Thoughts on Local Directions and the City of Rosarito and My Demoralizing Ride to Ensenada

Every day on my ride, I ask one or more locals for directions. I can say with 100% confidence that I have not received directions that were 100% correct from anyone, even the from people that seem entirely knowledgeable. This experience exemplifies why men do not ask for direction. Usually, the advice will point me in the right direction with a only few distances misstated. On the contrary, I have had some that is dead wrong. I am pretty sure a compass and map is better than depending on strangers that have no motivation or capacity for the help one may need. I tend to ask just for verification and to socialize as time on the road is rather lonely.
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This was the first and certainly not last taco stand I drop a few pesos at.

Rosarito seems like it was a bustling place very recently. The restaurants are plentiful and large. The same can be said for the bar scene. However, at all of these establishments, there were more workers than patrons. The main drag had plenty of available parking, and the taxis were desperate to take a fare. I appreciate that this is the low season, but the added negativity of the American media has surely taken the largest toll on Rosarito. I imagine a large percentage of the typical patrons are LA and SD locals that are not 21 and want to go party. They are afraid of Tijuana, and Rosarito was a good second option. Now it seems that this town will be in a downward spiral until the sense of safety is restored. From my experience, I felt completely safe and comfortable. The biggest hassle was telling the salesmen that I do not want a pancho or a high quality leather wallet. I talked to a club promoter about the situation, and it certainly hurt his financial well being. He still gave me a Mexican flag, which I now proudly display over my camping gear.
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Before I settled up with the hostel owner, my bike computer read 666 miles. I noticed the ground was wet, but it was not actively raining. Therefore, I decided to get out of the depressed but delightful town and go to Ensenada, which has a much larger population. Not even a few miles outside of Rosarito, the wind begins to howl. I am not stranger to the wind, but it was fierce enough that my pseudo rain gear was flapping which deafens the sounds of approaching vehicles until they are almost upon me.



Not quite Rio, but you can see the rain clouds ahead.



At any rate, the road heads under the non-biking freeway. On my paper map, it looks like a small hiccup and runs parallel to the freeway. The map is not wrong but misleading. I see that my compass is now headed NW to NE, which happen to be my least favorite directions to ride on this trip. The rain begins to pick up as I head up the mountain side. When I reach the northern most face, I get some rain and wind protection where I stop to eat a Clif Bar. As I turn the bend, I am getting pelted by sideways rain. I first feel some coldness on my arm and am not sure if it is water or just the cold rain on the rain gear. Needless to say, it is water that penetrated my North Face Shell. Thirty more minutes of this, and I am soaked from head to toe, and I am not over stating the situation. Even my eyeballs are being hit behind my glasses as there is a weird wind effect making the rain curl over the top edge and into my eyes. I start to think of how the situation could be worse. I am soaked, I am climbing switchbacks on slick mountain roads, I have wind gusts in the 30mph range, and there is no sign of civilization.
I took this photo about an hour into the brunt of the storm.


If the weather were colder, it would be worse. That is all I think of, until an 18-wheeler going the opposite direction has at least 3 wheels directly hit a pothole filled with mud and throws it all over me. At least the mud stayed below my face. Even with this, I still have to laugh at the situation I have put myself in. I keep myself in pretty high spirits until I have my first descent. Considering that I am totally soaked, I begin to shiver in the wind chill. My hands are barely able to grip the handlebars, and my shoulders are beginning to send pain signals. I remove my hands and make a fist and just watch as a cup of water falls from my gloves. This amuses me, but I am still in the mountains with no idea if I am still on the right road or how far I have to go.

I make it out of the mountains and make it to a town with lots of taco stands and some of them are labeled Ensenada. I am not sure if it is Ensenda or not so I stop and ask a local. He tell me 10 more km. I see some hotels for as low as 20 USD, but I did not just ride all that way to stay in suburbia of Ensenada. As I continue on, I lose feeling in my feet. For some reason, my left foot feels like there is a hole in my shoe, and my sock came off. However, my shoe is fine and there is no way my sock came off. I push on until I get to Ensenada where I see a mecca of taco stands, massage parlors, and motels. As a gigantic Carnival Cruise Ship is opposite where I am, this must be the tourist zone of Ensenada, which is where I will call home for the night, 716 miles from SF.