Bad Roads Bring Good People
Today was a strange day.
I rose a little later than usual and found myself brushing my teeth in the darkness of dusk. Oh my, did this toothpaste taste funky! After 10-seconds of sleepy-brushing, I look down to see that I’m using:
I don’t recommend trying this stunt unless you enjoy making very silly of disgust. I shook it off by paddling out in Playa Guiones and forgot about the mishap.
Because I was later than usual there were already 100 or so folks dotting the sea. The seasons are changing and Summer is nearly here in Costa Rica. The wind has been offshore and the longboarders are having the time of their lives. After I catch a few waves the world just melts away.
I step on a crab as I get out of the water and squeal. Little bugger almost got me. Soon I’m zipping off to my first day of Spanish classes. I find myself sitting next to a woman from Vancouver named Piper. Small world (I’m from Vancouver too). My Spanish is better than hers which is not saying much. It’s refreshing to be in a class where nadie sabe nada.
After class, I went on a little adventure to rip around on the ATV I rented. I return to a desolate beach south of me called Garza. I feel like a kid again here as I fly along with the beach break at 66km. Actually, I felt like my buddy Darren Bogner — he was a troublemaker growing up and loved living on the edge.
After a few spins on the beach, I head back out and see a sign. It says ‘Samara 20km’. I open the gas tank in the Honda and it looks half-full-ish. I have this innate feeling I might run out of gas. I’m a stubborn fucker.
I set course for this even remote beach. Two gringas riding tandem on their motorcycle smile and wave at me. From then on I only see locals. I’ve been bumping along the road for some time now with no signs of a gas station. I encounter a blonde dude with his little two-year girl on a blue ATV. I ask him where I can get gas.
Is that a 4xr4?” he asks looking at my ride
“Yes.”
“In that case pal, you can just cross the river and take a shortcut to the gas station.”
I realize at this point that I have no idea if my ATV is a 4x4. He looks at the HONDA and tells me it’s a 2WD — but that I should probably be O.K. Hmm…
When I get to the river I stop. I think of a host of bad scenarios playing out. And then I turn around and head back the long way to find the Samara gestation. I guess I’m wisening up… a tad.
At the junction, I see a fellow stopped on his bike talking to a friend. With newfound confidence, I ask him, “Por favor, donde esta la gasolinera? I’m not sure if he’s looking so puzzled because he didn’t expect my Spanish or if my pronunciation was so abominable.
He points in the direction I’m going and smiles. I smile back. Relieved that I’ll be all gassed up soon, I change into 2nd gear, 3rd, 4th, and then fly along in 5th. With the warm wind blowing in my face, life is good. And then the ATV starts to chug, and then chug some more. It’s slowing down…no, no, no this can’t be happening!
I flashback to similar incidents in my past. I’m familiar with running out of gas in foreign places. There was that time on Christmas in Fuerteventura — where I didn’t run out of gas only put the wrong type of fuel in the car.
I pull over to the side of the road defeated. I wonder how far I am from the station. I look and see in the distance this dude riding his bicycle. His button-up shirt is wide open. As he nears I see his slicked-back hair. I notice his piercing blue-turquoise eyes. If I was to choose between hipster or hobo, I’d choose the latter.
I tell him my sad story and he in a gesture makes me feel like it’s all going to be OK. I’m sweating previously at this point — a concoction of the dire afternoon heat and my total neuroticism. I push the ATV 50 meters up to what he says is his property? It looks more like an open jungle to me with a couple of makeshift bamboo shelters. He pulls an empty 2-liter bottle of Fanta out of nowhere and with a smile says “Here amigo.”
Wonderful I think but how am I going to get to the station. I stand there in my with my thumb up on the side of the road sporting Adidas slides, shortish shorts, 3/4 sleeve baseball T-shirt, and a beat-up hat from Bali which I haven’t taken off in 5 years. Suffice to say no one picks me up looking like Jeff Spicoli. And Diego standing non chalantly resembles Daniel Day-Lewis when he was staring in Lincoln.
NO one is giving me a ride. I wouldn’t even pick myself up.
