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100 Kilometers to Merida

“FUCK YOU!!” I scream, rain pelting my face and filling my mouth. “I’m trying SO HARD, so FUCKING hard. FUCK. YOU.”

A semi truck passes me on the bridge and a wave of dirty water splashes over me. I don’t care. I’m soaked through anyways.

I am crying now, gulping and gasping, my tears mixing with rain.

When I finished crossing the bridge, I pull my bicycle over. The front tire has been losing air slowly and has become quite soft. So I yank my hand-pump off the frame, and kneel on the wet ground while I fill the tire with more air. I shiver as my wet clothes cling to me, and a peal of thunder cracks the bruised sky.

I had left Dzitbalche that morning, a small town about 50 kilometers from where I was kneeling in a puddle now. I had awoken quite early, without prompting from my alarm, and had meditated sitting on the square lump that represented a bed at the hospedas I was staying at. I had slept on top of the covers with my sleeping bag, not daring to venture into it’s depths after discovering toe nail clippings on the blanket.

I hadn’t meant to end up in a hospedas in Dzitbalche when I had ridden out from the city of Campeche on Friday morning.

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Dzitbalche

I had intended on cycling to Calkini, a halfway point between Campeche and Merida. Merida was my goal, my shining portal of light, a beautiful city with two beautiful warmshowers hosts who had a room waiting for me, a place that was not a hotel, had internet connection, a washing machine, bicycle repair shops, and people who speak english.

I had pulled off the highway on Friday afternoon after having traveled about 80 kilometers that day, to ride on a side road into Calkini. Within moments I received a flat tire from some broken glass, or maybe shards of wire that decorate the sides of the roads here like confetti.

Unfortunately I was not aware of the flat tire until moments later, when I went over a surprise speed bump a little too fast, and felt the unmistakable *whump*–the sickening sound and feeling of a flat tire that is even more flattened beneath a mountain of gear.

I pulled over right away, avoiding the flabbergasted expressions of the villagers who were walking past me, or leaning on their shovels, their work forgotten due to my unexpected arrival into their usually cycle-tourist-free existence.

Don’t they have work to do? I thought grumpily, wishing everyone would just go away while I surveyed the damage of my only mode of transportation, my house-on-wheels.

“Mi bici es mi vida,” I always tell people, when they talk to me about my strange, overloaded vehicle. My bicycle is my life.

Well, my life was currently looking a little butt-fucked, if you don’t mind me saying.

Not only was my tire completely flat, but as I was pumping it back up so I could at least creak my way to a place to sleep that night, I noticed I also had broken a spoke.

Cue the doomsday music.

After filling the back tire with more air, I gingerly remounted my injured steed and began to roll slowly down the streets, hoping to see a sign for a hotel of some kind. When I reached the center of town, I pulled over to look at my phone map, and an old timer sitting on a bench yelled over to me.

“Que estas buscando? A donde vas?”

Well if he was asking me what I was looking for and where I was going, clearly he wanted to help.

I pushed my bicycle over to where he sat and asked, “Sabes donde esta un hotel?”

“Si, si!” He went into a lengthy description of where a hospedas was, telling me where to turn and what the landmarks were. I was a little nervous because it sounded like it might be hard to find.

But I set out to look for it, after thanking him and saying good bye.

It turned out the hospedas was actually quite close and easy to find, and when I pulled up, two older gentleman leapt up to greet me and help me bring my bicycle inside the courtyard. They were amazed to see me and my gear, and asked me lots of questions about my trip.

“Tiene un cellular,” one man said, pointing at my cellphone mounted to my handlebars.

“Asi que se puede hablar con su novio,” the other said, chuckling. (‘So she can talk to her boyfriend’).

“Mi promitido,” I corrected. (‘my fiance’).

“Oohh!” they gasped appreciatively.

It’s somehow even more impressive to the Mexican people that I’m cycle touring alone AND I have a fiance.

That night one of the guys took me around town to visit a couple of bike shops, both of which where closed. But we were told one of them would re-open at 5 pm, so after taking a shower, I headed back there, again assisted by the older man who carried my wheel for me.

A bicycle shop in Mexico is not a bicycle shop in the United States. The ones I’ve seen look kind of like auto shops in the U.S., just smaller, darker, and even dirtier, if you can imagine that. They usually have a few rusty mountain bikes lying around, and it always makes me wonder what exactly they’re doing to improve the bicycles they work on.

The mechanic took my wheel and surveyed my broken spoke. I also told him I had a flat tire and could he fix it.

“Si, si. 30 pesos. Volver por la manana.”

Come back in the morning? Hmmm… I had almost 100 km to ride to Merida in the morning, I couldn’t be hanging around waiting for his shop to open.

“Voy a Merida con mi bici en la manana,” I explained.

“Ah ok,” he said. “Entonces, volver en una hora.” (‘Than come back in an hour’)

I was relieved.

Wow, I’m not screwed. This guy’s gonna replace my spoke, patch my tire, and I’ll be good to go tomorrow!

Me and the older man (he did tell me his name, but unfortunately I can’t remember it) stopped and got tacos (he didn’t eat, but insisted I order 5 or 6–I thought maybe they were kind of small so I finally agreed to order 5 and had to take 3 to go when I discovered they were of normal size).

When we returned to get my wheel, the mechanic waved at it sadly.

“No puedo.” He couldn’t fix the spoke because he didn’t have the right tools for taking my cassette off.

My heart sank.

He did show me that he had kindly filled my tire with air.

I knew this meant he hadn’t actually patched the tire, so that was something else I would need to do before going to sleep that night.

It was difficult to remember to smile when morning came.

I had patched my tire but it was flat again, so I just replaced the tube, not feeling patient about finding a potentially microscopic hole in addition to the other one I had patched.

I pulled my bicycle outside of my room and into the center courtyard, where the older man from the day before saw me and came over.

I was trying to put my wheel back on after having changed the tool, but it was a little complicated because of being the rear one and dealing with the chain and gear shifter. The man was trying to help me–though I really did not need or want his help–which almost made matters worse. Once I had the wheel in place, I noticed it was rubbing the brakes on one side very badly.

I knew this was because of the broken spoke and the wheel not being ‘true’.

I couldn’t explain this in spanish to the guy trying to help me, so he kept fussing with it, though he seemed to know about as much about bicycles as I do about engineering.

I called Watson and he talked me through, so that I could at least set the wheel up to a balanced enough spot where I could ride with the brakes released.

I finally had to shoo the overly helpful guy away. “No mas. No mas!” I said, as he continued to finagle and fuss hopelessly.

I think I may have offended him because he walked away and did not return.

But I was relieved to have him gone.

Fighting back tears, I set the wheel, turned the bicycle right side up, and loaded it with my gear.

As I was rolling out of town, I noticed the other bicycle shop was open.

Hmmmm… I thought. Maybe they have the right tool for taking my cassette off and they can fix my spoke!

The potential promise of my 100 km ride to Merida with all of my spokes caused me to stop and talk to the guys at the shop.

Maybe it’s just because I’m from the United States and in Mexico the culture is very different, but I made the assumption that by explaining to them that I had ridden to Dzitbalche from Austin, TX and was on my way to Brazil–and needed to ride all the way to Merida today–that somehow they would ‘get’ it.

I assumed they would see my enormous, heavy pile of gear and think, “Well gee. This girl is carrying a lot of weight and has a long way to go today. Let’s make sure we take good care of her and her bicycle so that she gets there safely.”

But sadly, this was not the case.

Despite my insistence that the removal of the cassette was the potential barrier to them fixing my spoke, they didn’t look closely and just told me to take all of my gear off my bicycle so they could work on it.

Sure enough, they took the wheel off and began to try and remove the cassette–with no luck.2016-03-05 08.53.21

One of the guys seem to fiddle around with the wheel and the spokes, as if he may have been truing the wheel. I could only hope.

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Then he gave me the final assessment. They couldn’t fix my spoke because of the same damn thing the other guy ran into–they couldn’t take the cassette off.

I watched with growing dread as they tried to put my wheel back on.

Why did I let them touch my bicycle? Why was I so hopeful? I could have just ridden past, and saved my self the trouble…

I finally stood up and told them to get out of the way.

I finagled with my wheel until I had found a good position for it to spin freely.

I reloaded all of my gear once again.

I thanked them… for trying I guess… and tried to ride away.

But my wheel was wobbling horribly.

An old lady being pushed in a strange bicycle cart thing by a man rolled past me and she asked me where I was traveling to.

I tried to answer her, but I was so upset by my wheel that no words came out.

She shook her head at me and continued on.

I turned back to the ‘bike shop’ and told the ‘mechanic’ that my wheel was worse off than before. As he watched me slightly open mouthed, I frantically grabbed a small log from their shop and hoisted the back of my bicycle on it. I indicated for him to hold the bicycle in place for me. Than I began to spin the wheel and try to assess what else had gone wrong.

The other ‘mechanic’ came over and eventually ascertained that they had not actually tightened up my wheel bearing properly after having loosened it to try and get the cassette off. He grabbed a wrench and tightened it. Seemed like an obvious thing to have done in the first place, but hey, it worked as an afterthought as well.

Finally, I was able to ride away without any undue wobbling or rubbing.

That’s right around when it began to rain…

“Do you know what?” I said out loud to my bicycle, watching droplets of water drip off the front of my helmet. “You are the most awesome bicycle I have ever owned. And guess what? You and me, we’re going to Merida today! We’re going to stay with a nice couple named Ken and Erin, and we’re going to take really good care of you once you get there. All you have to do is just hold out for today. I promise I’ll get you all fixed up in Merida.” And then, to my surprise, I began to cry and say to my bicycle, “I love you. I love you so much.”

Well, yes, I suppose I had gone a little batty from riding alone for so long and being worried about getting stranded on the side of the highway with my bicycle and gear.

As my my mind raced around, assessing potential problems of riding with a broken spoke, and coming up with solutions just as quickly, I saw some beautiful yellow flowers growing along the roadside.

I remembered something I had read in one of Thich Nhat Hanh’s books: “Happiness is always possible in the present moment. The flowers are keeping your smile for you. You can have it back anytime.”

A smile came to my face.

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So it is that I find myself 50 km to Merida, in a full-on downpour, kneeling on the side of the highway and pumping up my front tire.

I continue on down the highway, until to my relief, I eventually spy a bridge that I can hide under.

I pull under the bridge and begin to assess the damage. I had been so intent on riding as quickly as possible to Merida, that I had not taken great care in insuring my electronics were in waterproof containers.

My ipod has shut down after getting wet in my belly pouch, and my phone and extra charger are in danger of meeting the same fate.

I quickly wrap them in some clothes from my dry-bag pannier and stow them away into safety. I pull off my dripping wet over-shirt, shivering gratefully as I get my coat out and put it on. While I wait for the rain to pass, I eat an apple and just pace back and forth beneath the bridge, trying to stay warm and keep my limbs moving.

15 minutes later, I’m able to keep riding, though there is a steady drizzle still oozing out of the sky.

When I finally arrive at Ken and Erin’s house in Merida, it is 6 pm, and my feet are sloshing in my shoes. Ken shows me inside his magnificent home and to my room. Than he leads me to the kitchen. “Are you more wet, or more hungry?” he asks me.

I feel like I can barely stand up. “I’m honestly not sure…” I say, squelching alongside him. “But I think I’m too hungry to get changed.”

I eventually resign myself to at least taking off my wet shoes and socks, putting dry socks on, and then settle down in front of a giant bowl of homemade chili.

“You have no idea what it means to me to finally be here,” I tell Ken later that evening. “Today was a true trial. Thank you so much for being here to receive me.”2016-03-06 17.41.32

Later I go to say goodnight to my bicycle. “Hey,” I whisper to her, avoiding the puddles of water that have formed around the floor beneath her. “You did it. You fucking did it. You are so amazing.”

And true to my word, I did get her all fixed up over the next couple of days. The bicycle mechanic in Merida had no problem removing my cassette, replacing the spoke, and truing the wheel, charging me a whopping 30 pesos for the whole operation (that’s like $1.50).2016-03-07 11.22.07

Tabasco and Campeche

“God is the love that moves the sun and the other stars.”

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I sit at a table on a restaurant patio overlooking the ocean this morning.

I have been dreaming about eggs for days now, imagining them gliding around deliciously in a handmade tortilla, dripping with salsa.

And now, here they are with me, huevos rancheros, gazing solemnly up from my plate in their warm bath of red salsa and fresh, crumbled cheese.FullSizeRender (3)

The tortillas that my waiter presents me in a basket wrapped in cloth are, indeed, handmade and very hot.

Before diving into my breakfast, I sip my cafe ollo (coffee brewed with cinnamon) and look out at the three cormorants (badass birds that can swim underwater) who have set themselves up on the three available wooden posts that stick out above the ocean tide.

These three birds are facing the sun, which rose about an hour earlier, and are sitting silent and still, in worshipful reverence of the source of warmth and light for the entire Earth.

I stare at them, appreciation swelling in my heart.

Without water, I would die, I think, looking out at the vast body of lapping waves in front of me, and so would these three birds.

Without the sun, I would die, I continue in my head, looking at their peaceful, beaked faces pointed at the sun, and so would these three birds.

I feel my connection to the water, the sun, the birds and… without food, I would die. I gaze down at my breakfast.

I imagine the man or woman inside the kitchen who has carefully prepared my tortillas and huevos rancheros for me.

I feel gratitude filling my chest for this stranger who is making sure I have a delicious meal to give me energy for my day.

And I think about the chicken who has laid the eggs I am about to eat, and wonder where she is right now. Most likely she is scratching around in the dirt next door, chasing bugs with that vacant look in her eye that all chickens seem to have.

I take a sip of the freshly squeezed orange juice waiting in a tall glass in front of me, and imagine the orange tree reaching towards the sun, drinking in his rays and fattening up her crop of bright, sweet orbs of fruit.

After these contemplations, I promptly begin eating.

The waiter approaches a little while later, smiling at me good naturedly with his haggard teeth, and I thank him as he takes away my used napkins.

“Donde vienes?” he asks me (meaning, ‘where do you come from?’).

“Austin,” I reply.

“Austria?”

“Austin Texas,” I clarify, silencing the ‘x’ in Texas so he can be sure where it is I’m talking about. “Voy a Brazil con mi bici,” I explain with a smile.

His eyes widen. “Con su bici?”

“Si.”

He wanders away, clearly needing some time to digest this information before his next question.

I have been traveling from Austin, TX by bicycle, bus and car for 2 months now, and in the last week it has now been solely by bicycle.

When I left Austin, headed for Mexico, I didn’t really have a way to prepare myself for the endless highways running through the endless desert, broken up only by cities that are barely navigable by bicycle.

I soon found that my comfort level allowed me only some short stints by bicycle, and then many more by bus and car.

The waiter returned, this time with a new question:

“No tienes miedo a viajar sola?” (‘aren’t you afraid to travel alone?’)

It took me a minute to decipher this question, because I wasn’t familiar with the word ‘miedo’ (‘fear’). But after repeating the unknown word aloud a few times, I understood.

I shrugged. “Un poco. Pero, esta bien.” (‘a little, but it’s okay’)

He laughed and walked away again.

I have come to know Fear over these past 2 months, more intimately than I had ever hoped.

Rarely have I actually been in any ‘real danger’. The fear I have been experiencing is mostly hand-made. 😉

After arriving in Mexico City in the car of a friend, I met Mestre Acordeon for the first time, practiced capoeira with Profesor Nao Veio, spent 5 days with Addison who came to visit me, got a new tattoo, and then finally got on a bus to a town in Tabasco called Villahermosa.

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View from inside the bus. 10 minutes after we pulled out of the station in Mexico City, someone decided to drive right in front of the bus and get their fender nearly bent off.

In Villahermosa I spent my first night sleeping in a hammock, something I’ve never done before. It was very hot and muggy, but after being bitten by mosquitoes I eventually pulled out my sleeping bag and somehow managed to wrap it around myself while not falling sideways out of the hammock.

I was at a Warmshowers host’s house. His name is Juan, and he was expecting two more cyclists the next day.

My first morning in Villahermosa I was awoken at 7:30 am by the sound of someone bashing a wall in across the street with a sledgehammer. I shifted around in my hammock, and then eventually sat up to greet my host and his friend.

They both left to work for the day, and I greeted my fear, who was waiting for my undivided attention. I meditated, journaled, cried, called friends, and cried some more.

During my walking meditation, I saw a little statue of Jesus Christ in Juan’s hallway. And I began to say to myself, over and over, “The Kingdom of Heaven is inside of me.”

Finally, I heard a knock during mid-afternoon and opened the door for the two cyclists Juan had been expecting.

Their names are Charles and Denise, and they are retired french canadians who have been cycling in South and Central America now for a year. They started in Peru, cycled down to the tip of South America (Chile), than back up into Peru where they spent four months, after which they continued north and eventually ended up at Juan’s house with me, in Villahermosa.

I was glad for their company, and Denise and I walked together to a nearby supermarket to buy food. I had a strange sense of feeling like a child again, wanting her to be my mommy, not wanting to lose her in the huge supermarket.

This kind of fear I experience is the strongest when I am transitioning into a new, unknown situation. This time it was the transition from Mexico City to now actually cycle touring again, and not knowing what it would be like to spend days on my own, sleeping at hotels in towns I knew nothing about.

But at the moment, I was safe, and I had a wonderful couple to spend the evening with. They made a pasta dinner for all of us, and drew me a route through the Yucatan on my map of Mexico, since they had just come from the area I was headed. This brought me some relief, as the unknown began to feel less ‘un’ and more ‘known’.

That night we pulled the hammock out of the way, and the three of us lined up on the tile floor and slept side by side with our sleeping bags and earplugs.

Sleeping with strangers has never felt so comforting.

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Me, Charles, Denise and Juan

The next morning we all packed up and made our procession out to the sidewalk. Juan was chatting with us amiably and helping us out the door.

Charles, Denise and I navigated through the city, and then, after a few blocks of riding together, they turned left and I went straight.

I took a deep breath. Here I go… I thought, watching the highway take shape out in front of me. I would be on Highway 180 for the next week or so.

After sitting and gazing out over the ocean some more, the waiter arrived to take my plate away. I was left with my coffee and orange juice (probably not the best combo for my digestion, but who cares), which I took as long as I wanted to sip and savor.

In Mexico they NEVER rush you in a restaurant. You can sit at your table for hours, maybe even days, and they’ll just smile and offer you more coffee.

But eventually I did raise my hand for the waiter. “La cuenta por favor.”

He bustled away to count up my order.

I’m doing it, I thought, watching a large, blue-black grackle making a ruckus in the tree next to me. I’m enjoying being alone.

It’s so hard for me to go to a nice restaurant, or hang out in a beautiful place and not be filled with the desire to share it with someone.

It’s not that I don’t feel like I deserve it, but I love sharing the world with other people. And maybe I’m afraid it’s as if none of this actually happened, if there wasn’t someone to witness it.

‘If Jahnavi hangs out in a fancy hotel and meditates by the gurgling pool in the garden out back and no one else witnesses it, did it really happen?’ 😛

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I say good bye to the waiter, who wishes me luck and ‘cuidado’ (‘be careful’), and make my way back to my hotel room.

I’m taking a day off at this hotel, because since I left Villahermosa that morning with the french cyclists, I have been pulling 7-8 hour days, fighting a headwind as I travel alongside the Gulf of Mexico. My body wants a bicycle, wind and sun free day.

My first day back on the bicycle, from Villahermosa to Frontera, was 82 km and so easy, I was confused. It only took me 4 ½ hours, and there I was, in Frontera, booking a room at a cheap hotel at 2 pm.

I figured the next day, 99 km, shouldn’t be so bad.

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There’s a whole lot more water in Tabasco and Yucatan compared to the deserts I’ve been traveling through for the past 2 months!

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Taking a break from the rain

But that’s when I hit the waterfront, and was reminded about the joys of a nice, healthy, headwind. At first I was more focused on the fact that I was being rained on pretty thoroughly for a couple of hours, but once that cleared, I began to feel concerned.

I was traveling so SLOWLY.

After 5 hours, I had only gotten halfway to Cidudad del Carmen, the town I was intent on reaching, where a Couchsurfer named Victor Hugo was awaiting my arrival.

It was like moving in slow motion for 9 hours straight.

When I finally reached the city–after crossing a mile long bridge and weeping copiously as my speed slowed to a crawl due to the even greater wind exposure–I had to cross through the entire city to the other end, where Hugo lives.

At one point I pulled over to look at my cellphone map, and a very excited, older Mexican man approached me, eager to practice his english and find out what in the hell I was up to.

I was so tired I could barely conjure up my good manners, though I appreciated his interest in my trip. Most people just regard me as an alien here in Mexico, so when someone actually treats me like a human being and asks me about my life I feel glad.

After chatting with him and explaining that I was riding my bicycle to Brazil and yes, I am crazy, I continued on to Hugo’s apartment.

Hugo was amazed to see me and my bicycle pull up to his place, and helped me inside.

The beer I drank before we ate dinner was like an elixir of life, and we talked about travel, my sister and her husband’s 6 month excursion across half the world, my mom and my brother living in India, and his part in his family’s business.

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My second night with Hugo. I made him ‘sandwiches like in the USA’. He loved them, especially the hummus which he was trying for the first time.

I had been planning on continuing on to the next place in the morning, but I had already arrived at Hugo’s much later than expected and was feeling rather knackered.

I awoke early the next morning, looked at some maps, and finally decided I would take the day off.

After a morning meditation session with Addison over the phone, I wrote this down from Thich Nhat Hanh’s book called ‘Fear’:

“If you are capable of living deeply one moment of your life, you can learn to live the same way all the other moments of your life.” -Thay

Sometimes I do need to live life moment to moment–any more than that can feel overwhelming when I am in a certain state of mind. And now I can just consider it a meditation practice, this one moment where I choose to live deeply.

“If you can dwell in one moment, you will discover eternity.” -Rene Char

Hugo took me to Walmart so I could buy supplies for my trip (and where, coincidentally, they were blasting capoeira music), and then we ate lunch under an oceanside tent restaurant.

We discussed jealousy (something Hugo struggles with, as do I and most people) and he asked me how I deal with it.

“Meditation!” I said. “It’s the only way!” I laughed.

He was intrigued, so we talked more about meditation and discussed the best way for him to get started on his own, since he’d never done it before.

That evening, my right hip and leg began to hurt so badly, that I was having trouble walking. I tried to brush it away, assuming I would feel fine in the morning and be able to ride.

I stretched, massaged the area, slathered myself with biofreeze (thanks again Diane!), drank a glass of water with arnica drops in it, drank magnesium, and then finally lay myself out to sleep. It took a while to fall asleep, because the only comfortable position for my leg was straight, so that didn’t give me many options for how I could lay down (and boy do I like to shift positions every 5 minutes).

I awoke at 6:30 am, eager to find out if my leg had magically healed overnight.

But when I stood up to walk to the bathroom, I was filled with dismay. It hurt just as badly… maybe worse.

I called Radha and Erik (who are in Thailand) and discussed the situation with them.

Finally, I decided I would have to take the day off. Even if I could manage to get on my bicycle and ride 80 km that day, getting off to walk around was agony, and probably not the safest situation to put myself in considering I’d be traveling out in the middle of nowhere, alone.

So I stayed, and spend some quality time with Fear.

I’ve been meditating so much on this trip that I told Addison, “I’m beginning to feel like a monk, like I’m in a monastery… but I’m on an epic journey at the same time… so it’s like I’m a warrior monk.”

The day off didn’t kill me, and I even got some practical things done, including making music with my mandolin.

“Art is the essence of life, and the substance of art is mindfulness.” -Thay

The following two days would be a blur of oceanside cycling, granola bars, sunburn, Harry Potter audiobook, hotels, limping around, whistling Mexican men, semi trucks, gray foxes, coatis, iguanas the size of cats, swamps, mangroves, beaches, albatrosses, eagles, hawks, fish, exhaustion, alone-ness, and more meditation. 

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Looking out from my hotel room in Sabancuy
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A bush full of coatis. How many can you see?
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A lizard the size of a cat
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Miles of swamps
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Lunch at the only (rather fancy) restaurant between Sabancuy and Champoton
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Mid-day photoshoot break (anything’s better than getting back on that bicycle seat!)
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The long and winding road over more swamplands

Having spent so much time gazing at the ocean, I gleaned this thought from my reflections: “The ocean is not afraid of change. She never stops moving, never stops shifting, and changing the sands at her edges and the ocean floor beneath her.”

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At another point, as I was riding past miles of mangroves and swamps and listening to Danny Malone’s album, ‘Balloons’, this question he asks stuck with me:

“They say the way to know yourself, is by yourself

But what if you’re someone you don’t really wanna know…?”

When I pulled into Champoton yesterday and saw the Hotel Posada la Regia on my right side, I didn’t care if it was cheap, expensive, new, old, had internet, or hot water… I just wanted to stop, and sleep.

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My fully loaded bicycle looks a little out of place in this setting, but she doesn’t mind

But after being shown to my room and realizing it’s actually a nice place and a reasonably nice town, and taking consideration of my very unhappy right leg, I decided I was staying an extra night and that was that.

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My companion for the night

“The past is not me. I am not limited by the past.

The present is not me. I am not limited by the present.

The future is not me. I am not limited by the future.”

My goal right now is to rest, write, read, and (yes, you guessed it) meditate. Than it’s another three days to Merida, where a warmshowers host is awaiting my arrival on Saturday.

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A side neighborhood here in Champoton

I’m learning to relish this alone-ness, to let it sink into my skin.

Because once I get to Playa del Carmen, I may be traveling with a whole lotta people, and potentially looking back on this sweet, quiet time wistfully–and then turning back to my large group of humans and reveling in their company all the same.

If You Don’t Like What You’re Seeing… Turn Off the TV and Go Outside!

“The greatest suffering can be overcome through the simplest of actions…” -Me 

In the past couple of weeks I have cried more and slept less for the longest stretch of time I can remember.

And whenever I would have a moment’s rest from the onslaught of pain, I would wonder… “How can I stay here? I don’t want to go back down. I need to stay above water!”

My sister brilliantly reminded me that I could listen to Thich Nhat Hanh on YouTube or podcasts whenever I wanted.

My own mind was struggling with creating and maintaining a positive thought stream, and I found it almost impossible to stay in the present moment.

So I turned to Thich Nhat Hanh to fill my head with the good stuff. 😉

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It took a couple of days of listening to him, but finally, one of my bigger questions was answered and I had a tool I could use to make changes in the recesses of my consciousness.

Thay said, “If you are listening to a CD and you don’t like the music that is playing, why keep listening to it? Just change the CD.”

Simple, yet brilliant.

“If your thoughts are causing you to suffer, why continue to listen to them? You can make a change, right now. You can choose to stop your suffering, right now.

There are seeds in your unconscious. Seeds of love, of anger, of joy, of hate. If you water the seeds of hate, anger or despair, they will take root and grow strong. You need to sing them a lullaby, and put them to sleep. You need to water the seeds of joy, of hope, of love, and they will grow strong in your mind.”

So thank you for being part of my practice of watering the seeds of gratitude and love in my consciousness. I am going to share with you everything I have been grateful for and appreciated over the last couple of weeks here in Mexico.

This is my lullaby, sending the seeds of despair and fear to sleep. 🙂

The first thing that I think of when I feel this swell of appreciation in my heart are the people I have met in the past few weeks:

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Julian, Ceci and Julian Jr. hosted me twice and became my home away from home. They helped me more than I can say and continue to check on me and support me.
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Gaby took me in and helped me in every way she could until the last minute when I walked out her door.
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Pancho took me on a ride in San Luis Potosi with his cycling group and spent a long time going over maps for my route with me
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Erick picked me up outside of Queretaro so I didn’t have to ride through the city and also spent a lot of map time with me, suggesting routes
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Marcego (on the right) welcomed me to his city, his capoeira group and his home and gave me much needed pep talks about my trip
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I’m thankful for all of the beautiful Mexican women I’ve met, especially Monyca and Aurora who let me fall apart on them and gave me love
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Adriana and Nao Veio took me in at the last minute here in Mexico City and are so beautiful and kind, sharing their home and capoeira with me

And there’s more and more…

I’m thankful for the sunsets here…

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I’m thankful for the beautiful city of Queretaro…

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I’m thankful for cute dogs… 😀

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I’m thankful for the beautiful art of basketry…

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I’m thankful for the mandolin and the ability to play music and heal…

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I’m thankful for my noble steed, my amazing bicycle who carries all of my stuff and goes with me everywhere…

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I’m thankful for capoeira, my saving grace, and Professor Marcego for saying, “If I check on you in a couple of months and I see that you’ve quit and gone back to the U.S., than you’re not my friend anymore.” 😀

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I’m thankful for delicious Mexican food…

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I’m thankful for walking meditation…

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I’m thankful for handstands…

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I’m thankful for finding random, inspiring quotes on the walls of a restaurant:

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“Never ever give up on hope. Never doubt, never tire and ever become discouraged. Be not afraid.”

I’m thankful for Mexico City for welcoming me into it’s awe inspiring massiveness…

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I’m thankful that Addison Rice, the love of my life is coming to see me here in Mexico City in just three days…12246865_932069153513073_4459700671473640900_n

And I am thankful to you, dear friend, for reading this whole post and giving me the gift of your attention today. 🙂

Love,

-Jahnavi

Capoeira in San Luis Potosi

When I left Austin on my bicycle, something I had to leave behind that is near and dear to my heart is my capoeira group, Evolucao. But I promised myself (and Contra Mestre) that I was going to visit lots of capoeira schools along my ride and broaden my experience and understanding of this beautiful art-form.

When I return to Austin and it’s time for me to start teaching classes for Evolucao, I hope to be sharing capoeira from a deeper sense of knowledge and experience.

Brazil is the motherland of capoeira, so ultimately this is really where I need to go to get the submersion I’m looking for.

However, capoeira is a big family that has spread across the world, and so when I saw that there are a couple of groups here in San Luis Potosi, I wasn’t too surprised.

(in fact, I ended up getting a ride to Chical–which you’ll hear about in my next post–from the dad of one the directors of capoeira in Mexico)

I introduced myself to the teacher, Sobra (his Capoeira name means ‘shadow’) through a FB message, so that when I arrived at the class, he would have a little bit of background for this spanish hacking gringa capoeirista.

I was immediately welcomed into the class, and despite the language barrier, we all shared an understanding within capoeira that allowed me to have a great training session and experience some camaraderie with my fellow blue-yellow cord.

It was slightly hilarious to be called up to demonstrate with the teacher however, since I didn’t really understand the verbal explanation of the drill, and had to just gather the information through gestures and imitation.

(part of what I’m experiencing as I learn spanish is how I quickly convince myself I don’t understand what someone is saying to me, due to some kind of stage fright–it’s like a mental barrier that lunges into place when I’m put on the spot… not exactly helpful!)

My friend, Alejandra, came to watch the end of the class and kindly took some video so that I could share a snippet of time with you guys here!

Cycling in the mountains of Real de Catorce

Hey friends, I put together this video montage of arriving in Real de Catorce at 1 in the morning (thanks to a crazy couchsurfer who wanted some peeps to mountain bike with the next day) and then riding up to the top of one of the bigger mountains in the Sierra de Catorce range.

I combined this with some footage of live animals who live in this region, who I was lucky enough to see at the Museo de Desierto in Saltillo.

Enjoy!

Ramos Arizpe and into the Sierras – Dec. 31- Jan. 5

On Dec. 31st I wrote in my journal:

It’s the last day of 2015.

I feel in alignment with the movements of my soul. It’s hard sometimes, but then I remember to trust that following the directives of my soul will always point me in a good direction.


I’ve been at Ceci and Julian’s
[in Ramos Arizpe] for 3 days and I feel calm and happy.

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Dagan [a Canadian cyclist who is riding from Houston down to the bottom of Mexico] contacted me on Warmshowers and, as I had assumed and hoped, he is someone traveling the same route as me and seeking companionship.

He just finished a Vipassana meditation retreat in Houston, so combined with that and the fact that he’s riding his bicycle across Mexico, I think he’s probably a pretty swell dude.

Things move slowly here, but I like it.2015-12-30 12.27.44 

Lingering at the breakfast table, talking, visiting with in-laws, squeezing babies…2015-12-30 13.06.47

It makes me hope that one day I can stay at home gardening and making crafts, writing and squeezing my own babies.

And on Jan. 3rd I wrote:

I spent New Years Eve with Julian’s extended family, and New Years day with Ceci’s. It was nice. Awesome grandpas, lots of tamales, and some serenading with the mandolin on my part. 😉2016-01-01 13.57.33-1 2016-01-01 16.39.59

Dagan is leaving Monterrey on Sunday, and I can either find my way back into the city to join him, or I can meet him further down the road.

Coordinating at a mountain pass will be a little tricky, but the idea of going back in Monterrey after finally having escaped it is not appealing to me. 😛2016-01-02 11.29.56

Julian, Julian and Ceci became my family away from home.

Julian Jr. was like my little brother.

We teased eachother, tried to steal one another’s food, and Julian never let a day go by without quoting a Shia La Bouef youtube video (“Just do it!!”).

The whole family would squeeze on the couch together at night and watch Jurassic Park, or Forrest Gump (in Spanish!… until I complained about the sacrilege of watching Forrest Gump dubbed, at which they obliging changed it to English…).

On Jan. 5th I wrote:

Today I left the comfort and family fun of Julian and Ceci’s home. They brought me to Villa Santiago [in the mountains just South of Monterrey] to meet up with Dagan.

But first we walked around Monterrey, visited a museum (reminded me of when we would walk around Paris with my grandfather as kids), and they took me to an all-you-can-eat-buffet.2016-01-03 13.11.42

They could quite possibly be the nicest people I know.

We arrived in Villa Santiago around 4:30 pm that evening. Villa Santiago

Once we had located Dagan (which was easy to do, since his was the only bicycle loaded down with gear, including a large, Gerber knife strapped to the frame), I assembled my bags onto my bicycle and hugged everyone good-bye.IMG_1831

Ceci was crying, and I knew I had to leave before I started crying too!

Dagan and I rolled out of the crowded, downtown plaza of Santiago around 4:30 pm. The sun sets at 6:00 pm these days. He had found a couchsurfer for us to stay with in Allende, which is where we were headed.

By the time it was dark, I realized he hadn’t gotten an actual address for the host. But before I could really worry about that, a white van pulled over on the side of the highway in front of us. A Mexican dad got out and waved us down.

He explained in Spanish that it was very dangerous for us to be riding on that road at night. He wanted to follow us until we got off the highway, and bring us to his house to stay for the night.

After some consideration (and after meeting his tri-athlete son), we accepted.

He followed us in the van along the highway, then pulled ahead for us to follow him through the neighborhoods.

When we arrived at his house, he stepped out of the van and his entire family appeared from inside of it as well.

His name is Miguel, his son’s name is Miguel, his wife is Nancy, and his daughter’s name is Natti.

Miguel teaches swimming lessons during the spring, summer and fall.

He and his family set us up in a little room that was next to his enormous swimming pool. We each had our own cot, blankets, water, orange juice, and hot showers.

When we told them Dagan and I had just met that day, they quickly separated our cots and placed a plastic table between them. 🙂

Miguel, Miguel and Natti took us out to eat pizza, which we gratefully accepted.

After hearing more of our stories, Miguel said (in Spanish), “I am so glad to know people like you. It is so amazing what you are doing.

When I saw you riding on the side of the highway at night, I thought ‘cyclists? at night? that’s very dangerous!’

I want my children to learn about being kind to other people. When I told them I was going  to turn around and ask you two if you wanted to stay at our house, they said, ‘What?? Why?’

Now they get to meet you and see how amazing you are, and see that it is good to be kind to people, even if you’ve never met them before.”

We told him that we were very happy to have met him and his family as well.

That night it was a bit chilly (there are no central heating systems in Mexico that I am aware of), but after tossing and turning in my sleeping bag for a while, the ice cubes that were pretending to be my feet eventually melted.

The next day it was grey and chilly.

We ate breakfast upstairs in Miguell and Nancy’s house.

They piled our plates with eggs, avocado, tortillas, pan dulce, papaya and apples, and poured us a steady stream of ‘cafe con leche’.

Their generosity towards complete strangers astounded me.

Later, when Dagan and I decided we would find the couchsurfer in Allende to wait out the cold weather, Nancy brought us each a neatly packed sandwich with 2 cocao puff bars each. She insisted we take down her number so we could call them if we needed help or wanted to come back and stay there longer.

Allende
Allende

I will never forget them!

P.S. You can be a part of my adventure at Patreon.com/jahnavi

Peace in the Middle East (of Mexico)

Hello dear friends and family,

Just a quick update:

Many people have been concerned because the last post I did ended at a scary moment for me.

I am safe and happy now, spending a week here in Ramos with my wonderful hosts Julian and Ceci.

In a couple of days I head south towards Real de Catorce, and I will be meeting up with a Canadian cyclist, Dagan, who also happens to be going a similar route as I.

So it would seem the universe has shifted to meet my needs, and sent this traveler to be my companion for some unknown period of time!

Also, there are no more massive Mexican cities on my travel horizon. Monterrey is the second biggest city in Mexico.

So it’s all good in the hood.

Don’t worry, be happy! 😉

P.S. This is my current, projected route for the next couple of months…

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San Antonio, and headed to the Border…

On December 20th, 2015 I left Cibolo, TX and made my way to Rohn’s house (a friend of a friend of a friend) who lives near San Antonio.

When I showed up at his door, we hung out by his pool-converted-into-a-fish-pond and talked about life, death, birds and cats.

rohn's pond

rohn's kitty

Then I took a nap to give my concussed brain a rest.

That night we spent some time with Jocelyn (she’s the friend of a friend who found me Rohn to stay with) and her family.

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Then we hit the town on bicycle, to see the beautiful lights along the San Antonio River Walk, and narrowly avoid running over oblivious pedestrians as they stared at their phones (or the beautiful scenery around them).

san antonio riverwalk

The next day I had to decide whether I was letting Addison drive me over the border in Laredo, or whether I would just cycle the whole thing.

On one hand I didn’t really want to cross the border alone with a big pile of gear and then ride the semi-truck infested toll-road from Laredo to Monterrey, with naught but cactuses and muffler exhaust for company for 3-4 days…

But on the other hand, I didn’t want Addison to have to bring our car through the border and then have to drive back from Monterrey alone.

What if the Narcos got him??

After meditating with Rohn and his tiny cat…

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I packed up and we headed downtown to a coffeeshop.

During coffee and breakfast, Rohn told me about the video project he wants to embark on (I’m hoping he’ll set up his own Patreon account so I can support him!) about the history of San Antonio beginning 20,000 years ago.

I bid Rohn adieu…

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…and pointed my bicycle in a southerly direction (I hear that’s where Brazil is!).

For some time I was trapped on the river walk because after I had gotten myself deep into the heart of the city and the river walk, stairs appeared in all directions and I couldn’t find a way out.

A kindly young lady (who worked for the park) gave me directions, and I told her and a mom and her son what I was doing and they all gaped appreciatively. If there’s any reward for what I’m doing, at least seeing people’s expressions when they find out where I’m headed is rewarding enough! 😀

By the end of the day I found myself on I-35 Frontage Road, watching the sun begin to set. I knew I should find a place to sleep, but I was really enjoying riding and wanted to keep going!

(coincidentally, it was the shortest day of the year, so it definitely felt like daylight had run out too quickly!)

Just then I noticed a man in a black leather jacket standing on the side of the highway with his motorcycle. I smiled and waved, at which he began to yell and wave his arms and run towards me.

It turns out his motorcycle had run out of fuel and he needed to use a phone to call his girlfriend.

Once he’d made the call and I told him what I was up to, he shook his head in disbelief but then said, “I want to come with you!”

“You can!” I laughed. “I’d love some company getting over the border.”

“Yeah, but I’d be riding that,” he pointed at his motorcycle.

I nodded. “You’d be going quite a bit faster than me, that’s for sure.”

When he asked where I was sleeping that night and I said, “I don’t know yet”, he told me the road I was headed to next didn’t have much of anything on it.

So after saying good bye to him, I turned back to the last town I’d seen and rolled up to the first church I could find…

‘La Iglesia de los Hechos’.

I knocked on some doors but no one came out.

I called the number on their sign and a woman answered.

“Hola,” she said.

“Hola,” I replied. “Habla ingles?”

“No… Pero hay una mujer aqui que habla ingles. Solo un minuto…”

After a second, another woman picked up the phone.

“Hello?” She had a thick Spanish accent.

“Hi!” I said cheerfully. “My name is Jahnavi and I am on a bicycle tour right now. I’m riding from Austin to Brazil and I am outside of your church right now. I was wondering if I could set up my tent next to the church to sleep tonight. I don’t need anything else, just want to have a safe place to sleep.”

I could tell she was still trying to grasp what I was saying to her when she said, “You… want to sleep at the church?”

“Just outside, in the grass,” I said.

“The house where we have guests is full. A family from Mexico is living there. They have nowhere to go.”

“I don’t need a house, I have a tent.”

Finally she called the Pastor, who was inside the church at the time.

He came out to meet me and stared at me and my bicycle.

“Como se llama?” I asked after telling him that I just needed a spot to set up my tent.

“Salvador [and then a long string of names I can’t remember] Pastor.”

We shook hands.

He showed me into a building that was under construction. There was plaster dust and boards everywhere, but it had a door that locked, and windows that opened.

I was thrilled.

“Muchas gracias!” I told him. “Es perfecto!”

Salavador Pastor looked at me then with what seemed to be a mix of horror and pity. The fact that I was traveling alone and was so thrilled to be pitching my tent in his empty construction area, seemed to baffle him.

When he left me there, I found a room without boards and tools in it and set my tent up there.

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I also plugged in my devices to charge along the wall, before heading over to a Subway that was around the corner.

Vegetables are hard to come by on bicycle tours, so even though they were Subway vegetables on a foot-long sub, I was delighted. They were colorful and crunchy, and I even got to have some guacamole on my sandwich.

While I was eating, I noticed a brand new pick-up truck pull in. It was done up to the nines: lifted, shiny rims, guard-rail, etc.

I thought, Wow, that is such a big, fancy truck… If I was a native person who hadn’t seen cars before, I would assume that some kind of god would step out of it.

When the door opened, a small, portly man in baggy clothes plopped out. He looked haggard and stooped, and his health appeared to be anything but good. He spat out a watery glob as he headed into Subway with his two overweight children.

I stared at him and then at his his truck.

For a moment I had this feeling that the truck had stolen his soul… He must work so hard to maintain that truck and keep up with payments, I thought. What if he chose to just invest all that time and money into healthy food, exercising and taking a vacation out in nature once in a while?

I pondered this as I headed back to my empty building.

I didn’t sleep so well, because apparently, in this tiny Texas town, it is a ritual to hit the gas when you’re driving through a certain intersection, spin out your wheels, and gun it all the way to the highway… only between 2-4 AM.

Around 4:30 AM I drifted to sleep.

At about 8:30 AM, Salvador Pastor opened the door to the building and called in.

“Hello? Hello!!!”

“H-hi…! Hello!” I responded blearily.

“Are you okay?” he yelled.

“Yes, yes! I’ll stop by the church when I’m up,” I told him.

“I just wanted to know you’re okay,” he said, and then shut the door.

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After I had been up for a while, a Mexican man appeared at the door.

“Hola, buenos dias,” he said.

We were able to communicate by gesturing wildly and inserting random english or spanish words into sentences.

His wife had come by when I had been at Subway, to invite me to sleep in their house and eat dinner with them, but I wasn’t there.

He wanted me to come to the house and drink coffee, use the bathroom, and stay for another day if I wanted to.

I did use the bathroom and drink coffee with him. He showed me pictures of his four sons, all strapping young men who depicted themselves shirtless and flexing, lifting weights or posing in a backwards baseball cap.

He was so sweet and kind, that I wanted to give him our album (The Love Sprockets: Nobody Wants to Die) and my contact, and to figure out how in the heck to say ‘tent’ in spanish.

(google translate was telling the man that I had slept inside my ‘cottage’ that night, so it was cool)

I called my friend Negro/Felipe who speaks fluent spanish and asked him to be our translator via speaker phone.

I brought the album to the man and held the phone up, feeling relieved as Negro babbled in spanish to him and helped me explain what I was doing and what the album was.

It was Dec. 22nd. The sun was warm and pleasant as I continued riding south around 11 am.

Addison was coming to get me from Austin that day, and I wanted to ride as far as I could before he caught up with me.oG1NSaLmgmXLscmGqeN5ljPU7PpJRwghbh1Oh0XwQ_0

I listened to music and to my spanish lesson, pedaling along cheerfully. I stopped in the shade of a bank to eat food and greet the people who pulled into the parking lot to do their banking.

I rode on mostly back roads, listening to birds and bugs and rattling along on the uneven pavement.

By 5:30 pm I had managed to go almost 40 miles and I was ready to stop. I knew Addison was close by, so I pulled into a gas station and waited.

I felt so happy.

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Next stop? Laredo and the border…


	

Taking the Plunge

When you are supposed to leave on a 5,000+ mile journey by bicycle, and your launching point is your comfortable, safe Austin apartment where your fiance and your cat and your dog live… it becomes very tempting to keep pushing the departure date off.

I delayed my inevitable exit for a few days, but finally, Friday the 18th of December, I got my butt out the door.

When my bicycle was all packed and waiting down the stairs and in the parking lot, I went back inside and announced to Addison that it was time. He stared at me from the couch where he was lying in semi-shock, a mix of disbelief, surrender and sadness written on his face.

We made our way out to my 80 lbs of stuff-strapped-to-a-bicycle rig, and took some pictures in commemoration of the day I left Austin, on a bicycle, in hopes that one day I would arrive in the land of Brazil:

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Here it is! My trusty steed…
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“Wuv… twu wuv…”
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The whole family… Shiva the cat is like, “What the heck are they doing to me and why isn’t anyone feeding me??”

When I saw Addison’s eyes fill with tears, I had to find a strong place in me that would enable me to keep smiling and keep moving, rather than pulling him back inside and cradling him in my arms whilst we both wept copiously.

And luckily he had a harmonica lesson he was biking to, so he hopped on his ride and I heaved, hobbled and gingerly mounted mine. I rode with him to his lesson, where we had one more good bye, and then I turned to face the sun and started pedaling.

First stop: Alice’s house!

She was on my way out and I needed to return her Spanish book anyways… 😀

Boy was she surprised to see me at her door in my alien cyclist outfit!

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Baby Josephine took my bike for a test ride, and sanctioned that it was indeed fit for the upcoming adventure

I was in good spirits as I rolled away, waving to Alice and baby Josephine standing in the bright sun. The temperature was 70 at the most, and the sky was clear and bright blue.

It was really nice having google maps guiding me through back roads, neighborhoods and small sections of bike trails (unlike my last bike trip where we had to stop every few miles to check and see if we’d gone the wrong way on the map).

(I was on my way to my friend Morgan’s house, in Cibolo, TX — 60ish miles away)

But I quickly discovered that my phone cannot hold its charge. I dropped it in the toilet a month ago (in preparation for this trip, ya know–ha!) and its battery just hasn’t been the same. I know I would most likely be traumatized if someone dropped ME in the toilet. 😀

Luckily I have this nifty charger pack with me, so I was able to keep the phone on… for a while.

At one point google maps sent me through the backside of a highschool to cut over to another road. Siiri must have not taken into account that there would be over ten school buses lined up along the whole length of the connecting street, and hundreds of highschool students swarming in throngs in and around the street.

After trying to navigate through crowds of humans who seem to only be able to see the nose in front of their face and not much else, I gave up and just started walking my bike through.

Considering how I was dressed, my overloaded bicycle and the gopro mounted to the top of my helmet, the few students who did actually look at me, gaped in a mix of interest and horror.

I heard muttered remarks of, “What the hell?” and “Woah!” and then finally an older man standing at a corner asks me, “Where ya headed? Alaska?” with a laugh.

I smiled pleasantly and told him, “No, Brazil! The opposite direction.”

He was chewing over that bit of fantastical information as I straddled my rig once more and creaked away, pedaling up some momentum to get me down the road. A highschool student sitting in a parked car saw me pass and yelled, “What are you doing??”

I only smiled and kept going.

But that did set the tone for the next hour of my ride as I mulled it over.

What AM I doing? I pondered. And yes, ‘what the hell?’ is right!

Eventually I stopped to eat lunch in the sunshine.

By 5 pm I had only gone 30 miles and my phone and charger pack had both died completely.

I pulled up next to a University stadium gift shop (which was closed) and found a power outlet on the side of the building. I hunkered down and began charging things. I knew I had a place I could stay just 4 miles away, but that would mean not getting to Morgan’s house that night.

Morgan lived another 33 miles south, and she had been very excited to see me because she is also getting into bicycles and touring.

When I called her to say maybe I should stay with the closer host and see her the next day, she continued to be optimistic that I could reach her house at a reasonable hour, and the rest of the ride was on one road, so I wouldn’t need my phone for navigation as much. She was so upbeat and seemed to be really looking forward to seeing me, so I ignored the little voices crying out for mercy in my head and decided to keep going.

I watched the traffic flowing and stopping in the light of setting sun, while my phone charged a little longer.

5:30 pm, I thought, and 33 miles yet to go. It’s going to be dark in half an hour… and cold. Why am I doing this to myself?

I am a sucker for ‘stupid adventures’ (as me, my sister and her husband so fondly call all of the mishap adventures we’ve been on together), and I’ve never ridden a bicycle loaded down with 80 lbs of gear through the dark night on a busy road. A new experience, right? Ha ha.

After packing everything back up, I hit the road and joined the traffic onto I-35 Frontage road.

It was scary.

Big, small and enormous vehicles rushed by me in the dark, some of them slowing down, others speeding up as they saw me. Some people changed lanes to give me room, others shaved by me at close quarters.

It is not my time to go, I reminded myself. This is only the beginning of the journey.

After another ten miles, I had gotten so cold and distraught that I felt I surely must give up.

Instead, I stopped at a traveler’s rest stop and got a big, hot, cup of steamy coffee. I stood in the breezeway with my bicycle and charging phone, as people pushed past me. Some of them looked at me and my gear with curiosity, others just shoved by as quickly as they could without knocking me over.

One guy talked to me at checkout, smiling in amazement when I told him what I was doing.

A friendly Mexican man stopped several times to talk to me about my bicycle, how far I’d come, where I was going, and eventually he offered to buy me food. I was touched by his offer, and reminded that all of us humans are one big family, and even though I am separated from Addison and the rest of my blood family, I’m still not really alone.

I thanked him, but told him I had food and a nice hot coffee. I would have loved to just stop my ride right there and it a big pile of food with him, but I knew I still had another 18 miles to go.

I would definitely take someone up on a ride right now… I thought, as people walked by.

At that moment, a disheveled, sad looking black man approached me.

“You ridin’ that bicycle?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Alone?”

Hmmm… probably shouldn’t say I’m alone… But what the hay, he seems pretty harmless.

“For the moment. I’m actually about to call my friend who is meeting me on the road.”

He pondered this for a moment.

Then asked, “Where ya headed?”

“Cibolo,” I said. “It’s about 18 miles south of here.”

“You need a ride?” he asked. “I can give you a ride. And I won’t bother you.” He stared at me. “I would love to bother you… but I won’t!”

I smiled. How touching. “That’s okay, my friend is meeting me so I’ll just ride.”

He insisted I take his number, which I did, knowing I would never call it.

When I got Morgan on Facetime, she was all dressed in her cycling gear and even had earrings that lit up and blinked brightly so drivers could see her.

She offered to just start riding towards me so that we could meet up halfway and then ride to her house together.

Even though this wasn’t someone offering me a ride in the car, it heartened me all the same. Misery loves company! 😀

So I put on a hundred more layers of clothes and gloves and then precariously maneuvered my bicycle back outside.

It was 8:00 pm-ish.

After another hour or so, Morgan and I eventually found eachother at a McDonald’s and embraced like long-lost friends, talking excitedly.

And then we rode side by side for the next hour chatting and groaning as we encountered more and more hills.

By the time we reached the intersection that led to her house, I thought I might die. We took a break in the parking lot of a bank and looked at the stars. I could have slept on that sidewalk for all I cared, I was so tired.

We reached her warm, inviting house at 10:30 pm-ish. I was so happy to see her home that I could have hugged every single Christmas reindeer decoration in her yard.

I could have wept over the steaming bowl of pasta she and her family presented to me.

And I could have wept into my hot, epsom salt bath for joy.

I didn’t weep until I was lying in bed, drifting to sleep.

Here are some pictures of the next day. Now I gotta hit the road and keep riding! 😉

Diane
Diane, Morgan’s mom
mall area
the shopping area where The Bread Box is that Diane and Morgan work at
morgan
Morgan
bread mixer
The dough mixer
Morgan and co.
Morgan and Co. in the kitchen