Cuba - the ride

Upon arrival, wrecked and sleep-deprived, in apparent suspicion of my drug trafficking, I was subjected to an endless and highly detailed interrogation; wanting to know my specific timetable and all towns and cities I was planning on stopping into and when; whether I'd be talking to locals along the way ("Uh... yes."); whether I'd ever smoked cannabis ("Um... yes.") That was a big mistake. Whether if someone offered me a joint or some other drug while in Cuba if I'd accept. ("Uh... no.") "Even just a puff?" ("No sir. Absolutely not.")

Now they bring the drug sniffing dog out and he really likes my bike box. I'm then promptly escorted to a tiny private room with controlled substances posters on the wall, at which point they wipe down my arms and hands, checking for substance residue. Then they connect me to a host of wires and subject me to a godforsaken lie detector test.

All of which I passed, though I confess to being more than a little shaken up.

It was an intense and insane welcome to Cuba and their paranoid state government.

Then, in my delirium and shaken state, I stripped the pedal inset by attempting to screw on the left pedal on the right side. Cue assistance beyond the call of duty of several guards, one of whom cycled the entirety of Cuba when he was younger. The rad dude who helped me figure out my pedal fuck up rolled with me from his airport post and crammed himself in the back of the cab with the bike all over him.

Balance Odyssey CUBA begins in a few days, in which we psyclists will roam tropical miles and miles, along the way holding impromptu slackline workshops and gifting the gear, planting the proverbial slackseeds. As a wiser man than myself once said, "What you have to do, you do with play." The Holguín page is that arrival. We planned to teach the final slackshop there on the way back.

February 24. Se parar, to stop oneself. Separar, to separate. Met a Canadian Ironman champion, Donald, using the internet at the park. Then met a girl at the park and conversed with her and her mom and her friend for hours. She and her friend are both obsessed with France and are beyond keen to leave Cuba. It was with no small amount of frustration and sadness that she told me about her dreams and wishes and how none of them will come true the way things are. I later felt like a privileged fuck when they asked me about my travels and experiences. These people are literally unable and often not allowed to leave this small island nation.

February 25. Gain intel from Mauricio about the route and areas to check. He warns me that because of the wind and sun here, 60 kilometers feels like 100.

Walking down the streets of Gibara at night, able to see inside everyone's apartments, where people are sitting together talking, reflecting, laughing, watching tv, you get the sense that everyone is welcome. That no guard is up and that there are no irrational fears. Everyone else is together outside walking and conversing, playing and joking. That the night air is such a sweet temp of 68 degrees just makes it feel that much more welcoming.

How strange to be in a place just 90 kilometers from the United States and yet feel truly in a different world.

We out here. It begins! It's with a wild vividness to be in a place that has been the scene of such tumultuous history. Talking to countless locals of all ages to gain as complete a picture as possible of this beautiful and complex land of contradiction, where community runs deeeeeep; where some can't wait to leave but are literally not allowed to do so and where most believe they will never be able to afford to; where some say they have everything they need but would love to make more than their paltry state salary; where everyone is taken care of for any medical situation free of charge but where doctors make less than waiters; where many would love to marry a foreigner and leave but couldn't bear to leave their family behind. Where a Cuban who married an Italian man has returned with her husband and child after fourteen years in Italy because she felt herself becoming more isolated and stressed there, longing for the peaceful and friendly energy of Cuba and its peoples. Her peoples. Her home.

Here, at this crossroads where everything is happening all of the time, nobody I've spoken to thus far has ever seen slacklining in person. It appears to not exist in Cuba. How fitting that we should attempt to usher in the Cuban slackline era in the Oriente, for it was here where la revolución began. That we will be passing through the very mountains where this revolution was birthed is all the radder.

We'll do our part. Slackline workshops begin on the 28th, when Ray gets himself out here, with three of our six slackline workshop rigs donated by YogaSlackers. Transmission: Gibara, CUBA.

"Cuba es un ejemplo." Omal, the owner of Estancia, said that the reason the US resents Cuba so much is that it's an example of what can happen when you resist and fight back. "El mundo dice tantas mentiras sobre Cuba. Creen que no somos informados." He says Cubans have never had a problem with the American people. The problem has been with the American government.

Today as I was walking through the streets of Gibara a man called out, "Italiano!" I turned and said, "No." He responds, "Canadiense!" I say, "Casi!" "Greco? Americano?" "Ahí está!"

February 27. Does colony come from the surname of Cristóbal Colón? Or is that just a massive coincidence? Today I heard that Cuba has three things right: medical care, education, and sports. A restaurant owner who studied Marxism but who believes capitalism is the answer. When I mentioned that I didn't realize the line for the internet card would take an hour, he lamented, "Cuando no hay desarrollo, así son las cosas."

Riding through the windmill-framed dirt roads leaving the coastal town of Gibara, struck by the wind unwavering, and scorched by the sensing sun, dodging pitfalls, potholes, goats, runout tierra, passed by purple 1953 Chevrolet relic taxis and horse-drawn carriages, I feel a mind out of time in a time out of mind.

Nausicaa in her element amidst the headwinds of the Cuban coast, which never ceased. Here's to ancient, rusted mariner artifacts, uneven, unpaved roads, and the scorching sun. Someone guessed she was at least 25 years old. We'll take that as a badge of honor for this five year old beast.

Lunch stop at a glorious restaurant house where fish fresher than today's catch is served with rice and beans.

Rolling down the dirt country lane toward Playa Herradura, with windmills and farms dotting the skyline, sun setting, truck following in hot pursuit, I decide it'll be a great show and a great idea to surfcycle over this uneven, treacherous road, with ditches on either side. I'm maintaining balance and loving it. I look back and see the truckers super stoked on the absurdity. I'm in the zone. And then, all the rickety bumps in the road knock off my handlebar bag. My immediate action is to slam on the brakes, which is a problem on loose dirt and with a non-mountain bike. My bike comes out from under me and I crash, flipping over the bike, wiping out on the road. I get up, emerge, laughing at my stupidity, but in pain and bleeding from various points of my bare toes. They stop up ahead and seem to be waiting for me to pass. As I do, they kindly ask to make sure I'm alright.

February 28. Birthday ride through the thick of it can't be real. Passing the messages to Fidel scrawled on the poles and fences of homes and farms. Scribed into the streets themselves. Setting up Ray's bike at the refugio. Michel the bike wizard tricks out our bikes with smooth shifting and a new cassette for Ray's improperly rigged rental. House spaghetti for 40 cents.

March 1. Holguín to Bayamo. Hand-cranked bike taxi. Shouts of maricón as we pass through Jiguaní.

As we race towards Bayamo to beat the night, the sun is spectacularly setting below the horizon and we pass a group of cyclists stopped on a side street. They seem to be on a group tour or group ride of some kind. They shout and wave at us in a frenzy as we pass. I slam on the brakes, not knowing what to make of it all. I begin thinking maybe it's Michel, our reliable mechanic savior from Holguín, or maybe the Profil bike tour leader we met there, someone delivering some important message for us. They all excitedly ride towards us. It's one man in his forties and a group of kids from age 12 to 17. The man rushes up to me and asks where we are going, that they are training to learn how to ride long distance. They're looking at us in a mixed state of awe and confusion, which I've before called cawenfusion. It may be the fact that I'm shirtless and covered in sweat. Or it may be my beard and our clearly un-Cuban look. The man asks for our information. I pass on my email and the Balance Odyssey Instagram. He then offers a tip on the tire situation, a damn good one. Namely that I should switch the front tire with the back tire, as the damaged back tire is currently bearing most of the weight burden. Ingenious.

We then take a photo with this impressionable group of adorable, aspiring cyclists. We mention what we are doing here and the leader asks why don't we have the slackline workshop there with them. And he offers us a place to stay. I'm met with the unpleasant decision.

Ray complaining about the friction of his bike, having me ride it five kilometers on a seat terribly too low for me. I'm struck by how slow it does feel and then I consider the tire pressure. He claims he didn't want to inflate it too much because of the cargo weight. Ray Molacha.

March 2. Bayamo to Guisa. "Where's the key?" "A key!" (¡Aquí!) "Todo fine?" The repeated phrase uttered by the con artist cubano who clearly had nefarious intent. We are escorted out with guards blocking the exits so this Cuban conman can't follow us to our lodging. We stay in the Mirador lodgings, which feature one-way mirrors on the doors, through which we are supposed to look and insure that it's only the custodian, and we are instructed to not open the door for anyone else. Possible bedbugs.

March 3. Ray awakes having inexplicably slept through the loud, feared chattering at ungodly hours right outside our door, which kept me awake in a paranoid state for at least two hours. Maybe it was his earplugs and eyeshade. Ray emerges from his sleeping cocoon, having slept atop the Therm-a-Rest pad, which has the classic egg-carton indentions, and his back is covered in these indentions, lending him a Thing-like appearance. They don't go away for a long time.

Take a badass jeep ride in a jeep that is the dream beater vehicle of every American dirtbag and outdoorsman. We are seeking the supposed cave swimming hole Michel showed me in Holguín. It looked amazing. In fact, it's the entire reason we rerouted to Guisa instead of riding to the coast to Manzanillo the night before. We explain to several people the site we are seeking. I tell them it's a swimming hole with a beautiful cave that people jump off the top of into the clear, cold freshwater pool. Wrong spot entirely. But it is the jungle highlands. And there are natural pools. We go seeking breakfast.

Breakfast inside someone's home, a restaurant in a hut. They offer us fresh squeezed guanábana juice. Ray is skeptical when they say it is mixed with water. Likely river water. We accept, so as to avoid being rude. But ten minutes later we are sneaking out back to dump out the glasses.

March 4. Ray's phone debacle. The night before he asked me to charge his phone and I jokingly said no, causing him to storm naked out of bed, dazed and exhausted from the day's rides, and place his phone at his charge port, which, unbeknownst to him, happens to be in a puddle of water.

I'm on last legs here. Final push for 450 kilometers total in six consecutive days of riding.

Beach near Media Luna. We seek a restaurant right on the beach and find a blue house that says they are making food. We ask for fish. Soon after, Ray goes to wash his hands and he finds a guy washing countless just-caught fish. At which point we ask if we can buy some of those fish for them to then cook. It requires me to be escorted to a house nearby and knock on the door and ask the owner if we can dig into his supply. Ray using a creepy voice gets weird looks of fear from kids. A conversation about Christian denominations in the US, and I bring up Mormonism, which prompts a full-fledged discussion about Mormonism in Spanish in the middle of Cuba with locals.

BOCU Slackline Workshop #1. We were eating lunch on the beach with some friendly folk and they asked what we were up to and after we described the project they enthusiastically asked us if we would teach their church group to slackline. The pastor was gung ho and urging us to do it. We had in our minds the general regions we had intended to hold workshops and leave lines and this beach wasn't necessarily one of them but we figured we'd at least share with them the slackstoke. Once the line was set up and the crowds formed, full of supportive and happy energy, people of all ages and plenty of girls and women, we realized we had to gift them the line at the end of the workshop. And we did. And it was good. Slackstars birthed. Contacts exchanged. Slackline scene created in the nearby beach town of Manzanillo, home of this group from the Church of Nazareth. They now are the stoked holders of a 60 foot YogaSlackers slackline with biners and chain loops and the basic, applied knowledge of rigging and derigging. And a few slackline tricks we taught them. The whole story is Media Luna.

We have thus far cycled 500 kilometers in eight days, including a 450 kilometer stretch in six consecutive days. Ergo today is a rest day in the coastal town of Niquero. Our first Cuban slackline workshop was yesterday on the beach of Media Luna. It was a most excellent success.

Ladies and gentlemen, operation GTFO continues to be delayed due to one Ray Molacha, who fiddles with his belongings in unending, befuddled rummaging, creating nonstop idiot checks upon checks of checks of idiot checks. Ray Molacha, Prime Minister of Idiot Czech Republic.

March 5. Sitting down to breakfast and complaining about the glare, Ray claims the shade structure the lady and I set up is subpar. "¿Cómo te gustan tus huevos?" "Fertilizados."

We realize Trump and the chaos of the US has been at last out of our heads for a good while. I comment, "What if when we get back things are even worse. Way worse. Like a totalitarian police state. And they won't even let us in. And they force us to go back and stay in Cuba... Actually, that would be great."

Ray is met with a sudden urge of impending shits. "Oh god, here it comes... I gotta take my pants off for this one. And my shirt." Strips naked. "I'm goin' in!"

Wherein we realize that the centavos in moneda nacional are essentially worthless. One peso is a twenty-fifth of a CUC. Five centavos is a fifth of a penny. Shit is worthless.

We manage after much hand wringing to call JetBlue so we can change our flights. I have Ray call on my behalf as he claims to be highly able to manipulate the flight agents. "Can I have a get out of jail free card on this fee?" He's able to convince the woman to waive the normal $75 fee and I only end up paying the $25 difference in fares. Ray then calls back on his behalf and gets a different agent and is unable to convince her to waive his fee, as he had already used his "get out of jail free card" to change his flight after missing his initial flight, which is what caused me to have to wait five days for him in the first place and have to now change my flight to ensure we had time to complete this route and all the workshops.

While using internet in the town square the black clouds that had come blowing in finally dump on us for the first rain of the trip. There under the shelter we meet a woman, Marianela. She's an English teacher who teaches in numerous schools separated by long distances.

March 6. Niquero to Cabo Cruz. Running into Juan Luis again. I ask him to sit down with me at the pizza joint to record his thoughts and his memories of fighting in the revolutionary wars in Angola, Zambia, and Namibia. We leave with photos of him and he asks if I'm going to use the gallon water bottle. I said no. And he happily grabs it and says he will keep it as a memory of Ray and I.

We stop at a restaurant at Playa Las Coloradas and proceed to literally order the entire menu. For $2.85. Total. We then stop at the beach and dose on Marc's heady acid and proceed riding forth towards Cabo Cruz.

The failed shitty bike rig. Amateur hour. Backpack collapsing, loose dopp kit and other materials rigged sans bag, all explode out from under the bungees, no kickstand, I'm soaked in sweat and frustrated, a total mess, bike falling out from under me. All of this due to leaving the panniers at the house behind to reduce weight and attempting to fit all of my needed gear into a daypack. Ray laughingly documents my feeble and convoluted, lysergically enhanced attempts at wringing it all in. We are both in hysterics, crying in laughter.

Ray's sobering lectures about the power of the ocean and never turning your back on the sea. As I press us forward around the next rocky coastline vista, he warns against proceeding. But the rocks and waters continue to tempt and tease, and I completely ignore all of the wisdom and warnings and proceed forth. Cut to Ray ten minutes later hanging off a cliff ledge for photos, waves crashing ever closer to our spot. Cut to Ray half an hour later with the Poseidon photo shoot, betraying all warning and caution, all for the proximity to the awed raw power of the tides.

Seeing Juan Luis in the sky, looking into his eyes, his eyes well-lived, and gracious and grateful, and holding back tears during a brief moment when he was speaking to us about all that is good and right and needed in the world. I didn't know what was behind those tears but they were undeniably true, revealing a startling humanity that was both disarming and devastating.

A life well lived is a bike well-ridden, is a book well-written, is a look well-given.

The goat that followed us back towards the rocky outcropping, ushering us towards the oceanic chaos. Joining us. Observing from above, waiting for something. Or someone. I decide to join her at the top of the cliff and witness the vision that was us from above. Where we were. And there in the distance was the setting isness. Beholden before our eyes, starlings' flight paths, all fractals and tessellations, and sunbeams wrought infinitely, cascading through the glorious tumult of endless wave breaks, cerulean and cyan, blues, greens rolling and powering over the rocky coast as far as the horizon, all beneath the Sol. Sol. That most powerful and incredible, our hero ineffable, the life-bringer in our solar system. It broke through the final barrier of clouds, looming larger and brighter than Ray or I had ever seen it before, ballooning as it made contact with the horizon, seeming to almost be rising still, unable to commit to full descent, as if light obligated to shine a bit longer this day, and shone it did. It was endless, these final moments of daylight, and as it finally conceded and melted into the cosmic sea we sat awestruck as the patch of sky behind the sun's resting point began flickering and pulsating in an ever-changing spectrum of supernovaic purples, pinks, yellows, oranges, and reds, a sort of tropic northern lights probably heretofore undocumented. We were surely the only witnesses on this day. Our eyes in absolute awe, we sat motionless as starlings still left their flight paths in their wake, multiplying into countless starlings, like a Lumière slow motion film, passing through the space before us, lighthouse towering in the distance, cliffs bathed in the final purple and preternatural golden glow, all filtered and gifted through our eyes' prismatic openings. Truly a marvel.

Here we are in a place where you can order the entire menu for $2.85 and we're still butting heads over what are, in retrospect, pennies. Or, rather, 20 centavos.

Eating at Ramon's house next to the lighthouse, as the fabled lighthouse restaurant is inexplicably closed on Mondays. Best fish and food of the trip. We arrive famished. Really interesting conversation with Ramon during dinner. "Suave."

March 7. Eighty-two kilometers, Cabo Cruz to Marea del Portillo. Awaken to two glorious minuta fried fish sandwiches and two cupcakes. Hike to a 500 year old cactus with guide Jordan. We comment that we haven't seen any other cycle tourers on this trip. Ferocious headwind. Epic climbing.

March 8. Rest day, Marea del Portillo. Meet Teddy and Kia. Meet Canadian middle-aged cyclists on their eighth bike tour of Cuba. Meet another Canadian guy. Had a triple bypass two years ago, seems in his sixties, comes to Cuba eight times a year. A legend. Beach slackline session with Teddy and Kia.

March 9. Fifty-four kilometers, Marea del Portillo to La Mula. We are unable to meet up with Teddy and Kia, but are still off to our earliest start at 7:20 AM. This is our first glimpse of the epicness that is the southern coast. Unforgettable ride around switchbacks and passes, each gifting a new, stunning coastal vista. It's like a raw Big Sur. Minus the cars and crowds, add countless animals, and throw in endless beaches with water you can actually jump into without a wetsuit.

Skinny dipping at 10:30 AM. Found lots of beautiful, highly polished stones. Crab crossings. Add large, fierce crabs crossing the middle of the street to our list of things and peeps to dodge in the road. As you pass them, intending to dodge them, they angrily get into fighting stance and try to attack the wheels. We wonder what they are doing up in the forest so far from the beach. We later learn that they actually live in the forest and walk all the way to the beach to lay their eggs.

Dank ass introduction to potaje, bean soup of sorts paired with white rice.

Find a beautiful virgin beach and seeking the pathway we wander through what turns out to be a border patrol building. Sensing my error I apologize and ask if we can access the beach from here. He leads us across the street and shouts about half a kilometer down to the next farmhouse, "¡Oye! Los caballeros quieren ir a la playa. ¿Pueden pasar el portillo?" "¡Cómo no!", the farmer shouts in response.

We make our way through the ancient gate, of weight unbelievable, wrought in a time unthinkable. And after Ray passes through I am left to close and lock back this monstrosity. In attempting to jerry-rig the wire lock back in place one of the doors completely collapses to the ground like a giant sequoia. After a solid beach soaking in rough waters I come back to my bike and ride out to climb back to the road only to find a flat tire. Second of the trip. Continue riding along epic and raw coastline. We bail on the hike up the Sierra Maestra due to high heat and the need to keep moving forward.

Stop at La Mula where we encounter Teddy and Kia. The continuation of what will be a recurring theme. After more food at the camping site we set out and I find the tire is flat. Again. Patched and ready to push on to Chivirico, having lost lots of light. Two kilometers down the road my tire is low again. Can't catch a break. Executive decision is made when we notice a rad beach down below the road, nobody around. Our hammock spot. And then to roll back to La Mula for some, or much, needed food. Roll back as the mountains along the distant horizon are glowing purple with the orange sunset casting gold upon our eyes.

Go back to La Mula where our bad luck turns to glorious serendipity again. The sequence of events that occur next encompass the graciousness of the Cuban people. "I'm sorry we do not have any dinner food left." We are famished. It can't be. "But wait, let me check with the cook. OK, we can make you a delicious plate of prawns with fish and a giant salad of beets and tomatoes. Oh, you want four plates of rice. No problem." Everyone else had apparently been subjected to mediocre chicken and rice. Our luck continues. I need to charge my camera, so the inspector Adrianna invites me to her room. While there I am offered a plate of banana chips and some grilled steak. "You can have the whole plate if you want," she says. We finish dinner and proceed to leave but Adrianna offers us to use her bathroom to shower before heading out. We leave it messier than before we got there. Not on purpose, but we were just really dirty and we had no way to really clean it. Mud stains that were uncleanable. And then I broke the toilet handle. When we finish and clean it as best we can with what's left of her toilet paper and say our goodbyes, she proceeds to offer us a room for the night, for free. We tell her we broke her toilet and she laughs and says "no problema." At this point we turn down the room in favor of our beautiful hammock camping spot. What a night of gratitude.

March 10. Early rise and ride by 7:30 AM. Say our goodbyes to the fabled camping site. Chill 50 kilometer ride, though the sun and heat creeps in earlier and earlier it seems. We're currently trudging, trotting, galloping, and stampeding across the raw southern coast of Cuba. It's awe's sum. A waiter in Chivirico asks us if we want to change reggaeton to something else. "¿Algo romántico?", he asks.

March 11. Sixty-one kilometers, Chivirico to Cruce de los Baños. Legendary cowboy with a serpent hat who, upon hearing our plan to ride up to Cruce de los Baños, looks at us painfully and utters, "¡Carajo!" This is not the first nor the last time we will hear this response to our riding plans. Worst road we've encountered yet.

I was riding up the worst and hardest road we've ever climbed, pushing our loaded steeds up loose dirt and rocks as often as we were grinding through the pedals, sweating profusely with not a drop of water left and still many kilometers to go, when I passed a tiny village and heard a woman shout at me to stop and talk. There's plenty of shouts on a tour like this, more often than not friendly ones, but the warm tone of this one in particular caused me to stop in my tracks. Next thing I know I'm being gifted mangos straight from the mango gods, cold (filtered?!) water, and meeting the woman's infant daughter and her husband and father-in-law. I took a picture of this beautiful family and promised to mail them a physical copy of the photo. The woman, Juliana, told me, "Ahora tienes una amiga en la Sierra Maestra." She then asked me to come back to this remote mountain village soon and I looked at her, thinking about how much grueling energy it took to arrive at that point, and said with exhausted hesitation, "Wellll, I don't know about that." They all laughed in hysterics and promised me that the road is being repaired soon. Off I went, enlivened, nourished, and with a mango to give to Ray, and with new friends I may never see again (unless they improve that road). But we will for certain be photo pen pals.

There seem to be unending places and people in this world and it's a sublimely powerful thing to find yourself in a place you'd never expect to be and connect with people you'd never expect to meet, bringing to life and humanizing words and numbers with landscapes, faces, ideas, and experiences.

I fall several times this day. Once while trying to line myself up for a better shot of Ray. Lack of kickstand strikes again.

Wandering through different leads of supposed lodging in Cruce de los Baños. The first house we visit on the map, the only one listed, turns out to be nonexistent. We are led by a man to a supposed casa particular further in the center of town. He leads us to a home that features the worst conditions we've encountered yet. No walls, assured bedbugs, grimy, unclean. The guy says it'll cost $20. Still deadly hungry and thirsty from the grueling climb and gnarly sun, we stumble our way to a cupcake shop and are met by a very cheery, portly woman, who is surely surprised to see folk such as we. We are amazed that we can buy a cupcake for 4 cents, so we each eat at least five.

March 12. Sixty-one kilometers, Cruce de los Baños to El Cobre. Morning is spent eating and packing, inflating my patched tire. And then begins a fruitless search for a slackline location. Ray tries to explain that a donkey is the offspring of a horse and a mule. I'm not so sure. And I take his word for it. Then I pause and say, "Wait, what's a mule?"

March 13. Fifteen kilometers, El Cobre to Santiago de Cuba. No toilet paper, so take a shower to wipe your ass. Ray takes a photo. I laugh so hard I shit myself. A dude teaching us dance moves in a pizzeria. Synchronicity while watching a clip of the ride from Cruce: I whistle at the beautiful view as we watch it and I simultaneously whistle in the video. Rooftop sunset on top of the casa terrace, featuring band practice with beautiful classic Cuban vocal harmonies and a piano player who can't for the life of him stay on rhythm or play the five chords without missing a note every cycle or two. We marvel at how it can still be light at 7:25 when this whole trip we've noticed how we've had to be arriving by 6:40 and how it's been pitch black dark by 7:00. Ray thinks we went through a vortex somehow. I theorize that this part of Cuba utilizes daylight savings time.

March 14. A homie at the joven club tells me that only within the last year did cubanos have feasible access to the internet via wifi and the occasional internet cafe. Before, it was only at hotels for $6.00 an hour and it was very slow. Now it is 25 centavos an hour.

BOCU Slackshop #2, from the Plaza de la Revolución. The newest slack crew in Cuba, the Equipo de Discapacidad Escolar. The whole of it is Santiago.

March 15. Run into Teddy and Kia again. Good folk. They tell us their ride to the Gran Piedra took 3.5 hours. Leave our gear with a house that has listed a Catholic service on Sunday. Seem like reliable folk, we think. I enter the gate and encounter a kind lady and her husband, who both quickly and enthusiastically oblige our request to hold our gear. The man has a Che hat on and is smoking a cigar. He asks me where we're from and I make an executive decision and tell him we are Canadian.

We depart and see dark rain clouds on the horizon. Sure enough, the rains start to fall soon after. Cue us grinding up unending gnarly grades in only underwear through the clouds and fog. A blessing after all, as we were very low on water and sweating profusely would have done us no favors. Somehow find a fifth wind up this 14 kilometers of constant climb, 1,200 meters of elevation change, hypnotized by the fog and rejoicing in the rain. I began plowing through the grades, pedaling with completely unexpected ease. Hitting a pass and being thrust on either side by gale force winds.

Showing up soaked and elated to the fabled hotel restaurant, completely drenched and wearing only my underwear, I seek shelter under the roof outside, unable to find a spot without windows so as not to offend the high paying clientele. Seeing Ray emerge from the fog like a bat out of hell, soaring jubilantly across the finish line ("meta") in his underwear.

March 16. Sixty-seven kilometers, Gran Piedra to 13 de Agosto. Get lost trying to sneak our way up to Gran Piedra.

Bedrock Sandals gave us several pairs to give to the good people of Cuba, and we've been pedaling the entire bike tour here in their beyond-bomber Cairn sandals, so we are stoked to gift some pairs away. However, finding someone that fit the pair properly was like something out of Cinderella. Many pairs of Cuban feet were attempted with no luck. Feet either too big or too small. We didn't find our Bedrock Cinderella until just recently, when we needed a place to store some extra weight while we climbed the 14 kilometers from sea level up to 1,200 meters to La Gran Piedra, outside of Santiago. At the beginning of the climb we knocked on a family's door and they were more than happy to store our gear. And upon returning to their home on the descent to fetch it we noticed that the oldest son appeared to have the perfectly sized feet for these Bedrocks. And they fit like a glove.

Eal Vicario Extremera had us in his home and stared into my soul as Che presided over, on, and in his head. After allowing we total strangers to store some excess gear overnight in his home while we climbed a grueling stretch to La Gran Piedra, the least we could do was gift him something. His son, Eney, had the exact sized feet for a pair we had on hand to gift. Add to that a spare cut of all-purpose slackline webbing and the Extremera family seemed pretty stoked. We were just happy to be there and meet them. Cuba seems endless in incredible faces and noble folk.

After Ray mentioned finally seeing a donkey ridden by a human, we see not one, not two, but three donkeys ridden by folk.

We are warned that it will be nearly impossible to pass the upcoming border control point at the beginning of Guantánamo state. All due to the presence of the US base. Passing through cattle guards, vacant security checkpoints, and cactus-lined valleys, we find ourselves out there all in the thick of it can't be real, gale force winds blowing in all directions as a purple, torched sun beams its final rays across the mountain pass.

After climbing and descending through loose terrain we find ourselves at the fabled first border control point. A youth, ironically named Fidel, is almost waiting for us at the town. He asks what we are doing here and says we can't pass the upcoming border point. He seems genuine and offers to escort us and soon we are walking through the darkness, up the hill to the military border point.

Climbing past cattle guards and around unmanned security checkpoints, we found ourselves pedaling through my favorite place: out there in the thick of it can't be real, finding only cowboys and the occasional wild horses among us. Ten kilometers later, at a very much manned security point on the border of Guantánamo province, we were detained by the Cuban military and, two hours later, with gale force winds howling under a starlit sky, and salsa music playing in the military barracks, we were informed that, due to its proximity to the infamous US military base in Guantánamo Bay, this road was restricted to everyone except those with family in the town we were heading for. Cue a night's sleep with armed guards providing surveillance for, and of, us, and waking up the next morning, forced to go back from whence we came, a very significant detour of 200 kilometers. But that road and that sunset, and the stories that followed, made it not a detour or mistake but a most worthy chapter to add to the adventure. And for the record, the Cuban military officers couldn't have been nicer (or funnier). After a second phone call to their higher ups, they permit us to sleep in the Sala de Video. On the floor. With armed surveillance outside.

When you and your bike (and your friend) witness a scene like this, you know you're in the right place. When you're detained by the Cuban military an hour later on the border of Guantánamo province, you know you're in the wrong place. But when you hear salsa blasting out of said Cuban military's offices, you know you're in the right place. Or rather, as right as the wrong place could be.

March 17. Yesterday on this road we were busting our asses. Now we are bussing our asses back, by orders of the Cuban military. The bus soundtrack is finally again excellent Cuban salsa music and it's being provided by the lady next to us in the back row, bumping it on her portable stereo. While boarding a truck, an attempted pickpocket. A rooster on a mutant truck. Takes a super long time due to all the stops. People amused at my calling out of the attempted hustles by the bus cat and the pastry vendor outside the bus, who wanted six times the actual price. The bus guy wanted $30. We said no way. Got him down to $10. He comes back through near the end of the ride collecting money and says, "Doce." I tell him, "No. No hagas esto. Dijiste $10 y eso ya era demasiado." People were loving it, cracking up. He turns around dejected, failing at adding to his already profitable hustle.

Guantánamo is a shit hole. Negotiate for Canadian dollars to CUC with a street changer. The cadeca is closed. Homies are impressed at my savvy as I get him down to 1.39 instead of his intended 1.42. Ride past the barred entry to the Boquerón road. Dope lodgings and unbelievably amazing food, the best of the trip, at the paladar owned by the lovely couple Mayal and his wife. Best cooks and kitchen so far. Such good folk.

March 18. Glorious sunrise walk through a shoreline cave. Eat a dank ass lunch at Mayal's. Family and friends show up. Receive a German lesson in Spanish from a Cuban. Mindfuck. Tear through the ride to Cajobabo.

March 19. Rainbow road. We end up heading out late due to the casa owner's late wake up. We reconsider the plan as the light is already changing. Upon finally setting off, though, I see a rainbow ahead in the Farola mountain pass in the distance. We both know it's a sign and immediately elect to dose.

First climbs and descents are beauteous. While riding through lusher and more jungly land, and the come-up in full swing, I have the sudden need to take a shit. I turn round a forest bend off the road only to find a fresh steaming pile right there. Ray's jitteriness in the come-up. He looks deranged and as if sparks are emanating from his every pore. The beautiful bird sings and the peaceful sounds of these highlands, only interrupted by the spewers that would come rolling by every so often. Luckily it was still early so it was still seldom. Begin encountering the fabled, aforementioned arroyos on the side of the road.

I sat there amidst the climb of La Farola and, on Ray's urging, read, or better, belted, pronounced, and proclaimed a passage from the book, now fabled, there in that moment, spontaneously sanctified, already steeped in legend, Kerouac's Big Sur, translated into Portuguese, which I brought to Cuba and which housed the blessed ácido lisérgico now illuminating and informing our consciousness, coursing through our veins. I know that in this time and moment I can't do justice to the beauty of the Portuguese tongue, but I try my best. I open it to the page housing the doses and read the first paragraph from chapter 7.

A vida não é uma apologia. Life is not an apology.

There he was birthed. Acid-stained. Ernesto Arroyo Sendingway. Ray's son, named there in the Cuban highlands. The otherworldly is actually this-worldly. The world won't allow anyone with that name to not usher forth a new age of transformation. Crying at the inexpressible purity of the moment and place. The noble, good folk we've encountered. Ramon in Cabo Cruz. "Suave." The gentleness of Juan Luis in Niquero. Pure grace. Butterflies. Upon reaching Alto de Cotilla we begin the radical descent and shout "¡Arroyo!" to all the villages we pass, heralding the new savior.

Boniato. I didn't even know what the word was until yesterday and now I want it all the time. The super LA motorcycle cop while we are at the arroyo filling up, drinking from the purest water on earth. The test of all the filtering we have done. Do we dare to take one precious sip of the water that birthed Ernesto Arroyo Sendingway. Ray and I both take tiny sips. Cut to three hours later. Hospital emergency visit. If only the immigration officers knew.

Arroyo became a name for my child in Cuba. There, while riding past the town of Arroyo, I uttered the word and it was the first word I was finally able to pronounce, the fabled Spanish double r. Ray's passport mishap, classic. It was inexplicably in my pouch the whole time.

March 20. Rest day and workshop, Baracoa. The ease with which I extended my visa, after all of the hype. Took ten minutes. Gabriel, circus and keeper of the line.

March 21. One hundred and seventy kilometers from Baracoa to Mayarí. Century ride, featuring 50 kilometers of gnarly, rain-soaked tierra, and a continuous rain that drenched us, caked us and our steeds in mud. Long bocadito stop in the fabled industrial wasteland of Moa, 70 kilometers in, where we each ate at least five sandwiches and drank four papaya juices. And it cost $2 each.

Ray's derailleur snaps. We coast as far as we can, which happens to be really, really far. Beautiful plains land with hills on either side. Ray says he's got nothing left and elects to take a bus or hitch from Sagua de Tánamo. I'm keen on hitting the century so I tell him I'm going to roll, but I need a light. Batteries out. He lends me his and wishes me luck. I leave at 5:20 for the final 56 kilometers, and tell him I'll meet him at the supposed best restaurant there, Motel Bitorí, at 8:30.

Utilizing the saved and needed powders, the dank cacao from Baracoa, a to-go pork sandwich, a few cubes, goji berries, and Synchro to power me through the final 56 kilometer push from Sagua. The ride was far more up and down than I had anticipated. I arrive blasted and spent, the last thirty minutes ridden solo in complete darkness. Epic long straight downhills. I arrive to the town right off the riverside street and record the sounds of children playing at the playground, swings needing oil.

As I ride in search of needed sustenance the casa sign for Iseylda catches my eye and just then I hear Ray's voice. "Logan!" He ended up riding the whole way, having left after me, and stuck in three the entire time. He was apparently perpetually just a few minutes behind me but still never saw me. Six thousand feet of climbing by the end of the day.

March 22. Both of us are completely zonked from the century. Nearly the entire day is spent either eating or remaining inert, supine, with Ray specifically feeling rocked, taking multiple naps. Ray Misnomer Molacha.

March 23. Mayarí. Head to the river spot for a theoretical lining location, Arroyo Seiba. On the way out of town to Salto we come upon a perfect and unmentioned park right in town. Fruits that fall on your head from the trees above. Workshop. Kids laughing at my feet, or maybe my foot tan. An immigration officer shuts it down.

March 24. Colectivo ride. Twenty-five pesos moneda nacional to ride from Mayarí to Holguín, and then Holguín to Cantón, and Cantón to directly in front of the hostal in Cuatro Caminos near Guárdalavaca. Left out in the rain with no buses stopping for me. "Wait, 1805? Isn't that the 1900s?" "A vida é uma apologia." Ray Molacha.

The full history of Cuba from hostal owner Jorge Martínez. His father fought in the revolution, was in the Sierra Maestra with Che and Fidel.

March 25. Rest day in Cuatro Caminos and Guárdalavaca. Jorge shows us the recordings of Fidel's funeral. I learn of Chuck Berry's death while watching Telesur news. Hits me hard. Think of John Lennon's quote: "If you want to give rock and roll another name you might call it Chuck Berry." Meet Costa, the Cuban artist and cyclist. Ray elects to gift him the fabled first panniers, which I have since moved in from. Buy the fabled leather Che art for 18 CUC.

March 26. Julio's peacock house. Worked many, many years to be able to afford the house. "No yo en frente del pavo real, por qué el pavo real es lindo y yo soy feo." Mud trek for ten kilometers.

Gibara. An immigration officer shuts us down again. Claimed we were not doing tourist activities, as indicated in our visa. Ergo, finally have proof that we are not tourists. Omar, owner of the Estancia, spoke with me in depth about Cuba and the US, Cuba and Puerto Rico, and was in general my introduction to the awesomeness of elder Cubans. "El único nudo peligroso es el nudo gordiano."

March 28. "Ser libre por siempre o batallar por siempre por ser libre." Antonio Maceo. Out hereafter, all in the thick of it can't be real.

Pass through security and Ray looks dejected. They found his feathers and confiscated them, citing their ability to spread and carry diseases. They confiscate my just-purchased pedal wrench and throw it in the trash.

And then as they ask me to bring my bags over to the counter for a search a military official appears and says he's going to ask us a bunch of questions. And he wants to have them answered immediately. Where did you pass through in Cuba? What are the names of the houses where you stayed? Did you meet anyone in Cuba? ¿Alguna amistad? What were their names. I mentioned Ramon in Cabo Cruz. He wants his last name. Are you studying? What are you studying? Why did you come to Cuba? Did you learn some new words while you were here? Will you be coming back to Cuba? Did you consume any type of drug while you were here? Anything at all? Have you ever consumed drugs? As he stares into my soul. I answer semi-honestly. When is the last time you consumed drugs? Was it last week? Last month? Two months ago? I respond, "Hace una época." He then searches my bag and finds the ziplock bag that contained my brown Synchro powder. He looks at it strangely.

They confiscate Ray's feathers but somehow don't find my peacock feathers.