Let the Bicycle Tour Begin
Written late, from Nicaragua, about the first days on the bicycles. The line at the Split and the line in San Ignacio are their own pages.
Ray
Logan and Dan met me on Caye Caulker after a week in which the island had become familiar. One more night at Bella's so they could have it too. The next day, snorkeling with Raggamuffin. A sailboat, reggae, ceviche, rum runners, pineapple and watermelon, reef to reef. The best snorkeling I've ever done. That night the fire at the Split, and a bucket of money I didn't ask for. The line had been up all week.
Logan
The boat to Belize City, and then it begins. I shouted it, and a pannier hit the pavement. Daniel nearly wrecked dodging it. Thirty miles toward Belmopan. After the Volvo and after Ray's waiting, two wheels felt like the actual odyssey. We started at 11. Don't. Belize is hot by then. Coconut water from the first stand, and Ray's famous bulk-rate negotiation, in which the price per item goes up.
Fifteen miles later, someone's half-built church. The owner let three sweating strangers nap on the altar-to-be and fed them coconut pastry. At mile thirty, Amigos. We wanted a beer and shade. We got free beers, conversation, and the patio for the night, patrolled by a man with a shotgun who was there in case of bandits.
The next day was late again. Hills, Jorge on his way to a wedding, students and Earth Day trash, fried jacks in Belmopan, and a couch under a palm roof where Ray, on Dan's bike, trying to prove the slowness was Dan and not the bicycle, came close to heat stroke. The rasta who owned the place sent us to the river. Our first river cleanse. Then San Ignacio, and Diana. She would not let us camp in the ditch.