Zen and the Art of Knee Maintenance

This morning we left the flatness of the valley and hefted into the climb up into the Sierra Madres, south towards the coast. 


We began with breakfast from a wheeled tamale and etole establishment, sitting on the curb while I ate and being admired by two street dogs. My tamales were filled with mole--a classic Oaxacan dark sauce made from so many ingredients it seems like a child was making a potion: fruits, seeds, chocolate, chilies, all ground together and prepared with utmost detail--and they were hot and completely delicious. I had a steaming cup of champurrado too, a viscous drink made from chocolate and corn, gently sweet and unabashedly rich. 


Breakfast cost less than what you'd tip a bartender in the states. 


Full confession: I have realized I am not invincible (and I'm right on track to learn this in my late 20's). I've kept my body moving as much as I could this winter--hot yoga, some stupid runs, hiking to work--but my knees were surprised to encounter that first climb up to Monte Alban that early day of riding. I was eager to charge up to the ruins, and clambered away. But I found a pinch of pain in those knees; they were grumpy. Not an injury, simply not being acclimated to riding, though the rest of me yearned to be. 


So this trip has turned into a practice of Acceptance and Patience, rather than an opportunity to express Bravado and Machisma. My only choice, unless I want to bounce along in the back of a helpful pickup truck to destinations, is to move as slowly as a sloth at the DMV (or my Granddaddy cutting pie) to protect the knees from stress. No ramming anywhere for me. 


It's perhaps rather Zen: I can ride, but if I push or rush, my knees complain and they shut me down. 


I was devastated at first, that I might not be getting more than a few hundred meters up the mountains. Pride is strong, the ego wants to witness the strength of the body it inhabits. But what is sad or bad can always be learned from: next winter the stationary bicycle will be my friend. 


Partner Kathy lives in southern California, and doesn't have to reacclimate to riding because she never stops. (She also has the base tan.) But she is having utmost patience and encouragement for me. 


Fortified with tamales, I gingerly began the ascent. The road opened with a gentle slant, and then curved to tack up and into the mountains. "Sube, sube! Es muy arriba!" ("climb, climb! It's very high!") the locals said of our journey. Cars tapped encouraging honks as they passed us with gracious space, a woman wished us, "that you may travel well" in Spanish from the bus stop. 


A few miles into the climb, a speedy twig of a man with jerseys and a bright bicycle passed me like I was a parked wheelbarrow. I pretended he was an Olympic cyclist and that it should not bother me.


I gently churned upwards. The road on the map looked like the small intestine, all coiled uponq itself. 


With my slowness, my knees stayed quiet and mollified, but my soul was singing. What views! I could see the valley spread behind us, the mountains rising on my sides. Traveling at this excruciatingly slow pace made any increase in height absolutely poignant. "I feel like a BIRD!" Iq sang to Kathy, at our first plentiful serving of vista. 


I was thrilled to witness the changing of the ecosystem as I gained in elevation. The stark scrubby soil and agaves morphed gradually into pine forest. The shade was delicious. To have trees draping the road was a happy novelty, having ridden for days with nothing near the road offering more shade than a dog poop. 


I also learned that the whisper of wind in the pines IS a thing. So faint, but inarguably there. I wasn't even breathing hard because I was being a sloth, and protected by the mountain sides there was no way a loud wind could come up either. I rode in silence through murmuring trees in speckled sun on smooth roads and it was delicious. Knowing now that working knees is a gift, for the first time I was actually grateful to be climbing, where in the past I've resented the placement of mountains, wanting instead to move fast. 


I love how it feels both dizzying and grounding to be up here: looking over the side of the road toq diving drops but knowing I'm standing upon a magnificent upheaval of earth. I am so lucky to be up here. Thank you, knees, and patience. 


We climbed 4,500 feet today and are currently at 8,300 feet elevation. 


We reached our destination of San Jose Del Pacifico, and we are in the clouds. This tiny town perches on the mountain and is distinctly a backpacker haven. Being not the only foreigner feels unaccustomed after the past few towns. Little buses came and went from the single intersection, depositing beautiful dusty tanned white people in layered clothing, a group of European looking men smoked abundant cigarettes and three German girls tapped messages using the only wifi in town. This place is famous for mushrooms (they grow well in this ecosystem), both hallucinagenic and medicinal, and quant mushroom art graces everything from railings and edifices, to the headboard of my bed. I did like the other backpackers and had a lazy coffee (real espresso! there is no "proper" coffee to be had in the pueblos here, it is all instant and pre-mixed with sugar to form an insipid sludge) while watching new influxes of backpackers come in. 


I felt not unlike one of the brown dogs sleeping in the road, at ease, comfortable, endlessly patient. For it was only because of Patience that I could arrive here myself. 

My face says it: I am a bird!