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Biking in the Dominican Republic
Adventure Journal
August, 1998
By Jan Renolds
Green scenery, blue
Caribbean water, and the aroma of coffee and sweet local lemons
turn a punishing ride into a cherished memory.
Smells sweet and warm mingled with my own
salty sweat as we mountain biked a winding road on the crest
of a ridge. A gorgeous breeze cooled the deep Dominican heat.
The scenery was green, green, green - surrounded by Caribbean
water in the distance and dotted with egrets, cows, donkeys,
chickens, hanging laundry and happy children racing to slap
us a high five as we whizzed by.
The Dominican Republic is a mountain biker’s
paradise.
Our ride was coordinated by Iguana Mama mountain
bike outfitters in Cabarete. Anyone in town can point you
to the Iguana Mama herself, Patricia Thorndike de Suriel,
or simply Trish. U.S.-born and married to a Dominican, de
Suriel is loved by the locals. Twenty percent of Iguana Mama’s
income is donated to the area’s schools and parks.
We rode through coffee plantations and palm-lined
villages, and crossed rivers in which people were pounding
their laundry clean. They laughed at us as we splashed past
and unintentionally laid out our bikes in midstream.
Refreshed by the spill, my husband and I
continued, swooping downhill. We screeched to a halt at a
local fruit stand that offered sapote, passion fruit, guanabana,
sweet lemons, anon, raw cane and more. The fruit kept our
raging appetites in check until we finished our descent at
the Blue Moon restaurant.
This place doesn’t knock your socks
off. It peels them off, slowly, sumptuously, sensually. In
the cool of the evening, under a palm-frond shelter, we gorged
ourselves on Blue Moon’s Indian delights delicately
laid out for us on giant plantain leaves.
What a ride. What a finale.
On the last evening of our journey Trish
arranged for us to punish our legs with a ride up the base
of Pico Duarte mountain. We climbed through changing forests
and giant cabbage fields, following stream beds in the hills.
Workers waved at us as we passed.
When we reached the flanks of the mountain
that evening, young children ran out to our bonfire and taught
us to dance their favorite meringue style. Even the 2-year-olds
had it down, rhythmically swinging their hips to the celebratory
beat.
As we danced under the stars by firelight,
some locals cooked a dinner called Chambre or Dominican Stew.
We ate as the evening wore on, telling tales of past adventures
until we fell asleep by the glowing coals of the fire - completely
spent and comfortably full.
© Adventure Journal
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