Miranorte, Brasil

 My Christmas wasn’t entirely rosy, as I spent the last thirty miles riding into Palmas nursing a slow leak, pausing twice to inflate it.  When I finally tended to it hours later after having dinner and talking to Janina, I discovered another tiny wire thread the culprit, causing just a pinprick of a puncture. That was easier to patch than a patch gone bad, as some slow weeks end up being.  But I was greatly alarmed to discover that I could barely turn the axle.  

I feared the mechanic in Brasilia had overly tightened the cones.  I did not have the skinny wrenches to make the adjustment, so would have to visit a bike shop first thing in the morning.  I had noticed a very impressive Specialized Bike Store just a few blocks from my hotel, so I was glad to have the opportunity to drop by, hoping the bearings hadn’t been pulverized and that a mechanic could make a quick adjustment, backing off a bolt on one of the cones. 

I was amazed I hadn’t felt the strain of propelling the bike the last 525 miles with the bearings so tight.  I knew the mechanic in Brasilia had tampered with my front hub, as he had shined it up, and also the generator was no longer working.  That was no concern with the ease of available electricity just about wherever I stopped to eat.  I had put off trying to get it back working until I reached Palmas and had a hotel room to perform the exploratory surgery.

My Christmas was also somewhat darkened by failing to find an ATM that would give me money.  I was turned down by the two banks nearest my hotel.   I had emailed my banker a couple days before telling him I’d recently been denied by ATMs in rural Brasil.  He said he thought he had straightened out the problem.  Unfortunately not.

I was down to fifty dollars in local currency.  I could theoretically make that last until I reached the big city of Belém in ten days, but it would mean no hotels or expensive buffets and no big bike expense.  With the possibility of having to replace my front wheel, I did not get the best of sleep that night with money and bike woes on my mind. I know these things always work out, and generally most happily, but sometimes it can be rather nerve-racking and traumatic.

It was neither this time. Before I ventured to the bike shop I searched out a larger bank recommended by Lonely Plant and suddenly I was transformed from a pauper to a prince. I now have the wherewithal to resort to a motel if the heat or rain or ants become too much to bear.  The bike issue wasn’t so easily resolved, but it was another heartening story of Brasilian ingenuity and generosity.  

The bike shop owner was the first person I’d met in a bike shop who spoke English.  Neither he nor his young, eager mechanic had ever worked on a generator hub, but they both whipped out their phones and went to YouTube to help guide them through the operation. 

One question was whether the large ring containing the innards of the generator twisted off clockwise or counterclockwise.  It was clockwise.  The bearings were perfectly fine. The cones hadn’t been overly tightened.  The issue was the rotor in the hub.  It had ever so slightly splayed, rubbing on the innards of the hub, making it an extreme effort to turn.  The young mechanic thoroughly cleaned and lubricated it, but it made no difference.  The solution was to discard the rotor, imbedded with the axle, and put in a new axle.  They didn’t have the right size axle, but a nearby bike shop did.  

Rather than sending me over there on my own, the owner, Alexander, drove me and the wheel.  After all his efforts, he had certainly earned the added appellation of “Great.”  He had named his bike shop after himself and his co-owner, another Alexander. They called it A2 Bikeshop.  They have two shops in Palmas, the other devoted to Trek bikes.  I wouldn’t have guessed Alexander to be even forty, but he said he had worked as an electrical engineer for twenty-three years before turning to his dream of having a bike shop. 

He was loving it, if only to be able to show up to work in shorts.  Bikes have always been the center of his life.  He was a BMX champion as a youth.  His favorite riding now is bombing down the single track in the nearby mountains.  He has one of the few electric bikes in the area, as their import tariffs make them prohibitive for most.  The assist eases the climbs considerably.  His five-year old son is following in his footsteps.  He bicycles everywhere, including to school.  His nine-year daughter has a bike too, but is nowhere near as passionate. 

His colleague’s shop wasn’t as large or as high-end as his, but it was well-stocked with Shimano parts and had a wall of impressive tools in the repair area.  The statuesque owner with a flourishing gray beard of a wizened elder was sitting behind the counter when we arrived.  I felt as if I were being granted an audience with a papal authority on all matters bicycle.  I knew he would have the answer to my hub conundrum.  

After he dissected the hub and pored over it with Alexander he confirmed that the rotor was defective and beyond repair.  He inserted a new axle in the huge space that had housed the rotor and like Alexander would accept no compensation for his efforts. 

I didn’t mind at all that this took nearly three hours to resolve, as my legs were in need of a light day.  I only regretted I wasn’t able to fully take advantage of an unseasonably cool day, under 90.  The delay also allowed me to thoroughly digest the three platefuls of breakfast I took advantage of—slices of papaya and several types of cheese and ham, along with assorted biscuits stuffed with meat and cheese, and a variety of slices of cakes. It was good to be in no rush so I could eat and eat, enough to hardly need lunch.  

The generous, bountiful breakfast buffets are a strong temptation to stay in motels and forsake my tent, though I certainly much prefer its cosy confines to the antiseptic, cell-like claustrophobia of a hotel room. It is beyond satisfying, almost exhilarating, to end the day in my tent out in nature though I’m generally near enough the road to hear the passing traffic.   It is always a much better sleep than being indoors, even if I can’t regulate the temperature.

The lone bummer of the day was that the Extra hypermarket wasn’t as hyper as the one in Brasilia and that it did not have peanut butter.  I will have to severely ration what I have  to make it last until Belém.  At least it had the cheapest chocolate milk I’ve come upon.  It’s 200 ml boxes were on deep discount, two-thirds of the usual twenty-five cent price. I stocked up, assured to know I could start the next several mornings with a shot or two of the high-octane fuel.