After splashing through this water I made a fundamental
goof and looked back over my shoulder, thinking of taking a picture. The bike's front wheel headed for the ditch seen on the
left. I had been going pretty slow, so I managed to keep the front wheel on the road. Yet, somehow, the rear wheel caught
the edge of the ditch and went in. The bike wouldn't drive out because the rear tire was so bald. I got off and yanked the
bike up onto the road, slipped on the gravel, and went down hard on my chin. The bike fell with me and sustained a bent gear
lever. The transmission was stuck in neutral.
Then I realized I was being watched by this lazy fellow
in the tree. And by a dozen and a half other howler monkeys, who were probably thankful for the entertainment.
I left the bike on its stand and walked to the barn/house/shed
I'd passed a few hundred meters back down the road. There I met Rodolfo. He told me about the Canadian boxer who owns this
estate and plans a hotel and housing development. He helped me push the bike back to his place and straightened out the gear
lever in a nifty bit of farmyard engineering in the shade of a mango tree, and I was on my way again.
The next Sunday I returned to visit Rodolfo near the
end of my 200-kilometer ride, producing two cold beers from my knapsack. He said he didn't drink, it's bad for the health.
A succinct but eloquent explanation for very many things,
I thought.
