From here on in was written after I returned to Austin. Things sharpened to (hopefullly) a bit more coherence after the trip's done:)
After knocking myself over while trying to keep a soccer ball in the air when it's kicked near me, tossing a frisbee, and otherwise enjoying trying to ignore the many sources of delay when you try to get a group of 30+ people to do anything, let alone ride recycled bikes carrying all their supplies hundreds of miles and into another country, we depart for the border and parts Mexican.
This is the first time I've been with the group riding all as one, and a single characteristic overwhelms all else: we are S-L-O-W. It's not that any individual is keeping us from moving quickly; rather, it's the probability that somebody will get a flat, need to pee, explode a pannier, desire a taco, or have any of the many other things that can and do happen when you ride a bike occur in any given block. Whereas our usual, spread-out riding style allows these events to overlap and keeps a dude with tools in the back to deal with any problems riders can't quickly fix themselves (we call him a 'sweep'), the one big group approach causes us to all stop every time anything happens. Add in the false alarms when somebody thinks the rider behind him yelled stop and passes this on up to the front plus the slowness of gettting the group to regain any kind of forward momentum after each stop and our pace drops to something like that of a slow jog.
But, we do make it down to the border. And through the checkpoints, too. There's not even any mishap to comment upon, and my only explanation is that 30 dirty hippies with bikes were too novel to even bother hassling. There's a button one presses to determine if you'll be searched; with each press, it lights up a green or red light to determine your fate. We turned this into a game, applauding every time somebody gets a red light. Actually, we kinda just applauded every time somebody pushed the button. I lost: with the kitchen trailer in tow, I didn't get a red light and win the increasingly-rudimentary search by the equal parts entertained and annoyed border dudes.
On the south side, we stick out sufficiently to encounter our contacts: the Pueblos Bicicliteros. They're better groomed and calmer, otherwise indistinguishable from the average person in our group. And probably a bit more patient: nobody yells at me when my total lack of coordination results in a soccer ball flying at several of them, light fixtures in a gazebo, and everything else in my vicinity.
A too-long collective meeting, taco break, stop at a grocery store, sudden rainstorm, inaccurate distance estimate, and other mishaps result in a night-time ride along a major Mexican highway without a shoulder. It's an understatement to describe the experience as harrowing; I lose track of how many times I and others nearly become pancaked by semis hauling 2 trailers behind them. It's weird to feel furious and have nobody to blame any more or less than myself.
Looking on the positive side of a life-threatening experience, 3 things:
1. We survived, all ~35 of us making it off the road and into our covered porch shelter for the night in one physical piece and without any (total) emotional breakdowns.
2. The people on this trip remain entertaining, even in the face of adversity that has me near collapse. Billy, as we look for the porch the Pueblos Bicicliteros have got us permission to stay on, something like "guys, this is straight-up Beowulf shit, hardcore adventure." We all crack up, and I decide to call him Billywulf from now on.
3. Mescal. A tequila-like liquor, I've been cautioned about it enough times that I couldn't resist paying the ~$3 for a liter. Taking a mouthful outside of the grocery store, I feel high within minutes. Definitely not the primary factor, but a celebratory swig at our destination aids in me falling asleep without eating dinner, probably for the first time in my life.