And so it goes. While some nutballs are reveling in conspiratorial theories and are trying to tear down something that took so much effort and so many lives to build, I am trying to be optimistic and see what amazing opportunities we're given as human beings. And what better way to do so than to change perspective and go to a place where people are not as well-to-do as many of us are in the US, yet live lives that may be just as fulfilling as ours, or maybe even more so.
I am in Morelia, in Mexico's state of Michoacán, on yet another cycling vacation. I'm here to escape—in order— Lubbock's frigid weather, COVID, and political turmoil that is enveloping my home country. I am so glad that I can afford a $367.72 Airbnb for eleven days and pay for the airfare to jet down here. And with COVID cases rampant in Lubbock I don't need to worry about how I might celebrate my Medicare eligibility during times of social distancing. I'm about as distant from friends and especially family as Dr. Fauci might recommend, 150+ birthday wishes on Facebook notwithstanding. Thank you, all my dear friends from all over the world!
Morelia is just a few hours away from Lubbock. Get yourself an American Airlines ticket and fly to Dallas, change from B34 to B6, and less than three hours later you will have touched down at MLM. Take a ten-dollar Uber from the airport to your Airbnb, and voilá, here you are. Why is it that not more of my friends do this on occasion?
This is my third trip to Mexico since October—first Riviera Maya (nah, that's not Mexico!), then Oaxaca, and now Morelia. Interspersed was Costa Rica, which is as different from Mexico as Germany is from Greece. I had decided on Morelia for two reasons: AA flies here non-stop from DFW, and I had always wanted to visit this colonial UNESCO World Heritage Site, even before it had been given that distinction.
During the pandemic, Morelia is only a shadow of its own self. Museums are closed, all restaurants and stores close at 7 p.m. (and don't even open on Sundays; para llevar, or take-out, is your ony food option), and the usual life on the streets is subdued and lacks that Mexican vivaciousness. Pretty much everybody here in the city wears a cubraboca, or what they call in Costa Rica a mascarilla; out in the small villages, masks are not as prevalent, and one often sees a gaggle of sombrero-wearing guys huddled in front of the local tienda with a few bottles of beer, celebrating Happy Hour at three on a Thursday afternoon. 
Speaking of the small villages: Life here is still the way it was fifty or a hundred years ago, with a few changes, of course. People have cell phones and there are satellite dishes on all but the poorest houses, but donkeys are still used to pull carts, caballeros are astride their horses, and fifteen cows will block the road while an urchin or an old man herds them to pasture. 
I had never thought about it or really noticed it, but just a couple of rides ago it dawned on me that houses here are built not according to generally accepted floor plans but rather to follow the contours of the piece of land they're sitting on, the outlines of the neighboring house, and the layout of the unpaved roads. Ninety-degree angles—which govern our architecture—are not a given. Big deal: If you need furniture you don't go to Ikea but somebody will build something that fits your needs. We're probably talking more "table" than "armoire" here. 
Just like in Oaxaca and Chacarita I have been going on almost daily rides (for a total of 284 miles in eight days of riding), trying to map out different routes that have taken me into all directions radiating from Morelia. The only area that I have not visited is due east of the city—mountains and lack of asphalted roads are prohibitive. All of my rides have been loops that start and end at my Airbnb in Morelia's historic center. This means that every day I had to contend with a certain amount of city traffic. While some of my friends might feel uneasy about riding next to big garbage trucks while taxis are entering the roadway from the right and left, I don't worry about it too much. Drivers are respectful of the traffic around them, and once you get a feel for how the system works you'll be just fine.
It seems that anywhere in Mexico the number of speedbumps is mind-bending. My eyes are all the time scanning for another tope, as well as potholes and other obstacles that can take me down. But the upside of all this is that the surrounding traffic is really not much faster than I am! There are very few traffic signs; right-of-way is not formally granted in most cases but becomes a function of who has to slow down for a tope and thus allows the vehicle from the left (or right) to cross. It's really a smooth system. But you need to understand it and integrate into it.
All of my rides have involved a lot of climbing. Most of the loops that I have ridden varied in length from about 32 to 38 miles; yesterday's 43-miler was the longest. My average speed hovers around 10 mph. What can you do when you have a big truck in front of you that goes across each speedbump at 2 mph before accelerating to 15 mph just to brake once again? And out in the countryside, when I'm off-road, I go slow to be able to actually see what I am riding through. Speed is not the issue on these trips. Experiencing the countryside is.
Pretty much all my days have followed this pattern: Sleep until the sun wakes me up around 7 a.m. (or the dogs on the roof across the street start barking or the garbage people ring their bell to let everyone know to take out their trash), try to come to my senses and figure out whether my legs are good enough for another ride, and roll out of bed to start the coffee. Over a plate of papaya and other fresh fruit I'll read the news on my tablet, check e-mail, and realize it's already 9 a.m. I have a nice rooftop terrace with an amazing view of the city (including the various cathedrals and churches), so by the time I have whipped up a Mexican breakfast it will have warmed up enough so that I can enjoy my breakfast while looking across all of Morelia.
Before you know it, it is 10:30 or even 11:00 and time to kit up and start my ride. Four, five hours later I slowly ride back into the 'hood, and if I don't have a snack in one of the beautiful little eateries in the Jardin de las Rosas I'll just head straight for the house for a shower and my own terrace-based Happy Hour. By the time I have worked my way through the day's photos and uploaded my Strava file it is time to really relax and watch one of those spectacular sunset from the rooftop. 
With established restaurants closing at 7 p.m. I have been eating at some of the neighborhood pop-up eateries that fix carnitas and buche, which is pork stomach (not tripe) and is simply delicious. One can get pretty much anything para llevar at these places, and I prefer carry-out to standing in the street and gobbling down my tacos. Another Cuba Libre or two later I will be tired enough to crash hard until being woken up by the dawn, the dogs, or the garbage men, only to start another day. Sweet, isn't it?
Morelia is a very large city. The 2010 census lists about 750,000 inhabitants, but I don't know whether that also counts what one would call the "metroplex" in our parts. While the historical old town is picturesque and photogenic, the newer parts vary from non-descript to outright ugly. I continue to be fascinated by how rich, gated residential areas are right nextdoor to slum-like favelas that have no paved streets and where stray dogs slink around. There are tiny stores and giant malls, anchored by Sears and Best Buy. And then there are the white-washed satellite suburbias consisting of row after row of identical box homes. Yes, they look clean and middle-class, but there is no way that they will ever have the same kind of neighborhood feel that those other parts of town have. Well, let me take that back: In one such antiseptic new town I saw the first pop-up stores opening up where people simply annexed the sidewalk and started to serve barbacoa and pollo asado. 
Even if I think that the food-scene in Oaxaca is superior to that here in Morelia, I did eat some interesting and tasty local food. The tostadas de pulpo (octopus) that I happened across in a tiny marisqueria were so good that I just had to stop there a second time around. Another seafood-based dish that was new to me came from a small restaurant with a terrace overlooking one of the large squares. Here I had aguachile verde, essentially a very watery (and spicy!) type of ceviche. Damn, that was so hot that it took three beers to not die! And finally, there were the uchepos, sweet-corn based tamales that are one of the specialties of Michoacán. 
As you can see, both the riding and the food were excellent, my accommodations were OK (the terrace was great, the rest of the place lacked the same comfort and cleanliness that I had enjoyed in Oaxaca and Chacarita), and the weather cooperated with mild temperatures (daytime mid-70s) and mostly partly cloudy skies. The pandemic put a bit of a damper on experiencing more of the city, but the fabulous markets were humming so that I simply missed out on the museum-culture treatment. Big deal. 
With one more day to go after completing my riding today I can say that it was a good decision to come to Morelia, despite all the State Department warnings that tell you about drug-related crime and the like. Be smart, don't go where you wouldn't go in your hometown, be circumspect just like anywhere, and be polite and appreciative of your hosts. Because that's who we are when we travel: We are guests. Let's not forget that. 
So, to get back to that odd title for the post: Today is my 65th birthday and thus I have reached a milestone of sorts. I don't know how long I will be able to go on crazy solo bike excursions like the ones I took down here, but as long as I can, I'll continue to do so. And with an appointment for my first COVID vaccine next Thursday I really hope that this is the start to a new future. Saludos!
