A Few of Our Favorite Things

With two days ride to go, and one day to do it in, Willie and I opted to take bus into Cartagena. This goes against Mr Extreme's nature, but he knew that after 10 days of serious riding without a full rest day, my parts were wearing out. Hands, wrists, feet, knees ... and it could go without saying, butt... were sorely in need of some time off the bike. We enjoyed some seaside stops and dips in the Caribbean, but we had also been offered the opportunity to stay in a flat while in Cartagena -- an offer we couldn't resist.

So now after a resting and reflecting, I'd like to offer you a list of some of our favorite things. No thread or story or intended priority of importance; merely snippets of life, experience, sightings and tastes that shape our impressions and love for this country. Willie also offers a few of his favorite photos snapped in the last couple of weeks.



To know me is to know I love food. Love thinking about it, preparing it, sampling new things and collecting ideas of food I'll make when we return home. Cycling offers the opportunity to eat as much as we like while still managing to loose weight, what could be better than that?

Food in Colombia is tasty and filling, but not particularly varied. Mostly we have the plate of the day for lunch which consists of rice and red beans, a fried plantain and some sort of meat grilled or in a sauce. Often there is a small salad of a few tomato and onion slices and not much more. So the day we pedaled past a place up in the mountains that was brimming with people and plates and smells that made our heads turn, we turned our bicycles around as well and settled into our most favorite meal of the trip. The cook was a large women with an easy smile who patiently explained our choices. Other diners offered their suggestions and we settled on a plate with chorizo and a mixed fruit salad. We rarely eat chorizo which can be extra greasy and not well seasoned, but this one was different. This one was worth writing home about. The fruit salad was so different than any other salad we've encountered -- an exquisite blend of melon, tomate de arbol (that's tree tomato), apple, pineapple and others I can't name. The sweet and tangy flavors combined perfectly with the salty spice of the sausage creating the perfect bite.

The varied and brilliant bird life in Colombia more than makes up for the general monotony of the food. We need to look up the names of the common birds we see along our route. The yellows, reds, oranges and blues darting in and out of the trees entertain us each day. In a particularly scenic stretch along the grasslands of the coast plains we stopped for a photo op with some white herons when a large flash of brilliant yellow and blue caught my eye. Then it flashed again and again. Not knowing what I was seeing, I pointed it out to Willie who in an instant knew we spotted our first Macaws. Eleven brilliant Macaws were enjoying a coffee clatch at the top of a large tree. We gaped and giggled to see such a site as these endangered species so close. Thankful again for stopping along the road less traveled.

As stopping goes, our spontaneous stop at the cabana along the dusty road on the way into Necocli wins our hearts for favorite beach visit. We also stayed at a magnificent stretch of light sand resorts in Caverñas, but the quiet seclusion of our little hammock and balcony at Rancho Alejo overlooking the cove is more to our liking. It was cozy and intimate without the blaring music of bars and rows of sun bathers. The small family-run getaway also came with the second best meal of fresh fish in coconut sauce. We spent the evening sitting around the table with the family who owned the place making us feel more like friends than paying guests.

On any trip, it's the people we meet who make the strongest impressions. Sometimes we get to spend days with them, like our wonderful stay with Oscar and Mary Anne. Sometimes the encounters are brief but memorable to last a life time. I wrote a little about this earlier, but the spontaneous invitation from Mancho to park our bikes and visit his finca was one such memory. We followed him down the mountain trail to check the cows and deliver lunch to the workers picking coffee. Followed him back up to the bare shack along the road and were treated to a meal of great proportions. The lasting moment to top them all was when Mancho went to the next room, sat on the bed covered with tatored blankets and indicated it was now time to take a siesta.

It's been our great fortune to encounter cloudy days and afternoon showers as we pedaled along the coast. Coming from Seattle where the rain is always cold, I have to say it's pure joy to cycle in warm rain. Getting soaked means cooling off. We've managed to get to roadside bus stops, juice stands, machinery yard overhangs and other protective devices when the skies really pour. Heavy downpours last minutes, while we hope misty rains would last for hours.

Colombia has a great cycling culture and is one of the reasons we were eager to travel this country. We've met plenty of cyclists along the way, pedaled with them as they get in their exercise on shiny sport bikes or commute to work on rusty clunkers. Most dear to our hearts though, is the evening spent in Guaybal (formerly Armero which was destroyed by a volcano mud-slide in the 1980s). Guaybal is in the low river valley between the Oriente and Central range of the Andes, so it was a hot and steaming evening. As the sun went down we strolled main street and then parked ourselves at cafe table sipping something cool. Bikes paraded by in the evening light. School girls cruising with friends, laughing and gossiping. Boys doing stunts and showing off. Elders out for a leisurely coast down the road to say hello to friends. All makes and models cruised past -- more like kids in cars cruise in American towns. To see community life on the streets, out of their cars and on two wheels warmed our hearts.

While not necessarily in the category of favorite things, we have discovered a few surprises along the way.

Billiards (and not pool) appears to be the favorite past time. Nearly every town, villiage or simply where two roads meet sports a billiard hall.

The most common thing for sale in every town, village or casa along the road is minutes. Cell phone minutes. In large cities it's common to see vendors with several phones, sometimes chained to their vest, while callers each on a phone like tentacles on octopus.

We've encountered plenty of military posts along the way, and to a person they have been friendly, courteous, helpful and often interested in knowing what the heck we're doing. It's great fun to list some stops along our route and watch their eyes light up in disbelief and respect. The military posts have secured the roads for all Colombians to travel now. Years prior, traveling between towns was perilous due to FARC activities, so the military is a welcome sight and their friendliness a bonus.

While Zeb hasn't been mentioned much in this blog, he has his own moment of glory he wants to share. Alejo the parrot came to visit us on our balcony by the sea, walking on our arms, carrying on a vibrant conversation, we thought to capture a photo of Zeb with the boisterous bird. Much to our surprise and Zeb's glee, the parrot was scared -- no terrified -- of little Zeb. I had placed Zeb on the railing of the balcony for the photo op, but Alejo would have none of it. Zeb is usually thought as cute and adorable, mostly by young girls, so he felt particularly macho frightening a parrot 3 times his size.

There so much more to love and share about Colombia, but I hope this paints in a few details of our travels here. We've decided to call Bogota to Cartagena one leg of our journey and now bus to an inland city in Venezuela. The road we would need to pedal would be too hot and trafficed by trucks. This weekend also begins Semanta Santa, or Holy Week, when locals hit their favorite vacation spots by the coast.

We watched the relationship between Colombia with great interest over the last couple of weeks, and are relieved that the conflict over the murder of Raul Reyes, a kingpin of FARC, calmed down quickly. The border was closed for a few days and we feared we would need to alter our plans ... and petition for a visa extension.

The Zen of the Road

Thanks to an errant road sign, we arrived at our destination today 12 km before anticipated, making this an 80 km day with 30 of them unpaved and in the process of "improvement". Improvement meant loosely packed fresh gravel that enjoys sucking bicycle tires while enormous dump trucks pass spewing dust in their wake. I believe all drivers must be paid by the delivery and have a zealous need to drive as fast as they can. Two hours of eating dust before breakfast was a perfect time to practice the zen of the road.

This is my sixth bicycle adventure with Mr. Extreme and he was well versed in road zen long before I arrived on the scene. Being a goal driven person, I've spent every trip struggling to find the zen--to let things unfold in their time, to enjoy the moment without anticipation of what is to come, to loose ones self in thought, or better yet, no thought. Perhaps because I'm more motivated by the destination, it is my tendency to fight against the bad roads rather than loose myself in them. Today was different. I knew within minutes of starting the ride at 6:30am that todays goal was a shower at the end of a very dirty day, but rather than spend the day eating grit and swearing at drivers, Zeb reminded me that I didn't need to go fast, I simply needed to go. So I did, lost in thought, and eventually loosing Willie far behind while legs pumped and spirit soared.

Getting to zen has indeed been a long road. We left Medellin and pointed our noses towards the coast. Not the straight down the PanAmerican highway coast, but the long ride across the third range of the Andes and towards the Gulf of Uraba -- the closest paved road to the Darian Gap and Panama. Something in our readiness for a change of pace made us forget that even though the Occidente Range is the smallest of the mountain ranges, it's still means mountains to climb.

Our lovely decent from Medellin to Sante Fe de Antioquia and the warm river valley that seperates the middle and west ranges started with a surprising climb that turned the other direction only after we hitched a ride with a family in a pickup truck who could take us through the 5km-long tunnel. Bicycles, tractors and horses are not allowed, so the military patroling the entry encouraged the first empty truck to take us through.

After enjoying the historic pueblo we once again thought our way would be a long leisurely decent to the sea. We didn't pack much food since every few miles we've passed snack bars and restaurants, and once again we were met with a climb. This one was far different than before. Suddenly we were climbing grasslands dotted with brittle shrubs and dry river drainages that get used only in flash floods from infrequent hard rains. The saving grace was that it got cooler every foot we pedaled upwards. We pedaled past lunch time, and were offered no coffee. The only house we saw was on a point far from the road where we stopped to finish the last of our power bars offered so long ago in Bogota by Cristian.

By late-afternoon we came to the only town on our map and turned-in in search of food. A bronzed and confident woman offered to make us lunch when we asked about comida at her little tienda. While she cooked, the ever-present military offered their advice that we continue only another 14 km to a place with a hotel and restaurant. "Plano." he said. Flat. "OK." we said and were off even though our legs wanted only to rest.

This is the start of much well-meaning encouragement that included the word "plano" and we quickly realized that plano meant something different to someone riding a motorized vehicle. When your legs say no, and the military says go, and the road swoops and climbs; this is a good time to practice the zen of the road. It's a time to not go fast, but simply go. To not think of aching hands or where we'll sleep.

We rounded what truly was the last mountain pass a day later and glided into Uramita. At last we're ready to blissfully glide downhill to the sea. Plano, they say even as the road crosses the rolling foot-hills along the river. We climb and dip with it, this time on the wet side of the mountains lush with the tapestry of green. Weeping walls covered in ferns and vines and many of our common houseplants. Forests dense and dripping with humidity. I stop to duck into a drainage for a bit of roadside relief and stop in my tracks, jaw dropped and wiggling frantically for Willie to come look and see. A Tucan sitting 10 feet away in a tree! The thrill of it almost makes me forget that the road is climbing again and I am climbing with it. Vines are thick and ropey tying the trees to the earth or they would slide down the mountain.

We find ourselves again exhausted and my legs are ready to quite, but Mutata is still beyond our reach. Military posts dot the roads as we enter canyons and we get the thumbs up and encouragement to continue. It's late enough in the day that birds have come out for their evening feeding and I want nothing more than to pitch our tent at the make-shift military post. "It's only 8km more," they say, "and plano ... expect the one climb and one descent."

They don't know we've been pedaling since 8am and I've told Willie I'm done. He does his best to convince them, but they only say for us to go on and they will call ahead to their chief and let him know we're coming. We need to be off the road by dark, they say. I need to be off the road now.

We're in a bind and the only thing there is to do is continue. Bajando, down we go. Subido, up we go. The sky takes on the thick air of nightfall as the sun gets near the horizon. Canyons now are dank and cool. Past the 8km mark. Simply go. Don't think. Past the 10 ... did we miss the town? There's the cell phone billboard that is outside of every village. But where's the village? Another kilometer, folks say. But they're wrong. It's another 5km and sun has set by the time we enter Mutata city limits.

Willie checks in with the police to let them know we arrived while I enjoy the cool shower and crisp white sheets of two-month old hotel in town. We're their first foreigners and they're eager to have us join them sitting outside in red plastic chairs by the light of the street lamps while kids dart by on their bicycles and dogs circle sniffing for snacks.

The police promise that the road to the coast is now flat. Planed like a plank of wood for a table, flat. So we set out at the crack of dawn, as we do most days now to avoid the heat and wind, in search of flat.

We find the flat of banana plantations or cattle grazing, and we find a new reason to practice the zen of the road. Theirs a different kind of saddle sore that comes on the flats. The same motion, the same cadence, the same bones hanging on the edge of the seat. The flats are where your mind most needs to wonder in a different direction. In the mountains, there's mystery in what's around the next curve. The wide-open flats call for day-dreaming with legs pumping. Our 26km days of the mountains are now 80-plus kilometer days and we're making good time towards the coast.

Consensus along the route is that Necocli, a pueblo on the spit of land at the entrance to the Gulf of Uraba is the vacation place. Playa bonita, the locals say and encourage us to pass by the larger town of Turbo. A rest day by the seaside is inorder and our hearts are set on arriving early, so we depart at daybreak and share the road with regular bicycle commuters and even some sport cyclists, the likes of which we haven't seen since leaving Medellin a week ago. It's blissful on the road as the world wakes us. The air is fresh and traffic is light and the road is flat. We pass through Turbo as the workday begins and most other traffic stays in the city. Our anticipation of spotting water and relaxing by the sea grows as friendly cyclists and scooter-drivers chat along the way. Something cerrado in 6km, I tell Willie after such a chat. Or was that 6km of rough road? I don't know enough Spanish to get the finer points.

Soon enough we get the answer when we come to roadwork ahead signs. Our blissful ride to the sea has been interupted to bring improvement to this road. In the meantime, we can enjoy bone-jarring rocks lining what will someday be smooth, black asphalt all the way to Necocli.

This is the perfect place to practice the zen of the road. Don't think of that beer in the hammock or first dip into the waters of the Caribbean. Don't think of falling asleep with a book in your hands, or waking to the sound of surf out your balcony. Don't need to go fast. Just go.

"What about checking out one of these cabana places we pass along the way to Necocli?" the zen-master Willie asks? "Sure. Let's give it a try." I say as we turn our bikes left down a lane lined with palm trees. We don't need to get to Necocli today if we can find enlightenment right here.

Rancho Aleja was our reward. A cabana by the sea all to ourselves except the parrot that come to visit. The beer, the hammock, the fresh fish in coconut sauce, the lull of the waves, the reward for our escape from the road.


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Thanks to all for your comments and emails encouraging me to write more, or more often.

Most internet cafe don't allow me to spell-check, so I apologize for my bad spelling and typos!

Medellin

Ah, Medellin... city of eternal spring, home to world-class architecture, public sculpture you can touch, a metro-line that moves people efficiently, a cable-line that carts buckets of citizens from the slums high on the hills to the valley below to work each day, amazing art, botanical gardens ... and home to the most notorious narcotrafficer of all. Medellin, was made famous around the world by Pablo Escobar. We almost went to see the movie about him at the mall, but opted to see "Sweeny Todd" instead.

Medellin was our destination for so long, and fortunately the city didn´t disappoint. Unfortunately, the "back-packer" tourists we did meet were another story. We spent a month in Colombia before laying eyes on another traveler and we were eager to find out what they had to say. What had they discovered that we should try? What places have they been? What have we missed? What have they found with the FARC and paramilitary situation? In a word, Nada.

Sadly, for many "back-packers", Medellin is still the narco-capital and many have come to party. Displaced frat boys buy their bags of coke, hang-out in trashed hostels, and spend their days recovering from the night before. We were hoping to meet kindred spirits and, but instead we only found the party crowd. Back-packers rarely go beyond the four main destinations of Bogota, Cartegena, Santa Marta and Medellin ... and above all, they don´t go anywhere the Lonely Planet guide book said was unsafe 4 years ago when it was poorly researched and badly written. What they've missed!

The guide book warns that the slums can be dangerous, but we rode the spectacular Metro-Cable to the top and actually got out and walked to the new Biblioteca de Espana. There we talked with school children practicing English, got a guided tour of the library which reminded us of our own Seattle Central library, and savored a perfect home-made coconut paleta (popsicle) before descending the cable to ride the metro across town. It was better than an E-ticket at Disneyland, and the tough guy travelers who pride themselves on not having been robbed yet, were afraid to get out of the tram. I chided them over beers around the pool that night, and then encouraged them again to get out and meet the real Colombia.

What saddens me, is that the people of Medellin, and Colombians in general, consider themselves very friendly and helpful, but the world doesn´t know it. The media would have us all believe that coke is still king, people are sill kidnapped every day, and roads are unsafe to travel. Friendliness is in their national identity though, and it's true to form for ALL people we have met.

Simply arriving in a city of 2.5 million people and trying to find a particular traveler's hostel is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. We relied on incomplete maps and kind directions from locals until a father and daughter team in a small toyota stopped us in our tracks and asked where did we want to go. We handed over the address and phone number and they quickly whipped out their cell phone, got directions, and drove their pilot car and we followed on bikes. THAT's friendliness! When we ventured to the metro, people again and again came to help, point the direction, and explained the system. When we told our hostel-mate Mike about it, he said that would never happen in NYC where he´s from.

Throughout our time in Colombia, many strangers have come to our aid. Others have simply thanked us for coming to visit their country. There's a general feeling that they want us to tell the rest of Americans ... the rest of the world, that Colombia is a good place. It's not all about drugs and terror. I feel for the national psyche as Colombia struggles to right the wrongs of narcotrafficers who terrorized this country. I see faces swell with pride when we tell inquisitive Colombians that we have only met kindness in our journey.

I see the back-packers traveling in some sort of parallel universe finding only the worst of Colombia and perpetuating a time most locals would rather forget. They do have stories of being robbed ... at 2am ... while trying to find their way home drunk, but that could be true in any city in the world. They've missed the coyboys riding into the town square, missed hot chocolate and panela, missed the helping had of someone showing them where a good hotel is. I think they've missed the heart of Colombia.

Four Degrees of Separation

A bike trip means 24/7 togetherness ... which is not a bad thing, but it does limit the conversations. Willie and I experience the same roads, eat the same foods, and spot the blue-headed parrots together. I mention this observation to Willie and he notes that only one of us is experiencing a slowly erupting boil-size pimple on our backside. That's too much togetherness, but we are easy companions. At the possibility of conversations with others that go beyond the exchange in Spanish of "where did you come from", "where are you going", and "how long did it take you" we get very excited. These handful of questions are asked again and again. Every once in awhile though, someone comes into our lives and enriches our travel, stimulates our conversations and broadens our perspective.

In Thailand, our visas needed renewing so we took a day-trip to Burma simply so we could renew our Thai visa and stay longer. What we got in addition to the visa was Bruce and Andrea. We met them at the bus station and we've enjoyed their friendship and been inspired by their brand of adventure ever since. When I received an email from a friend of Bruce's brother who encouraged us to contact his father living in Colombia, it felt like a long-shot but I gave it a chance. Through the miracles of email, blackberries, and cell phones, we were able to correspond with Joaquin, a Colombian native living in Chicago, and his father Oscar, now living outside of Medellin after living in the states for many years-- all because we struck up a conversation on a bus in Thailand. As luck, or the travel gods, would have it, the route we had chosen to pick our way through the small mountain towns of Colombia, took us to the beautiful, little pueblo of Retiro. With one quick call, Oscar and Mary Ann made a date to meet us for coffee and they would lead us to their home a few kilometers outside of the village. Before even meeting us they invited us to stay as long as we like.

These kind of offers don't come every day, and they rarely come in the "real world" living at home, but there's some magic on the bicycle trail. Its hard to imagine inviting perfect strangers to come into our homes and stay a night ... or a week, but that's just what Oscar and Mary Ann did. A luxurious queen-size bed with crisp linens, waited for us. First we had to pass inspection by Mimi and Carmen, their two lovely dogs who inspect everyone who passes the rocky, dirt road a kilometer or two off the pavement. Mimi and Carmen became friends almost as fast as Oscar and Mary Ann, so the welcome party was complete.

Coming up the back roads to Retiro from our one day on the Pan-American highway, we passed many beautifully crafted homes, but nothing prepared us for the paradise that Oscar and Mary Ann created when they moved to Colombia in 2001. Oscar's brother-inlaw designed for them a simple, but perfect floor plan for their comfortable home filled with art and books and passion for life. Large plate-glass windows looked out on Eden rich with orchids and oranges, amaryllis and avocados. Completely surrounded by a rich and varied garden, we were like kids in a candy shop excitedly discovering new flavors. Blue birds, hummingbirds, long-tailed green birds all visited the fruit-peel feeder. The surrounding hillsides a tapestry of greens.

We spent three glorious days in the company of our hosts and relished every moment of our time together. Oscar is a writer and poet at heart and we are stirred by his stories, and observations of life's great and tragic moments. Mary Ann shares her passion for politics along with her own stories of family and childhood growing up in Oklahoma. That they found each other in Dallas seems almost as much a long-shot as us finding them in Colombia. But maybe kindred spirits travel intersecting routes. From Bruce to Mark to Joaquin to Oscar, the four degrees of separation were bridged. And we are the richer for it.

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A note of thanks to Mr. Extreme who stops extremely often to take photos along our way.

Linger

Our hearts are in the mountains, and no wonder when just around every corner lies the possibility of a surprise. Every once of grit and pound of grind is rewarded with vistas of green valleys or soaring peaks. The roads are lined with hibiscus blooms in every color from pale peach to flaming red, only to be out-done by the birds, stunning in their florescent orange and red plummage. Willie and I pick our way slowly from village to village, and in these far-off reaches, we are continuely greeted with great interest and respect. These mountain people know the roads we travel, and each encounter garners a "muy guapa(o)" and nod of respect.

The weather ventures from chilly mist to stunning heat and can change with each bend in the road. Somewhere in the middle, it's just right. We know that once we leave these beautiful mountains, we are sure to hit heat and humidity beyond any stretch of comfort. So we linger.

Most days begin with a steep downhill to a river drainage and then back up another side of a mountain. It's during these climbs, particurly the rough ones with broken rocks for a road, that my thoughts turn towards our dear friend Susie. She had a great spirit of adventure, and I don't think she ever met a climb she didn't like. So when the going gets tough, I first think of Susie and her motto ... "If you don't like where you are, pedal." That was Susie. She had energy to match Mr. Extreme and she pedaled fast and furious in her short life-time.

But I'm Miss Moderate and had to wonder what my motto would be. I'm such a creature of comfort. When the rains start, I'm more inclined to stop for another cup of coffee. After lunch, a nap sounds pretty good. So as we aim our bicycles towards the next metropolis of Medellin, these exquisite mountain pueblos, with town squares in front of churches built 200-400 years ago, I am captured by the charm and quiet life of the village. I want to stay, and quite often we do find a beautifully restored hotel with rich wood floors, a soft bed, wooden windows that open to balconies overlooking main street. We're living a life of luxery beyond expectations. Over the last week of pleasant surprises, I found my motto for the moment: "If you like where you are, linger".

We lingered extra long one morning in Salamina, hoping to get another yummy egg dish whipped and steamed to perfection by the espresso machine. We had it the day before and declared it the most inventive and tasty breakfast so far. But alas, for reasons we'll never know, the shop wouldn't open and we opted for an egg on a tasteless arapa, or corn cake with all the flavor sucked out of it. The day ride began with blue skies and another lovely downhill to the river. We turned upwards and pedaled in the late morning heat. By our roadside lunch, clouds we were moving fast with dark clouds threatening. Ah, the downside of the linger! A few more kilometers and the heavens opened just as we ducked under a tin-roofed bus shelter with a comfy bamboo bench. Not a bad place to wait out the rain. Willie and I snooze a little, I loose a few too many hands of gin, and the rain still shows no sign of stopping. Our road is a muddy river amongst the jutting rocks, and the chill has set in. Even Mr. Extreme is reluctant to press on, he's caught my hesitation to get soaked to the bone.

Fortunately, we had come upon a panela "factory" earlier in the day when the sun was out and watched with intense fascination as sugar cane was pressed, the juice boiled in a huge vat, then reduced in smaller and smaller vats, until it was eventually scooped onto wide, flat bins for cooling. Young men with strong backs swish and swoosh the thickening lava just until the point it will hold a shape. With deft and leathered hands, they scoop just enough of the still hot sugar to fill a mold. Young boys then imprint the cooling sugar with the stamp of the factory. Nothing's wasted. All movements are choreographed to perfection. Amused by our interest in their art, a "stamp" boy offers us a large round of this rich, aromatic treat of unrefined sugar.

So as we linger awhile in our roadside shelter surrounded by cane, we decide it's a fine time to pull out the stove and cook up some hot chocolate -- Colombian-style. This is a true treat in this country, and available in nearly every cafe so far. We had purchased our own bar of chocolate for some campsite to come, but still needed the sugar. The bar itself is intense like a baker's chocolate, but when melted into water and combined with our gift of the distinctively aromatic panela, it's a bit of heaven on earth, and certainly hearty enough to warm us through and give us courage.

As we clean up, the rain becomes mist and we set out, hoping against hope to make it to Pacora and a hotel for the night. Mud-splattered and wet we reach beyond our strength and press on as darkness approaches. A sharp rock penetrates Willie's rear tire, but we're fighting against time now, so he opts to pump and go ... pump and go. Passing up an offer to stay at a roadside rum shack, our hearts are set on reaching the comfort of town and hopes of a dry, clean bed. Darkness descends just as we burst into town passed a tree filled with a hundred white egrets. Main street blasts music from every snack shop, bar and cell phone tienda. We made it! It's Saturday night and the town feels like the Wild West with Honky Tonks blairing.

Cold, dirty and victorious, we rinsed in the hot shower and tumbled into bed once again. I'll linger in the warm fleece blankets just a little bit longer...

Yo soy una machine

What a difference a week makes. The way did indeed become clear thanks to many friendly guides along the way. Leaving Bogota was nothing short of a miraculous experience. We had heard about the "miracle of Bogota", but nothing in life has prepared us for the extreme thrill of riding down major big city avenues completely free of cars, buses, taxis and swarming with bicyclists, pedestrians and even the occasional roller-blader. It was awe-inspiring to be part of the 1.5 million people who take back the streets EVERY Sunday in Bogota.

Our guides Cristian and Ana escorted us out of the city and after sharing a croissant and coffee, headed back to Bogota and we lept to our adventure. All the anxiety and anticipation melted away as we cruised, literally downhill for the rest of the day.

Morning found us enjoying coffee at a street-side cafe in a small town well off the main highway. Naturally, we took Mr. Peñalosa´s advice and opted for the small red lines on the map ... and the occasional smaller gray line ... and the imposing dotted red and white line which means no pavement. We were on our way! But before we could embark, Hector-clad in cycling tights, flashy jacket and helmet-welcomed us to Colombia and immediately turned his bike in our direction and cycled the whole day with us to his brother´s village, San Juan de Rioseco--precisely our plan for the day.

A grand ride winding down the mountainside through small villages, all with children and elders, young men carrying flags, women walking side-by-side, others walking alone, some walking in groups by the hundreds -- ALL walking for Peace. Their white shirts, white flags, peace signs, flashing smiles gave me great hope for the world and this country. One young woman stopped to impress upon me that they marched for peace for the whole world -- they march in solidarity. I have to think that our presence in some small way indicates the growing peace in their country. Several people have asked what Americans know or think about Colombia, and I tell them I think a change towards peace has come.

While going downhill all day seems like a good thing, every once in awhile you have to go up. When the way down is work just to hold the brakes, it inspires a bit of, oh, apprehension when I know I have to come back up. That was the road to San Juan--a picture perfect village nestled 2.5km down in a valley off the road. The thought of that little distance kept me awake at night. Morning came early and a light bite of cheese and coffee and the 3 of us ascended out of the valley of the shadow of my death. Willie stopped just out of town to give us a Hammer Gel pack gifted to us from Cristian. And pack a punch it did. We stood and pedaled and with barely a stop broached the top onto the main road where I passed Willie wearing the biggest smile and declaring, "Soy una machine!" I am a machine and that moment, all the parts and pistons were firing.

Hector returned home up the mountain as we continued to descend to the wide river valley below that separates the two main mountain ranges of running through Colombia. The flatlands were dusty and dry and by mid-day the temp hovered around 95F. Fortunately, the road was often covered by dense foliage for shade, but that shade also the brought piercing ring of insects whose tremendous sound bore like a drill-bit into our ears. Mr Extreme stopped to record the psycho-inducing noise while I merely tried to out run it. Only by dosing our shirts in an aqua-duct did we make it to the convergence of roads and truck stop in the shade and cool drinks in hand.

At this point, another cyclist took interest and after looking at our maps assured us the back-roads we were considering were doable if "the force was with us". That´s all Willie needed to know, and we were off.

The by-way to Manizalas was a little traveled road that climbed into the next mountain range parallel to the main highway. There were mixed warnings and encouragement, but mostly it was disbelief that we would ... or maybe could do it. It was a grind is an understatement, but soy una machine! And fortunately I have a burro for a companion. Climbing gave us relief from the heat, so we went up until the pavement stopped, and we went up some more. We have all the time in the world, we remind ourselves, so the going is slow and stop often to gasp at how incredibly beautiful it is. We climb through rugged hillsides dappled with coffee and sugar cane. We climb to where cows graze and cowboys greet us as we stop for water. For all the fear and warnings to stick to the main roads, this is where life happens. We encounter enough smiles, thumbs up and friendly inquiries that not for a moment do we hesitate to leave our bikes and all belongings outside a farmers house and follow him down the dirt track to where the coffee was being harvested and his cows were resting peacefully. Moncho would stop and just let us look out across his land and we understood his pride in his country. He was a very poor farmer but rich, rich man.

We hiked back to the road and Moncho´s house to find his mother and sister had prepared a feast for us. Aye! We ate ourselves silly on grilled meat and rice and beans, perfectly fried potatoes, fresh milk, blackberry juice and I´m sure there´s some food I can´t remember. So much that I wanted nothing more than to lay down and take a nap the rest of the afternoon. Sensing that, Moncho and his sister prepared beds for us! We did decline since it was still only mid-day and a good day to keep pedaling.

The kindness of Colombia was already staggering, (as staggering as the two river drainages and over 5000 ft of climbing that day) and then we came to the friendliest little village of them all, Herveo. A welcoming committee greeted us within about 5 minutes of our arrival -- after the police had stopped us to take down our information. Clearly other police had let them know we were on our way. This road, as even locals would tell us, had not been safe for very long. It was in the red zone for guerilla activity and we were often warned to stay on the road and not travel at night. Of course, THAT is information we listen to.

The welcome committee was headed by our new, dear friend Jaidev--the town´s Cultural Director, the local English teacher, and the town historian--a charming white-heard man of 83 years. The crowd gathered and Willie and I answered questions, showed pictures of home, told of where we had traveled, and felt completely welcomed by these people. The next day would be our 11th wedding anniversary, and upon entering the only hotel and finding the shower had hot water, we knew we would be staying a second night. Some towns just feel right, and this one had that vibe in spades. We toured the school, the library, the map rooms and told them of our travels around the world. We shared endless cups of coffee and pastries with the baker at the pandaria, practiced my Spanish on some cowboys and school girls. We woke at down and trekked to the high cross on the hill in hopes of spotting the white-capped peak that crowned the mountain range. We granted an interview on the local ABC radio Herveo program so anyone who hadn´t seen us already, certainly heard about the two gringos who came to their village. It was hard to leave...

Donning freshly cleaned clothes and with the chief of police in escort on a motorcycle, we continued the journey towards Manizalas. We had climbed for three solid days to get to Herveo, and as it turned out, that was just a warm up for what was to come. The police left us at the intersection of the highway since that is the only road that crosses the high mountain pass. We bought our escorts a greasy lunch of chorizo and fried banana and went our separate ways.
We tend to shun main roads bombing with truck traffic, busses and more. But this road was fairly quite, had a shoulder in places and we gazed out at something that looked more like the Heidi tending the cows in the Alps than tropical Colombia. Most major highways keep the grades at a reasonable level for trucks to travel, and my mental picture was more like crossing Snoqualmie Pass outside of Seattle, thinking slow but steady would do it.

Yo soy una machine chant going through my brain, we will our legs to move, but some how things weren´t working out that way. By every 500 meters I needed to stop and breath... and ah, breathe! That´s what wrong. We have climbed past 8,000 feet and air was thin and muscles cried for oxygen.

We went as far as our aching muscles would take us and didn´t make it over that pass that night. We spotted a rare house and gave it our last, ditch effort to make it to the house and beg a place to set up our tent. With a nod of her unsure head, we were let in the gate and shown down the road to a sloping patch of grass for our tent. Tumbling over ourselves in tiredness we poured into the tent to sleep before we could even think of dinner. Waking long enough to see the town of Herveo deep in the foothills below twinkling at dusk, we comforted ourselves with a dinner of hot water and peanut butter on a molasses cookie. It was enough.

By daybreak the peaks were clear and the valley covered in clouds. By the time we packed up camp, the clouds had moved up the mountain and we departed our campsite in foggy, damp haze. Up we go. Up we go, and no longer am I a machine but a simpering lost soul on the side of the road. It may be only by Willie´s shear will that he patiently encouraged me to continue. A false summit took any last piece of pride I had and filled me with complete doubt that I could make it to the top. But again, what is the alternative? Eat a peanut, drink some water, pedal, walk, rest, repeat. My burro is just as tired, but he has more mental stamina than I will ever have. At long last, the top is in site-- all 10,000 feet of it. We know this because Colombians have a way of building their towns on the highest part of the road. Drunk with exhaustion and now with hunger, we stumble into a restaurant at Alto de Letras and refuel. Warmed by two steaming bowls of hot chocolate, and a heaping plate of eggs and rice and meat with gravy, all is right with the world once again.

It is here that Willie tells me what the men from Herveo told him two nights prior. The Colombian sport cyclists say that the road to Manizalas is not made for machines, but for animals. They are absolutely right, and I am thankful I travel with a burro.

My wish was for a down hill glide for the next 30km into the city. My wish was granted by a graceful decent out of the cloud forest and back to civilization and internet cafes.

Thanks to all of you who travel in spirit with us. Some moments I call on you to give me strength enough to continue, and you always come through.

Finding Our Way

The journey starts with a single pedal-stroke, but getting to "push off" appears to require a whole lot of maps. We left home with two full-size Colombia maps and a general idea of where we wanted to go. Once in Bogota, we start asking questions and quickly find help from a young man working at our hotel who, as luck has it, is a mountain bike racer and has pedaled all over this country. He jumps to our rescue and provides a moto-ruta guide complete with elevation charts. Holy cow! The way we intended to start might break our camels back (or Willie´s legs ... or my spirit) with it´s extreme grades over the mountains. I feel panic rise and Willie considers getting a cog with a larger ring. Christian recommends it, which doesn´t bode well when the mountain bike racer who rides a titaneum tricked-out bike with NO PANNIERS suggests we are going to be in pain. Serious fret ensues.

A test ride on the bike paths of Bogota.

Next help comes from a meeting with non-other than the former mayor of Bogota and world-renowned bicycle advocate, Enrique Pañelosa. Señor Peñalosa and Juan Camila, head of the bike network development inBogota, spend nearly an hour with us and a whole lot of head shaking happens. They mark our map and suggest many options. None can say just how steep the roads are, but do say that small roads are safe and the large roads have heavy traffic. This is the opposite information from some other sources, but we take it all in. They do strongly encourage us to get better maps and send us off to the Institute Agustin Codazi -- better known as the geographic office of Colombia -- where after 2 and a half hours of lines, hand-wringing decisions and more lines, we select five new maps to carry with us. This is in addition to the driving route guide gifted to us by our new cyclist friend.

All these maps, optional routes, partial unknowns, shaking heads, and phone numbers in case we need help, only stir the pot. How do we know if we can actually pedal these mountains? Will my knees hold up? We can´t be sure if these roads are paved. We don´t know if the traffic will be relentless and menacing.

Sleep is a restless muse toying with our dreams--heads spinning with options and no real plan. Our wise and well-traveled friend Zeb likes his beauty sleep, and he offers a zebism to ease our troubled minds.

"The way will become the clear when you are on the way."

To a lesser degree, we didn´t know how we would navigate Bogota. Would it be safe to walk around? Could we trust the taxi drivers? And within these 5 short days, Bogota makes sense. We can find our way around to meet our friend Tom, see museums, get yellow fever shots, buy cycling gloves. All things we didn´t know when we got off the plane.

Tomorrow morning, with bicycle escorts Cristian and his wife Ana, we get on our way. They will take us through the concrete maze and send us off in a direction at the edge of town. At this point, we´re ready for any direction just so we can move beyond questions and discover answers.