From the sky it looked eight shades of wet green, spiky pinwheel palm tops into far. Nine hours ago thick fog early morning over the Williamsburg Bridge and the sleepwalking through check in, flight, transfer, custom forms, make it seem that I’ve just emerged from mist to mist. Less than ten kilos of a shit Everlast Sport duffel bag that I’ll give away tomorrow when the gear gets tucked into the corners of bikepacking bags, cut a bike box in half to fold the English 2-9 into, swing it one handed through the kickpaddle shimmer heat of the jet tarmac.
Taxi ride impressions, always those, here a tropic calm, low falling off horizon with heaping dollops of cloud pressing against dark blue, cracked concrete one story buildings, all built things laboring under the verdancy and wet, but not the builders themselves who use slow strides and big grins to manage. My hair is going crazy, I may have underestimated the heat.
Traced a finger across maps as a plan, zag zig to the border to get just a small taste of the terrain and way, cross to a mandatory stop at Tikal, then south to the Guatemalan highlands. Some parts well pedaled, other bits to be improvised though the ready and incredible cache of country topo maps available guarantees that the getting lost part will be largely my fault.