Bikemum

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.

It is 3 o’clock in the morning and we are on a seven-hour overnight ferry ride across the Mediterranean Sea. We chose the cheap seats and feel as if we are spending the night in one of Dante’s levels of hell. It is okay though; we are all in it together.

The man in front of me is snoring. Not cute kitten-like purrs, but loud, nasal, elephant seal-like bellows. Every now and then the noises must wake him, and he gives a few loud SNORTS! And then it starts again. Another next to me is watching the absolutely most annoying Arabic sitcom on his phone at a high volume, featuring a host with a showman’s booming bravado and piercing brittle, staccato, canned laughter.

My husband Twain, is lying across the three seats that do not recline above me in a semi-fetal position and trying to will himself to sleep, while I lie on the floor where his feet should be, using our panniers as a bony mattress to keep my body off the dirty floor. They are jutting into my kidneys and ribs in a most uncozy way. My feet are sticking out into the aisle and I pray no one steps on my broken ankle, but I am too tired to care enough to move them.

Other passengers have lain velvet blankets on the floor, wherever they can find an empty patch of space and have covered their heads with shawls. I envy their obvious expertise. Nobody has turned off the lights. A small child nearby cries “Ayuda me, ayuda me!” — over and over between his barking croup-like coughs. His mother tries her best to pacify him, but he is just too tired. We all are.

When we finally disembark and make our way through the border crossing to Morocco, we are bleary eyed to say the least, and all of my defenses are down. We weave our bikes in and out of chaotic traffic, focusing solely on predicting what the drivers’ next moves might be as they swerve and lurch to sudden stops with no apparent rhyme or reason. Both French and Arabic fill the air as people call to one and other over the din of the traffic. The smell of market stalls’ fare (raw meat, hanging from tenterhooks, piles of fruit, stacks of fresh bread and pastries) and diesel gas make my head spin.

Nearly all the women we see are dressed in Chadors, and as I stand on a crowded sidewalk, watching our bikes and waiting for Twain to change our Euros to Dirhams, I feel positively naked in my biking tights and short- sleeved shirt. Someone calls me “Snowy,” another “Silver.”
We find an inexpensive hotel on the bustling main drag, graciously shown our room by the host Mihmoun, where we are overlooking the streetscape’s mayhem. After I change into something less revealing, we go to fill our bellies and step in to the closest cafe, “Dar Abdesalam.” We are served mountains of foods, on plate after another, squid, shrimp, pastries, paella scooped from a dish three-feet wide, full of flavors I have never tasted with names I have never heard. Every one of my senses is saturated.

Now, finally, I lie on the bed of my hotel room. My eyes are begging to close, but I still want more, so I keep the window wide open. The smells and sounds of the market drift up. I know I won’t last long.

Tomorrow we head for the western hills to explore the quieter side of Morocco and probably won’t have WiFi. Google doesn’t recognize the place names anyway. We have a paper map. We are bike touring the old fashioned way.

Sorry-pictures won’t download today!

I couldn’t sleep last night. My mind was tangled in all the sadness that the world is going through right now. The violence, the environmental calamities, and the political landscape left me nauseous. I lie awake for a while feeling selfish for taking these trips and writing such fluff. To top it off, somebody commented on this blog, basically calling me out on my narcissism. It is true, with such suffering, who am I to traipse around the world “exploring.”

There are so many horrors and atrocities, that they could bury any of us alive, but I can’t focus on them all the time or I wouldn’t make it, none of us would. My hope is to tell stories of the beauty in the world and the people that inhabit it. The connections, the variety and the fortitude keep me going. If I didn’t focus on these things, I think I would drown and what good would that do? So, forgive me my levity and selfishness.

Spain is made for cycling, there is no doubt. Despite our clunky, mule-like rented bicycles, that made us feel like out -of-shape middle-aged couch surfers every time a peloton of bicyclists blasted by (okay, maybe it wasn’t just our bikes) we were enraptured by many of the varied landscapes we past through and how much the country has designed their road ways to not just accommodate but prioritize bicycles. Cars need to give cyclists 5 feet (1.5 meters) of room EVEN OF THEY ARE PEDALING SIDE BY SIDE! It feels so safe. And everybody seems to ride; for much of the day there seemed to be more cyclists than cars.

Over the last two days we have cycled 120 miles from Grenada to Almeria, stopping for the night in the small coastal village of Calahonda. We climbed up and over mountains skirting the snowy edge of the Sierra Nevadas, the Alpujarras, and then down to the coast with its tall, rocky promontories and sweeping views. Up and down we rose and fell, from sea level to cliff top, again and again. We ate the juiciest and sweetest oranges that I have ever tasted, which we found fallen from a tree on the roadside. Our butts became sore and then very sore. We were starving, we were sweating, we were exhausted and it all the while we felt like the luckiest people in the world.

Now we sit in a cafe waiting for an overnight ferry that leaves at midnight to take us across the Mediterranean to Melilla, a Spanish enclave in Morocco. From here on out we are making it up as we go along. I am excited and, truthfully, nervous. I will be the “other” there, in a way that I don’t think I ever have before and it is something that many others feel all the time.

Last night, the noise in the bar around me bubbled up, crescendoing and falling like the all waves of humanity that have come before and then tumbling down in never ending murmurs of agreement and disapproval. I have no idea what they were saying, but it didn’t matter. All stories are the same in the end.