Baja Divide

March 20

We ride to Nine Palms over rolling, small hills. Smooth and easy terrain for once! At the surf rental shop, Leah realizes she's missing her sunscreen, which is about as close to a disaster as we've had on this trip. She borrows mine instead, and it holds up fine in the water.

I nap under a sun umbrella while Leah surfs, and I miss her catching what she later describes as the "best wave of my life". I'm just glad she gets a real moment of joy on this trip. Parts of it have been pretty tough.

Leah goes back in for another surfing session while I watch a hermit crab scurry across the sand. Its trail looks suspiciously like tiny bike tire tracks.

We decide to camp at the beach so Leah can surf again in the morning (the board rental is good until 9 AM). We're close to La Fortuna for resupply and only a little over 20 miles from San José del Cabo, so the timing works out.

There are camper vans and trucks scattered along parts of the beach, but we find a decent spot with some privacy near the entrance. While we set up camp, we notice large splashes far offshore. A whale breaches, then a minute later it launches fully out of the water, crashing down hard. It repeats this again and again. We've never seen anything like it, which says a lot after this trip. It's small or strong enough to clear the water entirely, yet large enough that we can see it from half a mile away. We stand there, stunned, just looking at each other.

I discover that I can pile sand around my bike tires to keep it upright, which makes unpacking the bags much easier. We cook dinner and watch waves break in the growing darkness, with stars spreading overhead as usual.

Leah goes to pee near the ocean, but a wave unexpectedly rushes in and soaks her shoes and ankles. In the confusion, she also manages to pee on her pants. She returns to the tent with her pants around her knees, a bit defeated, and starts to change her clothes — only to discover that small cockroaches have invaded the tent while we were eating dinner.

Cockroaches are the thing she hates most in life, hands down. I spend about twenty minutes pulling all our gear out of the tent, shaking it out, killing any cockroaches I find, and inspecting each item before putting it back. Leah stands guard outside.

I go to pee in the ocean and step in dog shit. What a night.

I clean up, and we try to repair the zipper again. Leah tightens it with pliers and it holds. It's a mercifully quick fix after the last hour of chaos.

March 21

We wake with the sun and eat simple breakfast burritos on the beach. I watch Leah surf, tracking her silhouette against the bright reflection of the sun on the waves. She finishes early so we can return gear, and we ride toward San José del Cabo. The road is fast but increasingly developed and busy with construction and traffic. We have a close call with a careless driver.

We stop in the city plaza, where preparations are underway for a concert. After lunch on a bench, we continue through busy streets and decide to push onward into the hills, toward Los Cerritos, despite uncertainty about timing.

We ride out of town on a fast highway, then turn onto a dirt road where we find a campsite in the shrubs after a short search.

March 22

Today is our last full day of riding. We'll reach Los Cerritos, take a rest day, then take a bus from Todos Santos back to San José del Cabo (the largest airport in the area), and fly home.

The valley is hazy. To the west, the tops of the mountains we'll ride through in just a few miles peek through layers of clouds. The sun comes up and quickly burns some of it off, but the dusty haze lingers.

It heats up fast as we start a big climb over the mountains toward the west side of the cape. My shirt is still thick with salt from snorkeling in Cabo Pulmo and the last few days of riding, and it makes me sweat profusely. Within a half hour I'm wringing it out on the side of the road. At one point I even take it off entirely — a true sign of desperation.

A breeze picks up as we gain elevation, and the heat becomes more manageable. Along the road we pass a few beautiful shrines — one small and handmade with sticks and ornaments, another larger and brightly decorated with fake flowers and streamers, set across the road from an enormous shady tree.

Leah is cruising and seems determined to finish strong. She rarely stops, and I spend most of the day following her up climbs. We descend into a small valley and stop for lunch at the bottom, before our final mountain pass. A group of moto riders pulls in and seems mildly surprised that we've taken their usual shaded spot, but the interaction remains friendly enough. Sorry guys, we need this.

There are lots of ranchos and casitas in this area for how remote it feels. One even has an in-ground swimming pool, visible from the road as we traverse the hillside high above it.

Near the top of the final climb, we run into Jose Flores again, the seventy-something cyclist we met in San Javier. We chat briefly and some of our words get lost in translation, but his energy is infectious and sets a great tone heading into our final descent.

We eat lunch under a tree with a hazy view of the Pacific. The road down the western side of the mountains is steeper and rockier than the way up. For the first few miles we are fully focused with our hands on our brakes, choosing our lines carefully. After a while it settles into a long, flowing descent toward the coastal highway.

I feel a bit melancholic as we get closer. It's hard to believe the trip is ending. It always felt distant, something undefined in the far future. Now it's suddenly here. I realize how much I've grown used to the rhythm of it all — the planning, the effort, the simple structure of daily life on a bike. I don't really want it to change, even though it must. Accepting change goes both ways, I suppose. Time to go home, and to let that life become normal again.

The last miles to the highway are especially good. Smooth, effortless flow. At the highway we stop to pump up our tires and then ride into Los Cerritos. It's a busy beach town in full tourist mode transformation. Luxury condos are under construction everywhere, surf shops, beach bars, and rental stands packed tightly together. Coconuts come pre-cut with a straw for fifteen dollars. For now, though, it still has patches of dusty dirt roads that make it feel slightly less polished. I notice lots of Canadian license plates.

We stay in a small "tiny house" glamping property. The landscaping here is surprisingly lush and intentional, with narrow covered paths winding down the hill. A spiral staircase leads up to a rooftop deck above our shipping container room. The shower is tucked inside a dense archway of passionfruit vines, some already bearing fruit. It's a mini paradise tucked unassumingly into the hillside.

In the evening we walk a mile down the dirt road to the beach. Most of the activity is winding down, though a few people are still in the water. On the way back we stop at a large and unapologetically touristy restaurant for dinner. We drink margaritas from oversized glasses while expats watch a sports game on TV under the palapa lights. When in Rome...

March 23

Rest day in Cerritos. We wake up with no alarm. I drink coffee on the rooftop patio and do a crossword puzzle. This is just me practicing for my return to normal life, I tell myself. The weather is cloudy and cool, but it warms up quickly as the fog burns off.

We ride toward the beach and stop at a small tienda/café for chilaquiles. There are lots of Americans and Canadians around, many of them friendly with the proprietor. We continue to the beach to check surf conditions and board rentals for Leah, then head back to the room to change and get ready for a proper beach day.

The surf rental guy is unusually kind and efficient — he quickly gets Leah set up with a board she likes while also giving her tips and answering questions from other customers at the same time. Leah lost her surf hat early in the trip, so she improvises a few extra cords to tie her hiking hat securely to her head. It looks a bit goofy, but that's long since stopped mattering to us.

Leah surfs while I sit under a large beach umbrella, reading and people watching. I found a copy of Eat, Pray, Love from the small book selection in our room, which feels oddly appropriate for the setting. We get burritos, tacos, and more margaritas for lunch, then return to the beach again. This time I float in the waves while Leah keeps surfing.

The surf is crowded farther out and the waves come in fast and close together, so she mostly stays in the break zone rather than heading deeper. It's not as good as Nine Palms, but enough to scratch the itch. There are a few very young kids absolutely ripping back and forth on the waves — fast, fearless, occasionally disappearing in the foam only to reappear and keep going. They're fun to watch.

We return to the room, shower, rest, and eventually head out again at night with blinking bike lights for a short highway ride to dinner. The restaurant we planned on, recommended by our host David, is closed, so we turn around and go to a nearby Italian-ish place instead. It's quiet and pleasant, though slightly chaotic. I don't have a knife, so I end up awkwardly hacking at a chicken breast with mushrooms as politely as possible.

March 24

Coffee on the rooftop patio and another round of puzzles, again. There's a quiet rhythm to these mornings now that feels like its own kind of decompression.

An easy highway ride takes us to Todos Santos. We stop at Agricole for fancy snacks, chocolate, and a soda break. From there, we lock the bikes in the town park and do a short walking tour of the historic district. We pass public sculptures of recycled car parts, an old street musician playing guitar, a small teatro, and a mix of galleries and shops.

I declare a mandatory nevería stop, where we sample avocado ice cream. Verdict: surprisingly good. We follow it up with fish tacos.

Our third and final bus ride of the trip takes us back to San José del Cabo. There's not much room in the storage compartment, and the driver watches impatiently as we remove wheels and awkwardly try to fit everything in. I bump my head and drop some bolts in the road. Once we are on board, the bus pulls away before we're even fully seated.

The landscape on the way toward Cabo San Lucas is surprisingly undeveloped for long stretches. Wide and open between bursts of construction. Once in San José del Cabo, we reattach the wheels and immediately walk next door to a giant Walmart. There we find a cheap collapsible duffel bag to use as a third checked bag — far cheaper than paying airline overweight fees for all our gear.

A mile later we arrive at our hotel, a splurge I insisted on. It's a modern, angular, pinkish building with friendly staff, a rooftop pool and bar, and fruit water in the lobby. The room is small but the bed is large, and they let us store our bikes in a locked underground employee storage area.

We spread our gear around the room, test every dimmable light switch, blast the AC, and take long showers. Espresso machine, robes, slippers, balcony — it all feels unreal. We're only a block from the plaza we passed through a few days earlier.

We spend the evening out and find a rooftop bar where we get cocktails and oysters, and talk through the trip now that it's finally, fully over. I tell Leah my plan is to spoil her for the last few days of the trip, so that recency bias makes her think favorably of the entire seven weeks on the bike.

We walk to a restaurant for molcajete-style dinner served in hot stone bowls. The food is good but a little pricey. The staff are extremely attentive and polite. They pull out our chairs, and even escort Leah to the restroom like it's a formal event.

Back at the hotel, we realize we left our earplugs in our room in Los Cerritos. Apologies to whoever finds them.

March 25

Fortunately the night is relatively uninterrupted and we manage to sleep in. We get coffee and breakfast at a hip open-air stand, then walk to the Giant bikes store. The staff quickly finds us two large bike boxes for a reasonable price. We chat briefly about our trip and the cycling scene in San José del Cabo.

We haul our Giant (ha!) cardboard boxes back to the hotel, sweating in the morning heat, and then rest in the room. Success! Today's main logistical task is done.

Packing is trickier than expected. We spend a long stretch working in the dim, stuffy garage, slowly disassembling the bikes until they fit into the boxes. Leah is done pretty quickly; I spend another half hour trying to squeeze the rest of my gear into carry-on bags. It becomes a patient, repetitive kind of problem solving.

A dip in the rooftop pool and a few drinks from the bar resets everything. I try to remind Leah that the bicycling is over and therefore indulgence is mandatory now.

For dinner, Leah finds a highly rated taco and mezcal spot. It ends up being one of the best meals of the trip. Every taco is layered with multiple flavors, carefully balanced in a way that feels almost excessive in attention.

We try chocolate mousse. It pairs well with a mezcal drink and something citrusy and fizzy that Leah gets. There's a live jam band playing inside, and the musicians all wear sunglasses, despite the neon-lit dimness.

Outside, we watch kids rollerblading in the central plaza. They are doing practice drills around cones, jumping, spinning, and skidding to a stop, their light-up wheels flashing as they move. A large cycling group suddenly rolls through, briefly taking over the space - riding wheelies and cutting through the cones - before disappearing again into the night.

March 26

The end of the end.

I insist on finishing our remaining granola and powdered milk from the trip, while Leah heads out to a small café (it turns out she never really liked the granola). Eventually we pack everything up, check out, and drag the bike boxes out through the rear of the hotel garage.

Our Uber is a small SUV, and the boxes obviously won't fit along with two passengers in any normal or safe configuration. Still, the driver spends several minutes folding and unfolding seats, rearranging the space, all while we wrestle cardboard and metal into increasingly absurd positions.

I suggest that we don't really care, and that one of us just cram in beside the boxes even if there's no proper seat to sit on. The driver visibly relaxes at this solution. Leah ends up perched on a folded seat next to a stack of bike boxes as we merge onto the highway. It's one of those logistical improvisations that probably wouldn't fly in many places, but to us it's just another improvisation in a long list.

We arrive about twenty minutes later, unload everything, and find an unused baggage scale to weigh the boxes. We shift gear between bags, redistribute weight, and get everything checked in with minimal fuss.