After a wonderful rest day of lounging around, eating a ton of food, hydrating, and watching movies I said goodbye to my welcoming host Lola. She fed me a large breakfast and gave me her contact information in case things went astray. I thanked her and gave her a big hug. Just the thought of someone being concerned for my well-being made me feel good. Down the road the sky was enveloped with a thick layer of smog. I could not see the mountains ahead. I crossed a bridge and, on the other side, I passed a black cat freshly struck by a vehicle, its head crushed and bursting with blood and the hind legs still kicking. Ooof, is this a sign of things to come? I wanted to refrain from the morose thought and tried to fight it off with a dark chuckle. Deep down I had some concern about my body and the impending heatwave. I just had to remain patient, take it slow, and play it smart. Maybe my problem (or skill?) is that I have a short term memory. I am driven by endurance and the will to push through things. I pushed out of Guadix at noon as temperatures rose. I had to stop at a bike shop to get my clicking bottom jockey pulley, luckily a quick fix. Here’s the thing: I didn’t falter. I didn't succumb to my drive. I managed myself under the crushing heat and pedaled consistently up and up until I got into the Sierra de Baza. Suddenly, a cool-whipped breeze anchored my back and soothed the ride. A weaving gravel road in perfect condition hung beneath the crest, the Sierra Nevada dissipating under a pall of a thick smog layer to the south. At the highest pass, I marveled at the limestone domes seemingly in a hazy globe, the atmospheric obstruction of the surrounding smog highlighting my isolation. I saw no one. Next ensued a 10 mile screaming and exhilarating descent on a smooth gravel road. While my legs rested, my gripped hands fought the tight and cramping hold. I exited the smoothness of the road for a gravely washed out two track heading down a drainage. Soon, singletrack emerged. Weaving between trees, undulating over graded swales, skiing through the slippery wash crossings, avoiding and eluding sharp limestone edges, I careened down the narrow sliver of perfect trail. Then, I ran into an old man foraging for some tomillo (thyme). We chatted briefly, his effusive demeanor charming. He reminded me of my grandfather when he was at one point playful and cheery, before his memory went. As I moved along, he passed me a bundle of tomillo, which I tucked in my cockpit, the aroma sweet and intoxicating. In Baza, I found a cheap hostel. I was back on track. Miguel the owner was an avid mountain biker and wanted to know about my journey. He whipped out his phone and compared his accomplished routes of the area to where I was going. I was tired and I couldn’t shake him loose but his excitement was infectious. I relished the friendly conversation, too. He really liked my bike, swore by tubeless and proclaimed the invention the best thing that’s ever happened to bicycles. I agreed with him in Spanish…esta totalmente de acuerdo.
I wandered around Baza in the evening for a bit. I was feeling much better, my energy and spirits up. I found a small cafe and noshed on some tapas and Iberica secreto. On the way back to the hostel, a black and white Pomeranian took a shit on a wall, literally propped ass to brick as the owner shook her head and laughed. The dog left a dollop of poop on the wall. The woman turned her head to see if anyone had noticed the odd event. She saw me and we laughed together as she scraped the poop like a booger off the brick wall. My sense of humor was back. I definitely was feeling better. I left the next morning feeling refreshed, as Miguel waved me off. I crossed an expanse of a pastoral countryside interspersed with rugged sandstone desert cliffs. I spotted some farmhouses dug in caves in the cliff sides. People still lived in a rustic way. I passed through a small village and began a long gradual climb up a wide valley. Shortly after, I began the ascent into the Cazorlas in earnest. Even though the temps were high, the tall pines provided some respite. The Sierra de Cazorlas are a rugged limestone range in the Prebaetic System, a series of mountain ranges in Andalusia that forms the eastern flanks of Spain. It is named after the historic town of Cazorla. The range is big, very rugged, remote, and beautiful. I had a couple ways through, but none would be easy. I followed the shoreline of a large reservoir before my route turned up into the depths of the range along an overgrown logging road. Massive pines, similar to ponderosa, reached skyward. Giant oaks, an enormous canopy, blanketed the hillsides too. I was surprised at the lushness of such a range under such oppressive heat. Up and over a bench wedge within an escarpment, I reached a bridge spanning a lovely river. I laid on the grass under stout oaks. I ambled down to the river and jumped in. I wringed out my salty clothes and washed my face and body off. I cooled down quickly and went back up to the grassy patch. I took a nap before the next grueling climb. Eventually, massive limestone bluffs popped out above the vast green canopy and I attained a huge plateau of limestone sinkholes, meadows, glades of trees, and islands of craggy limestone knobs. It was a beautiful sight and a true sense of an entrenched wild filled the high plateau. I followed a road weaving into the glaring sun that made the distances feel far off even though the near horizon was not too far away. The rugged road looked seemingly smooth when viewed from a distance. But as I held on my handlebars tightly, terribly cobbly and rocky shook me to the core. The cobbly road made for really slow going. I was working hard and the prospect of food at a restaurant seemed far off. I had neglected grabbing a dinner for some reason banking on the second village being opened. It wasn’t. To boot, I wanted to stay up in the Cazorlas at one of the refuges. So I had to push into the fading light. Then, out of nowhere, I met Alfonso who was bikepacking the Transandalus loop. His jaw was rocking as much as mine from the knobby road, but he still held a smile. We both spoke about the rockiness and the slow going while also marveling about the beauty. I felt motivated after speaking to him. I seemed to be in much better shape despite not having any food from the encounter. I had not seen a cyclist or bikepacker on route yet. I pushed on and made it in time for dinner at Pontones. After the saltiest yet nearly the most delicious dinner, my revived legs and hands pushed on from the tiny village and I pedaled about 5 more miles before I pulled off the piste and pitched my shelter behind a line of trees. I was completely bushed.
From the Sierra de Segura I could spot the chain of ranges northward. Overlooking the distance from a vista near El Yelmo, I spotted a tall castle on a prominent dome. My mind was blown. Hermintages and churches paid homage to the saints of the valleys and mountains. Old ways mixed with new ways out here. A breezy descent ensued and before I knew it I was chilling for a mid morning snack on a sycamore lined avenue in Siles. I took my time in Siles trying to fuel up on food and drink. The breezy descent made me ahead of schedule, so I figured to take advantage of the rest. I had another exposed climb. I tackled it with gusto and before I knew it, I was chilling at a pass in the shade under tall pines. The wind blew strongly. A piped spring fed a crystal clear pool. I splashed my face, neck, and arms off. I really felt refreshed. I am now in Castilla La Mancha and have left the state of Andalusia, a turning point of sorts for I am now properly shifting into northern Spain. I have also now climbed into the Sierra de Alcaraz, the largest of the southern ranges remaining before I hit the Pyrenees. Immediately, I plunged on a quick descent that fed into the gnarliest climb of the whole trip. Four to five miles of hike-a-bike up a very, very steep trail. I had to dig deep as sweat poured over my body. My eyes tinged beads of sweat that blurred my vision. I huffed and puffed up the slippery trail angling sharply up on crumbled limestone. The trail was so steep that my right knee would hit the underside of my saddle. Pushing the bike on the left side, grunting, digging in with my shoes and gripping my handlebars, the fact that my right knee hit my seat is quite remarkable and just shows you how steep the trail was. Shit, even when the trail was level, I couldn’t ride it with the jagged limestone protruding up. The tread was narrow and the corridor brushy and low with branches. As much as I sweated and worked, I enjoyed the toil of it all. The change of pace and the physical labor involved kept me engaged. I had to concentrate, focus on my breathing, and utilize my arms and shoulders more. My shoulders burned, hoisting the bike overhead and over logs or up very steep pitches where a staircase of roots and boulders laid an obstacle course. Once I attained a saddle, I kept going. I was so sticky and wet from sweating so much, I wanted to push on until I found the spring on the map. It wasn't long before I did, too. I found the spring piping cold crystal clear water under a large brush. The brush was large enough to provide shade and I slurped the cool cold waters while sitting on a concrete slab. The wind gusted through the tall pines and I fell asleep listening to the wind rifle through the boughs. I napped and drank 2 liters in an hour's time. I left the replenishing haven of the spring and angled over a shady hillside on a forested trail pockmarked with jagged limestone popping up out of the ground. I did not want to put up with the rattle and jarring of the rock, so I pushed my bike under the forested canopy. I did not have much of this singletrack left. I wanted to conserve my energy for the final push of the day. I finally hit a dirt road. From the shoulder, I looked back from where the weaving road came from. Under toothed limestone peaks, the road sliced through a notch. The range was not huge but just impressive with such jagged and pointy peaks. I had a meandering road graded to perfection ahead of me, then a long descent to Alcaraz. I hammered down the road with a conserved fury. With all the hard work of the afternoon, I let gravity pull me down. I simply had to hold on. In Alcaraz, a deteriorated castle in ruins up on the knoll above the town backdropped a stunning and picaresque hamlet. Narrow streets went steeply up from the lean valley and I could imagine this town being built with fortification in mind. I grabbed dinner, water, and cold drinks from the market and pushed into the cooling evening. I had some easier days ahead of me on the Via Verde, a rails to trails network extending from the large cities of Albacete to Jaen. The cool air clung to my skin as I encountered my first pitch black tunnel of the route. I had a feeling the hardest riding was behind me. I rolled along an old railroad bed, perfectly graded for smooth riding. I found a rest area with a cottonwood and a picnic table. I was far enough from anywhere that I pitched a camp and nestled in for the night, the heat and the ruggedness of the route seemingly behind me.
Since I left Granada, I have had the toughest stretch by far of the bikepacking trip. I wouldn't necessarily say this past week has been the crux of my whole planned European stay, but it sure has felt like it. I am not in tip-top shape yet, the route has not been hard at all yet, and I have bigger challenges ahead with a backpacking trip on the Grande Traversatta de Alpi. Nonetheless, mentally the past week has pushed my endurance, both the figurative timeline and a test of the physical. On every long adventure, there seems to always be a crux about a month or so in. Usually, it is the toughest and most challenging part of the adventure. This part tests your will and desire, how much you want it. The crux dictates how the rest of your trip will go, more often than not. The crux is the main obstacle of the way through and ultimately is the way. The cruz also seems to be the part where all your physical rust is shedding and one starts to perform at peak levels. One begins to mentally transition from a conservative mindset to one where one is willing to push a bit harder. The crux is just the meet-up, an intersection if you will, of the will and desire, the physical condition, and some challenging terrain or section of a route. Here, one decides if you’re going to go all the damn way. And, I felt all of this churning in my brain on the sunny morning rolling through red oaklands atop the Via Verde clipping along at a blistering pace towards Albacete. I could feel my metal shift. I am now playing with passion, willing to risk it all, and not playing to not lose. I am now flowing, my brain and heart in sync. Flow and passion equals performance, my brain calculated and my heart thumped. I have had to check myself since the hike of the Sierra Nevada. Really, the hike checked me. The hike helped me find intention and my joy for doing these types of endeavors. I think I had managed myself well up to the Sierra Nevada but I might have been too light. I had nudged my levers to always prioritize taking care of myself, no matter if I did not understand the purpose of this trip. Somehow I had managed to keep my needs ahead of my wants and somehow my passions and intentions came out. Maybe the crux of this whole trip was not the challenging terrain and conditions. Maybe the crux was myself in being reluctant to challenge myself, in being reluctant to commit fully. The proverbial intersection is now here. I will choose the challenge, the obstacle.
The morning chill calmed me and my brain down. I needed that talk with myself. Not a soul was out and I had had the space to have that mental debrief. I was flowing and I was highly sensitive and aware of what was shifting in me and occurring outside of me. I slid through old train tunnels, the cool tunnel air splashing onto my cheeks. The red oaks emanated an aura of early morning yellow rays showing the sun-baked character of the land. The ride was pleasant. and I achieved Albacete in 4 hours. There, I would rest up while avoiding some mid 90s heat, recuperate a bit and clean up. I would prepare for the next stretch that crossed some high plains. But it seemed I merely wanted a cold shower and air conditioning. I laid around on the bed chilled with the AC. The town was quiet after what must have been a busy morning. I rode in on a holiday and missed the festivities of the morning by an hour. So, I wasn't missing much. Laying around felt right. The next morning I had a huge and proper English breakfast of eggs, baked beans, bacon and sausage, tomatoes, toast and a pot of coffee. The huge portions really boosted my spirits after having such smaller breakfasts so far. I also had breakfast early at around 7am. Nearly every breakfast I have had in Spain started around 9am. I was able to fuel myself early and get out into the open under cooler air.
I continued along another Via Verde and began a crossing of some high plains. The high plains and agricultural fields resembled Kansas. Spread out farmhouses and wind turbines highlighted a bleak and flattened sun-baked landscape. There has to be a Don Quixote musing in here but I have neglected to reread that fantastic book in very many years. Other than having a lantern face that shows how gaunt and lean I am, I am not sure how to relate to Quixote as of now. Well, maybe I am fooling myself. Nah, I see it, the similarities of delusion, of some made up hidden purpose tramping across the land like some hero. I see it, the similarities of delusion. Only, my encounters aren’t as comical. Only, that the reality of things is I am simply a traveler who minds his own business in a foreign land. What a fool. Either way, I see it…the similarities. I could be a bit softer on myself. Maybe I am not just in delusion. Maybe I am simply a dreamer. That’s it. I passed an impressive bridge, the Puente de Vadocanas, where the plains fell off into a Colorado Plateau-esque canyon, where the waters were incredibly turquoise and teal. The bridge was built in roughly 1560. The massive arch and huge ramparts adorned the colorful river. Cooler temps and an amazing breeze gave me a few shivers between a few raindrops. The olive and grape orchards opened up over red dirt, a huge rolling tongue lapped under a hilly expanse. Things seem more vibrantly greener than further south, less flowers but wildly more green. Suddenly, as I exited an orchard, just before going into a tunnel under a railroad bridge, a speed train came blazing by. I was brought back from my historical drifting and delusional reality. I gripped the steel of my bike. 'Wow!' I blurted from my mouth, simply mesmerized by the astronomical speed the train possessed, as if I had not seen anything like that before. I pedaled on wishing I was trotting along atop a horse. I trotted along wishing I was in some olden days, the ways things once were.
In Fuente Robles, I spoke with the shop owner of the market. The quiet village rang with tranquility, even some laziness. A simple life oozed from the silent and lazy wind pilfering the alley ways. No stress, other than a goofy biker rolling through looking to quench his thirst with an ice cold sugar pop. Just when it was not so busy the shop owner went outside for a smoke and ran into me. We sat idly under a tree encircled by a concrete planter. Our languid conversation roved from the population of the area to the crops and fruits and olives to the big and faster paced cities. I imagine this otherwise trivial talk would occur on a train ride or in a bus, but we made it last longer than it should have. Maybe we enjoyed our company or maybe we enjoyed the free time with nothing to do, nothing urgent ever. I parted ways with the shopkeeper, him waving at me with smiling eyes while puffing on a cigarillo. A brief rain fell on the land and up sprung the wondrous aroma of petrichor. I huddled under a large oak tree and soaked up the redolent air of rain. The beautiful landscaped land reached out in front of me under thin curtains of rain, the smear dislodging the memory of orderly and colorful fields. Long rays of sun stretched out from under grey clouds and nearly touched the land. Two rainbows hung from a cloud cell separately from each other, completely un-arced. I felt the solemnity of the day, of quiet and laziness, of lethargy and languor. I was grateful to be a part of such a listless day, for having the opportunity to do what I do, for being in the place that I’m in, for my health. All of it…just a lucky dude. I left the low hill and the colorful palette and picaresque scene and rode through Mira as the town blared music and scented the air with grilled meats. It seemed the whole town was there. I passed a banner signifying the Day of Castilla La Mancha festival. Townspeople streamed into the quiet hamlet, the small river trickling through the center channel and was muffled by the evening fete. I rolled out of town with hopes of a quiet night in the pines, as I knew everyone would be at the festival. And that’s what I found, a quiet night in the pines.
I continued riding through the history of the area, observing history as I slipped on by by bike. I felt so fulfilled, not only in a spiritual way but an intellectual way. I was learning the area while at the same time soaking up the area. I enjoy seeing how things once were. And, not in a nostalgic way, for some reason. Simple observations, simply marveling— I enjoy erosion, scars, old buildings and ruins. I find pleasure in squinting at a horizon and wondering ‘what was there,’ ‘how?’ Why? I guess I am in search of the human condition and the history of the land. Through vestiges and remains of the past, I find clarity in my presence within the land from my introspection. Traveling through history and varied landscapes that people lived in helps me move forward with a purposeful life, as if one day I would be remembered too. I find more relevance in doing what I am doing than one in which I did nothing but go to work and listen to the news. I need to see how people lived, how they worshipped and survived so I can live, worship and survive. I have no idea where I would be without travel. So many varied landscapes the past few days from windswept steppes and high barren plains to manicured orchards of olives, from pink badlands to tall pine forests, from chunky and sharp limestone layers to smooth red clay, from stone villages with ancient temples to old railways, from warm days to cool damp nights, I am on a route spanning the ages. I feel blessed and grateful for these learnings and observations.
Later on, I climbed my way out of the desert town of Teruel. Through a tall pine forest, I fought my way through the limestone scree towards the top. Cobbled and bumpy, my jaw ached, although I finally attained the windswept high plains in a swift manner. The day almost felt gloomy, the sky appearing almost downtrodden. I followed limestone terraces and narrow ravines that outlined rough mesas. Cool air sunk into the slowly flickering cottonwood leaves that lined the creek. Escarpments and hogbacks sprouted up amid ancient stone houses and barns blended in amongst the outcrops. Through the narrows of the geologic park, the startling birdsong swirled and floated through the air among the drifting cottonwood branches and scintillating leaves shimmering in the morning light as white gossamer fluffs. Oddly enough, up and over the next steep rise, I ran into an abandoned power plant, a striking mark on the beautiful rough hills and river valley as well as on my peaceful mind. I stopped in Aliaga for a quick coffee and rest. A terrace roared with booming voices situated within the narrow corridors of the village. I leaned my bike up against a huge pillar, the church courtyard receiving the mirth and merriment of the laughter and chatter. Families sat and engaged with one another. Strangers boisterously laughed over beers. Oddly, I wondered just what can families talk about with such enthusiasm and closeness? Up a second-rate dirt road littered with huge sharp boulders and hardscrabble cobbles, I trudged into the Badlands. I had to concentrate on the tracks but I couldn't help but marvel at the occasional village made of stone, like Molinos. What a sight! Further on in Calanda, a little girl wanted to meet me and my bike, her grandfather was so cheery and polite. I was touched by the encounter and the grandfather shook my hand and wished me safe travels through the area. At dusk, I entered an Equinox tunnel. Long and dank, cold and dark, I filtered through with a shiver. I camped in an olive grove as sunset closed another fruitful day. I was up early with the barking dogs of the surrounding farms, a few roosters trying their hardest to get me going too. I embarked on another Via Verde for about 20 miles before I entered the town of Bot. At the market, I noticed one of my tires had begun to bubble up on the middle seams of the main tread. I then chose the safest way to Mora La Nova to the only bike shop around. Upon arrival I could see that the bubbling had gotten worse. Miguel the technician said I was lucky. I left the bike there as he went on a siesta. I ate lunch and fell asleep in the park in the cool breezy shade for the duration of my own siesta. After the tires were fixed, I met Latislav at the hotel I was staying at. A little bit rundown but I paid no mind. I was fairly stoked that I had got new tires. Remnants of an old sandwich--- the rind, lettuce, bits of salchicha, and a couple cigarette butts--- littered the plate. The A-Team played in Spanish in the background. Latislav reminded me of Luis Guzman in Waiting... and I chuckled at the thought and paid no mind to his disheveled appearance. I wouldn’t doubt that the dinner he served was out of a microwave but I’d be damned if it wasn’t delicious. I get a kick at the various characters and micro-moments along the way.
I had a rugged day ahead of me. I was nearing the Pyrenees and, needless to say, I had a ton of climbing. Even with an early start, I fought hard for 55 miles, mostly within the last tall range of Montanas de Prades. All the ranges in this area had knobby and serrated limestone peaks. From the vistas, I could nearly pick out the Mediterranean Sea shrouded under smog. The day culminated brutally with the toughest range yet. Some really tough hike-a-bike sections ensued that included a lot of scrambling off and onto limestone ledges. I even laid my bike across my knees amid grabby oak and other overgrown brush. I lumbered my rig like a guitar case down the very steep haggard path. My reward for the incredibly hard work was a steep and scary descent on an undulating dirt road under huge limestone bluffs. The valley opened up below with dramatic views but the screaming downhill was just plain scary that I just couldn't gaze out at it. I had to hold on to the bike for dear life. I absolutely flew into the town of Montblanc. I noticed something in the town of Montblanc. The markets are getting bigger and better. With so many options for healthier and tastier food, I found some delectable treats for dinner. Long gone are the small Spanish markets filled with sugary sweets. I could still find the amazing meats that I had had before down in that remote area of Andalusia. I slow rolled it to camp. I was not tired nor worn, just worked. I felt a sense of accomplishment with the hard work today and I dove into my hot pasta filled with chicken and parmesan and olives.
I got into some remote mountainous area. The River Ter road weaved and side-hilled above the river and reservoir. I was grateful for some solitude as I had a feeling I would be entering more crowded areas ahead. I found a bench overlooking a large valley surrounded by mountains. I had a long sit and contemplated some, the shade some respite from the heat. When I die, I thought, I want to be sitting like this with my heart pounding from the moment, from the action. Action, then peace…heart pumping breathing and then death. At some point in the day, I would cross the mighty range separating Spain and France, the Pyrenees. I fathomed why I was in a contemplative state. I knew why now. The crossing of the Pyrenees was an intersection of sorts. For one, I would cross a point where I had traversed across last year. This would give me a frame of reference, a barometer over a year's worth of time. Secondly, I would cross into France and leave Spain behind, my main purpose of this bikepacking trip. I could then gauge how I had been doing, whether I had been enjoying myself or not. The crossing also signified that I was getting close to the end point of the bikepacking trip, a week's worth time to Geneva, Switzerland. My mind went into some sort of diatribe, a fervent dialogue that extinguished the contemplative state I had been in. I went from calm to a mechanical churning of the cogs of the brain. My wheels were spinning. I didn't feel emotional or anything, merely I was thinking about stuff a million miles an hour. All these little things…throughout the whole trip…is on me. I didn't plan as much. I catered to the conveniences of the trip and spent a bit more money than anticipated. I camped less and ate more. I rested more rather than pushed as hard as I usually do. I understood there was reasons for all these things. I understood I was reacting and feeling off my gut and instinct. I, more than anything, understood that I had really enjoyed that part of it. I enjoyed not doing things the usual way I do things. I just needed to come to terms with that, that I am not doing things the usual way. I am a planner and I like to train. I missed that aspect of the trip. And now, I was getting into my usual state, mainly because I felt rested and finally felt in shape. I couldn't do much of anything like training this past winter due to that nagging Morton's neuroma in my right foot. Plus, I really wanted to focus on work and give back to the people there who had supported my year long travel the previous year. This year, I understood, and had schemed, was supposed to be easier on logistics, on the body, and on the mind. Maybe I was just getting used to it. Yet I was right on target with my timeframe. I had to have this check. I am a-ok, all systems going, full steam ahead. I am on course.
So, my long sit at my connection point of my bikepacking trip this year and my Haute Route Pyrenees from last year ended and I watched the moving cars on the highway far down below before shoving onward. I move through time like every human does. My perception may be egotistically skewed, but the world spins as I move. This whole thing called life is such a trip, a long and winding journey. I reached a rounded high knob scattered with pieces of limestone. Surprisingly, I found a quiet and flat camp on the high point without the disarranged flakes of limestone. My vantage point loomed over flat and widespread wetlands. I could see the coastline of the Mediterranean Sea down below. The inland flats gleamed under a silvery haze that seemed to make the sea, the coast, and the wetlands blend together into one silver beam of soft light. The wind picked up and gusted in between an incredible silence. Shit, I am crossing a continent, I thought. A frog slunk near my tent, so silent the promontory was I could here the amphibian hop through tiny dried springs of grass. As my eyes fluttered from the fight of sleep, I heard a wild pig rooting around in an oak grove nearby. I listened in on the snorting and the scuffling. A bird in the oak grove chortled, probably woken from a slumber. The bird then began lilting a soft tune, like a light and sift snore of a kitten. I fought no more my pending slumber. I gave in.
The last week flew by. I was eager to start hiking the Grande Traversatta de Alpi. I finally felt healthy and strong enough to embark on such a difficult route that I was expecting to have with the GTA. I lined out my final days nearing Geneva. I booked a couple hotels, built a travel itinerary to the Mediterranean start of the GTA, arranged a place to store my bike, and organized extra time to rest in between adventures. Along Ardeche greenway under all the stunning tunnel of greenery, I passed by hordes of people enjoying the breezy afternoon. I couldn't stop thinking of the pure aspect of traveling. Traveling has given me a broader intention that brims over my cup of life. My connection of Europe by bike and foot, which will take a couple years, is about the people and the land and not necessarily the land and the people. The purpose is the connection of it all. Then, along the Rhone battling a mistral headwind, I could fathom in the distance under a glimmering blue haze the mighty Alps. I was not only bridging time but bridging vast places. The rugged and beautiful Algarve coast of Portugal and all Southern Spain seemed so, so far away. I actually found one last camp 2 days prior to Geneva. I split from the Rhone and ventured into some low hills. A couple hundred yards away, the booming towers of wind turbines spun with a humdrum monotone that I drifted to sleep with. A last second dream of Don Quixote fighting wind turbines flashed and smeared in my mind's vision. I smirked the delusion of one engaged on a foolish and amusing odyssey.
Predawn, before twilight, before the soft glow of a new day, a bulldozer splashed the muddy puddles in the road. A sharp beep jostled me awake. I hurriedly packed my stuff up and waved to the old man operating the bulldozer. He looked to be giggling, amused at breaking my tranquility. I found it amusing, too. What did I care? I was nearing Geneva, some 22oo miles since Lisbon. Damn, this month and a half had flown on by. I meandered down back to the pearly blue Rhône. I tried to slow down a bit to soak things up but the skies opened up and soaked things up. I shivered and pedaled. I could take a hot shower in the evening and eat a huge meal or two and take in the sights of Geneva and I could mentally visualize the GTA and I could look over my itinerary and my timeframe and compare that to what I have done and I could write and jot down some notes or I could keep going and I will keep going one way or that way or another way or here or there or off yonder and faraway aways away from everything. Sheesh, I could keep traveling and adventuring forever. I can just dream forever of all this traveling through time and place.
No comments:
Post a Comment