Day 13: Fail #2.

Looks like our three week beach vacation may end up being a bust. We found out from Wendy, our rental agent, that this rainy season is expected to be the worst on record with about 40% more than normal rainfall. We believe it. I've been amazed at how much rain can actually fall. And so constant. And loud. Initially I thought it would be nice at bedtime, kind of like falling asleep to one of those soundscape things, but really, it's so loud it's annoying. Sometimes we can't even hear each other when we're talking in the same room. So with tanning off the to-do list, the only thing left for today was an internet café stop. Instead of heading to our favorite location, which is in the neighboring town of Quepos that took 2 ½ hours to get home from, we’ve opted to stay as local as we can get. This meant that as we rode our bikes, we planned to stop at every bar, restaurant, hotel or café and ask if they have WIFI. Whichever one says yes first is our new favorite place. That’s what we planned.

There are a few reasons I don’t ride a bike when I’m home. (1) I’m not good at it. And (2) I don’t like it - probably a direct result of #1. My bike skills are equivalent to a 7 year olds, maybe worse. I weeble and wobble and have an unexplained accuracy when it comes to hitting the very things I’m trying to avoid. Whether it’s a bush, a mailbox, a tree, a pothole or a boulder, even with all the stability and direction I can muster, I still hit most, dead on. It’s like there’s some magnetic pull the obstacle has over my handlebars. I can’t explain it and I’ve never been able to outgrow it. Because of this, when we went bike shopping, I picked out a kid’s bike. Mike teases me because my knees barely miss my elbows when I pedal but I don’t care. Here’s my logic; in the event a fall is about to occur (which is likely), I can catch myself easier and faster. In the event I can’t stop that fall (which is also likely), my drop is shorter. This makes me feel better regardless of how silly I look. Riding a bike hurts my brain as much as my butt – with all the nerves and concentration - so figured I would make this as painless, mentally and physically, as possible. It didn’t work though. The roads we have to take are stressful for a clumsy cyclist. First we have to navigate the jerky, rough and flooded gravel road that leads to the main road. And while the main road looks equivalent to a route at home, it’s called an interstate here and drivers treat it as such. They fly down the road rarely making allowances for anyone on the side. I decided after one ride that the interstate is worse for me. I can handle a fall; bruised knees and bleeding elbows, even with some gravel mixed in the wounds. But getting nailed by a tractor trailer? I don’t think there’s anything in our First Aid kit that can fix that. So, when we found an extension of our gravel road today that looked like it would bring us to the heart of town without the threat of the interstate, we took it. We realized this might not lead directly to town, but that was alright…we’d find a detour. Only after riding for about a half hour (which seems honestly like 2 hours when your butt is either numb or throbbing) we thought about the possibility of a dead end. And about 10 minutes and six bike-chasing dogs later, turned out it was.

Since we spent well over an hour riding nowhere, we burned off our breakfasts and decided to refuel before rewinding the tape and starting this trip over again. Within a half hour, we were back on the road. We travelled the familiar yet now even more painful path to Parrita’s downtown without stopping until the drizzle that had begun right after we left the house turned into a steady stream. With lots of electronics strapped to our backs, we had to break out our fashionable ponchos and protect them from the rain. (Mine was super fashionable since I had to knot it in front like it was a fluorescent 80’s t-shirt to keep from getting caught in my bike chain). In the 30 minutes it took us to get to the main road, the steady stream turned into a heavy downpour. My eyes stung from the sweat that collected on my lashes and dove into my eyeballs one after another, after another. So with no sight, pelting rain, wet roads, and speeding tractor trailers, we determined that riding into town, paved road or not, wasn’t a great idea. The internet would have to wait. Another ride nowhere. By the time we were a quarter of the way home, the pain that I started with wouldn’t allow me to ride anymore. My thighs burned, my butt felt like it had been used as a punching bag, the handle grips were imbedded in my hands from holding so tight and my back felt permanently hunched. I gave up, got off the bike and told Mike I’d see him back home. I really wanted to toss the bike in a puddle just as payback for hurting me, but figured with my luck, the pedals would break or the handlebars snap off. It wasn't until the heavy downpour got ridiculously heavier that I decided the damage was already done to my butt so why not ride again. I made it down the road at probably the same speed as if I was walking until my handlebars got pulled toward large rock that made me land so hard on the seat it shot backwards with a pop. Even my seat gave up. I cursed most of the way home as I dragged my broken bike because even though I'm not sure why, I'm pretty certain this house has cursed us. The 17 days we have left cannot come quick enough.