It all started with iPhone alarms going off at 6am. Yes, we're on vacation in Mexico... Jon Baker style! We sleepily pulled on our cycling finest and wandered, spandex-clad, toward the main drag in search of a taxi. In the dark. The full crew was Jon, my brother-in-law Richard, my nephew Robert, my dad and myself; we were on the first leg of a bike ride that was to include taxis, buses and even a boat.
We arrived at BikeMex on Guerrero where Oscar, the proprietor, set us up with the necessities. Guide, check. Sandwiches, check. Helmet and Gloves, check. Several bikes in varying states of repair, check. In the dawn light we rode through the cobbled streets of Puerto Vallarta to a bus stop where Oscar attempted to deposit us on the next bus to El Tuito. After much exchange with the driver it was determined we would wait for the next bus.
The wait was nearly an hour. Standing at a Mexican bus stop wearing spandex - when the working people are all getting on the bus to go to their jobs - made me slightly self-conscious. When the next bus finally came our bikes took up more seats than we did and the driver had be convinced with much pleading and many pesos to even let us on. What a ride. Stomachs lurched as the driver railed around corners, up up up into the jungle. A girl in the front had to use the barf-bag and many new passengers had to stand since the bikes were taking so many seats. At that point the driver decided morale was low and began to blast accordion rock on the radio.
About an hour later we arrived in El Tuito. I tried to find the banos but I found the Federales instead. They were kind enough to direct me to the banos, but not without several snickers at my attire. Once the crew was all ready, we started the easy spin out of El Tuito. On this road we noted the first of several times that our guide stopped to ask for directions. But, hey, at least his Spanish was strong which is more than I could say for the rest of us.
At about kilometer 8, just when we were thinking what a piece of cake this ride was going to be, the road pitched up violently. A thousand feet of climbing later, I reached the top of the first hill. Dad came shortly thereafter. We stopped and ate our sandwiches and, after about 20 minutes, began wondering where the others could possibly be. We would eventually find out that Robert had sheared off his derailleur hanger and Jon converted Robert's bike to a single speed. Of course the terrain was too steep (10-15% grades) so Robert mostly pushed.
The next patch was rolling and we proceeded down the road. Dad and I ended up ahead, again, with Jon circling back to check on the others at frequent intervals. By our estimation, the next logical stop was this cement bunker with a thatch awning and busted out windows. Why? The man sitting in front of said bunker was calling out "Cereveza" to us as we passed. Those of you familiar with our family "bike-abouts" will know that beer stops are a given for Dad and I. We were very happy to find this little oasis.
The owner of the place was named Santiago and spoke no English. Dad and I speak poquito Spanish so we passed the time by teaching each other the names of common objects in our native tongues. Mesa... table, Perro... dog, Cerveza... Beer and so on. Finally (though we were in no rush!) the rest of the crew arrived, surprised to see us relaxing with beers on the roadside.
It turns out Robert had now broken his chain and from this point forward Robert's bike was no more than a Skuut! Jon and the guide asked Santiago for some rope, which he had, and they rigged up a system in which Jon was to tow Robert and his bike the rest of the way to Yelapa. And it seemed to work with Jon towing the 120 pound guide on the 2% grade in front of Santiago's Hideaway.
So with beers in our bellies we got up to leave. I told Santiago that dad was "mi padre" and Santiago says, in Spanish I did not understand, "Oh, my new father-in law!" And the guide explains Santiago is proposing marriage (tongue in cheek, I presume). Then Santiago begins gesturing at the borders of his property and saying all this will be mine should I want to stay on and be his wife. The guide is cracking up as he translates.
Just as we're about to ride off, Santiago grabs both my hands, looks deep into my eyes and gives me the most romantic sounding little speech that I didn't understand a word of. The guide was already too far away to translate so I can only imagine what Santiago said. It was all very flattering. I guess women in skin tight clothing don't stop by the hideaway for cervezas very often.
About another thousand feet of climbing later Dad and I - solo again - arrived at the cute village of Chacala. The first thing I noticed was the booming Mariachi-style music permeating every corner of the town; I remember it as the Chacala soundtrack. Other highlights of Chacala: a Spanish-style town square complete with gazebo, a domestic boar, a woman with a large vat balanced on her head, and a convenience store where our guide could ask for directions. Once sure of our path we started up the hill out of town with the Chacala soundtrack slowly fading away.
No sooner were we out of earshot of the town, dad and I came across a strange sight. Up the hill about 100 feet was a man shepherding what could best be described as a logging donkey. This animal had four 12 foot logs attached to his body. Two on each side. So the image was that of a donkey with a huge V of lumber extending out diagonally from either side. Since we had already passed burros, bulls, goats and boars I guess it was just a matter of time before a logging donkey came along. As I rode toward the animal, he trotted toward me. At about 10 feet away I stopped, afraid I would be clipped by a log. The donkey stopped, too. For a brief moment we stared into each other's eyes, then, CRASH! That logging donkey spooked and went dashing off into the thick jungle, trailing his logs behind him. He cut a swath through the vegetation about 12 feet wide. The hombre in charge of the logging donkey gave me a very, very exasperated look and trudged off after him.
Shaken, but not defeated, we continued on. At this point everyone was in "are we there, yet?" mode and every switchback promised to be the top. But then it wasn't. It was hard riding, the guide having no ability to tell us how far we were, or if we were near the top. At one point I looked confidently at Richard and said, "I think it will be mostly downhill from here." I was partially right, it was half downhill... and half right back up the other side of the hill! About an hour of this crazy roller coaster road later my statement was made true and Jon and I could see the village of Yelapa. Way, way, way down below us.
The descent was the kind that makes you beg for an uphill or flat area, just so your aching hands can lay-off the brakes for a second. The jungle became thick and steamy as we approached sea level; parrots mocked us from just off trail. It was beautiful terrain but somewhat difficult to fully appreciate as it flew by at 30 miles per hour. Eventually the trail gave way to what I refer to as dog-sh*t gully. It was an un-ridable ditch full of giant rocks slicked over with run-off water and animal excrement. I daintily negotiated the trail trying to avoid sliding all the way to Yelapa on a lubricant of poopy creek water.
And, finally, Yelapa. Yelapa sweet Yelapa. We stopped at the very first place that sold beer and proceeded to have 2 or 3 in quick succession. At first it was just me and Jon, then Dad came along. Finally we went out to the trail where we found Richard, Robert and the guide just coming into town. Robert was, of course, slow going because his BikeMex turned into a HikeMex. But he never complained once; he was a trooper.
We all went on to another establishment, this time on the beach, and had more beer and some early dinner. I went for a brief swim and changed clothes in a bathroom where, to flush the toilet, you poured in a bucketful of water from an adjacent cistern. Rustic.
The only reasonable way in and out of Yelapa was by boat or burro. And I'd certainly had enough of the latter. The plan was to catch a nice water taxi back to PV, and, surprisingly, it went off without a hitch. On the boat ride Jon and I got a nice view of the beach where we married 5 years ago, and we come ashore at Playa de los Muertos, near the beachfront restaurant where our reception was held. The name of the beach was appropriate for our exhausted crew of bike adventurers.
By this point it was dusk and we had just one last quick spin ahead: the ride from la playa back to BikeMex. Dad has since dubbed this leg, "The Running of the Bikes." We charged in a pack 5 strong through the dusky cobbled streets, making numerous turns and surprising many taxis and motorists along the way. I guess a peloton of gringo mountain bikers is a rarity in downtown Puerto Vallarta.
Back at BikeMex Oscar congratulated us on the dubious distinction of taking longer than any other group in the history of BikeMex to make it back from Yelapa. We bit our tongues and didn't mention standing at a bus stop for an hour or broken bikes in the Mexican outback. And just like the day began, we walked to the main drag in search of a taxi. In the dark.
The long wait at the bus stop
The bikes hogging all the seats on the bus
Dad, ready to roll in El Tuito
Goofing around because the ride is so easy... little did I know
The peloton. Two bikes, two burros.
Exhausted at the top of climb number one
But not as exhausted as this guy
That wasn't so bad... but now we have to do 4 times as much
Santiago and I
The rope tow testing
Santiago's hideaway
Ok, now we're at the top. Not.
Downtown Chacala
Woman with vat on head
Steamy Jungle Jon
Dad enjoying a brew in Yelapa
We can kiss that ride goodbye
We arrived at BikeMex on Guerrero where Oscar, the proprietor, set us up with the necessities. Guide, check. Sandwiches, check. Helmet and Gloves, check. Several bikes in varying states of repair, check. In the dawn light we rode through the cobbled streets of Puerto Vallarta to a bus stop where Oscar attempted to deposit us on the next bus to El Tuito. After much exchange with the driver it was determined we would wait for the next bus.
The wait was nearly an hour. Standing at a Mexican bus stop wearing spandex - when the working people are all getting on the bus to go to their jobs - made me slightly self-conscious. When the next bus finally came our bikes took up more seats than we did and the driver had be convinced with much pleading and many pesos to even let us on. What a ride. Stomachs lurched as the driver railed around corners, up up up into the jungle. A girl in the front had to use the barf-bag and many new passengers had to stand since the bikes were taking so many seats. At that point the driver decided morale was low and began to blast accordion rock on the radio.
About an hour later we arrived in El Tuito. I tried to find the banos but I found the Federales instead. They were kind enough to direct me to the banos, but not without several snickers at my attire. Once the crew was all ready, we started the easy spin out of El Tuito. On this road we noted the first of several times that our guide stopped to ask for directions. But, hey, at least his Spanish was strong which is more than I could say for the rest of us.
At about kilometer 8, just when we were thinking what a piece of cake this ride was going to be, the road pitched up violently. A thousand feet of climbing later, I reached the top of the first hill. Dad came shortly thereafter. We stopped and ate our sandwiches and, after about 20 minutes, began wondering where the others could possibly be. We would eventually find out that Robert had sheared off his derailleur hanger and Jon converted Robert's bike to a single speed. Of course the terrain was too steep (10-15% grades) so Robert mostly pushed.
The next patch was rolling and we proceeded down the road. Dad and I ended up ahead, again, with Jon circling back to check on the others at frequent intervals. By our estimation, the next logical stop was this cement bunker with a thatch awning and busted out windows. Why? The man sitting in front of said bunker was calling out "Cereveza" to us as we passed. Those of you familiar with our family "bike-abouts" will know that beer stops are a given for Dad and I. We were very happy to find this little oasis.
The owner of the place was named Santiago and spoke no English. Dad and I speak poquito Spanish so we passed the time by teaching each other the names of common objects in our native tongues. Mesa... table, Perro... dog, Cerveza... Beer and so on. Finally (though we were in no rush!) the rest of the crew arrived, surprised to see us relaxing with beers on the roadside.
It turns out Robert had now broken his chain and from this point forward Robert's bike was no more than a Skuut! Jon and the guide asked Santiago for some rope, which he had, and they rigged up a system in which Jon was to tow Robert and his bike the rest of the way to Yelapa. And it seemed to work with Jon towing the 120 pound guide on the 2% grade in front of Santiago's Hideaway.
So with beers in our bellies we got up to leave. I told Santiago that dad was "mi padre" and Santiago says, in Spanish I did not understand, "Oh, my new father-in law!" And the guide explains Santiago is proposing marriage (tongue in cheek, I presume). Then Santiago begins gesturing at the borders of his property and saying all this will be mine should I want to stay on and be his wife. The guide is cracking up as he translates.
Just as we're about to ride off, Santiago grabs both my hands, looks deep into my eyes and gives me the most romantic sounding little speech that I didn't understand a word of. The guide was already too far away to translate so I can only imagine what Santiago said. It was all very flattering. I guess women in skin tight clothing don't stop by the hideaway for cervezas very often.
About another thousand feet of climbing later Dad and I - solo again - arrived at the cute village of Chacala. The first thing I noticed was the booming Mariachi-style music permeating every corner of the town; I remember it as the Chacala soundtrack. Other highlights of Chacala: a Spanish-style town square complete with gazebo, a domestic boar, a woman with a large vat balanced on her head, and a convenience store where our guide could ask for directions. Once sure of our path we started up the hill out of town with the Chacala soundtrack slowly fading away.
No sooner were we out of earshot of the town, dad and I came across a strange sight. Up the hill about 100 feet was a man shepherding what could best be described as a logging donkey. This animal had four 12 foot logs attached to his body. Two on each side. So the image was that of a donkey with a huge V of lumber extending out diagonally from either side. Since we had already passed burros, bulls, goats and boars I guess it was just a matter of time before a logging donkey came along. As I rode toward the animal, he trotted toward me. At about 10 feet away I stopped, afraid I would be clipped by a log. The donkey stopped, too. For a brief moment we stared into each other's eyes, then, CRASH! That logging donkey spooked and went dashing off into the thick jungle, trailing his logs behind him. He cut a swath through the vegetation about 12 feet wide. The hombre in charge of the logging donkey gave me a very, very exasperated look and trudged off after him.
Shaken, but not defeated, we continued on. At this point everyone was in "are we there, yet?" mode and every switchback promised to be the top. But then it wasn't. It was hard riding, the guide having no ability to tell us how far we were, or if we were near the top. At one point I looked confidently at Richard and said, "I think it will be mostly downhill from here." I was partially right, it was half downhill... and half right back up the other side of the hill! About an hour of this crazy roller coaster road later my statement was made true and Jon and I could see the village of Yelapa. Way, way, way down below us.
The descent was the kind that makes you beg for an uphill or flat area, just so your aching hands can lay-off the brakes for a second. The jungle became thick and steamy as we approached sea level; parrots mocked us from just off trail. It was beautiful terrain but somewhat difficult to fully appreciate as it flew by at 30 miles per hour. Eventually the trail gave way to what I refer to as dog-sh*t gully. It was an un-ridable ditch full of giant rocks slicked over with run-off water and animal excrement. I daintily negotiated the trail trying to avoid sliding all the way to Yelapa on a lubricant of poopy creek water.
And, finally, Yelapa. Yelapa sweet Yelapa. We stopped at the very first place that sold beer and proceeded to have 2 or 3 in quick succession. At first it was just me and Jon, then Dad came along. Finally we went out to the trail where we found Richard, Robert and the guide just coming into town. Robert was, of course, slow going because his BikeMex turned into a HikeMex. But he never complained once; he was a trooper.
We all went on to another establishment, this time on the beach, and had more beer and some early dinner. I went for a brief swim and changed clothes in a bathroom where, to flush the toilet, you poured in a bucketful of water from an adjacent cistern. Rustic.
The only reasonable way in and out of Yelapa was by boat or burro. And I'd certainly had enough of the latter. The plan was to catch a nice water taxi back to PV, and, surprisingly, it went off without a hitch. On the boat ride Jon and I got a nice view of the beach where we married 5 years ago, and we come ashore at Playa de los Muertos, near the beachfront restaurant where our reception was held. The name of the beach was appropriate for our exhausted crew of bike adventurers.
By this point it was dusk and we had just one last quick spin ahead: the ride from la playa back to BikeMex. Dad has since dubbed this leg, "The Running of the Bikes." We charged in a pack 5 strong through the dusky cobbled streets, making numerous turns and surprising many taxis and motorists along the way. I guess a peloton of gringo mountain bikers is a rarity in downtown Puerto Vallarta.
Back at BikeMex Oscar congratulated us on the dubious distinction of taking longer than any other group in the history of BikeMex to make it back from Yelapa. We bit our tongues and didn't mention standing at a bus stop for an hour or broken bikes in the Mexican outback. And just like the day began, we walked to the main drag in search of a taxi. In the dark.
The long wait at the bus stop
The bikes hogging all the seats on the bus
Dad, ready to roll in El Tuito
Goofing around because the ride is so easy... little did I know
The peloton. Two bikes, two burros.
Exhausted at the top of climb number one
But not as exhausted as this guy
That wasn't so bad... but now we have to do 4 times as much
Santiago and I
The rope tow testing
Santiago's hideaway
Ok, now we're at the top. Not.
Downtown Chacala
Woman with vat on head
Steamy Jungle Jon
Dad enjoying a brew in Yelapa
We can kiss that ride goodbye
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