El Camino Real, spotted with hollow and decaying adobe homes abandoned long ago, led us through the countryside out of Albuquerque. Huge stucco haciendas, grandly displaying their wealth, pushed aside the meager accommodations of the adobes at every opportunity. Soon all gives way to open road where no one bothers to go as fast as the posted 55mph sign invites. Passing a couple of small pueblos, we are amazed at how the homes look like square rock formations both in color and architecture.
We find ourselves on highway 313, which is the pre-1937 route 66. The last remains of it’s glory days, gas stations and general stores, lay rotting beside the road. Small round gourds that look like baseballs grow up to the edge of the road. We learn later that the Indians use these to make rattles and paint them many bright colors. The inside looks like a sponge that would soak up a bunch of water when it rains.
Soon a road runner joins us for a race, but dives into the bushes before we can get a picture or determine who won. A humming bird flitters past. A dead rattlesnake reminds us to use our effective cycling skills wisely so we do not also become road kill. Bec squirms on the back as a bright red snake runs away from us as fast as it can.
We enter highway 25 and begin a 4,000 foot climb. The road looks as if we should be going down, but the altimeter says we are going up. We only manage 8 mph. Not even a nice tailwind helps to speed us up. Time suspends as we continue toward Santa Fe.
In Santa Fe we find the main plaza. Chiles hang from the roofs and doorways. The church towers above the other buildings, protecting the town from any evil. Native American vendors, under the awning of the governor’s mansion, sell very well done, hand-made, expensive silver and turquoise jewelry from their blankets rolled out on the sidewalk. Shops sell all kinds of trinkets, jewelry, art, and antiques.