Back in the Saddle

Last night, the night before my first ride in over a year, I unfortunately had the great idea to get drunk and go to whorehouses with Miguel, the Colombian ninja. We visited two of them, the first filled with the ugliest whores I've ever seen. I had them play "4 No Se Ve" by Nejo and Dalmata, telling the fat whore that should be the theme song of the place. She didn't understand. The second whorehouse was better and we wasted the night drinking with a table full of whores. Cops raided the place and Miguel and I just barely got our knives hidden in our shoes before we were searched.

I woke up terribly dehydrated and hung over and forced myself to get on the road. I threw up 3 times on the Pan American, bonked once, and stupidly didn't stop for lunch when I passed a roadside comedor. I had to ride 40 km with only a banana until the next roadside restaurant. I arrived shaking and starved but felt too awful to eat much. I told the waitress to watch my bike and passed out on the table for an hour and a half.

I tried a new way into Cali thinking it would be better than the old, shitty, dangerous, pot-holed, traffic-crazy route I normally take. In fact it was much worse and involved significantly more riding. I got lost in some shit poor barrio on the ege of  the city but then somehow came upon Eclipse, a sex motel I had taken some girls to. I remembered that cab ride back to Grenada clearly and made my way across the city as the sun went down behind the mountains. Ran into a coke dealer on Sexta I hadn't seen in years. He pissed off the wong guy and someone had fucked up his hand. His pinky and the finger next to it were curled up into his palm and useless. Cali hasn't changed.

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