Biking in Paradise

My mid-western roots are firing shaming pistons into my heart as I write this, but it is true; I just went biking in Cozumel, Mexico. There is no denying it—it was over the top, perfect.

As many of you know, I live on a small island off the coast of Maine. There is a four-mile loop road here that follows the shore and is beautiful for biking—most of the time.

In the summer wafts of beach rose and sea salt fill the air, and translucent waves crash against the jagged coastline. Beautiful. In the fall, the sky is a rich blue, and the golden beach grasses and tangles of yellow and crimson bittersweet rustle in freshening wind. Invigorating. In the winter, the trees, rocks and waves stand up starkly—refusing to bend to the weather and remind me that I shouldn’t either. I love it all.

But then comes the spring or should I say, the non-season in Maine. The playful ice and snow are gone, yet it is far too cold for anything to grow. It is a long, long pregnant pause that lasts from March to late May. That is not to say it doesn’t have its beauty and fun; maple sugaring for example and…and…you got me.

So, recently when we were told by the airlines that our pandemic-era travel vouchers were about the expire, making a trip to another island possible–a tropical one—I didn’t mind a bit.

Upon arriving, we played in the water, snorkeled and burnt our ghost-like northern skin, but when I heard that I could rent a bike to ride around the island, I couldn’t resist; this was my kind of early spring biking.

Early the next morning, I snuck out of the house while the heat of the sun had not yet gathered its full force to radiate not just down from the sky but up from the pavement creating its daily heat sandwich and climbed on to my lovely,  rental, 7-speed, Specialized beach cruiser. A beauty that I had for the day at $15.

I quietly pedaled through the cool, sleepy streets of the town, seeing few people other than a couple of bleary-eyed school children  locking the wrought iron gates to their yards behind them as they sallied forth into the day. I called out a few tentative “Holas!” and “Buenos Dias!” and received sleepy grins and waves. Before long I found myself leaving the residential area behind and heading out on a bike trail that circles the island.

Cozumel’s ahead of its time. Not only have they chosen to protect 70% of their island, making a choice to only develop 30 %, they have also turned an old road around the island into a 40-mile, car-free bicycle loop. As I cycled along the eastern side of the island, I was surrounded by thick jungle on both sides that opened occasionally to give access to the white beaches and turquoise waters of the Caribbean. Not a house, not a billboard, not a bit of industry. The water here was the clearest that I have ever seen. It did not have the commanding waves like the Gulf of Maine, rather just a gentle, lulling pull that begged me to swim again and again. On I pedaled dipping in and out of the shade of palmettos, monster leaf plants and other solidarity giants, flirting with the shadows as long as possible.

Eventually, I left them behind and popped out on the western side of the island. Here the sun reigned. Instead of the gray rocks of Maine, there were miles upon miles of uninterrupted sand interspersed between points of pitted limestone. There were no tall trees here, but rather hardy shrubs like sea grape, with their vivid green, wax-covered leaves that have evolved to hoard all the water they can. It seemed like light and saturated color radiated from every direction. I played a game with myself, trying to name all the colors, but I lost. Giant iguanas and their smaller cousins crossed the road fromtime to time, but they were my only company, the only traffic.

20 miles further on I turned from the beach and headed back towards town. Here I passed a bee sanctuary for the endemic Cozumel honey bees that have no stingers and create the famed Mayan Melipona honey. I passed Mayan ruins and then a few ranches and small farms that gave way to small tiendas and tequila tasting tours. The bicycle trail ended, but the bicycle route continued on the road. A whole lane was given just to bikes and as the the road became busier I was struck by how much respect cyclists where given. Maybe it’s because grandmothers cycle here, and families with kids riding double and triple, and workmen hauling the tools and wares on cargo bikes. It is not a leisure activity—it is a necessity—and so it is treated as such. Cars give cyclists ample room. They do not crowd you or even pass you, but rather drive at a reasonable bike-friendly speed. They are also prevented from traveling too fast because of frequent speed bumps.  They do not honk at you, but always seem to cede the way, acknowledging that we are all in this transportation thing together, and why rush?

When I finally reached the western side of the island, I wiggled a little while further down to the north because I can’t seem to stop looking around corners, rounding out my ride to 50 miles. 

This island is not as different from my island up north as I might have thought. A different color palette maybe, a little bigger and warmer perhaps, but the elements are the same. The sea, the sun and the life, all doing what they can to make their way and find harmony in their interweaving.