Hitch-biking

Logan

Guatemala is one of the hardest places in the world to bicycle tour. Climbs that would make Lance Armstrong blush. We were exhausted and short on time, so we called it hitchbiking. A thumb and a smile, and a vehicle that can take three bicycles. I look like this. Warm weather minus pride. It worked. El Remate to Cobán, five trucks, ten hours, 280 kilometers, and a lot higher. Crushed under the bikes in a pickup, all I could think was how miserable the ride would have been. Not many strangers at home would do this for a stranger.

Ask where they're headed. Don't announce the destination. It's easier to decline a ride that feels wrong.

La Casa de la Luna, in Cobán, was some of the best lodging of the city. The plaza fed us too much. Hitchbiking is hungry work. Lanquín, they all said, is fifty miles and todo pa' bajo. All downhill. We left at eleven, hit thirty miles an hour, arms out like Meg Ryan in City of Angels. Then the downs became ups. Another truck finished it. El Retiro was at the bottom, and Semuc Champey the day after.