Still there was a nagging doubt about their shape, a technicality that just wasn’t right. I just didn’t know what the solution was, that and euphoric optimism can out-trump rational thought. Of course everything will be alright once we start riding again.
Three days later, eight thousand feet of ascent and riding what will become a classic Mexican tour-cycle route in the future. A road that carries traffic numbers measurable in single digits per hour, that continuously meanders around the mountains, that goes nowhere fast. I hear a faint ping.
This is a first. A first in over 150,000km. Yet I instinctively know what’s happened. We’ll use three of our replacement spokes over the next fifty kilometres. Spokes that have so long been cable-tied to the frame that it’s a wonder that they are the correct size, such are number of new rims we’ve replaced over the last fifteen years.
That night we camped in a stunning location, Mexiquillo’s , ‘jardin de piedras’, a rock garden. One that at first sight had me wondering if it was man made. It’s not, but it has that remarkable feeling that this is the work of a highly talented landscape artist; creating the perfect ‘man-nature’ installation. A symmetry of rock placement, silent green water and knurled, contorted pine trees. Extract and import to the Chelsea Flower Show and it would carry off the gold award. And yet with the best of intentions I just couldn’t settle to appreciating it, with a mind that just wants to churn over the many permutation and scenarios of potential disasters. Eventually into a broken doze, I manage to wake myself; a faint ping… oh bugger, the spokes are snapping of their own accord now… it was probably just a pine needle.
Then out of adversity steps providence.
Another ping… perform another repair. At this rate, I conclude we now only have enough spokes to cover the next two hours. Time to retreat back to the last pueblo that we passed; to find that a collectivo is anticipated soon, the only collectivo of the day. A mini bus rolls up, one with a roof rack and space for our bikes. It looks like it would be rated for around a dozen passengers, yet I well know that it won’t leave until it’s exceeded that by a sizeable margin. I’m not wrong.
At each subsequent stop yet more passengers are wedged in and we are squashed further into the back. It’s probably as well that my immediate horizon and long view is of the child’s shoe swinging in front of me; that way I can’t watch the barrier-less road verge falling vertiginously down the next canyon wall.
A second bus ride and we arrive in the desert city of Durango. A city with colonial culture, cycle workshops and fast wi-fi. I hope it’s all that we need.