Twenty Miles per Cookie: 9000 Miles of Kid-Powered Adventures

by Nancy Sathre-Vogel

  We couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by it all – by the kindness and goodness of these people who had so little, yet were willing to share what they had – and at our good fortune at being able to travel through it all.

  Days later we were sitting by the side of the road minding our own business when an old, run-down pickup pulled up next to us with a full cab and a bunch of people in the bed. “You want tomatoes?” they asked. “Por el viaje (for the journey).”

  “Sure!” I answered and began digging in my pannier for a plastic bag.

  A man climbed out of the pickup, grabbed a huge gunny sack full of tomatoes, perched it atop my bike, and wedged himself back in to take off.

  “Wait!” I called out. “We can’t carry so much!”

  The man climbed back out of the vehicle, grabbed fifteen or so tomatoes and put them in the plastic bag I had retrieved from the depths of my pannier, then threw the remainder of the bag in the bed of the pickup.

  “¡Que le vaya bien!” they called as they drove away, smiles plastered on their faces.

  Refreshments por el viaje - this family filled our panniers with oranges.

  I stood there holding the bag of tomatoes and watched as the old pickup faded away into the distance. I couldn’t help but marvel at the goodness of humankind; at how these people were happy to share whatever they had and asked nothing in return. I rearranged my panniers to make room for our unexpected treat and continued down the road.

  A few hours later we were taking another break from pedaling, sitting next to a corn field. A pickup pulled up alongside us with a whole family sitting in the bed in lawn chairs.

  “Want some oranges?” they asked. “Por el viaje.” They started throwing oranges over the fence until the four of us stood with our arms full of oranges. “¡Que le vaya bien!” they called as they pulled away.

  * * *

  Dear Grandma,

  We’ve had a lot of neat things happen lately. One night we stayed at a cheese farm. The people had a whole bunch of cows and we got to help milk them in the morning. The lady will take the milk and make cheese from it and sell it in the village. Some people offered to give us a whole gunny sack of tomatoes. We told him we couldn’t carry it and got an amount we could carry. Later a truck stopped and offered to give us oranges. And boy did they give us oranges! We still have oranges. At least they didn’t give us a gunny sack full of them.

  At a toll booth there were some people selling sugar cane. Mommy bought a bag of it. Davy liked it, but I didn’t. I did like watching them peel and chop it though. It was really cold this morning. Mommy wouldn’t get out my long pants so I could be warm, so I had to be cold until the sun warmed me up.

  Love, Daryl

  * * *

  We had heard so much about Copper Canyon and the Sierra Madre mountains that we couldn’t pass by without seeing it. It was, however, way up in the mountains and quite inaccessible. There was no road from where we were so we toyed with the idea of putting the bikes on the train to reach the canyon. In the end, we decided to leave the bikes in the lowlands and go on a vacation from our bike trip.

  Our next challenge was finding a place to leave our bikes. We headed to the train station to ask around.

  “Excuse me,” I said to a worker at the train station. “We want to go to Copper Canyon, but need a place to store our bikes. Is there any place here at the station where we could leave them for a few days?”

  He stopped to think for a minute. He walked outside to look at the bikes. “Talk to Jose – he’s over there unloading those bags. He might be able to help you.”

  I headed over to the cargo area and explained our predicament to Jose.

  “Yeah, you could leave them at my house,” he told me. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  We followed Jose across the street and down the road. We followed a narrow path through the rubble along a stream until we arrived at his house. John and I leaned our bikes against the side of his house while we went to see where we could leave them.

  “You can put them right here,” Jose said as we stood in his bedroom. “There is space right here along the wall.”

  We were stunned – this man was going to allow us to park our bikes right smack dab in the middle of his house for a few days. He calmly explained it would be absolutely no problem whatsoever and they would be perfectly safe – we could enjoy Copper Canyon without a single worry about our bikes.

  You’d think that after all the bicycling we had done, and after taking the train up into the mountains without our bikes, we would have passed our time hiking or taking a bus tour. The last thing I thought we’d do was more bicycling. But we did. As soon as we got up in the mountains, we rented mountain bikes and took to the back roads of the Sierra Madres. The kids loved the freedom they never got on the triple – they could stop, start, turn and go as fast or as slow as they wanted to. For John and I, the best part was that all we needed to propel was the bike – not the hundreds of pounds of gear we hauled on our bikes.

  It was spring in the Sierra Madres and the winter snow had nearly melted away leaving many muddy places in the dirt roads we were on all day. The roads led us through some spectacular wilderness as we passed through pine forests, numerous rivers formed by the melting snow, strange rock formations, and many hills and valleys.

  We enjoyed cycling through the land of the Tarahumara Indians, indigenous people of Mexico who inhabited much of the land around Copper Canyon. One of the main attractions of the area (according to government tourist brochures) was these people. Since before the Spanish came they dwelled in the many caves formed in the unique area. The tradition of living in caves continues today, and we were fascinated with their dwellings. There were many caves scattered around, and all the rocks were totally covered with black soot from their fires.

  The kids were thrilled with the independence provided by the single bikes we rented for them in Copper Canyon.

  A huge cave served as a several-family compound with side caves and crevasses made into individual rooms. The “courtyard,” or central area, of the cave was where the women did most of their work and where social events took place. The Tarahumara women were very colorfully dressed, and we thoroughly enjoyed touring their neighborhood.

  The kids were interested in the idea of people living in caves, but were infinitely more fascinated with the idea of their new-found freedom on single bikes. We took off for other adventures.

  * * *

  Dear Grandma,

  We rented bikes today. It was fun. We went to Sebastian’s Cave, where a bunch of people live in a cave. The road was a good dirt one, and I went flying. It felt good to be on a single again. When we got to the cave we went wild. We explored lots of caves and we found a patch of half snow, half ice. I was almost at the top of a rock hill when we had to leave. It was fun at that cave.

  Then we went to Mushroom Valley. It wasn’t actually a valley but it had big rocks in the shape of mushrooms. On our bikes we went up a rock that had a ramp on the side. Then we rode down. It was AWESOME!! I got on top of a mushroom-shaped rock with my bike.

  After that we went to Valley of the Monks. We got some really fun pictures: one of me splashing through a stream, one of me going through a gully, and one of me holding a snow ball. It was very fun.

  As we were leaving we found a baby lamb! Its mom wanted it back. Once the mom came walking toward us, but she got scared and headed back into the field.

  On our way back to the hotel we went over some big hills! We would go up a steep climb and then drop down!!! It was awesome. It was undeniably, totally awesome.

  We tried to rent a rowboat. We went over a rocky path to the lake only to find out they didn’t have oarlocks. We were all very disappointed. Then we had to go back over the rocky path to get to the road. We were riding when we hit this kind of very squooshy mud.

  When we got back on the road Dad said, “Let’s fly like the wind!” So we did. And unfortunately some of the mud went flying right under my
glasses and hit my eye. It hurt like heck. We made it back to town late in the afternoon. It was an incredibly fun day.

  Love, Davy

  * * *

  As we sauntered along the rim of Copper Canyon the next day, it was almost as though I could hear a voice beckoning me from deep down in the canyon. Was it coming from the tiny villages dotting massive plateaus below us? Or maybe it was coming from the pueblos tucked in canyons, dwarfed by the towering cliffs on either side. It called me, urging me down to marvel at Indian villages isolated from modern civilization by seemingly impassable canyon walls – villages accessible only to the hardy souls willing to traverse precipitous trails leading to them.

  Or possibly, the voice could have been emanating from the canyon bottom, lost and invisible somewhere below cliffs so high they seemed to reach to the heavens. It pleaded to me with a gentle, yet urgent, voice to go and discover its unseen mysteries.

  I sat along the trail breathing in the rugged beauty of Copper Canyon and found it very difficult to resist the temptation to head off on a trail leading me down into the colorful wonderland. I knew, of course, there was no way I could heed the call. A couple of granola bars and a small bottle of water weren’t exactly adequate provisions for the four of us to go exploring.

  We contented ourselves with a walk along the rim past caves where several Tarahumara Indians, colorfully dressed in their traditional clothes, passed us on the trail as they went about their daily chores. We couldn’t help but wonder about the civilization lost in the past – a culture nearly untainted by the modern world.

  We reluctantly pulled ourselves away from the canyon and made our way to the train station to catch the train back to Los Mochis and our bikes.

  Country Doctors

  Finding a doctor in Mexico was always an adventure. It was one of those things that added a bit of the unknown to our lives. In the USA, finding a doctor was a fairly simple affair, and I’m sure finding a doctor in Mexico is simple too – for Mexicans. For an American with a sick kid, however, it was quite an event. In retrospect, it was quite amusing, but as I walked the streets of Los Mochis with Daryl whimpering in pain beside me, it wasn’t much fun.

  Daryl had been complaining of an ear ache on the train back to the coast, but he didn’t appear too sick. The next day, as we hung around a motel readying our bikes for the onward journey, Daryl slept. When he awoke the following morning with both ears screaming in pain and with a high fever, I figured it was time to find the local doc.

  With Daryl in tow, I asked a man outside our hotel where I could find a doctor.

  “Just down the street there – across from the candy shop.”

  That sounded simple enough. Daryl and I set off to find the candy shop, but couldn’t find anything remotely resembling anything like that. We found a video game shop, and an auto parts shop. We found a beauty parlor and a shoe shop. But no candy shop.

  I stopped a woman walking along the road. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said. “Can you tell me where I can find a doctor?”

  She looked at Daryl with tears streaming down his face. “Just go right around this corner and down a block. You’ll find a clinic right there on the corner.”

  A few minutes later we walked into the clinic – into mayhem. In one corner a man gave a talk about dental hygiene to a group of campesinos, in another corner a group of clinic workers tried to figure out what to do with three huge sacks of potatoes. Scores of people milled around the waiting room, quietly talking.

  I approached a person wearing a white uniform. “Can you tell me what I need to do here? My child needs to see a doctor.” She looked at me with a puzzled look and directed us to sit down on the bench.

  Somehow, we had managed to walk right into craziness – once again. This time we had managed to find a social services clinic, and no one had any idea what to do with us. The clinic was for poor people who needed the welfare of the state, not for American travelers. I could see them scurrying around, trying to figure out how to handle us, as Daryl lay with his head on my lap, moaning and groaning in pain.

  After a few minutes a nurse came up and stuck a thermometer under Daryl’s arm, then dragged him off to the scale. We eventually got in to see the doctor, and he prescribed some pain killers and antibiotics for Daryl’s ear infection. They never did figure out how to deal with us on the paperwork side of things, and I suspect they simply didn’t even record our visit, but Daryl was pretty happy about the medicine the doctor gave him.

  * * *

  Dear Grandma,

  I got an earache. It really hurt. We went to a doctor this morning. He told us it was an infection. He gave me some horrible medicine. I felt like puking when I took it, but Mommy got me some Sprite and a cupcake. The only fun things around here are reading, TV, and cards. I am bored. I want to leave.

  Love, Daryl

  * * *

  We had entered Sonora, the wild west of Mexico. Towns and villages were few and far between, and mileage became crucial. We pedaled hard each day to make it to the next location with food and water. Day after day we pedaled hard, wearing ourselves down little by little. It happens so gradually, you don’t even notice you’re exhausted until one day – *blam* – you’re hit in the face with weariness and exhaustion. It seems like those days come when you’re least expecting it.

  As we approached Guaymas, we had a choice – we could go into the city to stock up on food and water, or take the bypass around it. We were tired, and the thought of adding twenty miles to our day didn’t appeal much. I stopped at a truck stop to make sure there were sufficient water and food stops along the road ahead, and the truckers all agreed there were plenty. Plenty for a trucker traveling at 50 miles per hour maybe. But certainly not for cyclists traveling at 50 miles per day.

  So we rode hard, with little food and water. We did manage to find a tiny store at lunchtime where we bought tortillas and beans, and more tortillas and beans for dinner. As we were looking for a campsite, John got a flat tire, which translated to getting to a camp spot very late, eating dinner quickly, and collapsing in the tent.

  The following morning we were totally wiped out. Too many days of hard riding, combined with not enough food and water, made us tired and grumpy. We only had thirty miles to Hermosillo, and we thought we could do that with our eyes shut. That was our first mistake.

  For breakfast we each ate a tiny granola bar, drank most of our water, and headed out. A mile down the road my tire was flat. I unloaded all the crap from my bike and took the wheel off before remembering it had goop in it that should seal the puncture. I pumped it up, let it sit for a while to see if it would hold, then put it back on the bike. But with air in the tire it wouldn’t go through the brake pads. We let the air out, put the wheel on the bike, and pumped it up again.

  I rode about one hundred yards before it went flat again. Damn! I unloaded my bike for the second time, took the wheel off and took it apart. It was a gooey, slimey, icky, sticky, green mess! Goop was everywhere! Puddles of the green goo filled my tire. Using the very last of my toilet paper, we cleaned up the mess, hoped the tube would seal, and put it back together. I started pumping.

  Now let me explain... Pumping tires up to eighty pounds of pressure with one of those little bitty pumps ain’t no easy chore! So I got it up to about sixty pounds when I suddenly looked at John and shouted, “Fuck!” We had forgotten to put the wheel back on the bike before pumping. John let the air out so it would squeeze through my brake pads, we put it on the bike, and I started pumping again. For the fourth time.

  By this point our tempers were short; about as short as they can get. We were exhausted, hungry, and thirstier than all get out. And that blasted tire wasn’t helping matters. “You’ve got to hold the pump straight, Nancy,” John exhorted. “Otherwise you’ll break the valve.”

  “I’m doing the best I can,” I retorted.

  “That’s not good enough. You’ll break the valve.” By that point John was nearly yelling.

  “I sai
d, I’m doing the best I can,” I shouted back. “But of course, that isn’t good enough for you! No! Couldn’t be! Mr. Perfect himself!” I pumped with every ounce of strength left in my arm.

  “Damn you!” John yelled as he grabbed the pump, still attached to the tire, and threw it to the side before storming away.

  I looked at the tire and at the valve which was now hanging caddywhompus. “Now you’ve ruined it!” I shouted. “Thanks a bunch!” I yanked the wheel off the bike, grabbed my replacement tube and sat down to fix it.

  John stormed over to me, grabbed the wheel out of my hands, and yelled, “Let me have it before you ruin it!”

  Fine, I thought, let him fix it. I took out my book and sat down next to my bike to read. John set about the task of replacing my tube.

  A few minutes later he was ready to put the wheel back on my bike but he wasn’t willing to talk to me, and I certainly wasn’t willing to offer my services to him. I sat on the ground while Daryl and Davy struggled to pick up my bike and hold it in place while John pumped up the tire. That was number five.

  I meekly mumbled, “Thank you, dear,” as I loaded all my junk on again. We had eaten the absolute last of our food, and drank every drop of water. We set our sights on Hermosillo.

  Five kilometers down the road, my bike began to wobble. I looked down and saw... again. Same tire. This time a rock had worked its way through the tire and punctured my brand new tube. I unloaded my bike for the fourth time of the day, John took the tire apart, patched the hole, and I pumped it up for the sixth time. And then it hit – we had done it yet again.

  We let out the air, put the wheel on the bike, and pumped it up one last time. I loaded the bike up for the last time, and set off for Hermosillo – tired, hungry, thirsty, and with my arm about ready to fall off.