We left Canas early hoping to make Nicoya, about 50k away. The ride alternated between grueling and glorious. Glorious as we rode through relatively flat ranch lands, with only cows for company. Glorious as we got on theTempisque ferry and had a short ride across a small chunk the Pacific. grueling when a long chunk of road just past the ferry deteriorated into a waffle-iron texture: big chunks of concrete with large grooves between them. The bumpiness was hellacious, Eric asked me to remind him to tighten every screw on our bikes once we arrived.

Nicoya was a neat town, with an old, mission-style church. We stopped at a video rental place/deli and ordered the same things some school kids got: fried chips smothered in three sauces, one of which was mayonnaise. The same place served sodas in plastic baggie! When a customer ordered a soda, the owner would pour the soda into a baggie, insert a straw, and hand it over. I guess this is part of Costa Rica's answer to recycling glass and plastic.

Twice that day owners of food stands tried very hard to convince us to come back. You'd think we were their only customers.

The most exciting thing that happened in Nicoya was checking into our hotel. Eric walked away from me for one minute, and at that moment, a wispy looking drunk guy walked up to him and started chatting in Spanish. I could see Eric across the room trying to be polite; finally he just shook his head, Then, in 10 amazing seconds Eric disappeared up the stairs, the crowd vaporized from the lobby, and I was the only one left, with this weirdo coming toward me. He apparently wanted to sleep with me. I was very offended. I would have hit him but I didn't want to cause some kind of international incident. Finally I got the proprietor to help me shoo him away.

The next morning, Sept. 25, we beat it out of town toward Samara, the end of our cross country route. Samara supposedly has the best swimming beaches, and the least tourists, of all the west coast.

I as looking forward to a nice flat ride to the beach. Alas. The road was totally hilly, We rolled up and down all sorts of mountains, including one called Cuesta Grande (big hill). We actually worried about running out of water.

Then just past Cuesta Grande, we noticed a Costa Rican guy behind us, walking his unloaded bike. I thought maybe he couldn't take the hill. but after we talked to him, we realized his bike was broken, It was stuck in high gear, so he couldn't really pedal up hill. He looked really so we gave him water. We told him we planned to comp, and he said he could show us where, then, just a few minutes later, he invited us to come stay with him for free.

Our host's name was Ronald Castillo. He's 25, and just went back to school to finish his high school degree. he's a body builder and is studying martial arts. One of his many siblings is a street fighter in Limon. Ronald speaks fantastic English and is married to a native Canadian. She was away visiting relatives for six weeks, and he needed company So we went to his house.

Ronald lived right off the soccer field. That might he took us out to his favorite bars and got quite tipsy. That evening he spoke passionately about things and people he loved. His mother, for instance, had just come back from San Jose, where she had gotten some medicine for an ailment. He had been on his way to see her where his bike broke. He hadn't seen her for three days. "I must see my mother!" he said. He also talked about how he is working to be the best husband he can be. It was really very sweet.

After several drinks, Eric and I were too exhausted to keep up. Ronald brought us back to his house and them borrowed my bike to go out and visit friends. We'll never know what happened. Ronald didn't seem hurt the next day, but I noticed my bike had taken a major beating: the handlebars were askew, the bar ends were askew, the seat was askew, my sometimes-works, sometimes-doesn't cycling computer didn't work at all, and the whole bike looked like it had been in a mud bath. What amazed me most was that the handlebar tape was scraped off on both sides of the bike. I asked Ronald how the bike rode, to see if he'd mention an accident, but he didn't. As I write this I'm in Maui and my bike still isn't the same. Eric promises to fix it in NZ.

Anyway, we had a fantastic stay in Samara. We did exactly what I dream of when I think of vacation: lying on my back, preferably on a beach. We spent four bays in Samara swimming, walking on the beach, and hanging out with Ronald, who is a fan of action flicks.

In the middle of it all, Ronald took us to Terciepelo, his home town about five miles up the road, to visit his family. They only spoke Spanish and we could only understand them when they spoke slowly. We had a great time talking for two hours! As soon as we walked in, Ronald's mother Odalisa, a stout woman with frizzy black hair, offered us cafecita (small coffees). We nodded yes, and the next thing we knew, she served us a whole meal: vegetables, beans, rice, and miniature red chilis that just about made us scream. I told Odalisa she reminded me of my mother Elisa, and that made her very happy.

We left Samara on an express bus to San Jose at the ungodly hour of 4:30 a.m. on Sept. 29th. Then we spent a few days running errands (bicyclists beware: we had to go to four store to find bike boxes) before flying to LA Oct. 1.

next: Last California visit

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