Rosarito to Ensenada

In 2009, I was hoodwinked into riding a bicycle from Rosarito to Ensenada.  Michael signed me up for the 50 mile race with him and 10,000 other cyclists.  The event is treated as a race by the cycling clubs; and mostly just fun for the plodders and goofballs that bring up the rear.  The original course left the coast to run inland at the halfway point where it climbed a 1,000 foot mesa called El Tigre.   In the last few years, the race has sometimes bypassed El Tigre and remained along the coast the whole way.    

In 2008, Michael had ridden the race and his wife, Maria and I were spectators.  The three of us were at the start of the race from directly in front of the Rosarito Beach Hotel on Highway 1.  We had arrived early and waited for all of the participants to take their position behind the starting line.  The riders were twelve abreast, across the width of the highway, and stretched back toward San Diego further than we could see.  Once the race began, it took a full 45 minutes for all of the bikes to even reach the starting line. 

The serious people were wearing team uniforms and were placed at the front so as not to run over anybody; following them was quite the menagerie.  Bicycles with two seats, four seats, side cars and trailers; tall bikes, low bikes, new, old, falling apart and everything in between.   The riders were all ages, singles, families and outrageous costumes galore.  My favorite was the Wizard of Oz group that included Dorothy in her ruby slippers and a supporting cast decked out as the cowardly lion, scarecrow, tin woodsman, etc.  All of this in stark contrast to the United States Department of State advisory for U.S. citizens travelling in Mexico:

Maintain a low profile: Do not advertise the fact that you are American.  Dress casually and do not draw attention to yourself with your actions.

After watching the last few riders leave the starting line, Maria and I drove to the Plaza Ventana al Mar, just past the finish line in Ensenada.  We met up with Michael on the beach with free beer, las Chicas Tecate and 25,000 other people.  I wanted to know why they didn't do this every weekend.

A year later, the three of us drove down to find a place to stay the day prior to the race.  We tried the Hotel Las Rosas about three miles north of Ensenada.  The hotel was a five-story pink monstrosity but they had no vacancies.  However, they did have available a 1,500 square-foot house that sat about 300 yards up the beach.  This didn't seem right to me.  The house was a few extra dollars but there must be something wrong with it.  Why was the private house empty and the over-sized rabbit hutch full?   

I asked the desk clerk, "Just out of curiosity, why would people want to stay at the hotel instead of the remote and secluded digs right on the beach?"

The desk clerk said, "The hotel has the spa, sauna, restaurant, pool, bar, and it's where everybody parties; also, you have to carry your own luggage 300 yards to the house."

I scoffed at this, "What, 300 yards?  Hell, we're riding 50 miles tomorrow, what's a mere 300 yards?"

We needed two trips to get all our stuff including the bikes over to the house.  The place had large windows facing the water and the sound of crashing waves.  There was a fully equipped kitchen, only one bedroom but a massive living room that could sleep a dozen.  We went into town, brought back rib eye steaks and made ourselves a great dinner the night before the race.

Twenty minutes before the race started, Michael and I were waiting with our bikes about thirty yards from the starting line.  We'd been waiting over two hours but getting here early was essential for being close to the starting line.  We would meet Maria at the plaza after we finished the race.  Michael had provided me with a bike and a helmet, and I was wearing my official entrant number attached to my shirt.  I'd chosen not to wear a costume, just my t-shirt and shorts with the matching paint splotches. 

Being so near the starting line, I found we were surrounded by the more competitive, gung-ho participants.  Everywhere I looked there was a whole lot of high-fiving, ego pumping, and last-minute fine-tuning of equipment and apparel.  Who were these people?  I came to ride with Dorothy in the blue gingham dress.

Not wanting to interfere with anyone's pre-race fandango, I resorted to reading a handout with information about the race.  I read where the race is actually run by an organization in San Diego whose members made an inaugural run in 1979.  The beginning paragraphs covered what should be required for anyone thinking of taking part in the race.  This includes phrases such as , "physically fit", "adequate experience", and something about "training".  I assumed since there had been no screening of the participants, someone was being overly cautious.  At least I hoped they were, seeing as how I was thirty-five pounds overweight and hadn't ridden a bike since 1962. 

Reading further, I noticed that the purchase of some type of insurance was urgently stressed in three different paragraphs, each time in bold print.  It was almost ten o'clock, the sun was up and it was already hot.  Sweat was running out from under my helmet and into my eyes, making reading difficult.  I was still able to make out some eye-catching sentence fragments such as:

….serious injuries occur at most events……dangerously fast downhill……rough and uneven pavement…..far away from any medical facilities….the 1999 race was cancelled due to auto and truck traffic……

Suddenly there was a handful of people shouting into bullhorns, the elite front group of racing teams were sent off, and the bikes around Michael and I became a surging mass of bumping and banging equipment, knees, shins and ankles making its way to the starting line.  I didn't know which was worse – moving forward inside this brutalizing gauntlet, or dropping back and letting the remaining 9,500 bikes run up my ass. 

I rode as fast as I could, while Michael rode slowly (for him) so he could keep an eye on me.  We made it past Puerto Nuevo about a dozen miles from the start and I felt pretty good but the majority of the trip up to this point had been mostly over level ground.  After a total of about twenty miles I thought I would take a short break and pulled over to the right side of the road, next to a field of ice plants.  When my bike had slowed to a stop, I took my right foot off the pedal, put it on the ice plant for support, and fell flat on my right side.  My legs had been so intensely focused on pedaling for twenty miles that the muscle memory for standing up had been erased.  It took a few minutes for my legs to regain the ability to stand and then actually walk a few steps.

I got back on the bike and kept going.  At mile 24 was the first of the two uphill stretches called El Tigre.  The first rose about 150 feet before the course dropped down into a valley by way of an extremely steep curving road with no guardrails.  Once at the valley bottom, I was completely snookered.  I was too exhausted to retreat back over the first part of El Tigre, and my other option was El Tigre's second part, that rose over a 1,000 feet.  I remembered Maria translating for me a sign we saw on the highway for a town named Salsipuedes.  She said it meant "Get out while you can."  This had to be it. 

I tried going forward but the steep grade up the second part of El Tigre did me in.  I was using the lowest gear I could find on the bike, but I would have to get off and walk at times.  Then I started feeling ice picks pushing into both of my legs just above my knee caps.  The worst muscle cramps I've ever had.  I did my sideways flop dismount and tried to work out the cramps.  I tried stretching, massaging, slapping, poking - nothing helped; the ice picks remained for several minutes, the cramps backing off only when they damn well felt like it. 

I got back on the bike and made it up the grade about 20 more yards and it happened again - ice picks, flop dismount, furious stretching and rubbing, and finally just sitting and screaming until the cramps released.  Riders who passed by looked concerned about me but were busy fending for themselves.  I gave up riding and figured I would just walk to the top of El Tigre.  Walking turned out to be no better than riding.  Then I tried walking backwards with the same result - ice picks, flop, rub and scream.  

Michael and I had somehow become separated.  I had gone past him at some point without either of us realizing it.  He spent at least an hour looking for me.  He'd gone all the way back to the rear of the 10,000 riders and not having found me, had now worked his way forward, to where I sat on the side of El Tigre.  Michael, being the animal he is, somehow managed to ride his bike, and tow me on my bike, close to the top of El Tigre.

The next thing I can remember was being loaded with my bike onto a huge flat bed truck that was crammed with 40 other people and their bikes.  I recalled seeing something in the handout before the race about "sweep" trucks whose mission was to rescue the stragglers, the injured and the incapacitated.  I started to revive a little, riding in the back of the truck along in the open air and mainly because the cramping had stopped. 

I was the only gringo on the truck but everybody was friendly and having a good time.  Although not a Spanish speaker, I joined the group as we conversed in the universal language of groans and moans, pointing at each other's body parts that would need rehabilitation or amputation.  Every time the truck passed a group of riders, they would hoot and whistle at us as though we were deserving of scorn and humiliation.  I asked Michael about this later and was told that the serious riders called the trucks "pussy wagons".

The truck took us about 15 miles and let us off at a point where we could simply coast downhill the remaining eight miles to Ensenada and the finish line, holding on to what little dignity and self-respect remained.  I was really not anxious to even try coasting on the bike, as I never wanted to feel those cramps again.  After a while I gave it a try and found that as long as I didn't have to push down on the pedals more than a few times, I could keep from cramping up.

Soon I was only a few miles from the finish line and it was going to be all downhill.  Hotel Las Rosas was coming up on my right, I realized there was no way I was going to be able to finish the race, and make it back uphill to the hotel.  I turned off the road into the parking lot of the hotel, and coasted up to the main entrance.  Our secluded retreat was 300 yards away where a shower and fresh clothes awaited.  Beer and ceviche were 30 feet inside the door.

I removed my helmet and told the waiter, "Party of two, one adult and one bike".