Jeremy's Bike Blog

The border crossing is pretty slow going, taking about an hour in total to work way through 3 different queues. When I get through them, there’s no money changers other than a bank for which there’s a huge queue.  I propose an exchange to some cab drivers that would leave them a couple dollars profit, but they decline.  Weird.  I have less than $20 worth of Colones to unload, so I decide I’ll just give it away to someone travelling to Costa Rica.
The riding is pretty stressful.  There’s no shoulder, and even though there’s 2 lanes per direction and I’m assertively staking a claim to one of them, I’m getting buzzed by every fifth driver or so.  Panama is the first country where I routinely see signs reminding drivers to “respect” cyclists, and it’s seemingly the country where this message is most needed.  I roll into David and check in to the Bambu hostel.  Francisco, a Mexican who works the front desk, rocks an awesome mullet and is a very friendly, warm guy.  He’s repairing a battered old laptop, and after we talk gadgets and stuff for a bit, I offer him the partially functioning bluetooth keyboard which he gladly accepts.

The next day I take a day trip to some hot springs in a town named Caldera that are about 30km away.  I follow Google Maps walking directions, expecting that the route is going to entail its challenges.  It does not disappoint.  There are 5 stream crossings, the last of which requires ascending a steep, washed out embankment on the far side, at which point I resolve to not use any short cuts on the return trip.
I get to the springs with only enough time to spend about an hour there before I have to get going to leave myself enough time to get back before dark.  The owner of the land that collects my admission fee is a curious fellow, who is very bemused by my hat.  He tells me that the hot spring water coming out of pipes into the soaking ponds is safe to drink, and that locals come from far and wide to do just that.  I meet a young German couple in the pool shortly before they have to leave in time to catch the last bus back to town, after which I have the place to myself.  I opt to not drink the spring water.

On the way back, I notice that the driving directions entail a short cut that they did not on the way there.  On the way to the springs, the map application chirped out a warning when I was going faster on some downhills that I was using walking directions, but that I seemed to be driving.  Seems possible that the driving routes changed between the trip there and the trip back because Google Maps re-evaluated it’s classification of some of the roads based on my route and speed.  It’s not the same short cut I took, and it promises to be at least a wash, or maybe a bit of an actual advantage over the route that definitely stays on paved roads.  It’s also driving, not walking directions, so the roads involved should be substantially better.  Of course, they’re not.  It seems that anybody using driving directions to get to/from the springs from David will be led down some unpaved, very rough roads requiring stream crossings (and if my guess is correct, have me to partially thank for it).

The shortcut is probably a wash, or maybe a slight loss, in terms of time, and I’m on the main road with still ample time to get back before dark.  It’s a long, gradual descent from there back into town.  It’s odd, but somehow slopes seem more pronounced and longer on the way down, where they’re working to my advantage.  Seems counter-intuitive, but I’m grateful for this perception.

Back at the hostel I meet a couple of women in town on a break from their Peace Corps assignments, and an Italian that’s had a beer to two too many.  I realize that, once again, my break day hasn’t been much of a break, so I end up staying a second full day in David, during which I tool around town picking up odds and ends that I need (earbuds, inner tube patches) and go to a delightfully packed barber shop for a trim, but primarily just lay around eating, reading, napping, and swimming (riveting, isn’t it!?).

The next day, I flow my way out of town with challenging traffic to the highway.  Once I’m out of the David metropolitan area, I find the road is being widened, so while there are two lanes in each direction, both directions are routed to one side of the highway, leaving the other side open, car-free, and free for me to ride.  After the relatively harrowing ride into David, I’m very grateful for this stroke of luck.  There are periodic, torrential downpours, and I quickly learn to waste no time between feeling a drop and getting on the rain shell, as a few seconds determine whether or not you’re already drenched when putting it on.

I find a place about 80km from David called Paradise Inn that has rooms available from a reasonable $20/night, in a town that seems to be very popular among German expats, at least during the regular season.  I check in and then head into town a few km away to seek out some dinner.  Just as I get to the edge of town, the sky opens up.  I neglected to bring my raincoat, or anything to aid in riding in the rain, and I find an awning where a local has already taken shelter.  It’s the front porch of a bar, and when a bartender comes out to say hi, I half jokingly ask if they have any food.  She says they don’t, but a few minutes later she invites me in to the otherwise empty place, and presents me with a plate of spaghetti and meat sauce.  She and another woman working there get plates of their own, from which I realize that they’re sharing their dinner with me.  The bar and the town at large are fairly run down.  There’s not a lot of prosperity going around, and I’m touched by their generosity.  While on the one hand it seems like bad form to give money in exchange for a gift, I leave a $5 bill on the table when I leave.

The rain has been coming down in sheets the entire time, and it’s almost completely dark out, so there’s really no choice but to ride through the deluge.  I like to mentally remind myself at times like this that I’m waterproof, but as I realize riding through rain this thick, that’s not actually 100% true.  I can hardly see, and have to take some precaution against inhaling water.  Back at the hotel, I order a second dinner and then turn in.

The next day, I ride 130km to a town called Santiago, enjoying having the road to myself almost the entire way.  I pass one section of construction where they’re laying down an oily, sticky substance where I’m flagged down by a supervisor who says that I need to go on the regular road.   Of course, as soon as I’m out of sight, I go back to the under-construction section of road, though still avoid the sticky oil stuff.

Google says there’s one hostel in town, and when I find it, there doesn’t seem to be anybody around, and nobody is answering the buzzer.  Earlier on in my trip I think I would have given up on the place at this point, but over time I’ve gotten more persistent with this sort of thing.  I notice a rolling gate is unlocked, so let myself in.  As I’m finding a place to stand up my bike, I hear a friendly “hola” and a woman who looks uncannily like Maya Rudolf will probably look in her mid-60s comes out the front door.  I ask if there’s a bed available, and she explains that the hostel is kinda closed because she’s gotten tired of the work involved and so she is only usually accepting longer-term guests, but given that I’ve let myself in and that I’m travelling by bicycle, she’s willing to make an exception.  The work, as far as I can gather, in running a hostel, consists primarily of cleaning linens and facilities, and orienting new guests, so I’m mindful about not taking too much of her time when settling in, but every time there’s a lull in the conversation, rather than taking her chance to wrap it up, she looks for another subject.  Seems she’s happy for the company.

The next day, I take another break day, riding around Santiago a bit but mostly laying low.  I’m only 250km away from Panama City and when I’m pedaling, the final distance is breezing by.

The next day I ride half of that distance to a beach town called El Farallon del Chiru, and again, take a day off.  I get a medium rain on my way back from a 15km grocery run which is actually kinda perfect, makes me realize how pleasant it can be to bike in a mild rain, and reassures me about my decision to get rid of my car and commit to getting around Seattle primarily by bicycle upon my return.

Biking into Panama City is a bit stressful.  There’s the massive “Bridge of the Americas” over the entrance to the Panama Canal to cross to get there, and it has extremely narrow walkways.  There’s barely enough width for my bike with bags.  I have to use my hand on the rail to keep my balance, and I still unavoidably grind to a halt every few dozen meters as my left front bag rubs against the concrete divider separating the walkway from the roadway.  It’s slow going, and then I hear a hiss that can only be air escaping from one of my tubes.  For a few moments I have the ridiculous thought that I can ride the remaining 9km before the tire goes completely flat, but of course with a hiss-sized puncture it takes less than a minute.

I barely have enough room to pull the wheel off and do the repair.  The occasional chicken-type bus honks right next to me, to which I scream a mocking honk in retort, partially out of standard catharsis, partially out of frustration that I’m stuck there for the time being, and partially out of elation, realizing that I have less than ten kilometers remaining in my journey of over ten thousand kilometers.  When I notice the looks of concern this evokes from drivers stuck in stop-and-go traffic in the opposite direction, I resolve to cool it a bit and be a bit less reactionary for the small remainder of the trip.  The hole is so big that I can’t locate it with all the noise of the roadway and my little handpump, but then I figure if there’s ever a time to use a spare tube and defer the patching of the flat tube, this is it.  Just after the repair, the walkway merges into the roadway and I have to take the sole lane going in my direction to finish crossing the bridge.  Thankfully I find a patient driver willing to lose about 30 seconds due to the distance we fall behind the car ahead of me in the time it takes me to finish crossing the bridge.

My decision to become less reactionary is key when I get into the throng of the city itself.  First, when a chicken-type bus co-pilot shouts at me when I walk my bike in front of the bus that has nowhere to move anyways, instead of yelling back at him, I give him a confused expression as if to say “why would you ever want to yell at someone like that?”.  A few moments later as I’m slowly pedaling my bike through an intersection submerged under about 5 inches of water, a car zips by, spraying and drenching me though I’m already drenched in sweat.  The car is stopped a block later at a traffic signal, and I’m glad that I’ve already resolved to take the opportunity to simply give them a sarcastic thumbs up and “muchos gracias” when I’m able to determine that it’s a somewhat befuddled, older woman at the wheel who surely didn’t mean to be driving like an asshole, even if she was.

I get to the hostel I’ve chosen with a bit of light remaining, check in, take a quick rinse in a warm shower and then jump into the pool, where I meet some kids with which I hang out and party for the remainder of the night.

The following day, I ride about 50km around town, checking out the ruins of the first European settlements in Panama (and all of Central America), making arrangements with a bike shop for the preparations necessary for my forthcoming trip home, and visiting the Miraflores locks of the Panama Canal.

I have a few more days before my flight home to Seattle, and I think I might do one more, postmortem blost, but this, dear reader, is where the day by day blogging account of my cycling comes to an end.

Thank you so much for reading!