Mainland MEX

I've been admittedly sweating the blog backlog a little bit. Sorta stuck. And overwhelmed as too many things have happened (and keep happening) to stay sufficiently current. My tendency to meticulously organize anecdotes and overshare as much as possible is not sustainable. Thus, procrastination results, which is only compounded by the things happening/accruing while in a state of procrastination. Our noble intentions of reading and writing in the evenings are usually obliterated by one too many tacos, a shared ballena (32oz'er) and/or a conversation leaving our heads spinning, resulting in a frantic post chitchat SpanishDict translation session. Given all the variables, I'm usually not feeling particularly clever when my notebook finally opens onto my pillow..Zzzzz. As Aidan and I sat in front of a roadside gas pump the other morning though, plopped on dingy, plastic Corona-branded chairs, sipping Nescafé out of styrofoam cups, diligently convincing yet another dog of our ability to provide it a good life in Portland, only to be met with enthusiastic eyebrow motions directly mirroring the pastry moving around in my lap, having a good laugh about a misinterpreted cock fight flyer taped to the tienda window, it all just sorta made sense. Don't. Overthink. It. Just embrace it as it comes. And celebrate the seemingly unremarkable moments. Even if it means reporting back that cultural highlights include shitty coffee consumption out of irresponsible vessels and a misread flyer, initially leading you to believe that someone had taken the time to xerox an announcement for their L O S T  C H I C K E N when, unfortunately, the adorable clucker pictured is actually ring bound. Fate sealed, either to earn someone some petty cash, or, more realistically, for a public dismemberment by way of pecking. And, at the very bottom, to CALL TRINI REGARDING ANY COCK INQUIRIES. All this before 10AM. Pedaling aside, we haven't got a clue what each day will bring. The unpredictable supporting details are the story. I'm slowly learning to curb my neurosis and surrender control to the fluctuating nature of it all.

You do have a vague idea of what to expect after reading other cyclists' accounts. Tales of seemingly bottomless generosity, cultural immersion and human connection are popular blog topics. And, of course, it all sounds so lovely. It's easy to project how those experiences unfold. Seems simple enough. Step 1: Initiate conversation. Step 2: Smile, a lot. Step 3: You get the idea. An admittedly gross oversimplification. And completely naive to how special these interactions would actually be. The warm n' fuzzy full-body high that results from a positive connection with another person is undeniable. Not to mention contagious. Caught daydreaming from the saddle about how we might pay it forward. Loose plans of a guesthouse for travelers in Portland, assuming we ever get our shit together enough to own a home. Or this idea, or that idea, or etc. Seeking a long-term solution for incorporating more of that warm feeling into our lives. When a complete stranger returns an ear-to-ear grin, or tosses you a driver-side peace sign amidst a brutal climb, or invites you to their table, or into their home, or trusts you with their entire restaurant, or in their daughter's bedroom, or with the keys to their house, it simply makes me want to be a better person. The exchanges do not get old, nor will we become desensitized. Each one is unique. And propels my body and mind to keep moving. Kindness is the new caffeine! The details surrounding each and every exchange are vivid, thus connecting the trip dots in a way that landscape alone simply cannot.

Certainly those unsuspecting gentlemen who graciously shared their shrimp platter will not go forgotten. They turned up at our roadside beverage break locale and, without hesitation, motioned for us to join their midday feast. They'd later legitimize their refusal to split the bill by stating that they were civil engineers. A profession that did not match their physical description, nor was in my Spanish vocabulary before an hour of muscling jumbo shrimp down the hatch. Or the woman at our roadside coffee stand wearing vibrant lipstick, a tiny bedazzled denim vest and a red lighter wedged strategically in her cleavage. Definitely won't forget her. Or that lighter, which dipped to meet my eye level with each and every unsolicited taco she stacked in front of us. She never asked if we were hungry, but just assumed. A little shocked at the generosity literally stacking up in front of us, she stared right at us as if to say "they-are-tacos-just-eat-them-you-frightened-gringos" all while motioning for us to dig in. Or the Fabioesque French surfer who invited us into his gorgeous boutique hotel for a few days of rest and surf. When that hair (and those muscles) sat down opposite Aidan and I at the fish taco stand, neither of us could have predicted the outcome. How quickly it becomes apparent that people simply cannot be categorized by appearance, or rather by your perception of them. There have been countless outpourings of generosity from unsuspecting characters. What a beautiful reminder to take the time to get know someone before assuming you have them figured out.

We've also learned pretty quickly to never say no. Do you want to try this thing that I said so fast in Spanish that there's no way you understood me? YES. Would you like more of the thing? YES. Would you like to get into the back of my truck? DEF YES. Would you like to sleep at my house? Or rather in my driveway? YES. Or maybe in my restaurant bathroom? YES. Would you fancy an intestine taco? NO. Fine, YES. Regardless of the offer, saying yes forces you into a vulnerable place and out of whatever sort of comfortable routine you may have established on the road. Aidan and I both get a bit squeamish when someone does something nice for us. We're working through it. Trying to get better at receiving unreciprocated generosity as the payoff of a glimpse into the inevitably dramatic cultural differences existing between a privileged city in the Pacific Northwest and poverty-stricken, rural Mexico are absolutely worth it. An entire country that we've barely scratched the surface of and it's already been humanized in a very powerful way. Kumbaya.

Honestly though, in the spirit of the full reveal, it's fucking exhausting at the end of a long day to keep the smiles and Spanish translations a' firing. We grab a cheap room sometimes. You would too. After cycling and interacting with people all day, day in and day out, there are times when the body and mind simply need a door to shut. We constantly remind ourselves that mustering the energy, when at all possible, to just put yourself out there, is worth it. Upon reflection over the past 70 or so days, these (authentic we'll call them) experiences are the ones that stick out as being a little (read a lot) awkward/uncomfortable/miserable in the moment, but are transformative, if not simply amusing after gaining some distance, and thus perspective. For the sake of context, one such account of hospitality as it were: Massive language barrier. The family was particularly difficult to understand due to their location in the country and heavy slang usage. Fast talkers too. We set up camp in the driveway of their roadside tienda, adjacent to the family truck's new engine and accompanying oil slick, just far enough from the bottomless bird cages to be out of bullseye range, but of course not too close to the hamburger food cart, which was taking the night off. Smelled of day-old indulgence. Mom sat on her bed and stared out the window at us for hours, seemingly unphased by prolonged eye contact as we set up the tent, read, changed, slept. How many times can I smile and say buenas tardes in an evening before it becomes obvious that I'm uncomfortable? Dad's contagious cackle rang throughout the property. He kept reenacting a big boxing match on TV, one pretend punch to his throat, then another to his side, then explosive laughter. Over and over again. At some point in the evening, wingmanless while Aidan was where "he belonged" in the driveway, with the men of course, helping to hoist the engine neighboring our tent, I found myself charading all cliches associated with the state of Alaska to an audience of six female family members. I'm not super outgoing so this went pretty much how you're picturing it. The experience in its entirety wasn't comfortable per say. One of the hottest nights yet, starfished on steaming concrete a stone's throw from the main highway. Given that Aidan sweat through his sleeping pad in the first ten minutes in the tent, I'm going to go out on a limb and say he'd agree with my use of bleak descriptors. As someone with a bladder the size of six-year-old, I consider myself a bit of a bathroom aficionado. It is with all the confidence of a well-traveled, frequent pee'er that I report the toilet this particular night to be one of the worst yet. A horror scene, especially when the harsh headlamp beam uncovered what the darkness was hiding; oversized cockroaches darting from inside the makeshift plywood hole, in every which direction. Up walls. On the ground. And on to me for all I knew. Another high knees "no fucking way" dance followed. In the end leaving me no choice but to get creative elsewhere. The perverse part of me wants to elaborate, but I am a lady and simply think some antecdotes are better left to one's imagination. Especially those involving a spare grocery bag. Yeah, pretty memorable evening.

We're always sorta searching for that happy medium, existing somewhere between fully immersed and just the right amount of miserable. Mostly just enjoying the inherent challenge of traveling through a country whose language we still know very little of and by a mode of transportation with very real (physical and mental) limitations. I can't remember the last time my body felt so taxed and my brain so stretched from scrambling to put it all together. The highs and lows of traveling are legitimately dramatic. My emotions have been, let's say varied. I blame PMS and Aidan, the mathematician, questions whether 10+ times in 2.5 months is actually possible. I say anything's possible. Mathematics be damned.

And now, tomorrow morning, we head south from Guadalajara after a few days of rest at the Casa de Cylistas, yet another place that goes above and beyond for bicycle travelers simply because they are good people. We're humbled and appreciative of all the generosity. Guadalajara is a place that would be easy to post up for a couple weeks. After an all-time jam session last night with some new friends/ talented musicians wherein Aidan somehow ended up solo'ing the vocals for George Gershwin's "Summertime", I feel that we've sufficiently left our mark and the road is calling. Just a couple a' gringos with no beat doing their best to contribute. I, armed with a rice-filled plastic egg, shaking it when I felt like it rather than in any sort of rhythmic fashion. So, with that, we're out. Enjoy a smattering of photos below. And since I've been hogging the iPad, Aidan's thoughts to follow soon. 

Viewpoints are few and far between in Mexico and, as a result, we weren't the only ones stopped to take in the hills of Mascota below. 

The mountains east of Puerto Vallarta are as steep as they are green. 

Nature! 

Fully-loaded wheelie. 

No HOA in Mexico. 

Who wore it best? 

Sayulita, Mexico. 

Rainy season rewards. 

Thanks to our friend Kate for chasing us down the street to capture a rare photo of the two of us riding together. 

A few hours before the most exciting thunder/lightning storm of the trip (so far.)

A few days after the storm and still not a sign or cone in sight. It's these types of obstacles that work in our favor as they encourage driver awareness.  

Impressive bridge...and neck tan. 

Outside La Estancia where we'd have our first taste of Raicilla, Mexico's moonshine. 

Fence posts where you can find them. One of Mexico's consistent examples of just making it work.  

Laundry lines where you can find them. 

Urban oasis. Tepic, Mex. 

Hitching post.

Not in the desert anymore. Outside Miramar, Mex. 

All shapes and sizes. 

Highway hideout. 

Somehow the veladoras always seem to be lit.  

More roadside memorials than is comforting although the intricacies are gorgeous. 

Aidan for scale. 

Pannier-sized puppy. 

Shitty coffee and cock fight flyers! 

L O S T  C H I C K E N

Important churro update. 

For the moms. 

And lastly, this.  

Last of Baja

Handful of photos from our last week on Baja. After a few of the hottest/hilliest days of the trip thus far, we were rescued for a surf timeout by our friends Scotty, Marissa and cat, Fang. They graciously shared their home (pictured below) with a coupla' filthy cyclists for a relaxing stint in San Juanico/Scorpion Bay. Although we threatened to move in permanently, they eventually dropped us where they'd found us and a few long days later we pulled into La Paz where we would board an 18-hour ferry to the mainland. 

4 humans, 2 bikes, 10 bags and a cat. There was a considerable amount of dismantling to make it all fit. 

Aidan and Fang Part I.

Aidan and Fang Part II.

Excited to be out of the saddle for a few days. Really excited.

Corey Menzies photo. Corey subsidizes a portion of his surf travel by selling photos out of his van. 

Another Corey. Given the level of surfing, these were freebies.

Recreation station.

Scotty putting the scorpion in Scorpion Bay.

Uncomfortably close.

Tara playing it cool.

All dressed up to celebrate Mexico's independence.

We've been referring to the sun as the blazing hell ball. Here it is at 7:15AM pushing 85 degrees.

Last of the Sea of Cortez views before crossing over to the mainland.

Las Pocitas homestay. Well, we camped in the driveway anyway. 

Catcus

And lastly, Tuly, our host in La Paz. Infamous in the Warmshowers community for her consistently gracious hospitality. 

Heat, Hurricanes and Mangos

Photos at the bottom. After the words. Lots of words.

TARA'S VERSION:
Our official entrance into Mexico was somewhat emblematic of the international portion of our trip thus far; a skosh scattered. And butterfingered. As my bicycle and I stood helplessly wedged in the revolving carousel door/gate/fence designed specifically for pedestrians, I grew a bit flustered at my inability to "play it cool" and "just blend in." Lumbering gringo with oversized object is stuck, please use other door. Only able to steer my fully-loaded rig to and fro a few inches at a time, a seriously exhausting 16 or 17-point turn resulted. All while trying to appreciate the humor in not actually knowing which country I was (technically) loitering in, feeling officially out of my element and slightly bafoonish as Aidan snapped prohibited photos from afar. WELCOME TO MEXICO. BIENVENIDOS! 

To describe our border crossing and ride through Tijuana as anything less than nerve wracking would be a disservice to the number of high speed (emission test-less) vehicles, confusing signage and poor road conditions. It was intimidating. You read about these experiences beforehand in hopes of giving yourself a leg up, but online accounts never adequately prepare you for the real deal. And just like that, post revolving door snafu, finally headed the right direction (down) the highway, the trip had legitimately begun.

Anyways, we absolutely got into the car with a stranger on day one. Why waste valuable time heeding the sensible advice of so many caring, cautious folks? To be fair, our choice to defy common sense allowed us to bypass roughly 10 kilometers worth of an infamously dangerous stretch of shoulderless border-town highway. And the stranger, although indeed strange, was a lovely, if not certifiably crazy woman in a minivan with CAUTION tape loosely adhered to and whapping from her rear bumper. Armed with a cheap emergency flashlight in broad daylight, our highway hero was hauling her elderly mother and lanky dog, Bombo, to the grocery store for shampoo and biscuits. Hardly threatening. It is worth noting, however, that we were not hitchhiking and the ride was not our idea, nor our choice, technically. The driver/stranger pulled over, thus blockading our sketchy side-of-the-road-quasi-route and frantically exited the CAUTION-mobile, armed with the aforementioned I-mean-business-flashlight, and ordered us into the van. Her motherly yet maniacal tone was just familiar enough to be effective. We obeyed almost without considering our options. Or consequences. Before we even had time to unbuckle our helmets, seats were collapsed, cargo reorganized and our lives jammed into any available nook and/or van cranny. And off we went. Within mere moments, the CAUTION tape trailing behind the vehicle seemed hilariously fitting. And helmets not such a ridiculous thing to (still be) wearing. The woman's paranoid-stricken, horn-abusing style of driving that she'd later (generously) refer to as "spirited, yet defensive" was indeed white knuckle worthy. The first words out of her mouth once everyone and everything was (sorta) safely secured in the vehicle were to "Never get into the car with people you don't know in Mexico, it's dangerous." She rattled conservative, cautionary tales for the duration of the drive, accusing us of everything short of sheer stupidity. She wasn't wrong per se, but also didn't quite have us figured out. Although a bit clueless, we weren't entering a foreign country in a complete state of ignorance. Were we? After dropping us off in a mini mart parking lot, she snapped a few photos for the Facebook and went on her way. An entirely selfless, although unnecessarily dramatic act. Aidan and I exchanged glances from our parking space drop zone, encircled by the panniers we had feverishly removed from our bicycles in order to load the strange van as quickly as possible as to be anywhere but the side of the screaming, unfamiliar highway. Glances that said a thousand panicked words. The experience, although well-intentioned was a real rattling entrance into our first of many foreign countries.

And we've basically just been winging it ever since. 

No shortage of compromising and/or unexpected situations.

For starters, it's both hot season aaaaand hurricane season. Simultaneously. A twofer. In my complete disregard for responsible pre-trip reading, I never once came across this useful information. People tend to avoid the entire peninsula May-November. "Too hot" the locals explain. Oh señor, you don't gotta tell me dat it's hot. I know it's hot. Evidenced largely by the midday stars occupying my line of vision and the fact that I've cried six times today. As if the salty water cascading off the rest of my body was simply not enough excretion. Internal panic alarm sounding off. Dogs love to lick/kiss this salty treat though. In my completely fatigued, delusional mind, the pup and I are actually having a sincere moment. Leading to conversation(s) with Aidan about how "this one" really feels like the right dog for us. Brain too cooked to realize I'm being taking advantage of for my sodium content. I am, however, growing increasingly nervous for the carnivorous birds continuously circling above our bicycles. Is all they see a slow-moving slab of well-done, salty meat? There have been hills where I've thought, "Just do it all already, get it over with, lift me up by your freaky little talons and lets go for a breezy ride." As if all of this isn't enough to entice folks to change their Baja bound flights, I've got news for everyone arriving in a few months, you can keep your tolerable temps because we are smack dab in the middle of mango season. All you planner types are missing mango season. And. The. Mangos. Are. Delicious. 

We've endured a slough of other compromising situations, most of which, when regurgitated, sound more like complaints than stories, especially given our recent ride through the wake of a seriously destructive, perspective-forcing hurricane. Know that the complications and gooey details are compounding though, layering upon themselves, guaranteed to result in gringo gold eventually.

Difficulties aside, our days are largely filled with infectious smiles, memorable interactions and completely unexpected sources of delight. So, in the spirit of keeping it (mostly) positive, I confess:

When Aidan reveals after a seriously-swampy-desert-heat-dungeon-80-miler that he's had his padded shorts on backwards all day, I'm overwhelmed with a completely refreshing sense of comic relief. I needed that. "I really needed that," I thought while battling the thorny, rocky, inhospitable surface for a good tent spot. Sorry about your bum though. Among other things.

Or learning that "call" in Spanish is llamada (pronounced ya-mah-da). Call ya mada. Anyone? 

Or being completely caught off guard when our Warmshowers host who, after housing, laundering and feeding us out of the goodness of his heart, appeared out of nowhere near the edge of town, post morning-after driveway farewells, with a block of cheese hanging out his driver side window...the block of cheese we'd accidentally left in his fridge. The man fed us homemade tamales, rice, veggies, dessert, breakfast smoothies and packed our panniers with homegrown garden bounty. None of this prevented him from heroically returning the chilled snack block to its rightful owner. Aidan and I, shocked at his ability to further out-do himself, agreed that if someone had left cheese in our fridge we'd greet the situation with a warm, but matter of fact too-bad-so-sad-where-the-crackers-at-? 

Or shouting Spanish-isms back and forth to one another amidst a long day in the saddle. Phrasebook open atop Aidan's handlebar bag. Pocket dictionary wedged under my sports bra strap for lack of any actual pockets. Often just responding with an enthusiastic, yet clueless, "Siiiiiiii" when I don't know what else to say. Or simply don't want to play anymore.

Or riding through what most deem "Dr. Seuss-like landscapes" because there's simply no other way to describe the fantastically wacky backdrop.

Or getting lost in nonsensical math problems involving kilometers, pesos and roughly what percentage of your current BMI is comprised solely of a tasty corn/flour combo. You can literally wrap anything in a tortilla and it will taste good. Anything.

Or falling asleep, gazing through the roof of your fly-less tent at what can only be quantified as a gazillion twinkling stars.

Or celebrating desert dookie's delightful alliteration.

Or cracking into a fresh bottle of homemade horchata made with love and LOTS of sugar.

Or cracking into a fresh jar of peanut butte------but you saw that one coming.

These are the tidbits and moments that keep the pedals moving. Even when you feel like the flesh might actually be evaporating off your bones. Or when the thought of one more thick chug of hot water from your sun-blasted bottle makes you physically shudder. These simple, yet joyous moments have a powerful tendency to erase the unpleasant ones. 

And now, we're here, "taking a day" in the touristy (yet currently abandoned) town of Loreto. Vacant no doubt due to mango season. Hiding inside an air-conditioned room with the shades drawn. Don't jump to down-and-out conclusions. I, Alaskan by blood, raised in recreational snow caves and Aidan of equally arctic backwoods Maine descent, simply need a day to lower our core temps before proceeding south. 


AIDAN'S VERSION:
9 miles-per-hour is pretty accurate. 8 may be more so, but it's a little depressing and, although 10 makes the math easier, it generally encourages overly optimistic dinner times. I'll stick with 9 mph as our average pace.

For perspective, if we do a day of 70 miles -- like yesterday, say, when it was 100 degrees -- it's a fair guess that it will take 8 hours of pedaling. That's not how long we are out on the road, that can always vary. Yesterday took closer to 12 including luncheria stops, desperate shade seeking and cold bev breaks. But to go the distance, it takes 8 hours of butt-on-seat pedaling -- like a workday's worth of Bikram spin class, if such a thing existed. 

Of course now that we've joined the rest of the metric world, our pace is irrationally warped. We are definitely speedier chasing km's in Baja. We pass more of them more often, which equals faster. 

Whatever it works out to, it is a near perfect speed to watch the world go by. Just fast enough to cover some real ground and slow enough to get a good long look, a snippet of conversation, or a hefty waft of someone else's dinner which, by my estimate, we should have been eating hours ago. 

That's not to say we can take it all in at cruising speed on a bicycle. My friend James Mammele, our host in Stinson Beach, called it out best. Recognizing the similarity of some of our 9 mph observations to his own bicycle tour, he commented how one tiny event or observation can shape your experience of an entire town, city, day, etc. It's embarrassing how accurate this is. Monterrey? No good, too many sketchy people (one). Stewart's Point, just above the Sonoma Coast, perfect, largely due to a sticky bun. Or, more broadly, all the towns on the afternoon of Aug 30, total crap, too tired. 

I realize it's basic human nature, when armed with a dangerously small bit of knowledge, to form an opinion about something (or somewhere.) I know this because we hear it all day long from all sorts of people. Tell anyone you're on a trip like ours and you'll likely get the one random news bite they carry with them in regards to the 12k miles and dozen countries through which we plan to ride. It's almost encouraging when all of the warnings start to sound the same, almost. 

Side note: approaching bike-helmeted strangers in a grocery store parking lot and telling them the scariest story you've ever heard about Mexico is a pretty strange habit to be in, imho. 

The challenge is to ignore the hype, give it a second look, slow down a bit, or wait to see it by the light of day and come away with a better understanding. It's come up so many times already, it's damn near thematic for the trip. Crossing into Mexico, and having things really begin has provided all sorts of chances to disprove what we've been warned against. It's also shed light and perspective on experiences from earlier in the trip. 

California was easy. Sure, we did a few days of long miles and a few times ended them in campsites that looked like trash piles but we felt comfortable and at home on the road. Big Sur was probably our best Baja preview. Goofily narrow roads, plenty of traffic, and, of course, the Sobrenas Wild Fire that threatened the area and changed the dynamic of our presence on the road. We'd been warned further North that we'd have to end our ride in Monterrey or take a bus all the way around. There was apparently no way through. More than that, to go through would be irresponsible and disrespectful. It is difficult not to overthink these kinds of warnings, especially with 8 hours of head spinning pedaling per day. And although I may be a tad notorious for said overthinking, it did force the question of what it means to travel through a place where "staying out of the way" is a priority. 

My rationale: of course we're enjoying one of the most scenic places in the country, too, but we are definitely not the ambling rental minivans and droptop Mustangs plugging the highway for the fire crews. Like, so not them. HWY 1 was necessary to complete a larger goal. Our presence on the road was about connecting points A and B, a subtly lost on the justifiably angry local who caught us gawking at ridgeline smoke just outside the town of Big Sur and joined the list of those who have instructed us to "go the fuck home". Going home isn't really an option, was one thought. And the other, we get it. No one wants to have their very real life treated as spectacle. I imagined trying to explain how we're not like the others. At least we didn't feel like them. How could we be as we felt that slightly inflated sense of entitlement that comes when you've hiked to the top of a mountain others have driven to. Or, later, still on HWY 1, when suddenly we were the spectacle. Tourists pointing their cameras at the sweaty additions to the odd-Disney-style-zoo experience that is the Big Sur coast -- the fact that we were devouring bananas and pulling the odd insect from each other's hair not withstanding. 

In Mexico we are definitely outsiders. A spectacle to say the least. Gringos on parade rolling by at 9 mph, biking a weird line between tourist and traveler, trying our best to blend in while wearing orange safety vests. 

The struggle began pretty much immediately at the San Ysidro/ Tijuana border crossing. Tara's bike needed to be shoved through the pedestrian carousel - a mechanism designed for humans at the controlled rate of one-at-a-time rather than a full-on Austin Power's parking struggle. Sure of what was most important, I stood back with the camera to document. We had also yet to practice explaining where we were headed in Spanish. After some stammering about Guatamala, a fee and a stamp, the conversation ended in "listo," which I recognized enough to start pushing the bike toward the baggage x-Ray operator, who, seeing my bicycle was technically not a bag and therefore didn't need to be x-rayed, waved us through. Listo!

Beyond not knowing the language or how to use doors, two other oversights have added to our experience thus far: the first, it's hot. So hot that we're two of only a few currently biking Baja -- a solid three months before others start showing up -- so some are a bit surprised to see us. The second is that it's hurricane season. A fact that was brought to our attention when I received a text message from Scotty and Marissa further down the peninsula suggesting we "Might wanna board up the windows of your tent." Whatever that means. 

The following days brought every version of advice from locals, non-locals and of course, digital weather watching outsiders. We ended up making a very savvy call on our accommodations. Camped behind a hotel owned by a wonderful family, we were told in a surprisingly clear storm-pantomimed-conversation that "it would probably rain most in the mountains," "do what we thought best, but use logíco." My absolute favorite kind of advice. We stayed in the desert with them and were treated to dark clouds, a bit of wind and a double rainbow at the storm's finale. 

Of course, not all are so level headed, and two days later as we crossed from San Ignacio toward Santa Rosalia, a gringa lady stopped in the opposite lane (with a car coming behind her) to inform us that there was a hurricane where we were going, with mud, destruction, dead people, and to not go! And, after Tara thanked her for the advice, and the woman saw it wasn't sticking she yelled an additional "Turn around!", before eventually speeding off. Stomachs on the pavement we looked at each other without a clue as to what that was, or what we should do. There really wasn't a 'turn around' option. And, again, we were on our way through, not just tourists looking for the beach. But to be in the way or hinder a cleanup was just about the last thing we could imagine doing. She all but ruined the ride to Santa Rosalia where we found, yes, mud washing through a number of roads, the tragedy of damaged property and a serious clean up effort underway, but also by and large a population of perfectly friendly people going about their lives and clean up effort, totally indifferent to bicyclists making their way through town. There were definitely no dead people. I later checked the news to find that three people had died down where the storm hit hardest 8 hours south in Cabo San Lucas and two more out at sea. Her own agenda, her own experience, whatever it was that compelled her to scare the crap out of some people doing something she didn't fully understand. It felt especially good to slow cruise through Santa Rosalia and see the city doing well through our own experience, at our own pace. 
 

SPF 50 is simply not strong enough.

Pushing in to Playa Coyote.

Vultures on cacti

Bahia de Concepcion.

Playa Coyote abode. We had the place to ourselves due to a classic off-season, post hurricane combo.

Palapa dinner prep.

They got the crawdads on Baja.

Waiting out Hurricane Newton in Vizcaino. Photo by artist/hotel owner, Fabiola Ibarra.

Hurricane damage in San Ignacio. 

Casa de Cyclistas. San Ignacio.

Bagged beans, oh boy!

A man is never too far from his hot sauce.

Refusing my request to act natural.

And lastly, THIS.

Baja Norte

Quick photo update. Sort of in order. Currently taking a day to rest in Guerrero Negro after back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back days of desert pedaling.

Baja Gothic

Our first evening in Mexico. So clean. So clueless. 

Spectating a very sketchy takeoff. We can only assume that he landed somewhere safely.

La Misión 

Strange, but relaxing campsite. 

Part waterpark, part campground. We received some not-so-savvy intel about camping here. Long and the short, we paid a premium for the water slides but left before they opened. 

Dinner and dirty shorts, mmmm.

Moments before this moment, the Coca Cola truck in the background passed another semi taking up both of the oncoming lanes and leaving us pulling cactus thorns in the ditch. We both swore oaths to never touch the stuff again the rest of the way into town. Sun blasted and staring off into space outside the mercado a local man stuffed a 1.5 liter (!!) bottle into my hand, ignoring my protests as he gestured to his own 1.5 liter. Oath broken, near tears at his generosity and left to sift through the levels of irony for the remainder of the evening's ride. 

No idea where the dirt ends and tan begins.

Surf timeout at Cuatro Casas Hostel. The owner's been off the grid, running this place for 35ish years.

Surf spectator zone.

Aidan and Sanchez had the place to themselves allllllll morning.

The waves got better and better throughout the morning, but the camerawoman grew tired of her perch on the bluff. :)

San Vicente. One of many snack pit stops.

After the eight mile surf detour on 4WD roads/sand, we were delighted to get tossed around next to farming equipment and barbed wire on the way back into town. Gracias senor!

First official push of the trip. Soft, deep sand. A little insulting after a long day, but refreshing to get off the main road.

Our gracious Warmshowers host in San Quintin, Gabino. We left fed, rested, showered, laundered and full of optimism that there are more people like Gabino in this world. 

Gabino's fresh fig bounty.

A scene all too familiar these past few days. On the far left, a trucker memorial complete with the hood of his cab and prayer candles. The mangled guard rail and "curva peligrosa" to the right, and the remains of the cab itself, below. With no one interested in cleaning up the pieces that don't have value the debris remain to complete an almost complete scene and haunting roadside reminder. 

Navigating prickly terrain in search of a good tent site.

The real question is what haven't we wrapped in a tortilla at this point...?

Impromptu bike stand.

Enthusiastic about dromedary bag shower.

Blocking out the last hour or so of blazing sun before setting up camp.

Watch. Your. Step.

Quiet, peaceful, private nook complete with an incredibly starry sky.

Some people just aren't cut out for life on the road.

We rode past this the day after watching local news coverage of Trump's visit to Mexico. Trust levels are understandably low at the moment. Thanks-but-no-thanks for making the trip a little more tense, Don.

We've been carrying roughly two gallons of water each through desolate areas. With added weight comes added piece of mind. Every so often a roadside oasis appears and we take a break from our hot water reserves to chug an ice-cold bev. 

And lastly, THIS.

Baja bound

We're still out here.
It's been almost a month since our nearly symbolic neighborhood departure, which really messes with my sense of time.
In a way, the job-quitting/life-flipping/honeymoon period has concluded and the reality of what we've committed to is emerging.
With the easiest (or at least most familiar) stretch technically behind us, it's bound to get more interesting from here on out.
The stories will be less tame.
(Sorry mom and dad.)
And the experiences more absurd.
We're eager to get (even further) out of our comfort zones and begin the real problem solving portion of the trip.
Spanish still minimal.
Asses no less chafed.
Appetites no less raging.
Enthusiasm steadily increasing.

In the spirit of disclosing perverse details -- those shedding light on juuuuust the right amount of miserable, in turn providing you a refreshed sense of appreciation for your current life situation, whatever that may be -- I divulge. And apologize for those hoping for exhaustive observations of the natural world. Know that, in summation, it's been really, really pretty so far. 

Firstly, thank you to all the new moms out there who offered sincere diaper rash suggestions. Knowing, all self deprecation aside, that I actually needed to be mothered through the discomfort. Between that itch/sitch and an unpredictable variety of other ailments, I've now officially purchased every embarrassing ointment/cream stocked at your local supermarket. The same selection of once-practical-joke-but-now-prescribed tubes that Aidan used to sneak into the basket with our otherwise unremarkable grocery selection in an attempt to cause cashier-facing panic. Flustered, "Oh I don't actually want that, I mean I don't need that, I mean, I-didn't-put-that-there-how-did-that-even-get-in-there-?!-crazy, ha.....ha....ha." There it goes down the conveyer belt, juuuuust out of subtle snatching distance, not the slightest bit camouflaged amongst the mostly produce lineup. Might as well have a blinking light attached to it. Those pharmaceutical solutions are never cheap either. Insult to injury. 

Ointments aside, challenges and discomforts have been aplenty. When not "discreetly" squatted on the side of busy highways in a safety orange vest, I essentially live for public bathroom sightings. Some experiences better than others, but largely foul thus far. When a questionable (read super duper sketchy) man exits the women's grocery store bathroom, after you've been impatiently clenching, cross-legged outside for ten minutes, with his hands innocently surrendered above his head claiming, "I didn't do that, it was like that when I went in there," you ask yourself how bad it really has to be to deny your now-throbbing bladder the relief it demands. It's all relative these days. 

We spent over two hours in a SoCal Urgent Care in order to diagnose what could only be described as grossly mangled hands. If you want to be treated like a total freak, turn up to a clinic armed with a mysterious rash. They. Are. Terrified. No one wants to check in patient zero. There was even a sign taped to the front door addressing all rashees: IF YOU HAVE A RASH, DO NOT ENTER THE BUILDING, SEND SOMEONE INSIDE TO ALERT THE RECEPTIONIST. I ignored the sign because they couldn't possibly be talking to moi. As a result, quarantined to an exam room to finish my paperwork. (At the risk of down-playing the story, the unsightly outbreak was merely a contact allergy to some of the materials comprising my handlebars. I. Am. Not. A. Monster.) Back to the store for yet another tube of shame.

Squeege the reg' (region/reej) is a term now applied to any sort of south-of-the-border sprucing. Because, like everything else, personal hygiene is now subject to a sliding scale of cleanliness standards. We've merely skimmed the surface of our ultimate filth potential. And we know that. So it may come across as soft when I choose words like pungent, damp, burning, slimy and so on as descriptors. Because we know it's going to get so much worse. Like the time in Nepal, a few weeks into a backpacking trip, when I felt a strange nip twitch-itch. Knowing full well that ignorance is often bliss, I tolerated this tickle for over an hour before curiosity finally guided my hand into the depths of my sports bra, consequentially setting a oversized moth free. Did not remain calm and carry on. Couple gag noises mixed with panicked shakes, wiggles and high knees. There's probably a fittingingly crass joke about that moth being lucky, or something. Unfortunately the intimacy couldn't possibly have been a picnic for that poor fella as showering up there was not an option. And this, this is the drastically low level of awareness we anticipate achieving. A level of filth causing one to legitimately lose track of what's going on, or rather living, beneath your base layers. Ew. 

Part of the joy of traveling with someone is reciprocated commiseration. And reevaluating a situation, whether pleasant or unpleasant, through another's lense/perspective. Aidan's well-timed comment amidst a hot sloggy push, "I feel like we are cartoon characters." He briefly explained the thought process behind an otherwise sorta random comment. Brilliant. And oh-so-true. We're out here, in the same disheveled outfits every day, riding continuously through a strip of interrelated scenes, some more outlandish than others, briefly interacting with periodical-worthy personalities. Forming an ongoing narrative. Speech bubbles occupied with @#$%&!!'s and quippy one-liners. Thought bubbles crowded with exaggerated food illustrations. What a gloriously positive interpretation of riding bikes all day every day, adorned in increasingly filthy, but recognizeable garb.

Of course it wouldn't be fair to rattle on about perverse hygienic details and cartoon-like existences without delving into the most memorable aspect of the trip thus far; the people.

For better or worse. 

I've always believed there to be two type of people in this world; those who get it and those who don't. While this theory validates itself often, a sub category of those seemingly categorized as the former, but able to be broken down, has surfaced. Someone whose human side is accessible, but simply requires navigating a stone-walled exterior. These folks, with a little legwork, are willing to "make an exception." And have an ounce of compassion and understanding that, in the face of adverse conditions, rules are made to be broken. Damn. The. Man.

The Verizon representative did just this during our contract-cancelling conversation. Another heel-dragger task saved for the last possible US-soiled moment. (Setting aside at least an hour after my virtual vacation with the bank guy in Portland ran long.) In the painfully impersonal situation of dialing corporate's 1-800 number, it can be a fool's errand to convince the voice on the other end that you are a human being, with a real story and legitimate reasons for wanting to disarm your domestic iPhone before it occupies it's fateful position somewhere near the bottom of your (now abroad) bag, used every so often to tell time, convert the metric system and/or maybe post a photo. And that's about it. Hardly legitimizes a hundred bucks a month. There's a technique for appealing to these folks whose underlying goal is to do their job, and do it well. It's usually just glossy enough a tone to be personable, but not crossing into ass-kissing territory. People can smell the bullshit through the Bluetooth earpiece. The agent and I began the conversation on a discouragingly formal these-are-your-options-as-read-directly-from-my-manual level before I resorted to subtly/strategically mentioning the bike trip, which led to curious, basic inquiry/chit-chat. Which led to the agent's fascination with Olympic triathletes. Perfect. I've got an in. Kinda. Which led to warnings of dirty water. Which led to roundabout references to Into The Wild and her Midwestern motherly plea for me "not to eat the berries down there." "Down there" in reference to anywhere outside the United States. And to "watch out for all the robbers." She reemphasized, "Lotsa robbers down there." "Oh, yes ma'am," I replied in a respectful, but casual tone. I will play along with your relatively narrow-minded advice because I can tell you are trying to relate. And no ma'am, I will not eat the berries "like that guy did in that one movie where Eddie Vedder sang" (her words, not mine.) And yes ma'am, I will be careful of all of the robbers even though robbers and/or dickbags exist everywhere and do not all originate from Mexico as your tone suggests. What began as a routine, scripted back-and-forth slowly transformed into a hilariously memorable conversation about basically everything exciting and/or scary that this woman had ever seen on the TV. (An admittedly unfair, dickbagish assessment.) She kinda didn't get it, but was clearly trying. And obviously compassionate. And that counts. And yes, she waived my $350 contract termination fee. NBD.

There have been countless good-willed, good-intentioned folks. Unfortunately, with the good inevitably comes the bad. Or rather the stubborn. We've encountered people on both sides of the rule-abiding fence, truly appreciative of those, on side A, who understand that one size does not fit all and shit simply happens. While those on existing on side B, we are less thrilled by. Those who look us directly in our distraught eyes at 7:06PM after riding 80+ miles, our fourth straight unbathed day, and tell us that, "The showers close at 7:00 sharp and them's the rules." Hands are tied. Sir, false, your hands are not tied. You're in charge. You are the boss of those shower keys visibly dangling from your belt loop. Don't let anyone tell you differently. Alas, we used wet wipes that night and snuck out pre-dawn in an operation much more covert in our imaginations than in reality. We. Showed. Him.

And now we're here, in Laguna Beach, at Aidan's grandmother's cozy oceanfront condo (thanks Pam/Tamara/Rick/Adeline), living the indulgent life for a brief stint before officially crossing south, mentally converting to kilometers, ditching unnecessary gear and finally digging out that Spanish dictionary from the bottom of the left rear pannier. An important stopover to regroup and reflect on what's been a truly amazing trip so far. So often we find ourselves engrossed in a moment, celebrating something seemingly silly like the mirage-like unfolding of an unexpected Mexican market through heat waves on the horizon amidst a blood sugar crisis, or an out-of-character fist pump from a passing Ferrari, or the absurdness that is elephant seals (haven't giggled like that in years), or a bathroom with hand soap, or a fresh jar of peanut butter and the number of miles it will inevitably fuel, or a "date shake" recommendation turned blush-worthy conversation, or dolphins jumping Lisa Frank-style off the Big Sur coast, or simply connecting with friends and family along the way, all of whom have been the most outrageously gracious hosts. Gracias y adios!

Thrilled to have use of a full-sized kitchen after weeks of one-pot campstove meals. Janet is less enthusiastic. Thank you Wallis for the top-notch hospitality!

Ventura abode.

Surf sesh for Aidan. Pummeling for Tara.

Missile park picnic.

Laguna Beach loiter.

Our first ride of the trip from Santa Monica to Studio City. Thnx Clay!

Clay rode with us from Studio City some 75 miles to Laguna Beach. A welcome addition and our first official ride-along.

Long Beach luncheon

Stocking up on a few "essentials" before crossing the border. 

Laguna leg-stretcher

"DOES ANYONE ACTUALLY USE THESE THINGS?!" Aidan gasped with a compromised lung capacity due to machine misuse.

Spoiling nice moments since 1985.

Top bun does Laguna.

Central CA

Couple a' CA photos (again in no particular order as operating solely on an iPad has been limiting.) We'll figure it out. Currently stationed on a friend's porch in Ventura, giving our bums a breather and our shorts an overdue laundering. Words in the works. XO.

Moments before the dolphin show. A magical (yet sadly smoky) morning in Big Sur. 

Aidan: What day is it? 
Tara (with confidence): Tuesday
Aidan: How did you know that?
Tara: Because yesterday you told me it was Monday.
 
We're a mess.

Housed among the eucalyptus.

We arrived to Montana De Orro in a state of desperation and diminishing daylight. The host saw the crushing disappointment in our faces after breaking the news that they were at capacity and have never offered hiker/biker sites. Although clearly our fault as we hadn't done our homework, she caved and graciously put us up in a partially washed out, former motorcycle spot at a heavily discounted price. There are those willing to bend the rules and those who are not. We've come to really appreciate the former.

Armed with the shmear stick, taking it all in.

The bandito ventilator was more effective at glasses fogging than air filtering.

Although Google maps really nails the bike route directions sometimes, we're excited for printed maps and confusing navigational conversations/charades south of the border.

First flat of the trip. Mile 1200ish.

Aidan's POV

Classic one-potter

The one on the left requires less outlet scouting.

Strawberry fields forever...

San Gregario, CA

Navigating

Super duper important update: We are now hauling two varieties of nut butter. That's all.

Coincidental engraving discovery mid snack.

And lastly, we aim to inspire when we urge you not to resist when weaknesses become strengths. Donut power is real.

Initial Impressions

Tara's version:
The final days of trip prep disappeared.
Tending to a few seriously heel-dragging tasks. 
Found myself in an unnecessarily complicated telephone conversation with a Wells Fargo representative, rattling off all the places potentially crossing paths with our loosely planned route in order to create an "official travel report." Funny that they employ the same automated check-box system for a trip spanning the length of the Americas as they do Robert's business overnighter to Miami. "Or-e-gon...Cal-i-for-nia...Mex-i-co...Gua-te-ma-la..." This slow, overly enunciated listing went on until the customer service agent and I had traveled alllllll the way down to the tip of Argentina together, over the phone. Ahhh, that was nice, now please don't freeze my trip funds. Between frantic computer to-do's and procrastinated insurance plan shopping, I managed to prioritize an entire episode of the Bachelorette our last night in town, pint of coconut bliss ice cream in hand, 100% unapologetic.

Although friends threatened to send us off with celebratory streamers and champagne poppers as we crossed the bridge, enthusiasm waned after word spread that we were scheming a weekday pre-dawn departure. An appropriately Irish goodbye followed said rumors. The route out of town took us through our old neighborhood (thanks to a couple of friends still living down the street who graciously housed us for our last few nights.) With every metaphorical intention of riding past our old house, the scene of the roommate-turned-relationship crime, we missed it by one block and rather than backtracking fifty yards on a 13,000ish mile journey, Aidan just shouted "symbolism" as we (almost) rode by. Full circle. Kinda.

To pedal out of town on the same route that I used to take into work every morning was an all too fitting figurative bird flippin'. A ride often filled with desk-bound dread was now the starting point for something huge. Up and over the Broadway bridge and past a solid, seemingly endless line of opposing commuter traffic. We stopped briefly at a red light next to another young couple on bikes who took one look at our load and asked, "Where are you guys headed?" Without hesitation I said, "South America, you?" The guy sheepishly replied, "Uhhhh, work." Right, bonehead question. Like when I tell the desk agent at the airport to also have a nice flight. Knee-jerk response. "Well, have a nice day," I offered, perhaps too little, too late as they were already part way through the intersection. An interaction I'll forever remember as our first of the entire trip.

Really had it handed to us on day one. Mid 90's, real feel temp of well over a hundred. A term I learned living in Thailand pre-monsoon when the real feel temp reached 138 degrees for almost a week. Forever cursing those polyester uniforms and thick bangs that took me ten years too long to grow out. Our first day was one endlessly sweaty climb after another. We ran out of water, pretty classic. I self-diagnosed some variation of heat exhaustion after experiencing deep chills, an unsightly rash and heavy heaves in place of any sort of normal breathing pattern. I did, however, have just enough breath to occasionally shout/moan, "NOOOOOOO" at the sight of unfavorably steep terrain on the horizon. Aidan was out of earshot, but I'm pretty sure that at least one of those onlooking cows sympathized. When we finally arrived to camp some eleven or twelve hours later Aidan exhaled something along the lines of, " I cannot remember the last time I worked that hard." My response was to the similar tune of, "That might be the sweatiest I've ever been." Pretty fucking miserable, but a fitting initiation nonetheless.

These first couple weeks have unfolded as an invaluable warm up period, both physically and mentally. Much more a well-oiled machine than when we departed. Tasks have been delegated, partly by default. And partly inherent skill set. I'm the food inventory/menu planner/camp cook person. Aidan's more the stove operator, coffee initiator, general fix-it guy. We take turns with the tent, although my roll is arguably slightly tighter. It's not a competition. What was a competition though was the game of gin rummy one of our first nights where I hung Aidan out to dry. BOOM. We haven't played since. It's definitely not a competition though. Our mornings have streamlined to an efficient multitask force of water boiling, gear sorting and oatmeal stirring. Opting out of any sort of clunky coffee device, we simply use pour over filters that require the collection of two perfectly sized twigs in the morning in order to suspend the bag o' grounds from the edges of our vessels. I usually fixate on the mugs in impatient anticipation as Aidan very carefully alternates between the two, pouring juuuuust the right amount over cup A before moving onto cup B and then back to A, then B. A, B, A, B. My mouth waters and bowels twitch at the prospect of starting the day off right (read empty.) Everything is a process. This will only become more true the further away we get from familiar places, things and routines. Gone are the days of handing a barista a couple bucks and in return receiving a piping hot, perfectly pulled treat. Excess grounds, the occasional kamikaze bug and a variety of tree schmutz now adorn the beverage's surface rather than any sort of intentional artistic expression.

Aidan has a theory that there's no such thing as being tired, it's just low blood sugar. Proven effective so far. An important discovery as we're both admittedly temperamental pre snack. Temperamental could be an understatement.

We've learned thus far, in abbreviation, that peanut butter is power, period, adult diaper rash is no joke, close minded hillbillies (at this point in time/location) seem much more intimidating and irrational than the infamously feared south-of-the-border drug lords, simply asking someone is still the most effective way to acquire information, RV's suck, period, coin-operated showers can rudely leave you shivering, disrobed and fumbling through the foreign currency you accidentally packed, raccoons are cuter on YouTube than in your food bag, no one actually needs more stuff than can be carried on a bicycle, Taco Tuesday can cook up any day of the week -- alliteration be damned -- and it's the people and places you least expect that prove to be the most memorable in the end. While the places seemingly grandiose or otherwise magical on paper are rarely deserving of the spotlight. Golden. Gate. Bridge. The highs/lows are just as uplifting/discouraging as anticipated. I've only publicly cracked once. It was brief, maybe a twelve tear spill. Our bodies have been put through the wringer these first few weeks. An adjustment period if you will. It's overwhelming. And challenging. Albeit insanely rewarding. It's so many things all at once. The one thing though that it's not is boring. And for that my enthusiasm grows exponentially each day.

We've been on a west coast tear, covering ground, visiting friends, adjusting to our new lifestyle, leaving very little time and energy for reflection. When our heads hit the sleeping bags, they hit real hard. We'll slow down at some point. Until then, stay tuned and enjoy Aidan's take and a random smattering of images in no particular order. We'll get better at that part too. And since there's two sides to every story, see Aidan's transcription below. But know that my sleeping bag roll really is tighter. XO. 

Aidan's Take:
Getting out of Portland in and of itself was a feat. The days leading up to our departure date were stuffed with obligations both pain and pleasure. The pain: selling off furniture in strange Craigslist dealings, long trips to our tiny storage unit -- chosen for its price over proximity -- and scrubbing moldings in our old apartment in pursuit of the immaculate inspection -- I.e getting our security deposit back. The pleasure was doing our best eating tour of Portland, meeting friends whenever they had moments to have a meal, coffee or a drink. The culmination of these being our bon voyage evening that we unknowingly co-scheduled at a bar alongside the "Portland Young Professionals" mixer. They had a banner. We didn't. Any opportunities in, like, a year? A perfect send off, regardless, and a last reminder of all the great friends that make Portland home. I am/ we are deeply grateful to those who made leaving possible. From storing things, to feeding us or just double checking that we didn't leave the oven on (seriously) thanks. 

Even with all the help the abstraction of the "bike trip" quickly turned into an ominous countdown clock. One of Tara's many strengths is her ability to meet a calendar date through planning and hard work ahead of time. I, on the other hand, excel at being distracted and then worrying late at night about those things not yet done. This trait left me buttoning up bags, bicycle and all obligations that require a "desktop computer", while Tara slept in the next room. The result was a 1 o'clock bedtime daunted by the T-minus 4:30 am alarm set, perfect priming for the day Tara describes above. Unanticipated hills, 95 degrees and soberly watching as the abstraction of the year ahead blurs into view through sunscreen smudged sunglasses and whatever it's called when your eyeballs start to sweat. 

All that to say, it helps to have a short memory on a trip like ours. Even better to distort those memories only holding on to the good and blocking out the bad. Which, I'll admit I may be doing when I say it's almost universally great so far. Fun, exhausting, deeply rewarding and stunningly beautiful throughout. Buttt, I have had sometime to think on some of the less favorable portions of the trip. 

Vehicles. We are on roads all day long, vying for space on the shoulder, at a third, a quarter, a fifth, sixth, or seventh the speed of regular traffic. By and large, we are treated with space and respect. There are, however, some worst offenders. Here they are listed below in reverse order of terribleness. 

5. Honda Accord (or similar midsized sedan) 3+ heads visible. Typically young and visibly in conversation or on phones (or both) as they blast by with minimal clearance. Though not malicious, you're sort of sure they are Pokémon Going to run you off the road.

4. Commercial Trucks. Busy, fast, boxy or dumpy. They have places to be and faith in their ability to get there. Their indifference is both courteous and terrifying. 

3. Diesel and Lifted. Pick-up trucks with dual exhaust and the accompanying stickers demonstrating the owner's disgust with ______. If they are so nice as to slow down (or if they are forced to) their return to speed is loud, and with the additional exhaust, feels a bit like you're conducting DEQ tests with your wind hole. Sub-category includes sometimes malicious window yellers insisting we "get a job/a car/ or off the fuckin' road". 

2. RVs. Oh, RVs. So many sizes and shapes it's hard to narrow it down. The worst offender is a long box, like an oversized stick of butter (an object familiar to its driver, no doubt), and painted like a brown and white Asics running shoe. Often, they have unintentionally ironic names like Windjammer or Shockwave and/or *beautifully rendered airbrushed scenes of the wildlife they are tearing past. 

1. Logging trucks. A class unto itself. In Oregon they carry Doug Firs and pull with a fury that has no regard for space, road condition or the well-being of anyone or anything. In California, Redwoods, whose bark peels off and lines the shoulder like hairy hunks of flesh making the shoulder not only narrow, but spicy with obstacles. Looking forward to replacing logging trucks with Chicken Buses etc. 

*Towing addendum:  

The above list remains largely intact when consideration is given to the towed object. 

Honda Accords rarely tow things. 

Commercial trucks apparently are all available in double long. The double dump being the worst offender. Its especially long tow attachment and my naive tendency to believe the truck has passed, only to be blown by again, make it uniquely exciting.

Diesel and lifted definitely tow. We had the pleasure of catching the tail end of DuneFest while passing through Winchester Bay in Oregon. Many, many orange flagged buggies waggling behind their roaring towers en route home after helluva week dunin'. 

RVs also definitely tow. The brown butter box can often be seen pulling a near full-size SUV with two bikes on the rack and kayaks on the roof making the overall operating length somewhere North of a quarter of a football field...

I never knew logging trucks came in double long. They do. And, while intimidating, one can assume these drivers have licenses and jobs that require they make it where they are going with out maiming people. 

So, if you then consider the lack of any professional operating experience of the RV driver, add in the tow variable, then these nonmasted land ships with dinghies behind, take the crown for the very worst of the road. 

Stay tuned next time for the social hierarchy of motorcycles and waving etiquette...

Off to a scorching start. 

Hard five. 

Morning routine.

Sunday's Taco Tuesday

Cape Blanco was worth the detour.

For the folks.

Wayyyyy overdue.

Typical lunch spread. 

Feverishly digging out the last scoop of peanut butter. Jar count: 6. 

Caught snacking. 

Campsite bounty.

Oatmeal. Every. Morning. 

Blue Blossom Farm Warmshowers stay. 

CA crossing. 

We blocked bridge traffic for this shot.

Particularly exceptional lunch zone.

Bananas are merely vehicles for as much PB as possible. 

About 90 miles into a 100 mile day, smiling on the inside. 

Gracious/adorable Stinson Beach hosts: Sara, James and baby Jonas.

Stinson Beach abode.

We're doing it.

Still no better off with Spanish.
Only slightly more equipped with bike knowhow.
Tying up our last few loose Portland ends.
Currently perched on our apartment's only remaining piece of furniture, an unaccompanied, Craigslist-castaway blue chair that we take turns sitting on. I'm a morning person though so routinely (read successfully) claim it pre-brekkie. Aidan's left to do business from the makeshift sleeping-bag-turned-bean-bag situation in the opposite corner of the room. The unjust reality being that he's actually working and I'm likely getting my daily Amazon Prime fix. (2 days. ANYTHING.)

We've been eating breakfast every morning on the Amazon Prime box that our bike tires arrived in. Actually, Amazon shipped each of the four tires in separate boxes, which seems insane, but we're grateful for the array of surfaces to dine on. I still set the "table" the exact same as when we had a heavy-duty-family-of-four fixture, insisting on a comprehensive condiment selection, fully loaded French press, our favorite (read heaviest) mugs, all causing the table's corrugated center to consistently cave. Well-seasoned, amply sauced eggs though.
 
The last few weeks have been an exhausting, yet liberating blur of preparation combined with a little procrastination. Sense of time is all out of nine to five whack. It took about a day and a half to completely lose track of days of the week. Evenings have dissolved, spent staring at our bikes in a space formerly known as the living room, homeschooling ourselves, learning what's what, how-to's, cause and effect. I know significantly more about bikes than I did even a month ago, proving that the only way to actually learn how to do anything is to do it yourself. There was however a near nervous breakdown involving a rear derailleur. It hasn't been all rainbows and aha moments. More profanities and flying parts.

Liquidating your life is an ordeal.
So. Many. Wacky. Craigslist. Interactions.
Goodbye Goldy.
A generous colorway description for a car I never once washed the exterior of.
Not even before it changed hands.
The new owner's identity was verified via Instagram after he failed to provide any sort of official documentation.
357 followers. And a feed full of car selfies.
Whatever man, just gimme the cash and get outta here.
Our sidewalk sale was no less strange.
People. Will. Buy. Anything.
The only phenomenon more mind-blowing than a crappy yard sale is the resulting, even crappier free pile.

It hasn't all been transactional though.
Plenty of goodbye beers.
And unexpected generosity*.
And a few solid panic attacks.
3:30 AM is usually the best time for those.
If my mom asks though it's definitely just excitement.
It's been difficult to quiet the mind for a slough of obvious reasons.

Admittedly guilty of overthinking just about every piece of gear. And then reminding myself/ourselves that we could leave at the drop of a hat, tomorrow, in five minutes, whatever, and it will not matter. The experience does not boil down to the fabric breakdown of your travel undies. Or does it?

Mostly though, we are excited to do what we want to do rather than what we quote unquote should do. And to unravel a pipe dream. I joke about escaping the desk job ball and chain, but also appreciate and respect that working hard affords the opportunity to pull the trigger on seemingly irrational life decisions. We are endlessly fortunate to come from a place where recreation is even an option, and know, amidst all the cheeky travel documentation, that we get it. And will appreciate each and every moment accordingly. We've now made this trip just public enough to be held accountable for responsible and thoughtful reflection/reporting. And yes, it's about so much more than penguin selfies** a year from now. Thinking about the amount of living that will happen each and every day truly gives me goosebumps.

*You know who you are.
The people who fed us.
And housed us.
And gave us nice things.

**This is happening.

Memorial Day Dry Run

Quickie test trip starting in Joseph, Oregon lollipopping through Imnaha Canyon.

A successful trial in many ways. Challenges aplenty. We followed a false/understated trip report resulting in unexpected terrain and consequently depleted water/blood sugar stores. A story we ought to get used to. Our run-ins with territorial dogs legitimized the decision to splurge on pre-exposure rabies shots. And amidst a tireless search for a feasible tent site, the TIIIIIIMBER-like collapse of my fully loaded bike reminded me that my bicycle and I are now one. For better or worse. (The test run was my first time riding clipped in. Ever.) Better to learn that impactful, cruel lesson on a sleepy gravel road than to go down in a crowded Portland intersection. It could be glaringly obvious at this point that we're not hardcore cyclists. Or anything close. Although we both have separate tours under our belts, I understand that riding from Portland alllllllll the way south is a different beast entirely. We'd be lying to everyone (and each other) if we didn't admit to being fuhhhking intimidated. Nothing spooks me more though than the thought of continuing to sit at a desk, day in and day out, wishing Mon-Fri away. Listening to the biological clock tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. I'm leaving behind an outstanding job, friends, family, mediocre WIFI, delicious(ly debated) tap water, bountiful grocery stores, flushing toilets and the ability to communicate with just about anyone. (See Spanish 101.) We're trading in said conveniences in the spirit of simple living, basic problem solving, and the inevitable series of often uncomfortable, yet entirely real human interactions. 

Spanish 101

Dream team.