Bikemum

“Tu es sola?” asks the tipsy man sitting down the bar from me. I had just ordered my glass of wine, proud that I had stayed up late enough to get something to eat in Huescar. It is not the drink I had wanted, it was the tapas. Little delicious snacks that come free with a two dollar glass of wine. Get two glasses and it is a meal. Delicious and the cheapest thing going.

“Where is your husband?” He slurs in half broken english/spanish. I show him my ring and resolutely open my book. Of course that doesn’t stop him. He leans towards me, “Tu es muy bonita.” And just like that, a perfectly good evening ruined. When my food comes, the 22-year-old waiter rolls his eyes at the man and shrugs a sorry to me, but he is too young to know what to do. So, instead of enjoying myself, I slug back the wine, inhale the snack and ask for the check. The waiter tells me it has been paid. This doesn’t feel nice, it feels possessive. “Have another.”my new pal urges arching his eyebrows. 

How is this nice? It is so annoying that I have to constantly have my guard up and be on the defensive when I travel alone. Last night was small potatoes, but it speaks to a larger fear.

Traveling alone is great, but I spend a lot of time being afraid of men. I am not afraid of being robbed; take my stuff, I know I will be get home. I am not afraid of crashing; that can happen anywhere. I am afraid of aggressive men. Sexually aggressive. Do you know how many beautiful moments I have wasted, thinking “I have to get out of here, a man might come and I am all alone.”

It seems crazy, but I am sure many women feel similarly. I want to sit in a bar, camp by myself and walk alone at night without fear. Maybe someday.

Today, I spent the day alone, climbing through the Sagre mountains, across high arid deserts for 55 miles on a little paved road that cut through vast agricultural fields full of dry soil and rock. I pedaled through ghost towns, whole villages where everyone had abandoned their homes long ago. I wondered about their stories, who left first? Who left last? 

Eight cars passed me all day, and a few shepards with large flocks of sheep. It was otherworldly. 

I have landed in Caravaca, sunburned and exhausted, I hope I can stay up late enough for dinner tonight. Don’t worry for me, that is not the point. I can stay safe—I just don’t want to have to try.

I will post my whole route on Komoot when I am finished in case anybody wants to see all these things for themselves!

I am afraid that if I don’t write every day, I will miss something. Something as important as meeting the couple in Gorafe yesterday, half way out of the canyon at a little “Hail Mary” cafe nestled against the cliff walls and learning that they had just completed digging out their new cave house. Eight rooms in total. They extolled the virtues of the cool climate it provides in the summer when the temperature hovers around 110 degrees or more and the absolute silence and dark found within them. They invited me to stay, but I had to press on. 

Or I might forget the wild boars that snuffle through the olive orchards here, rooting up the soil and eating the fallen fruits while they helpfully aerate the ground to allow the rain in. They are as big as sheep.

Or the illusive Iberian Ibex, which I was lucky enough to see. It watched me as I pedaled by as curious as I.

When I awoke in the bottom of the Geoparque de Granada, it was freezing. Truly freezing. Water bottle skimmed with ice freezing. My sleeping pad had a hole and I had woken every hour to blow it up again and again. I jumped up and down to warm myself while stuffing my tent and dreaming of coffee. Thankfully, Mainers Mitts had sponsored me with some warm mittens and my fingers were incredibly grateful. 
When I was all packed up, I pedaled through the sunrise, the air soft and still. I could hear little creatures huffing at me as I passed by. And you know it made it all worth it. The ascent quickly warmed me and soon I longed for a little of that frost.

Now I have climbed out of the park, over another mountain and descended into a vast desert. It is wide and dry with occasional cave homes sunk into the shade of a rise here and there. The light is sharp and the colors bright. There is no traffic and I am surrounded by nothing and everything all at once.
I hear the desert of Morocco is moving north, right up through Central Europe. You can see it here. People lament that it only rained twice last winter and this winter there is no rain in sight, but still the farmers try. What olive trees there are, are being heavily pruned to accommodate this drought and the smell of olive oil from the burning branches fills the air whenever I pass an orchard. The price of the oil has multiplied by five in two years.

Tonight I will sleep in Huescar, perched in the foothills of Sierra de la Sagre mountain range. 

These trips are like a prolonged meditation, and several times a day a feeling of giddiness washing over me. It feels a little like being in love.

Thank you for reading this blog. I love writing it because it makes it all make sense to me and keeps me from getting lost out here. Sorry I don’t respond to comments—I love them, but fear that I would be in conversation all day rather than experiencing where I am.

Lastly, I did indeed get my Jamis Sequel bike back and no offense to my good old rental “Gute Reit” that got me across Morocco, but it has made all the difference in the world.

I know you can’t read this until tomorrow because I am wild camping and there is no service, but I have to tell you about today while it is fresh. 

I have often said that I am “Late to the game,” about world knowledge, but did you know that there is a canyon in Spain that rivals the Grand Canyon? I came upon it today only because our host in Granada insisted that I not ride the boring way, but instead go to see the coloraos, whatever the heck they are. He said I simply had to, so with trepidation, I took a left off my route towards Barcelona and cycled off down said dirt road. 

This dirt road bumped and shimmied me across a long plateau for 10 miles, putting me through many waves of misgivings, and led me, unexpectedly to an immense canyon. I was gobsmacked. Who knew? The dirt road tapered to a narrow finger extending far out over the land below and dropping off with cliffs on either side. I could barely eke out the verdant valley that indicated a river winding through the bottom, the very one responsible for all this sculpting.

The walls of this chasm were rock, magnificent rock with burnt orange, iron red and alabaster white strata that had worn away over eons by the river. It was too dry and rocky for there to be any plants so it was laid out bare. The canyon opened into a desert on the far end and continued as far as I could see. No towns, no signs of civilization just barren beauty. I stood in awe. (Did you know about this?)

My hosts next directions were to bicycle down. This meant down a narrow dirt track that dropped from this precipice and wound around towers and buttresses deep into the desert below. I had no idea where it would end, what the condition of it might be or whether it was for sure the trail he said to take. There were no signs, just his words echoing in my head. “You have to do it.”

I am not sure why I listened. It is actually not my style, believe it or not, I am a bit of a scardy cat. Perhaps, I was truly spell bound, but I did and I am so glad. 

I spent the next several hours squealing my brakes and bouncing over rocks as I went lower and lower. The rocks rose up, dwarfing me. I passed below one mesa, then the next, then the next. Dust rose up and coated my bike and legs. It might have been the most beautiful bike ride of my life. The Coloraos are these colorful rock promontories, that almost seems like fins or waves. A labyrinth of stone.

Now, I am in the bottom and camping under a huge Juniper tree all alone. I met a sweet man named Fernando hiking in the bottom and he let me know where it was safe to stay and even showed me where a thermal spring bubbled up from below, so that I could wash the dust off my face and hands. He left long ago to drive back up to his home, and now it could not be more quiet. Surprisingly, I don’t feel afraid.

The stars have come out and they are incredible. I can clearly see the smear of the Milky Way. The canyons walls frame them in black curtains all around. I have some cookies to munch on, and a book to read. Tomorrow I will climb back out, on a paved road. It might take a while, and I don’t really want to think about it, but tonight is perfect

This morning, after stiffening up my floppy lips and letting out a jagged breath, I climbed aboard my bike and embarked on part two of this bike adventure—solo. Barcelona or bust. As I struggled to get out of Granada emotionally, I found that I did physically as well—the joys of rush hour traffic.

“Twain,” I texted. “I am not getting anywhere. The streets are all gummed up!”

“Don’t worry,” he shot back from the safety of the airport, “You will soon be liberated.” And just like that, those words defined the rest of the day.

In minutes I had wound my way out of downtown and began to climb up into the Sierra Nevadas. I followed the River Genil and passed endless fincas full of olive and cherry blossoms. Every so often I would come upon a small town nestled in a valley with white, plaster homes and orange tiled roofs, piled on top of each other, seeming to jockey each other for footholds on the slopes.

The air became cool and higher still, snow covered peaks began to appear. The cherries and olive trees were replaced with evergreens and moss and the forest became dark and deep. No more farms, no more homes. The only sounds were occasional bells in the distance as cattle minced their way through the woods to the tumbling river, and the wisp of a breeze through the pines. There were no cars. I was all alone. My breathing was no longer jagged, but deep and full.

When I broke through the pass at 4,600 feet, everything changed again. Mountains seem to do that. The river was left behind and here, there was only rock; bright red and orange cliffs, mesas, spires and towers. I was in the Geoparque de Granada. It is huge and known for its beautiful rock formations and obvious geological history.
Then down I flew, eyes as open as they could get, sweat cooling my skin and air rushing in my ears. I only stopped once to devour some peanut brittle and a grapefruit and guzzle some cherry juice before I descended into the desert below. I was indeed liberated.

Now I rest in another cave dwelling in Guadix. They are not unusual here, in fact, over 3,000 people live in them in this town alone. They also use them for businesses and churches, as well as in agriculture for storing and/or curing foods. They are everywhere. Often there is the facade of a house configured on the side of a cliff, but the whole interior will be underground. They must be deliciously cool in the summer, when here in is over one hundred degrees regularly with no other shade to speak of.

But, tonight, my little cave is stale and stuffy, so as soon as it is late enough, I will sally out upon the land and find a some comida. I had no idea this would be what I would find, and I love that.

Not sure if photos are coming the—here is hoping!

I am resting. Really resting. We have completed our loop back to Granada, along the Costa del Sol, weaving on and off of boardwalks and bike paths, stopping for quick dips in the sea and cafés con leche when needed. (Of course that was not before we paid homage to Komoot by following her route for several hours deep into the hills above Marbella only to find a locked gate with a no trespassing sign blocking our progress! We backtracked cursing her trickery and then had to ride on a broken sidewalk with only a guardrail separating us from the busy Autovia for 15 miles before finally being treated to a beautiful and mellow ride complete with all the aforementioned luxuries. But, a women as lucky as I should not complain.)

Now we are regrouping in an apartment with a little tower that overlooks the burnt-orange ceramic tiled roof tops of the town. Twain is working for a few days and I am planning the rest of my adventure. On Sunday he will fly home and I will head out alone into the mountains, northward toward Barcelona.

Hopefully, I will pedal through a pass just north of the snow-covered Sierra Nevadas and, after being in high elevations for a week, I will descend back to the coast and wend my way to Barcelona. I will camp and stay in hostels. It sounds absolutely beautiful out there. Tiny villages, caves and winding rivers tumbling through olive groves.
I am excited, but of course apprehensive. It has been so luxurious to have a traveling partner—to lean into another person’s strength. Twain and I travel very well together and have a lot of fun.

There is a drawback though. When I am with him, I begin to rely on him. I speak much less Spanish and end up leaving a lot of decision making up to him. It is easier that way because I often don’t really care what we do. But here is the thing—I end up feeling a bit like a passenger and that makes me feel a little squirmy. The truth is, I don’t always want to be the passenger, as relaxing as it is, sometimes I want to drive.

In every country I have traveled to, men still look to men as the decision makers, the communicators, the strength in a couple—and the problem is that I begin to believe them and act accordingly. I speak less, decide less and become less self sufficient. I make more mistakes, don’t listen to my instincts and allow him to be our spokesperson. It is only when I am alone or with other women that I truly feel seen and respected. Crazy.

I love my husband very much and I will cry when he leaves in a pitiful and pathetic way—but I know that there is a reason that I choose to go solo, despite how comfortable it is to be with him. I need to try to remember that through my tears.
I probably won’t write again until he is gone because I will be focusing instead on tapas and guitar music, the Alhambra and cathedrals, but I will be back when I hit the road again.

“I have been out of the walled city!”protests an eight-year-old boy to his little sister. “When I went to that Rugby tournament, remember?”
Eight years and he has left the city of Gibraltar once. Before I had explored the town, I couldn’t believe anybody could live such a small, sheltered life, but now I completely understand.

First off, it is important to note that in terms of history and geography, I am wicked late to the game. In fact, I might have sailed on by this incredible place, through the undulating green hills of Southwestern Spain, which are reminiscent of Scotland in their green, lush, steepness, if it hadn’t been for Twain’s insistence: “We have to go to Gibraltar.”

So, we bullied our way through many miles of chaotic industrial scree, dozens of miles of shipping terminals and refineries, interwoven with punishing traffic, and, before we knew it, found ourselves crossing into England. One minute we were in Spain, and the next, the United Kingdom—complete with pubs, fish and chips, thick Cockney and Midlands accents, and monkeys. (We will get to that in a moment.)

Like a dog that spins before finding its resting place, we first cruised around the perimeter of the town, wending in and out of long tunnels left over from World War II that now serve as byways to cut through the limestone cliffs that shear into the sea. In an out, the turquoise Mediterranean on one side and towering white stone on the other.

We ate in a pub, listened into English chatter and took crash courses on our phones to learn all about the incredible history of this area. From Neanderthals skulls, to Roman ruins, conquests by the Moors, and then Carlos V from Spain, to the Treaty of Utrecht, to World War II–this rock has evidence of endless people struggling to take control. Layer upon layer, and much of it is still visible to the naked eye.

Then up we went, to the nature preserve, that covers the top of the Rock of Gibraltar and which, shockingly to me, was populated with Barbary Apes! They lounge on the ruins and sleep on the stairs, they wrestle on the pathways and cuddle on the limestone escarpments. There are families and babies, all inquisitive, but not annoying. Nearly 300 in all. They are the only Apes in all of Europe and are the royalty of Gibraltar. Nobody seems to know how they got here, but they are revered. I was smitten.

There is a deep cave here that we explored as well and legend has it that perhaps the cave leads to a tunnel under the sea to Africa (only 15 miles away) and the Apes snuck over. Who knows? It’s ancient history.

Between the beauty and the history, the turquoise water and the natural landscape, the diverse population and the creature comforts of this modern city, I now understand that that little boy’s world is not small at all. It has everything he could possibly need.

Let’s just start by saying that we had the most perfect rainy, windy, mountainous, breathtaking bus ride ever from El Jebha to Azla yesterday. It was all of 68 miles and worth every one of the 14 dollars it cost for two people and bikes. I spent the whole time staring out the window at the Mediterranean, far below, hearing the rain and the wind rattle the bus as it swooped up and down and gleefully exclaiming how happy I was to be sitting on that soft seat.

Today we biked west from Azla to Tangier, against headwinds all the way, and into the ancient medina of the town, a maze of endlessly looping alleyways, with barely a slit overhead to allow daylight in. It sits high on a hilltop overlooking the Straights. Ships pass east and west. Spain is right there. There are cobblestones and tile work and fortress-like ornate doors leading into alluring inner sanctums. There are small shops selling crafts, beautiful handmade wool rugs and buckets of spices, incense, soaps, herbs, shoes, clothing, and silver. A labyrinthine maze of color, scent, sound, and people.

Tomorrow we leave Morocco and head to Tarifa and Gibraltar. I have had such a tiny sampling of this country, but I am left amazed at the variety I have seen. The people (and landscape) differ dramatically from region to region in dress and appearance. When I think about all the variations I would see if I stayed here and just headed south into the heart of Africa, it is truly incredible and to think I could—one pedal at a time.

I didn’t write last night because I couldn’t. My body had turned to a gelatinous bag of exhaustion—not to be too graphic. We had started happily enough cruising along the coast, envisioning a beautiful ride, swooping along the coast, kissing the Mediterranean from time to time and riding up and down the headlands. We didn’t realize that there were several mountain ranges between here and there.

When I say mountains, I don’t mean hills. I mean four separate ranges each between 1,800 and 2,700 feet with many significant rollers between. All told we probably climbed 14,000 feet. We had to cross each valley and then climb each mountain on the other side, down to sea level, and then back up again. Sometimes 1,300 feet, sometimes 2,700 feet. We did this about ten times.

As we cycled, we passed through a very rural section of Morocco where women wore large straw hats over the Chadors and young children rode mules up steep red rocky hills carry ten gallons of water.
The land was terraced and what sparse crops as could were eked out of the ground. Endless groves of olive trees, bounding tidy plots of tobacco, occasional almonds and some gnarled junipers, all struggled to cast a touch of shade here and there and their green contrasted sharply with the reddish-orange clay soil. The settlements were few and far between and built out of clay bricks from the surrounding soil or cinder blocks. Each one did have a mosque though, with brightly colored minarets pointing to the heavens.

On and on we went, and, truth be told, it all became too much. Near the end of the day, we crested a range and looked down into the next valley far below only to see in the distance our road climbing back up again, which we discovered later to be 2,700 feet. I started to lose it.

I truly do not think that I have ever been so physically challenged. The only way I made it was by promising myself that I never had to do this again. I told myself that I could quit, that my days of bike touring could be over. One pedal, then the next. Tears in my eyes and a ragged catch in my throat. I could not speak. My nether regions were on fire.
Finally we reached the top of our climb and coasted — for 10 miles, down to a seaside fishing town—El Jebha. Even coasting was painful.

We ate like wolverines, hot bowls of bessara and plates of calamari, and slept like hibernating bears. Last night, over dinner, we refused to speak of our plan for today, but now, as the day has dawned rainy and windy, we have decided to take a bus—to cross the next 50 miles of the coastal mountain range because there is no reason for further self flagellation.

Traveling in an Arabic country is fascinating, but it is a bit like watching a foreign film with no subtitles. I have many questions and no way to ask them. The people are so varied and the way of life, very different from anything I have known. There are very few women visible anywhere, not in the hotels, restaurants or parks. There is no toilet paper or sheets on the beds. There are more cats than I have ever seen anywhere—packs of them. Mules are tied to trees here and there by their fetlocks, looking dolefully out upon the land, awaiting their next task. Everyone is kind and typically treats me like an exotic and odd bird.
No matter how exhausted I am, I feel very awake. And let me just tell you how soft this bus seat is….

We wake at dawn to a call to prayer emanating from the tower on the Mosque, right outside our hotel window. The Arabic song is deep and sonorous and reminiscent of a didgeridoo. It bellows from bull horns and bounces off the hills and throughout the town just as the sky is beginning to lighten. It is strangely comforting and makes us snuggle a little deeper under the covers as we listen to its mystical sound.

If I had known what the day ahead of us was going to entail, I might have heeded the call and prayed myself, but, sadly, I did not.

Today we climbed up and over the Rif Mountains to the Mediterranean coast. I had never heard of them, and perhaps did not take them seriously enough. The road wound up and up and with every meter of elevation came another knot of wind.

Yes, the wind. The force in this world that brings me most to my knees. It is the divine ego buster. “You think you are tough?” It seems to say, “Take this.” “You think you are so strong? Let me ratchet it up a little more.” By the time we were in the final rise of the mountain range, we were both walking. Gravel and dust blasted us from the rocky hillsides making it impossible to look up. If we tried to bike, it pushed us over. I had to pee, tears flooded my eyes. “You should have prayed,” the wind seems to taunt. I staggered and wove and several times was forced to spread my legs and take a gust like a line backer taking a hit. My arms ached. My ankle screamed. When we thought we couldn’t take anymore, we saw a sign indicating steep uphills ahead for the next 1.5 kilometers. The wind grew even stronger. Finally, after several hours of staggering, we crested the range and looked down at the blue Mediterranean far below. The view was absolutely magnificent. Yes, it was worth it.

Last night, before bed, we enjoyed Moroccan mint tea. It has become our nightly ritual. When we asked for the bill, we found that our cafe mates had paid for us. We thanked them and they went on to tell us that they had never seen any Americans in their town before. In fact, the only foreigners they had seen were a family from Finland several years ago and a solo Japanese man on a bike about 30 years ago. It is strangely refreshing that there are still parts of the world that we have not overrun.

Tonight, we sleep in Ajdir, on the shores of the Mediterranean, the fortress Peñon de Alhucemas — another disputed territory held by Spain since 1559 — just a few hundred meters offshore. We take a brief dip in the sea before heading back for mint tea and bed.

From the moment we leave Nador, we are climbing. Up and up, through the dusty, arid land. This land is rough and mountains are stacked to the horizon in every direction, promising a physically difficult day.
The olive trees that dot the landscape grow out of reddish-orange gravel and rock rather than soil. There are some cacti and a few acacia-like plants, but not many.
Here and there, nestled in small valleys, between the hills, or perched on top of the rises, are small towns made of this rock, plus some cinder block and concrete, as if they too are growing from this land. There is nothing soft. The southern sides of the homes have no windows and on the north, only small ones, making cool, cave-like dwellings. They are stacked against each other in tight clusters creating shade seeking labyrinths.

But the people here, they create the color and the life. As we cycle, nearly every one we see gives us a big grin, an open-handed wave, or a thumbs up. We play leap frog with a few school buses and the young teenagers on them wave and shout out English phrases to us. “How are you?” they call, their eyes literally shining. They clap their hands together gleefully when we respond. Women walking along the roads smile and nod. Men put their hands to their breasts and give a small bow, “Salam.” Drivers toot their horns and wave. The energy flooding into my body from the warmth of these people fuel me as I struggle up and up.
As we reach the crest of a two-hour long climb there is a car waiting. I am a little worried because I had taken off my long, modest tights and changed into bike shorts at lunch (my bum couldn’t take riding without padding another minute) and my naked legs were flashing in the sun. (Nobody, nobody here wears shorts.) But rather than scold or correct me, the gentleman in the car thrust a plastic bag full of 12 oranges out his window, their leaves and stems still attached — freshly picked. He was grinning—“Here, here,” he said. “Good job!” and he smiled at us with twinkly eyes. Twain and I thanked him and immediately started peeling and eating the oranges. We ate three each, the juice making our hands sticky and our hearts full.

Now 60 miles later, we are in Midar. It boasts one hotel complete with hot water and WiFi, hosted by a smiling young woman who translated our conversations through her boyfriend on the phone from France: Arabic – English – Arabic – English. What else could we need? Morocco has won me over.