GO

Several months back while visiting Granada I rented a scooter. I couldn’t help myself. I strolled past the bright red bikes standing proudly beneath a merciless sun the day before and swore they were calling my name.

The friendly gentlemen working behind the counter went by Juliano.

“I want to go to Laguna Apoyo,” I told him.

“Yeah, you could do that,” he said. “Just don’t take it to San Juan del Sur.”

I didn’t know exactly how far San Juan del Sur was but did know it wasn’t terribly far from Costa Rica. All this to say it wasn’t close to Granada.

“No problem,” I assured him as I started to mull over the seed he’d just planted.

I made my way through the busy streets of Granada picking up as many stares as exhaust fumes from the locals. I must have embodied a thousand stereotypes under my tight red helmet

At this point in my life, the looks I draw are a familiar part of my globetrotting experience no matter what corner of the planet I saunter through. Regardless, of the hemisphere or time zone people everywhere indelicately play world atlas with my face.

I just sit and smile.

I reached the turn off for Laguna Apoyo without a great deal of trouble. I stopped a few times to ask for directions, which was surprisingly productive considering I knew neither the land nor the language.

I don’t see it yet but can feel it. I manage to climb quite high at one point before spotting this majestic oasis. There it is, I think to myself. It’s beautiful.

Moments later I fall off my scooter, while trying to get up a steep and bumpy road I had no business riding on.

I scratch up the no longer impeccable front fender. I’m okay but it certainly takes a bounce from my step as I begin to dread breaking the news to Juliano back in Granada.

I wonder just how much of my $100 deposit he plans to pocket.

Eventually, I get it together and make my way back down the mountain so I can get a closer peek at the lagoon. I pass schoolchildren, stores, gaunt looking horses, and resorts all within a single stretch of mile.

I feel mixed emotions as a rare sense of freedom washes over me. I have so much, I think. These people have almost nothing.

There’s an intensity to the poverty here that’s unsettling — the same destitution I saw in Nepal, Haiti, and South Africa. It seems with each place I visit the level of need gets dialed up. I don’t know what to do about it all, but promise myself I won’t allow my uncertainty to evolve into ambivalence.

As I inch closer to the lagoon it begins to rain. My body is drenched as I weave my way out of the forest and back to the main road. I’ve seen what I came for.

I reach the highway and must now decide to turn back or make my way home to Granada. A nearly empty tank of gas tells me it’s time to pack it but I’m not ready for it all to end.

I hook a left and off I GO.

Big rigs, motorcycles, and impatient cab drivers swerve around as I begin to appreciate the insanity riding such a thing on a Central American interstate demands. Perhaps it’s why I don’t see a single tourist doing the same.

It’s this very singularity, however misguided, I love.

I haven’t felt freer for as long as I can recall. I’d drive this flimsy little thing to Russia if I could. I don’t ever want to get off this bike. Everything, as in my youth of youths is out in front.

I suddenly feel I’ve started over and there’s a calling to be realized, a land to be explored, a great love to be met.

It’s all just up ahead.

I can practically see it.