I am Bicycling Around Cuba and I am Bringing a Friend

She blusters into Lighthouse Bikes on a icy, raw day, wearing a pair of jeans that are held up by their multitude of colorful patches and a stiff, plaid rain hat that she tells me that has been in her family for generations. Her smile radiates from cheek to cheek and she bounces rather than trods across the shop on the balls of her feet. In her arms she carries a large atlas and a yellow legal pad. She whips out a pen and heads for the couch. She is named Louise, aka. Wheezie, and she is here for our Cuban summit.

Until now, I have always spoken proudly about my love of bicycle touring alone. I have loved the quiet, meditative days of pedaling, the lack of compromise and the rawness of it all, but there have been some things that I have miss out on because of going solo.

I become shy when I am alone. I shrink away from social situations, scared that it will be noticed and taken advantage of. I am always in my tent by eight o’clock and always avoid truly engaging with others because of my vulnerability. “No thank you, I am fine.” are often the first words out of my mouth when I am invited to a family’s house for dinner or offered a chance to experience a cultural event. Often before I can even register what they are asking. But now, when I think of Cuba, it is exactly these things that I am seeking. I want to engage with the people, not just myself.

Wheezie and I sit down and she spreads the atlas open on the coffee table. We start pointing out possible routes to each other, jockeying to control the enthusiasm that causes us to interrupt each other again and again, our words bubbling over one and others like a fountain. Every idea is a good one, so we decide to leave the route fairly open and go where it makes sense, averaging 60 or so miles a day.

We discuss needed paperwork, finances and equipment, dividing tasks and timelines. There are food shortages in Cuba so we need to bring some emergency rations. Electricity can be spotty, batteries and headlamps are a must. We have also been told to only bring cash and to have it in small bills because the exchange rate is so variable and there are no ATM’s. We won’t camp because camping is not commonplace in Cuba, but rather we will stay in rooms for rent in people’s homes.

I feel a wash of relief as I realize that all these decisions and logistics will not fall on me and that Wheezie will be standing right beside me as I ask the locals to stay in their homes, and sitting right beside me as I am emboldened to practice my Spanish over breakfast. I get giddy by the thought of dancing the night away instead of sitting alone in a tent, or lingering over dinner while actually making conversation with Cuban people.

After an hour or so, I need to return to work and she to her home. She takes her old red, trusty Rockhopper bike with nobby mountain bike tires off a hook where it has been hanging in the shop and lays out a plan to ride it at least 10 miles a day on the road before we go to leather up her butt and strengthen her knee bones. It will be better exercise than a road bike. The very next morning, on a 20 degree day, she sends me a selfie of her pedaling along grinning like this is the best life ever lived.

This trip will be different because of Wheezie. I may miss my solitude at times, but I believe that it will richer, more vibrant, and more culturally engaging than any so far. This woman is going to open doors.

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