Bikemum

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.

“We don’t have your bikes.”
My eyes are tearing and my face feels spongy. “Que?”

“Don’t worry, they will come on the next plane, maybe 5 o’clock.” The woman at the help desk smiles at us appeasingly. “We will deliver them to you.”

I am so tired from an overnight flight that landed us at 3 o’clock in the morning our time that I can’t really absorb this information, and through the fog in my brain, I just want to believe her. It is just a minor inconvenience, and all will be well by this evening, after a wee nap. So, off I wobble.

And it is indeed a wobble. Have I forgotten to tell you that I broke my ankle? It is ancient history though—nearly three weeks ago. I have crutched, booted, and limped my way since then and have found that bicycling is the most pain feee method of travel. Soon enough.

But guess what? Two days later and still no bikes. They are stuck in no man’s land, the purgatory where lost luggage circulates, round and round on conveyor belts or, worse yet, in dusty storage rooms with flickering neon lights, cheek to jowl with all the other lost causes. Maybe in Madrid’s sprawling airport, maybe still in Boston. None of the helpful folks at Iberia can venture a guess. My husband conjures the final scene in Raiders of the Lost Arc, where the covenant is stored in a vast warehouse with other anonymous crates.

But, let’s put that image aside. Let’s picture instead the Alhambra that I limped through while waiting for them to appear today.

I have never seen such majesty; the towering fortress walls, the vaulted ornate ceilings, the intricate tile work and the perfectly symmetrical gardens—so many cultures and histories colliding and building on each other here that it really puts a girl’s lost bike in perspective.

Or picture instead the city of Granada, full of sneaky cobblestone alleys and winding passageways that snake through the hillsides. Homes are nestled against steep slopes and some people even live in caves! That is where we stayed last night, an ancient Gypsy cave dug into a hillside and now finished with white-washed ceilings and walls and plumbing and a wee bit of electricity. Gypsies here are proud to be called Gitanos because their culture of strength, family and artistic expression is celebrated. Their music is everywhere.

Or if not that, just picture the Flamenco dancers who seem to rise from the earth here. Stomping and twirling and clapping with more passion than I have ever seen anywhere. They are reminiscent of the bower birds that David Attenborough features in his nature documentaries. You can’t look away as they dance with a furious passion what can only be called life, stamping and clapping and wailing, accompanied by a solo guitarist.

So, tonight we finally gave up on the good people at Iberia Airlines and rented bikes, and they are fine. A bit gomby perhaps, but they might just do the trick. If I had an awkward little sister, who needed wide tires and a sturdy frame to feel safe, this would be her bike, and I’m borrowing it to climb the Alpujarra mountains and pedal from Melilla to Tangier. It wants only a cane basket on the handlebars.

It is certain to be a different kind of adventure this time; a little Pippi Longstocking, a little Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang, a little Around the World in 80 Days. I am excited to see what tomorrow brings.

It is time to go. My panniers are packed, the house tidied, the bike shop locked and our passports in hand, and while I am definitely excited for this next adventure, it is now that I always become most homesick. I yearn for both worlds—the cozy, familiarity of home and the eye-opening, startle of bike travel.
On Wednesday, I will board a plane to Granada, Spain. The first night, I believe I will stay in a cave, sans spiders. A nice cave. From there my husband and I will bike for two days, south to the Mediterranean and cross on a ferry to Morocco. We will pedal along the coast from Melilla to Tangier. We will camp or stay in hostels depending on what we find.
At that point, my husband will head home and based on how I feel about the idea of biking solo as a female in Morocco, I will decide whether to head back to Spain and make my way up through the snow covered mountains to the French border, or turn south and cycle down the coast of Morocco to Casablanca.

I am a bit wary about traveling alone in Morocco, because I have heard many stories of women getting harassed, but if I have learned anything on these adventures—it is that you don’t know till you go. Fear is tangy and delicious and floats to the top, making it hard to pay attention to rational thought. On this trip, I will plan my route as I go and make decisions based on what I find, not something I dream up from my living room.

I am excited to experience a culture so different from my own. To see the tapestries, taste the flavors and hear the languages. At the risk of sounding corny, these trips feel like awakenings, and it is time to wake up again.

So, I am almost ready to get up off the couch and peel back this cozy quilt which is covered with a delicious patina of dog hair, baby spittle, sticky Christmas candy and popcorn and see what is out there. Problem is that today, I love this nasty old quilt.

Perhaps that is part of it. To miss, long and yearn is its own pleasure albeit a painful one.

The Littlest Things

In the Biggest World

My face is peeling off, literally. I stare into the mirror and watch as my cheeks pucker, redden and scab, and wonder if this is a time-lapse of old age. The Ghost of Christmas Future. I have always felt young in my body and if asked how old I feel, I would say 35 or so, but not today. Today I feel 95. A veritable crone.

I am in the midst of giving myself a Fluorouracil facial peel at the recommendation of my doctor, as a penalty for all the fun I have had in the sun over the years, and it is not going well. I guess the truth is, I am a bit of a baby and a vain one at that. To add to the torture, I had thought that it was a great idea to sequester myself alone in a cabin in the woods in midcoast Maine and take the time to do some deep introspective writing, which is smacking strongly of naval-gazing. Lonely, naval-gazing. It is hunting season as well, and I don’t feel safe inside or out.

I have been alone before and have often enjoyed it, because it was novel and gave my brain a chance to settle, but not this time. This time I miss my family, I miss my granddaughter, I miss my friends and I miss my home. In fact, I miss them so much, that I started to second guess my decision to go on a solo bike tour this winter. Why would I choose to leave, if home is full of so many things that I love? Why choose to adversity? Why choose loneliness? Then I looked in the mirror again.

“Because, you old hag, adventuring is your fountain of youth. It is how you remember who you are without responsibilities and routines that have worn creases in your brow. It is how you remember who you are when you aren’t looking in mirrors, but rather looking at the stars and the hills and into the faces of people whose lives are so distant, but so similar to your own. It is how you regain perspective. It is time to wake up and get your brain synapses firing and your muscles aching. There will be time to be still”

So, I am listening to the Baba Yaga in the mirror, because, although ugly, she is wise. I will leave January 10th and return February 17th. I have rethought my route again because, I want to be open to what feels best. This time I don’t have a goal, just a hunger to explore another culture. Maybe I will go south in Morocco to Casablanca, maybe I will head north in Spain to Barcelona. I know there will be a lot of hills. I know it will be beautiful and I know I will meet incredible people who will remind me of everything important. Other than that, my bicycle and I will make it up as we go along.

Seems like I will spend my life seeking a balance between connecting with what is right before me and staying connected to the awesomeness of the bigger world. It is a duality; to love the sigh of my granddaughters breath against my neck when I rock her to sleep and to yearn to sample the spices along the Moroccan Coast. The smallest things and the biggest world.

This winter’s route

The acorns snap and pop under my wheels as I pedal back to Lighthouse Bikes after giving a cold, damp bicycle tour to some customers from Texas. We just visited three lighthouses along the coast of South Portland, Maine, in a late October drizzly sleet. They were great sports and said that this was the weather they were here for. They oohed and aahed at the sites and exclaimed about what a great time they were having, even as the hail bounced off the seaside docks.

I, on the other hand, found myself distracted by my red, raw, stinging fingers that were seeming to begin to freeze to my handlebars in the biting wind. I repeatedly thrust them, one at a time, into the pockets of my rain coat while trying to maintain control of my bike with the other. Despite the discomfort, I was trying my best to exude an air of enthusiasm and fun. Luckily, given how beautiful this area is and the attitude of the guests, it wasn’t too difficult. Besides, I knew I had only one more week of tours left and then the season would shift. No more leading trips; it would be time once again to make my own adventure. There are two parts to this one.

First, next week, I will be traveling to a secluded cabin alongside the Kennebunk River and doing some unlayering of the past years. It sounds a bit melodramatic, but my plan is to hide away and complete a facial peel to rid myself of years of precancerous, sun-damaged skin, accumulated from endless, sunny days of adventuring, and as I do so, also peel away the busyness of life and start to write another book. I like the poetry of it—the symmetry. As my face shall go—so shall I. Layer by layer, lesson by lesson, story by story. Maybe creating something presentable, if not beautiful.

I will probably be lonely, most likely afraid, and surely horrified as my face scabs and peels—because I am vain and it is Halloween season, but I want to see my way through this and find what is there underneath worth sharing.

When I am finished, I hope to turn my attention to another bicycle trip. This time following the route of Hannibal and his elephants as they made their way north through Spain. I will start in Granada, Spain, dip into Morocco, pedal along the coast to the Strait of Gibraltar and then head north to the Pyrenees—as far as I can get in 6 weeks.

My husband will join me for the first leg through Morocco. We will travel together for the first two weeks. He seems a bit wary of following my “fly by the seat of my pants” bicycle touring style and is diligently poring over maps and consulting those who have gone before. It is fun to watch him, but truly, also difficult to realize that this trip will be different because of the compromise involved in planning and traveling together. I have gotten pretty used to my independence. His companionship will be great, but I have learned that I need both, so I will continue on the second four weeks solo.

It feels a bit misdirected to focus on stories of adventure, beauty and growth right now when much of the world is suffering. These are really confusing times, but all I know how is that these expeditions consistently give me hope and remind me of the good that exists. Hopefully, feeling that, and sharing it is worth something.

There is a buzzing inside me—a little bee flitting from one side of my brain to the other. It ricochets from page to page of a wide open atlas that is imbedded there asking, “Where should we go next? What flower do you want to taste? What do you want to see? What colors await? What are you prepared to feel? Are we ready to leave the hive again? Look—here is Cuba. Here is Brazil. Here is Patagonia. Here is Spain. Here is Canada. Here is Japan. Here is the world and this is your life. What is next?”

In the busyness of the summer, I can’t take the time to listen, so I tune this little bee out, but now, on this quiet, rainy Monday in late September, I sit in the shop with my feet up on the counter and begin to pay attention to the buzzing. It is time to begin planning another ride.

It is hard to explain why I love bicycle touring so much, but it has added a balance to my life that helps me stay upright.

This world does overwhelm me. I am very susceptible to the weight of sadness and it is easy to lose hope about the world’s future. The problems we face are overwhelming. I guess these rides help me remember three truths that keep me on my feet.

They help me remember that I am stronger emotionally and physically than I often feel when lying on my couch watching Netflix and drinking wine. That life is for living right now.

And these rides help me remember how extraordinarily beautiful, diverse and intricate the world is. It is so old and I am so young! The way it’s patterns and adaptions have evolved leave me awestruck. I feel this the most when I am out in the elements, sleeping on the ground and immersed in the outdoors.

And they help me remember how incredible people are. How we care for one another. How kind we can be and how good kindness feels. How we have more similarities than differences. How humanity is bigger than politics or place. I learn this best when I make myself vulnerable—when I am just Leah.

I am incredibly privileged to get to do this. That is not lost on me for a moment. I could stay home. I could keep my mouth shut. But, I can’t help, but feel that the beauty in this world is worth sharing.

So read along if you like. Now, where to….

As night settles in, we head out, over two hundred cyclists strong. We pedal slowly down residential streets, weaving among each other, laughing, chatting, and dancing in our saddles. Many bikes are outfitted with lights that twinkle in the gathering darkness and we move like a river of stars.

Music fills the air, streaming from an amplifier that sits atop a trailer on one of the organizer’s bikes. It matches the mood of the group and is both rousing and playful. The cyclists can’t help but bounce in their seats and gently sway their handlebars from side to side.

There are children riding on tag-alongs, attached to their parents’ full-sized bikes, eyes wide at the spectacle they are a part of. There are older participants, riding with reflectors slapped around the cuffs of their pant legs to avoid their khakis getting covered with bike grease. There are young adults, riding on everything from high-end road bikes, to snow-bank specials, complete with rusty spokes and creaky chains. There are couples grinning shyly at each other. There are artists, athletes, teenagers and plain old bicycle commuters. This is an inclusive group, one where it seems that everyone belongs.

Tonight, I am riding with my husband and teenage son. The truth is that I begged them to come. At first they were wary, anxious about what exactly I was signing them up for. This is understandable. I have dragged them on all sorts of adventures, often the scope of which has exceeded my descriptions and their expectations. But tonight, I promised, would be just pure fun—a different sort of adventure.

We met the group in the park, where everyone stood around eyeing each other like children gathering on the playground on the first day of school, perhaps slightly overwhelmed by so many potential friends. Bikes were jostled around like horses at a starting gate, as all of us eagerly waited for the ride to begin.

As soon as our wheels were in motion, people seemed to relax and fall into a mellow rhythm together. We were a school of fish; turning left and then right and then left again through a residential neighborhood, down a city block and along a bike path, matching each other’s cadence with ease.

People stopped mid-dog-walk and called out greetings. They couldn’t help but smile, in fact, it seemed like nobody could. Grins flashed throughout the crowd almost matching the brightness of the lights.

Every time we came to an intersection, a few people rode up and stopped the traffic, allowing all the other cyclists to pass through safely. It was all very well orchestrated and for these few moments it almost felt like everything was right in the world.

I looked through the crowd to find my family, and saw my husband happily talking with another participant, no worries there. I spy my son deep in the crowd, riding solo, sitting tall in his saddle and scanning the scene. I can’t read his face and I wonder whether he is having fun or if the beauty of this event is lost on him. I figure it is best to leave him alone and let the experience wash over him, and hope.

After a mile or so, the group encounters a steep hill. It is dark now and I lose sight of my family. The music changes tone and a rousing rendition of “Guardians at the Gate” by Audiomachine fills the air, making the bicyclists surge forward, united in an effort to conquer the rise. We stand on our pedals, and encourage each other to not give up, but the top narrows and one by one everyone dismounts and pushes their bicycles the last 20 feet to the top. Again, I cast around looking for my son. Is he hating this? I have no idea, but then I see him.

He has raced to the top of the hill, high above the masses and is standing on top of a granite bench with his phone above his head, videotaping our progression. I see at once how proud he feels to be part of this. Something good, something absolutely positive and slightly absurd. And my chest swells with gratitude for these people.

It is all I want for him, actually for all of us. To be part of a community where there is fun, camaraderie, beauty, room for individual expression, and an appreciation of the outdoors, ourselves and each other.

After we continue pedaling I sidle up next to him. “So, do you like this?” I can’t help but ask.

“Yeah, this is awesome.” He replied smiling, with no coolness what-so-ever.

Thank you Portland Bike Party, these rides are about so much more than just bicycles.

I hope everyone joins next month or starts one in their town soon.

My blood is boiling. How could I have been duped again? I feel my cheeks redden and sweat break out on my scalp. I will be damned if I let my nineteen year-old son sneak another teenage escapade past me. He has two months left of high school and we are feeling the push me-pull me of burgeoning independence in a painful way. I reach for the phone, already ten sentences into my tirade before he picks up. He doesn’t stand a chance.

“What are you thinking?” I torrent without even a ‘hello’. “There is no way that you are getting away with this.” He sputters and tries to absorb the impact of being caught, all the while parrying his own rebuttal.

“I didn’t do anything,” he pleads. But sadly, I am ready for such a response. I have cross checked my facts, circled my witnesses and have this arsenal at the ready.

Our fighting is like fencing, but a lot less graceful. The conversation arcs and sizzles, leaving us both depleted and raw. I love this guy so much, yet nobody makes me angrier. Ten minutes into my tongue lashing, we are both worn out and are now are both feeling guilty. He for making a mistake, and me for losing my cool and overreacting. I know better. He is just a typical teenager-why do I react so strongly?

Because I am afraid. It is a knee-jerk reaction to the unbridled fear of letting him go and not being able to protect him anymore. I should have seen this coming. We have faced the uncertainty of sleeping on the road for months at a time on various biking expeditions, the discomfort of extreme weather in many wilderness settings, the chaos associated with half-baked plans and countless adventures together, but I was always there to manage the risk. It was orchestrated. Now, he is about to go off on his own and what if…?

People generally think I am brave, but not about this. There are dangers everywhere, and although I have made it my goal to accept this and live fully anyway, watching my son do the same seems to be my undoing. As a mental health counselor, I espoused my clients not to let their anxious feelings serve as chains, but rather as illuminators. I would ask them, “Why do you feel this way? Is it legitimate? Is it truly life threatening, or just a feeling to figure out and accept? Is your heart beating fast because you need to flee a real danger, or just because you are excited and getting ready to take on a challenge? “

So now, I am anxious and afraid and it is time to listen to my own advice. I don’t want the world to eat my son alive, but I also think that if he stays here, I might! My heart is beating quickly and I am red in the face a lot, because this feels scarier than all our adventures put together. I know that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t happen. He has to go and take his own risks and learn his own lessons and I have to feel anxious. What fun.

Last week we went into the Bigalow Mountains with cross-country skies and snowshoes and tried to make our way up the peak. Nobody had walked on the trail yet this winter. There were no footprints to follow, just sporadic, blue blazes on the trees at shin height. They should have been slightly overhead, but this snow was six-feet deep, making them very hard to see and we often found ourselves wandering about a bit lost. Suddenly, I stepped off the trail into a hidden crevice—a snow covered stream where the snow couldn’t support my weight—and I plunged in up to my neck. I wasn’t in danger, but I sure was stuck. My son guffawed and settled in to watch. He couldn’t help, or he would have fallen through as well, so he just gave me not-so-helpful hints and used the opportunity to rest.

Getting out took a monstrous effort, involving  an awkward water-strider, insect sort of a crawl, flailing ski poles, flapping snowshoes and snow fluffing up around my face like feathery down. When I finally righted myself,  we continued tromping up the mountain, like a little group of winter gnomes, amazed by the beauty surrounding us and laughing at our struggles.

Let this struggle we are going through now, as we both learn how to deal with his new independence, be like that. Awkward, but funny. Difficult, but doable. Exhausting, yet beautiful. It may be hard to find our way—but we will—we always do.