December can be dismal and depressing, the days are the shortest of the year, cold and damp, sometimes foggy and icy, it is surely the darkest of all months. Having just returned from New Zealand, we were looking forward to the Christmas festivities that were nearly upon us, but beyond that nothing very exciting had been planned. Once again the C.T.C. magazine"Cycle" arrived to cheer us up and give us something more to look forward to through the long winter months and the whole of the following year. The last issue of each year is for me the most interesting read, as it contains at least three pages of cycling holidays and for the more adventurous members, details of extraordinary, pioneering cycle expeditions, to far away destinations in unusual countries scattered around the globe. Resting nearly at the bottom of the North American land mass with the two giant countries of Canada and the USA bearing down heavily upon it, is Mexico. The first and the largest of the group of Central American countries that funnel down to The Panama Canal and the southern half of the great American continent. It was thirteen months after those dismal December days that we arrived to start our major tour of 2002 in Mexico City one of highest and most populated capital cities of the world.

It was with some trepidation that we stepped off the aeroplane, wondering what hazards lay ahead of us. Since making a commitment to the tour we had heard so many stories that were detrimental to Mexico, the most worrying concerned the bandits who it was alleged, held up travellers at gunpoint to steal their money and other valuables. Warnings were also forthcoming - concerning earthquakes, volcanos that erupted without prior notice, problems with busy roads, large trucks and buses driven by complete nutters, altitude sickness and exposure to extreme heat. It is with some considerable relief that I can now report that during our time in Mexico most of these dangers proved to be grossly exaggerated, however it is true to say that the heat did cause us some problems during the first week and the large trucks that trundled along the the mainly single carriage roads, did need to be treated with extreme caution. A coach was waiting outside the airport to transport our small party of eight men and seven ladies, with all the luggage and fifteen bikes into the centre of Mexico City for a much needed sleep in the Hotel Catedral. It was nearly dusk but the streets were still heaving with motor vehicles of all types and sizes as they generally do in all of the worlds major cities. Driving standards appeared to be quite good, not erratic and chaotic as we had been led to believe, probably this was because the sheer volume of traffic only allowed movement at a very slow pace. A strange penetrating acrid smell seemed to permeate everywhere caused by a high level of air pollution, it was gratifying to know that our cycle ride had been planned to finish fifty kilometres south east of Mexico city, at a town named Amecameca to avoid all the traffic congestion and air pollution that we were now beginning to experience. Initially there had been some confusion which direction the ride was going to take, when we first booked, it was planned to travel from Amecameca, through the central highlands of Mexico terminating 1,150 kilometres west on the Pacific coast at Manzanillo a resort eighty kilometres north of Acapulco. Sometime later we were informed that the route had been changed around to proceed in the opposite direction from west to east, to avoid problems that could have arisen through starting at high altitude, (Mexico city is 2,240 metres above sea level).

A direct result of this change of schedule meant that after a very brief site seeing walk around Mexico City Centro the following morning, the coach that should have driven us to Amecameca to begin our cycle ride, returned us to the airport in time for a ninety minute internal flight to Manzanillo on the Pacific coast. Looking down from 20,000 feet through the small window of the Mexicana aeroplane into a clear blue sky with views of the high mountains and the arid rugged countryside that surrounded them below, it was difficult to imagine how on earth over the next twenty days we would be able to make a return journey by bicycle. My mind began to wander, I thought of Hernan Cortes the 34 year old Spaniard who in 1519 had sailed to the east coast of Mexico with 500 men and a few horses, by 1521 he had taken Tenochtitlan (Mexico City) and proceeded to conquer the rest of the country, which then became a Spanish colony for the next 300 years, that was some feat in a hot and hostile environment all those years ago. I have digressed a little from my story line writing about Hernan Cortes, but his achievements certainly put our well planned adventure into perspective, not really much of a comparison, as there were only fifteen ageing cyclists in our army and it was never our ambition to re-colonize Mexico on our bicycles.

Between Mexico city and the Pacific coast a temperature difference of fourteen degrees celsius existed, heat rebounded up off of the hot tarmac to engulf us as we waited at Manzanillo airport on that Saturday afternoon in January to collect our luggage and bikes. England 4^o Mexico City 18^o and Manzanillo 32^o, these temperature changes would sure take some getting use to. One more short coach ride and after travelling for two days we finally reached Hotel Playa de Santiago, a pleasant holiday hotel that overlooked a nice sandy beach and the Pacific Ocean. It would have been lovely to have spent just one day laying about on that beach soaking up the hot sunshine and doing nothing, just like normal people seem to do for two weeks each year. This was not to be however, as it wasn't on the schedule and it was time to prepare the bikes and make ready for the beginning of our epic cycle ride through the volcanic central highlands of Mexico to Amecameca.

That Sunday morning the sun began its ascent high into the sky soon after seven am. by nine thirty as we were attaching our pannier bags to the bikes it was already hot enough to cook breakfast on the pavement. Not long afterwards a line of cyclists left the the grounds of Hotel Playa De Santiago to ride south for eight kilometres before it became possible to turn inland and head north east towards the days destination Colima. With the rumoured stories of bandits in mind, Peter the tour leader and organiser had advised us before setting out to ride together in a group for our own safety. This is not always very easy or practical with mixed abilities in the party and it was not long after we had turned inland that the group fragmented into several small sections. After about thirty kilometres of fairly flat terrain the party was united again at a stop by a roadside store for something to drink and a break for elevenses. During the later part of the morning and early afternoon, the narrow road that had in places been cut and blasted from the side of the mountain began to climb endlessly and the temperature followed it. At a point where it curved around to the right a high wall of rock rose vertically up, at the road edge a concrete channel, one metre wide and 400mm deep ran alongside to drain surface water during heavy rain storms. At home in England during the very rare occasions that exceptionally hot weather overwhelms us Chris soon begins to suffer and wilt in the heat. Struggling on the steep bend to maintain some momentum, her bike wobbled and the front wheel slid down into the channel, the rest of the bike followed and then keeled over, Chris received a hard knock on the head as she fell against the rock face. Having disentangled her from the bike she sat stunned and shaken on a rock by the side of the road. Unfortunately because of the heat she had removed her helmet sometime previously, blood was beginning to ouse from a small cut on her head and the jumbled words without logic that came forth as she spoke, convinced me that there were signs of concussion, a hard lesson was being learned from this experience. Only a few motors had passed by that afternoon, we were the last two of the group on the road and our situation was looking grim to say the least, so I waved frantically at the driver of a large American pick up truck that came along minutes later. Thankfully the Mexican man was kind enough to stop and I was able to make him understand with the help of a lot of sign language, that Christine had been involved in an accident and needed assistance. My spirits rose immediately when he agreed to take us both with the bikes to Minatitlan the next town of any size that was sixteen kilometres along the route and the place where we should have been meeting the rest of the party for lunch.

After driving five kilometres up the mountainside, Chris being looked after in the cab by the kind Mexican man and his wife, while I sat in the back clinging onto the bikes, we caught up with two more members of the cycling party. The driver stopped so that we could explain what had happened, Anita, the wife of Peter the tour leader and John a retired gentleman were both tired and exhausted from riding in the heat that had by mid afternoon reached 36^o, they were more than grateful when our local friend offered to load their bikes on the back and allowed them to climb aboard the truck. John became a good friend during the holiday, he was a man with strong religious beliefs, a member of the Methodist church and very open with his christian faith, like me, he didn't believe that it was necessary to dress up in lycra clothing to ride a bike. He would ride all day in ordinary casual summer shirt and shorts, wearing a pair of smart black Sunday best shoes. During our conversations later that week he told me that if he ever felt that something in life was about to go seriously wrong, he would say a short prayer and usually things would start to go better. I believe he said a prayer for Christine that afternoon because by the time we stopped in Minatitlan her speech was back to normal and her head had stopped bleeding. John was a good man to have on your side in time of crisis I shall always remember him with a lot of respect as John the Methodist, (not the Baptist). Our Mexican saviour left us resting on the town plaza to continue on his original mission, leaving me with a deep sense of gratitude. Standing on the opposite side of the street I spotted another large bright yellow pick up truck with two rows of seats in the cab and an empty cargo area, I am sure that under normal circumstances I would not have taken any notice of such a vehicle, but today the word taxi displayed across the top shone like a beacon. It was 4pm there was still a lot of climbing and 56 kilometres to reach Colima, darkness descended at 7pm and Chris was too shaken to continue cycling. Short negotiations took place and the taxi was hired to transport four cyclists to their hotel in Colima. A few of the others completed the journey in a local bus, only three people finished the days 75 mile ride on bikes. It had not been a very good start to the Mexico tour!

Colima City is 495 metres above sea level and has a population of 150,000 inhabitants. Like many of the cities and even the small towns in Mexico, the town square, or plaza to call it by the real name, is the central feature. At the top end of a plaza, a church or cathedral usually overlooks all the many social gatherings and community events that take place on the square. Most plazas continually buzz with activity, it is fascinating to while away the time sitting on a park bench in the shade of the trees, (that for some peculiar reason has their trunks painted white,) observing all that is going on amongst the flower gardens and paved areas that make the plazas such attractive amenities. A 19^th century Moorish arcade stands at the one side of Colima main plaza and covers many shops, restaurants and other small traders stalls. We had a day off the bikes to allow time to look around the city and make an excursion in two taxis to visit Laguna La Maria, a lake in a renowned local beauty spot. As things turned out the afternoon jaunt was hardly worthwhile as one of the taxis broke down and the lake was not the area of natural beauty that we had been lead to believe.

The journey did however present one good photo opportunity, on the way back we had a good sighting of Colima Volcano, that is situated forty kilometres north of the city. It rises out of the landscape to a height of 3,842 metres. Records of the volcano's abundant activity have been kept since 1576. The last major eruption came in 1941 when it caused a great loss of life in the surrounding towns and countryside. It is still very active with smoke and obnoxious gases continually belching from the summit, it occasionally rehearses for the next big performance by having a cough and splutter throwing up boiling molten lava that spews over and streams down the top part of the mountain side, setting fire to the grass slopes and anything else that gets in its way. Another hazard that this area of Mexico has experienced on several occasions are earthquakes. For the last 450 years these two natural phenomena have together created more than enough major disasters for the people of the Colima region to contend with.

It was not until we reached the higher ground 1,500 metres up in the mountains several days later that the temperature became cooler and more suitable for cycling activity. Christine had reacted with a nervous apprehension after her accident, fearing that once again she would become exhausted by the heat and be unable to continue. To overcome this fear it was decided that it would be best for us to cycle as far as we could during the cooler mornings, then complete the days ride in the afternoon on a bus or some other form of motor transport. During the afternoon after we had left Colima in the small town of Pihuama we were assisted by several college boys who were keen to practice their English. They kindly lead us from the town plaza where we had eaten our lunch, to the bus stop at the edge of the town. Here they waited with us for thirty minutes for the bus to arrive, then they informed the driver that we wanted to travel to Tecalitan our over night stop. It wasn't until our bikes and bags were loaded and we were seated on the bus, that they left and returned to the town. Without being asked, those young people had volunteered their assistance which had been greatly appreciated. Our efforts to converse in the Spanish language only amounted to a few key words that were spoken with a Bedfordshire accent, the use of these words always seemed to produce the same blank look on the Mexicans faces, which told us that they did not have a clue what we were trying to say. Bus stops are not the easiest things to find in Mexico where a real shortage of all types of signposts exists, including those that give road directions. We had cycled to Tamazula de Gordiano the chosen lunch destination the following day. After a search of the town centre we found the bus station beside a small motor repair and service station. A Mexican man who would have been aged around thirty something, was having his new Toyota truck checked out. Mistaking us for Americans he spoke to us in good English, when we told him that we came from England and were waiting for a bus to take us to Mazamitla he became thoroughly intrigued. Just as the teenage boys had done the day before, he waited with us until the the bus arrived. Unfortunately for us the bus was nearly full and there was no space available underneath in the luggage compartment for the two bikes. Once again, we were treated to an show of kindness that we have never witnessed before in any other country. First the man helped us to lift the bikes onto the back of his truck, then he drove us for the remaining twenty four miles to the days destination. On the way he told us that he had learnt the English language while working in Texas for three years and that he was looking forward to returning to the States when he had once again found suitable employment. He was not very keen to accept any remuneration for going out of his way when we stopped at Mazamitla, but I did make sure that he received more than enough pesos to cover the petrol cost. So much for all the stories of rogues and bandits that we had heard before leaving. In truth the total reverse had been demonstrated during our first few days in Mexico.

A fairly flat and shorter route to Jiquilpan on Thursday allowed us to complete the whole days ride for the first time, the afternoon heat was not as intense as it had previously been and Christine began to recover her lost confidence. After that day it was no longer necessary to find lifts in the afternoons, this made us feel better, as it saved a lot of hassle and stopped us both from feeling fraudulent. Leaving Mazamitla in the morning we missed a right turn and later found that by accident we had taken a quicker alternative way to Jiquilpan, the other members of our group all took the planned route to visit another lake, we rode on our own all day which is not at all unusual. Although mountains are never far from view in Central Mexico, the landscape is not often spectacular as it is in some regions of the world. The climate in January is dry and arid, rivers soon dry up, the ground is often covered by scrubby grass and large cacti are a familiar sight.

Chris amongst the cacti.

The fresh chicken stall

Around eleven o'clock we came across the small town of Abadiano with market stalls arranged around the plaza. As it was the right time to stop for the morning break we bought food and drink from one of the stalls then took a seat on the plaza to observe the market activity and consume our victuals. A short distance from where we sat was a stall used by a man who was selling bicycle parts and accessories, he was repairing a wheel in a jig just as I do nearly every day of the week in my shop. I did try to talk to the man but his English was no better than my Spanish, which didn't create a very good basis for a sensible conversation, so I wished him "buenos dias" and proceeded to the fresh chicken stall in the corner of the market place. I stood totally amazed as I watched a man who was lowering three live chickens into three funnel shaped receptacles that were fixed to a board, their body and legs protruded out of the top and their neck and head dangled from the bottom. The man then took hold of a butchers knife, held each chicken by the head and executed each one in turn by slitting the throats. When their legs and feet had stopped kicking around in the air he lifted them from the funnels passed them over to his wife who immediately began to pluck the birds. Finally the remaining feathers were singed off in a small fire burning at the back of the stall. The whole process had only taken a few minutes. I am sure that it would never be possible to buy a chicken as fresh as that in one of our squeaky clean supermarkets without the food standards agency quickly becoming involved.

On Friday morning we cycled away from Jiquilpan heading for Zamora 58 kilometres to the east. After we had completed about half of this distance our progress was slowed by hundreds of people, all walking along the road in the same direction that we were cycling, this we soon began to realise was the start of a pilgrimage to celebrate one of many religious festivals that are held throughout Mexico each year. By the side of the road, stalls had been set up to sell food and drink to the walkers. Buses and cars that had transported all of these people for ten kilometres out into the countryside from Santiago Tangamandapio were parked along the route. It was not long before the crowd of walkers became so dense that it was impossible to continue cycling so we had to dismount and walk with them,

Pilgrims progress

there was no way to avoid the long column of of pilgrims until a dirt track running parallel with the main road allowed us to bypass the main bunch. To our relief at the junction for Santiago Tangamandapio, the remaining pilgrims turned off the main road into the town to celebrate their achievements at the fiesta, allowing us to continue once more our journey to Zamora unhindered.

Lago de Patzcuaro is a large lake situated in the centre of the country just to the north of a very appealing city with the same name. Together the two attractions create a magnetic destination for millions of tourists to Central Mexico. To reach them we should have cycled the designated route along one of the smaller minor roads through the volcanic mountains that surround the region. That would have been Sundays ride if we hadn't inadvertently followed the signposts for Patzcuaro as we left Uruapan, which we found out later that morning directed us to the main State Highway 14. It became obvious that something was wrong as soon as the toll booths came into view at the start of what can only be described as a single carriage motorway with four lanes. A security guard with a pistol strapped to his waist and a small sub machine gun hanging over his shoulder, smiled as he lazily waved us through the toll gates without asking for payment. Having learnt from our experience that it is always better to be polite and not to offend heavily armed officials, we smiled back and continued along the motorway, by that time it was to late in the day to turn back and look for the correct route. A punishing gradient slowly lifted that toll road 520 metres over the following 28 miles. Riding on our own once again, we took short breaks under several of the bridges to shelter from the bright sunshine and take in much needed water. Sundays were a god send to cyclists in the true sense of the words, as they reduced the number of heavy lorries using the roads, but there was still a large number of cars and coaches to be seen. Several groups of local club cyclists usually on mountain bikes sped downhill with spurious style on the opposite side of the carriageway, they obviously knew the easiest direction to travel along that toll road.

Riding the toll road.

Resting at Patzcuaro junction.

One of my most lasting memories of Mexico is sure to be the town and city centres that I found to be totally intriguing, Mexico has managed to retain its unique traditional street markets, that appear to flourish all over the country. Patzcuaro was no exception, as we rode into the city midway through Sunday afternoon a thriving street market was spread out around the two large plazas along the connecting road and into the streets that approached them. It would have been possible to buy any kind of household goods imaginable, along with books, fresh food, hardware, clothing and many other articles to numerous to mention on this page. It was the biggest and busiest Sunday street market that I have ever visited. It was also a good place to find all sorts of traditional handicrafts that included table ware, copper ornaments and hand painted jewel boxes.

Translated from the old Tarascan language, Patzcuaro means "place of delight", our two day visit revealed that this was a very apt description. In the centre of Plaza Bocanegra stands a bronze statue of Gertrudis Bocanegra who was shot by a firing squad in 1818 for daring to support the independence movement. Having waited patiently for sometime in the shadow of this martyred heroine we finally moved on to settle into The Mision Manual Hotel. Peter our leader had taken a great deal of time and care that afternoon to find a hotel that was comfortable and of a high enough standard for the groups two night stay. The hotel was positioned in the corner of the second plaza that had been named after Vasco Quiroga, a catholic bishop during the the early part of the sixteenth century, (at time that Mexico was being colonised,) who it is said was also responsible for the building the splendid colonial mansions that surround the square. A portal (arcade) covered the wide pavement and the entrance to the hotel, along with other restaurants and craft shops that have now developed from the original Spanish buildings. Monday morning and it was still business as usual in the bustling street market that operates on Mondays and Fridays as well as Sundays.

Mision San Manuel Hotel

San Agustin monastic church

Other street vendors selling a wide assortment of wares are visible everyday of the week. We just had time that morning to write a few cards and despatch them at the post office, then take a walk to admire the architecture of San Agustin church, a monastery and other colonial buildings in this truly delightful town, before catching a bus to the harbour after lunch.

Visitors to Patzcuaro would not be forgiven for failing to take the forty minute boat trip across Lago de Patzcuaro to the island of Janitzio, unquestionable, the hub of the local tourist trade. Janitzio island protrudes grandly out of the lake resembling a small table top mountain. The summit is crowned with a giant 40 metre high statue of " El Generalisimo Don Jose Maria Morelos y Pavon", the notable Mexican general who was involved in the struggle for independence. Alas he was also executed. At the harbour long motor boats were moored in readiness to ferry people across to the island, only when each boat in turn became full were they allowed to leave. Fortunately it was a fine sunny afternoon and passengers arrived in abundance so we had only a short wait before we departed from the wooden jetty. After thirty minutes travelling across the water as we were approaching the shore with El Generalisimo's statue appearing to grow larger by the minute, the captain of our vessel changed course to circum navigate the island. As this circuit was coming to an end several small fishing boats came into view. It was no coincidence that their famous dragonfly nets immediately rose up from the water to demonstrate to us their centuries old traditional method of catching the white fish that were once swimming about below. Sadly the truth is that over the years the lake has been over fished and usually all they manage to catch are the tourists as they float by, the moment the nets appeared above the water, dozens of Japanese made cameras clicked to record the scene for posterity (mine included as the evidence shows). Shortly afterwards one of the fisherman's boats paddled alongside ours and a bucket was held out in readiness to gratefully receive all the contributions that were freely given to support the needy Janitzio fishing fleet. Many first time visitors to the island of Janitzio would hate

Janitzio island Lago de Patzcuaro.

The Janitzio fishing boats.

the blatant commercialism that confronts them as soon as they step ashore. A multitude of small gift shops and restaurants line the waterfront and then frequently repeat themselves all the way up the twisty climb, only to spread out once more to cover the top. These enterprises are run by the local Purepecha women (indigenous indian people) to support their families, most of the shops sell the same handicrafts and cheaply made souvenirs. The Mexican people seem to love the island and many think of their journey as a pilgrimage. It soon becomes obvious that Janitzio is totally dependant on it's visitors for survival, but somehow all the shops and restaurants created a curious ambience of commercial charm and colour. Which lead me to conclude that all these small businesses, allowed the islanders to succeed by their constant endeavours, to provide local employment and at the same time enhance our Mexican experience, which is what the tourist business is all about.

Our Mexican adventure continued throughout the following week, on Tuesday an overnight stop at Morelia (named after El Generalisimo), prepared us for a pleasant 40 kilometre climb over Mil Cumbres Pass that took us to the height of 2,800 metres. Fortunately this was on a reasonably quiet road with some fairly spectacular scenery by Mexican standards, the road snaked for miles around hairpin bends until we finally reached the summit. On some of the busier mountain roads with tight bends, the heavy trucks had been a permanent worry especially those towing trailers, hairpin bends were cambered in places like Manchester velo track. Truck drivers would allow plenty of space initially, but as the vehicle progressed around the bend, the trailer would close in, creating a real fear in our minds that the rear wheels would roll over us. Sometimes the long climbs seemed to go on forever, with two full pannier bags and other luggage attached to the bike, cycling could be a laborious and very slow form of transport and on a number of occasions also quite

Sitting on Mil Cumbres summit.

The BIG Mexican trucks

dangerous. After the Mil Cumbres pass, which was the highest point of our travels we enjoyed an easy down hill 32 kilometre ride to Ciudad Hidalgo. This city was also renamed after independence to commemorate the life of Migual Hidalgo a priest who lead one of the early uprisings against Spanish rule in 1810. Unfortunately after his capture he suffered the same fate as many other rebels and was executed. To discourage any more revolts his head was removed to be displayed in a public place, it became clear that being a freedom fighter in Mexico two hundred years ago, was not a life style that could guarantee longevity. Two nights in the Zitacuaro allowed a day for some of the party to visit the El Rosario butterfly museum, that was only a short ride from the town.

A name like Valle de Bravo our next destination brings to mind scenes from one of those old Hollywood westerns with the American gringos and Mexican bandits, shooting at each other with pistols on horse back. Once again I am allowing my imagination to run wild, our entrance into this pleasant town midway through a fine Saturday afternoon in early February, was in a much more peaceful style. Before setting out that morning we had opted to cycle the easiest of two proposed routes, the one that followed the main highway, after the initial 29 kilometre slow climb which we had gradually become accustomed to, the road levelled out and became a comfortable 80 kilometre ride. A longer alternative route was described by our leader as more strenuous, travelling along minor mountain roads, some with unsealed rough surfaces, eight members of the group rose to to this challenge. Our friend John was waiting at the bottom of a long flight of stone steps that lead up to the entrance of the Hotel Los Arcos as we completed the days ride. By 5pm all of the cyclists that had taken the easy route were able to relax in the comfortable rooms of the hotel. As 6.30 approached the hard riders section had still not appeared, darkness descends very quickly in Mexico, cycling can be dangerous at times during daylight, after dark without lights it would have been suicidal, some of us began to feel increasingly concerned. Over an hour of darkness had past as I waited anxiously on the steps of the hotel, thinking that John may be having a quiet word with the celestial beings above and hoping that his prayers would soon be answered, when to my astonishment two motor vehicles loaded with eight bikes and the same number of cyclists came to a stop in front of the steps. Apparently after becoming a little lost for a time and riding along some forty kilometres of rough roads, sometimes surfaced with soft volcanic ash, it had become obvious that the group would not be able to complete the ride during daylight hours. By mid afternoon they had made the sensible decision to abandon the days cycling and make arrangements with the owners of the two vehicles to to transport them to Valle de Bravo.

Two weeks of the Mexico tour had past very quickly, we entered the third week with yet another long climb up to Toluca, positioned at 2,600 metres above sea level, it is well qualified to boast that it is the highest city in the country. Having been a dedicated touring cyclist for more than half of my life, has presented me on more than a few occasions with a unique opportunity to visit isolated communities in rural areas or tucked away behind mountain ranges, that are hidden from the gaze and intrusions of modern life. Small towns and villages like these have often revealed themselves to be treasure troves of historic culture and interest, that have been worth every calorie of energy that has been sacrificially burnt, in my efforts to reach them. Malinaco came as a total surprise and fits the category previously described admirably. Built at the edge of a valley 60 kilometres along the winding Highway 55 from Toluca, Malinalco presented itself as a small and colourful picturesque town with an Augustinian monastery and church. Along one of the cobbled streets is the entrance to the Aztec temple of Eagle and Jaguar Warriors, from a distance the temple held some

Malinalco market stalls.

The Aztec temple of Eagle and Jaguar Warriors.

resemblance to a large eagles nest perched on the carved out rock face 400 steps up the mountain side. Dark clouds were surrounding the mountain tops and rain began to fall for the first time during our visit to Mexico as we entered Malinalco. The forecast was for persistent rain to continue through the afternoon and the following day, prompting a change to the scheduled plan. The road to Cuernavaca the tours penultimate destination rose even higher to 3,000 metres. To avoid this massive climb along a rough road, through the low misty clouds and heavy rain which would not have been at all pleasant, arrangements were made to spend the morning in Malinalco to explore the historic buildings. Living in a rural part of England, its not every day that the opportunity arises to visit a real Aztec temple so it had to be done, and a small coach was hired to transport us to Cuernavaca, Mexico's second largest city during the afternoon.

Aztec is the collective name that is used to identify the Mexican tribes that wandered the area prior to the Spanish conquest, these indigenous people were predominately warriors who constantly became involved in tribal conflicts and quarrels. Work was started around 1486 with the use of slave labour and primitive tools made from volcanic rock on the temple site that overlooks Malinalco. The temple was most likely used for the ritual activities of the Aztec military, blood sacrifice would have been among the rituals performed, its quite well known that this form of ceremony often formed the basis of a good day out for these people during that period of time. After the arrival of the Spaniards (1521) the site and its pagan rituals were abandoned, the indian people quickly converted to the catholic christian faith, many were baptised in mass ceremonies that took place in the grounds of the new church and monastery that had been constructed on the lower ground in Malinalco. Making a pilgrimage has been a popular pastime of the Mexican people and a tradition that goes back into centuries past, even before the conversion to the christian faith. For some people it will be a once in a lifetime experience, while others make a pilgrimage an annual event to be looked forward to like a holiday. During our one night visit to Malinalco people were gathering in the town to prepare for the final leg of their pilgrimage to Chalma a larger town 10 kilometres along the road towards Cuernavaca, Chalma is now the second largest pilgrims site in Mexico. A few days before the beginning of Lent each year it becomes full to overflowing with pilgrims who arrive from all over the country, some are in motor vehicles, while thousands of others make the journey in the traditional way travelling for several days on foot or on bicycles to reach the town. Organised church groups from other towns will walk carrying the crucifix and banners of their church at the front of the procession, a truck with supplies of food and camping equipment will follow behind in support. The purpose of all this activity is to visit the shrine in a cave that was dedicated to Saint Michael long ago, they also visit the church in Chalma to light a candle before receiving the ashes at mass on Ash Wednesday, people with mild and more serious ailments pray for the miracle cure. Our pilgrimage to Chalma was made in a 36 seater bus that was waiting for us to board outside of the Posada Familiar where we had slept in Malinalco the previous night. The bus was so old and dilapidated that I dare not look at the condition of the tyres, which would soon be rolling down steep mountain roads, but I have no doubt in my mind that it would never have passed our Ministry of Transport test. It was only after a lot of effort that fifteen bikes and all of our luggage was crammed onto the rear seats leaving just about enough room for all of the cyclists the driver and his mate to sit in the front. On the way our bus passed many pilgrims walking to Chalma, cyclists riding on inexpensive mountain bikes struggled up the rough mountain road, some had dismounted and were slowly pushing their bikes through the rain. I could feel a real sympathy for these tired beings, having felt many times myself, the same weary fatigue that would be attacking both mind and limbs. A long queue of traffic had formed and was waiting to enter the the town, that was already packed to capacity with buses, lorries, cars and people milling about around hundreds of market traders. It was a great pity that only one hour was allotted to visit all the attractions in this famous place of pilgrimage, after that short time had past we continued on route to Cuernavaca, having missed a visit to the church and shrine, but alas the sad reality is that time does not allow us to cover everything in this life.

Amecameca was now within one days cycling distance, during the morning of this stage we rode along quiet country roads, including 6 kilometres of unsealed rough surface covered with a layer of volcanic ash, that was so soft and loose in places it was easier to climb off and walk. In the afternoon we covered the last 28 kilometres slowly climbing along the busy R115 trunk road that connects the south of the country with Mexico City. At first there were only two lanes, once again the heavy trucks and buses caused us to feel vulnerable on this fast highway, the addition of a third slow lane on our side of the carriageway later improved the safety factor considerably. Resting menacingly in the mountain region that surrounds Amecameca sits the volcano Popocatepetl still threatening to become active at very short notice. Signs began to appear along the roadside saying "Rutas de evacuacion" that are intended to lead the public to safer territory should Popocatepetl awaken as it did in 1994 to vent its fearsome wrath. It was late afternoon when we finally cycled into Amecameca after more than two and a half weeks toiling through the mountains of Mexico, traffic was tailing back on the

Popocatepetl volcano 5, 465 metres

main road to the outskirts of the town, inside it had nearly become complete gridlock. To our dismay in front of the hotel where we had intended to sleep for the following two nights, a gigantic funfair had been erected spreading out to cover the entrance of the church and the large square in front of it. A market at least ten times larger than any that we had witnessed previously filled every street and open space available. The Mexican people love a celebration, we had arrived in the town, it was Ash Wednesday the beginning of lent and a very important date on the catholic church calendar, surely no better reason is needed to hold a fiesta!

Celebration diner with cabaret.

An end of tour diner to celebrate the achievements of our small group of cyclists, was arranged in a local restaurant opposite the hotel. While we were eating, a band of wandering minstrels dressed in traditional Mexican costume complete with cowboy hats wandered in off the street to entertain us with their music and songs. After the meal, our leader Peter revealed that the instruments on his handlebars had recorded that 1,140 kilometres had been cycled and 64,000 feet climbed. To put his figures into perspective, remember that Mount Everest is 32,000 feet high, so we had climbed the equivalent height twice and probably freewheeled down once. If the the tour had travelled from east to west as had been originally planned, then we may have climbed the 32,000 feet once and freewheeled down twice, but that is all pure speculation, I am sure that either way it would have been just as interesting. The funfair rides and the noises that accompanies them were still in full motion, creating a happy festive atmosphere as we left the restaurant to move on to a bar for one or two beers, before retiring for a much needed sleep. At twelve o'clock midnight just as everybody drifted off into slumberland, the ground around the church exploded with a display of deafening fireworks, that awoke us all once more, if only we had known that this was about to happen, I am certain we would all have made the effort to stay out to watch this spectacular pyrotechnic display. Gradually our Mexican adventure was drawing to a close, just one full day remained to view the attractions of Amecameca and the surrounding area. A few keen members of the party cycled out along the road that lead up to the base of Popocatepetl volcano. Chris and myself had become tired after days of mountain climbing on bikes and chose to use it as a rest day. During the morning we enjoyed a few magic moments quietly sitting together in the church adjacent to our hotel, experiencing the tranquility and sanctity of that historic building and observing the comings and goings of small local family groups, visiting to the church to pray on that special day. At the side of the naive, flowers decorated the shines that had been constructed and hundreds of flickering small candles had been lined up in flat trays. A walk through hundreds of market stalls across the square and up a narrow road lead us to another small church and "The Sanctuary of El Sacromonte", a cave 90 metres up in the hills above the town, that is reputed to be one of the most sacred of all shrines in Mexico. The real reward for our climbing efforts came with the superb views of the town in the valley and the Popocatepetl volcano that rises in the background beyond.

Amecameca

That was it, all over, Mexico done, another dilapidated bus collected us from our hotel on Friday afternoon to drive us to the airport. I was quite convinced by the smell of burning as we crawled slowly up the motorway gradient towards Mexico City that the clutch would fail and we would come to a complete standstill, or worse still the bus would catch fire! My own prayers were answered this time, for we made it safely to the airport in good time to board a British Airways aeroplane at ten o'clock and fly home to London and the UK.

Richard Byers.