Cycling from Alaska to Argentina and just crossed the border for Mexico, through an endless summer of beach towns, descending into Torrey Pines at golden hour, the instant velocity of Tijuana with immediate escape into the mountains, stiff vertical climbs of San Franciscan proportions, arid wine canyons from La Misión through Santo Tomás, endless barking of the wind, road growing smaller all the while, raising a fist to old men on the streetside, them whistling and waving their canes in return. Siempre practicando mi español con cualquiera quiera compartir, stumbling into strangers’ work parties in hopes of learning a few new words.
It took several days of hard riding to find a treasured slice of wilderness again. Remnants of the hurricane struck with thick veils of rain and upside-down winds. Holding on tight to the celebration of living, white knuckles and tired mind, always the reminder to carry no further weight of days than what’s absolutely necessary. Keeping enough water comes first, then comes Queta’s trailer parked in some strawberry fields on the beach. She had a little blue bus I could sleep in. The kitten’s called “gin,” plus a silent collie whose name roughly translates to “get out of the way you fool.”
by donivanberube