#40. Diários de bicicleta, dia 9: welcome to Cycleland

[English version below]

Dia 9

 Rabanal del Camino-Vega del Alcarce, 60km montanhas e, banhos gelados no rio e bombeiros de shortinho

Hoje eu acordei no maravilhoso mundo das bicicletas. O albergue está lotado, e enquanto eu sento no balcao para tomar meu café da manha acabo assistindo a cena mais linda de todos os tempo: uma dezena de ciclistas lavando suas bicis, colocando óleo na corrente, ajustando os freios.
Tenho que admitir que neste ponto da viagem já descobri que nao tenho a mínima paciencia para os peregrinos que vêm fazer o caminho de Santiago de Compostela a pé. Os caminhantes estao sempre meio obcecados com El Camino, como se ele fosse algo exterior, e nao uma metáfora pro caminho de dentro. Contam quilômetros, fazem observaçoes hippies sobre viagens interiores... Xaropices. Nao consideram os ciclistas como verdadeiros peregrinos. Eu chego no albergue no fim da tarde podre de cansada, fedorenta, querendo um chuveiro e 800g de macarrao com ovo e eles estao lá, plácidos, cara de vaca no pasto, lendo um livrinho e viajando nos seus diários místicos. Acordam às 5:30 e saem às 6, no máximo. Ah, nao!: é muita caretice, sao princípios demais pra mim.
Os ciclistas nao. Estes aí que estao na minha frente tao na onda boa, rindo, montando os alforges, morrendo de medo das etapas de montanha que comecam hoje.
Acho lindo.
Me sinto em casa com eles, e prometo pra mim mesma que vou entrar num grupo de ciclistas assim que voltar pra casa, onde quer que a minha casa seja no próximo ano, seja lá quando eu volte.

Você sabe que o dia vai ser bom quando você olha no relógio, sao 8 da manha e voce ja está subindo a montanha com um bombeiro lindo espanhol e bronzeado que vive nas Canárias.
Fica melhor ainda quando você saca que pedala tao rápido quanto ele, e que é muito mais rápida que todos os amigos gatinhos dele que ficaram pra trás.
Mas ele chega no ponto do definitivamente maravilhoso quando você esta, Judy vindo atrás com o outro colega bombeiro, vocês encontram um frio gelado e se enfiam dentro pra desinflamar a musculatura e continuar seguindo a segunda metade do dia. No fim do dia vocês estao num hostel juntos, e alem de voces nao ha mais ninguem.
Entao aqui estou eu, em Cycleland, com uma amiga americana da minha idade que esta pedalando pela America do Sul e Europa há sete meses, dois bombeiros espanhóis lindos, jantando num hostel da Espanha que me custou nada mais que 5 euros, e tomando um vinho igualmente barato.
É o que eu tenho para hoje, meus amigos.

----

Day 9

  Rabanal del Camino-Vega del Alcarce, 60km

Today I woke up in cycle land. The hostel is full, and as I sit by the counter to fix myself some breakfast at 7 a.m.I see they are all there: a dozen of cyclists cleaning their bikes, oiling their chains, repairing their brakes.
I have to say I that by now I found out I´m really not into the pilgrims that come to make their way to Santiago on their feet. The walkers are usually absorbed in their hippie view of the path, obsessed with El Camino as if it was outside them, instead of a metaphor to an inner path. You usually arrive at the hostels from a hard bike ride, tired, smelly, crazy for a shower and a HUGE amount of pasta and the hikers are peacefully reading and writing their diaries over a cup of tea. Too uptight, way too many principles: they´re usually up at 5.30 a.m. and gone at 6a.m. tops.
The cyclists I see in front of me, on the other hand, are just having fun and laughing, freaking out about today and tomorrow. They know the hard days in the mountains are just beginning.
I find it beautiful.
I feel I finally found my group here.
I feel definitely home and I promise I will join a cycling group whenever I get home, and wherever my home happens to be.
And God!, they´re really fucking good-looking in these tight shorts.


You know it´s going to be a great day when you look at your watch, it´s 8 o´clock in the morning and you´re riding up the mountain with a cute Spanish firefighter suntanned from the Canarias.
It´s even better when you ride as fast as him and faster than all the others, and then you realize you´re as strong in the bike as a good-looking fireman.
But it gets truly amazing when you´re coming donwhill with him, Judy and his friend behind, and you all hit a cold river, put on your swim swits and face the horrible cold water to recover your muscular strength and get going. Coming out of the river, you decide to book a hostel together, and as you get at 7 p.m. there you are the only ones in the place.

Today I´m stuck in middle-of.nowhere Cycleland with an American woman my age who´s been cycling in South America and Europe for 7 months now + two firemen from the Canarias, in a hostel in sunny Spain that costs me 5 euros a night. we had amazing food and a bottle of wine for equally nothing.
That´s all I have to say for the moment.

#39.Diários de bicicleta, dia 8/The bike diaries, day 8: Fuck the pain away

[English version below]

Dia 8/Day 8

 Léon-Rabanal del Camino, 60km

 Onda de calor na Espanha. Pedalo 60km em 6 horas. A bicicleta nao vai pra frente porque o asfalto está literalmente derretendo.

Sigo os rappers, paramos e eles cozinham tortilla. Ah!, como eu amo a Espanha. No caminho pesco Judy, uma New York do Harlem ques está viajando de bicicleta há seis meses.

Descubro uma rede de albergues pra ciclistas, e quando chego em Rabanal del Camino encontro todos os meus companheiros de duas rodas, bebo cerveja e saio pra olhar o céu cheio de estrelas nesta cidade minuscula.

Fuck the pain away.
----

There´s a wave of heat in Spain now. I cycle 6km in 6 hours and it is so hard, for the asphalt is literally melting down and the bicycle almost does not move.

I go with the rappers, and at some point they stop by to cook some tortillas. God, how I love Spain... In the way I meet Judy, from Harlem, who´s been on a bike ride for 7 months now. God, how I love New York.

By accident I find out a network os hostels designed specially for cyclist. In the hostel at Rabanal del Camino I meet thousand of 2-wheel partners, I´m so happy, I go for a walk in the mountains, stare at stars and feel I never want to leave this place. A beer before going to bed.

Fuck the pain away.

#38. Diários de bicicleta, dia 7: mais rápida que o tempo/The bike diaries, day 7: faster than time

[English version below]

Dia 7

Carrión de los Condes-Léon, 110km, velocidade média de 25km/h

Nao estou interessada em conversar, nem saber de onde você veio, nem em trocar meu português pelo seu francês. O que eu quero hoje é sair daqui e pedalar até a cidade que fica para além do trigal marvado. Questao de sobrevivência.

Entao eu vou. Nem me atrevo na estrada de peregrinos, no ¡buen camino! com os caminhantes.  No poderoso mau humor que estou, minha bad vibe pode espalhar pra geral e todo mundo amanha ainda acaba acordando com tendinitie.  Assim é que eu desvio logo de cara, evito todas as flechas que indicam a trilha e pego a estrada nacional, 110 km planos e entediantes até Léon.

Ah!, gloriosa, objetiva, lisinha, vazia, calorenta e asfaltada N-120... Nunca ninguém te amou tanto como eu te amei hoje.

Pedalo. Pedalo, pedalo, pedalo. E quando minha mente começa a caminhar pelos vales tenebrosos dos meus medos e rancores, aí entao é que eu pedalo mais e mais rápido. Nao me atrevo a descer, a nao ser para pegar água e fazer xixi a cada 20km. O calor está insuportável, mas eu nao sinto nada, minha mente sao as minhas pernas. Como na bike, escuto todo o Abbey Road, ouço três discos do Daft Punk e um do Kraftwerk.

Eu atravesso os espaços vazios como se atravessasse o próprio tempo parado, e às vezes tenho a impressao de que entrei em outra dimensao, que estou sonhando. Ninguem me vê, eu nao vejo ninguém, mas sou de repente uma com a bike, com o presente, com o meu corpo e com minha mente, que agora está aqui, comigo, concentrada neste ùnico lugar e nesse esforço que é existir.

Se você pedala longas distâncias, acho que você conhece essa sensaçao.
Se nao, minha sugestao é que você aproveite que amanha é sabadao e saia pra meditar com sua bike logo de manhazinha.


Chego no albergue em Léon e dois espanhóis do hip-hop - um rapeiro, outro b-boy - se jogam na minha frente pra conversar. Sao ciclistas tambem. Eles sao os maiores sem grana da face da terra e me convidam pro programa mais bucha que pode existir: uma farofa esplêndida. Levando na mao algumas sacolinhas plasticas com frigideira, talheres, pratos e afins, os dois estao saindo pro parque da cidade para cozinhar um pacotinho de peito de frango no fogareiro que eles trazem na bagagem, já que neste albergue aqui nao tem cozinha e eles nao tao afim de gastar dinheiro com o menu peregrinos de 9 euros.

Passo no mercado e compro uma garrafa de vinho de 3 e 50. Sentamos embaixo da árvore e começa a cozinhaçao, fumaça pra todo lado, o frango rolando solto na frigideirinha enquanto eu, vegetariana, assisto e converso morta.-de-fome, um pedaço de pao puro na boca.

Vamos convir aqui comigo: maior reconciliacao com a humanidade do que esta nao há de existir.

****

Day 7

 Carrilón de los Condes-Léon, 110km, average speed 26km/h

 I´m in such a bad mood that I decide the only thing I can do is cycling. I don´t want to see anyone, I don´t want to talk to anyone, I don´t want to ¡buen camino! any of you bloody pilgrims. I'm definitely away from the hikers' path today; I'm in the mood for a paved and objective, road-biker-like, straight forward national road full of cars and nobodies.

My dear, beloved, glorious, boring, flat, Spanish national road number N-120! - nobody has ever loved you more than I did today.

Because I cycled you with all my heart, as if there was no tomorrow, begging you to take me away from the lands of boredom, and every time I felt resentful or sad, and every moment my thoughts wandered in the lands of sorrow (they were so many), then I cycled on your pavement even faster and even stronger, as if my legs could replace my mind, as if my body could anchor me somewhere else, somewhere light, somewhere good. Somewhere present.

So I did not leave my bike except to get water and to find restrooms, and in the 30 degrees of the Spanish summer I went as fast as if I was crossing time itself, and in going on like this for so long and so fast, I felt I became the Way itself, one with the moment, one with the only task of putting my body and my mind in service of the task of existing.



I arrive in Léon and two Spanish, hip hop cyclists jump in front of me. They are broke and don´t want to spend 9 euros in the Pilgrims Menu, so they invite me to go to the main city park. They have a bag with a pack of chicken that they will cook it with their camping tools. I say yes, get ourselves a bottle of wine and follow them and their chicken to the city center.

And here I am, vegetarian, starving, with a piece of plain bread in my mouth, watching these two funny guys as they prepare their chicken under a tree and laughing at their amazing stories about the hip hop scene in Spain.

If that is not my reconciliation with the humankind, then I have no idea about what reconciliation might be.

#37. Diários de bicicleta, dia 6: trigal marvado/The bike diaries, day 6: my heart´s not flat

[English version below ]

Dia 6

Burgos-Carrión de los Condes, 87km, 5 horas na bicicleta, e faz tanto silêncio que eu tenho vontade de gritar

Pedalo pela parte que é considerada a mais difícil para os peregrinos caminhantes. Sao 200 kms planos, plantaçoes de trigo, poucas árvores pra proteger do calor. Faz mais de 30 graus centigrados, solzao no ceu azul sem nuvens. Os caminhantes vao de cabeça baixinha, meio sofridos com a mochila, todo mundo no maior bronze bermudinha e t-shirt.

Quanto a mim, saio voando pelas plantacoes. Meu joelho está na vibe milagroso, nao sinto nenhuma dor. O vento sopra nas minhas costas, vai me empurrando, empurrando. Assisto a onda amarela levando o trigo, estou dentro da plantacao, minhas asas sao o proprio trigo seco e fazem aquele barulhinho fluc fluc fluc fluc.

Pedalo 5 horas sem perceber. Subo a 30km por hora sem nenhum esforço, mas me custa descer, tenho que pedalar forte pra chegar abaixo das encostas. Faz tanto calor que só falta uma daquelas caveiras de boi da caatinga, o asfalto se dissolvendo em miragens de deserto. Estou num filme do David Lynch, penso comigo.

Agora ja nao vejo mais ninguém caminhando, só as ruínas dessas milhares de cidades medievais que ficam por aqui. Pela primeira vez na viagem me sinto sozinha e nao consigo ultrapassar a sensacao. Paro pra comer um sanduiche em algum lugar perto de Castrojeriz, entro na igreja de Nossa Senhora de Manzano e choro, choro, aquele choro de gente entediada e triste sem razao. Saio, encontro dois ciclistas barbudos chegando, digo oi, e eles nem respondem.

Malditos road bikers.

Chego em Carrión-de-los-Condes e me abrigo num mosteiro de freiras. Mais silêncio, e entao tomo a decisao. Amanha vou pedalar desde bem cedinho pra chegar em Léon e sair dessa trigarada. Meu coracao é menos forte que meu joelho; nao nasci pra esse negócio de bonito em lugar-nenhum. Meus dias de Eleanor Rigby are over.

***

Flat ride. Miraculous painfuless knee, and I ride through the flat landscape of wheat plantations.

There's a golden light everywhere, the sun´s high in the sky, and I fly with the wind. 5 hours in the bike, and I don´t see the time passing by. Middle age cities, none´s around, the asphalt dissolving in front of me, and I feel I crossed some some of gateway into a David Lynch's movie.

I feel lonely for the first time since the beginning of my trip. At some point in Castrojeriz I stop by to have a sandwich, enter the church of Nuestra Señora de Manzano and cry for no reason, those tears of the lonely and bored people.

As I reach Carrión de los Condes I make a decision: tomorrow I will ride as fast as I can, all the way towards Léon, away from the golden silent plantations. I can stand a sore knee, but I can´t stand a sore, bored heart. I was not made for flat, plain beautiful, Eleanor Rigby timeless days.

#36. Diários de bicicleta, dia 5: pequenos milagres/The bike diaries, day 5: on miracles

[English version below}

Eu acordo e vou pedalando pra loja de bicicleta. Se meu joelho esta assim, deve ser algo com a postura na bike, eu penso, na esperanca que um ajuste especializado possa salvar minha pátria.
Meu joelho dói tanto nos 15 minutos de pedal até o centro que sinto vontade de chorar. Tenho medo de nao conseguir continuar a viagem. Tenho certeza que vou ter que comprar um par de tênis e continuar até Santiago caminhando.
O mecânico gatinho nao entende nada do meu problema, mas levanta o banco da bici no maior carinho e diz que eu tenho que ir embora, porque a loja está cheia e ele nao pode ficar perdendo tempo com bobagem. "Ali na frente está o hospital; acho que é pra lá que você tem que ir com seus joelhos assim".
Volto e passo o dia com o Enzo na cidade. Faz um sol maravilhoso, e de vez em quando eu paro num bar, peço um copo de vinho e um saco de gelo pra colocar no joelho.
Vamos no Museu da Evolucao Humana. Estou meio bêbada e tudo parece surreal - o homem-macaco, o paleolítico, a extinçao dos dinassauros, as sinapses cerebrais, a descoberta do fogo. Damos uma caminhada e depois vamos pro terraço ouvir música e tomar mais um vinho.
O Enzo me espera na mesa; eu volto com duas tortillas na mao.
No caminho pra mesa meu joelho faz um click.
Bebo mais meia garrafa de vinho e volto pra casa pedalando.

Nao tenho nenhuma dor.
É como se meu joelho tivesse voltado pro lugar.

****
I can't stand the pain in my knees. As I cycle to a bike store in Burgos I think about where to buy shoes to walk to Santiago. I'm sad and I can barely walk, let alone cycling.
The guy in the store says he can do almost nothing with my bike and points me out the directions to the hospital nearby. I cycle back in pain and wash my bike for 1 euro in the gas station. Funeral feelings.
Enzo is getting back from a public swimming pool and we spend the day walking around the city. We eventually stop for a coffee and I ask for a bag of ice to put on my knees. I´m already drunk when we reach the Museum of Human Evolution, and I have some surreal two hours wandering around, tipsy and learning about dinosaurs, brain sinapses and neanderthals.
It´s already night and we´re in the main square to watch a concert. I walk inside the bar to get a tortilla; Enzo's waiting outside with glasses of wine. I feel a click on my knees and smile inside, then drink half a bottle of wine and come back home cycling.

I have no more pain.
My knee is back to me again.

#35. The bike diaries, day 4 - at peace with Switzerland, negotiating a peace treaty with my right knee

Day 4

Santo Domingo de la Calzada-Burgos, 65km of negotiations with my right knee

I keep meeting this guy since the first moment I arrive in Santo Domingo de la Calzada. He was contemplating the cathedral when I stopped by to ask him where the pilgrims' hostel was located. I check in and right after that I notice he's sleeping in the bed next to me in the common bedroom - there are some 20 of these huge bedrooms with 20 bunkbeds each in this hostel. He's in one of the 4 computers in the digital room when I decide to update my blog. And then I finally cross him as I leave the hostel to my next destination.
It's around 9 a.m. and I'm already on my bike when I decide to leave the hikers' path and to make the right towards the national road to Burgos. Guess who's the only cyclist riding there?
OK, Universe, I got it. Out of all the pilgrims from every corner of the world, I'm stuck here in a bike ride with a Swiss guy. I accept it, but now the hell tell me Why.


I have these mixed feelings about Switzerland. Well, not so mixed: my worst nightmares are those ones in which I picture myself living in this country, winter time, cold Swiss people all around me, never looking me at the eyes, never conceding to touch or speak to me, giving me the worst time as I cross the street in the red lights.
As a matter of fact, I do hate Switzerland.
But Enzo turns my nightmare upside down. We go in and outside the path, the route is difficult, we often have to walk our bikes uphill. Born in the German part of Switzerland, he's from Italian descent. As we ride throughout the Camino he talks about his relatives in Naples and tells me his impressions about his way from Zurich until here.
As we approach Burgos, the pain on my right knee just becomes worse. I look at the signs and we still have some 15km to go. I can't cycle properly, so I go silent and slowly, cycling only with my left leg. The pain only grows stronger, and I'm terrified with the possibility of not being able to finish my trip.
Enzo is very reserved, yet calm and positive. We have lunch, find a hostel and later on he makes me company in my way to a drugstore. He is not desperated, he's trustful and suggests I should stop and have a rest day in Burgos.
He's right. I'm grateful for being surrounded by a sensible & sensitive person. I have an internal surreal dialogue with my body: "ok, I'll give you one day of rest and yoga. If you need more, I promise I will give you more. But can you take me to Santiago?"
I'm yet no sure why, but at last I feel I have made my own peace with Switzerland.

*poor right knee...

*Enzo in his Camino

#34. The bike diaries, day 3 - Horse Stories

Day 3

Up in the mountains, light heart, heavy legs

 It´s the 1st of July and everything hurts, so I wake up late and look at the map to choose a route to my next city.
Two options: 1. either I follow the hikers' path in a quite flat and relaxed region...; 2. ... or I go up in the mountains in a hard yet gorgeous landscape.
What the hell.
And I take the road to the mountains. Guess I was not born to the easy ways.


But first I make a stop in the bakery to have breakfast. The cute tatooed waiter is looking at me as I place my order: a machiatto, 2 croissants, a cheese sandwich and one veggie snack, please.
- To eat here or to go?
- To eat here, of course.  And two more sandwichs to go, if it is ok for you.
And he keeps staring at me nonstop as I eat 2000 calories in less than four minutes.


There´s something about heading on a bike into the hard mountains. You follow the road, they stand right in front of you, and you're never sure you're gonna make it through. There's some sort of arrogance going on for you're defying them somehow, but you also need to show some respect for they can crush you easily in no more than two seconds.
As for me, I went all the way up 4 mountains, and more than once I thought I was about to die. I stopped to have water and to breath, no one around, and those for sure were the hardest 20km I have ever done in my life. Going down into the Rioja valleys was gorgeous, and I guess it was so only because I knew what I had to endure to reach 60km/h downhill for more than 20 minutes.
Yesterday I know something of mine was left behind in those mountains, for I arrived in Santo Domingo de la Calzada with a light, very light heart.


I arrive in Santo Domingo and go out to get some bread. In the door of the hostel a guy in weird clothes is just arriving in his horse (!) and asks for a piece of my baguette. I give him some and a banana, and he vanishes. Three hours later he's looking for me in the common area, a lemon in his hands. He gives me the lemon as a gift, lie his head in my thighs and tells me about his life around horses in England. In his highly polished British accent, he then tells me he likes to be around people sometimes, shows me his Swiss knife, asks about me, makes me laugh and cleans my extremely filthy glasses. "I need to leave now", I say, and he replies with a "it's been nice to lie on top of you". Then Dean says he likes me and promises he will write me someday, whenever he gets to a computer in his way to San Sebastian, up north.
Horse stories.