Two anonymous Ticos once prevented me from doing one of the more insane things I have ever thought of doing in my life. It was the final Saturday of October 1996. The previous six years had been a run of new experiences. I arrived in Costa Rica in October 1990 with my US born wife.
Over the next five years we had two children, bought a property, built a simple but functional house– and then split up. I moved from the campo to the nearby city of San Isidro, had my kids some weekends, and made ends meet by selling baked goods, subletting space in the house I rented, and teaching English.
My main form of transportation was my bicycle, a 21-speed Giant hybrid. I rode most every day, training in the mountains surrounding San Isidro del General. One of my favorite runs was to the top of El Alto mountain, which sits between San Isidro and Dominical on the Pacific Coast. The challenging uphill leg begins at the Rio Pacuar, and winds over 8 kilometers of narrow road. At the lowest point the elevation is 630 meters. At the top it reaches 1,075 meters for a climb of 445 meters or almost 1,500 feet. On the steepest stretches, I rode hunched forward, in first gear, pedaling just hard enough to keep the bike from tipping over.
The reward was reaching the top, then turning around for the exhilarating downhill run back toward town. On occasion, I would continue over the mountain and on to the beach. This was 16 kilometers (10 miles) of steep curving downhill grades that plunged from over 1,000 meters elevation to sea level.
I was starting over in Costa Rica in my late thirties and took risks in my personal life like never before. Among these risks was flying down the mountain road at top speed, only touching the brakes when absolutely necessary. Sharing the hazardous roads with random bad and distracted drivers added to the danger. Which brings me to that night in October.
The sixth game of the World Series was that night, and there was a college football game I wanted to watch in the afternoon. I pedaled my bike over the mountain, down to Playa Dominical, and went to a restaurant that showed US sports events. For the next several hours I drank beer, ate, snuck outside for ganja breaks and visited with friends until the final out of the World Series.
Then I made my crazy decision. Passing up an invitation to spend the night nearby, I decided to pedal back up the mountain. Three-thousand, five hundred feet up, at night, on an unlit road. But the moon was full and I had a head full of alcohol and weed, and while it seemed like a chance to prove something to myself, all it showed was how bad your decision making can be when loaded.
The first few kilometers were on level ground leading to the initial hill. The moon provided some light and I pedaled furiously in an attempt to sober up. Then I hit that first hill. The moon slipped behind a cloud. Visibility could be measured in inches. I wobbled and then slid off the road into the high grass off the shoulder. I made another attempt but the complete darkness disoriented me.
Then a light appeared from behind. I pedaled harder, taking advantage of the brief illumination. The vehicle– a pickup truck– passed me, then stopped. As I very slowly huffed past, the passenger called to me. “Va para Perez?” he asked. (Perez Zeledon is what most locals call San Isidro del General as it is the name of the Canton).
“Si,” I wheezed. “Vamonos,” he said. They waited while I lifted my bike into the bed of the truck. Then I climbed in and laid down next to my bike, and within minutes my tired and wasted body had fallen into a deep sleep.
When I awoke, the driver had stopped his truck in front of my house. Thirty-five kilometers over the top of the chilly El Alto and back down to the city had flown by while I was out cold as if anesthetized. I stumbled from the truck, thanked the driver and wheeled my bike inside the house.
It was not until the next morning that I awoke and wondered who the driver was and how the hell he knew where I lived. I had been so disoriented that I failed to get any names or even a good look at the pair in the truck. To this day it is a mystery, though there were very few gringos in my area of the city, and fewer who were regularly seen bicycling through the streets. My guess is they somehow recognized me.
This was neither the first nor the last time that a Costa Rican I did not know had helped me out of a difficult situation. I like to remember these incidents as a counter to the negativity toward locals that is often present among my fellow gringo expats. Pura Vida!
Read more of Don Mateo’s writing from his newly published ebook.
