On Friday night, I drank whiskey and packed my Bike Friday
into the same box I had used to ship the rig from Austin to Atlanta in early
2016. She was newly restored: new front and real derailleurs, new brake levers,
new brake pads, new cables and cable housing, new stem, new bolts, new chain,
new cassette. The hubs were solid, the bottom bracket and chain rings fine.
I had come to Atlanta to recapitalize. There is a risk in
doing so: I am affected by my work and the city in which I live. Both the city
and the work have affected me. Many who work in accounting understand that,
somehow, they fit in, they are accepted, they are doing OK, they are paid, they
have access to amenities. I was happy about access to these amenities for several
months. Subsequently, I missed the free thinking, the exploration, a different
life I experienced on the dirt and gravel roads and in my tent. I missed South
America.
Moraline calls this “nostalgia.” A remembrance of things
past, a feeling of longing and absence. Men feel nostalgia when they go to sea
or war because they are away from what they want to be doing or the people they
want to be with. In a similar light, as I returned to the lower 48 for my
recapitalization project, I felt nostalgia for South America and Alaska.
What does a man do to approximate a feeling he once had?
Does he think about what he once did? Does he look at photographs? Does he
imagine something? Does he recall a memory? Does he recall an image? Does he
write about his past to recreate a feeling to firmly establish that, indeed,
the experience occurred? To file and to document and to account, to describe,
to categorize.
I packed the old bags with only a few things. It would be
warm in the Baja and there would be little rain. The bike was in good condition
and I wouldn’t need to bring many tools. The new tent and sleeping bag were
very light and took up little space. I brought the 6 liter water bag and a
smaller 4 liter water bag but I would later discover that the 6 liter bag was
punctured.
There was a very long line at immigration. I carried my two
saddle bags and stood for an hour, then passed through a checkpoint, found my
bike box, and waited 40 minutes for a shuttle I had reserved to town. I set
my things in the room and ran to the beach.
At night I stopped by a small eat run by Felipe. We became
friends. I asked why his food tasted different. Why did his consume have mint?
What is the flavor in everything I can’t identify?
He brought with him two
books. “I’ve sold 55,000 of these, translated into 6 languages.” He had lived
40 years outside Mexico, 11 in London where he had 3 famous Mexican restaurants.
His current wife wanted to come Baja, and so he opened a small place just 6
months ago.
“Here in Mexico, I am ugly. Everywhere else, the US, Czech
Republic, England, Germany, Brasil, I am very attractive to the women.”
I took an interest in his book
and his secrets. It was avocado leaf. Plus his mother’s salt, made from a
mineral spring in the interior. He spoke of corruption and poverty and both of
us knew the story and neither of us had anything new to say on the matter. Instead,
he Felipe brought out a bottle of mezcal from Oaxaca. He spoke of the local
pine wood and the water and the stone used to make the mescal, a cactus which
took 7 years to grow and the potion 2 months to make. We drank in tiny gourds,
very slowly.
Felipe was back in Mexico with his 5th wife and
his children. He was unnoticed suddenly, no longer a star. But it seemed
peaceful and easy. He didn’t have to work himself to death. He still had to go
to London in May for a restaurant
opening. The Irish wife said no and to opening a big place in Hong Kong. “But I will open an English school
and two more restaurants on the beach.”
The next day I built the bicycle. I knew little about the peninsula, but Gustavo suggested I head to Cabo Pulmos, on the Mar de Cortez.
The riding was poor outside Cabo San Lucas. Traffic was heavy. I ate lunch with construction workers at a taqueria at a gas station and the food was good but no one spoke, eating quickly and moving on.
Three times I attempted to head to the coast and each time I ran into heavy sand, dead ends, and packs of dogs who attacked me. Perhaps a map would have been a good idea
The city ended, the road narrowed, and the desert began. The sun began to fade and I looked for small roads between the fences. Approaching a river, a large cattle path perched up a hill and I pushed the bike up the stones and sand and found a flat ridge overlooking the river and cooked quinoa and drank beer. I woke up during the night to put on the rainfly due to the heavy fog covering the ground. In the morning, the tent was soaked but the sleeping bag dry. I made coffee and oatmeal with the gasoline stove and rode back into the desert.
