had the footwork of a featherweight boxing champion. He was barefoot, wore a pink mitten on his left hand, and scored three goals against us in the first five minutes. At first I had thought it prudent to play ‘half-speed’, but after shaking off the dazed feeling of being outmatched by a twelve year old, I realized my team might turn against me if I didn’t keep alert. Toward the end of the match two of the boys began to insult and provoke one another into a brawl. After the last point was scored I had to intervene when the smaller of the two aimed a boulder at the head of his persecutor.

After the kids had dispersed, I found Margaret alone in her classroom poking indifferently at a plate of sparsely touched Gallopinto (fried rice and beans). She beckoned me to take a seat.
“Do you know that the manager of this place wants to suddenly change my contract.” she gestured for me to finish off the remains of her plate.

“He didn’t even have the nerve to tell me about it face to face, even though we see each other everyday.” Her mouth wavered on the threshold of uttering the next sentence as if fearful it’d be too bitter for her palate.” He e-mailed me a whole new set of rules governing my volunteer work.”

“He told me to take notice that he would have to start charging me for food and Board.” She paused to shake her head. “I just don’t have that kind of Money. And if I have to return early it’ll be the kids who suffer in the end.”

I had heard rumors before that the owner of this beach side hostel, also (volunteer teacher program, bike and kayak rental shop, and buffet breakfast and dinner café…ect.), was greedy and that perhaps he inherited his land. Talk of land inheritance in Nicaragua is sure to raise eyebrows. It could mean possible military ties, in other words connections with the corrupt Samosa Family of the early Contra revolutionary times. Yet I knew better than to draw any conclusions from idle gossip.

“But get this.” She smiles, wags her finger at the crux of the matter, “he wants me to travel with him to Managua to petition The Nicaraguan government on his Behalf. He wants funding for computers that … yes, will partially be used for the children’s’ education, but the majority of the use would be from travelers for Internet time. And so of course he’ll be profiting from this. But because I’m a foreigner, whose ideas for educational investments are favored above the locals… we’ll I’d be the one to initiate his little scheme.”

“That Scoundrel!” I yelled. The more this charming old lady went on elucidating her misfortunes, the more my sympathy grew. She had ‘just survived a car wreck’ which had led to “phone battles with insurance agents complaining about the price of her back surgery’.

After carrying some books for her back to her room Margaret shakes her head, wondering what it was she was about to do next.

“You were about to take a walk along the beach”. I interfere on her behalf. “And I think I might have a word with the head man.”

Unfortunately I failed to relay that word. Too much food had been cooked that night for the hostel buffet. Not being one to let waist be noticed, the hostel manager let the garbage disposal bikers intervene. My appetite being thus satiated I felt my motivation to vent these vague grievances dissipate. ‘Don’t bark at the hand that feeds’ the saying goes.
(In a recent correspondence with Margaret she informed me that a visitor had written ‘[the manager] is arrogant’ on the hostel message board. “He came up to me to ask what the word arrogant meant,” wrote Margaret, “And I just had to smile and say: “I want you to take notice that I will not answer that question for you.”)

The next day we made our escape from Isle Ometepe. Instead of the fancy passenger ferry with in-saloon entertainment system, we boarded the top of a smaller boat. We tossed our bikes in a pile to one side, which considerably threw the boat off keel, yet nobody said anything nor made any attempt to secure the considerable load.

“Ciento vente cinco.” Barked the ticket collector.
The price was nearly double what we paid going the opposite way. When questioned about the incredible rise in rate, the man shouted: “Expresso! As if at any moment auxilary engines would kick in and propel us at warp speed. The boat chugged along at the same exact pace as before.

A small gang of boys that had helped unfasten ropes was standing around the top deck in their swim-shorts intently watching the buildings of Moyogalpa fade into the distance. Just before taking off, one had shoved another off the side to crash into the water, inciting the remaining dozen onboard to rambunctious cheering and leading me to believe some game was afoot. They stood in focused silence, each waiting until the distance to the coast was just right before gracefully swan diving into the sea. At first I thought they were waiting for the boat to get further down the coast so that they could swim directly to their neighborhoods. But then it became clear that it was a race, each competitor assigning themselves a starting distance relative to their skill. The ones to jump in last made impressive sprints to overtake the ones with head starts. It was entertaining to watch, but really I had a strong craving at that moment for blood bath horror movies and sex plastered music videos. Certainly with the exorbitant boost in price, these trivial amenities could be provided. Where else would I find my trashy media fix before resuming the long haul southwards.

Choosing the route we do (mountain dirt roads in the middle of nowhere) we usually manage to stay away from cars, but sometimes roads are unavoidable. Starting at the Artic Sea, we have been constantly and consistently warned about the drivers with whom we will have to share the road further south.  First were the “extreme truckers” on the haul road, whose loads are double long and oversize, and who literally own the road.  Then the “crazy cannucks” whose country is so sparsely populated the mere idea of traffic paralyzes them, and therefore don’t worry about little things like lanes and turn signals.  Next, “those Americans” who drive too much and too fast, “and they all have guns….”  Followed by “the Mexicans” who “have no laws down there” and so on until we learned to tune it out, as we do a large percentage of the advice we receive: “don’t go that way – the road is terrible – you’ll never make it” etc.

            Sure, drunk driving is a national past time in Mexico, and first time RVers up in Alaska, tend to leave their steps down (blocking/sweeping the shoulder), but the vast majority of drivers we have encountered have been competent, and courteous.  “South of the border,” drivers, forced into awareness by the condition of the roads, and used to sharing them with non-cars, are in general good drivers. And thanks to the cost and relative novelty of cars, drivers are much more likely to be professionals.  People who drive for a living, tend to be good/safe behind the wheel. In general, our pavement experiences have been much mellower than the advice-givers would have us fear.  Safer that is, until we hit Honduras, and the Pan-American Highway.

            Forced onto the ‘carretera’ by a tropical storm that flooded us out of the Caribbean coast, we were initially optimistic; the main roads in Mexico (the last place we had ridden highways) were nicely paved and equipped with generous shoulders, a little boring perhaps, but at least safe…no reason to assume Honduras would be much different.  The Pan-Am was nicely paved and provided reasonable shoulders. Unfortunately however, these factors didn’t add up in our favor.  The smoothness and width of the road just seemed to encourage recklessness. Drivers clearly didn’t feel constrained by the two lanes the engineers and road painters had provided for – thanks to the shoulders, there was plenty of room for a center (shared) lane or two if you didn’t mind squeezing, which they clearly didn’t.

            Multiple car passes at high speed on blind corners (sheer cliffs on either side) was standard practice – cars coming the “other way” are expected to swerve, and make full use of the shoulder.  Of course, sometimes trucks were passing both directions around the same blind corner, and the instant 2-lane to 4-lane conversion gets really terrifying (especially for cyclists).  Worst of all, the drivers guilty of these insane maneuvers, were quite frequently the professionals.  Truckers and bus drivers, who we had learned to trust as models of responsible driving, were now racing each other,  some times even ‘double passing’ – a truck passing, a buss passing, a line of cars. 

Words don’t really do justice to the sheer enormity of the recklessness, but humans are very adaptable creatures – for better or worse, we soon get used to any thing.  Constant scanning of the drainage ditches for escape routes, and split-second/corner-of-the-eye triggered evasive maneuvers became a way of life.  And soon enough – about the time we started dropping into the sprawling cancer of Tegucigalpa (the capital city) the madness had infected us.  We were bombing past tractor-trailers on the shoulder, taking possession of the “middle lane” to pass whole strings of cars unable to corner as rapidly.  Squeezing between rows of stopped or slowly moving cars (on real multi lane roads) bags and shoulders scraping on both sides – narrowly dodging rearview mirrors, and casually running red lights.

            Fortunately Russ and a few days of rest/bike maintenance were waiting – hidden at a couch surfer’s house in the city – to help us regain our sanity.  He brought with him a mountain of replacement parts, and a newly created steed; so clean and shiny that next to our trail-burned mounts it seemed a different species all together.  We couldn’t wait to christen it with some real dirt riding, but map-less and in the middle of a sprawling city that didn’t seem likely.

            Inspired nonetheless, we dug into the pile of parts, and took over the yard and sidewalk in front of the house, deep in the heart of gated community/trophy-home down town Tegucigalpa, for the better part of two days, re-building and overhauling our bikes.  Our presence was a trifle incongruous, to say the least.  Our hosts were missionaries from Austin Texas, and the house was filled with their boisterous and non-Spanish speaking offspring, the requisite maids (and their children) and various dogs. Chaotic to be sure, but standard fare compared to trail scarred and strangely attired gringos banging purposefully on their intriguingly bizarre bicycles, amid piles of strange bike parts, tools and specialized camping gear (and in the front yard no less!!).

When fixing machines, nothing ever goes quite as expected; despite careful planning and ordering, l had to take to the streets to find a bike shop.  The up-scale city center was largely devoid of that sort establishment, but eventually l asked the right person, and was directed to Bike Zone.

            When l arrived Daniel, the proprietor was hand filing a replacement derailleur-hanger from a piece of scrap aluminum, while an assistant repacked the bearings on a bike so old it sported rod-brakes, and Daniel’s multi thousand dollar Turner mtn bike stood out like a sore thumb from the bedraggled bike rack outside. Between the bikes that they were working on, and the tools they were working with, there was hardly room inside the shack like premises, so l stood out side answering questions about ”my” bike (l was riding Russ’s, the chupacabra dismantled for repair) until Daniel took a brake from making chips fly, and came out to talk to me.  He was fascinated by the Xtracycle, and our trip, told me that if l didn’t mind waiting, he would help me any way he could.

            I hung out, and he picked my brain about our bikes, mtn touring, running a bike shop in the US, the relative quality of different parts. Eventually he finished his various tasks, we found solutions to my problems, and l returned to my companions to implement said solutions, but not before l promised come back to show him the Chupacabra. I made good on my promise, and in the midst of geeking out on bikes, I remembered to ask him about dirt routes to Nicaragua.

            He thought a while, and said, well l have this friend – he’s a dreamer, a little bit crazy, but he use to have a TV show called biking in Honduras and knows all about the back roads – should l call him?

Por favor…

So it was that when we left town the next day, it was in the company of a portly, out of shape, and very enthusiastic Jorge.  We were unclear on his plans, or level of fitness, so we hardly noticed he wasn’t carrying anything. On the way out of town we had to climb the counterpart of the mammoth hill we had descended into Tegucigalpa. The hill was long and punishing, and we took turns riding behind with Jorge, chatting in a mixture of Spanish and English, and smiling at his jokes about his pot belly, and sedentary profession (electrical engineer). Eventually we crested the hill and were rewarded with and epic down hill. As we blasted down hill into the afternoon, we had to wonder what Jorge’s plan was – surely he wasn’t going to ride back tonight…

When he caught up, he explained that he was in fact planning on riding with us for a couple days, and on sleeping at a ‘hospeadje’ in one of the small towns coming up. Adding that we would have no trouble reaching the closer one before dark. We rode on, the dirt road turning rougher, and starting to climb. It continued to climb… Some time after sunset, we gave up on reaching Jorge’s town.  Jorge, still up beat, made a cursory effort to obtain ‘posada’ for the evening, but all the houses around were small and brimful with their customary occupants.

We ended up camping in the front yard of a friendly ‘campesino’ family (the ‘dueno’ of the field next door lived in the city, and thus couldn’t give us ‘permiso’ to use his (much more suitable to our camping needs) land.  In any case we have an aversion to refusing hospitality.  So we got creative with our hammocks – Jacob managed to attach both ends of his to the same long overhanging branch of the mango tree that was the centerpiece of the yard area.  We were high enough in the mountains, that we could expect dew and substantial temperature drop, so we rounded up our spare clothes, sleeping pads, and tarps and set up a cozy shelter for Jorge. Meanwhile Sean had our MSR stove out, water boiling, getting ready for our standard dinner of oatmeal.  All these outlandish preparations made for a fascinating evenings entertainment for our hosts.

The whole family, or neighborhood, (it was hard to tell) had turned out for the spectacle: 20+ pairs of eye glued to our every move.  But alas it was soon pitch black, and gringo TV flickered out of view – leaving only our headlamps to dance like sluggish and over sized fireflies. Interesting for a moment, but lacking detail.  Fortunately mother saved the day – appearing with a handful of kindling, which turned out to be ‘lena de jacaranda’: heartwood so resinated that it burned like a torch.  Light a couple and wa-la: instant campfire, light heat, and no mess.  Thanks to the ‘lena’ our audience had the pleasure of watching us finish cooking dinner, eating (out of our space age folding bowls) and putting the stove away. Exciting stuff. About the time we were ready to retire for the night, Jorge reappeared; he had found what passed for the local store and supped on coca-cola and chips.  He refused the portion of oatmeal we had saved, saying he was trying to lose weight and went off to sleep under a cactus.  We eventually convinced him to accept a jacket and a tarp, but he would have none of the warm dry bed we had prepared – he didn’t want to disturb us with his snoring, he explained.

We awoke half an hour after sunrise or so, to find the whole family and Jorge waiting silently for us to appear out of our cocoons.  Jorge had hardly slept a wink, cold damp and uncomfortable under his cactus. As we set about breaking camp, preparing breakfast (our big meal of the day) and otherwise entertaining the locals, Jorge set out ahead of us saying he wanted to warm up, and would meet us in the next town, leaving us to our audience. Exposed by the light of day they didn’t crowd as close, but watched just as intently.

The women of the house were especially fascinated – men cooking: unheard of, could they really do it?!  Rice and beans in the same pot?! Etc.  When our food was ready they sent the smallest child over with a cup for a taste of our strange (and luxurious – cheese, meat, vegetables, rice and beans – in prodigious quantities too) meal. We filled it to overflowing, figuring there would be plenty of interested samplers.  Finally nourished and dressed for the day, we had to turn off the TV and take our leave.

In about an hour we reached Jorge sitting in town outside of the lone ‘pulperia,’ coke in hand. He brought us all drinks (Russ and l refused soda, and were treated to liquid sugar labeled orange juice), and taking a deep breath broke the news: “I´m really sorry, but…..” unfortunately he was called back to Tegucigalpa on business, and couldn’t ride with us to the Nicaragua border as planned, in fact he was heading back immediately.  A little relieved, we left him beaming and waving in front of the ‘pulperia’ and headed down the road.

Almost immediately the nicely maintained gravel road we had been following ceased and a challenging 4wheel drive track began.  We ground up hill, turned off the rough road we were following for a truly rustic track, and clawed our way to the top of a flinty ridge, pouring sweat and struggling in our lowest gear. Abruptly the track plunged down the other side – tight turns and steep grades complicated by the size and quantity of the loose rocks which surrounded the ruts.

At the bottom of the hill we collapsed in the shade next to a creek, and thanked our lucky stars Jorge had turned back. By the time (two days later), we popped out on smooth roads, and rejoined the Pan-Americana to cross the border; Russ’s bike was thoroughly christened by “the hardest biking [Russ] ha[d] ever done”, and cloaked with a heavy coat of dust to prove it. We could only hope the drivers in Nicaragua were a little more sane (and that we would be able to get off the pavement and into the mountains quickly).