The morning begins late, everyone physically / emotionally exhausted from the night ride. Call me self-important, but I make it a point to loudly note during our long morning meeting something severe like "the fact that nobody died last night doesn't mean it was a good or safe idea. I ride my bike at night for a living, and I think that was extremely dangerous. We're lucky nobody got hit." The meeting runs long to resolve little: we collectively made a mistake, we'll try not to make the same one again, and we'll keep riding our bikes. A few are returning to Austin, and 2 (including a fellow pedicabber) decide they're better off hitching to Monterrey. I can't dispute their decision.
Weird, ambiguous delay at 1st rest stop, maybe 15 km from were we started: the Suburban that took some folks back to the border was stopped by what the Pueblos Bicicliteros describe as "Los Narcotraficantes." Details remain sketchy, but I learn that the truck was stopped twice, the driver was sketched out enough to contact a human rights group in Reynosa to ask for a ride-along escort back to Monterrey, and our Monterrey-based friends who weren't in the truck are worried enough to insist on waiting for the truck before continuing.
I eat an absurd amount of chips and salsa, take a nap, and then am awoken with a mission: catch up to the group that's ahead and let them know about the delay. I enjoy waking up like this, and ask a friend to please continue this for the rest of the trip: "Luke, we need you to run around the block 5 times, locate 3 cloves of organic garlic, and ferment this apple juice ASAP." Something to sexify the prospect of getting out of bed in the morning...
And ten I discover that, contrary to my longstanding belief, it is in fact possible to be angry while riding a bicycle. Most accurate count is 15 flats in ~4 hours and less than 30 km; if that wasn't enough, there's also a cold-ass rain and an especially hellish series of Pemex petroleum refineries spewing what tastes like Cancer, Concentrated.
We find the first group after another chunk of nighttime riding, made mild in comparison to last night because we've got a ridable shoulder nearly every kilometer. Camp's a metal building with big open doors and a dust floor, a welcome change in pace from the holier hostels of previous nights.
Of foggy note is a somewhat-embarassing cerveza-inspired rant delivered by yours truly at the campfire: "We've got a good 10+ mechanics on this trip; if you don't know how to fix your fucking bike, ask one of them for help... If you get more than 2 flats in the same tire in one day, something's fucked up and you need to ask for help." I basically get booed by a bunch of people. In retrospect, the negativity was not without merit. At the time, it leads me to a contentedly grumpy but self-satisfied slumber.