The end of the world

Friday May 17th - Saturday May 18th

I could be accused of creating a false sense of suspense here, considering this title, the ending to my previous post, and the intervening time until this one. Particularly when the only real villains were a broken spoke and my very own lethargy in updating this blog. In my defence, there were an awful lot of mini-tornadoes in this next part of the ride.

Of course, the logical sequela of my broken spoke, was an out-thrust thumb. At that stage my only real option was to hitch a ride to the nearest bike shop that could fix my wheel, before it was too badly bent out of shape to fix at all. I found a ride after an hour or so, and my brief new friends took me to San Juan de Los Lagos, where I was assured my cyclogical needs could be met. Indeed they were, and for cheap! I think it cost me 35 pesos (about 3 bucks) for the new spoke and the labour. I asked about where a penny-pinching cyclist could rest up for the night, and the cycle guys told me there was a place on top of the hill that cyclists and other travellers used. I struggled up the hill slowly, glad to see the new spoke and a straight rim spinning faithfully again.

The place on the hill turned out to be a refuge run by a church, which catered for anyone on the road or without a home. I was glad for the roof, less so for the cement floor and the ambiance. It was a strange experience, as the place seemed to essentially be a homeless shelter. So my company for the night was a homeless person, and some giant rat thing that scurried around the cement floor, occasionally venturing near enough to me to necessitate me shooing it away.

No muy lujo

"Welcome wandering brother"

The pre-dawn light, a sleepless night, and a bland breakfast in the homeless shelter that next morning were sobering. Whereas such a night would previously not have troubled me much, and made for a good story, that day it simply felt tiring. I remember thinking that if I had had somebody to laugh at it with, perhaps it would have been different.

Nice view though

Up before dawn, feeling like a rool cyclist for once.

Wheels spinning as the sun rose, I set off down the hill with one spoke shining brightly in the sun's early rays, and 71 gleaming only dully. The road stretched out almost uncaringly in front of me, all 130km to Guadalajara. I wasn't sure if I'd make it in one day, but I was going to give it a nudge. After stopping at an Oxxo for water, I lingered at a local tortilleria to enjoy the smell of freshly made tortillas, before tucking the usual half kilo into my panniers, and heading for the highway.

The road was long and straight. What seemed like only moderate undulations in the road were actually long and tiring. The landscape was deceptive through its sheer scale and uniformity.

Lejos

However, behind every duplicitous horizon there was a smiling face of a local who would ask me what I was doing, and offer me at least encouragement, and often snacks. Mexico being Mexico, they usually offered me beer too.

Goodies from strangers. Thanks Mexico!

After the halfway mark of the day, things began to get strange. Suddenly, mini-tornadoes started popping up either side of the highway. The hot and restless wind working on the loose soil of the plains sent columns of coppery-brown spirals winding often hundreds of metres into the air. They appeared, and disappeared, sometimes spinning on the spot, sometimes rushing across the road in front of me. I had visions of Martian landscapes in my mind for some reason.

The air was thick with heat. SOS boxes, at first reassuring, turned out to be uniformly empty, broken into, and destroyed. Scorched earth bordered the highway in places. What had happened? Where was I? I felt like I was at the end of the world, or some other planet at least.

Surely it wasn't that hot... maybe my bike computer had heatstroke.

Help?

Help indeed. These boxes did provide a little welcome shade though.

Scorched earth

And the road stretched on...

My legs pushed back against the strange and heavy atmosphere. I was worried the conditions might end my day early, but for the moment I was feeling ok. In fact, with some musical motivation and Mexican Gatorade on board (no, not beer), I was actually feeling pretty good. If this was the beginning of the zombie apocalypse, I thought, I'd be fine. As long as I had my bike. And a machete maybe. Hm, there might be a movie in that...

Looking up, a moment of peace

Nothin' says class like C-K-L-A-S-S

A particularly classy sign signalled the proximity of a big city. The ride had turned out to be much longer than I had thought - 150km instead of 130km - and I had exhausted my strength to make it to the edge of Guadalajara, in the 11 hours from sunrise to sunset. It was a long last hour, squeezing the last light out of the day, to make my way through the dense outer layers of Guadalajara, towards its soft, creamy centre. At last the lights of the happy home of Casa Ciclista Guadalajara shined on me, and I had reached my destination, and the end of the ride.