Los Estados Unidos 🇲🇽 🇺🇸

My last morning in Mexico was a slow one. I had breakfast with the church staff and then went to grab a coffee in town to spend my last pesos. Eventually, I made my way to the border. Riding through downtown Mexicali’s gridded network of streets I occasionally caught glimpses of the big border fence looming. It’s tall and pretty ominous looking. I asked a few people where the pedestrian border crossing was, made a few more circles, and then finally found it. There was a group of people standing outside and I stood about trying to figure out if there was a queue or something but I was eventually waved over and let through. I’d later learn that there is an initial gate managed by the Mexican immigration authority that restricts access to US border patrol. You can begin an asylum process at the US border with a US border patrol agent; you don’t have to be inside the USA. I clearly looked the part, I guess, and was allowed to pass. I began speaking Spanish with the first official looking person that I ran into, who turned out to be part of US customs. We chatted a bit about my trip and off I went. I’d made it to the USA and this moment felt like my biggest milestone so far.

Once across the border it didn’t feel particularly different. A lot of local businesses advertised in Spanish. Ferreterias and hospedajes; nothing new here. The street network both right in front of me and from what I saw on the map was a giant grid of farmland. I quickly rode on past Calexico, CA and headed north. I stopped at an Aldi grocery store and loaded up on food. I remarked at how friendly and polite the lady working in the produce section was when she helped me find stuff. It was a bit of an adjustment to be speaking English again. My attempts to continue to speak Spanish with people who were clearly native speakers hasn’t been met with much enthusiasm; people will quickly switch back to English for me.

The first day of cycling in the United States felt like I was riding through a John Steinbeck novel. It felt like all there was, was dry land, small towns, and a never-ending procession of freight trains. I camped at a small state park along a quiet road and got moving again the next morning. On the second day I passed through Slab City and visited Salvation Mountain. “The Slabs,” is an off-grid, alternative community of people living in the desert of southern California. I cruised around a bit and chatted with a lady working at Salvation Mountain but found the place otherwise quite empty. It being August, the hottest time of year, most people had migrated elsewhere with plans to return in the more comfortable winter months. Much like the Baja peninsula, it was hot here. As I rode along the eastern side of the Salton Sea I realized that I was well below sea level, which contributed to the stifling heat. The surface level of the sea, though it fluctuates, is around 230 feet (~70 meters) below sea level.

Though cycling through towns, I found this section really quiet and a little spooky because of how empty it felt. I would see maybe three or four people outside. I’d stop at a little shop to get some groceries and find one person outside to chat with. Inadvertently, if the conversations went on long enough we eventually reached some conspiracy topic involving the CIA. At Bombay Beach, on the shores of the Salton Sea I walked into a small shop that had people simply inside for the air conditioning. They asked why I was there and I replied that it was to fill up with water. They gave me several water bottles for free. I said I could pay. They said it was fine, “it’s hot out there!” I cruised the streets of Bombay Beach for a bit and then continued on up the road to a state park with a hiker biker site. $10 into a self-registration station and you’re all set. I was seriously impressed by this campground for its wheelchair accessibility. Fire pits, showers, bathrooms, gazebos. Everything was wheelchair accessible and I thought about how nice that is. I imagine it’s part of the Americans with Disabilities Act.

From there I road through Mecca and Coachella to Palm Desert where I tried my luck with my first American fire department. They were impressed with the distance that I had cycled but wouldn’t let me camp on the small patch of grass behind their firehouse. “Try behind the Target,” they told me. So off I went and chatted with some folks who live back there in their cars. I had a long conversation with a man named Dave who then showed me a good spot to pitch my tent. It was a halfway decent spot but, regardless, I was out early the next morning to avoid any trouble. Riding through Palm Desert and Palm Springs was completely different than where I had come from further to the southeast: it was much more affluent and green with golf courses. I began to think about the kind of wealth disparities I had seen in Chile and Costa Rica and thought about the same here in the USA. It is the best of times and it is the worst of times.

In the time since then (now writing this from Eugene, OR) I’ve met loads of friendly and polite Americans who have hosted me and fed me and exchanged stories with me. In that regard it’s been like any other country on my trip; there’s great people everywhere. Unfortunately, what I’ve also experienced is a strong sense that people are afraid of me, I think because they think I’m homeless. I’ll be sitting outside of a local library using the WiFi while sitting on a bench next to my bike, which is pretty heavily loaded up and if you don’t know much about bikes, then yeah it probably looks a bit vagabond-ish. Just chatting with people remains my favorite part of the trip so it’s a difficult and lonely feeling all-together when people are afraid of me, when someone hurries past me as I’m sitting outside of the library, doesn’t make eye contact and doesn’t respond to my “hello.” I mention this here because it’s not a fear that I felt elsewhere on my trip and it has given me the impression that many people here are afraid.

Exiting a place ominously called the Inland Empire, I crossed the San Bernardino mountains cycling along Interstate 10 through Banning. From there I descended into the greater Los Angeles metropolitan area. For some reason, LA has many stereotypes and a reputation that proceeds it but every time I’ve been there I’ve enjoyed myself. What a city! From a cyclist’s perspective, though, it’s a sick joke. Here’s a place that has great year-round weather and is relatively flat but has been designed completely with cars in mind. I mean come on! This city could be so perfect for cycling but instead it is, very unfortunately, entirely car-centric. Getting across LA was difficult because there is absolutely nowhere to camp, even legally, let alone “stealth camping.” Fortunately I was able to stay with a network of friends, parents of friends, and Warmshowers hosts, which allowed me to ride across the city and to take a few rest days there.

After cycling out of Los Angeles via Santa Monica I was on the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH); a beautiful but windy stretch that I rode to San Francisco. Along the way I was joined by a friend from home and we travelled together for a few weeks. In Los Angeles and Santa Barbara I met up with another two friends that I had originally met in Buenos Aires at the beginning of my trip. It was interesting to see this continuity. Then I was there and now I’m here. When chatting with people in the States one of the first questions I’m asked is, “where’d you start your bike ride?” In those moments something funny happens as they react and then I react to their reaction. The distance has slowly built up, day by day over the past year and nine months but when I get other people’s reactions I have to stop and think, “yeah I guess it is actually pretty far.”

The dividing point between northern and southern California is known as Point Conception. I swam a few times in the Pacific ocean south of this point but never again north of this point. The water was very noticeably colder. Cycling along the coast meant lots of northerly headwinds and cold, cloudy stretches. At the town of Cambria another cyclist informed me that a landslide had closed the PCH somewhere before Big Sur and that I’d have to go around. A quick look at the map led me through Paso Robles, King City, and Salinas. This area was entirely agriculture. I rode the bus one morning because I had to be in San Francisco on a certain date to meet up with friends. On the bus I noticed that everyone spoke Spanish. All of the workers that I came across when cycling across California’s vast farm lands were Latino.

Stowing my bike on the front of the bus and for only two bucks I rode from King City to Salinas. Once in Salinas, I chatted with George at the Milpa Collective about their work; I had stopped because I was curious about the organization based on its name. Milpa is a Mesoamerican crop growing system involving maize, beans, and squash that can be grown without artificial pesticides or fertilizers. I filled up my water at the John Steinbeck Library and rode to Santa Cruz where I stayed with another cyclist with whom I’d ridden together way back in Chile. It was good to see him again and to catch up over some mate. Still pressed for time, the next morning I took the bus to San Jose and then the Caltrain into downtown San Francisco. For all of the criticism that the US gets for its supposed lack of public transport, I had so far been seriously impressed by the systems in Los Angeles and San Francisco; they were clean, modern, and punctual. A two hour ride on the Caltrain cost me $10 and I didn’t even have to pay extra for my bicycle. Even cooler was that the train had a special car for storing bicycles that was used by lots of cyclists.

I spent much longer in the Bay Area than I had originally anticipated. At first I met up with friends in San Francisco; we went to a concert together and spent a day on the Yuba river. Afterwards I went to Oakland, Berkeley, and the East Bay to spend a few days with more friends. I then rode to Sausalito and stayed with two dear friends who helped me immensely. Unbeknownst to me, somewhere along the way I had gotten a pretty bad infection in my leg that needed to be treated. This meant several weeks off of the bike and staying with them. In retrospect, never having dealt with something like this, it was a pretty alarming experience that has made me a lot more cautious both on and off the bike. I’m incredibly thankful to have such friends.

My leg eventually healed and I was able to ride on from the Bay area. My initial plan was to ride toward northern California along the coast but I stayed with another cyclist from Oregon who frequented that route and recommended that I ride inland through the Central Valley. So the next morning I rode south again through Napa and Sonoma counties. So far, on my ride from Los Angeles to the Bay Area I was remarking at how gorgeous the scenery is and how nice all of the little towns are. I kept saying to myself, “I get it”, I get why so many people want to live here. But I was also a bit annoyed by all of the NIMBYism (Not In My BackYard). Common slogans on yard signs or other campaign advertising followed the formula, “Keep <county name><desirable adjective>, vote no on <proposition number>.”

In the Central Valley I spent about four or five days cycling past nothing but almond trees, rice, or walnut trees. It was tough to find any campgrounds so I’d often have to resort to picking stealthy spots after sunset and being gone again before sunrise. This is becoming easier as I notice the days getting shorter while also going further north. I eventually made it up and out of the valley into National Forest land where it instantly became much quieter and finding good, comfortable campsites was a breeze. Generally, I was amazed at how quickly the busyness of California south of San Francisco gave way to the quiet of California north of San Francisco. It was much more rural and much more politically conservative.

The relatively flat and low-lying terrain of the Central Valley meant that I also had to climb up and out when I reached the town of Red Bluff. Over the course of a day or two I climbed to about 1,500 meters and stayed around that elevation all the way to Klamath Falls. I began to also notice that many of the campgrounds and seasonal businesses had already closed for the season. It was starting to get fairly cold at night.

A lot of the riding after the Central Valley was nice because I was high and dry albeit a bit chilly at night. On my last day before reaching Klamath Falls I rode through the Lava Tubes National Monument, chatted with some duck hunters after a successful morning out on the water, and stumbled upon the Klamath Basin Potato Festival in Merrill. I briefly chatted with a lady who told me there was free barbecue for everyone. I had crossed the state line just a few miles back and was already liking Oregon! As I left town I was passed by several trucks hauling potatoes going the other way. I rode the rest of the way to Klamath Falls where I stayed with a very welcoming family via Warmshowers.

In the past several months, as I cycled towards San Francisco, I had a decision to make. Do I continue northwards to Alaska and try to finish there, which was my original back-of-mind goal, even though the season for doing so is now well passed or do I ride to the east coast of the USA and finish at my family’s house? Both are about equidistant and with good weather about three month’s cycling. During my recovery time I talked with family, friends, and other cyclists about this. I got a pep-talk from a man over a Papa John’s Pizza dinner, which made it abundantly clear that there was only one option. It feels like the right move to finish in northern Alaska and that’s the direction I’ll go.