Tormented—Day 23 of Bicycling through Morocco and Spain (and England).

I spent the day tormented as I bounced down gravel roads bordered by low stone walls that were doing a lousy job of preventing me from stealing the oranges that dangled from the trees on either side.  

A battle raged inside me. Their golden orbs tantalized me and as the dust from the road rose up and made my throat drier and drier, I couldn’t stop fixating on how juicy they would be, how refreshing! I kept riding. I was trying to be virtuous. They are someone’s livelihood, I thought, and I am a guest here. I stealed my self, but then I had to pee.

Being that I can’t go in the road and wave my bare tuckus around when a farm truck could come around a corner at any moment, I had no choice, but to pull over and jump the wall. I brushed by the oranges pretending not to notice them and squat down. This is when I faltered.

There, inches from my nose was the brightest, most alluring, cutest—never to be noticed if plucked—orange. The fresh, sweet smell filled my head and I buckled. I am no saint. 

I hitched up my britches and quick as a darting hummingbird, snagged that orange and stood in the orchard peeling and devouring that candy like fruit, peering guilty towards the road in case someone was to witness my thievery. It was as good as I imagined—better. And then, god as my witness, another orange fell from the tree behind me as I stood there. What could I do, let it rot?

When I biked away, my sticky handlebars were luckily the only penalty I incurred.

So, down the road I went, from Bocairent to the Mediterranean Sea at Gandia. The high desert has given way to orchards and rivers and I will camp tonight just a mile from the beach. 

When I check into my site, I speak to the host in my mangled Spanish, which she generously encourages by asking me endless questions about my journey. “Bravo!” she says as I finally head out to set up my tent, and as I reward for my efforts, she gives me two oranges.

Had she seen me?