The Good News Is: I'm Not a Cow

Before I even got to Mexico, word was out that a cyclist from Colorado was visiting Zamora. I was surprised to learn that Zamora is a big cycling community -- for those who are serious. People here road ride or mountain bike. So I immediately worked something out to ride with my local guide (and school jefe) -- Francisco.

I was a bit hesitant to ride with Francisco (it's not riding season in Colorado, so I wasn't in riding shape) and he was nervous to ride with me (simply because I'm from Durango). We worked out our nerves and made a plan. I told him I preferred road riding, especially once I saw the soil in Michoacan. Sheesh, he might as well asked me to ride a heavy mountain bike down the sandy beach of San Diego. And thought would have promptly worn me out within a mile. The loamy soil here is good for strawberries; it's not so good for cranking your butt up a mountain on knobby tires.

Since this is Mexico, I didn't expect to be riding the best bike in town. I thought I'd have something equivalent to my bike at home. For better or for worse, I was wrong. When Franscisco opened his door, there sat a shiny and beautiful bike that was twice as nice as my own. I salivated and couldn't believe I was in a poor country riding something nicer.

Francisco and I headed out for what he said would be about an hour ride -- and in preparation for Wednesday morning's 55-mile ride up a mountain. Unfortunately, the Mexicans ride during siesta, which for me means just past high noon. I am not accustomed to this heat. It's not humid, but there's something about the Mexican sun that beats me down.

Long story short(er): We started our ride at the hottest time of the day. And we ended up riding for 2 1/2 hours, rolling along the backroads of Zamora. The asphalt and cement nearly sucked me up. But the views were magnificent. We got up high enough on a benched road to see a panoramic view of the strawberry fields. The smell was nearly the only thing that kept me upright on the bike.
We rolled into one very small town that was so poor that I think it defines "abject poverty." In all seriousness, I do believe the bike I was riding is worth more than what a person living there makes in his or her lifetime. It was jarring. I felt greedy. I felt ugly. Perspective.

On our way into this small town, we climbed a rather steep but short hill. I was in my lowest gear and saw a cattle guard at the top of the hill. Already overheated and ready to wretch, I thought the best decision was to stop at the guard and walk the bike across, lest I not have the necessary speed to ride across it straight and keep from taco-ing the beautiful black steed.

So I did.

Or didn't. Depending on how you look at it.

With shaky legs and poor judgement, I made it 3/4 of the way across the guard and then tripped. My leg twisted and jutted into the abyss below the slats. My elbow broke my fall, with the bike flipping in the air and landing on top of me.

And there I laid, bike on top of me and my leg stuck between the slats of a cattle guard. Then the horror set in. One of the brake hoods on the bike was twisted entirely inside. A big scuff marked the top tube of the bike. And the seat had its own style of road rash.

Never mind my snagged shorts, bleeding elbow with gravel embedded in it, and the indention in my stomach from the handlebars. I was horrified to see the bike. It wasn't mine, and I didn't have room in my suitcase to be buying and taking back to the US a new bike (well, not really, but...).

I survived riding among Mexican drivers, but a cattle guard got me in the end. It was a long, very hot ride in the middle of the afternoon -- something I'd never do at home. Dehydrated and getting chills, my patience thin and the fun dwindling quickly, I wasn't much of a trooper in the end. So I hope that the driver of the minivan who pulled in front of me (literally inches) forgives me for not acting like a lady and using the gestures and adjectives fit only for a sailor.

I am not posting pictures here of the war wounds. Suffice it to say that the gravel is now all picked out of my arm and elbow, but is healing quite well with multiple doses of calendula cream. And the massive, ugly bruise on my panzita (well, there's nothing really "-ita" about my "panza" these days) hurts like hell. Memories of Mexico.