It’s a balmy mid-March evening in Tulum, Mexico, and I’m relaxing at an outdoor table under a full moon with a group of other world travelers. I haven’t yet unpacked my gear or

checked my bike box to make sure every-thing has arrived safely. For now, I just want to enjoy the good conversation and the smooth agave tequila being passed around. This hotel marks the starting point of my 16-day, 450-mile, solo bicycle trek to the southwestern Yucatán, an area that contains the largest and most dense forest remaining

on the peninsula. But something is bother-ing me. It’s not that I anticipate this trip will be particularly dangerous or even that dif-ficult. I have, after all, survived two other bicycle trips on this peninsula. This one, though, promises to be significantly more ambitious and challenging. I’m heading further off the beaten path, into the remote interior of the Calakmul Biosphere Reserve, about which my online research has yielded only marginal travel information.

As I look around at the young group of travelers before me, I realize that I’m proba-

bly about 100 years older than anyone else. It’s not so much the age difference as the realization that I have considerably more at stake than I did when I was in my reckless and rambling youth. Were it not for meet-ing my wife 28 years ago and benefiting from her vastly superior judgment, my life could have been a bucket of sour grapes rather than the richly nuanced Bordeaux that it is today. Everyone back home is con-cerned for my safety. My oldest daughter thinks that I’m in over my head and is sure that I’ll be robbed, abducted, murdered, or

worse. What could possibly be worse?When the conversation turns toward

me and the details of my trip, I cover my uneasiness by joking that my Spanish is so bad that I might just spend all of my time here at the hotel drinking tequila instead of cycling. Bana, the oldest and most experi-enced traveler at the table, speaks up. “Hey, man,” he says, “You just gotta put yourself out there. Your Spanish will improve as you go along.” I appreciate his encouragement. After months of planning, poring over maps and online searching, it’s time to sad-

dle up, man up, cowboy up, or whatever.The following morning, I reassemble

my bike and distribute all the gear into the proper panniers. Except for an empty fuel bottle that TSA has deemed a potential flight hazard, everything else is in good shape. Without the fuel bottle, the stove is useless so I store it in the bike box which I’ll reuse when I return. Even without the stove, my bike is comically overloaded. The bulk of the burden comes in the form of my photo gear, which occupies one entire rear pannier and weighs in at a hefty 25

pounds. The rest of the gear consists of a few items of clothing camping gear, bicycle repair tools and necessities, spare batteries, a journal, a couple of guidebooks, energy bars, and, of course, lots of water. I know that I’m overpacked, but who knows what lies ahead?

Later that morning, I roll my trusty steel steed out into the open courtyard to begin my southward journey. The small group of people from the night before gather around to wish me well and regard the amount of stuff I’ve managed to stack on the bike.

The Wondrous YucatánStory and photos by Charles Lynch

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It’s almost like a mini press conference with clicking cameras and many questions. Everyone seems to be genuinely excited. Then I wave goodbye and wobble off down the road, half expecting my tires to blow out or the bike frame to collapse under the weight of its rider and gear.

Although I’ve managed to put about 200 miles on my new Novara Safari tour-ing bike, it hasn’t yet been tested under the weight of a full touring load. The flex of the chromoly steel frame actually alarms me. It’s a completely different feel than my aluminum hybrid frame. But, as I grow accustomed to the flex, I notice how it also absorbs shock from bumps and small holes in the road, leading to a much more comfortable ride. I’m so pumped up over these small but delightful discoveries and the prospect of finally being on the road to adventure that, despite a late start, I cover the full 100 kilometers to Carillo Puerto by the end of the first day. Arriving at the cen-tral plaza at dusk, I try to locate the hotel my guidebook recommends and suddenly discover that it’s the same one my son Max and I stayed in on a previous bike trip six years earlier. Already I’m missing everyone.

Next morning, while continuing south on Highway 307, I come upon a large bat-talion of workers and equipment busily engaged in a chip-seal operation. Each time I return to the Yucatán, I see more and more road improvements. There are signs posted every few kilometers reminding drivers to stay alert at the wheel, to obey the speed limit, to maintain a safe distance between vehicles, and to keep the highway safe and secure by not littering. In addition, there are large billboards celebrating the region’s rich

Mayan heritage and the prosperity it brings to Mexico‘s citizens. Viva major! A better life! With all the signage and the robust, eight-foot-wide, paved shoulder for pedes-trians and cyclists, I feel completely safe. Considering that this is the only highway between Cancun to the north and Chetumal to the south, traffic is surprisingly light and sporadic. Often I ride in complete silence for several minutes at a time.

In the late afternoon, I reach the small town of Los Limones. There doesn’t appear to be any lodging in town so I ask the pro-prietor of a tienda (a small, locally owned general store found in even the smallest towns) if he knows of a place where I can spend the night. He calls across the street to a woman who leads me to a plain single-story building with weathered wooden doors and shutters. It’s muy basico (very basic) but clean and answers my simple

needs of bed, toilet, and shower. Cost, $15. In the evening, I stroll over to a brightly lit steel structure where a group of adolescents are engaged in a lively pick-up game of soc-cer. I see many of these structures along the route, and, judging by their similar appear-ance, they seem to have been designed and constructed with government funds for the benefit of the community.

The next morning, I yearn to take the turn off east that leads to the secluded coastal fishing villages of Majahual and Xcalak. They’re located just south of Punta Allen, where I ended my last bike trip back in 2008. So many roads to explore but so little time to indulge in side trips. In the town of Laguna Bacalar, the site of the second largest freshwater lake in Mexico, a refreshing light rain descends. I just make it inside the door of an Internet café before the tempest strikes in full force. After assuring my anxious family that I’m still alive, I hop back on the bike in search of Botadero san Pastor, a rustic retreat men-tioned in my Rough Guide book (I prefer this guidebook because it’s small enough to fit neatly into my panniers and it’s packed with essential travel details). It takes a few tries but I finally spot the small, hand-painted wooden sign that points down a narrow dirt road in the forest. When I break free of the trees, I am stunned by the sight of the sparkling turquoise and mauve waters. If it weren’t for the absence of white sand, I’d swear that I was somewhere along the ocean of the Mayan Riviera. I’ve never seen a freshwater lake bursting with so much color and natural beauty!

My screened wooden bungalow is only $7.50 a night. Because the owner, Armando, is on his way to town, I hand him $20 and ask if he would be kind enough to bring back some dinner and a six pack of beer. That evening, Armando, his girlfriend Maria, and his part-time helper Jagger, and I sit down to dinner. The conversation is in rapid Español and it’s difficult to hold onto the basic thread — something about Maria having the same astrological sign as Liz Taylor and how the hurricane of 2008 destroyed many buildings along the lake but magically passed over this very site. Just outside the range of light that radiates from the lone candle on our table, an inky blackness blocks out the rest of the world, containing us in a separate time and space. It’s one of those magical moments that I instinctively realize will be one of the high-lights of this trip.

After taking some photographs along

the lakeshore the next morning, I sit down to talk with Jagger. He is young and pas-sionate about his music, earnestly explain-ing how the quiet solitude of this part of the lagoon inspires his acoustic guitar playing. I laugh out loud at a phrase he often repeats when describing the city and the life his friends and family always urge him to lead. “I don’t need! I don’t want! I don’t like!” he says with marked determi-nation. After two days of talking Spanish with him, I feel the language barrier slowly beginning to lift. Without the distraction of electricity or noisy generators, Laguana Bacalar is truly a captivating place. But, I must move on.

By late morning the next day, I reach the junction of Highway 186 and head inland (west), away from the city of Chetumal and the Caribbean coast. Almost immediately, the humidity and heat begin to press in. There is still a light ocean wind at my back, but the scorching sun is relentless and the heat is intensified by the blacktop. Up ahead, a small family is selling fresh pineapple juice alongside the road, and I gratefully gulp down two large bottles. It is absolutely the most refreshing and thirst-quenching liquid I find on the entire trip. It seems, though, that I am now passing out of the rich agricultural area I first entered in Los Limones, and that change brings a halt to the fresh-squeezed juices.

In Francisco Villa, I’m offered a free room by a woman who operates a small restaurant in town. I’m genuinely touched by her kind gesture, but the sleeping arrangements seem a little awkward. For the time being, I opt to bike down a side road to the ruins of Kohunlich, a Mayan city most famous for its surviving stucco masks. The guards here, while friendly enough, are unusually strict and won’t even allow a tripod or more than one cam-

era or lens, but they all get a big laugh out of my FiveFingers footwear. Late that afternoon, on the way back from the ruins, I stumble upon the all-inclusive, luxury resort of Explorean Kohunlich. After five days of hard riding and basic accommoda-tions, the thought of a big, clean, comfort-able bed, sumptuous food, and an open bar creates an avalanche of free-falling capitu-lation that I’m helpless to overcome. The irony of passing up a free room in town to spend $200 on a luxury resort isn’t lost on me. Still trying to rationalize the expense while riding the next day, a whacked-out Looney Tunes character pops into my mind. “Humans is the cwaziest peoples!” he wildly exclaims. Couldn’t have said it better myself.

Now that I’m almost completely drained of cash, I am determined to reach the ATM in Xpujil 60 kilometers west by nightfall the next day. In this part of the trip, I’m uncer-tain if I can find enough water and food to

sustain me until I can reach a large town. But small villages with formal-sounding names such as Emiliano Zapata and Jesus Gonzalez Ortega keep turning up, enabling me to replenish liquids and snack on packaged goodies. I peddle onward into the rising heat, the old man and the bike, taking long breaks in the shade of the concrete bus shel-ters scattered along the way. Traffic is even lighter here than in the north. The few cars that whoosh past appear to be rentals from Chetumal, heading toward the complex of ruins surrounding Xpujil. There is a lot of strenuous up-and-down climbing now as I move out of the state of Quintana Roo and enter Campeche. The seven to eight liters of liquids I consume each day never seem to be quite enough.

That evening, after passing through a military checkpoint (be sure to leave your weapons and drugs at home, kids), I hear my right toe-clip scraping against the road. As I pull over to fix it, I get my first flat. It’s pitch

Standing on the shoulders of giants. Charles admires the ruins of Kohunlich.

“I don’t need, I don’t want, I don’t like.” Caretaker/musician Jagger strums his guitar.

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Nuts & Bolts: The YucatánSee: adventurecycling.org/mag/nandb

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black now. The only light I can detect is from the town of Xpujil, another five miles to the west. Of course, now that I’m immobilized and in total darkness, I nervously recall a couple of bandito stories casually told by the travelers in the hotel back in Tulum. Trying to ignore my paranoia and the sinister figures lurking in the shadows of my imagination, I fumble for my headlamp and get busy finish-ing the repairs.

In Xpujil, I’d like nothing better than to visit all of the dozen or so ruin sites but must limit myself to seeing only Becán and Chicanná in order to have enough time left to complete the rest of the trip. It’s one thing to read about these ruins and quite

another to stand among them. You can’t help but imagine the power and mystical appeal these massive structures once held over the general populace. This was a high-ly principled and structured society with strong religious beliefs, rich cultural tradi-tions, and complicated political alliances. It’s mind-boggling to contemplate the pos-sible circumstances that forced people of such a highly organized society to abandon these imposing sites and scatter into the surrounding forest.

On Day 9, I’m back on the road again, heading west toward the town of Conhuas. Scores of black and yellow butterflies from the surrounding forest share the highway

with me. I’m now within the boundaries of the Calakmul Biosphere Reserve, a huge swathe of land protected under federal law. I’m not sure what technicalities separate a forest from a jungle but the vegetation and deciduous trees here are more reminiscent of what I would describe as a forest. It’s steaming hot (mid-90s, I suspect), and I’m probably sweating out as much liquid as I can put in. The cold, sweet sodas and juices I find along the way are lifesavers.

After dinner in Conhuas, I follow some hand-painted signs to some newly built palapas (thatch-roofed huts with stucco walls and cement floors) in the backyard of a local family. It’s so hot and humid that even with the room fan going full blast, I can’t sleep. Off in the east are flickers of lightning and the faint rumble of thunder. Finally, the storm’s cooling breezes and refreshing moisture bring relief and much needed sleep.

I’m now in striking range of the Calakmul ruins, the crown jewel of the Mexican Mayan empire and my final des-tination. I locate the Yaax Che campground listed in the Rough Guide the following morning and set up a base. There is no elec-tricity here but there are primitive toilet and shower facilities, and the proprietors offer simple meals cooked over open fires. It’s still another 57 kilometers to the ruins, and there are no services or natural water-ing holes beyond this point.

A raucous family of howler monkeys sounds the campground alarm early the next morning. Leaving some of my gear at the tent site, I point my bike south down the thin ribbon of paved road that cuts through the thick forest. By the time I reach the ruins, it’s mid-afternoon. I’m tired and nearly out of water but satisfied to have officially reached the ending point of the bicycle journey. Walking around in the late-afternoon light, I spot howler and spider monkeys, ocellated turkeys, a group of five or six collared peccaries, and, on the way back to the campground, I have an improbable sighting of Señor de la Selva himself — jaguar, lord of the jungle! I snap a quick photo just before he slips away into the deep shade of the forest. Even though he appears as only a speck in my viewfind-er, enough physical detail exists to prove to everyone back home that I haven’t just taken a picture of someone’s pet dog.

That evening, new visitors enter the campground, a mother and son from Russia who speak almost perfect English. As we become acquainted, they graciously offer

to drive me to the ruins in their rental car the following morning. Sergey, the son, is an archeologist working at a Mayan site near Oaxaca. Calakmul just happens to be his area of study. He’s a wealth of knowl-edge, explaining the significance of Mayan

names and dates and pointing out architec-tural details. The site, though, is so enor-mous and imposing, the flora and fauna so rich, and my body and mind so worn out from the long journey that I’m content to just wander in this incredible place.

I spend my last day hiking around the trails near the campground, climbing a 30-meter wooden tower that overlooks the forest canopy, and turning over rocks looking for scorpions, spiders, and snakes — things I did as a kid growing up in the woods of New Jersey. Then, all too soon, it’s time to bike back into Xpujil where I will board a bus for Tulum and the long-awaited reunion with my wife, Ursula. We have a romantic rendezvous scheduled along the sandy, white beaches of the Riviera Maya.

There’s no doubt that this bicycle adven-ture has been physically demanding (I’ve shed over 10 pounds!), but my mind is clear and my spirits buoyed. Each return visit to this peaceful peninsula brings renewed appreciation for its amazing natural beauty and rich archeological heritage, which is why I continue to be perplexed by the absence of bicycle tourists. In my three vis-its here, I have met only one other cyclist. In ending this journey, I feel as if I have planted the seeds for another.

Charles Lynch lives in Fort Collins, Colorado. The semi-retired father of six is a published writer/photographer and adventure cyclist. For more information about cycling the Yucatán, you can email him at rimrock photography@hotmail.com.

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Simple needs met. A room with a bed and a bathroom for $15 in Los Limones.

Rule the airwaves. Watching wrestling, fútbol, or soaps is popular at village tiendas.

Time travel. Charles rides past the ruins of Chicanna, where he was allowed to ride his bike.