Bikemum

A woman with a high ponytail, glossy, pink lips and a crease-less brow sails past me on her electric bike, as I lumber along in her wake trying not to begrudge her ease. We are on the Hudson River Greenway in New York City and it is filled with cyclists enjoying the sights, commuting to work or attempting to get exercise. It is amazing to see so many people out enjoying the day and making the most of New York’s network of paved trails and parks, a veritable parade of enthusiasts. 

As I continue on, another cyclist passes me, and another, and another, their electric bicycles humming quietly beneath them. I take deep droughts of hot, summer air and try not to judge their choice. They look as if they are in an advertisement for flower-scented fabric softener or antiperspirant. No matter, I think, as they glide away, I am proud of my strong legs that churn through every rotation of my cumbersome 50 pound rented City Bike. “I love this.” I tell myself.

Meanwhile, sweat mats the hair under my helmet and leaks down into my reddened eyes making me look and feel more like a shaggy albino rat than an athlete. I mop my dripping chin and try to hold on to my pride.

I do not like electric bicycles. There, I have said it. Sure, there is a time and a place, like if a person is aged or infirmed, but not for young, fit people who have natural power in their glutes and quadriceps, begging to be used. 

Yet here, in New York City, under the relentless sun, trapped between high rises and endless pavement, they begin to seem beguiling. I shake the thought from my head and stop to dock my bike near a scenic vista, cool down and walk around a bit. 

When I return after a few moments to retrieve my bicycle, I find that an electric cousin has sidled right up next to mine and seems to be calling to me with a siren’s song. Somebody has just finished using it, and the screen on its headset boasts that it still has 27 miles of battery life. 27.  I could do several sweat-free loop-de-loops around New York on this bicycle-like thing and nobody at home would have to know. My hands act without my brain’s consent and before i know it, I have paid for its use at the kiosk and am backing it out and straddling its seat. 

As I press down on its pedal, it lurches effortlessly forward and I immediately feel like I am having an affair. The breeze it creates instantly dries my sweat and I find myself weaving through traffic shaking loose my hair to let it blow in the wind. I float through China town, getting lost again and again passing the same colorful lanterns hanging in the same alleyways, and not caring. I float alongside stopped traffic, smiling sweetly at the frustrated drivers and edge up to intersections like a queen. I decide minute to minute whether I am a bike or a motor vehicle and follow the most convenient laws of each designation. I am not proud, but I am free, and the slightly naughty feeling is intoxicating. 

Hours later, I meet my husband for a dinner date and feel as fresh as when I started, albeit a little dirty on the inside.

One slip is forgivable. One dalliance is understandable, but do you know what I did the next day? I rented not one, but two electric bikes for my husband and I. We rode them all the way up to the Cloisters and the Bronx zoo covering 20 miles with ease, waving at passersby’s with royal waves and broad, sheepish smiles. Perhaps for everything there is a time and a place, but I am still not sure you can call it cycling

Havana

Yosbany cracks the tall, robin’s egg blue door to our bedroom open and his grinning face greets us like the morning sun, even though outside it is still dark. “You are ready?”

We leap off our beds and hurry to assemble the rest of our gear into various panniers, in a hurry to make our early morning flight.

Due to the fuel shortage, we have been worried about getting to the airport, which is about 40 minutes outside Havana, with our boxed bikes. We need a van and they are in short supply.

When we emerge into the living room of our casa, I see that Yosbany has already taken the bikes downstairs and seems thrilled to have helped in this way. “The bikes are all loaded. I told you not to worry!”, he beams.

We follow him downstairs and there in the street is a three-wheeled electric trike with our bicycles tied securely to the top. We stand in the darkened street hugging goodbye and again I feel overwhelmed by the number of times that he and other people here have gone above and beyond to help us.

After we say our goodbyes and all climb aboard, we rattle slowly through the dawn, never traveling much faster than a golf cart, but getting there none-the-less.

The city wakes up around us; the morning cool and low hum of the electric motor easing us into our day.

I can’t say enough positive things about the people here. Every day, every person seemed to want to make sure that things moved smoothly for us.

Yesterday, the owner of Ciclocuba, gave me a ride across town, after I returned my friend’s rental bike. This is no small favor given the current situation. He runs a great business with terrific, tour-worthy bicycles in excellent condition just waiting for tourism to pick up again. http://ciclocuba.com The ride gave us a little time to talk.

He spoke about his time living in other places and his decision to return here because of the people, his family and the way of life. “It is my home.”, he shrugged with a smile, as if nothing else made sense.

A few days before when we were in Las Terrazas there was a woman named Myra who hosted us in her house. She spoke of the same thing; the importance of family connections, the more tranquil pace and the ingenuity of the people being a cornerstone of their culture.

“Cubans can fix anything, anything at all. We grow up doing it. There is not a problem we cannot fix. We know struggle, but we have strength. We take care of each other. That is Cuba.”

There are no terrorists here, as our administration might have us believe. There are no guns and little if any violent crime. Just hard working people with great hearts.

It has been an incredible bicycle adventure. Beautiful scenic biking, a variety of terrain, safe and just challenging enough. I can’t imagine not coming back.

Las Terrazas to Havana

51 miles

When we reached the malecón in Havana after 51 miles and saw the ocean stretching out invitingly before us, it didn’t take much for us to do what needed to be done. Lying our bikes on the pavement, we quickly shucked our sweaty shirts and jumped in, bike shorts and all. The cool, clear Caribbean water soothed our sore muscles and cleaned our bike shorts all in one splash, and made me feel clean in a way a shower never could.

Bobbing along beside us where many locals in various other unusual swimwear, from shorts to dresses to long-legged pants. They also seemed to have been lured into the water without being able to take the time to don the proper attire. It was just too delicious. The people dove and swam and gathered in clusters along the rocky promenade, jeering at each other to jump farther or higher or make a bigger splash, laughing and enjoying their Sunday afternoon.

On our bike ride today we saw other groups too; parents teaching their children to bike ride and rollar blade in the town squares, families riding four abreast on motor scooters holding tight to one another–little bodies squashed between big ones, families walking along dusty roads in their church finest, heading for services hand in hand. There is a lot of love and affection here and it is visible everywhere.

Today was our last day of riding. Tomorrow we will rest our weary legs, box our bikes and take in some more of Havana before heading home Tuesday morning. I can’t think of how this trip could have been better, but I am not home yet….

Pinar del Rio to La Coloma to San Diego de los Banos

66 miles

After a very long, hot day of riding, the three of us staggered into a small restaurant recommended to us by our host in San Diego de los Banos. We were hungry and depleted and sat down on stools that felt much too hard for our bottoms.

In my best Spanish, I asked the waitress what they served for dinner.

“Pork.”, she responded.

“Just pork?”, I asked

She nodded.

“Salad?”

She shook her head no.

“Pasta?”

Again no.

I am a die hard vegetarian and my friends also avoid meat when possible, but desperate times call for desperate measures. They both ordered pork dishes, but I could not. I continued pressing.

“French fries?”

I got a curt nod.

“Plantains.”

Another. So, after a 66 mile day, I ate a pile of grease and a beer and rolled myself home through the darkened streets, delighted to have a full, if not nutrient rich, belly.

Today’s ride took us to the southern coast, along the hot highway which seemed post apocalyptic with so few cars due to the oil embargo. Then we rode up on a high ridge road, connecting one small town after another. We looked over a lush valley and were treated to mountain vistas for mile upon mile.

This is a more impoverished section of Cuba than Vinales, but still we saw many people out and about, enjoying their days, playing baseball, soccer, running home for lunch in their tidy school uniforms and lingering in shady spots to visit and trade tales.

Everywhere we went, people were incredulous that we were here from the United States despite our governments antics. They seem very thankful and treat us like family.

San Diego de los Banos to Las Terrazas

54 Miles

My body is covered with grainy salt, my face radiates heat like boiled potato and still the hills keep coming. I look ahead and see my friend, Jeanne, weaving from one side of the road to the other trying to find purchase on this 19% grade.

One hour becomes two and exhaustion seeps in, begging us to stop, to lie down on the pavement in the shade, but as we climb, we leave the the dry valley on the southern side of Cuba behind and are treated to the lush, tropic, mountainous region to the west of Las Terrazas and it makes it all worth it.

Birds, frogs, waterfalls and streams beckon to us from the sides of the road, and when we finally summit, all about us are mountains upon mountains stretching out as far as we can see.

We gasp, gulp water, face into the breeze begging for it to cool us, and then we start down.

Down and down and down, swooping through forests and fields on a car less road for mile upon mile, until we reach Las Terrazas—our home for the night.

Las Terrazas is an experimental eco-village where the people living there used to farm the land, fish the lake and live in community. It is a tranquil, beautiful town.

When we get to our casa, we are offered tea and coffee and then for dinner, we eat langosta, cabbage salad, rice and beans, yucca and lemonade. Fat and happy and full in more ways than one we settle in for the night, rubbing our knees and our bellies.

We learn that the Cuban government charges Casa owners 150 US dollars a month for each room they offer, whether or not they have guests. Casa owners are struggling to stay open due to the drop in tourism. They can’t stay open “just in case”. Because they have to pay regardless.

Our host wants to stay here despite the financial hardship because this is her land, her family’s home and she is decidedly Cuban. She just needs people to keep coming. There isn’t a better place to be.

Vinales to Pinar del Rio

26 miles

In the morning my horse Picade, walked gently through the National Park in Vinales with Carmelo and Coco Loco trotting along behind. They bumped along and jostled for first position much like the three of us have been doing on our bicycles, but Picade felt the need to lead the parade, so we let him. It was all pleasure to have someone else do the work for a change though, and just take it all in without pedaling once.

On this three-hour tour for fifteen dollars, we not only got to ride where bikes would struggle to go, but we got to learn a lot about the agriculture in this area.

We visited a tabbaco farm and learned how to make cigars, getting to sample some of the best. (They dip the end in honey for a natural filter). We tasted coffee grown and roasted on site. We sipped and learned about Cuban rum and the government’s high tax of 65% per bottle produced. We passed fields of malanga, yucca, sugar cane, banana, mango, avocado, onions, garlic and beans. We came upon pigs rummaging in muddy patches and oxen, horses and cows standing stately in the shade. We rode under whispering pines, by limestone cliffs and up to tall scenic vistas overlooking the valley far below. Vinales is a place of dreams.

In the afternoon it was back on our bikes, using our own power again to climb out of the valley and down to the next town. We were passed by people doing a 25 mile commute paralleling ours on single speed bikes, with thighs like sinewy steel. Calling out “Veo te” and “Adios!”, smiling at our mirrored sweaty faces.

I have been biking now for a long time and in many places and I have never felt safer or more welcomed anywhere.

Palma Rubia to Vinales

45 miles

The limestone cliffs rise up around us, seeming to surge upwards out of the lush green foliage in an attempt to reach the sky overhead. We pedal through valleys created by the collapse of an enormous underground cavern carved by a massive river system. The collapse left behind fertile valleys, towering buttresses, waterfalls and exposed stalagmites and stalactites that sculpt the mountain sides.

We stop to explore two caves. The first by boat and the second by foot, both guided. The first guide told us about the natural history of the area, the second, who I had met last year shared the cultural history.

“I think I am moving to the Dominican Republic, next year.”, she said in the darkness of the cave, where it feels easier to speak freely. “It is breaking my heart. I love Cuba, I love the people and the land. I am from here. This is my home, but I might have to go because there is not enough. I am the saddest about leaving my father. He is the best man. He has always been there and I will need to leave him behind. I can’t bear it, but I need to be able to survive. I make 12 dollars a month working full time.”

None of us know what to say, but we linger in the darkness, trying to allow her sadness to have room. It is so unbearable to think of the choice she has to make.

Over dinner, we reflect on the fact that here, in Cuba, we are respectively wealthier than the top wage earners in the United States. We are dripping in gold and navigate this country like royalty. It is a sickening realization and one that feels weighted with responsibility. With all this, what can we do?

Cabanas to Palma Rubia

45 Miles

We are sitting on a porch in a gentle breeze, surrounded by papayas, bananas and mango trees springing up out of the rich, red soil that this area is famed for. The sea and sky are both a brilliant blue and in the setting sun, the vibrancy of the colors makes everything seem to glow.

Today we pedaled up and over many rolling hills on deeply pitted and potholed roads. We cycled past rice fields, farms, rivers and small towns, the dilapidated surface making us pedal slowly and allowing us to take in all the small scenarios playing out on the sides of the road; the oxen pulling heavily laden carts side by side, the young teenagers clustered in the shade of small markets, wasting time in the best way, small puppies wrestling each other, horses munching on lush green grass, small pigs sprinting across the road, and children yelling out “Hola” as we passed by.

When we arrived at our casa, we headed directly to the coast and jumped in to the warm, salty water under the careful watch of a cheery ferry captain, Roberto. His boat was tied alongside the dock and he toasted us with rum when we emerged. We passed a bottle, taking small sips together while extolling the virtues of Cuba.

It was a day of perfection.

Havana to Cabanas

45 Miles

In a cool, clean garage surrounded by several bikes, panniers and a series of racks stands Abel. He is a well-spoken, good looking man that has been running the CycloCuba bicycle rental business for many years in Havana.

Truth be told, I was immediately smitten with him and brought up that fact that I run a similar business in Maine called Lighthouse Bikes; Tours, Rentals and Repairs. After a bit of small talk, Abel got right to it.

“It is terrible here,” said Abel. “We have had three sets of customers this entire winter, one in December, one in January and one in February. It isn’t me that I worry about, it is my employees. I can’t pay them if we have no customers. We used to be booked all winter.”

I naively tell him that when Trumps term ends in just three years, maybe things can start to get better. He looked at me despondently, “We won’t make it through another year.”

He quickly readied a bike for my friend and told us to bring it back any day and time and he will be happy to come in from home to receive it. “If there is work, I will always work.”

Once the bike was fully equipped and ready to go, we headed west down the coast, bouncing over potholes, sprinting through the smoke from roadside grass fires, and taking a dip in the Caribbean before ending up in the small town of Cabanas.

Here a group of children crowded around us and helped push our bikes up the last incline to our Casa begging for a few pesos in return. When our little parade arrived, our host and her family burst out from their yard and surrounded us as well, everyone in the group smiling and laughing about our arrival and the business they were about to receive.

Our welcome was warm and chaotic. “We have only had a few customers this year. Can we feed you dinner? Breakfast? Would you like a beer?”, they asked us in quick succession while our bikes were swept out of our hands and taken to a locked room and our panniers carried to bedrooms.

For dinner we were served whole fried fish, yucca, tostones, bean soup, salad, rice and filtered water and beer. When we were finished, the hosts sat with us and arranged for Casa Particulares in the next two towns, calling friends and relations to tell them we were coming. Each phone call was met with celebration; the sounds of enthusiastic voices trumpeting out of the receiver upon hearing the news that tourists, one of the few dwindling streams of income left, were coming.

Havana

In Cuba it can be dangerous to express one’s opinions about social and political issues. People have been imprisoned for speaking out too loudly in protest of the current administration’s policies. However, in the Museo de Bellas Artes-Arte Cubano in Havana, many artists have found away to make their voices heard.

After paying the equivalent of 25 cents for admission, I wandered from room to room in this elegant building soaking in, not just beautiful art, but it’s many cultural messages.

There was an eight-foot tall ladle full of rocks. There were a series of huge swords hanging from the ceiling, spearing suitcases from over the last 150 years. There were enormous cockroaches with human heads adorning the walls. And there were bold interpretations of the land and the people of Cuba throughout.

Art is valued highly here, and it is found everywhere both in and outside of the museums. There are endless murals, street sculptures and vendors selling their craft. Art school is free, and after attending, a graduate is given a license to sell art. However, an artist is not permitted to sell their own art without this license. Nor can they procure artistic materials. This can be seen as both supportive of career artists and controlling.

Tomorrow, I will head west on my bicycle again, away from the lights, food, music and art of Havana, but I will have my friends Jeanne and Meg. Maybe that is an even trade?