For the cyclist, there’s good and bad news.
Let’s get the bad stuff out the way… The northern swathe of the Nicoya Peninsula is overdeveloped with resorts and pocked with private, gated communities, foreign-owned complexes completely cut off from the local settlements around them.
In the dry season dust can be a real issue, particularly in the parched climes of the north. This wouldn’t be so bad, but for the fact that few of the rental SUVs tearing around the peninsula have the consideration to take things easy and slow down a little. I guess a relaxing holiday only goes so far…
Yet despite all this, the Nicoya is home to undeniably one of the most beautiful, endless strings of beaches I have seen. With some local insight, it’s possible to find lesser used, smoother dirt tracks, that are amongst the most enjoyable I’ve ridden on this whole journey. Even the beach itself can be cycled at low tide, which makes touring here unique.
Heading south, the coastal roads become calmer and calmer, and a more Costa Rican atmosphere prevails – even amongst the foreign communities which seem more integrated into their surroundings.
Like the rest of the country, it’s expensive. Luckily, away from the tourist centres, you can camp almost anywhere – there’s kilometre upon kilometre of empty beach where you’ll find nothing but the stars and surf for company. That’s just the ones I saw. For every beach I detoured to there were half a dozen others I had to forgo, hidden down winding dirt tracks that beckoned to be explored.
I don’t mean to be overly negative, but the reality is that at its worst, the Nicoya Peninsula is hellishly dusty and Gringo-fied.
At its best, it promises some of the finest dirt road touring imaginable.
The Monkey Trail, a respite from the busy paved roads that head in towards the coast from Liberia.
Playa Flamingo, where I camped the first night. It's a nice enough spot, but with its gated communities, theres a real Us and Them feeling to this area.
Not very exotic... Cheap dinners help to balance the Costa Rican budget, along with camping most nights. More than made up by the view...
My dining companions.
I havent come across many other cyclists recently. Andy, from the UK, is a self confessed bird-spotting fanatic. He was touring around Costa Rica for three months on his folding Brompton, and travelling impressively light. With its emphasis on wildlife sanctuaries, this country is a birders paradise, though as Andy pointed out, you need to budget in a wad of extra cash for park and private reserve entry fees.
Heres something I don't get: the Private Gated Community. You buy up chunks of a foreign countrys land. This pushes up property prices beyond the reach of locals. Then you completely segregate yourself off from the existing community. Happens all over the world.
Nicoyas Bible Belt. Im not sure how much 'loving thy neighbou'r is going on in these parts, judging by the complete lack of integration between Tico and Gringo communities.
Sorry, I need to vent a bit more. Nicoya's gravel thoroughfare can be biking hell. My triple nemeses: corrugation, a speeding SUV and its inevitable, accompanying cloud of dust. Incredibly, some drivers even waved as they past, foot pressed firmly to the floor. Do people lose all contact with the world around them once they get into the cocoons of their cars?
These kind of posters are all over the northern region of the Nicoya. Thankfully, south of Tamarindo - infamous for its resorts - the gated communities give way to smaller pockets are gringo settlements, more in tune with their surroundings.
Very Costa Rica: another exclusive Eco Community. I always thought of ecologically-minded communities as inclusive, rather than exclusive...
Perhaps this is one reason the jaded Costa Ricans, who sold much of their prime coastal land for quick cash during the property boom, dont seem as warm as their northerly neighbours. This said, I still experienced small acts of kindness all the time. This Tico was selling cold coconuts from the back of his locally-made trailer. 'Pipas', as they're called here, are ideal bike food, a great nutritionally rich way to rehydrate. After we chatted, swapping notes on what we enjoyed about cycling, he wouldnt accept any payment, insisting I accept a second coconut instead.
This is more like it. It's best to stay away from the main gravel trails, and track down the backroads. Blissful riding.
A teak plantation. Apparently, there's some great singletrack in there...
Helicopter pilot Barry, part of the Warmshowers bicycle hospitality network, kindly put me up for a couple of days in his beachside home. He also took me out with his Coloradan friend, the outlandish Jonny Smokes, for a night on the town. Thanks Barry!
Me, a little fried from the sun but happy.
In the dry season, the Nicoya is baking hot. I flagged down this farmer. As I reached over to pick out a honeydew melon, I was hit by an amazingly sweet aroma. The farmer lent me his massive machete, and after lopping it into slices, I sat down by the roadside and ate it there and then.
One of the many river crossings to ford in the area - the best technique is to watch a local, and trace the route.
The wet season brings quagmires of mud. Some of the deeper fords had elevated walkways, not they were needed at this time of year.
I spent a night in Playa Carillo with Nicaraguan Ray and his family, in their simple home, a world away from the ostentatious edifices that line so many of the shoreline. I'd met him earlier that day in Playa Samara, where we'd chatted a while. Ray 'got' what I was doing, and asked a stream of questions about the ride and my impressions of life on the road. His invitation was simple and genuine: 'I can offer you dinner at my home, a place to sleep, breakfast and before you continue on your journey.' True hospitality.
In the morning climbed atop a gently rolling headland carpeted with mango trees. We sat and savoured the view, stretching over a sea of green-hued foliage to the Pacific waters beyond. 'All this peninsula once belonged to Nicaragua. Perhaps thats why I feel so happy here,' said Ray. His easy warmth and kindness really lifted my spirits, just when I was feeling a little disconnected with everything around me. I remarked to him that Nicaraguans seemed more open than Costa Ricans. 'When you have nothing, what else have you got to lose?' came his reply.
The next shortcut involved fording a river, then following this dirt road, that whittled down to the kind of singletrack I yearn for. Then a series of rollercoasting climbs and descents ensued along the jagged coastline.
Punta Islita is home to a small but rather beautiful open air, contemporary art museum. It was set up by the hotel there, as a way of maintaining a connection with the local community. The hotel helps finance micro enterprises for locals.
As ever, I'm a sucker for murals. Especially one as surreal as this.
This photographic exhibition caught my eye, and the way it captured the ambiguity of reflections.
Sculptures around the football field.
Even the police station was mosaic-ed.
More beaches lay ahead. Riding the flats between San Miguel and Playa Cayote involved negotiating this estuary. The rising tide was threatening to cut me off.
This particular crossing was chest high, so I had to balance my bike above my head, then shuttle back for the panniers.
I accidentally ventured into this side valley close to San Francisco de Coyote, flush with unexpected bursts of colour from blossoming trees.
I was almost reluctant to turn back.
My campspot that evening, beside a turtle hatchery program.
A lil turtle emerged from its ping pong ball-sized egg the next morning. I joined Katie, volunteering there for two months, in helping to set it off on its life path. You can't just plop it straight into the water though. It's important to left the baby find its way down to the sea, as females migrate to their natal beaches. If youre wondering about the ethics of human intervention, its human activity thats to blame in the first place. Sea turtles, which are threatened by extinction, run the gauntlet of being caught in fishing nets, colliding with boats and having their habitats disturbed by commercial development.
Volunteers help run the simple centre, and leave their insignias when they leave. I can imagine how living here, listening to the soundscape of the Pacific surf and experiencing this amazing ritual - one that's been happening unchanged for over 65 million years - must be a wonderfully grounding experience.
The largest species, the Leatherback, can reach six feet in length. They travel up to 12 000kms, and dive to over a kilometre deep. I saw my first leatherbacks when I was living in French Guyana, another important nesting spot for them.
Warm, soft, soothing light at Playa Caletas. At this time in the morning, the sand takes on an inky black quality.
The first glow of sun caught the edges of the frothy surf.
I waited until the tide was close to its lowest point before setting off to ride the ten kilometre stretch to Playa Manzanilla. In just a few places, the sand was still soft. After I'd dropped my tyre pressure, the going was easier.
The roads became briefly busier once more along the Santa Theresa and Malpais gravel road, a veritable surf haven lined with shops, hangouts and eateries.
The bike shop in Santa Theresa.
Playa Carmen. Catching those last waves before the end of the day.
The communal kitchen at my hostel in Rio Carmen.
A new fruit discovered: a caimito, or star apple. Costa Rica is a tropical fruit paradise.
Which way... up or down? As it turned out, at this point it was down. When the climb came, it was a big one.
It lead me over the mountains to Cayuba, which in turn linked me to the hippy hangout of Montezuma.
A massive strangler fig tree by the side of the track.
The perfect backdrop for the Troll, which is handling these rough and tumble dirt roads with impressive poise. Im enjoying this bike a lot.
The southern side of the peninsula had a succession of shorter, rockier beaches, where the water was often calmer and better for swimming.
Hotel Lucy, where a shoe box room set me back $11. This was my view.
Yes, it really was a shoebox. Note skinny bed. Luckily I'm on the lean side myself these days, so I fit into it fine.
The ferry over to Punta Arenas. My bike cost twice as much as me to cross. I sat up top and worked my way through a melon I'd bought on the road, and two massive mangoes.
For eight hair raising kilometres I rode the Panamerican, which at this point, is barely wide enough for two 18 wheelers to thunder pass. This hopeful sign announces the impending construction of a cyclepath. Im not sure where theyre going to find room for it.
Another fruit pit stop to keep me sugared up. By now, I was back on paved roads again.
Then it was time to climb back up into the mountains, following 15 kilometres of sinuous ascent. Unfortunately the main highway was closed to traffic, so I was joined by a perpetual flow of cars and buses crawling their way up and over the mountain. Often I had to pull over to take a breather from the exhaust fumes. As darkness fell, I camped in a coffee plantation, watching the unabated snake of lights below me. It's at times like this that I despair at the amount of vehicles in the world.
On the way into Alajuela, I came across this beautiful, evocative mural, the story behind which I have yet to track down.
Normally, I'd prop up my bike for a photo. This one seemed best left undisturbed.
Quick catch up on the Nicoya, Costa Rica
March 12, 2011
I’ve spent the last week riding incredible dirt roads around the very edge of Costa Rica’s fabled Nicoya Peninsula.
I’ll be catching up with a full blog post soon. Both the good – a near endless string of gorgeous, often empty beaches. And the bad – a serious dust problem thanks to a plague of inconsiderate, speeding SUVs. This is a quick post to give you a taster of what this beautiful place is about.
Also in the pipeline are thoughts on my new steed, the Surly Troll, now it’s had its first real taste of hard riding – some 500kms along rough, corrugated, boneshaking trails.
Lastly, the ‘lil SPOT is back up and running, over here…
I’m now heading over to the mountains to the Costa Rican caribbean, en route to Boca de Toro in Panama. A thirty kilometre climb awaits me tomorrow…
While the Nicoya peninsula is heavily touristed in parts and scarred with mega resorts, there's still plenty of deserted beaches like this... A sublime spot for a sunrise after a night under the stars.
Where, at low tide, you can ride for as long as ten kilometres at a time, fording estuaries that are chest high in places.
You can even spot the odd newly born turtle, clumsily struggling down what must seem an interminable distance to the ocean. My footprint gives a sense of scale - it will grow up to be the size of a dining room table.
At this time of year, the Nocoya Peninsula is bone dry. There are occasionally storm clouds overhead, but barely ever a drop of rain.
With a little research, you can escape the main dusty gravel thoroughfares and unearth beautiful back roads like this...
I'd have liked to have pitched my tent under this tree, out near the point of the peninsula at Cabuya, reached by following a roller coasting dirt road.
Beach cruisers and surf boards, Nicoya staples. Some bikes were adapted to carry boards, which was especially cool, given all the speeding SUVs kicking up dust on the peninsula.
Nelson, who I chatted to on the way out to Playa Camaronal, has got the right idea.
The supremely chilled Hostel Rio Carmen, where I camped in Malpais.
It's mango season! In Pochote, I picked up four enormous (and non-stringy) specimens for a dollar.
Surfer's paradise. Catching that very last wave in. I liken it to riding trails on a summer's evening until you finally run out of light...
Another sunset, another beach. Playa Junquillal.
More gentle, beachside trails to Playa Caletas.
Shell and driftwood mobile, at my hippy hangout in Montezuma.
Funky chicken murals in Punta Islita. More on how the Surly Troll fared soon...
Bahias de Salinas and Rincon de la Vieja, Costa Rica
March 4, 2011
I’ve now crossed into tropical Costa Rica. Tucked in between Nicaragua, Panama, the Pacific and the Caribbean, it’s country famed as much for the richness in its ecological biodiverstity as that of its US retirees, who have migrated south to scoop up vast swathes of its prime, and sublime, Pacific coastline.
My rough plan is to follow the bone-dry, dusty dirt tracks that interlink the Pacific beaches of its famed Nicoya Peninsula, before cutting back across the Continental Divide to the Caribbean coast at Limon, and on into Panama.
As ever, I’ve been keen to avoid all cycling interaction with the infamous Pan American highway. So far I’ve only ridden it for a handful of uninspiring kilometres, which has proved to be a good route recipe to follow.
In figuring out a way round it on this occasion, I’ve just ridden one of the most beautiful and varied stretches of terrain I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing in Central America. Even though the weather wasn’t on my side – permadrizzle and heavy downpours obscured any volcano views until the last day – it’s a ride I’d highly recommend, come rain or shine.
It’s also a journey that perfectly encapsulates how Costa Rica’s crumpled cordillera effectively splits the country into two distinct weather systems and accompanying ecology: lush, green and shiny wet vegetation on the Caribbean side, and dusty, scorchingly hot, bone dry expanses on that of the Pacific.
The route
Most riders head straight down the Panamerican from La Cruz, just over the Nicaraguan border, to Liberia, the jumping off point for the Nicoya Peninsula. Heeding advice, I decided to drop down into the often overlooked Bahia de Salinas, before dog-legging briefly along the highway to loop up and around Volcan Rincon de la Vieja National Park. The ride trebles the distance between the two towns, interlinking the tiny communities of Puerto Soley, Cuanjiquil, Brasilia, Dos Rios, La Libertad and Colonia Blanca, culminating in a massive descent into Liberia. But it definitely makes up for the extra mileage, earning itself a place in the upper echelons of my Hall of Fame rides.
Thanks to Barry for encouraging me to explore the Bahia Salinas and Volvan Rincon de la Vieja, and to Ciclo Guilly for suggesting the amazing unpaved route from Brasilia to Liberia, unmarked on my National Geographic map and on Googlemaps.
If you stick to the Panamerican Highway, you'd ride straight past this epic view over the Bahias de Salinas, and the distant Peninsula de Santa Elena - just a few minutes away from the main road at La Cruz. Make that detour!
A fast paved descent peters down to a meandering track, with all manner of beachy side trips. This was mountain bike touring heaven.
Like this one, at la Playa de la Isla. A perfect spot for a picnic.
The climb back out to the main road however, in the midday heat, was intense. Luckily a Tico selling juicy watermelons had set up shop at the junction; I guzzled down a whole one in a few minutes, slabbering like an overheated dog.
Why to avoid the Panamerican Highway... Luckily, I only had to experience this for a short stretch, turning off just south of La Cruz onto the road to Upala.
This area is home to enormous fruit fincas, and that night I made my home in an orange grove. A vitamin C start to the following day ensued.
Costa Rica is expensive, but away from tourist hotspots, you can still have yourself a cheap cycling breakfast. What you see here - gallo pinto, a tomales, plantane, fruit and a mug of coffee - set me back just over 3 dollars.
The tropical sun had been beating down with all its might over the last few days. But the forecast ahead wasn't so promising. The fine mist and bouts of heavy drizzle that descended across the land shrouded any volcano views I had hoped for.
Still, despite the rain, the stoney track I followed past waterlogged Brasialia was sublime. It was almost completely traffic free, and set in a tunnel of lush green vegetation, leading me into the Cordillera de Guacanaste.
At times, it was as narrow as an English country lane. Even the fact that it was, by now, pouring much of the time hardly tempered my enjoyment. This was incredible riding.
Overlapping, neon green ferns drooping over into the trail.
And intricate, teardrop shapes awaiting to take their place.
The track passed beautiful, mystical forest glades; gorgeous camping potential.
Past fallen flowers by the roadside, yellow guayacan, just one layer in the incredible textures all around.
in fact, the field on the other side of a wonky barbed wire fence had become a simple burst of yellow.
It was still pouring by the time I made it to Colonia Blanca. My tent was soaked from the night before, so I treated myself to a room for the night.
Not too bad for $10. A bathroom and five beds all to myself.
The pet toucan. With such a ridiculously long beak, this huy had to look at me sideways with just one eye, hopping along the gate as I moved up and down.
From Colonia Blanca, the track began to ascend, skirting further round the volcano Rincon de la Vieja, still shrouded in mist, and crossing various slippery bridges.
Crystal clear. Good spots for a refreshing cool off.
Up and up, past cattle ranches. Not a car in sight.
Into the cloudforest.
Fording streams, knee high in places.
Past enormous, jungly vegetation, seemingly overfed by this abundance of water. Electric blue morpho butterflies flitted across my path, and the odd howler monkey stretched his vocal chords from the treetops. I was entranced by this place.
Veiny leaf detail - sunshine at last!
Until it finally crested out onto a ridge, opening out into a long, wide and bizarrely water-free track, a world away from the lush green foliage and stream crossings I'd just experienced. As I looked back over my shoulder, dark storm clouds still loomed, yet here, I was bathed in sunshine. In a matter of kilometres, I had crossed back into the Pacific half of Costa Rica.
A dirt road, mined with rocks and gullies, began to plummet down the mountain side.
Until this morphed once more into an almost blindingly white, powdery track chiselled into the mountainside.
Several metres high in places, it funnelled me ever downwards, as I fishtailed through thick patches of sand and drifted round bends, loving every moment of it.
Soon, everything was covered in a fine, powdery film.
The change was dramatic and stark, a complete opposite from the green, lush vegetation I'd set out from that morning. It was hard to believe that an hour before, I'd been soaked to the bone in jungle humidity and sudden downpours. Now my sweaty brow was sticky with dust.
Finally, I could enjoy those epic volcano views, almost completely clear on this side of the national park. The descent wound on for some 20 kilometres; marred only by the incongruously placed rubbish tip a few clicks from the bottom, which was releasing an assortment of colourful plastic bags into the tree branches all around. I'll take blossoming flowers, thanks.
In Liberian, I hit the bakery to catch up on some calories, then found some characterful digs in the form of la Posada de Tope to lay my head for the night.
My room, just enough space for me and my bike. What an amazing ride...
Things break
February 26, 2011
Inevitably, things break. Although I wouldn’t say I mistreat my kit, I do push it hard, simply by putting it through thousands of kilometres of, at times, torturously rough terrain. Over a long trip like this, conditions include snow, rain, heat, humidity, dust and sand… I service my bike every once in a while, try to carry it through river crossings to protect the bearings, and do my best to keep the drivetrain clean. But most of the time it’s caked beneath a veneer of mud.
So far, it’s held up pretty well.
Luckily I’ve escaped both wheel rim and spoke mishaps, the bane of the touring cyclist (I know, writing this is probably just asking for trouble). The stanchions on my Magura Odour suspension fork eventually wore out, as did the bearings in my Shimano 323 pedals (they were old and the bolts were stripped out, making servicing impossible). Both of these can put this down to wear and tear, along with the various cogs, chains, bottom brackets, bottle cages and tyres I’ve worked my way through over the 25000 kilometres I’ve travelled so far.
Today my forward progress was thrawted once more, just as I was enjoying a beautiful ride along a dirt road towards Costa Rica’s Bahia de Salinas. Abruptly, my driveside crank disintegrated around the pedal thread… Luckily, I was able to hitch back to the guesthouse I’d stayed in the night before, stash my bike, and hop on a bus to the nearest sizeable town. After trawling through the various shops, a replacement was found and I’m now ready to roll once more.
Missions like this often yield experiences too, whether its the inner workings of the local welding shop, or a foray around a part of town you’d never normally visit. In this case, I had the chance to chat to a few mountain bikers and learnt of an unmarked dirt road that wends its way along a ridge to Liberia, with views of both the Pacific and the Caribbean, between three volvanoes…
This post is about what else has fallen by the wayside so far. I’ll write up some words soon on what I’ve been particularly pleased with, in the interests of yin and yang…
Both the rails on my first Brooks Imperial saddle broke in Utah. They were welded back to life in a Mormon garage, allowing me to make it to the next bike shop, were the owners kindly donated me a replacement. I was gutted, as it was by far the most comfortable saddle I've ever used - I could even ride in jeans.
The rails snapped ten miles out of a settlement. Not so comfortable for riding anymore.
Brooks sent me a replacement without a murmur but sadly, but this broke in Guatemala - seems the rails just aren't tough enough for the way I ride. At least, I hope it's that, and not my weight...
The cross strut in my Tubus rack cracked after weeks of rough Mexican backroads in the Sierra Madre. Being cromo, it was easily repaired at the nearest grungy welding shop. That first attempt was a bit of a botch, so it was re-welded close to the Belizian border by a veritable master. Incidentally, Tubus offered to send me a replacement, although I have yet to follow them up on the offer as the repair has made it as good as new.
Expert welding. And he'd only take an orange juice as payment.
Knowing I had a long stretch of pavement ahead along in Oaxaca, I bought these $5 slicks to save life on my valuable Schwalbes and speed up my riding. The rear didn't last more than a few hundred kilometres- luckily, running 26in wheels meant I could easily pick up an equally cheap replacement to tide me through. The front was still going strong after a couple of thousand clicks, and I ended up giving it away in Guatemala.
Some time back, a section of stitching came away on one side of my Arkel XM 45 panniers. I contacted the company to let them know, and they were quick to reply. Arkel would have sent a replacement, but it was easily repaired with the nifty Speedy Stitcher at the beach in Michoacan, and has held just fine since then.
Most surprisingly, my Chris King hub bit the dust in a remote part of Northern Guatemala, after the spokes pulled away in several places. I contacted them, sending photos and explaining what I was doing. Considering the price of the hub, I can't say I was particularly delighted with their response: they would only provide a replacement shell, and loan me the tools to move over the axle and bearings. Given my location, I thought it was a little tight. On top of this, I had to pay for the shell until until mine could be sent in to them, to verify it would be covered by their warrantee. Luckily Cara was about to visit from the US, so we were able to organise everything in time. But it was a real hassle, and involved a couple of all night bus rides, and a complete wheel overhaul. I was later reinbursed the cost of the shell when Cara sent it in from the US, but I never received anything by way of an explanation or feedback.
Shiny and new. Hopefully this one will last...
My Middleburn cranks, with me since the beginning of the trip, are sadly no more. I often used to mull over what an elegant, effective set of cranks they were - though I expect you need to be bikenut to really appreciate their aesthetic appeal. I chose to run square taper cranks as I figured they'd be easy to source all over Latin America. Ironically Liberia, the closest town to me in Costa Rica, had a clutch of excellent, high end bike shops, but there were few square taper cranksets on offer. Almost all their options were more modern two piece systems. I eventually managed to find a suitable 4 bolt, 175mm replacement: a Shimano Alivio crankset for $40. Not as lovely, but they do the job. Incidentally, the English-made Middleburns have a lifetime warranty.
Crisis over. Back in time for sunset...
