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Today finds me on a bus, headed for Denver, due to arrive home late this evening, almost 2 weeks ahead of schedule. A variety of personal and business issues came together at once, which necessitated me heading home. I was wondering where to head next anyway, so it was a good time anyway.

Coming home was a bit of an ordeal. I spent three days in a row on buses, from Parral to Albuquerque, NM. It was like being in one of those adventure races. I can’t count the number of times I loaded and unloaded my bicycle, shoving it and my luggage under buses, or taking it all apart to fit in the trunks of taxis in the large city of Chihuahua. I slept a night in a 100 peso/night ($9 US) shithole, sleeping on a lumpy spring mattress with a torn, threadbare sheet. I arrived at the border bedraggled (it always helps to look your best), having forgotten to convert my pesos back to dollars or to clean and check my bags for wayward fruits and vegetables and other food items. I spent two nights in Albequerque, and then took another 12 hour bus trip to Denver.

Leaving in such a hurry, I didn’t have much time to mentally prepare for the end of my time in mexico or my return to the US. Within hours of having crossed the border, it was as if Mexico was a faint memory. I felt the same way coming back from Asia on my last trip. It’s a vague sense of loss, of emptiness, as though the wonderful experiences I had just had had been ripped away, and replaced with a handful of photographs and snatches of narrative.

In the few spare moments I’ve had in the past several days, I’ve tried to reflect on the trip, and figure out what I’ve taken away from it. My spanish has certainly gotten better, to the point that I don’t feel completely helpless when it comes to basic travelling tasks. I still have no clue about verb conjugation, or how to form past or future tenses, but I can ask directions, and barter, and order food, and plod my way through the basic chitchat about where I’m from and where I’m going.

One of the questions I like to ask about a trip, is “What have I learned, or how am I different after this trip?” For this trip, I think the answer is about biases and prejudices towards Mexicans. Not only did I come to realize how much subconcious prejudice I had towards Mexicans, but also how unfounded it was. And it wasn’t only in myself I relaized prejudice towards Mexicans - it was American society in general.

There seems to be an unspoken, and sometimes spoken, attitude that Mexicans are lazy, dangerous, uneducated, or somehow unfriendly. I also realized how much I associate hearing spanish with minimum wage type service jobs, such as janitors and gardeners. Sitting in a hotel room in Gomez Farias, I heard some rapid spanish drifting in through the open window, and subconsciously assumed it must be one of the housekeepers, not even really thinking about it. When I looked up, I saw it was another of the guests at the hotel, and instantly realized how unfair my assumption was.

My first few days in Mexico were spent on high alert, my nerves on a hair trigger. I’d heard too many stories of highway robbery and corrupt federales to think anything else. Yet, every time a scary looking Mexican, dressed in the standard white cowboy hat, plaid shirt, jeans and boots stepped towards me in what my adrenline-ridden state thought was a menacing manner, they in fact turned out to be very friendly and welcoming, in that quiet, unassuming, reserved manner that seems unique to Mexicans.

Throughout the trip, I had nothing but warm welcomes and friendly, curious people, wanting to know where I was from, and where I was headed. It wasn’t abnormal to pedal into a one street town, headed down the main strip, and have a low riding pickup with heavy bass throbbing from the open windows pul up along side me.

“Hey man, where you from?”, a smiling man would yell over the chest rumbling music. “Denver? I worked in Silverton for three years.” More often than not, if I wasn’t pressed for time, they’d pull over, and we’d talk for a while, about my trip, about what working in the US was like for them, about immigration and papers. I’d hit them up for advice on where to stay, and what road conditions were like further down the road.

Children in Mexico were very well behaved, often a bit shy, and very polite. They were often curious about me and my bike, but just as often, were more interested in hunting for treasures along the side of the road, or heading to the local arcade on their bicycles. A few spoke decent english, and others were too shy to even speak Spanish with me. Every so often, I ran into a kid that was interested in helping me out, for a bit of pocket change, whether by showing me where the hotel was, or watching my bicycle for me, or, in the case of Habierto, playing tour guide and bicycle watchman.

My bicycle odometer shows 913 km, which is more or less accurate. Not anywhere near the 2000-2500 kim it would have taken to make it all the way to Mexico City, but still nothing to be scoffed at.

Some small things I learned along the way:

• At 35 mph in driving rain, gortex has more in common with a wetsuit than a rain jacket.
• The magic of internet and internet cafes has not reached everywhere (it was much scarcer in Mexico than I had thought)
• Never trust road conditions or mileage from anyone who isn’t a cyclist, unless you have several independent corroborations.

I’ll be following this up in a little while with a mileage log. Probably not of much interest to anyone else besides cyclists, but gives total daily mileage, and often mileage of important things, like food, water, hotels, internet access, and bicycle shops. All things I like to know about when I’m on the road.

A few stories I wrote in my little notebook I carried in my pocket that I wrote while I was in the hospital, which never made it to the blog:

Everyone here seems to know everything about you - “Were you in Ascencion two days ago? I saw you there.” or “My cousin talk to you in Zaragosa yesterday, and he said you were riding all the way to Mexico City.” Sometimes it’s a bit creepy, but it’s also reassuring, as it would be hard to disappear without everyone knowing where you went and what happened to you.

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It’s a real mix of eras here. It’s not uncommon to see a horse and rider riding down the main street, in front of pharmacies and stores sporting countless Coca-Cola signs, being passed by brand new pickup trucks and minivans.

Dogs are everywhere, and at least half are really into chasing bicycles. There’s nothing like trying to outrun a 100 pound pitbull on a bike with panniers that way 60+ pounds, all while looking back over your should and yelling in your best alpha dog voice. I haven’t had any really close calls yet (I managed to stop the most menacing looking pitbull dead in his tracks with a particularlly fierce yell), but I’m definitely beginning to understand why so many cyclists carry pepper spray and/or rocks. I’m also rethinking my decision to turn down the costly ($500 for 2 years) rabies vaccinations.

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Sitting in a pan of vinegar and water propped on a toilet, naked, gown and IV bottle in one hand, head propped in the other - the model of dignity.

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Thanks for reading, I hope it was as enjoyable to read as it was to write.

Until next time, safe travels.

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