Los vientos, cápitulo uno
EcuadorLos vientos sang furiously in the sky above me. I camped on the leeward side of a steep slope and didn’t feel their wrath until I pushed my bike around the corner, to where I planned to refill my water bottles in a little cascade I’d used the night before. I found not a stream but a storm, wind slapping water into my eyes, wind choking my exhale, forcing me to retreat hurriedly from fear of the invisible force assaulting me. ¿Qué está sucediendo? How am I supposed to ride my bike in that wind?
Within a mile of of biking up the directionally challenged switchbacks on the mountain trail, los vientos had violated every angle of my body. Headwinds forced me to walk my bike. Tailwinds sent me flying forward, clenching the brakes in an attempt to maintain control. Whether the trail went downhill or uphill was of no importance. Only the direction of los vientos determined my struggle. Crosswinds waited demonically at saddles and sharp bends; they knocked me off my bike, scraping my knees, dinging my helmet, bending my brake lever sideways, as my bike slammed into the ground with me. I wrestled for control of my bike like an inexperienced sailor in a hurricane, but without the relief of an ocean to drown in, I lay flat across my bike on the road to prevent all seventy pounds of bicycle and gear from floating into oblivion like a balloon.
As I approached each bend in the road, I nervously looked at the angle of the grass and trees ahead, to anticipate in which direction I would be punished when I turned. Los vientos seemed to be coming from everywhere, or maybe los vientos had just disoriented me. Struggling for motivation, I put on my headphones hoping that Daddy Yankee’s “Con Calma” could at least replace the shriek of los vientos. But before the chorus came, los vientos blew the headphones out of my ears. I reached into the small bag I call my “fuel tank,” seeking strength in snacks, but only found one packet of creme filled cookies left over from the last tienda I’d passed yesterday afternoon, meaning I’d have to carefully count calories until the next town, Simiatug. My last real meal, camping last night, grumbled in my stomach, pasta seasoned with ketchup because I’d forgotten that “salsa de tomate” does not mean tomato sauce. Every time I found a slight shelter from los vientos behind a rock, a tree, or a dilapidated stone structure, I pulled out my phone to calculate the distance left until Simiatug.
Los vientos possessed a cruelty that no other challenge rivaled. Las montañas are a passive adversary; I can’t get mad at las montañas when I climb them under my own will. La lluvia and la humeda can be frustrating, but wet and sweat never impede progress, only create discomfort. Los vientos were a bully whose presence I couldn’t ignore, whose anger I couldn’t rationalize, whose strength I couldn’t stand up to, whose fist I never knew when would strike.
I thought about quitting for the day in Simiatug, in hopes that los vientos would pick on some other kid tomorrow, but idle misery reeked from Simiatug’s dusty streets. Almuerzo at the only restaurant in town allowed only a few sips of a sour caldo, stale rice, and a chuleta de cerdo with more marrow than meat. As I stocked up on more creme-filled cookies at a tienda, I asked the shopkeeper, “¿Este pueblo parece muy tranquilo, si o no?”
“Si, tranquilo, excepto los vientos.”
“¿Siempre los vientos?”
“Si, siempre,” he shrugged. I couldn’t stay in Simiatug; los vientos lived here. Only one more mountain pass remained before the more civilized, touristic town of Salinas de Bolivar.
As I crept uphill away from miserable Simiatug, I found generous shelter from los vientos under tall cliffs, but los vientos continued to echo through my bones and mock each pedal stroke so I tried to drown out the laughter of los vientos with cumbia in my headphones. As the singer crooned, “vamos a la playa,” I saw a sea of clouds below me to the west where I knew the mountains disappeared into the ocean eventually at the playas of Montañita, a beach town whose simple relaxing pleasures I’d heard about from so many other travelers, and I thought wouldn’t it be nice if I just turned right and pointed my bike west into the clouds and wouldn’t have to pedal for 13,000 vertical feet until the road ended at a seaside resort where maybe someone would rub my muscles and bones until they squeezed the remains of los vientos out of me and los vientos would dissipate into the warm ocean breeze while I soaked in a lavender bubble bath and sipped chocolate caliente with a tiny biscuit on the saucer, mostly for aesthetics, until my toes pruned and I remembered that I’d accidentally left my bike outside by the beach path for too long but it was too late because some gangster from Guayaquil would have cut the lock and I’d be forced to fly back home, home, home, where I could hug Liz and my parents and never hear the wicked laughter of los vientos again — but I could see the top of the pass now, which made me remember that this was only one bad day out of so many good days, and all I needed to do was get to Salinas de Bolivar, where I may not find a masseuse or miniature biscuits or hugs or pity, but I knew I could find food and a bed, and maybe while I slept, I could dream about a place where los vientos couldn’t follow me.
Your nuts! The scenery is unbelievable and I hope it’s worth the effort. Perhaps you might write a book about your adventure? But words couldn’t possibly convey the actual experience. I’m thinking you should go ahead and cross off Mt. Everest from your bucket list! Continued safe travels!
Should have gone to Montañita. Just for a month or two to rest 😉