2 days, 220 km, 9000 feet of climbing over the Sierra de Mazatan
The adventure began at 7:00am sharp, which in Mexican time meant we didn’t roll out until about 7:35. Forty riders turned out on the highway to Guaymas, then turned east, destined for the Mazatan mountains. Among them were two gringos, myself and Lee, just along for the ride. We all rode together, critical mass style, until we left Hermosillo. Lee and I found ourselves at the front, and the group quickly splintered. We were just trying to warm up a bit.
Rolando appeared in Lee’s truck, slowing to moto-pace us. I didn’t think this was the best idea, but the heat coming under the truck felt good on my numb toes. So I stayed at the front with careful eyes on the bumper in front of me. It became a little tedious–not being able to look around and having to pay such careful attention. It really wasn’t saving us much energy either, but I just went along with the flow. We stopped to shed clothing at about 15 miles, before the first climb. I hopped back on the road, happy to be riding alone and without a truck in front of me. I saw a rider in front, who seemed to matching my pace. I sped up to catch him, but he grabbed a ride (literally, with his hand) on a black suburban (who’s driver he knew). This was one of the racer boys who will figure into the story later. The next time I looked up he was at least 15 minutes ahead of me on the climb.
We turned off the pavement after 33 miles. The trucks were waiting with food, water and opportunities to ditch clothing. It was very strange for me to have support on a ride. This is the first ride I’ve ever had support on; I always carry everything and rely on nothing. I was packed for a full day’s adventure ride including camera, gps, gmrs radio, clothes, and a day of food/water. But once we stopped I could not refuse fresh orange slices. Tasty.
We regrouped then headed off the dirt road to Rancho Viejo (old ranch). I soon found myself at the front, simply riding at a comfortable pace. The three racer boys soon made their appearance, matching then exceeding my pace. They started punching hills, so I did too. I felt really good, but I was questioning the wisdom of such a pace when I really had very little idea what I was getting into. But it felt good, so we kept it up. I went up and punched it a bit higher. One of them, Ernesto, was constantly yelling at us, telling us that we should be going easier, and that he wanted to rest. But he stayed on with us. The two other guys were trying desperately to bury me.
We reached Rancho Viejo, with its one cobblestone road, for a photo shot, then continued on towards the now visible climb into the Mazatan. In the foothills a different racer guy started punching the hills, as I backed off, reeling at the climb that was before us. Ernesto yelled “No es un carrera!” (it is not a race!) as the other, Danny, pedaled up the first tough hill. I followed, content that I had stayed with them through the foothills. I was going to be very surprised if they were able to keep up or bury me on the climb. Danny faltered on the second or third steep section, where he pretended to be taking his arm warmers off. A good move, nonetheless, because the sun was beginning its brutal assault. The pressure in my head grew, and it felt like it was 100 degrees. The road was as I had hoped–granny gear, loose and quite challenging. Danny remounted and tried to stay in front of me until he was stopped again. I pedaled around him, then rode steadily as the road climbed and climbed into the heavens. None of the other racer boys were anywhere to be seen. Once I was a turn or two in front, I slowed to a still high pace, just high enough to keep rolling on this tough climb.
Often I thought the road was going to turn, switchback then level off for a respite. It did turn, but it would instead increase its grade by 50% and its loose rock content by 150%. The challenge factor was off the charts. Awesome. Three very strong riders had my number below, and the road grew more and more challenging. For the first 2000 feet of climbing I rode unstoppable, an invincible warrior in the battle with the Mazatan. I was riding within myself, presented with such an incredible challenge in such an incredible place. I nearly held it together for the clean ascent of the Mazatans, but my concentration failed on one climb and my foot found its way to the rocky hill. I was a bit dazed, dizzy from the heat and exhaustion. I snapped a quick photo of the valley far below, then continued the attack.
I reached the top, riding into the shade of tall trees. I didn’t know where we were camping that night, so I stopped and leaned against a tree. 10 minutes later Danny appeared, looking like I felt. He asked for water, which I offered. All of the racer boys had but a single water bottle and a bar or two. The others straggled in also out of water, then we rode to where we were to camp. We sat around for 45 minutes or so before the trucks and a few more riders, including Lee, came in. It turned out to be a few more miles yet to the campsite. The racer boys turned around, they were just doing the first day and climb for training. All of the riding on top of the mountain was very enjoyable. It was like riding from Tucson to Mt. Lemmon, except all at lower elevations. Instead of 2500 to 8000 feet, it was 600 feet to 4700. Definitely a different world full of oaks and bellota (acorn) trees.
You might say I burned a calorie or two climbing that hill. The deficit had begun. There was a lasagna dinner planned, but unfortunately it was hours and hours away. I kept extreme hunger at bay with PB&J sandwiches, cliff bars and chips.
Camping with these guys was something else. In a word, loud. Good friends and good times, but at the expense of quiet, peace and rest. We tried to set our tents up away from the ruckus, but ended up right in camp so as not to offend. The result was maybe 1.5 hours of sleep, though I could have easily put in 10. Yelling, laughing, hollering, car stereos, cell phones, conversations I cannot understand, car alarms, car engines; endless noise. But I expected as much, so it was taken all in stride and as part of the experience. Not exactly my kind of camping, but it was just a single night and the food was very good. My MP3 player became my most valuable possession.
Although they went to sleep around 1am (some later), most were up at 5:15, again yelling and hollering. I got up slowly and immediately headed for the food. Things slowly came together, and after a group photo, we headed out to drop off the other side of the Mazatans. I really enjoyed the riding up on top, as we approached the downhill. There were large granite boulders and even some nice slickrock sections. Just plain enjoyable riding on a calm morning.
The downhill was relatively easy compared to the climb. Desperate at times, but I took things easy, snapping pictures and enjoying the scenery. Many of the tremos passed me, some completely out of control. I really don’t like riding in large groups, especially on a mountain bike descent.
The downhill and the mountain were over too soon. Now we faced the formidable task of returning to Hermosillo by dirt and pavement. The first 10 miles of dirt to Pueblo de Alamos were twisty and interesting. At the town the residents all came out to see what we were up to. They talked to us like old friends, interested in what we were doing out here and where we were going. Kids on their BMX bikes followed us as we pedaled around the small town. We waited for the group to reach the town, so we had some time to kill. Lee and I took a few runs at the kid’s BMX course. The town drunk tried to talk to me, but I could nay understand a word he said. Rolando later told me he was trying to tell me that the mountains we just came from should be named after his town (Alamos) instead of the town on the other side, Mazatan. The guy was tuned up at 10 in the morning. Other people asked about my GPS, so I tried to explain in pathetic Spanish about satellites and position. Some of the riders grabbed a Tecate.
The next task was to ride to Ures, the former capital of state of Sonora. It was 24 miles of wide, heavily washboarded road. It was fine for about 20 miles, then it started to get very very old. I rode most of it with the Argentian, Santiago. He rode his bike, with trailer, from Argentina to California, then somehow ended up stopping in Hermosillo, where he has been for the last couple of years. Even if I did not know this fact, I knew from watching the way he rides that he has come to an agreement with his body. He knows how to ride. It is in the way he moves on the bike, the way he pedals. He is also very strong, pedaling solidly through the washboards and endless hills of the road to Ures.
Finally we reached Ures and the Tecate stand. Most riders took a beer or two, and they handed out giant tortillas, which were mighty tasty indeed. A couple of cute girls drove by, and for some reason stopped so that they could take pictures with the group of riders. Only in Mexico.
We still had a good 40 miles or so of pavement to complete before the day was done. Unfortunately it was on a very busy highway, despite the fact that it was Sunday. Pajaro (birdman) took the lead in his truck, moto pacing for us and signaling for cars to pass when it was clear. Again I questioned the wisdom of the moto pace strategy, but most of the cars seemed very forgiving. We would have been flattened a hundred times if we tried something like this in the USA. Eventually I grew tired of it, since the only thing that was bothering me was my butt on the seat, and we were surging then coasting to keep pace with the truck. Finally we decided to break free, and Pajaro told us it was only 20 km to the finish. Not so, it was more like 35. One of the CMN riders started pulling, and our already small group (many had dropped out by this point and others were hurting) splintered again. There were four of us left, and he was riding a blistering pace. After nearly 2 miles of this, he pulled a bit to the left, worn out. I took up the lead, checked my GPS and decided to continue in the same style. I dug deep into the pedals and really ripped up my legs, trying to keep things above 20mph into a nice headwind and up rolling hills. It felt really good and it was taking the pressure off my seat. Always finish a hard ride with a hard effort, right? Well, unfortunately the ride was another 9 or 10 miles longer than I had been told, so I had to recover from the meltdown of burning it through the wind. The cars got old, the road was very old, and once we were well past the supposed 20km mark I had no idea when it was to end. But we kept it together, and I managed to hang on long enough to recover and come back into focus. At last we turned off the main road, headed for the vineyard of Jorge. As we turned off, a car pulled out in front of us (one of the rare cars not kind to us on our journey), and my compadres offered the bird and other gestures. Santiago, I think instinctively, grabbed his cap-less water bottle and chucked a large blast of water at the car. The driver’s window was down, so he received a shock and a wet face. It was quite hilarious, but certainly over the top. I was amazed at how quickly and accurately he pulled off this move. I’d guess he’s had more than a few altercations with drivers in his long travels. I checked my shoulder to make sure this car wasn’t returning behind us. But we were near the end, the vineyard. Green grass and a beautiful view awaited us, the adventure over.
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