The new whip

Last weekend I bought a car. Actually, I bought it a week before that but I had to fly to Pennsylvania to pick it up which I just did last weekend. (Paying for a car but not getting to drive it for another 10 days is torturous.) The plan was to fly in Saturday, pick up the car, hang out with some people, and then Sunday morning pick up my little sister whom I had encouraged to skip class in favor of driving back to Colorado with me.
My parent’s had parked the car at their place for the preceding week so I took the train from the airport out to their place. After hanging out for about 40 minutes they had to go to a wedding so I was left on my own. I was really tired – Thursday I had gone out with my boss to trade travel stories, Friday night I had gone to see my friend in the pit orchestra of the opera, and then woke up at 4:15 Saturday morning to get my flight – but I had a new toy and I was determined to have some fun.

Playing with my new toy
I went out and slipped the key in the ignition. Twisting it forward I watched the needles rise and then fall back to idle. I hit the accelerator a couple times just to hear it, and then pushed it into first. I was on my way.
I logged a lot of miles riding my bike on the small twisty back roads around my parent’s house so I have most of them memorized, and they are absolutely perfect for an all wheel drive turbo charged car with low air pressure in the tires. I drifted it though a couple corners in Evansburg State Park, staying on the accelerator until the last second when I’d come off the gas and the car would straighten itself out with a little wiggle and shimmy. After deciding I had a pretty fun car I headed back.

Road trip starts
My sister decided she’d rather start the trip Saturday night after she got out of a concert so I met up with a couple old friends that evening, tried to get some sleep, and then picked her up at the train station. I got a little lost leaving town but soon we were on the PA Turnpike headed west.
I bought the car without an electronic key so after topping off the tires and filling up on gas I locked the car from the inside and walked to the rest area for a bite to eat. What I didn’t realize was that the button on the inside of the car sets the alarm, and the regular metal key doesn’t unarm it. At about 3:00am, in the middle of a truck stop with a lot of people trying to sleep, I set off my alarm about 8 times in a row. After a desperate Google search and borrowing some tools from the gas station attendant I was able to start the car with out it freaking out and we were on our way again.

Chicago
Not much happened between Philly and Chicago. The radio worked, cruise control worked, turbo worked, it was beautiful. We hit some bad fog in State College but that was about it. We got into Chicago around 5 where we were meeting two of my friends for dinner – Scott and Sarah. Scott I knew since elementary school and Sarah I met in Ecuador so it was awesome to see both of them completely removed from the context of our introduction. Sarah had to work at a restaurant so Scott, his girlfriend, my sister, and I all just sat in her section and caught up as she walked back and forth.
After dinner it was back to the road. I really wanted to run the cruise control at 125mph all the way through Iowa and Nebraska but since my license plate had expired in 2004 I thought it’d be best to avoid getting pulled over. Rebecca drove for a while so I was freed up to do important things like make faces when we passed the Google Streetview car. She stepped it up though by stalling the car in front of him at a tollbooth.

Colorado
We cruised into Boulder around 3:00 on Monday afternoon but I wanted to show Rebecca the mountains. It always amuses me how flatlanders see the first row of the foothills and marvel at “the mountains.” I had to tell her we weren’t there yet. We started up the canyon before turning off and flogging the car up Magnolia towards Nederland. Mmm, dirt roads.
By the time I dropped my sister off at the airport around midnight I was seriously worried about falling asleep and crashing my brand new car.

Weather
Last year I was commuting about 45 minutes in each direction by motorcycle when I bought my GTI. Literally the day after I bought it rain started falling and didn’t stop for a full week making me very happy I had 4 wheels and a roof over my head. This time I got to Colorado Monday afternoon and less than 24 hours later it was sleeting and soon we had just under a foot of snow on the ground. I don’t want to get soft so I rode my bike to work anyway - well I don't want to get soft and I haven't bought an ice scraper for the windows yet. By the second day I was able to use a plastic ruler to clear the car. I can’t wait to drive it though a blizzard on the way to go skiing.


Fall foliage and fog near State College, Pennsylvania


Early morning in the midwest. I think its pretty as long as I'm leaving at 80mph.


Google Streetview car cruising down the highway


The sun sets over the mountains looking at Nederland, Colorado.


My car under a couple inches of snow.

...I go, T-Rex

On Sunday Julie’s friends were butchering a pig, roasting it, and then having a party in Nederland and I definitely wanted to be there. Considering all the time I spend in the woods without a map I thought I should learn this survival skill.
Sunday morning I woke Julie and we set off to retrieve the car and try to get up to Nederland asap.
The first order of business was Julie’s coffee. We swung by the Vic’s Coffee across from Boulder Community Hospital for her early morning fix where I found that Boulder recently adopted a bike rental program. You can sign out a bike with a credit card swipe and then just return it to any bike stand around the city. I thought there were two bikes available at the station around the corner from the coffee shop but when I tried to sign them out one wouldn’t unlock.
We decided on the only logical option – she sat on the seat while I stood up and pedaled. This option seemed slightly less logical when I realized that neither tire was really inflated but by then it was too late to turn back. We returned the bike to its stand near the library, retraced the traumatic trail of the ice cream fight, got her car and raced up to Nederland.
I won’t go into much detail about the butchering of the pig but I will say in the morning it was walking around and that night it was on a plate. It was truly an amazing and educational process and I’m really glad I was part of it.
Sunday afternoon I moved all my stuff into my new place in downtown Boulder – with a hot tub – and then headed back up to Nederland for the party. It got off to a slow start but soon the house was packed, food was overflowing on the table, and eventually a dance party was started which literally left my feet sore for days. I usually don’t even eat meat but I figured it would probably be the freshest meat I’d ever eat so I had a little piece of our pig. My hero of the night was whoever brought a casserole dish of bacon…to a pig roast.
Monday morning I woke up and rode down to Boulder to start putting my life in order. Two weeks later and I haven’t quite completed that task but I’m making good headway. Later Monday evening I traded Julie my custom hand painted pink helmet for a free Boyz II Men concert in downtown Denver. I apparently missed the entire B2M fad because I barely knew any of their songs but I did rock out to Motown Philly and that made it all worth it.

Digging the pit.


There's a pit w/ a pig in it.

I go big on the weekends...

I was recently trying to think about something fun to write about. Yes, I had recently moved across the country from San Diego to Boulder, Colorado, but there wasn’t much to say about that. I had rented a minivan, put everything I owned into it, and then sat behind the wheel for 18 hours by myself. I started my new job the next morning and since I was living 20 miles outside of Boulder I had long commutes and spent a lot of time looking for a place in town.
But last weekend things started to pick up. Since I was living in Nederland I decided it would be a good idea to go for a Ned Ride. For the uninitiated, Nederland has such a vast network of trails that one could literally ride for days without touching pavement. Half way down to Boulder to the east and across the continental divide towards Winter Park ski area west, the trails just go on forever. Area names like “Ewok Village” and the “Hobbit Trails” are indicative of just how remote and confusing some of the twists and turns can be.
I decided to see how well I had been acclimating and set off Saturday morning by myself. I knew I wasn’t going to stray too far since I hadn’t found my mountain bike pedals or my hand pump since moving, and a flat tire would have meant walking several miles through the woods in road bike shoes, and road shoes aren’t even comfortable for the walk to the podium.
The first few climbs went well and soon I was back in the rhythm of things. I met a group of middle aged cyclists on the trail asking for directions. I gave directions to a lost group of cyclists on the trail and felt good that I still knew where things were after having been gone for a year and a half. Then I realized I had forgotten about one key intersection. Oops. I pedaled around trying to find old trails and remember how to ride a bike since my year and a half hiatus had rendered some skills rusty.
I found my way to the Magic School Bus - a rusted out, half buried in vegetation bus that somehow found its way deep into the woods miles from any road – and turned around. Crossing West Mag road I dove into a fun and swoopy trail and had the crowning moment of the whole morning as I drifted both wheels loosely around a left hand corner. With that checked off I headed for home.
Around 6:00 it was time to get to Boulder. I had been sequestered in the mountains of Crest (California) and Nederland (Colorado) for too long, I needed some social interaction. One of my temporary roommates Julie decided to come down with me and we headed straight to a beer pong tournament at K’s China, a local bar. I didn’t intend to play, just heckle, but there weren’t even enough people to heckle when we walked in. We eventually got roped into a couple games between helpings of cream cheese wontons, crushed a couple team’s dreams, and then lost to some guy who was taking the event way too seriously.
We headed out on our way to the West End Tavern but had to stop first so Julie could get some ice cream at Alfalfa’s. I can’t remember how it started, and I really wish I could, but somehow the ice cream turned into the main weapon in a food fight as we walked through the park by Boulder Creek. As I wrestled it from her hands and tore off running she found a security guard in a golf cart sympathetic to her cause.
Easily out sprinting the cart I stopped to wait few blocks later. The ice cream met its unfortunate end as she tried to forcibly reclaim possession and I destroyed it rather then have it fall into enemy hands.
At the West End we met up with my old roommate and his fiancée and tested out whether my water-proof camera was also stout- and porter-proof (it is), took some under-porter pictures, and continued to our ridiculousness. After a walk back to their house and some doughnuts and Emergen-C we all decided to call it a night.


Bike ride in Nederland


"Hey, I wonder if it's a porter-proof camera too"

Part II

I stood outside the gas station door in Green River, Utah. My phone said it was 11pm but I wasn’t tired yet and I didn’t see a good place to camp. The cigarette trashcan next to me had something burning in it giving off noxious fumes, but the wind was blowing the smoke towards the only other spot to stand so I had to just deal with it. I decided that I’d take an hour and try to talk someone into picking up a stranger, if I came up empty handed I’d retire and try again in the morning.
I got a lot of filled cars, a lot of people going the wrong way, and a couple no’s. One guy was about to give me a ride but his girlfriend shot it down. He tried to give me money and when I turned it down he took my phone number and said they were getting a hotel for the night, but he’d call me in the morning and see if I was still stranded. I had about 20 minutes before my self-induced deadline when a man came out of the store and talked to me for a bit. He said he needed to ask his travel partner – as it were his mother in law – but that he could probably give me a ride. At just about midnight I scored a ride all the way to Vegas.
Big cities are not good places to hitch from. Most people aren’t going far, there’s no place to pull off, and there’s the “someone else will get him” mentality that never actually works out. It was 5am, I had barely slept, and I was dropped off in front of a casino. I walked to the nearest highway entrance but people were passing me too fast and there was nowhere to stand. I figured it was only going to get hotter as it got later so I set out walking towards a gas station on Tropicana Ave, about 2.5 miles down the highway.
Now walking down the highway is legal in parts of Colorado and Utah but it is not legal, as a Nevada State Trooper informed me, to do so in Las Vegas. I was pulled over (sort of, I was already on the shoulder) and greeted by an officer telling me how dangerous my actions were. He asked me where I was going and then why, starting to laugh when I told him I needed to make it to an interview in two days. When I gave him my passport as identification he wanted to know why I didn’t just show him my driver’s license. The real reason was I had left it in a pair of shorts at a friend’s house, but I elected not to share that. He looked at all the stamps, ran all my information, searched me, and then said he would give me a ride to the gas station. Chuckling to himself he told me that of all the cop work he’s done my stories were in the top two. A Vegas Cop thought I had some of the most interesting stories?!? Maybe it was his first day, but I took that as a huge compliment.
I sweet talked him into taking me all the way to the truck stop on the edge of town which I thought would be great, but instead it was deserted. A couple trucks and 3 cars in an hour as well as being on the wrong side of the highway made me nervous. Once again I walked out to the highway, but this time I stayed on the ramp.
Its difficult to describe how the road wears on people. The whole point of hitch hiking for me was to have an adventure – meet new people, hear new stories, get new perspectives on life. I find these things to be rejuvenating and exhilarating and the up-sides of adventure. However - lack of sleep, standing out on the street, not being able to ask for bathroom breaks or music choice or any creature comforts can be very draining. I hit my breaking point in the morning sun of Las Vegas as car after car passed me and I began to wonder if I would ever make it out of the concrete jungle. One girl tried to stop but almost got rear ended because there was nowhere to pull off. And then, finally, I got picked up.
I can’t explain the emotional leap between wondering if I’d wither away in the Las Vegas sun, and climbing into a car with air conditioning. My ride was provided by a guy we’ll call Victor and he was awesome. We chatted for a bit and then he put the air conditioning on for me and told me to adjust it however I wanted. Then he told me to go to sleep if I had a long night. He was so nice I almost got sketched out by it. I fell asleep for about a half hour, woke up refreshed, and talked with Victor for the remainder of the ride about cruises and the travel industry.
My subsequent rides came so quickly I couldn’t even get a layer of sunscreen on. Every time I would post up on an on-ramp and pull out the bottle, someone would stop. I got a ride from a dude in a huge lifted truck, a musician going to play at a church, and a Russian family who first tried to buy me a train ticket and then wanted to give me money but I turned down both.
My last ride was from a woman with her son. Their car was falling apart and they were loaded down with stuff, but of all the cars that passed me on a major highway ramp, they were the ones to stop. The woman told me she was dumpster diving for things to resell on Craigslist and picking bottles and cans out of the trash for the refunds, all to pay for rent and cloths etc for her son. Here was a woman who had almost nothing, but still went out of her way to help out a total stranger.
Meeting people and sharing stories is the reason why I hitch hike. It opens my eyes and re-grounds me in reality. Is selling bikes hard? It can be, unless it’s compared to coal mining. I start to think about my life choices when a police officer that probably sees drunks and gamblers and prostitutes all day tells me I have crazy stories. And no matter how down and out I’m feeling, I’m only supporting one person, not trying to raise a family. I am vulnerable and alone on a highway on-ramp, but every time someone picks me up it reinforces my faith in humanity.

Rebirth of the 60's

After my interview in Colorado I needed to get back to San Diego. I was tired of being on the road, living out of a backpack, and sleeping at friend’s houses. I had really wanted to hop a freight train but an interview in California early the next week deterred me. Plane tickets had jumped substantially in price and there weren’t any Craigslist Rideshares headed to San Diego anytime soon. I figured I could rent a car and drive it out, probably pick up some ridesharers on the way, but I’m so tired of that drive and I wanted an adventure if I was going to be travelling. So I stuck out my thumb.
I didn’t know what to expect – I have hitch hiked to go skiing a bunch in Colorado, and made it all the way to Moab Utah for a bike race once. I had hitch hiked 1400 miles in Patagonia and just recently used my thumb to get around Colombia. But Denver to San Diego was intimidating.
I got dropped off in Golden, Colorado by a friend heading for a bike ride. People rarely know what to think when they drop me off on a highway ramp, so she wished me luck and said she’d pick me up again if I wasn’t gone by the end of her ride. It was less than 5 minutes before two kids in their late teens picked me up and I was on my way!
They dropped me in Evergreen where I grabbed a ride to Idaho Springs, then on to Dillon, and a good ride to Grand Junction. Walking to the on ramp in Grand Junction I saw something I had never seen before which hitch hiking – another hitch hiker. It was a little awkward but we introduced ourselves, his name was Emilio, and found that we were both guys in our mid twenties, fairly normal, and out for an adventure. He was headed home to Tahoe after hitching around the mountains of Utah and Colorado, meeting up with friends, and having an adventurous summer. We talked for a bit about getting and giving rides, the adventure and dying art of hitching, and the people we met along the way while trading off thumb duties. Eventually I got tired of the infrequent traffic and walked up to the highway. One car stopped to give us a bottle of water but no ride, and finally I saw a truck stop for him at the bottom of the ramp. While he was getting in that I got picked up by the very next pickup that came by. He caught up and since my ride was going further Emilio hopped in with me and our driver, an older Latino man stoked on his vintage Chevy. Our new friend told us about driving long distance trucks in Mexico, avoiding English classes as a kid, and some fling he was on his way to see. Somehow jobs came up in conversation and I told him I did international sales for a bicycle company before being laid off. “Oh, an easy job,” was his non-judgmental response. I explained that in the economy it was difficult to move some inventory, and different languages and time zones and customs and all that before thinking to ask what he did. He’s a coal miner, underground, at the age of at least 50. Oh. By comparison then, yes, an easy job.
We got to Salina around sunset and started asking at the gas stations for a ride. Emilio found one going directly to Tahoe but I wasn’t having as much luck. I’ve never been terribly lucky at gas stations so I walked to the highway again and put my thumb out. No one was picking me up. Finally as it started to get really dark I went back to the gas station.
I found a ride from an old hippie with a Bible on the dashboard of his new Saturn Vue. He bought the car for his sister and was going to give it to her in a year as long as she made it through her parole. We creeped along hitting a low point at 55mph for no reason other than he wasn’t paying attention. Ironically he wasn’t paying attention to how fast he was going because he was too busy telling me how much of a hurry he was in to get to Jerry Garcia Day in San Francisco the next day. I thought about mentioning that driving 20mph below the speed limit probably wasn’t a good strategy for making up time but I let it pass. He drove me to literally the next gas station, but in that part of Utah the next gas station is 110 miles away.

On the road again

Friday night started out with some track racing. I’ve logged a lot of time on a “fixie” since I was 16 - riding a century (100 miles) in Colorado, negotiating snow and ice packed bike paths, the delivering on the streets of Manhattan with the purest of bicycles beneath me – but riding on the banked surfaces of a velodrome still made me feel like a beginner. My “fixie” is currently set up with a left-side drive system, bull-horn handlebars, around-town gearing, and an old Campy front wheel I literally found in a dumpster. All these parts make it very cool in my mind, but also completely and totally illegal to ride on the track. So I called my friend Steve to see if I could borrow a bike.
Steve may have just had a kid, but that doesn’t make him old or uncool just yet. His text informed me that not only had he left his bike out for me to use, he also left a bigger chainring in case I wanted to put the hurt on people, tools to change it, and a couple beers in a cooler because that’s also mandatory equipment for track night. Armed with all of this I went over to the track and prepared to get flogged. I won a preem (a midrace sprint) and finished midpack the rest of the time so I’ll definitely be back to get flogged some more.
When I was in Canoa I met a gringo walking around cleaning up the beach in exchange for free drinks at one of the hostels. He introduced me to his step-son Tino who came to California a few weeks ago. After his trip to Vegas and Palm Springs we finally got to hang out Friday night. Tino took me to a bar in Quito that serves beer for $5 an hour (yes, by the hour), so of course I needed to show him a good night.
We headed straight to Pacific Beach with Aimee and met up with Ninja, Austin, and Moto Matt who had all just finished the Critical Mass ride. It took some effort but I was able to rally nearly everyone for a night on the town. We enjoyed some microbrews on the deck of the Ale House over looking the ocean, got some late night Mexican food, and walked home along the boardwalk to round out a good SD Friday night. The night ended sometime around 4am when I dropped Tino off, and four hours later I was on my way to Boulder.
A friend’s birthday, an interview, a business venture, and an opportunity to talk to another company all coincided in one week, and I, always happy to hang out in Colorado, seized the occasion to go back. Sean and I knew each other for all of about 6 minutes and 3 phone calls before we decided to take on the 1300 miles to Boulder in a packed sedan but luckily our first impressions were good. He picked me up Saturday morning and we started rolling towards Salt Lake where we planned to meet up with one of his friends for a bike ride on Sunday morning.
Genie, Sean’s friend, had run 31 miles on Saturday, and then waited for us to arrive before having dinner. Then, as if it was nothing, got up on Sunday morning to take us for a mountain bike ride. I immediately diagnosed her as crazy, but the good kind.
We rolled though the hills near Salt Lake enjoying the fresh air and open space, happy not to be sitting in a car but rather on our bikes. The only thing that detracted from the ride was the rear brakes on my borrowed bike which I believe were just there for show as they provided no stopping power. High speed switchbacks and techy rock-strewn stretches of trail lost some of their fun when I had to lock up my front wheel to scrub speed. Eeek.
We got into Boulder around midnight and I’ve spent the day enjoying the thin mountain air and dry heat, but sorely missing the ocean already.

20 minute radius

One of the most amazing things about San Diego its diversity of activities. The city is right on the waterfront and famous for surfing, swimming, snorkeling, and sailing. Inland just a few miles the topography jumps up to a mountain playground for hiking, cycling, cliff jumping, and rock climbing while pressing further still gives way to the desert, a mecca for dirt bikers and other off road enthusiasts. Two hours to the north puts one in LA with high society in Hollywood or hip hop’s roots in Compton, and a passport is needed to get an hour south.
The past three days I had the opportunity to really embrace the local activities hitting up a night of velodrome racing, horse racing, and Comic Con – all within 20 minutes of Pacific Beach.
Tuesday night racing, or TNR as the cool kids call it, is the weekly fast race at the San Diego Velodrome. A concrete track, 333 meters in length with a dead grass infield it isn’t the prettiest thing in the world but at least San Diego has a velodrome, unlike most cities in America. I grew up in an area with rich track racing roots at the Trexler town track where legends like Marty Nolstien frequented, and Dave Wood attempted Gymkana 3 driving stunts in a pickup truck. The scene there was great with top end racing, heckling, noise makers, drunk fans, and the occasional racer pulling up to the wall to chug a beer. The San Diego scene needs a little work – there’s a lot of hipsters and a lot of people not being ridiculous – so I did my best to amp people up by going wild with the biggest cowbell I could find. I don’t know if they got amped up, or if I just drove the lamest ones so crazy the left, but by the end of the night people were starting to cheer and get into the spirit a little more. A little 6 year old was walking around under the bleachers yelling “ding ding ding” as loud as he could, so on the last preem and bell lap of the last race I gave him the cowbell and he went crazy. But in a good way, he only rang it when I told him to so as not to confuse the racers.
Wednesday was opening day at the Del Mar race track so I went and watched more things go fast and turn left. Athena did 104mph (literally) on the way there until we ran into a traffic jam miles away from the exit. We took back roads to find a parking spot, climbed over train tracks and were threatened with arrest, and followed the stream of ridiculous hats and girls with lots of makeup until we finally found our way to the track. I don’t understand horse betting at all but by the end of the day I decided the best idea is three-packs since one of my friends won $250 on a $6 bet. I can’t even describe the ridiculous attire that was pervasive in the crowd but hats that looked like a shot glass balanced on a girl’s head, white leisure suits, and parasols start to set the scene. The girl in front of me had two massive feathers sticking off the back of her hat perfectly spaced to take out two eyes in one shot, and she almost got me at least thrice.
Despite the “go fast turn left” trend, I did not go to a Nascar race on Thursday. Thankfully. Thursday was ComicCon in downtown San Diego and most stereotypes held true, set to the background of massive advertising campaigns. Every Cartoon Network, sci-fi, or animated show had hot girls in costumes to hand out tee shirts, stickers, and buttons. Show goers got backpacks 3 feet by 3 feet with their admission, and filled them up with all the shwag available. One girl filled her’s so much the bottom ripped out as she attempted to run across the street. Watching all the crowds and cars and advertising machines circulate gave me a better appreciation for urban planning, or the lack-there-of. When cars back up the traffic cops stop all the pedestrians to allow a block full of vehicles to pass. Seems to make sense at first until I realized that a block of cars contains about 8 people, and those 8 people back up 50-60 on the sidewalks. Pedicabs are regulated against, but 3 huge tractor-trailers wrapped in advertising drive around the most congested streets pumping out diesel fumes with no regulation.
I did all of this within a 20 minute drive of Pacific Beach which itself is famous for surfing and nightlife. So many things to do, so little time. Good thing I’m retired.


Awesome pedicab at Comic Con


Placid crowd at San Diego Velodrome

Back into the States!

Getting back to the States did little to calm my travel schedule. I flew from Quito to Atlanta, bailed on my Atlanta to San Diego flight and instead hopped on one bound for Washington DC. My brother Mike picked me up and we went straight to the Georgetown convocation where I found out he had a fan club of girls screaming his name from across the parking lot. I guess one of the benefits of being 6’4” is you don’t need a mohawk to stand out. I met a bunch of Mike’s friends, ate some good Mexican which I had been craving for months, and drank some bad college beer to round out the night.
Rebecca, my sister, came down from my parents’ house in the Philly suburbs the next day. We were all pretty excited to get together since all three siblings hadn’t been in the same place at once in 5 years. We’ve been able to hang out one on one a few times, but we haven’t all been in the same location since 2006 when we were all at very different points in our lives. We decided to mark the occasion by going to every T-mobile and Radio Shack store in the greater Georgetown area looking for a phone battery. It was a glorious celebration.
Later that evening was Georgetown’s Senior Ball. I put on a formal outfit comprised entirely of borrowed cloths, while Mike and Rebecca, having not lived out of a backpack the preceding 3 months, put on their own dress attire.
Now I didn’t go to any of CU’s graduation functions, but then again CU doesn’t rent out the single busiest transportation hub of the single most influential city in the world for a night and set up 32 open bars. Georgetown does. We rolled up to Union Station and were greeted by the most massive line of people dressed like they were going into a state dinner. Hair and makeup done, fully tailored suits, “sir”s and “doctor”s and “captian”s everywhere. I was surrounded by the Hollywood image of academia, but somehow this was more polished and picturesque than the movies could have ever conveyed and this was actually real. Once we convinced the doorman to let us jump half the line we entered a sea of people filling the entire Union Station hall and several of the adjoining restaurants. Some were dancing to the live band playing Beatles covers, some were picking from tables of beautifully presented hors d’hoeuvres, and at least two were trying to tick off a drink at every single open bar. We spent the night hanging out with Mike’s friends and ordering drinks by the armload, dancing to the DJ downstairs, and watching a 50 year old woman, presumably the mother of some terribly embarrassed student, sling her sultry leg over the railing of an escalator as she exited the dance floor.
Saturday and Sunday were family time and watching Mike graduate with a fist bump to the President of Georgetown, and Monday I slung a backpack o’er my shoulder again. I hit the Philadelphia suburbs, then up to Albany to see my grandmother, NYC, Philadelphia proper, and back out to the suburbs in under a week.
The East Coast has buses that run between Chinatown in all the major cities, and they are incredibly cheap. I was told my cousin doesn’t like them because, although they’re really cheap, no one speaks English and you can’t be completely sure you’re going to get where you want to go. After a couple months in South America that seemed normal.
I watched my friend’s daughter dominate on the BMX track, visited with some more family, did some east coast mountain biking (there are alternate trails TO fallen logs, not around them), and then spent a week in DC with my brother and sister to round out my time on the East Coast. Finally I climbed into a spraypainted hippie “artcar” and took a Craigslist rideshare to Boulder.

Now I'm published!

Hey! I just got a story about Canoa published on GoNomad.com. Check out the site, or the direct link is http://www.gonomad.com/destinations/1106/ecuador-canoa.html
Enjoy!

You don't have to be crazy...

The bus system in South America is a great friend of the backpacker. It’s cheap, its relaible, and generally speaking its safe. Buses run every hour or so to every major destination and most of them will let you off anywhere you want if just asked. Hitch hiking, conversely, is not known as one of the safest forms of transportation, but it is cheap and really fun.

After a long ride in a rickety bus along dirt roads I was dropped off in a small town half way between Villa de Leyva and San Gil in the Santander Department of Colombia. I was supposed to flag down a bus headed to San Gil but as I stood on the side of the road I wondered why I was waiting for a bus when cars and trucks were constantly passing me. I thought about it for a few minutes - all the kid nappings and ransoms and paramilitaries juxaposed to all the great people I had met in Colombia. I waited for the first decent looking car to pass and stuck out my thumb. The ride was short and my hosts weren’t very talkative, but just like that - first car - I was hitch hiking in Colombia.

Medellin and Cali are two large cities in Colombia connected by about 12 hours on the Autopista Sur. I decided they would be the perfect spots to hitch between so after a few days in Medellin I walked to the edge of the city and optimistically put my thumb out. I stood there, then stood there, and then stood some more. Unlike my first experience, three hours later I was still standing there, the only thing changed being my cloths were damp from the rain that blew through.

I was starting to lose faith when two kids in their early 20’s crossed the street to talk to me. We conversed a bit but were having a difficult time communicating through the language barrier. A few days earlier when two kids that age started talking to me they pulled a knife and wanted to relieve me of my money and camera. This time I was slightly more wary but gave these strangers the benefit of the doubt anyway. By the end of our conversation they had put me on a bus, talked to the driver who nodded at me, and waved as I left to a destination still unknown to me.

Not knowing where I was, where I was going, nor what instructions had been given to the driver, in true form I immediately fell asleep. I awoke a few times seeing beautiful mountain scenery speeding by the windows but didn’t rouse until the driver tapped me on the knee and motioned towards the door.

Stumbling out of the bus in a haze of sleep I looked around. I had apparently been dropped at a toll booth where I was meant to solicit a ride from the cars as they stopped. I wasn't feeling very confident about this since my Spanish isn't perfect and drivers were already being bombarded by people selling all sorts of food and another group of hitchers looking for a ride but as a few drops of rain started to fall I decided uncomfortably asking for rides was more comfortable than standing in the rain. I began browsing for my first target.

At this point I realized the greatest thing about hitching in Colombia - everyone's license plate says what town they're from. I found a plate that said Manizales on a decent looking Hyundai 4x4 and asked the driver for a lift. He agreed and soon I was rolling along in comfort talking to Juan, a software specialist in his early 40's who even spoke a little English. Actually, "rolling along" may need clarifying. He drove like I wish I was allowed to drive in the States. We were passing trucks, cars, and buses with cowboy confidence. We came into corners hot, slammed on the brakes, and accelerated out the other side. A smile started to creep across my face as he explained his job with automated machinery and the necessity to learn English while in the background his tires squeaked around 14 consecutive corners.

When I grabbed the door handle to keep from getting tossed around the car he declared "You don't have to be crazy to drive in Colombia...but it helps." I assured him I was enjoying myself which he took as carte blanche to go 115kph through a 30kph zone. (To be fair, it was the only straight and level part of the drive.)

As we neared Manizales we were stopped in traffic almost directly across the street from his mother's farm. We were told there was an accident ahead which had resulted in a motorcyclists death - a somber reminder that although driving like a maniac can be fun, it can also have dire consequences.

Instead of driving to his house and letting me find my way from there, my new friend took it upon himself to give me a complete tour of his town including the good spots to hitch from the next day, and then dropped me right in front of my hostel. It was another amazing experience hitching and beat any bus ride I had taken in the previous 3 months.

The intersection in Manizales near where I was hitching.

People in Colombia don't mess around with their mopeds. 125 cc's, 2 people, 2 massive bags, mountain roads, in the rain. Like it ain't no thang.

As the rain cleared the rain lit up a few of the clouds.

Riding in the back of a farm truck through Coffee Country.

Most of South America is built like a giant skate park. This was the only kid I saw utilizing it appropriately.

Comments and feedback, please!

I'm trying to get some activity on the blog here so if you have any comments, feedback, questions, or suggestions please post them up. Google gives stats on how many people read the blog and last month I had a couple hundred page views and about 10 comments. I appreciate the comments on FB or via email, but I'd like to transfer this into a writing gig if possible so companies need to know people are reading it. Leave some love, tell me how to make it better, tell me what you like, give suggestions on where to go, whatever's on your mind. Holla

PS - but don't leave them on this particular post. I'm going to delete it later so I don't look so desperate.

Drugs, politics, and bikes.

I'm not much of a guided tour sort of guy - I like to go where I want, when I want, and I don´t like someone else telling where I should be looking or for how long. That being said - when I heard there was a tour of Pablo Escobar´s house where visitors got to sit around in his living room and chat with his brother... I had to do it.
Juan, our tour guide came to pick us up and I jumped in the car with Julia, an Aussie girl I had met at the hostel and two other kids from hostels in the city. As we wound our way through Medellin Juan told us the brief history of the Escobar family and we marveled at how much the city has changed in the past 20 years.
Two decades ago Medellin was one of the most dangerous cities in the world. Escobar was warring with the Cali Cartel, bombs were planted in the streets, kidnappings happened on a regular basis, and it was easy to get caught in the crossfire. It was a complete non-destination for tourism and even those brave enough to go to Colombia in the early 90´s avoided Medellin. Today Medellin is a beautiful and safe city, complete with museums, botanical gardens, and a ¨golden mile¨ of high end restaurants and night clubs. It even has a metro system which was strategically built so it encompasses some of the most downtrodden areas of the city and attempts to reincorporate them into the social fabric.
When we arrived at the house we were told no area was off limits, we could take pictures of anything we wanted, and Roberto was happy to answer any and all questions. I felt like a kid in a candy store. Roberto came out and we all introduced ourselves, shook hands, and exchanged small talk. Work was being done on the garage so the first things we saw were a 1950´s pickup truck, the first vehicle Roberto bought, and a fully bulletproof Chevy 1500. Not only was the Chevrolet bulletproof, it also had fog machines, oil reservoirs to drop on the road, and a few other James Bond inspired gadgets to help evade police. We all hopped in and pretended to drive it for silly photo ops.
Next up we were shown the Harley that Pablo used for his first drug smuggling mission. In one purchase he turned a $50,000 profit, and in the early 80´s that was a lot of money.
Just inside the front door there is a bullet hole through a picture frame and into the wall, however oddly enough this wasn´t from the gun slinging days of drug running. About a year ago Roberto was tipped off that a small gang was planning on ransacking the house looking for buried treasure that the Escobars supposedly hid there. The police showed up and a shoot out ensued, taking the lives of 3 young men.
Then we moved on to the bike room. I try to keep it under control most of the time, but sometimes the bike nerd in me explodes and this was one of those times. One wall of the small room was filled with pictures and newspaper clippings from Roberto´s racing days before he got involved in drug dealing. He spent 4 years racing on the National team before coaching it for a decade, and even has a picture with Eddy Merckx. Opposite the pictures is a specially made Colnago with gold plated chianstays, head set, and fork - one of four ever made that Ernesto specifically gifted to Pablo, and Pablo gave to Roberto. So. Effing. Cool.
Outside we hung out with Roberto for a while asking him questions and getting a little better idea what his life has been like. No one wanted to step on his toes - he was so nice to let us into his home and share his experiences with us that no one wanted to offend him with hard questions. I couldn´t let this opportunity pass though, and as things got more comfortable I started asking him about the toll of the drug business and a formally Wanted man´s take on US foreign policy. He was very open, and oddly it was our tour guide who had the most amount of uncomfortable pauses.
Before we left I had to get Roberto back into the bike room to take a picture with his Colnago. Earlier that day I had flipped on the TV in the hostel and found the Giro d'Itallia on. I´m a little out of touch and the broadcast was in Spanish so I was surprised to see the Trek team in all black move to the front of the peloton with 5K to go. As I watched a little more I knew something was very wrong and then found out a rider had crashed and died the day before. I was actually very moved by the solidarity shown by the peloton and with it fresh in my mind talked to Roberto about it a bit. And since I know the words for cyclist, downhill, and bike race in Spanish I could talk one on one without a translator to one of the world´s most notorious drug dealers - unlike when I needed words such as assassinate, smuggle, and foreign policy.

After saying bye to Roberto we saw the house where Pablo was killed, his grave site, and his former penthouse which was rocked by a massive bomb from the Cali Cartel. All of it was interesting, but the high mark was definitely seeing the human side of a legend - talking to Roberto Escobar

Roberto and I with his 1 of 4 Colnago.

Hanging out in the James Bond pickup.

Old meets new

Every bit as hot as the jungle and almost as humid, the city of Cartagena still managed to capture my heart. The history is rich, largely preserved, and accessible in the old town, while Boca Grande offers new architecture with stunning skyscraper apartments on the beach, and the Getsanami district has a great mix of local culture, abundant hostels, and is within walking distance of nearly everything. And I feel like Dickens, starting off with a huge run-on sentence.

Aimee decided our day in the jungle was now going to be called “Best day ever” but the day that followed wasn’t so bad either. We woke up after sleeping on mattresses that would have been softer if they had been made of plywood, walked out and headed toward the old city following its walls towards the beach. We soon found ourselves on Boca Grande, a large peninsula of affluence and high rise apartments, where we were immediately greeted by Kelly who really wanted to give us massages. She offered a demonstration and since my shirt was already off began giving me a massage despite all the “No gracias” in the world. Now that I was in one spot a second beach vendor came over to offer oyster shooters with lime juice. I’ve never done an oyster shooter, and I really had no intention of doing one, but I could think of no better place to do one than on the Caribbean beach in Colombia while I got a massage demonstrated to me. I wasn’t a fan of the texture on the first one, or the second or the third for that matter, but I had little choice in the matter as the man continued to pop the shells and thrust them in front of my face.

Now a third woman came over and attempted to give Aimee a massage. Feeling that things were getting a little out of control I stopped the oyster shoots at number 7, told Kelly thank you and tipped both of them before making a run for it. Nothing was stolen, they didn’t try to follow us, and although she didn’t eat random uncooked seafood from strangers ironically it was Aimee that got food poisoning the next day, not me.

Later that day we were walking though a small city park when a kid in his late teens started pointing at something. Following his finger we saw a monstrous iguana meandering around freely. Then he pointed into a tree where another one was snoozing lazily. I couldn’t believe we had walked almost ¾ of the way though the park and not seen this. Then he blew my mind pointing into the high reaches of another tree where a sloth was dangling from a branch. A sloth! Wild, in a city park! Next up was a couple monkeys teaching their skittish baby how to climb and jump around but we were completely let down by the grand finale, fish swimming around in a really dirt pool. I told him we had fish in the States and I wanted to see another sloth. He shrugged not knowing where another one was, but then looked up and found one literally in the tree above us. We gave him some money for his “sick daughter” but really I would have been happy to pay him just for showing us all that. I tried to climb the tree to get a better look at the sloth but my progress was halted by a bazillion ants and thinning tree limbs. Either way I got a pretty good picture and this time, unlike when me and Aimee met, I didn’t almost get arrested for climbing trees in a city park.

Our final day in Cartagena was spent climbing around on an ancient castel. Pictures below.

Tunnels through the castle.

Exploring the tunnels.

Feeding wild iguanas.

Close up of the sloth.

Fun times two

A quick hello to Becker - hope your mouf is healing up.

After two months of traveling solo I got an adventure buddy when Aimee came for a 10 day scramble around Colombia. After a night in Bogota we flew to the beachside town of Santa Marta and then a day later took one of the most rickety collectivo (privately owned local) buses to Parque Nacional Natural Tayrona. The park is approximately 15000 hectares of jungle along the northern coastline of Colombia with immense biodiversity and strong offshore currents. The air is thick with humidity, creeks form in any low lying area, and the bugs are abundant to put it mildly - but that’s about what I expected from a jungle.
About 5 km into the park our shuttle van came to a stop and opened the door. As we climbed out we realized this was the one and only departure because the road just doesn’t go any further and the only way to access the park is by foot - either your own or a rented mule’s. Opting for the more hearty option we slung our packs over our shoulders and started walking.
Seven minutes into the hike Aimee predicted rain and almost if on cue thunder started rolling. There is so much vegetation in the jungle that we heard the rain and the humidity level was ridiculously high, but oddly we seldom actually got hit with water droplets. Having no other choice we kept walking - sometimes the trail was as wide as a dirt road, sometimes it was winding single-track though dense vegetation, but what every single part of the trail had in common was mud. Thick, sloppy, slick mud.
When we arrived in Aricifles, the first designated camping spot, we dropped our bags and spent the evening hunting toads, frogs, and lizards, and even got to see two praying mantises. We went looking for sea turtles which lasted until Aimee told me to watch out for alligators in the shallow pools. I cannot convey the primal fear I felt on a deserted jungle beach when the thought of alligators was introduced to my mind. We made a bee line for the campground.
Hammocks with mosquito nets are the en vogue place to sleep and having never spent an entire night in one we thought that would be cool. Let me tell you - hammocks are great spots to relax and read a book or doze off for a midday siesta, but they are less than comfortable when used for an entire night. For this reason as soon as the sun rose enough to see Aimee and I got up and started hiking along the coast to Cabo for breakfast. Along the hour and a half hike we saw a couple cool beaches, lizards, people collecting coconuts from the ground, and hundreds of what we dubbed “jungle crabs,” a beautiful multi colored variety of the species that lives pretty far inland and borrows into the soft jungle soil. Aimee thought they were awesome.
We ate breakfast and hung out on the rocks around Cabo for a while before starting our hike back. In the middle the trail we stopped for a minute and as I looked up not 3 meters above us were a group of monkeys. Completely wild monkeys just chillin in the trees above us!
Shortly thereafter we swam in La Piscina, one of the few beaches without strong offshore currents attempting to drown unsuspecting tourists, jumped off some rocks, and then continued our hike out.
Overall it was an amazing experience. We saw some awesome animals in their wild habitat, experienced a thunderstorm in the jungle, explored some deserted jungle beaches, and escaped with a (relatively) minimal amount of bug bites.

Leaf-cutter ants on the move.

Jumping into the Caribbean.

Not a bad place, I could get used to this.

Idiomas

One of the main goals coming to South America was learning Spanish. Most of my Spanish is self taught though computer programs and Google Translate, which translates to having terrible Spanish. However as I spend more time here, fully immersed in the language, more and more people understand me which I claim as my abilities getting better.

The first major milestone was drunkenly talking to some girls during Carnival. Alcohol lowers inhibitions so I thought I was doing a great job although that's probably not the case. However, it was the first time in my life I've held a conversation in another language and I was stoked. Since then I've talked with street vendors, artisans, and a few other people in party settings although pounding music still destroys my comprehension.

There's a mountain on the edge of Cali with three crosses on top. Its a popular hiking destination for tourists with its panaramic views, and during Semana Santa (Easter Week) local catholics make the pilgramage by the hundreds. When I did it, the Thursday before Easter, there were a couple hundred police spread along the trail but most of the religious people were finished making for a lot of police with nothing to do. Most of them were looking very bored...or sleeping in the bushes, but one of them started talking to me as I walked by.

"Where are you from?" he asked in annunciated uncomfortable English.

"Estados Unidos" I answered, two words which I've practiced a lot.

"What part?"

"San Diego en California"

He looked around at his friends who were in various stages of relaxation and tried to get them to walk with us. It became apparent they weren't moving so he started walking with me alone. We hike for a couple kilometers talking about where I was coming from, where I was going, and what I liked about his country, but what made it interesting was that the whole time I was speaking in Spanish and he was speaking in English. To be fair his English was better than my Spanish so I had to ask him a few words, but we were close to the same level and it was fun to practice with a native speaker that also understood the difficulties of learning a new language so spoke slowly and annunciated.

I felt good about this experience for a whole hour or so until an 8 year old tried to talk to me. I quickly realized I didn't have his vocabulary and I needed to study a lot more.

Mildly moderated chaos

The best way to describe Ecuador’s social infrastructure is mildly moderated chaos. No prices are set, no hours adhered to, traffic “laws” are viewed as mere suggestions, and business licenses are a joke. Canoa is such a poor and small town that I could understand why no one cared but I started to get a clearer picture when I got a photocopied vehicle title to show police if I got stopped on the motorcycle in Banos. International driving license or insurance not required. Also completely legal in Banos is “bungee jumping” off a 100-meter bridge using a climbing rope and figure 8 belay device. (Climbing ropes have a small number of falls they are rated for and a Figure 8 belay device is great for smooth repelling but hardly has the lock off friction I’d want to stop me from a very long purposeful fall.)

It seemed like every other day in Cuenca was a reason for parades, bands, and street closures. “Its Saturday” seemed to hold just as much validity as Cuenca’s founding weekend – which lasted until Tuesday. It was the fireworks displays during these arbitrary parties forced a punk rock anarchist smile of affirmation across my face. Cuenca is a World Heritage site and one of the prettiest Colonial era cities in all of South America, yet no one minded as tissue paper hot air balloons, sparking spinners, and rockets were launched from the main city square by random citizens. As their burning embers fell back onto schools, businesses, and churches I started to realize why brick shingled roofs are still so popular.

Days later dancers in elaborate costumes covered the bridges of the city while spot- and strobe-lights swept across the crowd - everyone moving to the music of a band playing in a 4^th story window of the nearby apartment building. Soon the sky began lighting up and we realized that every major railing-support on the bridges had an arsenal of fireworks attached to it. The dancers moved away a bit but the crowd stayed – a couple thousand people packed inside a half km of the launch zone.

Coming from a place where millions can be made by spilling coffee on yourself and sidewalks have to be repaired before someone trips, its nice see a society that hasn’t been reduced to robotic answers and solving problems though flowcharts. There are benefits to first world culture – drinkable water certainly being one of them – but taking responsibility for our actions is underrated. Getting under a roof if lit fireworks are raining from the sky or stepping out of the way when a motorcycle rolls down the sidewalk is common sense, we don’t need legislation and litigation to do our thinking for us.

Moving on

I took the fastest, scariest bus of my life from Cuenca to Quito listening to the transmission fall apart and the right rear brakes make a hideous metal-on-metal sound all through the night. After 24 hours in Quito I walked to a city bus which took me to the trolley, the trolley took me to the bus station where I got a shuttle bus to another station, and boarded an extremely slow intercity bus bound for Toulcan. At Toulcan I took a taxi towards Colombia, walked through Ecuadorian customs, over the bridge, through Colombian customs, and hailed another taxi to the bus stop where I got a night bus which took 12 hours to make it 450km. 36 hours in Cali is about all that’s needed to walk around the tourist part of the city, dance some salsa, and scale the mountain to the Tres Cruises. A 3^rd night bus in 5 days landed me in Bogota where its been raining constantly, thunder storming intermittently, and cold.

Bridge Festival lighting up the sky.

Yes there's bunnies, chickens, and hamsters here, but think of it as more of grocery store than pet store...

Street art in Cuenca.

Breakdancers come out in force every Sunday in the main park. Here one practices headspins.

A slightly longwinded rumination

Cuenca is considered the cultural and educational capital of Ecuador, and with its numerous universities, upper class dining and shopping hotspots, and cobbled stone streets it’s easy to see why. Oddly though what struck me most during my time in Cuenca had nothing to do with the city at all.

How it started

I had come to Cuenca in part to see friends who were instrumental in my decision to travel. They had offered me a place to stay but I thought I’d get a hostel instead – hostels are cheap, a great place to meet people, and I’d be out of the way. When we met up though, Kent handed me a set of keys to my own 6^th floor apartment furnished in a hip, minimalist style with a beautiful view of the church outside. I put my bag down.

The next day I got a FB message from Manuela and Carmen (previous blog) who had also arrived in Cuenca. I went to their hostel to meet for dinner and saw Colm who was part of the “Yo no quiro agua” night during Carnival. Colm and another girl from the hostel, Victoria, joined our table while we waited for Zane, an Aussie riding his moto from Colorado whom I had met in Quito. After having dinner with Manuela and Carmen it was back to Colm who was hanging out with Sarah and her friends, some local girls he had met though CouchSurfers.

As the week progressed I saw with Damien and Grainne (recipients of shaving cream on Yo no Quiro Agua night) and met Cian, the forth Irish of their group. Meeting up with the crew a few nights later I was introduced to Shane who’s taken just about every mode of transportation available over the last 6 months to travel from San Francisco to a wedding in Ecuador. I went to get a drink at the bar and met Hattie and Fiona, two girls from England who had met a few days before and just arrived from Banos together. A night later when Damien invited us over for home cooked curry I met Michael who’s trying to travel around the world without using an airplane.

A day later after Shane, Hattie, Fiona, and I explored the local market I invited people to my apartment for dinner and to hang out. A few days after arriving in a completely foreign city I had 11 people crammed into an apartment cooking food, sharing stories, and giving travel suggestions.

Reflecting

This, to me, is what traveling is all about. I am in a foreign land, learning foreign languages, doing things that most of society considers outside the realm of normal behavior. I am alone, I am vulnerable, and I have nothing that doesn’t fit in a backpack. However, this kind of insecurity promotes a state of mind where I live in the moment – finding adventures, having new and unique experiences, and talking to anyone who will talk back.

Traveling also builds trust – when I was in Banos I stashed my bag with everything I own (including a laptop, camera, and travel journal) in two Germans’ room whom I had met 36 hours before. Anytime I needed something from it they handed me the key to their room and all of their belongings. Solo traveling is an experiment in self-sufficiency, but every time I extend trust to people my faith in humanity is reconfirmed. We come from all over the world with different backgrounds, different educations, and different experiences but somehow friendships are formed faster and stronger than at home where we have more similarities.

This is not to discount the strength of friendships at home - I couldn’t do what I am without the help and support of a network of great people in the States. I had a dream Friday night that reminded me of the incredible comfort and security that is found in a close relationship and it left me with a beautiful warm feeling well into the afternoon.

The cycle continues...

And as the original Cuenca group started trickling away new friends were made. Shane and I went to a museum with 5 British girls we had just met, hung out with Mel, he introduced me to Yara, the bride in the wedding he had travelled so far to see, I introduced him to Tara and her mom who I had met in Canoa, we shared some drinks with Shivonne, and Luke gave me keys to his place when I locked myself out of mine like an idiot.

There is a fairly defined Gringo Trail between Colombia and Bolivia and I’m guessing I’ll see at least some of those kids again before heading home. Even if I don’t though, they’ll be part of a formative life experience and memories I’ll never forget.

Dinner in the dope pad.

After Damien cooked awesome curry we met Lobo, a traveling native artisan. Unfortunately for him, we had finished the curry already.

Stuck in the lift.

I used my limited Spanish to steal this kid's bike for a minute.

----------------
Now playing: The Gaslight Anthem - Great Expectations
via FoxyTunes

Aventura, Descanso, y Diversion - Disfrutalo!

Arriving in Baños

After leaving Canoa I made a quick stop in Quito to drop off a bag and enjoy the most delicious Hare Krishna lunch before heading to catch a bus bound for Baños. I had heard that Baños was a cool adventure town in the mountains of Ecuador but I had no idea how awesome it would be.

Canoa is a very poor town. There’s one paved road, chickens and dogs run the streets, and a lot of the street vendors push their carts because they are too poor to afford a bike chain. After living in that environment for a month I was quite surprised to be walking the streets of Baños and see dune buggies cruising the streets, kids on brakeless BMX bikes, and several-thousand dollar mountain bikes leaning against the wall in restaurants. The town is nestled in a river valley with a volcano towering above its streets and majestic waterfalls throughout the neighboring mountains. The name comes from the hot springs, or “baths,” along the edge of town.

The Bike Ride

Baños is a great place to meet people because everyone is about to go do something cool. The first night I ran into Manuela and Carmen, two Swiss girls I had met in Quito. We rented bikes Sunday morning and rode along the river checking out the numerous waterfalls along the way. After seeing about 6 waterfalls and rain starting to fall on us the girls hopped a bus and I started riding back. The sprinkling rain felt great so I explored a side road that wound up a valley. It was beautiful and green and secluded - just what I was looking for. I know I’m not in the kind of race shape I used to be, but the road was so steep I spent an hour and a half in the granny gear until three large dogs halted my progress. I rode back into town and returned the bike just as the rain picked up.

Getting lost

On Monday I rented a 250cc dirt bike for 3 hours and took off. First I tried to find a dirt road I had seen the day before but apparently it was private property w/ a gate and guards. I turned around and, crossing the bungee jump bridge, headed towards some radio antennas. The rental company had shown me a map and told me it should take 2 hours round trip but 25 minutes of wide open throttle and counter steered corners later I was parked at the top. I followed the road as it summited the mountain and entered an agricultural valley. Taking every side path possible, I splashed through puddles, reved out climbing jeep roads, and got lost in single track cow paths. I was completely alone in the back woods of the Andes. The bike wouldn’t shift into neutral if it was running and none of the gauges worked (including gas) but I figured that was just part of the adventure.

Hiking

There are a few miradors (lookouts) on the mountain that borders town so I decided to hike to them when I got back. The first and lowest of the lookouts is 698 concrete steps straight up. From there the path turns to dirt and climbs about another couple hundred meters of elevation to the Mirador del Volcan. The path winds along cliff sides, through tomato farms, and into back yards filled with chickens and laundry. The clouds broke just as I got to the top and offered a great view of the volcano while I was there. On the way down I took random paths, followed a few signs, and asked a little kid of about 8 for directions until I found the right trail.

The trail was so steep it was difficult to walk at times, yet there was a single Maxxis Holy Roller tire impression the whole way down. I couldn’t believe this awesome trail was just outside of town with the perfect road to shuttle and I couldn’t help but think maybe Mike W. should move to Baños. (Sorry to all the non cycling nerds, you probably don’t understand any of that.) The trail even finishes a block and a half from the hospital, how convenient is that?

A moto, a jeep, and a few crazy kids

Tuesday morning I went to find an Ecuadorian I had met the day before for a horse ride but instead rounded up a group of 6 people to rent a 4x4 Jeep and a moto. Our crew consisted of 2 Germans - Armin and Daniel - I met in the hostel, and 3 Brits I had met in Canoa - Mel, Vicky, and Jennie. We took a side road just outside town and after a short hike found a beautiful waterfall. A lot of the falls are commercialized with people and zip lines and vendors. This one involved hiking through an old man’s fish farm whom we asked for directions. After following a trail that was more an indentation in the grass, we let the sound of crashing water be our guide until a waterfall opened in front of us. It was beautiful with a 15 meter drop, a small pool at the bottom, and most importantly, no one around.

After a quick stop at the Runtun, we headed for the Refuge at 3800 meters. I drove the jeep for a bit trying to understand how a vehicle in such disrepair was still on the road. The brakes were terrifying, the suspension was rock solid, and the steering wheel had a full half rotation before it affected the wheels at all, but it ran and it got 4 of us up the mountain on cobble stones and dirt so that’s all the counts. For some reason, after I almost jumped the jeep over a speed bump, the girls decided they trusted me on a motorcycle. I had to keep the speeds a little lower than the day before as they all took a turn sitting on the back. The views at the lower elevations were incredible looking down onto the town and as we got higher everything was silenced as we rode into a cloud and the views were murky and serene. It was a great adventure with a great group of people.

That night involved enough alcohol for karaoke to seem like a good idea, and in the morning I decided I needed to leave before I spent all my money on bicycles, and kayaks, and motorcycles, and jeeps. I took a beautiful, although painful, 9 hour bus ride to Cuenca.

Getting lost in the Andes.

Baños is known for their taffy which is made of local cane sugar. They whip it onto a peg and stretch it over and over before its ready.

Cobble stone paving project high in the mountains.

The most water pressure I've had for a shower since arriving in Ecuador.

Our awesome adventure crew hanging out in the clouds.

Having fun in the single track.

Everyone made it in one piece.