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Part 5 - La Super-Rica Taqueria
We regroup where Painted Cave meets Hwy 152, for four miles of well-paved, high-speed descent on the side of a freeway. The shoulder is sufficient. We pace line at 28, 29, then 35mph, rotating evenly and confidently into town. Spirits are high, it’s all Beach Boys and summer afternoons, high-speed cycling with great friends. It’s the end of the day and the last few miles of a long weekend.
But Foothill Blvd, the final road into to town, is longer than expected and rolls more earnestly than anyone is ready for. There’s some confusion about where La Super-Rica Taqueria, our dinner spot, actually is. Morale ebbs. The last mile through town sees in-fighting and mutiny. Low blood sugar, heat and exhaustion kick-in. Only one thing motivates me, the promise of a margarita.
At the restaurant, the line is out the door and around the corner. We take turns changing in the parking lot, between the mini-van and a PT Cruiser. Everyone seated outside watches us with pity. It must be the salt and helmet hair. The menu is all tacos. No burritos, enchiladas or chimichangas or margaritas. Just tacos and three kinds of beer. They make their corn tortillas in front of you. Conversation is random and occasionally insightful, but about what I can’t remember.
Daniel: So yeah, I think Gibraltar was enough.
"I've been looking forward to this dinner for exactly 28 miles."
"Daniel laments, bitches and pouts over his lost margarita but doesn’t deny that Super-Rica is perfect. I go big and order one of every taco and some bean soup. And beer of course."
"I spent $36 and that doesn't even include margaritas. But yeah, it was worth it."
"Just give me two beers, I’m driving"