I don't blame Montezuma, I blame Cortes

Watching the waves go by, unridden, with my newfound friend.

I just got back from a little surf vacation in Mexico. I felt good for about a day. Then came a case of tourista, or 'Zuma's Revenge. I think it was some shitty tacos. Lots of water washed right through me over the next week, and I didn't even have the energy to surf. Vacation down the toilet.

I don't particularly believe that 'Zuma itself is that appalling. Watery shits happen plenty in the U.S. (We can blame Taco Bell for roughly half of all diarrhea, and they're not Mexican.) What's more frustrating is the state of affairs in Mexico. I mean, not only is any non-fruit edible always suspect, but what are you going to wash anything dirty with? How are you even supposed to clean food when the municipal water is a petri dish of gastrointestinal demon spawn?

Let's be real: you still can't drink the tap water. Think about that. What does that say? The States got their water sorted out in, what, the '40s? '30s? '20s? Mexico hasn't made any progress on the clean water front in decades. I wasn't staying in the Four Seasons; I wasn't staying in some ghetto either. But no one there gets good tap water. It's a punchline: Don't drink the water. And will Mexico ever have clean tap water? When do you think that'll happen? I'll take that bet.

After a short vacation (probably my tenth one in Mexico), I don't want to live there. (Rare, because I typically want to stay wherever I am on vacation.) I don't even care to go back anytime soon. I understand why its citizens flow to El Norte, too. Though I'm sure there are reasons beyond our tap water. (And as an immigrant, I also know some of those reasons.)

This goat is a metaphor for how I feel about my job.

Mexicans are dope, the food is still my favorite, I dig scorpions and tarantulas; but, sorry, Mexico as a country is struggling.

I took this photo in Michoacan a few years ago, when I wasn't sick.

Highs and Lows: Tioga Pass to Half Dome Lookout

In the epicurean spirit of Tall Paul Roseman's tales, I will review my intake before the main course, the ride. The evening before, I radiated a can of Trader Joe's vegetarian chili with tofu, into which I added about two cups of frozen spinach from Vons. With this hearty, monotonous comfort food I paired a healthy dose of Mammoth's tap water (outstanding, cold) and a Long Hammer IPA from Redhook Ale Brewery (it simply sounded like it might make me pedal harder than Tecate Light). At 6.5% ABV, after two Long Hammers I was asleep. (I used to have a much more macho tolerance, but cycling seems to have rejuvenated my liver to that of a teenage girl.) I may have also kissed a glass hippie pipe with a small amount of fragrant herbs from a Napa-adjacent estate in the verdant Santa Rosa growing region.

On the day of the ride, I had a cup of Java from Guatemala (drip) and a bowl of Post Raisin Bran bathed in Lactaid, just because that's the milkish that Ben (who shares the condo in Mammoth) buys.

I drove to the base of the pass in Lee Vining (elev. 6700') along Mono Lake (another story altogether). I'd ridden to the gates of Yosemite from Mammoth Lakes two weeks before, at which point the road beyond the gates was not cleared of snow. The ride up the pass was inspired, but the ride back to Mammoth over Deadman's Pass and countless undulating hills was drudgery. I wanted to focus my energy on the real shit, not the hour-plus ride to-and-fro alongside Highway 395, which is especially workaday after savoring the tranquil beauty of the Tioga Pass solo. Plus I don't know if I was up for 100-plus miles of climbing again. Call it what you will. I wussed and drove to Lee Vining.

Joining me was Mammoth guy Austin Stiles (real name). I'd met Austin on the road two weeks earlier, on his way back from Tioga, and he'd inspired my first ride up. We also rode a century from Mammoth in the Sierra Nevadas over to the White Mountains and then the Nevada state line. Then back. Into a 30 mph headwind and snow flurry. Like any true cyclist, Austin is an absolute masochist. My other Mammoth roommate, Dolen, was also along. He mostly climbs mountains the old fashioned way, but proved equally adept at going up on wheels.

Without any warm-up, we climbed straight up into the Alpen landscape. I wish I could say the upper reaches of the pass are even more visually jarring than the lower end, but truth is the whole shebang is breathtaking in the most literal sense. It's long, steep enough, and the sheer (again, literally) beauty of these steep, rocky peaks is awesome, in the literal sense of inspiring awe, dude.

After not a little huffing and puffing, somewhere around 10,000 feet we reached the gates of Yosemite National Park, after which the road was closed to cars. The cars weren't really ruining the landscape for me, but it was nice to hop the gate and ditch the auto-tourists. It was more a victory of smugness, such smugness being the domain of the delusional cyclists who believe they're getting away from it all along a paved,  maintained road.

Once beyond the gates, the park was ours. I stayed in the middle of the road all the way through Tuolumne Meadows to Olmstead Point, which is a lookout for Half Dome (as seen below). I could've kept going. It was a nice, brisk day.

Retracing our pedal strokes, we climbed back out of the park in peace. Upon reaching the gates again, we were looking at a loooong descent on which Austin likes to hit 60 mph. No guard rail, thousand foot drop into the valley below. That's Austin. I, however, was confronted with my own pusillanimity. For some reason (the interest of preserving my own life?), I get freaked out when my bike goes into a death wobble at 45 mph and I'm wearing only spandex pajamas and a foam hat for safety. Long story short, I descended this pass like a pussy. On the bright side, I didn't notice any effects riding at around two miles above sea level for five hours.

I followed the finish with a cold cut sandwich and potato salad at the Whoa Nellie Deli in Lee Vining. It was gross, I only finished maybe 1/3 of it, despite being starving. Sad sack ending overall, with only myself to blame.

End of the line.