The Little Gringo who Could

Oaxacañian children waving and shouting "hola amigo" or, from those with a weight of culture and learnedness behind them, "waz up man" will tell the tale of the little gringo who could when they are silvered and bent with arthritis. They will tell of a gringo who for four days danced up one side of their mountains, only to fall down the other. They will tell how he sweated through the searing mid-day heat of their valleys and battled through the oppresion of the humid, black skied mountains, disappearing into the clouds only to reappear with a sea of sweat and condensation in his beard. They will tell how the gringo put away the comforts of home: sleeping among the chickens and the turkeys, camping in fields of sugar cane, curled between the roots of trees.

Upon the dawning of the fifth day the little gringo had 140 km to reach his goal, a bed in Oaxaca. "This is not so very far " said the gringo to himself. Then the gringo felt the wind in his face, "ah that will make it tricky". Then the gringo saw that there were only 10 hours of daylight in which to make his way "this will make it hard". Then the gringo consulted his map and saw the mass of brown and gray through which his mountain road would run "this cannot be done". But then the little gringo thought "if you were of this country, would you be a Mexican or a Mexican't?", he was not sure but he knew that he would have the answer by the end of the day. And so the little gringo clipped into his pedals and headed on his way. All morning he turned his cranks, fighting the hills, bouncing to start with, punching the pedals when he grew tired. The road wound so much that as often as the wind was in his face it was at his back and after four hours he had covered half his distance, he would make it! Just as he started to believe this his back wheel dragged, all the air having been leaked from a puncture. Then a bolt on his front rack sheared. However the little gringo did not lose faith: he changed his tyre, he secured his rack with twists of wire and he climbed bck into his saddle. He had lost an hour and still needed to stop for food. However among the mountains there was no food: the Tienda's were baire, having been stripped over christmas. And as the little gringo lost energy so his pace slowed. But as despare was beginning to dawn on him he encountered a little Tienda that had bannanas for sale, "perfect" thought the little gringo. He reached into his pocket but all he had was a $500 note and the owner of the tienda said to the little gringo "no hay, cambio". The little gringo was crest fallen and seeing this the owner of the tienda, a kindly old woman, took pity on the little gringo and gave the bannanas to him. Re-energised the little gringo peddaled harder than ever and with an hour till the sun set he had merely ten km's to cycle. After half this time, the little gringo stood on a rise looking down into the city of Oaxaca, he had made it, he was the little gringo who could! However the little gringo who could, could not, the next day, walk. That is ok, he made good friends with his bed and the sofa.

Maincourse Mexico

After the h'orderve that had been Baja California and my break on beach and boat I was keen to sink my teeth into the delicious looking main course of mainland Mexico. As much as I had enjoyed Baja it had felt like an American annex, not so Mexico's Pacific coast. This was full on, my tentaive Spanish received looks of puzzelment, whereas before they would have ellicited a conversation in Spanglish; the roads where bursting at the seems with every type of vehicle from truck to donkey pulled cart and the humid intensity of the heat meant a drink stop every ten km for a refreso or ice cold coconut milk. All this I was expecting and loving; the liveliness and colours made a welcome change to Baja's montone desert. What I had not expected was the generosity of the Mexican people: my first night I camped on a beach in front of a bar, no sooner had I asked if it was ok for me to stay there then a beer was thrust into my hand "para ti amigo, gratis", "muchos gracias". This generosity has been echoed ever since: fruit is regularly added to my load, breakfasts are bought for me, bike mechanics refuse payement. I have twice been given free hotel rooms, although once I had to turn it down because the road was beckoning and the other time I spent half the night listening to the couple next door getting aquainted with admirable persistance. I quickly climbed away from the coast into the state of Jalisco, home to the town of Tequila, and into fields of agarve and huge mountain valleys. Unfortunately I had to follow the main road from the coast to Mexico's heartland and as a result I was twice introduced to the state's ditches by passing lorries. After this I hit Michocan and a whole load of cyclists, they were everywhere in the towns and even a few with flash road bikes on the rural roads. This made for much more pleasant cycling as the lorries no longer held such sway over the tarmac. My first major city I stayed in was Morelia, I had meant to stay for a lunch time and ended up staying two nights. This was partly due to the beauty and life of the city, looking its best on the weekend before christmas and partly due to the people I meet there, which entailed me sweating out an aching hangover heading onto the most beautiful road I have traveled in Mexico. This road wound from Morelia up through a nearly vertical, pine coated valley, into the heights of central Mexico, where the country's two major mountain ranges collide. The heighest I reached was a pass of 3500 m on boxing day, having seen in christmas day in a cantina, which would be flattered by a description of grot hole, but had the fine destinction of a roaring fire, and spent the day visiting the winter home of the Monarch butterfly. These creatures travel from Canada and Northern USA (essentially I've been cycling as fast as a butterfly, hhmmm) and amass in these mountains in such numbers that they can break the branches of trees with their weight. After this awesome display I headed south to Taxco a stunning city perched on a bowl of a cliff. It is fair to say that I had been getting a little lonely over the christmas period, despite the generosity and kindness of the people I met, the scarcity of a flowing conversation (my Spanish is still about the level of a toddlers) and a feeling of going nowhere had me questioning the whole point of this trip. So I decided it was time to get back to the basics of this journey: spend all day, everyday, cycling, camping wherever I met dusk and if this meant spending New Years in a field with an arrogant turkey then so be it. Thus was born the tale of The Little Gringo who Could...

Hats and Dogs

The question of what to wear on your head is one which I know occupies most peoples every waking minute. However for the touring cyclist there is a very practicle aspect to this question. Most cycling magazines will now not allow pictures to be published without the subject fully helmeted, in many countries it is a legal requirement to wear a head case and drivers everywhere will furiously smack themselves on the head if they see a cyclist daring to go bare headed. Despite this some of the most experienced cyclists I have met don't even carry helmets let alone wear one. Why not?! I can hear the nanny state straining at its legislative leash. Well there are a few (sensible) reasons, beyond the superficial one of not wanting to look like a tool: research has turned up the interesting fact that more accidents, involving cyclists, happen to those wearing helmets. The suposed reasoning is that drivers think they won't hurt the cyclist if they hit them; well a helmet doesn't prevent road rash and broken bones. Some cyclists, me included, believe that if you get smashed by a lorry traveling 70 mph, best case scenario from wearing a helmet is ending up in the cabbage patch with the other vegtables. I don't want my headstone reading died aged 40: 22 years with a working noggen, 18 with mush for brains. Much rather have: died 22, living. Or better yet es prohibe hacer agua aqui. Or even better: so long and thanks for all the tequila. The other side of the coin then is if you get hit at 30mph, then a helmet could very well prevent a date with a coma. So I like to take the middle road, I carry my helmet and when I'm getting into urban areas wear it (not very proudly it must be said) but on the open road I take my chances and when neccasary hit the ditch and take a long drink of muddy water for my troubles. The other benefit of being helmetless is allowing me to show off my superb Union Jack bandana. When worn pirate fashion, I like to think that, twined with ample facial hair, it gives off a certain je ne c'est quoi.

The subject of personal safety brings me roundly to the animosity; nay hatred; nay loathing that exists between the cyclist and the snarling satanic pooch . The birth of the dispute is lost in the mists of time but the present situation makes the troubles in the middle east look like two kids falling out over who's turn it is to go in goal. I have been chased more times than I can bear to think of and it is a pleasent suprise to go through any settlement and not receive an hear splitting hollering for pedalling blood. So of course cyclists have their methods to deter the canine from its aim of sinking its teeth into that juicy thigh or calf that has been engorged by months on the road. Many carry a pump strapped to their frame, not to have easy access to firmer tyres but to be able to put metal to snout without the hassle of dismounting. Others like to use projectiles: rocks are a firm favorite but are a pain to carry so you must then stop and hope there are some to hand; one cyclist I met spat in the dogs faces, which he assured me stopped them dead (he reckoned that he was so practised 9 times out of 10 he could hit them right between the eyes). I have been handed a can of pepper spray by an ex-postman. My usaul method is to unclip from the side of attck and take a good swing at them with the reinforced toes of my cycling shoe, this worked fine untill I was beset on by a pack of three dogs, one coming from each side and the third in front stopping my progress. I escaped by edging one of the dogs into oncoming traffic (the fucker dodged the trucks) taking a swing at the one to my right and riding through the third (at this point I'd like to say, for those animal welfare types out there, no dogs have been hurt or killed in the riding of this journey). I also like to mix in my own snarling, hollering growl right back at the dog, accompanied with bared teeth and steely battle eyes a full bloodied charge is often turned into a hurried retreat. Imagine my surprise then when one cyclist told me she just calmly talked to the dogs saying drivel like "it's ok dog I won't hurt you" (with pump clutched firmly in hand behind the back). At the best of times I'm a cynic but this was clearly the worst advice I'd ever come across, I mean peace talks haven't exactly panned out too well in Gaza have they? However I decided I would put these doubts to one side and give it a go: next time I rolled up to a snarling dog, foaming at the mouth with blood lust, hatred blazzing from it's eyes, I turned to face it and buda like uttered the, enourmously stupid, phrase "it's ok perro, calm yourself" the hatred turned to suprise, its rump hit the tarmac in puzzelment and the foam trickled down its jowls in utter confusion, the snarl turning to a perplexed whine. Unbelievable it actually works! Since then I have been a complete convert and talk to the dogs like I'm helping a jumper from his ledge. However I have to admit that after passing through your tenth village of the day and the tenth bombardment of barks it feels ridiculously good to let off your best full blooded battle cry and see the dogs running, tails between the legs. I think I'm starting to see why the peace process in the middle east isn't working so well.