“His name is Nico” by Kinsee Morlan
I’ve been spending some alone time lately, enjoying my little Tijuana flat and getting some serious writing done. Sometimes, I let my flat become my super secret catacomb — I don’t leave for hours and hours and hours. This weekend was like that, but on Sunday morning I forced myself to get out and go for a bike ride.
Oh. My. Goodness. First off, I don’t have a helmet, which is something that will have to be fixed. You see, riding a bike in Tijuana is a bit like walking blindfolded in the middle of a freeway…while drunk. It’s crazy, dangerous and the amount of obstacles one must overcome is simply astounding.
There aren’t any bike lanes and not much sidewalk space in Tijuana, so most of the time I was riding on the road, blocking trafic and coughing from exhuast and the dust kicked up by speeding cars. When there are sidewalks, they have holes, and not just little cracks or potholes, I’m talking huge, four-feet-deep gaps where sewage grates once were. Inside these holes are piles of trash, so falling in means either certain death or certain disease.
Obstacles aside, the ride was actually pretty cool. Next time, I may consider riding down the cement covered Tijuana River. I hear that’s where the heroin addicts hang out, but how fast can a junkie run?