Chiwawa

Full circle: I'm right where I was when I began this blog and so its a fitting place to close it.

But the journey's not over and Colombia lives on, the memories are growing and fading, expanding and expounding. When I left Bogota 10-days ago I felt as though I'd gotten to know the country so well, but now that I'm back home I realize how many questions I left unanswered. Literally and symbolically. An obvious point of conversation and I still don't really understand the political-guerilla situation in Colombia to the degree that I should, however I probably understand it about as well as the average local who don't seem to concern themselves over what doesn't effect them. I tried to get more out of them, but instead I did the same as they and ignored the extraneous: I just rode my bike, traveled, and lived the life of the road.

When I left Bogota I had the feeling that I'd spent a good amount of time in Colombia, but now that I'm back it all seemed so fleeting. This is why its important to record your journeys and rehash them from time to time: how soon we forget.

The Chiwawa! When I left here for Colombia winter was still in full and there was 3 feet of snow in the yard. Today it was 80F/27C-degrees and instead of having to shovel to keep from being burried, I have to think about mowing every couple of days to keep from being overrun by greenery. Instead of my quiver of skis I go to my rack of bikes. Instead of splitting wood and stoking the fire I pull weeds, water the yard and try to keep the bugs from getting in. Sunsets at 9pm instead of 3:30!

My final weekend of winter before leaving for Colombia I did a cross-country ski race, and my first real weekend of summer after arriving home I did a bike race. Race report: nothing worth reporting because unfortunately I did as expected. I generally set unrealistic goals for myself but not this time: I'd been sick the previous week and didn't get on my race bike until two days before Stage 1 and so I was little help to my teammate and proved small threat to my competition. Any racing goals or expectations that might arise this summer will come from a hope that I can convert the long miles and power of my touring in Colombia to something more race productive: all-day power to snap and speed.

The final ride tally for Colombia was something over 3400-kilometers. I feel pretty good about that considering that I had a couple extended vacations from the bike.

I've got a few more items to post so I'm not quite through here... last week I typed up a lengthy essay and was in the process of uploading a bunch of pics when it all came crashing down and I'm almost emotionally ready to retry after that initial failed effort. Here's a sampling of pics still on the camera.

Pictures:
--(Below) I can only dream: that guy there is the Guanabana man. Look at all those plump, prickly guanabanas! -- Huge ride with "Mathew" out of Bucaramanga during my final week in Colombia: 110-kms for me, 160 for him. This kid can ride! -- On the Chumstick in Plain.

--(Above) Up the Icicle!

Seattle

I'm back! The trip is over but the adventure continues. Work? Race? Live? As always, lots of uncertainties, but for today its good to be home. Last night home was at my sisters place in Snoqualmie -- the family picked me up at the airport and we did Mexican for dinner -- but I'm about to hop on the Surly for perhaps its last ride in awhile since I've got other bikes that will probably take precedence now that I'm back: the race bikes will be used next week at the Wenatchee Omnium and I'm dying to hit the Chiwawa on the 29er.

The weather is Spring-perfect in the NW... 75' and sunny! The Tortuga -- my RV, my casa rodante, casa coche, vehiculo de recreacional, su casa es mi casa -- is parked on Brent's farm in Sultan so I've got about a 25-30 mile ride (thats like 200 kilometers) ahead of me and oh how many espresso stands between here and there (where a doble costs about $2 which is like $200,000 pesos).

More pictures and tales from the road forthcoming -- my Colombian journey's not over, it's constantly evolving. Have fun out there, and maybe we can keep in touch at the Dougnog Blog in the future. To my amigos still out there on the road, and to the luckiest ones still in Colombia, keep on rolling, drinking jugos and livin the good life!

Bogotà

Time's up, I'm coming home! It will probably surprise no one that I wanted and tried to extend my stay here, it doesn't look like I'll be on a BA trip for awhile longer than expected so it was a possible reality, but for a variety of reasons it just didn't work out. But just like every other time that I've been on my way home, regardless of if I'd been traveling years or just a few months, when your time is due and you resign yourself to going home you remember what a great place home is, your friends and your life there, and you always look forward to it.

I'm seeing Bogota this time with different eyes. With the eyes of someone who's seen enough of the country to be able to put so many things in perspective that were just not possible before. The architecture, the food, the faces of the people, all seem to have a region from which they come, if I can't place it then it must be uniquely Bogota. The weather is, for one. Its actually not much different right now than a bad winter in Seattle... rainy and cold, with the exception that the sun does come out, and when it does it gets quite hot.

I'm staying at a hostal called the Platypus and it has quite a reputation in Colombia and even South America as the place to be when in Bogota. It was just a fluke that I ended up here in the first place and I'm back mostly because I left some things behind here while I was traveling, because besides all the deserved hype for the owner of the place, Herman, who is a stellar guy and is incredibly helpful, the place is really a dump. I read in someone's guidebook along the way that its considered one of the best hostals in SA -- the hell it is. I've been to half a dozen better here in Colombia alone. Worst of all, for me, is that the kitchen and hang out areas have that rotting, damp wood smells of the fishing boats out of Hawaii, and this is enough to turn my stomach. And I'm not a stickler for cleanliness, I prefer character over it any day, but I don't think the Platypus is chèvere enough to overcome its filth. This is one of the reasons that I hate the guidebooks (Lonely Planet especially), because they can make or break a hostal or restuarant, often times undeservedly so, and this is one case. Just feel like ranting after trying to whoop up a fruit jugo in their worthless kitchen.

I've got more pics to post and stories to finish; this site isn't done yet even though the travels nearly are. I was just thinking how nice it is to have this blogsite as a sort of monument to my travels to compliment my journals and photos which are most important to me.

Tomorrow is my last full day here in Colombia and I've got some things to do: I am meeting up with the family of my long time bike racing buddy, Pablo, and I've got a few last minute things to buy that I haven't had time for yet: music, cookbooks, football j, and a couple blocks of panella.

Ciao for now!

Aracataca

would someone help me with the translation, I took a brutal stab at it...

Finally, a tail wind. I had a good start out of Taganga but 5km into the ride I had to get through Santa Marta, and since I hadn't spent any time there yet and couldn't do it justice, I should at least roll around a bit. 15-kms of strolling the narrow colonial alleys and seaside boardwalk, two amazing espresos and 3-hrs later I was finally back on the road with a goal: Valledupar and the festival of Vallenata music. But the 5-day festival was just kicking off this day so I had a few to get there and could spend time in a place I´d looked forward to for awhile: the hometown of, without a doubt my favorite latin writer, Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The name of the town is poetry itself and rings like the sound of gunfire, or more cynically its the first words uttered by a certain president after 9/11, or most accurately it is the name of the local river in the language of the native inhabitants: Aràcataca! Marquez, or Gabo, as he is affectionately called by the locals (or Gabito by the elders), fictionalized the town as the magical "Macondo" in One Hundred Years of Solitude, and I remember it as a place "of the mountain but born of the sea", or something like that. Aracataca is nearly 100-kms inland though, but is flanked by the 5000 plus meter range of Sierras de Santa Marta, a massive uplifting that was reported to me to be the highest peak so near to the sea. Whatever, it must have some influence on the myth of these people as it is reflected in arguably Gabo`s most important novel. The first thing that happened to me as I pulled onto the streets of this tiny sleepy town was to be most pleasantly mobbed by a group of smiling old men and children. These sorts of experiences I've grown weary of because they make me feel like some alien dropped from the sky who is poked and proded without any intention of trying to relate to me, just to be able to say they touched the gringo. These must be the residual affects of having been so often mobbed in India and Asia in which good intentions eventually to you being pulled in every direction. They were fun and exciting at first, admittedly, but the experience seems to be the same now no matter where or when, and I'm in search of the new. But this time was unique because the faces before me were kind and warm and there to give back and not only take. My first experience in Aracataca was as magical and mysterious as my first pages in the town of Macondo. The group eventually parted and I made my way across the street to the big red Panadaria on the corner for a local delicacy that one of the old guys insisted that I try. They were just coming out of the oven (more magic?) which made the cheese-filled croissant absolutely heavenly. I washed it down with a Pony Malta, a gaseosa unique to Colombia that is like Rivella to the Swiss or ginger ale to the Canadians, and then walked my bike to three blocks to the Marquez Museum which is housed in the home of his birth, a national monument since his Nobel for literature in '82. The displays were simple and unpretentious photographs, newspaper clippings, random artifacts from his childhood and flowcharts of family trees not unlike those of the great Macondo family. Next day I was on the road early but my legs felt heavy. Traffic on this road had been bad the day before and the traffic resumed to so terrible that I sensed it to be the worst that I'd experienced in all of Colombia. This was hard to believe, but the huge trucks constantly blew past and more often than not they were side by side trying to pass. Or drag racing. When I arrived in Bosconia 80-kms into the day I thought I would catch a bus to Valledupar because it was still another 90-kms, but the guys around the juice cart laughed that I'd actually riden this section of rode becuase of the notoriously bad traffic. They said the next section to Valledupar would be better and I felt so relieved that it was easy to just push on. The next 60-kms were wonderful with the quiet roads and new scenery: mountain vistas and strange jungle like savanahs with grazing cattle. At 4pm I reached a small town 30-km from Valledupar and within 30-seconds had a ride flagged down the rest of the way in the back of a small pickup truck. The driver was absolutely nuts and I had a deathgrip on the rails, and he was going so fast that when I would poke me head up over the cab the wind would fill my mouth and puff up my checks. It was a fun sensation and I played with this for awhile until I had the epiphany that a low flying bird at this speed would rip my head off. In tens of minutes they were dropping me off on the outskirts of Valledupar in time for me to easily find a hotel by nightfall so that I could get out and catch the evenings Vallenata festivities.... or so thats how it would normally go, but this was not to be one of those days. Writing this now from 3-days afar and from the comforts of a cafe in the kinder, more gentler highlands of Colombia I can say that this was the turning point in which I turned and descended into a sort of hell. Care to join me?

Taganga

hey M&D!

looking forward to seeing romancing the stone again... yeah, it is a good film and i'll be interested to see if things stack up as i call them here on the ground.

been enjoying the beach and sun for the first time this trip... at least ALL day like a soldier doing his duty: sat in the sun, swam, sat in the sun, swam... repeat. then had a beer and smoked a decent colombian cigar (for you dad), then went back to the hostal for a homemade jugo de maracuya and a hammack nap (no siesta can compare to one in a hammack). a true hedonist, i am.

tomorrow i think i'm off to Parque Tayrona for just a day to enjoy more pristine beaches, muy tranquillo they say. jungle going right up to the sea, white sand, no people (except me and all those others who have gone there to be all alone). the water is cool and deep here after the bathwater down south. the air is fresh too even though the scenery is brutally dry... its "waterfront property in Arizona", as they say, but seriously. its a neat place but most of the fun is being had by the locals who seem to have a 24/7 disco set up on the beach that rocks out the latest salsa and vallenata tunes and they are dancing and drinking all day... in shifts i'd presume but i'm going to find out for myself... today is Anzac Day in Australia and some new friends aim to celebrate, so there we go, a place to rumba.

speaking of Vallenata: its a style of music unique to Colombia but sounds a bit like the Norteño music of Mexico... folky traditional and with an accordian. most of the people love it hear, although the more "cultured" people that i have met here hate it. guess its sort of peasant music which explains why i like it... music for the masses with communistic tendencies... viva la revolucion! Viva Vallenata! maybe thats a bit of a stretch but i'll find out because beginning tomorrow is the big music festival in Valledupar, birthplace and capital of this style and i plan on catching a bus out there on friday. its been in the plans for over a month now and i'm going to rendevous with some other travelers out there before finishing up my travels back in the Andes while rolling back to Bogota. things are winding down for me... or are they? hey, gotta split...

out for now, abrazos y amor!
d

PS a few days ago, about a day out of Cartagena if i remember right, i came across a sign for a "Vulcan" and rode out a few kms to find out what it was all about. sure enough it was one of the mud bath volcanos i'd heard about from other travelers and so i took the plunge. don't have any pics because... well, i was covered in mud from head to toe, and wish there were some here on this link but its a decent writeup nontheless. i stumbled upon this by complete chance on a totally unrelated sight... didn't know it was a destination til after the fact. i was the only person there and thought i was being scammed. talked them down from 4000 to 2500 pesos!

http://www.hostelscentral.com/hostels-article-107.html

---yes, thats an apple... the first non-local fruit since seattle. pretty good, but i shouldn't be promoting that chilean crap.

Santa Marta/Tagonga

Yesterday I didn't get out of my cool room in Barranquilla until noon, then about 20-kilometers lost until I finally found the bridge out over the Magdellena River -- I was very near the source at El Estrecho, if you'll remember down near San Agustine -- and then made my way back in the face of more terrific winds and terrible bleakness. A stretch of over 50-km with absolutely nothing. NOTHING! Unless dried up lagoons, sand, shriveled up burned looking trees and dead stumps are something to you.

The first spot I came to with anything I stopped for a beer and some patacon, and it was there that I ended up spending the night. It was a fabulous inpromptu and the kind which make bike travel worth the while. But hey, I'm out of here for now so I'll finish up this post later. Its happy hour out there somewhere and I'm finally in a coastal village with some flair. Finally, vacation!

Barranquilla

Its reasonable to think that now that I am out of the mountains and along the coastal flatlands that life on the road would get much easier. O contraire! The riding from Cartegena to Barranquilla was some of the hardest days I've experienced and for a multiplicity of reasons. Namely the strong headwinds that have plagued my progress and hammered at me consistantly. I don't want to forget too soon -- because there were some great beaches out there too that might dull the memory -- how miserable so much of that riding was. A rippin wind right into my face all day combined with an equally vicious sun created for some hard times. It was pure desert out there. I was sandblasted by gusts from the beach which stuck to my sweaty skin and over the course of several hours it was uncomfortable, to say the least. Necessitated much swimming when the beaches were accessible, but much of the time it was close but too far to make a trip over a kilometer of dunes worth while when I could just put my head down and ride. It was bath water anyway and not that fun in the middle of the day when all you wanted to do was "get there", wherever that might be.

Thats the thing about bike touring, and this has been on my mind a lot lately: look, I recommend bike touring to everyone because I'm sure its the best way to really experience a place if you've got the time, but there is no hiding. You've got to ride those miles! So many times I just wanted to say "uncle" and thumb a ride or catch a bus, but... well, I kept on, and I guess thats what makes me a cyclist.

My first night out of Cartagena there was no "where" and I ended up camping in my most compromising situation yet. This entire region was bleak: hardly any towns and those small outcroppings of civilization which existed were nothing like the similar places down south for here I could not find even one tienda, not one crumb of roadside food for sale, no water! It was bleak, and the people were none too friendly either, for the most part, and so when I decided to hold up on the beach in the middle of this little village I was... concerned. These towns are full of machette toting hombres who chop things for a living: sugar cane mostly, but its a bit daunting to have all these guys along the roads playing with their huge knives and not exactly thrilled with my presence. So setting up my tent on their beach didn't seem like a great idea, but I was completely whooped beyond all belief and needed to sleep ASAP. I waited until the sun went down then found a nice little surfside cabana amongst many to call home and I was luckily undisturbed for the duration of the night.

Frankly, I don't think I'm in the mood to recall the horror of those days and so I'm just not doing it justice, but its understood when I'm now parked on an amazing beach of a small fishing village where the water is calm and cool and the air is fresh... that sun actually feels nice out here.

In Cartagena a traveler told me that Barranquilla was a dump and so I had to stay a night and see for myself. I pretty much concur however, there are some redeaming qualities and it was still a worthwhile visit. And besides, I wasn't riding any further that day so where else to go? I found a street pizza vendor and thought that I'd make a slice an appetizer before finding a place for a proper meal, but it was so damn good I ended up having 3 huge pieces and calling it good after a jugo de nispero, my new favorite juice. It might not have been "proper" but it was damn good.

I splurged on a hotel with AC, oh what a treat that was, and it had TV. I woke up to Ferris Buellers Day Off (renamed "An Expert in Diversion" for Spanish) and caught an episode of the Simpsons in espanol.

Cartagena

Just spent an hour blogging and when I hit the "publicar entrada" button the shit dissappeared... photos and all. So you're going to get the half-assed version this time... Colombia's waiting outside this cafe.

To all who've expressed concern, I appreciate it, but no, I haven' t been swept away by the floods or landslides that have been wreaking havoc on much of Colombia. Where I'm at there's no rain, only heat with lots of sun on top. The past few days I've been battling the heat, trying to avoid heat stroke by dips in the sea from some pretty incredible beaches. Can't say I've avoided riding in the heat of the day as I used to do during über hot stretches across India, but I've been laying down some big miles the past week and frankly, I'm a bit cooked right now from the heat and the riding. But I spent the whole of yesterday chillaxing in the cooler confines of Cartagena's Old City where narrow pastel-colored alleys and lush gardens keep the temperatures more bearable.

Super hot! Might be off to a island beach not far from here, but then again, I might just continue on my merry way northwards to Barranquilla, Santa Marta, and maybe time for the region of Guajira before a music festival in Valledupar of all Vallenata music... a music unique to Colombia thats kind of like the frontera music of Mexico, part folk, part polka, great ballads.

Lets hope this posts. Life is good! Fresh squeezed carrots and guanabana are good!

Cartagena

What do you think of when you hear of Cartagena? My sister Juanita and I both thought of the same thing before I left to Colombia: Romancing the Stone, the late 80s adventure-comedy set in the jungles of Colombia and the city of Cartagena, and as I'm now discovering, in dubious relation to one another as movies are so adept at doing. In the film I remember Cartagena as very mysterious, an old Euro-ish city with massive stone walls, moats filled with man-eating aligators and luxurious inner-city haciendas. So before I actually set foot in Cartagena I played that game: I tried imagining what it would actually look based upon the incomplete set of information I had about the place, the majority of that, embarrasingly, coming from a Hollywood feature, so that I could compare my prior expectations with my observed reality.

My first impressions were nothing of the like as I rode through the outskirts of the city towards some "inner city" I'd heard about, and I asked locals on street corners which direction at every major intersection. All day I'd been riding through a 35-degree swelter for the 4th day in a row and on this day I was definately ailing from some heat related dementia. I think that I was suffering from the early stages of heat stroke because no amount of food would cure this terrible bonk -- believe me, I tried -- and it wasn´t until I dunked my head in a bucket of cold water that I felt some relief, and so the remainder of the day I kept pouring water over myself. At 30-kms to Cartegena I needed a break but would have none of that: I was ready to check into a room, take a shower and hit the town and stopping in some hot dusty village to recover was not an option despite my sorry state. And then came the hills. I'd been riding on nearly perfect flat roads for days and now when I least needed it came a series of rollers that set me back and left my already noodley legs rubbery-er. Then came the traffic: uncompassionate trucks and buses honking and belching and creating an air even less suitable than just a scorching heat, and I suffered into the city. Okay, I wasn' t in the best of spirits in the first place and so I was exceptionally disgusted with all that I saw of this city: dust, horrendous traffic, flat sprawling crumbling buildings in various states of decay or construction, I couldn't tell which. Then I reached a huge, heavy stone wall and passed inside...

And all was different. It was a wonderland of narrow streets with pastel lined buildings and flowering plants dripping from the wooden porches, cool shadows, plazas that opened up to the sky where huge shade trees and palms shaded benches and bronze statues. This was the Cartagena of my inner-eye and remarkably close to my prior expectations, and with the exception of the aligators its not far from the Cartagena of Romancing the Stone. But still, you need to come see this place Joanie!

Medellin -- Cartagena (April 11-17)

Again, a computer crash and over an hour of blog work lost. For lack of time and abundance of frustration I'm going to let the pictures do most of the talking.

When I awoke before dawn in the dirty little port town of Turbo it was still dark, and I watched the silhouetteds of a group of black fisherman unload their catches from their long narrow boats. Turbo is in a large bay and across it the bay reaches up to the Choco region of the Darien Gag and then up into Panama. The light came so slowly that it startled me when I realized that I could see more than outlines, and a light pinkish hue in the East revealed dark clouds that meant rain, but before I saw this I could feel it coming with the heavy air. I pulled up under a wall-less cafe and watched the downpour as it streamed off the corregated tin roof and glossed over the dusty streets. I waited it out, reading, writing, eating fruit and fresh bread and sipping hot sweet coffee from a tiny plastic cup. So much for my early start.

The rain stopped and I was rolling by 9:30, and the first 10-kilometers were divine. Life sprung to action with the ceasing of the rain and I rode out through dripping banana plantations on supremely flat, beautifully paved roads. Then the pavement ended and my perspective changed. Life sucked! I was furious that I'd chosen this remote route to Cartagena up the coast when I knew all along that much of it was unpaved. The road was paved with nothing but rocks and potholes, and anything faster than 12-kph rocked me and my bike to oblivion. I was immediately as mud soaked to the core as well as from any cyclocross race I'd done, and I could hear, maddeningly, my gears and chain grinding away from the dirt. I was reminded of all the other bad roads I'd riden and had similarly cursed, and so I was frustrated that I hadn't chosen the easy route up through Sincelejo as was recommended to me. It wasn't long before I settled in tough and began to enjoy the amazing scenery: such a contrast to the Colombia that I'd known. Indian-like villages, African-like people. 110 of the 120-kilometers that I rode that day was over this sort of terrain, and I felt heroic when I finally pulled up in the dark to a beach I could not see, but the roll of surf was sublime. Within minutes I was showering and my order had been placed for Bandeja Paisa of fish with beer.

I´d pulled up to the right place: Alfred was an amazing host and his friends visiting from Medellin were equally as generous. For the next two days I camped on the beach for free, and virtually all my meals and beers were paid for by guests who fought over who would pay for me. It was an incredible couple of days, but I made up for these days of relaxation -- swims in the sea, food, beer, siestas in hammocks, repeat -- over the following 4-days in which I laid down nearly 600-kms through some of the most intense heat. These are days that I will remember: very long, very hot days with intermittant swims from sandy beaches.

120-kms, 170-kms, 135-kms, 120-kms, 118-kms... God only knows how many hours, but many days I rode well into the night.

Medellin

Pic:Trains and Gondola of Medellin's Metro network (with a couple of Botero's "gordos" lurking).

Like many places in Colombia, Medellin is one of those that I'd heard was "dangerous". That it was full of mafia and guerillia groups like FARC as well as the drug cartels and the likes of Pablo Escobar. And so my preconceived images of Medellin were such that I thought it would be a city to avoid, but after arriving in Colombia and discovering for myself the situation here on the ground, all my notions of this country and what is dangerous was shattered. I was pretty sure that the same would be true for Medellin, and that it would as safe as anywhere else where there were relatively large groups of poor. The usual threats are all that remain, so outside of wandering in the poorest barrios at night I'd not encounter any other sort of danger. Medellin is an amazing city and I'd love to give it more time, but I just can't. I am beginning to feel that panic a traveler gets when the realization sets in that time is running short and running away from her.

Well, at one time it could have been dangerous and still could be if you are connected to the wrong crowd. The fact is that these groups are no longer, if they ever really were, interested in tourists. FARC and the other guerillas learned the hard way that trying to finance their campaigns and their lavish lifestyles (that would be the minority, as most guerillas live simple lives far out in the jungles) by way of kidnapping tourists wasn't in their best interests and so they've relied on cocaine and drug trafficing, and the odd abduction of rich Colombianoas. In fact, I met a woman as I sat at an outdoor cafe in Cali who'd been abducted and held for 6-months in the jungles. Its an interesting story and I wish I'd probed for more, but they took her from her remote jungle plantation and held her for ranson in full shackles. That was only a year ago. Her husband talked about his equestrian pursuits and by their dress it was obvious they were loaded. They bought me a coffee and my breakfast, by the way.

So yesterday after washing by hand the meager wardrobe that I wasn't wearing at the moment and setting them out to dry, I set out to see some of town. This is the only city with a metro system and its fantastic. For 50-cents you can ride until you exit the system, and yesterday I had one ride that lasted over an hour. I changed lines 3 times and one of those was this incredible gondola that connects the metro line with some very poor areas up on one of the surrounding hills that previously was unable to easily get into the city. This is a poor area, mind you, and I think this says a lot about this country and their forward thinking. There could be little economic kickback from these cable cars and as far as I've heard its just pure old fashioned altruism as this area is becoming slightly revitalized and the poor are now empowered to create change in their communities. Not to mention the forward thinking of building an expensive network of public transportation: if they can do it here, why can't we? Speaking of Seattle...


On the net yesterday I discovered some tragic news about a fellow bike racer and acquaintance in the Seattle area. Brad Lewis is my age and has been racing in the NW as long as I can remember, and on Monday he died during a race of an apparent heart attack. More info and details about a benefit ride on his behalf can be found at http://www.recycledcycles.com/racing/BradLewisMemorial.php.

The downtown area is vibrant and full of public art including many works from Medellin's very own, and Colombia's most famous contemporary artist, Fernando Botero. These are from his "los gordos" series.

And so to round out my day of culture I went to an evening concert in front of the Museo de Antioquia. A beautiful night setting and the crowd not the least bit dampened by the rain. It was dubbed spiritual music and some of the hostel-mates here made fun of me for going. I couldn't make out most of the lyrics anyway and the music was enchanting: a Spanish guitarist accompanied by two cellists. Really fantastic, a passionate and stirring performance perfectly suited for holy week.

Pic: An eveing Semana Santa-related concert on one of the main plazas of the city, free, paid for by the local goverment and sponsors... thats culture, no.

Cali -- Medellin (bus)

Pic: "La Finca" Lago de Colima cerca de Cali.

Pic: a Colombian kitchen most women would be jealous of...

and they have servants to help cook and clean.

Taking a bus tonight at 10pm and expecting to roll into the city called "la eternal primavera", but where Im from it rains all Spring so I hope their idea of primavera is different from mine. Ive decided to head straight to Medellin as much as I hate to miss the great riding sure to exist between here and there... but Im a bit anxious to get N and time is running short: a month, mas o menos.

Last night after the race I was afforded another sweet opportunity: to head with Jorge and his family and extended family to their "finca" in the hills about 2=hours away. I helped them load up the truck with food for a week and then we set out in their double cab toyota and i got to witness from behind the glass just how crazy these drivers can be: passing on blind corners, passing on the inside, always peddle to the metal... and with his wife, 2 babies, nanny and myself onboard.

no problema, and i was so whooped from the race i slept most of the way and the family made fun of this once we arrived. the Finca was a beautiful little home much like ours on the Chiwawa but with a huge spread full of fruit trees, chickens and shit, and a couple cabanas around the pool for fiestas, they said. the family was awesome and i got to see how the other half lives here in colombia. they arent sickly rich, just engineers and small business folk, but they can afford a very nice life. they have another finca too that apparently has more animals and monkeys. colombia is a monkey country.

last night i think i tried every Colombian delicacy that id missed up until now, different types of arepas, the original "marshmallow" made from animal collagen that has a caramel flavor and is more delicate, more strange fruits... they enjoyed sharing their culture.

Cali

Pic: You don't see this every day in Colombia: a dog kicking its dogs up!

RACE WRITEUP: Girardini XI Clasica Ciclistica Senior Master

i should make a declaration here to say a little about "the race writeup". its an important part of the race, almost as important as the race itself because its a venting of the intellectual aspect of the race which has no outlet until afterwards. whats interesting about "the race writeup" is that at the end of the race each person could and will have a very different perspective and its irregardless of how well the "auther" did in the race: everyone has their own story. the race report begins the minute the race is over and as time goes on it evolves because you constantly remember more about the race, what happened, how you reacted, how you felt, etc. its a vital aspect of post race rituals and so as a friend, family member, spouse or girl/boyfriend of a racer i hope you will be understanding about how annoying this can be. with that said...

When I woke up at 7am dehydrated (only 3 Bravas the previous evening but up until 1am) and upon hearing the sound of pouring rain off the roof onto the street below I second guessed my having returned for this race. A big effort just to return for a race, but I had come to Colombia in part to witness and experience the cycling phenomenon here and this was going to be a part of that. I've ridden along with pros during my travels and chatted them up, but I hadn't seen the racing scene yet.

About a third of the way into the race I second guessed my having returned to Cali just for a bike race, and I don't think it was the last time either. I was getting anxious to real in a breakaway that had been dangling out there for a long time and had rather hoped to join them up ahead, so I attacked and was joined by my new friend Jorge, who had driven me to the race, and 1 other. We swapped pulls but it was soon clear that I couldn't hack it, and struggling and flailing and unable to take my turn, I finally gave up and dropped back to the pack, depressed that I'd come back to Cali for this race. Trying to recover midpack, I looked behind and realized that I was at the back, dead last. I hate that feeling: its like you-re going to drop off the edge of the earth if you slip any further behind.

Let me set the scene of the race a bit, this is crucial and probably the most interesting aspect of the race: there were only about 40 riders in the Masters A field, all riders 30 to 39, but I quickly noted a couple numbers of guys who looked strong less than 10km into the race and my instincts turned out to be correct: #9, 11, and 1 were strong favorites and the first two, I found out after the race were ex-pros from the Selle Italia Colombia squad just 2 years ago. The first leg of the race was about 40km out on the highway to Popayan, and we literally raced along with traffic on a well beaten two lane highway. The road wasn't "closed" and the peleton used the entire two lanes despite the guy on the bullhorn in the officials car behínd who kept screaming "a la derecha" and even "por favor", but to know avail, the peleton had no ears but had its own mind. But traffic cooperated which reinforced my belief that the bicycle is king here in Colombia... the people respect cyclists and admire the racers, so EVEN buses slowed for us. This was amazing. On breaks the small packs or soloists would pull in behind trucks and buses to get whatever draft they could: there seemed to be no rules. There were four fields, Masters A-D based purely upon age, and before the race a guy asked me which category I was in he replied "ah, muy joven" (young). There were 5 or 6 military escorts on motorcycles and they were equipped with sirens and machine guns, but they didn't seen to know the race route too well, as you'll soon find out. Okay, so...

I happened to make it back to the front of the peleton before we pulled off the highway onto a small road and it was a super sketchy maneauver because a car was pulling onto the highway as we were pulling in... it was unbelievable, really, that this car would be in the way of our race: Locombia, I love this place.... and part of the pack went one way and the rest the other way around this car at full speed.. I'm sure the driver was shocked, but then again, maybe not.

A few kilometers later the break was still up the road but I was at the very front of the main field when two guys attacked and I jumped in behind them, but my first thought was "I didn't know these two were still in the pack", #s 11 and 9, and then it dawned on me that they had made a wrong turn and had chased back. Hell, I was going with them regardless. 4 of us built up a lead and then we hit the only climb of the day, and I had no idea how long it was but when the others slowed I pulled ahead and accelerated and I heard one of the guys say "un escalador", he-s a climber. i lead all the way up the 1-km climb but didn-t know about the KOM prime, and so they jumped me for it. anyway, we were caught by the pack not far after the climb but a cool thing happened i might never forget: i was racing hard at the front with another small group as we pulled into a very small village and all hell broke loose. the lead motorcycle, a machine gun toting military guy had its lights flashing and the follow vehicle was right behind us with a siren going, and the people in the village seemed completely unaware of what was going on until we were there... there were cars, motorcycles, livestock and people in the roads, and this chaos made it so exciting... as though we in the Tour busting through the throngs of people, and the craziness kept you on your toes because there was always something to dodge. When we finally made it out of town I was amazed to see the pack still chasing and there had not been a crash.

moving on... with about 15 to 20 kms to go, although i did't know how far at the time, the pack was together again after a few failed efforts by others and so i gave it another go. this time i decided to just "roll" off the front because a full-on attack tends to result in aggression from others when you can often lull them into not responding by just easing off. #9 came with me and after i ramped it up to full speed for a long pull i gave him the sign to take a turn, but nothing. he was a part of the biggest team, called ironically "el gordo" because they were nothing of the like, and this team controlled every part of the race to this point and there was little anyone could do about it but react. #11 was one of his teammates. i couldn-t afford to stall for too long so i took another long pull and then expected him to take a turn but still nothing. "venga, venga" i yelled. then i tried reasoning, "trabaja conmigo, por favor", y "un piquito hombre", but nothing phased him and so once i'd got us a sizable gap i tried to attack him, but forget it, this guy was too fast. but i did beat him at the next and final "meta" or sprint line and i was stoked about this, but then he countered and because i was cooked he quickly built up a 500m gap. the pack was less than 1km behind now and chasing hard. that was it, i thought, but instead of giving up i put my head down and rode hard just to hang on as long as possible. i jumped in behind trucks and buses, #9 was doing this too as well as the pack behind, and within a few minutes i was gaining. eventually i caught him and predictably he got behind me and sat on my wheel, and so it was up to me to keep pulling while he got to rest. i realized then that it was either give it my all and get 2nd, or play games with this guy and have to sprint it out with the chase group, and i decided that i was on vacation and didn't care for glory so much as a good training session and decent result, so i resigned myself to going for it. i'd been getting stronger and stronger all race and this kind of effort was my strength because of a month of riding every day with a 40 kilo payload.

the pace car pulled up and i asked how much further and they said 5km. about 7km later i asked how far and they said 3km. more than 3km later they said 1km. i-d built a huge gap over the others and so here is when i wish i-d begun playing with #9 instead of letting him take the V uncontested. with about 500m to the line he attacked and i rolled in for second. i was amazed at the reaction because i became a celebrity of sorts. they interviewed me twice for TV and many came up to congradulate me. it was such a good feeling there and everyone was so good spirited unlike so much of the race scene in the NW where there are too many egos.

i was shwagged a cycling cap and a trophy that I donated to my friend Herman and his bike shop, BTT Norte de Cali, who loaned me the bike.

Pic: Pretty stoked about 2nd place, but its always a bit hard being first loser.

Pic: They are big on trophies here: I'd have preferred a few thousand pesos or a couple of arepas con queso.

The postrace surprise was that Jorge took me to his "cloob" which turned about to be the swankiest country club I've ever been too. We took a lengthy Turkish bath and then ate amazing crepes poolside in terrycloth robes... no kidding.

Manizales -- Cali (bus)

Slept almost every inch of the way on the bus... after buses in Asia these are pure luxury.

Manizales

In 10-minutes or less I must do another epic ride justice: I've got one good pic that pretty well sums up the day, so thats worth about 1,000 words, I'd say.

Woke up early, 8ish, and made up a HUGE shake in the hostals blender from fruit that was leftover when Cristina cleaned out the fridge last night: one mango, part of a giant plantain, a lulo, and juice from a couple oranges, and then the last of my vanilla protein powder that I snuck into Colombia. Was on the road by 9am, rackless and pannierless and feeling light as a feather. For about the first hour of climbing, but when I'd done 3000' of vertical with another 2000' to go, I wasn't so fresh. It was more the altitude than anything. Felt like my esaphagus had been sucked into my lungs. I topped out at 11,500', my new high here in Colombia but I could have gone on another 5-km and who knows how many feet up were it not for the drenching downpour... froze my ass off.

Ride: 73-kms, 3:45 (low:6600, high:11,500)

Manizales

The day went down like this: I walked, and walked, then walked some more. On a day I decided not to ride the bike in order to give the legs a much needed rest, I sure "shook them out" a bit more than i expected. I walked, but I also ate my way around the city. Its a beautiful thing and I do it so often on my travels: I see something that looks good like a deep fried morsel from some roadside vendor, a fresh pastry from a bakery, or the local flavor of ice cream from some Senora's foam cooler in the plaza... and I try it! This country is full of such temptations and ironically I tend to save my culinary explorations until my days off. I could be putting those carbs to use on a big ride day.

Manizales is a sweet town and I´d sure like to see this place on a sunny day. Its a mix between San Fran sin aqua and Darjeeling sin pollution and tea plantations... this is Cafetera. But its been beautiful today -- the clouds played havoc with the sun and the rays bounced around all day. Sunglasses were on and off a hundred times. Hope its nice tomorrow. This morning I cleaned and tuned the bike, and I took off the rack in prep for a big local ride into the surrounding terrain which undoubtedly means huge climbs. There is no way out but down.

Found a decent Vino Tempranillo on sale today and I bought some groceries to do dinner at the hostel... and fixins for about 4 huge fruit shakes. Some good people to chillax with: a Swiss, an Italiana, a couple Israelis, a couple local Colombianos/as and one paisano from Walla Walla. Apparently 8 out of 10 Americans (they even call us Americans here in the Sur de Americas) are from the Northwest. Thats bold, but I´ve met one Portlander and a couple Californians in my survey.

Termales de SR -- Manizales

Pics: Swilling coffee in my favorite setting: old time pool hall with old timers.
Those are coffee plants dominating the slopes here in Cafetera.
A glorietta here in Manizales: thats as flat is it gets, right there.

Had to retrace my ride the 10-kms back to town but in the daylight this time and I imagined it more beautiful at night when i couldn't see. But the road was just as bad as before and the rattling of brain in head so early in the morning put a damper on my spirits... but thats half of enjoying: you gotta get yourself in the mood, and so thats just what i did when i hit town. I ordered a guanabana shake and then an espresso doble, and if that hadn't of done the trick I wouldn't have kept reordering more of the same, but I didn't need to.

I rolled onwards, pleasantly downwards to the town of Chinchina where I half expected that I might just make a layover day by checking into some local coffee finca. I imagined myself stretched out in a hammock smoking a big cigar on some plantation veranda while the slaves served me mochiattas. Didn't happen... I felt like riding on this day and the rain didn't seem right for chillaxin, so I pressed on after rolling around town and looking for Juan Valdez... he hails from this town.

I wanted a ride, I got a ride. The next 40-kms were up, up again, up some more, and then when I hit the outskirts of Manizales it got steeper, then even steeper when I neared the Plaza Bolivar... this place was fortified by its damn hill top perch. Imagine Queen Anne drive times 10 and maybe even steeper. With a payload of almost 40-kgs it was brutal and I rode every last inch of it too! My computer only reads as low as 4-kph i think because I must have been going slower than that. I have some pics but a camera just can't do a slope justice.

Stats: 64-km, 4:20-hrs (and over 3000' of vertical up).