The plan was to leave Puerto Penasco today and bike to Sonoyta, a border town 60 miles north. The road in between is smooth, lightly traveled, and has a generous shoulder on both sides. The only problem was the wind, which pushed directly against us and picked up speed the further we pedaled on the open road. By the time we decided to call it quits and camp in the Pinacate Biosphere Reserve, halfway to our destination, the headwinds had reached 17 mph.
The rest of the team made the smart decision to bike-hike, which involves hiding your bike, your heavy gear, and all your frat boy friends out of sight while you stand on the shoulder, stick your thumb out, look innocent and lost, and hope someone stops to give you (and your caravan) a lift. When we attempted this a few days ago we waited for hours at a sun-baked intersection before settling for a ride in a fish truck. That’s not the typical hitchhiker experience in Mexico. Here, thumbing a ride is entirely legal and drivers are quick to pull over and offer their help. The rest of the team tells me that today, within two minutes, a young couple from Arizona that had gone to Puerto Penasco for the day for some dental work picked them up, gave them fruit and water, and got them where they needed to go.
I, on the other hand, decided to stick it out on the bike. 30 kilometers (not even 19 miles) didn’t sound like that far of a distance, and what else did I have to do today? Besides, we macho guys need time to be alone and brood. The Hacienda de Cortez is flat and empty. A national park keeps the land wild and untouched on one side. High black mountains jut abruptly out of the sand on the horizon, and if it weren’t for these and the telephone poles placed at regular intervals I wouldn’t have been able to tell if I was making forward progress. Tumbleweeds passed me in the opposite lane, jeering rudely as they skipped by.
I remember, as a kid, being mystified as to why Indiana Jones would bother chasing after his hat. But that’s what I did today multiple times. Nazis and the Ark of the Covenant be damned, this gringo needs to keep the sun off his lilly-white complexion.
Instead of the semi-trucks that usually pass us on the highway, I saw dozens of RV’s, campers, and trailers. Like the truck that picked my friends up, most of them had Arizona license plates. The explanation is pretty simple—Puerto Penasco is a resort town, and exists almost entirely for the sake of the hotels lined up along the beach, facing the beautiful ocean view. Inevitably, most of the visitors to Puerto Penasco are Americans.
Why do they come to Mexico? First, to see beautiful places and meet wonderful people, like where we’re camping tonight, and the park ranger that made me a cup of coffee. There are volcanic craters here that everyone says are incredible. I didn’t see them, of course, because I spent all day pedaling against a wind tunnel (well done, Grant). But I did get to see the red tailed hawk that landed on our bikes and sat, practically on my shoulder, for an hour. Like a king, he was majestic and confident, gripping the handlebar tape with half-inch talons.
Second, to get away from the rules and high prices in America. In Puerto Penasco there are men on the street selling party rooms and table dances. Hitchhiking isn’t the only thing that’s legal down here. Loud white guys with cigarettes and sunglasses roared to the beach this morning on four-wheelers to go play in the sand, their girlfriends wearing daisy dukes in tow. Last night the club music bumped late into the night. The prices for everything are higher near the resorts than anywhere we’ve been in Mexico, but the dollar goes so much further here than in the States.
There’s nothing necessarily wrong with booze cruising, of course, but I’ve realized that’s how a lot of people in Mexico, and around the world, must interact with Americans. What impression does that create?
