If I’m looking to escape Portland’s cold and rain for a few weeks in the winter, Mexico is one of my favorite destinations. If I only have a short time I usually I head straight for the coast, either somewhere in the Yucatan, or anywhere along the Pacific coast of the mainland. Swimming in warm blue water, reading and sleeping on the beach, shifting gears into that sort of languorous beach vibe that typically resides wherever there are palm trees and salt water — this is about the quickest antidote I can think of to the dark, humid damp that descends upon Portland for the winter months. Don’t get me wrong — I love the rain. But I love it more when I can step out of it for a while.

This time, though, I decided to stay inland, at least at first. I wanted to explore someplace new. The beach will be there for me, at least until it isn’t — I heard on the radio a few weeks ago that with climate change and rising sea levels, we’re going to start losing beaches all around the world. Hundreds of thousands of miles of beaches are expected to be submerged within the next couple of decades. But…

Guadalajara is a big city — second largest in Mexico. It’s inland from the coast by maybe 150 miles, situated in the highlands. Famous for its tequila, there are blue agave farms all over the surrounding countryside. The air is drier, the climate more moderate than in other places I’d visited in Mexico. I don’t know how accurate this is, but it felt similar in size to Seattle. And, Guadalajara is the first place I’ve been in Mexico that has cycling infrastructure, which was part of the curiosity that drew me there.

Guadalajara has bike lanes on many of the major roadways, signs on certain back roads that gave priority to bikes, and a bike share program. And, amazingly — build it and they shall come — people rode their bikes. Not that drivers necessarily respected the bike lanes, or biker’s right-of-way, nor pedestrians for that matter. But the city has made the effort, and as I well know from Portland bicycle commuting, these things take time, and continual energy to make them work.

One of the best things about cycling in Guadalajara was every Sunday, all year round, they close about 60 km of major roadways to car traffic, and open them to cyclists, pedestrians, skaters & roller bladers, etc. If you want to see the routes, visit the website for Via Recreativa. Every Sunday, from 8 a.m. to 2 p.m. it’s like a giant mobile street party that stretches over a significant portion of town. Thousands of people come out, and there is nothing better, in my opinion, than to allow people to slow down and take over the roads in this way to build community and help people feel “safe” on the streets. Each week I picked a different direction, and after a few weeks had cycled the entire length and breadth of the route. I liked the city all the more for being able to participate in this.

I built a travel bike specifically to take with me on this trip. It’s one of those bikes I’ve been thinking about, piecing together in my mind over the past few years, and it seemed like the right time to put it together. I wanted something that didn’t compromise ride quality for packability, and I knew that with the variety of roads I’d need big, comfortable tires. At first I was going to build it as a single speed, but then I thought the versatility of having at least a few gears would make the bike more practical in the long run. I decided on the Pinion 9 speed gearbox — plenty of gear range to get me up and down any hills.

This bike is a little crazy, how it breaks apart: two S&S couplers up near the head tube, a Ritchey breakaway seat tube and down tube coupler, a coupler on the seat stays, bolt breaks at the rear dropouts, and even the chain stays are removable. The biggest part to pack are the wheels — 24” rims with 2.5” tires. Bomb-proof wheels, they’re heavy, but I don’t have to worry about them getting damaged in transit. I was grateful for the gears — Guadalajara is mostly flat, but on my explorations I did periodically find myself on some long steady inclines. Building and disassembling the bike, including packing and unpacking, took me about 1.5 hours each way. I could have done it faster, perhaps, but I was in no hurry. If I built it again there are a couple of small things I would change, but not much — all in all the bike was a success. And it was a perfect bike for exploring the city, and for commuting to and from my Spanish lessons.

That’s right, while I was in Guadalajara I took a half-immersion course, 2.5 hours per day of lessons at a school affiliated with the university. I’ve taken a lot of Spanish over the years, and I’m still far from fluent. But everything seems to help. Of course it’s not easy, at least, not for an aging person like me. I may be slow, but I tend to retain what I’ve learned pretty well. I’m better when I practice, but that’s like anything. It’s the same with bike building or paragliding or computer programming or yoga or chess or woodworking or writing: If you hate it or are afraid, or just don’t care, you’re never going to progress. It requires enough discipline to persevere from moment to moment, for years, even when tired, or feeling bored or lost or frustrated; in my case, to view the language like a puzzle that I really want to solve, even knowing it could take a lifetime or more to “get there,” wherever “there” is. Fluency, or something close to it.

The other goal I set for myself in Mexico was to give myself time to write. I’ve written this long, book-like thing, a memoir, and it still needs a lot of time and editing. So, that’s what I did — edited and rewrote. Isolation in a distant land, where my phone doesn’t work and internet access isn’t reliable, where there’s no one knocking on my door, and no bicycle work that I can go escape into — it can feel pretty lonely, but it does wonders for the written word (at least, that’s what I keep telling myself). Writing is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Maybe not moment to moment, but definitely cumulatively. For what its worth, the Spanish lessons were a good reason to get out of the house, and out of my head after several hours of writing. My choice was that, or or lots of cerveza, and of these two options only one is really sustainable.

I left Guadalajara early one morning last week, and as the taxi drove me across town to the airport I had a brief moment of nostalgia that I felt I hardly deserved. My time was so short. As we passed the big blue cathedral on Calzada Federalismo I thought about the skaters I’d watched in the park just across, and the huddle of black and orange cats I’d seen pressed up against a tree, sleeping. We passed one of the backroads I’d frequently taken on my bike and I thought of the patches of graffiti that were within a few blocks, one in particular of a giant fish with a man on its back, riding it like a jockey.

In the cab we passed the flower market on the other side of the road, with their elaborately sculptured bouquets, and the tortillaria where I’d bought tostadas and met the old man who told me in broken English that his name was Eugene, he was 87 years old, he’d lived in Chicago twenty years ago. “Welcome to my city!” he’d said proudly, sticking out his gnarled old hand for me to shake.

These moments and memories stacked one with another as my taxi drove me onwards, and I knew they didn’t mean much, except these are the very first grains of the structure that would, if I stayed, eventually build a community. But whose to say — maybe I’m building my world community.

The whole trip came and went in that one taxi drive, and even now as I sit at my writing table in Portland, the distance grows and the memories that don’t get built into stories are already fading. It’s been just over a week, and how much have I already forgotten? The language is the medium, the stories are where the memories stay alive.

I did make it to the coast for a short time, to Sayulita and San Pancho, hip little towns north of PV. Whatever sun color my skin acquired is quickly fading to my usual winter paleness. Yesterday there was snow on the ground when I woke. This morning it’s mostly gone. I’m kind of sick, but on the mend, some kind of flu, and just about everything in Portland is closed down as we all go into a nation-wide quarantine. This virus is a great equalizer — it doesn’t matter who you are or what you look like or where you live, we’re all susceptible, and we’re all at least a little bit scared. I feel for everyone whose lives are being deeply affected by this, either directly by the sickness itself, or by job closures, or the falling off of business. These are some wild times we’re in.

One hope I have is that this shake-up we’re receiving will cause us (we the people) to step back from the usual noise and political shouting and remember that at the end of the day we’re all alike, because we’re all human. We all essentially want the same things: to be healthy, happy and free. And we need to figure out how to get there, together. Because of course it is possible.

I don’t know if I have the virus, but I’m staying pretty isolated right now. I feel like I’m getting better, a little more each day. I’ve been spending a few hours each day at the shop — my cave — working on the next bike. It’s Pinion commuter, belt drive, disc brakes, generator front hub to power lights front and rear. A straight up functional bike for life. After my trip it feels good to put my hands back on the tools I know so well, to let the tool-smart part of my brain come back online. I brazed a fork crown to a steerer yesterday, the torch felt comfortable and familiar in my hand, the dialogue between hot steel, flux, and molten brass. A language that I’m very familiar with.

At home we have a new cat. A big orange fellow named Freo; 19 pounds of furry love. He likes sharing the bed, walks across my chest while I sleep, puts his nose to mine and purrs until I wake up and pet him. Selfish beast.

Let’s be safe out there, alright? Keep it simple and do good things for your health, everyday. If you’re up for it, go for a walk, or for a bike ride. Stretch, and keep breathing deep into your lungs. You’re lucky to have them.

It’s a scary time, for sure, but remember to be grateful for the good things you have.

As they say: This too shall pass.