Notas del camino. Antes, durante y después.
An American businessman, a candidate in tiger-print, and a massacre the country agreed to forget. Thoughts from eighteen days of riding and reading Cien Años de Soledad in Colombia.
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The old man running the juice stand in Alcalá didn’t look like a cyclist. Seventy-something, unhurried, tranquillo. The kind of guy who’s seen enough to stop rushing. I bought a lulo juice and mentioned I was heading toward Salento. He nodded, wiped down the counter, and offered without being asked: “Los domingos, voy a Cartago. Unos otros días, voy a Filandia.”
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Every light bulb in Colombia so far has been precisely 1,000,000 Kelvin. Cold, harsh, blue, and absolutely determined to burn my eyes out of my skull.
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Why can’t we have walkable cities?
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There's a moment before every long trip where I second-guess myself. I installed my rack today, then looked at my loaded bike and thought, “is this the right call?” I've been having that moment a lot lately. Not because I have any doubts about the trip, but because the bike underneath me is not what I would have designed for the job.
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There's a sign at the bottom of Argentina that says Fin del Mundo. The End of the World. I've been picturing myself riding up to it for about nine years.
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So here's the thing about naming a bike — if you do it right, the name already exists somewhere, you just have to go find it. Mine was waiting in Ecuador, which is not where I expected to find it, but that's kind of the whole point of this story.
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