How It Is

Whatever one must do to become a Latin-America-Mobile-Roadside-Attraction, we have accomplished. This is hugely in part due to the nature of bicycle touring and then exemplified by who we are and where in the world we ride. Any bicycle tourist, in the US, Europe, South America, anywhere, quickly adapts to the side of the road. It is of universal importance what the road looks like, feels like, the shoulder (if there is one), the flow of traffic and what type of traffic. Do these vehicles belong to families on weekend holiday or are they 18-wheel trucks headed across the country. What lines your road of travel is equally important. Are there trees with growth and homes with water hoses, which offer shade, protection and a rest. Or is there nothing but endless miles of barbed wire fencing separating you from the potential haven of soft grass in amongst cow poop. These few simple pleasures, ones so simple they would never affect you inside the safety of your car, are the ones any bicycle tourist depends on.


Here in Central America there are additives to this roadside struggle which I have yet to cross on the beautiful, smoothly paved and freshly painted straight yellow lines comprising the roads we own in the US. Here, we are lucky when we have a shoulder. We are even luckier when there is no huge drop off, where pavement ends and god only knows what begins. Much of the roadside is hard packed gravel and loose rocks. Maybe grass, and probably a large ditch, one of many sorts. Covering this gravel and lining these ditches you can find any piece of household trash you could ever ask for. Mostly food packaging, lots of soda bottles and dirty diapers. Plastic bags in every color man has ever thought to make, even the occasional bicycle frame. My first few days I was shocked at the abundance of trash everywhere, not just along the roads but in town streets and piled on the side of any given business. It does not phase me much anymore. In fact, the other day while eating breakfast, I realized my sleeping pad between me and the pavement was on top of a bunch of shattered glass, and I am pretty sure some guys pee. I doubt if this is the first, or the last time I enjoy a meal in this fashion. In an American Girl moment some days ago I expressed my anger towards the abundance of trash, and the lack of "appropriate" disposal. Eric reminded me that not all word citizens have trash pick-up day bi-weekly. Here, you chuck it or burn it. The only trash which ever directly concerns us are the thousands of broken glass bottles and hundreds of blown out tires and their little wire threads, searching for a fresh hot bicycle tire to poke through.


There is more to these roadsides than trash filled ditches and the unmistakable fragrance of dead animal flesh. Bicycles. Tons of bicycles. It is a universal tool in these parts. Most bike act as a bit different tool than ours, but commuter machines non the less. Eric and I think we have chosen wisely and appropriately outfitted our fancy bicycles. But I have learned we know nothing of maximizing our rides. People all around us ride two up. Sometimes their tires are half the size of ours and have years on them as well. Carts welded to the front, the back, and filled with groceries, tools, mops and chickens. We have seen it all, other than another BOB trailer. Any one who takes an interest in us goes straight for the trailer. "What is it?" "How much?" "Where can I buy it?" "How does it work?" They are impressed by our efficient little trailers. In my dreams there is a way to distribute BOBs and sell them for a quarter of their retail value. BOB trailers would take over Central America. Other than our trailers, our loyalty to our helmets and our pale skin, we are just a few more people on bikes. Those who pass us in their vehicles are more often than not most courteous. They slow down, pull over, even honk little tunes, wave and shout any English phrase they might know. In the US I have been run off the road, had a plastic soda bottle (half full), 2 beer cans, some spit and even a roll of toilet paper thrown at me. I have been bumped by two cars. Here I do not feel so unwanted, or like I have to compete for 3 feet of the road. We are actually encouraged by on lookers and passersby. The local men especially enjoy shouting words of appreciation at me, freely. Eric, who is usually just a bit behind me has taken to shouting back "Gracias". Surely his foreign, gigantic beard and long white legs frighten them, and I do not risk being abducted by 10 Costa Rican construction workers.

Me, you, Eric, the truck drivers and families on a weekend getaway, all can think what we like of this new position we have assumed. Lets be honest. Do you want to spend your existence or even a piece of it struggling along side a road? A road that is hot as hell, dirty, stinky and so loud I hear 18-wheel trucks in my sleep (literally). Eric has called it "demeaning", bike touring that is. He has a point even I will admit. There is no getaway for us, no shoulder, no fast car. We forever look strange and might as well be on display. Some days I think if I get one more funny look, I´ll scream at the poor soul who happens to look. Maybe you saw me peeing in a ditch 5 miles back before our common coffee break. What else am I supposed to do? Eric´s beard, my dress, gringos being gringos? I search for reason where there may be none.


This has been merely an attempt to tell you what it is like. There is nothing glamorous, strange or even that entertaining about it. You try to get further down the road. That´s it. One tired leg, then the other. We are covered with roadside dirt and days of sweat and we look homeless. We are worn, frustrated, sore, hot, and not always happy. And that is life alongside some road in Costa Rica.