Santa Marta y la playa (Motorcycle Diaries, Pt II)

After a few days of hanging around in the sand I was ready for a night out in the big city of Santa Marta for two reasons. Reason 1) I know laying on the beach doesn't take much skill but I'm strangely bad at it and 2) San Gil's largest party spot was the downstairs section of a gas station. Even though they tried to hype it up by calling the gas station La Isla, there still wasn't much of a scene there.

I knew I would have fun on a Saturday night in Santa Marta, but the idea of driving through city streets was very unappealing so I procrastinated well into the afternoon. Finally I tossed my bag on the back of the moto and started into town.

Since this was the only major city I planned to be in during the whole trip I had a short to-do list which I was able to complete fairly quickly. After checking into La Brisa Loca, I got a small oil leak fixed on the moto. The mechanic worked on my bike on the sidewalk outside the shop where about 30 other bikes were being repaired. He replaced a seal and a gasket, and tightened and lubed the chain all for a whopping $15. A mechanic won't even glance at a motorcycle for 15 dollars in America. Next I tried to sell an old iPhone, and then found an overnight parking space for the motorcycle.

La Brisa isn't the classiest place ever, but it is party central for travelers in Santa Marta.

With all that out of the way it was time to get the party started - an easy task at La Brisa Loca. I joined up with a few people I had met in San Gil who were living in Santa Marta, got some street food, and let the party progress from there.

I woke up the next day around 2 in the afternoon. I felt like I had eaten sand while someone blew a hairdryer in my face all night. Fortunately I couldn't sit around feeling bad because the CU Cycling Team abuelo, old man Becker himself, was due to arrive shortly with his girlfriend. It was really cool to meet up with a friend from home in a foreign country, but since they had to pack everything into a week-long vacation we didn't get to hang out a whole lot.

There's not much to do in Santa Marta as it's more of a hub for exploring the surrounding areas. I had accomplished what I wanted to do - fix the moto, have an all night party, and meet up with Becker - so by Monday I was past ready to go back to the beach. The only problem was the city had outlawed motorcycles for a day.

I now have a basic understanding of timber framing. I basically understand it's extremely hard work.

A few days before, two guys on a motorcycle shot and killed two cops in the city. The mayor's shortsighted fix was to immediately ban any male passenger from a motorcycle, thereby infuriating the hundreds of mototaxi drivers who rely on passengers for their livelihood and inciting them to riot. Most people ignored the ban so the police, not wanting to appear impotent, banned all motorcycles for a day - the day I wanted to ride my motorcycle out of town. So my departure was pushed back once more.

By the time I finally got out of Santa Marta on Tuesday I couldn't wait to get back to nature at Costeño Beach. Two of my friends were timber framing a building next to the hostel and I figured some testosterone-fueled hammering, chiseling, and heavy lifting would be a great cure to the congestion I had been fighting while in the city. After that we won an impromptu beach rugby tournament, and I climbed a (small) palm tree to get a coconut before hacking it open with a machete to drink the water inside. Rawr, watch while I beat on my chest! We built a bonfire on the beach that night and I slept outside in my hammock to round out the celebration of nature and manliness.

By the next morning I was over the cloistered atmosphere of a backpacker hostel and ready to hit the open road where new challenges and adventures awaited.

Leaving Costeño Beach.

Easily bored (Motorcycle Diaries, Pt I)

Marlon's hand-drawn map

Was I living in a foreign country, trying to learn a language, and immersing myself in a new culture? Yes. Was I leading mountain bike tours through the beautiful and lush Andean mountain range? Yes. Did I still get bored and decide to take off on a motorcycle ride? Inexplicably, yes.

Preparation

My friend Marlon seems to know where everything is in San Gil, so once I decided I ride through the country I asked him where I could buy a map. Apparently maps of Colombia are extremely difficult to find in, oddly, Colombia, but he sketched a quick route on a 10x15cm piece of paper with names of towns jotted in the margins. I don't think he intended for me to navigate a 2000km journey based on a hand-drawn map, but like I said, maps of Colombia are hard to find.

Gringo Mike and Marlon also warned me of all the dangers of riding solo through Colombia – flat tires, torrential rain, and harassment by the police if I didn't have my license plate numbers on my helmet and riding jacket. I think it's amazing that just 15 years ago Colombia was one of the most dangerous places on earth, but now my concerns were that the police would enforce minor traffic laws and it might rain.

Setting off

Mike recommended that I ride backroads from San Gil to the colonial town of Zapatoca, and then on to Bucaramunga. Backroads are always cool on a motorcycle so I set off through Barichara, one of the most affuent pueblos in Colombia, got on dirt roads and rode to Galan. Since I was only riding an air-cooled 125cc two-stroke motorcycle I decided to stop in Galan and hang out with some high schoolers watching the Colombia v Netherlands soccer match in a corner store while the moto cooled.

The camino real rock wall in the foreground, overlooking the Rio Suarez.

Noting the absence of road signs, I asked how to get to Zapatoca and was pointed down a side road. I soon found myself on a beautiful, flower-lined dirt road that, upon further inspection, I realized was actually a well used camino real twisting through the countryside. This road was used every day but since it was never sealed the paving stones and rock walls that are a signature of the paths constructed hundreds of years ago still poked through the dirt and brush on the sides. I thought of all the people that must have used this route, from the indigenous people herding their livestock, to the colonial armies, to contemporary Colombia farmers, and then the most recent user in that long line – me.

The route was beautiful as it followed the Suarez River, and everyone I asked for directions was extremely friendly. I filled up my gas tank in Zapatoca but, not finding anything else particularly interesting, decided to press on towards Bucaramunga. As it started to get dark I thought about asking one of the finca owners if I could set up my hammock in their yard but it was my first day out and I was still feeling shy so I decided to go to a hostel in the city. This was a mistake and I highly recommend travelers, if lucky enough to get off the beaten path, stay with locals.

Fantastic canyon road between Zapatoca and Bucaramunga.

The next morning I set my sights north and rolled along the Ruta del Sol. Around lunch time it started raining, so I made a U-turn and pulled into a lunch spot I had just passed. As I parked, the skies opened up and it poured for about the exact amount of time it took to eat my meal. I hopped back on the bike as the sun came out and continued onward.

La policia

Colombia has road checkpoints along the main highways every half hour or so. There's always a speed bump, a group of people trying to sell snacks to hungry drivers, and weary, disinterested police officers standing around talking to each other. I've never been stopped at one and rode by all of them without a second glance. On the second day, few minutes after passing one of these checkpoints, two officers whizzed by me on an underpowered scooter. I remember thinking 'They must really want to catch whoever they're after to make that scooter go that fast.' A little while later, as they motioned for me to pull over, I realized that person they really wanted to catch was me. I was pulled over, and was instructed to get off the bike and get out all my information while one of the officers began searching my motorcycle for drugs.

A Yamaha DT 125 – my bike – is cheap, reliable, and fast and thus became the drive-by shooting bike of choice during the 90's when the cocaine cartels were at their peak. The bikes have retained their bad boy image and, while they're ridden by a wide variety of people in Colombia, today they're especially sought after by wannabe gangsters and drug runners. The police must have gotten a tip that a white DT was carrying drugs because they searched my oil and gas tanks, and spent about 10 minutes pushing on the seat to see if anything was hidden in the padding. They seemed more relaxed when they realized I was a foreigner but that didn't stop them from conducting a through inspection. I was just glad they were looking for something major, not trying to harass me for failing to wear a license plate emblazoned vest. 

The road flattened and straightened as it worked its way north, and aside from some sketchy passes by tractor trailers the ride was beautiful but uneventful.

No elbow room

The beach!

The following day I eschewed the traffic and congestion of Santa Marta by going straight to Costeño Beach hostel and relaxed knowing that I had made it all the way to the ocean. I had purposely ridden the easiest and fastest way north so I could hang out at the beach for as long as I wanted but already knew I'd take a more adventurous route home. 

Home sweet home, courtesy of Hennessy Hammocks

 

El Camino Real

While Whitney and I were at Mesa De Los Santos we heard about a backroads route directly through the Chicamocha Canyon. Unfortunately we received differing reports of the road conditions and everyone who had actually been there said there was no way we could possibly ride the motorcycle that way. I acknowledged that riding a difficult, technical route through a remote area with a passenger and luggage was a bad idea.

Awesome view from the top.

But I didn't think it'd be a bad idea under different circumstances. Gringo Mike had been to the bottom of the trail so I asked him to join in an ascent attempt. I climbed onto my Yamaha DT125 two-stroke from 1996 and he hopped on his Honda Tornado 250 with a street rear tire and we set off. Mike led the way, taking small detours to dip into singletrack and to point out a few waterfalls. We bushwacked through a cow pasture to end up at one of the most scenic viewpoints I've encountered in Colombia. As we descended into the canyon the temperature climbed - by the time we got to the town of Jordan at the bottom it was absolutely sweltering.

I cross the primitive bridge from Jordan.

This part of Colombia is crisscrossed with hand-laid rock trails from two centuries ago called “camino reals.” They were the highways of days past, connecting towns and serving as major trade routes but today they have fallen into disrepair from complete neglect.

We crossed the Chicamocha River on a rickety suspension bridge before looking around for what we thought could be an old camino real. We started up a flash flood wash that had some flat paving stones strewn in the sand and soon found that we were on a proper “camino real” - though we didn't know if we were on the right one. The trail was completely obliterated when it dipped into the next flood wash and we started to get nervous as we gunned our engines over rocks on the other side. The trail continued as a brief rock-strewn respite from the claustrophobic vegetation around us. Several sections were only ridable if we were able to stay on a balance beam of sequential rocks, elevated off the surrounding ground by 10-30 cm (4-12 inches).

At the next major rock garden Mike's clutch cable slipped making any “feathering” impossible. With sweat already dripping off us we knelt down to work on a hot engine with the sun beating on us. A mule walked up the path with it's owner and I thought how sometimes the simplest ways are the best. The mule carried on with no mechanical issues whatsoever.

Mike rides by the mule.

Once the clutch was fixed the trail opened up and we got an idea of what it must have looked like a few hundred years before. The camino real was two to three meters wide, hand paved with flat stones and constructed with purpose built water channels and well engineered switchbacks snaking up the side of the canyon. Mike found momentum to be his best friend so  I was left behind on my smaller bike. I crashed once but found the riding enjoyable and the views incredible.
I caught up to Mike when he stopped at an isolated house half way up the canyon wall. Music was playing and we could hear water running but no one was around. Mike optimistically estimated that we were near the end. Distance-wise we might have been close but he couldn't have known how difficult the trail was going to get.

Mike rides up the tame portion of the camino real.

As we continued the canyon walls got steeper and the camino real deteriorated. As the trail tried to match the steeper contours of the canyon walls some of the switch backs – built for people on foot – had steps making them extremely difficult to ride. Workers were running wires down the canyon stringing them across the trail at the perfect chokeline height. At one point we found the camino real had been completely buried by a landslide and we were left to negotiate a loose, rocky singletrack on the side of a cliff. With every stop, with every technical rock section, our energy levels crashed. It took about three minutes for me to transition from enjoying myself and taking pictures to complete survival mode conserving every calorie of energy and drop of water.

I got stuck on a ledge that my bike didn't have the power to get over, and once my momentum died things started falling apart for me. I sat there for probably 15 minutes trying with varying amounts of enthusiasm to get my bike going. I was thirsty, I was hungry, I was tired, and nothing was moving my bike any further forward. I was starting to think negatively and that wasn't helping anything. Finally I psyched myself up for one big push and got the bike moving. That one small victory got me stoked again, which was good because when I finally caught up to Mike he was in a bit of a predicament himself.

Mike had been stopped by a steep, stepped, rocky corner and had worked so hard at getting started again that he was nearly passing out. We took a couple minutes to gather our strength and then with Mike pushing and me working the throttle we managed to lift, roll, and cajole the bike up the steps in a few efforts.

I attempt to negotiate the corner that got Mike.

That was the last extremely difficult part but we barely had any energy to celebrate as we rode out the top of the canyon and into the town of Santos. I had popped my chain and Mike broke his clutch lever, but our bikes had survived the thrashing surprisingly well. 

Sweating, dirty, and bleeding, we found a tienda on the town square and ordered up some Gatorade, water, and any food with high sugar or salt content. As we started to come back to life Mike told one of the locals we had just ridden up the camino real from Jordan. We were immediately transformed from weird foreigners in a quiet town to crazy dirt bikers with hero-status. Everyone suddenly wanted hear stories, see pictures, and check out the bikes. One guy even wanted to send the pictures to the mayor in the hope some repairs would be made.

We rode the rest of the way to Bucaramunga on normal roads, ate everything in sight once we got there, and I had my second warm shower in as many months at Mike's friend's Casa Guane hostel. I wonder what else my little 125cc two-stroke motorcycle can do.

Tensión! Tensión!

While hanging out in one of the hostels a few weeks ago I talked to a guy who had done some local climbing, and to a girl, Whitney, that wanted to go climbing. The guy's pictures looked awesome so over the next few days Whitney and I talked more about seeking out this spot together.

Getting there

I was trying to slip the trip in between bike tours but it became apparent they weren't going to line up perfectly. Whitney said she was going Thursday so I took one last look at the tour schedule and decided to go as well. If a cool chick wants to hop on the back of my motorcycle and have an adventure in a foreign country, who am I to say no? I bought another helmet, filled up on gas, and after we combined our stuff into one bag we set off.

It took some time to get into the flow of driving on a Colombian “highway.” It's one lane in each direction with almost no straight sections, yet everyone is trying to pass. Coach buses, hazmat trailers, family cars, overloaded dump trucks, and an occasional donkey are all competing for position on steep hills and around blind corners.

Whitney was amazingly patient, even after an attempted pass left us in a very dangerous position. I promised I would never do that again and all I could hear from her was a laugh.

To get to the climbing spot I knew we would have to drive through the Chicamocha Canyon but I was completely unprepared for its spectacular beauty. Cresting a hill and looking to our left, Whitney and I both let out a simultaneous “Whoooaaa” as the canyon came into view.

I hadn't taken my motorcycle on any major adventures before and I was concerned it might not make it. I was right to be apprehensive because about a quarter of the way through the descent into the canyon my clutch failed. We stopped on the side of the road where I was able to cobble it back together so it was at least functional, though I tried to coast the rest of the descent in neutral and I was very delicate with it the rest of the trip.

We ended the first day riding in the dark under a full moon.

The view from our hostel. The cliffs on the right are the climbing spots.

Chicamocha Canyon

The natural beauty of the Chicamocha Canyon is incredible. As we continued descending we passed viewpoint after viewpoint, and since I was just coasting along in neutral I was able to take it all in. One of the coolest things for me was that the whole canyon was green, something I miss living in the American West. At the bottom on the canyon it started raining, but it was a light warm rain and simply quieted the noise of the road.

We climbed out the other side of the canyon, barely catching the sign for our turn to Mesa de los Santos. As soon as we hit the mesa a dense fog set in. It swirled around us as we rode, obscuring any view we might have had from the high altitude. We rolled along through undulating farm land as the sun set and a bright full moon grew above us. I was worried we were going to miss our hostel and was cold from damp cloths but it was still an undeniably beautiful scene.

Whitney spotted a sign for our hostel, where we were greeted by Mateo and Valentina. The told us all about the area and the great views so Whitney and I decided we'd wake up at 5:30 the next morning to watch the sun rise. Unfortunately it was quite foggy but it added an air of mystic beauty. By the time we woke up again at 8 the fog had burned off and we were treated to awesome views. The hostel even had a yoga room perched on the edge of the canyon where we could enjoy a cup of coffee or writing in a journal while taking in the view.

Morning view from the yoga room.

New routes are listed on the chalk board.

Climbing

My first job was in a climbing gym when I was 14 years old, and I've lived in one of the climbing capitals of the world for over a decade, yet I've never gotten into climbing the way I've gotten into other sports. I think this is largely because I'm terrified of heights, but I've spent the past few years pushing myself to get more comfortable in high places. This really paid off when I found myself at the top of a 60-foot wall, which was at the top of a massive canyon. I could actually look around and enjoy the view without breaking into a cold sweat or clinging to the rock with white knuckles. And the view was incredible. Most of the climbing was conservatively bolted Sport Lead so that added to my sense of security. I need to get back into climbing shape before going on any more multi-day climbing trips, but it's definitely something I could get into this summer. 

The Ride Home

Passing trucks on Colombian highways was a traumatic experience still fresh in our minds as we contemplated our return to San Gil. We had heard that trucks don't run on Sundays so we decided that was our best bet and set off. I was apprehensive because one of the Colombians said trucks run all the time, but as we got further and further into our trip without trucks I began to relax.

We rolled into the canyon and then back up the other side hugging the curves and enjoying the views. It was one of those rides where I just can't wipe the smile off my face and want it to go on forever. We stopped at a few lookouts and said hi to some mountain goats before cresting out of the canyon and continuing on.

Whitney overlooking the canyon as we left.

It started raining but the weather was warm so I wasn't concerned...until my throttle cable seized. Open. I pulled over and tried to free it but no matter what I did the throttle stayed on and was impossible to modulate. Our utopian ride was over. Once again, Whitney was amazingly chill and relaxed as we discussed limping the bike home or just taking a bus. We decided to limp the bike home so I started it up and as the engine reved out of control I shifted into gear and hoped for the best.
The rest of the way home I controlled our speed by using my cobbled together clutch – still broken from the ride to the climbing spot – to shift through the gears, in the rain.
Once we were within walking distance I started relaxing, and as we rolled into the driveway I breathed a sigh of relief.

The natural beauty of Mesa de los Santos and the Chicamocha Canyon was so amazing I'd go back in a second. It was unfortunate that the motorcycle had some issues, but it got us there and back so I don't care. And even though I had met Whitney just a few days before, she was an awesome travel partner and her relaxed attitude kept me grounded when dealing with the moto.

Great trip, can't wait for the next one.

-Climbing information-

Location: La Mojarra, Chicamocha Canyon, Santander, Colombia
Nearest city: Bucaramunga
Mountain Project profile here.
More climbing beta here and here.
More information about the national park here.  
Accommodations: Refugio La Roca  
Best international airports: Bogota D.C. or Medellin

Freedom ain't free!

Exploring off the beaten Gringo Trail.

One of the hardest things about experiencing a foreign country is finding transportation. Since public transit normally operates within city centers or goes from one city to another, most tourists only get to see the cities. In the past I've hitch hiked and gone on bicycle tours, but neither of those are great options along Colombian roads. While I can't say it's much safer, I decided a motorcycle would be a great way to explore.

I started looking for a motorcycle a week or two after arriving in Colombia and was astounded at the costs. I learned that Colombia has a very different second-hand ecomomy than the US, and things hold their value extremely well. Craigslist doesn't exist here nor is there anything similar and you'll never find a free couch on the side of the road. This is because there's a very small segment of the population that can afford to make large purchases regularly so when someone saves up to buy a new car, motorcycle, or couch, they hold onto it forever. And if, for some reason, they decide to sell it before it has had all the life beaten out of it there are loads of people looking to buy cheaper secondhand goods.

The motorcycles I was finding for about $2000 were completely thrashed - stretched chains, worn tires, half the radiator missing – and they had tiny motors. Most Colombians ride a 125cc because it's small enough for them to stand over, and because taxes go up substantially when the motor is over 200cc's.

Stoked on my new moto!

It took a while for me to accept that these tiny bikes might be sufficient but eventually I found a 1996 Yamaha DT 125 that seemed in decent condition for about 800USD. I couldn't believe it but according to several Colombians this was “a good deal.” I scooped it up, hoping that if nothing else it would hold it's value and I could sell it without losing too much money.

I rode it into town a few times and found that motorcycles were - from all appearances – immune to the law. Helmets are required but many people perch their helmets on top of their head instead of pulling them all the way on, one way streets are only a suggestion for motos, and motorcycles regularly pass cars and trucks on narrow single-lane streets. (No vehicles stop at stop signs, don't be ridiculous)

A passenger isn't a reason to drive any more carefully.	Who needs a pickup truck when you can carry gas cylinders or mini fridges on a motorcycle.
Splitting between taxis, straight into pedestrians.	Somehow this satisfies the legal requirement for wearing a helmet.

One Friday night I was riding home after dinner and while passing through the city square a police officer held out his hand for me to stop. Apparently they were conducting a sting and stopping motorcycles that night. He asked for my “documentos” - the Colombian equivilent of US registration and insurance – but I had sent my backpack home with Gringo Mike and the papers were in the backpack. In the US this isn't a huge deal – everything is computerized so an officer can look up your name, find if your license is valid while getting a picture of it, and check your registration status. In Colombia that's not the case. Without documents a motorcycle is immediately impounded.

Finally, after a few days of impatiently waiting and then paying a fine, I was able to reclaim my tiny little motorcycle. I had my freedom back!

Aside from the monetary expenditures, one of the things that has surprised me most about living in Colombia is how much time it takes to accomplish tasks. When my motorcycle was impounded the police said I could get it out Saturday so I went to town and checked with the impound lot. They said I had to go to the police station first, so I went there and an officer made a few phone calls before telling me to have a seat. I could see my moto sitting on the street next to the building. After about 15 minutes the officer calls me over and tells me I can't get the moto until Monday.

Repair shops are especially bad – they will quote a certain amount of time to complete a repair but when I call to see if it's done they tell me it will be a little while longer. Eventually I'll go to the shop only to find it wasn't fixed correctly, or occasionally it won't have been touched at all. It is always up to the customer to check the mechanic's work and ensure it was actually done. Frequently the only way to get a repair done is to stand in the shop and wait.

The motorcycle has opened up the Colombian countryside for me, and it's also integrated me into a foreign society in a way that I've never been integrated before. These time and money expenditures can be extremely frustrating for someone used to the efficiency of the US or Europe, but it's part of the culture and that's what I'm here to experience. Sometimes it just takes a few minutes to remind myself of that.

Riding off into the sun.

Life in San Gil, Colombia

I've been in Colombia for a few weeks now and it's been a very different experience than I anticipated.

To begin with, the riding is sick. I apprehensively expected a bunch of dirt road tours, pedaling along super bored with a pack of tourists following along behind, but I was mistaken. The tours that we do regularly are cool and I don't forsee getting bored of them anytime soon. We start at the top of a mountain and ride some of the roughest dirt roads I've seen down to one of the most picturesque towns in Colombia. I always have to be scouting the road for cattle, drunk farmers, and angry dogs. We ride down into a beautiful river valley, then drive up the opposite side for lunch at a viewpoint overlooking one of the largest canyons in the world. Then it's back down the mountain through some small towns and on to a pedaling section rolling past small family farms called fincas. That's a day at the office!

I got that fancy "window office."

There are three guides, and on our days off there's plenty of singletrack to explore. The main trails are called camino reals - essentially 200-year old paths created so goat farmers could get from one town to the next. But don't let the fact that they used to be main transportation arteries fool you – they're about 8-inches wide and “paved” with rocks. Sometimes they're fast and flowy, but they almost always drop off into super technical switchbacks on extremely steep slopes. Some of these camino reals seem like they were purpose built bike trails even though they're hundreds of years old, and others have been modified by local riders with small booters and berms to add excitement. Across the board though they're way better riding than I expected to find.

John wisely dons a full-face helmet for a camino real run.

Just in case the off-road trails weren't enough, I arrived to find a nearly completed pump track in the empty lot across the street. John, a guide from New Zealand, had been working on it for months so all I really needed to do was build some drains to keep it from flooding.

Jamie shows the neighborhood kids what you can do with a helmet on.

Nearly all South American towns are awesome for street riding, and San Gil is no different. There's stair gaps, weird sidewalk transfers, ledges, and drops everywhere. I'm certain there's an amazing wall ride somewhere in town too, I just haven't found it yet.

Jamie ponders just how steep the city streets are.

What's stuck me even more than the riding though is the difference between being a traveler and living in a foreign country. I'm finding that the immediate connections people make in hostels aren't limited to backpackers. It's any expat, traveler, backpacker, whatever. I've hung out in the city square with a foreign hostel owner, had a local restaurant owner and a local firefighter help me buy a motorcycle, and struck up a half hour conversation with a backpacker eating alone. I just wish there was a way to capture the “live for the moment” mentality of traveling and transport it “home.” In the States I don't lock my house and am happy to lend out my car or bike when needed. But traveling takes it to a completely new level – I let a girl I knew for a few days keep my computer overnight because she felt sick and wanted to watch movie, and left my backpack and passport in a “friend's” room, even though we only became friends a few hours before.

I think there's an inherent vulnerability when traveling. I don't know the language, the culture, most of the time I don't even know what I'm eating. So when I meet someone and know something about them, if feels so much more concrete than when meeting people at home. Travelers are always looking for that definitiveness, so we reach out and try to know someone – where they came from, where they're going, and what they've done. Whether that is literal or figurative depends on the person you're talking to.

The best thing about traveling though is it makes me conscious of those connections, and reminds me to cultivate them no matter where I am in life.

Round two in Colombia!

In 2011 I hopped a flight from San Diego to Quito, Ecuador and set off for my first solo international adventure. I met awesome people, saw some awesome sites, and found that I could travel South America for less than rent costs in the States.

One of the people I met while backpacking was Gringo Mike – an ambitious expat from Washington attempting to start a mountain bike tour company with limited knowledge of mountain bikes. I gotta give it to him though, two years down the road and he has a flourishing bike tour company, an encyclopedic knowledge of trails within a 5-hour radius, and rave reviews from backpackers the world over.

Sitting in Boulder this summer I found I could accomplish nearly everything I needed to do over the internet, and decided I should go explore. I emailed Gringo Mike and we decided I'd head to Colombia in early September and help guide tours.

I left Colorado just before a 100-year flood hit Boulder. I always thought the flood warning siren and “In case of flash flood climb to higher ground” signs were weird – we live in a semi-arid desert with more days of sunshine than Southern California. But when I logged on to Facebook after arriving in San Gil, Colombia I saw photos of Boulder I couldn't have imagined. My friends' houses were flooded and streets were destroyed as the amazing power of nature ripped through downtown.

My time in Colombia has been more relaxed than I anticipated, though still full of excitement. I've guided a few tours, learned to drive a natural gas powered car, went swimming in a cascade of natural pools, and built trails. I live in a house with the other guides – John from New Zealand and his English girlfriend, Jamie from England, and Miguel, the mechanic, from Colombia. I've taken some time to get used to “living” in a foreign country, but aside from the construction that was going on outside our house, it's great. We even have two adopted pets – Shakes the trail dog, and L.C. the kitten with a broken hip and ravenous appetite.

Sorry, I can't hear your jackhammer, could you come closer?	Dust from the aforementioned jackhammering
Miguel holds Shakes while John gets ready for the pumptrack.	L.C. the night we adopted her.
This is a multi-user trail.	Driving our natural gas powered Rover.

Introducing the Conation Collective

I'm working on launching a new mountain bike apparel company - one based around the founding principles of the sport itself. Community. Fun. and Entrepreneurialism. Named the Conation Collective, we will produce the best mountain bike clothing on the market.

We're still in our infancy right now so we're keeping a blog on our experience trying to get this business off the ground. We're also trying to build an audience, so any trail head chatter is greatly appreciated. We made it easy for you to share with your social networks too - simply click on the links at the bottom of this email!

Thanks in advance for your support!

- Matt and the entire Conation Collective Team

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The Adventures of Supermoon

About a month ago I went camping in Moab with friends, but rather than spend the waning minutes of day light setting up a tent I decided to build a fire jump. After dinner our attention turned back to the pile of rocks creating a sketchy-at-best ramp, and since it was dark by this point we used a collection of cell phones to poorly illuminate the take-off. After pulling on a full face helmet I decided to give the jump a shot at about the moment our campsite neighbors rolled up intrigued by what was about to happen. The jump was a success and we continued hanging out well into the night before deciding to ride together the next day.

Riding in Moab

Approximately every 14 lunar cycles the full moon occurs at the same time the earth and moon are closest to each other in orbit. This makes the moon appear larger than usual in the night sky and is known colloquially as a Supermoon.

Last Thursday one of my new friends from Moab, Mike, contacted me about a Supermoon climb to the top of a 14er (Colorado term for a 14,000 foot tall mountain) and then a mountain bike descent down. I thought that was a great idea and met him and his friends for the next Supermoon, Sunday night.

Our hike up quickly turned into a slog as our bikes had to be pushed, lifted, and eventually just carried up the side of the mountain. I thought of my bed, and how even the sleeping bag in my car would be luxuriously comfortable. ‘Why do these adventures always sound so cool when they’re really exercises in pain tolerance,’ I wondered. After a few exceptionally steep grades we hit snow and decided to ditch the bikes there. 

My bike spent a lonely night just below the snow.

No longer lugging 30-50 pounds of gear allowed our pace to speed substantially. Mike’s friends, equipped with skate shoes, jeans, and hoodies, set a blistering pace up the trail in a way only Summit County locals can. I was wearing my goggles backwards on my head so the band covered my ears and wearing every piece of clothing I brought when we hit the summit at about 3am. One of Mike’s friends graciously gave me a down coat that was keeping his backpack warm, improving my mood considerably.

Shorts seemed appropriate in the parking lot... less so at the summit.

The way down was glorious. We slid down large patches of frozen snow and easily plodded from one boulder to the next as we got lower, all under the largest moon of the year. To the East a faint glow of daylight pushed over the mountain ridges, brightening our physical and mental outlook equally. By the time we reached our bikes the sky was illuminated enough to ride without artificial lights so we coasted down the mountain enjoying the natural beauty of the raw and wild trail.

Sunrise over the Rockies

The road goes on forever, and the party never ends.

Saturday provided a break in the clouds so I packed my bags and took off from Antwerpen. Jeff had shown me this incredible network of bike paths that spiderwebs across northern Europe in a sort of international connect-the-dots game. It's incredibly simple - all I had to do was go to the website (here), click on the point where I wanted to start, click on the point where I wanted to end, and then print off the cue sheet. I taped my cue sheet to my front rack and started off towards my cousin Greg in Eindhoven. 

So serene

I was slightly disrupted leaving the city of Antwerpen because of construction, but I met up with two old men pre-riding a Trappist brewery tour and they were looking for the same route as I. Once I got into the countryside the only times I got lost were when I missed a sign while sprinting through a yellow light (if you can ever consider what's done on a touring bike to be sprinting), and once when I couldn't believe the route went down a singletrack dirt path. The route followed a canal bike path almost the entire way, and I think the largest hill I went over was actually a bridge.

How do Belgiuns become world-class cyclists if these are their hills?

When I got to Greg's, 130km later, he was in the middle of fixing his friend's Dutch around-town bike. I was presented with the choice of checking out his relatively small town of Eindhoven, or rallying immediately and taking a train to Amsterdam. One of the things I learned in Colombia is that if you're going to spend a night in a big city, it should be a Friday or Saturday. It was Saturday so I got a quick shower and we were on our way.
Then Amsterdam happened. We got home at 8am.

Days abroad can not be wasted, so I woke up a few hours later and started checking out Eindhoven. Greg and I rode around town for awhile before passing the stadium where the local team, PSV, was playing. We posted up at a tent across the street with food and beer, and stuck around until just after canisters started exploding in celebration of a goal.

Greg pointed to a concrete tube connecting the stadium to the train tracks and explained that if the hoodlums get too crazy the visiting team uses that to get out safely. Fortunately there were no riots after this game.

That night we hung out in the town square. Bars lining the street set up huge seating areas in the square where you can get the full menu, but sit outside. It was a beautiful spring night to sit and catch up with Greg since we hadn't really hung out as adults ever.

I thought I'd leave Eindhoven Monday morning, but with the clock continuing to advance I decided it would be better to wait a day. I did some grocery shopping, checked out the feasibility of going to Norway or Sweden, and hung out at a bar called AltStadt that had free Wifi.

I think Greg and I were riding the only bikes in town without a chainguard

On to Antwerpen

Riding Belgiun backroads

When I went to sleep after leaving Paris I saw lots and lots of red lights blinking about a kilometer or so away. Upon seeing the landscape in daylight, I realized they were all windmills. I was slightly disheartened realizing I was starting a ride across France's windy countryside, but it turned out much better than some of my previous windy touring days.
There were lots of small towns, and lots of war memorials, and lots of pedaling, but generally my second day was uneventful. My biggest surprise was finding I had crossed an international border into Belgium without so much as a street sign. All the license plates went from having an FR designation to a B, and that was it.
I rode a few more kilometers and then found a huge field to sleep in, right behind an American chain hotel. I woke up in the middle of the night feeling rain start, and quickly pulled my tarp over my gear and myself. The rain stayed light through the night but by morning it was raining steadily and socked in. While I generally try to eschew American institutions abroad, a rainy morning is no time to be proud. It's amazing what a little bit of bandwidth can accomplish, and after a few Google searches and VOIP phones calls I rode to the train station where I was wisked away to Antwerpen.
I was headed to Antwerpen to see my friend Jeff from Pennsylvania. We met 10 years ago when I shadowed one of his work days for a high school project and he hasn't been able to get rid of me ever since. On one was home when I arrived - apparently a highway bridge collapsed, there was a major gas leak, and a steel factory exploded spewing molten metal all while he was trying to take a friend to the airport. Some combination of this shut down the main highway in Belgium leaving them to drive around in circles for about four hours with two children in the car. Yikes!

Poured to the top, without spilling a drop!

This is a bar with character

I spent a few days hanging out with Jeff and his family. I crushed some cobbles, checked out a dirt jump park built through a WWII anti-tank fort, and sampled a restaurant style that is both awesome and troubling at the same time - the "frituur" where literally everything except your drink is deep fried. Mostly though I just enjoyed the Belgiun culture and tried to stay dry.

Dirt jumps in the shadow of a WWII anti-tank fort

I don't know how Belgiun people stay healthy with these restaurants around