December 31, 2018, a great day spent with friends

  Waking up at 8:00 is definitely not my style but my body and mind thanked the goddess of sleep.  Bob and Mary get up at the crack of ugly so I felt embarrassed having mistakenly over slept.  Mary  was quietly putting together a breakfast meant for the gods.  Like, how do I rate such royal treatment? With breakfast finished,  Bob and I headed for the bike shop where I had a handlebar stem extender put on to help alleviate the hand numbing problem plaguing my rides. The creaking back wheel is still an issue; none of us can figure out. I pray the problem doesn’t develop into something serious when I am in the south nowhere.
       After buying ingredients for my modified version of the dark and stormy rum drink (a classic sailor’s post race drink), Mary made up another meal which hit the mark.  Seriously, I am getting spoiled.  Later, as advertised, Bob and I drove his Tonka toy Suzuki down to the marina where we shipped out for a sail.  A good wind, fun boat to sail and I was able to coach Bob in sailing technique. I remember being in the same position years ago when I purchased my Herreshoff.  After years of not sailing, it can be daunting if not intimidating to climb aboard and proficiently sail your own boat. After a fun sail, we secured the boat back on its trailer, stored it away at the marina and headed for home.
         Mary was at it again, amazing. Appearing to doing it effortlessly, she prepared another culinary delight. I couldn’t even wash dishes.  I  need counseling. As the night progress, the neighborhood New Year’s Eve fireworks commenced.  Bob and Mary’s two HUGE Newfoundland dogs don’t do well with explosives; my family dogs having had the same problem. And these dogs, at one pounds each, think they are laps dogs!  After some doggy downers came to the rescue, the three of humans in room talked about our families. Along the way, I managed to FaceTime with Cyrus and Julia wishing them a happy new year.  Dessert of apple turnovers and ice cream was the last event of the day, capping off a truly fun day. Bob and Mary have redefined Warmshowers.org.  I will have to up my game when I get home.  Lights out well before midnight. Here is to a health and happy new year.

Long hot day with a happy ending

    Slept well in the tent, surrounded by other tents for a change. Climbed out of the tent around 6:40, dried off the dew, packed up and depart by 8:40. Misty as with all the previous mornings but the sun broke out early along either the heat. From Mims to south of Melbourne Beach, I covered fifty-five miles and arrived at 14:53. The heat and directness if the sun had me pouring down the H2O and slathering on another layer sunscreen.  The spoke issue seems to have mostly resolved itself but needs some additional  tweeking. Probably new rims are in order for my Vietnam trip but just get me through this trip. Hot and tired with my rear end feeling a bit tender, I arrived at Bob and Mary Pinizzotto’s House, Warmshowers members. They took me in and immediately set to work bringing me back to life with vitamin drinks, strawberries, beer and homemade cookies. My room and bath is absolutely the best. After cleaning up, Bob and I climbed aboard his Suzuki Geo Buggy, a true classic, and rode over to one of the coolest old Florida laidback marinas out there. It reminded me of Fort Trumbull marina but far more atmosphere. The second stop was to see the neighbor club house situated just above the beach, a divine location.  Preparation were being made for New Year’s Eve. Mentioning to Bob about where I should head for tomorrow and the fact that it was New Year’s Eve, he suggested I stay another day. What a fabulous offer.  Not only have Bob and Mary taken me in and treated me with such kindness but now I am spending New Year’s with them.  How cool is that but to top things off,  Mary made a superb dinner, red wine included.  We hung out for a couple hours talking about there doings and mine. A good time was had by all. No less, they even ran a load through of my clothes. Tomorrow, Bob and I may go for a sail in his nineteen foot sloop. Hospitality doesn’t get much better than this.  Warmshowers.org is a great organization.

Best day yet

       After checking into motel, other than television, there is not much to do but sleep.  Living in a box is a miserable way to see the world.   With ten hours of sleep, I sprang out of bed and slammed my body and mind into gear.  Packed up and was on my way by 7:25, foggy gray misty morning as I pedaled down past the high rise jungle of ocean drive, Ormond Beach. Stopping at Burger King, I bought a dish of eggs, sausage, pancakes and OJ.  Back on the road in twenty minutes,  I had clear riding with litttle traffic and no wind. The legs and body are adjusting and I managed fifty carefree miles, ending up in Mims at a KOA camp ground. With fifteen miles to go, the sun appeared and the humidity settled in, Florida as I know it to be. Ten miles before Mims I picked up lunch at a convenience  store and struck a conversation with a nice guy on a KTM motorcycle (owns several hot bikes, having owned a motorcycle store), seventy-five years old. We had the same outlook on life, get out there and see the world, no time to waste.
      Once settled in, tent up, everything off the bike,  I removed the back wheel and tightened up the spokes. Erik LaFrambious has been my ‘pro from Dover’on getting my bicycle tuned up for my trip. Over the phone, I gave him the run down on this creeping sound I was hearing from the back wheel. Progressively getting louder, eventually I narrowed it down to the spokes. To precluded any other possible reasons for the creaking, Erik suggested I remove the back wheel and check for anything loose in the wheel hug. Nothing wrong there so I painstaking tightened each spoke one quarter turn.  The creaking sound seems to have gone. Tomorrow will be the test with all the gear loaded on.
     Tomorrow I head for Melbourne where I have a Warmshowers host putting me up.  From what I was told by a passed by at the campsite, from here south I am entering the subtropics. The temperatures are predicted to be in the low eighties. Now for the full summer attire and plenty of sunscreen.

After eighty miles the legs are adjusting

   Off at 8:30 from Jack Edwards’ house, he laid out breakfast before he left before I woke.  Amazing similarities, hope he stays in touch. The first two hours on the road my legs were complaining. The wind was unmercifully, slowing me down way below ten mph. With thirty miles behind I stopped at Flagler beach. After consuming a vitamin drink, chicken salad sandwich and some dark chocolate, I pushed off from a rundown convenience store where no one spoke English. The wind moderated and my legs started getting in the groove.  It was my arms and constant repositioning of my hands on the bars, to fight off numbness, that wore me down.  If I find a good bicycle shop, I hope to buy a bar extender to raising my torso up and reduce my weight on the bars.

     After forty-five miles I rolled into Ormond Beach, a big town with ocean high rises mile after mile. My search for an inexpensive Airbnb or Warmshowers host proved fruitless. I checked a firehouse along the way. A central firehouse closed up, what gives with that?  At a McDonald’s, I hooked up to WiFi and started surfing for a place to stay. Called two churches but got the answering machine. Forget the community on the weekdays, it is just for the Sunday show of being “saved”.  A couple, a bit younger than I, walked in and were enthusiastic about my bike outside. With a little local knowledge, they assured me that there were several inexpensive motels down the road a few miles. With no other option, I had to check into a room on the water. A clean room, bed and bathroom forty-five dollars was the best I could fine. The ocean patio with a spectacular view made it a good deal.  The surf and wind were both up making the patio the perfect setting.  The receptionist was a piece of work, who grew up in South Boston, came out and shot the breeze with me as a rescue crew on the endless beach was trying to find a person who supposably drowned. 

    Tomorrow, I ride to Mimi and either score a Warmshowers place or a KOA campsite near the Kennedy center.  Hopefully the wind won’t be cranked up; it would be nice to keep the bike moving at ten to twelve mph.

First day on the road

       Anxiety builds as the time approaches to get pedaling.  Breaking out of the comfort zone can be fraught with second guessing, do I have it in me and so forth. To not get out of my comfort zone is the beginning of slow death, a boring unfulfilling way to spend the last year’s of my life.  Today, thirty-five days on the road, the wind and light rain hitting me from the southeast.  A bit of soarness in the arms, legs and arse but nothing I haven’t experienced before.
       My Warmshowers host, Jack Edwards, and I hit it off.  Perhaps a bit older than me but our similarities are remarkable.  After seeing historic St Augustine and all it excessive cheap tourism with thousands of people swarming the narrow streets, I escaped back to Jack’s place along with a six of double IPA.  Jack cooked s pasta dish to die for.  We polished off the six pack and talked about our extensive bike odyssey’s and how important it was to keep doing them.  Jack is selling his house to head for some part of the world out of the ordinary.  Whether it be Thailand or Malaysia, he is in search of the exotic that so any of us crave.
    Tomorrow, Daytona Beach beckons.  Everything is booked so I hope one of the three Warmshowers contacts comes through.  There is a campsite tens miles out of my way if everything else fails. Of course, I could also stealth camp but there are alligators down here!

Iiftoff from Providence

        Christmas Eve at Catherine Pratt’s house , just the two of us hanging out in her kitchen having wine, beer, salad, pizza and brownies and  cream for dessert.  It was good to be with a friend given that Cyrus and Julia are on the west coast working Christmas Day. Headed for home around ten. With my pre-trip anxiety getting the barter of me, I awoke at 1:45 and fitfully struggled to fall asleep again. 5:45 came early but I hit the floor knowing Brian Bergeron was picking me up at 6:40. He is a great kid, at nineteen he has it together. We made to TF Green traffic free. I checked in my two monster bags containing my bike and panniers. It is a site to see me wheeling all my gear through the terminal, taking up a good six feet. The looks I get are that of anazement; who is this bald grey haired guy dragging all this gear along. I have yet to meet anyone like me in all my trips. Young guys and girls,yes; a sixty-nine year old guy, never.
        Trying to figure out how to schlep my gear twenty-three miles from the Jacksonville airport to my Airbnb in downtown had me guessing.  Saving the day, my Airbnb host picked me up.  I had agreed to help her out by switching rooms so she returned the favor, on top of permitting me to storing my luggage while I am on the road. As well, her other guest cooked up a killer dinner to thank me for helping him out by changing rooms. Bonfire in the backyard fire pit along with a few cold brews, real nice. Hit the sack around 10:30 and slept like I was dead.
       Day two I assembled the bike and rode around the outskirts of Jacksonville getting the  feel of Florida traffic and climate; it was encouraging to see plenty of bike lanes. Stopped for lunch along the way, All systems are go for the bike and now to chill out before I head for St Augustine tomorrow where I have a warmershowers biker host waiting for me.

Liftoff Christmas morning

The bags are pack, bills paid, plants watered, presents sent and loose ends tied.  Everything is A Ok for departure.  Providence to Jacksonville, Airbnb for two nights, assemble the bike and head for coast, A1A south.  550 miles to Key West, no hills and hopefully no headwinds.  It always takes a little bit of psyching myself up for any of my trips.  Breaking out of my comfort zone is the toughest part of any of my trips.  Once in the road, I enter a world alien to most people. Free of the fish bowl of life, I am on my own.  I wish I could leave now.

See the city by bicycle

   It was nice to sleep in the saunter down to the hostel breakfast at a civilized hour..  Cereal, fruit, toast, juice and coffee fortified my engine for my ride through the city.  The city museum situated in this huge modern building was a history of Montreal dating back to prehistoric times up to the present.  The building was built on top of the first permanent settlement exposed in the basement.  This settlement included a seventeenth century underground sewer system.  For three hours I traversed the entire building absorbing a very comprehensive display of Montreal, past and present.  For the next two days, I meandered around town checking out the neighborhoods both old an new and the waterfront.  A decent town particularly the bike path system throughout the city.  Thousands of bikes were everywhere including  traffic lights at eye level for us.  I have heard Quebec City is nicer but Montreal is a decent city worth seeing.  My last day I met a woman, Suzanne, in my age range, who buddied up with me for dinner and a stroll through the city.  This included taking in a huge music festival with thousands of people gathered in the closed off streets,  listening to the various musical groups displayed on stage and on huge displace screens. Finishing off the night with an ice cream, Suzanne and I headed back where we  bid farewell.  The next morning, early, I found my way to the bus station where I partially disassembled my bike, picked it in a bike box, boarded a Greyhound bus and headed for home. Thirteen hours from one town after another, “The Local” in short. Ellen picked up at the train station in New London. 511 miles, too many hills to count, five nights with Warmshowers hosts, five nights camping, one Airbnb, one hostel and three nights at New Hampton.  No breakdowns but the hills wore me down.  Next trip I need to lose about ten pounds and put on smaller tires for less drag. Where next? Vietnam?

A better, rails to trails to Montreal

     Up at the crack of dawn, pack up and was on the road by 7:15, probably one of the earliest starts I ever had. Perhaps, I was determined to make it to Montreal to make up for yesterday’s ride of total frustration and outright contempt for God himself.  Nines miles of flat terrain brought me to Granby where I found a McDonald’s by a picturesque lake surrounded by a somewhat upscale community.  Topped off, I climbed aboard and head west on 112 to Montreal. A mile down the road I spotted what appeared to be a bike trail. In fact, it was, the god’s owed me big time.  For the next sixty-two miles, with the exception of a few poorly marked areas, the going was effortless. Road signs in Quebec have a tendency to disappear at critical junctures in the route.  Alas, after about three pits to water up and fuel the tank, I arrived at the river separating me from Montreal.  With no clear directions, I meandered around until a local bicyclist lead me to the bike path taking me up and over the two huge bridges into Montreal. Just like the main automobile road, the bike path had two lines and with it, being rush hour, the path was a virtual highway of bikes and pedestrians.  A biker’s rush hour, a new concept in urban cycling. As the path ended and I was in the city, I stopped and began my search for a hostel. I suppose I could have opted for Warmshowers.com but I was in need of some serious social interaction.  With a bit of searching and jerking around with my iPhone, I found the number for one of the city hostels. Thank Jesus,  the place was straight ahead only about five lightly traveled roads away.  Arriving at the hostel was like entering the gates of heaven. Seventy-three miles and I had made it, making up for the day before.  Seeing a senior citizen push his loaded bike through the front door up to the front desk always gets everyon’s attention.  We are few are far between. The guy who checked me in was a prince of a man. He led me to my single room and showed me everything I needed to know for my stay, including places to see around town and restaurants to dine. After settling in, a hot shower to wash off the layers of trail dust and grime, I found my way to the gay district.  Loads of restaurants to choose from along a long and wide pedestrian street.  Planting myself at an outdoor cafe, I dined in style while taking in the local gay color. From a funky campsite to bustling Montreal in one day, I had pulled the rabbit out of the hat.

Forty mile mistake.

June 8, out of Eastman on route 112, somewhere the direction led me off 122.  Thinking I was going west, paying attention to new routes north then west had me believing every mile I  was gaining ground on Montreal.  Stopping for lunch at Racine after thirty-five miles and four hours of intermittent hills, I was stunned to learn, using the restaurant’s WiFi,
that I had gone 20 miles north instead of west.  Somewhere, I thought 112 had ended and merged onto 247.  In fact, unmarked, 112 had gone left.  Totally pissed I tried to find a truck at the restaurant who would give me a lift back south.  No such luck, with the sun beating down, I hammered away at the miles.  Hot, tired, totally disgusted with myself and everything around me, I rode until I entered Waterloo. There I stopped at a convenience store and hydrated with a cold vitamin drink. I regained a bit of my sanity and asking for the whereabouts of a campsite.  Luck finally swung my way.  A mile down road there was a campsite where I could quit for the day.  Upon arrival the campsites owner gave me two cold bottles of ice water.  Over some laughs as to whether he could tell if I were American or not, he showed me my site options.  Grassy spot off the rutted main camp road was were I set up my tent.  Across the road a guy with his brand new RV struct up a conversation with me.  All it takes a friendly hello to get things going.  After hearing about my forty mile screw up, he offered me a cold beer. Later after I cleaned up, he had me over for one more; whereupon I sacked out, leaving a lousy day behind me.

Across the border to Magog, Canada

June 8, the last five miles to Canada wound me through a residential area, onto a rail trail, ending with more road until I ran into the border.  Essential I paralleled the border, being careful not to accidental cross over by accident (big fine and maybe jail time).  Good talking with the border police, answering the standard questions about having firearms, reason for coming to Canada, how long, etc..  Fifteen miles down the road led me to Magog.  Plenty of hills contrary to the flattening out I been told about. Car drivers just don’t grasp the fact that every hill takes effort to bicycle up. Flat are the Salt flats of Utah and in the northeast and Canada there is no such thing as flat, at least for us bicyclists.  Thinking I could escape from the never ending hill, I took the green bike route west, recommend to me by the locals. Big mistake, forget about a rail trail, it wound up and down taking on a circuitous route that got me totally lost. Four miles of torture ended me up at the same intersection, totally disgusted. Once again the locals gave  a bum steer. Annoyed, I pedaled
west another fifteen  miles.  I rolled into Eastman pretty much toast.  Fortunately, three woman in bikes greeted me at a gas station I stopped. They led me down a lake side, FLAT, bike path to another picturesque campsite. Claire, the camp do everything person, checked me in. She led me to a idyllic spot by a gorgeous lake where I threw up my tent. Asking if I could buy a beer some where, she offer me one after showering down. Being an attractive woman perhaps a few years younger, it was nice sitting with her on a outdoor chair for two. The local brew she offered me was deceptively strong to the point that I stopped half way through the second beer as I began to slur my words.  In fact, she saved me by taking the beer from me. I drifted back to m tent and crashed for the night..  One interesting note about all these campsites is that most of the RVs are permanently left on site  by people who are longtime summer tenants. Some have been there up to forty years! Tenters like me are the exception, if not an oddity.  Privacy is critical because of the regulars’ curiously. Someone crawling into a small tent, having ridden in with a fully loaded bicycle, is way beyond their comfort zone.

St Johnsbury to Newport, Vermont

June 7, without internet reception, I posted June 4-6 on my notes page as I did with latter half of my Cuban trip.  The hills continued for another 44 miles but The Northern Kingdom of Vermont wa the most scenic of the places prior to this point.  Lush grazing pastures and farms everywhere. Nevertheless, the terrain was rough on the legs. Up a hill, flat for a half a mile or so, down a hill, flat for a mile, up a long hill....so it continued for the entire day.  A warmershowers host who couldn’t put me up, being on vacation himself, gave me directions to a beautiful campsite overlooking a lake in the town of Newport. $35/night for the site was a little pricey, considering that I only needed a ploy for my tent and a clean bathroom. It was my only option.  Dined at a nice restaurant recommended to me by the camp maintenance guy (former teach who had had enough of the system). Nice place by the water and a flat short ride to get there.  Slept great with almost no one there, plenty of privacy.  Their was a train which managed to blast its way through Newport in the early morning hours which didn’t do much for my deep sleep. My experience across the country is the same. The train horns just blow you out of bed and nobody complains.

   June 3,  up early, hit the dining hall for breakfast. The main cook, Todd, realizing I was an early arrival alum cooked me up some eggs for me and made sure I was well fed.  Todd and Tom stayed ahead of the curve and kept me fed throughout the day even though
no one else was around.  Good guys!  Classmates started trickling in late afternoon.  After getting our assigned dorm rooms, the class met at a local eatery in Meredith for a dinner, “paid for by the
Committee”.  Tom Deihl, a former master/teacher was paid tribute during the dinner.  Over $200,000 was raised in his name for the endowment.  My contribution was a blip compared to the big givers but at least I gave more than I ever had before.  I made a second contribution to benefit the music department.  Everyone should take up an instrument to round out their education.  Sport participation is the same old story.
    Official registration commenced at 16:00 Friday, followed by a class dinner. Fifty out seventy-nine students showed up (ten deceased).  Saturday night was the big event for all the classes with numerous awards bestowed. The whole weekend was an outstanding success.  We all hung tight, old friends reunited and new acquaintance made of those we had little interaction with when attending the school.  With the school’s two hundredth anniversary happening in three years, we will have an opportunity to rally again.  Tomorrow the ride north begins again with Quebec City in my sites.

Arrival at New Hampton a day early

May 30, what I thought was a thirty-two mile ride to New Hampton turned out to be forty-five. The Winnie rail to trail for twenty-three miles took me on a big loop; avoiding the hills was worth it.  Peak season left me no other option but to make a run for New Hampton.  Bristol was my original destination, knowing the school was not ready for any alums. Peak season rates squashed that option. 16:00 hours I rolled onto the school’s front lawn, 213 miles, four days on the road.  Covered with sweat, I parked bike against the school sign, took some pictures and walked into the main building to announce myself.  Predictably, Cindy Buck was a unyielding hardass.  Facing down the new head of school, Joe Williams, I got his permission to camp out in back of the new hockey rink. Cindy loaded me up with bottled water, granola bars and trail mix, making sure the gym locker room was open so I could shower.  I doubt any one my age has ever showed up on a bike and pitched a tent.  Someone needs to set the example of what a fifty year alum should aspire to in this age of the soft American.
The mattress wouldn’t stay inflated making for a tough night on the ground. Quit the bitching and suck it up.  Let the reunion commence.

A kill ride through of southern New Hampshire

     May 29, from Wilton to Concord, 40 miles of hill after hill, it was a testament to will. The first two days I pushed to hard plus too much wine the night before.  I stop at a Good Samaritan’s house on Twist Hill Road. Watered up, granola bars and a break for lunch; he saw how I was dragging and helped to rejuvenate me.  A rolled into Concord to a small cafe and had a much need lunch and rest. Found an inexpensive Airbnb north of town. Glad that day was over. Chilled out with a few Netflix movies and some food I had stored. Mellowed me out for the evening.  Tomorrow New Hampton.

68 miles to Wilton

May 28, the fun began after leaving Dudley.  I have done the Rockies and the Pyrenees but the constant up and down of the hills going around Worcester wore me down.  Perhaps it is age or the fifteen pounds I need to lose. Perhaps, the weight of the heavy duty inner tubes or the larger front tire is slowing me down but something needs to give.  Finally, arriving in Wilton, New Hampshire at another warmershowers house, I was ready for some R&R.  Along the way, I traversed some dirt roads and sketchy rails to trails.  Briefly, made a visit to the High Mowing School where my son Cyrus attended.  The Wilton hosts live in a converted barn right in the center of Wilton.  The house was open and modern, a house I could see replicating.  Jeff and Lynn Stone fed me like a god and the wine flowed to excess, real nice people.  Next morning, the breakfast was superb. I am more convinced that I should find some land up there to relocate the 1829 poorman’s Greek Revival I saved from demolition.  A dream perhaps but something worth pursuing.  Northward I go.

New Hampton bound

May 26, so nice to leave on one of trips from my own driveway. 59, 68, 40 and 45 miles over four days respectively to reach New Hampton School for my fifth reunion. The first day’s ride was punctuated by light rain off and on all day.  Upon reaching Dudley Massachusetts, a fellow cyclist, through Warmshowers.com, rendezvoused with me and took the bike and I the last few miles to his house.  Gerry and Maureen (Mo) and daughter rallied to made exquisite pizzas augmented by IPA beer.  Cyclists are interesting individuals. The house he built is totally solar, off the grid, as are his cars.  Everyone raves about the Prius and Leaf but GM’s Bolt beats them hands down. Up to 275 miles without recharging. Fortified by a good breakfast, I departed the next morning for Wilton, New Hampton.

Alhambra, few rival this World Heritage Site

   I was out of the blocks at 9:30, intent on maximizing my stay in Granada.  The city is a tourist Mecca and I was one of them today. For starts, meanderings through the narrow cobblestone roads and alleys was interesting in itself.  Next I came the cathedral where I sprung for the self guided tour.  Put aside the religious hype of the place, the architecture and countless paintings and carvings are outstanding.  The numerous chapels and alters, huge supporting stone columns and towering arched ceilings are meant to inspire awe.  Given Jesus’ humble nature, I can imagine  how he would have reacted  if he knew all these cathedrals were done in his honor.  What happened to ‘keep it simple stupid’?  Ok, enough of the philosophical conjecturing..  The place was definitely worth the look-see.   Just out the door,  I came upon  a 12th century Moorish market place.  A two story tile and stucco building housing a large inner court yard with a surrounding balcony and rooms for the merchants.  The accompanying museum was small but gave a good history of the daily life and mercantile goings-on during the years of Moorish era.  The person at the front desk give me the inside tip as to where to have lunch.  No tourists, no sticker shock prices, just s good lunch standing at a counter talking it up with the locals.  It was a fun time despite the language barrier.  A couple next to me helped me with the menu and later treated me to a beer and side dish. The owner kept me in his favor as well.
    With the rain in full swing, it was time to find my way up to Alhambra for the three hour tour I had signed for in the morning, online.  My Airbnb host told me I might have trouble getting a ticket. Sure enough, I snagged a ticket just in time. This UNESCO world heritage site is without a doubt one of the most outstanding places I have ever toured.  I highly recommend the place, it is a crown jewel.  Despite the relentless rain, our guide hook us up with earpieces and receivers and kept us thoroughly mesmerized for three hours. Washington Irving was one of the catalysts behind the state takeover and restoration of the palace.  Queen Isabella and Columbus pow-wowed in one of the majesty rooms as to how to fund his voyage.  The history through the ages, changing hands in 1492 when the Spanish Christians ompleted their conquest of the Moors, is facinating.  The architecture with all its religious significance, tied in with the numbers 3,5,7 was really captivating.  Anyways, put this place on your must see list.
     Pretty much drenched except for my upper core, I made a fast retreat to my Airbnb.  Stripping off my  clothes and  had myself a divinely hot shower.  I am now sequestered for the night and plan on sleeping like the dead.

Granada after a few mountains and intense cross winds

      🎼On the road again!  A light continent breakfast at a local cafe and I was rolling out of Motril at 9:30 with Granada on my mind.  With the snow capped mountains ahead of me, I thought I would be a slave of my granny gear all day.  Mile after mile of flat terrain cut through huge rock shears.  The views along the way were impressive. I snapped at least a dozen shots. Only after twelve miles did the incline ramp up to mountain stage. Racing bikes were everywhere with the riders tricked out in their Lycra skin tight riding gear.  There I was cruising along at a very modest clip with these bikers  hauling by me in both directions.  Most acknowledge my existence but some were above lowering themselves to a touring bike. They are going around in twenty mile circles, whereas us touring bikers are laying down hundreds of miles and carrying three times the weight.  There are real men and then there those who think they are real men. However, one these cyclists truly impressed me. He was ahead of a pack of bikes, pedaling with one leg up a mountain.  First my eye saw that the right side pedal was missing and then I saw that the guy had no leg.  I stared in amazement as this guy cranked up the mountain.  Amazing!
      Moving along, so to speak, with the climb, mile after mile, came the wind.  One bridge spanning a deep canyon had a wind shear that almost blew me over. I walked that one.  Other gusts slammed me on solid ground but at least I knew I would not be blow over a guard rail to plummet hundreds of feet to a sudden stop.  For a short stretch, I ran out of secondary road and had to thumb my way for six miles along the autovia.  The two guys in a van who picked me up joked about how they saw  this “old man” along the side of the road and took mercy. I promptly informed them that I was strong and just as capable as the younger guys. They loved my take on myself.  Finally with thirty miles behind me, I pulled over and tucked my self behind a small steel structure for lunch and a rest.  With the rising altitude came a drop in temperature.  Cold coupled by exertion is a real calorie burner and so with over four hours of riding hehind me, I needed a break. Cheese, French bread, salami, chocolate and water hit the proverbial spot.  Rejuvenated, I set off to knock off the last twelve miles. Fearful of getting a chill, I changed to full gloves and put on my fleece pullover. The legs stayed bare but I managed. As I approach Granada, I meet a German guy loaded up, making his way through all of Europe.  We Facebooked, exchanged selfies and head off in opposite directions.  Finally, I entered Granada where it took me well over an hour to find my Airbnb.  With endless narrow cobble stone roads going every which way, my gps was sending me to hell and back.  Pissed and tired, I pulled under a tented cafe area just as a powerful squall whipped in, turning tables over and drowning the area with a torrent of rain. Two waiters who could speak English call my Airbnb host and got matters straightened out. It is amazing that Marissa, the Airbnb host, had not posted directions on her site given her obscure location. The waiters wrote out the route which actually worked.
     Does this lady have a view?!!  She overlooks the city from a high vantage point.  Probably her taxes are out of sight like mine, necessitating Airbnb to raise the necessary funds to lighten the tax load. Not speaking a word of English, she navigated me through her house, giving me the run down on how thing work around the house.  Once settled in followed a hot shower, I used Marissa’s map and found a low key restaurant with a ten euro buffet. I made sure I memorized landmarks so I could find my way back without getting lost, as is often the case.  Being very near Alhambra, the tours are everywhere. I saw the towering walls from below when getting directions and later saw it lit up with lights, quite the site.  Tomorrow rain is expected but I will be on the move, checking out the city and Alhambra.

Nerja to Motril, beautiful coastline

      The sun wimped out again, leaving me to contend with another cloudy, moderately rainy day.  As is so familiar during this trip, I put on my rain gear head to toe and left Nerja in my rearview mirror at 10:00. The rain was nothing significant but the temperature added rawness to the air.  Climbing long hills added to the mix, yet the beautiful coastline helped compensate a bit.   There were three tunnels I braved hoping for minimal traffic. Even with one vehicle approaching, the noise was amplified to ,sound like an oncoming train.  After three plus hours on the road, I rode into Motril and found my hostel, situated back in a labyrinth of streets.   The city was nothing impressive and the hostel even less so. The hostel did the job but the language barrier made for confusion in paying for the night given that I had pushed the stay back a day. The smaller the city, the less English is spoken. My Spanish is improving but not fast enough.
      After cleaning up and delving into my food stores, I started to plan my trip for the days ahead.  Just following the coastline was losing its allure.  So..., my plan for tomorrow and the days
ahead took a decisive turn.  Both Granada and Mallorca are the two places I want to see. Granada is due north seventy-two kilometers and Malloric several days of riding and a ferry ride away.  Checking the routes and the various options, I will ride north tomorrow and spend three nights in Granada at an Airbnb.  From there I will hop a bus to Benidorm, take a ferry to Mallorca and stay at least three days.  I have been told the bicycling routes and scenery are superb.  So let’s hope the ride to Granada includes a minimal amount of climbing and that the sun prevails.

The best ride of the trip spoiled by a lost bag

   Left Malaga at 9:48 and for a change, found my way out of Malaga without cycling around in circles.  Fifty kilometers of blissful riding along the beaches with no major roads to brave.  The wind was at my back and the hills were inconsequential.  I arrived in Nerja three later and located my hostel presto!  After a few texts and some down time before my shower, I shockingly discover that my truck bag mounted on top of the rear rack was missing,  I hadn’t stopped in the way so the bag hadn’t been stolen, it had fallen off.  Now what?!! I stripped the bike of its panniers and hit the road west, frantic to find the bag.  Five miles back in a small seaside city, I approached a local police officer and explained my dilemma. Neither of us having a good grasp of each other’s language, I managed to communicate the loss, what it looked like and gave my name and number. Not to shortly after, I turned around and headed back.  Knowing that the odds were stacked against me, I started determining what replacement gear I needed. An electronics store in town had my charging cords for my iPhone, bluetooth headset and new reserve battery pack.  I went to a bike store to find a new rear trunk bad but came up empty. Over a few glasses of vino tintos,  I gave Arkiel, the maker of the bag,  a friendly call.   Speaking with Kevin in customer service, I explained how all four Velcro straps had come loose, which he had never heard of happening before.  Calling from Spain and giving the details, he is sending me a free replacement bag to my shop.  Also we discussed a fail-safe attachment strap which would prevent this mishap from happening again.
     Moving right along, I replaced my food stores and lamented over the strap-on forehead light I had lost along with a novel, sunscreen, bug spray, etc.. . The story doesn’t end here. At 5:58am , the next morning, my phone rings, a Malaga phone number!  I waited for a message. The police said they had my bag.  Now up and running, I have decided to find someone who can speak fluent Spanish and English, given that the message was in broken English.  Now to figure out how far away the police station is.  Pray to god it is near by and not all the way back in Malaga.  Today could be interesting tale to tell.

A beautiful day in the neighborhood

      One more day to explore this beautiful city of Malaga, so I decided on the two and half hour walking tour.  There is simply too much to see but at least I was able to get a taste. Afterwards two Germans and I basked in the sun over lunch.  A nap was followed by some prep for tomorrow’s ride to Nerja, fifty-one kilometers east. Dinner at nine is still difficult.  Afterwards, the masses of Spaniards socializing on the pedestrian only streets is another oddity.  Many woman wear the tradition head pieces of black lace propped above the back of their heads flowing down past their wastes.
    With each stop I am making progress towards establishing riding contacts for future trips.  This search is like prospecting for gold.  A doctor from Park City, Utah has a friends that gives bike tours through Cuba. She texted him with my details.  We will see what happens.  Onward.

So much to see, so little time

     Sleeping on the upper bunk that squeaked with every turn didn’t do much towards giving me a decent night’s sleep. Nevertheless, I rallied at daybreak.  Max, my German buddy, and I hoofed up a steep winding cobble stone road to a moorish castle above the city. The views of the city and Mediterranean were impressive.  Are second stop was the Picasso Museum.  With a little Fellini thrown in, the display of his work was extensive.  His work is scattered all over the world but the museum has a collection of a couple hundred paints and sculptures of his work.  Almost too much to absorb in a two hour visit.  The guy was without a doubt a genius but some of his work just struck me as weird just for the sake of being weird. Perhaps, but he was a total rebel who rejected the status quo around him.
       With the rain coming down again, Max and I ferreted out a nice outdoor cafe with a canopy. The lunch we had was leisurely and worthy of the Gods.  Max being twenty-three and me sixty-eight, our outlooks on the world were remarkably parallel.  His drive to achieve and yet, stay independent rang a familiar chime.  We will stay in touch.  Once back at the hostel we sighed off; he had a bus to catch to another town eastward.  Me? I changed rooms, also to a lower bunk and crashed out for an hour.  Sangria and dinner on the roof top of the hostel, during which I talked with six more kids, pretty much finished me off for the day.   Tomorrow it will be another museum, castle and general siteseeing.

Short ride along the coast to Malaga

  Once again with rain predicted, I paid attention to when exactly what percentage chance.  Ducking out of fuengirola at 8:50, I had sunshine and a humane road to ride on.  At one point I dodged the highway by weaving around on a bike path for several kilometers.  The stop and ask approach proved much better than my gps.  Just keep the Mediterranean on my right and stay clear of the inland mountains. I pedaled thirty-two K, twenty miles, to Malaga.  The challenge began when I realized my reserved hostel was way out of town and I wanted to be central to everything.  My first two hostel choices were booked, my third try found me the last bed.  At first, I thought I would just find the place without reserving it but my better judgement grabbed by my throat and made me book the reservation then and there.  Good move as it turned out. Had I waited ten minutes, I would been out on the street again. The Lights Out hostel was jumping with youth and a few older youth like me.  It took no time to make friends with a several ‘Yoot’ comprising Germans, Northern Irish and Argentinian, two guys, six woman. One of which lived in Vietnam and gave me the inside scoop on the place,; perhaps my next adventure.  At 8:00 we all rendezvous-ed and headed out for beer and tapas.  A fun time was had by all.  Two nights alone in a hotel left me craving for some social interaction.  I folded my deck at 12:00 while the others rallied into the wee hours.  Beggars cannot be choosy, so I had a top bunk on a creaky bed.  My room was alive with five girls from Wisconsin, all of whom were well into a night of debauchery. Right off one wanted a hug so in my fatherly role, I obliged the girl. Tomorrow, the cathedral will get a look-see as well as the Picasso Museum. Picasso grew up in Malaga.  Perhaps I will stay a third night if I need to see more of the town.

Beautiful day on the road from hell

  Alas, sunshine!  After a classic breakfast, at a pleasant outdoor cafe, consisting of eggs, sausage, toast, coffee and freshly squeezed OJ, I hopped aboard and started pedaling east north east out of Estepona. With only thirty miles to Fuengirola and the sun shining, I assumed an easy ride.  Not!
A7 was the only Road with a smattering of short service roads .  Being Friday, the traffic was heavier than yesterday and the speed higher. The Spanish drivers are considerate but the ride was still a ride I would have preferred to avoid. In desperation, I found a modest sidewalk cluttered up with light poles behind the guard rails. My speed plummeted.  With twenty-three kilometers to go, a fellow biker happened along.  A Venezuelan-Spanish guy, Roberto Hernandez, twenty-three, was riding the coast as I was.  Biking with two or more riders, the drivers afford you more respect and a wider berth. We got back on the highway and blasted off down the road.  With both our flashing rear lights lit, along with my orange helmet and horizontal flag,
we had the traffics attention.  We covered the remaining stretch in a flash.  We stopped for lunch in Fuengirola and both agreed that Southeast Asia would be a good trip to take together. We exchanged information. Roberto split for Malaga and I for my hotel just down the road.  Now friends on Facebook, we can discuss the trip in more detail, Vietnam and Laos are my primary focus.
       I arrived at my hotel ‘El Cid’ and once again was pleased with the set up. With a balcony, no less, I was able to air out my riding gloves, shoes and riding gear.  Sweat is an unavoidable byproduct of cycling and the consequence being my gear acquires a fragrant afluvium (sp).  A washing machine and drier are a luxury and washing the clothes in the sink or shower is only a stop gap.   After a nap and shower, I wondered around town and stopped an eatery for some vino tintos and tapas.  The good news is that Roberto got back to me via Messenger and informed me that the ride to Malaga is a cake walk.  But then again there is a 80% chance of rain. 😳  I will spend two nights in Malaga; everyone raves about the place.

Riding along the Spanish Mediterranean

    So it rained again but only mildly, ‘a heavy dew’ as they say in Maine.  Out of Gibraltar around 9:20, the ride took just under four hours.  Although Gibraltar was a neat place, my hostel was in need of some renovations and some competition.  Once on the road, I was hoping for secondary roads. What were supposed to be a secondary roads were closer to autovia highways.  Finding alternative side roads was somewhat fruitful but several times I ended up in seaside resorts, of which there were many.  A lot of money along the coast, mostly in the form of upscale condominium complexes.  Summing up the ride, about a third of the way to Estepona I got lucky and found some
side roads with slow moving traffic.  With  my flashing rear light, horizontal flag extended off my left rear side, orange helmet and yellow panniers, the traffic gave me plenty of room.  I cruised in to Estepona and found my hotel directly across from the water.  My room was small but a real nice set up. For only thirty euros, I was in paradise. The town is attractive, nice streets, everything kept up, hanging plants, nice restaurants but basically just another seaside town. In New London I look out at islands, ferries, submarines, birds  and ships of all sizes.  Here, there is just water which  other than the beach is fairly boring. Hey! At least, I am not in New England getting hammered by successive winter nor’easters.
      Tomorrow, rather than ride ninety-two kilometer to Malaga in one day, given the mild rain, I am riding a little over half way to Fuengirola.  The traffic should be light and, god willing, the rain spares me. If nothing else, I have plenty of time to design a rain jacket which allows for adequate ventilation and still keeps the rain out.  My other thoughts include running for the presidency! Many people do it and why not given the pathetic array of candidates already out there.  My platform is in the works......moderation, tolerance and unity.  Obviously, my odds of winning are worse than winning Power Ball, so what the heck.

Busy day in Gibraltar

   So when am I going to be here next?  More than likely, never.  So I had a lot to see today.  The taxi tour as they call it was the best; twenty five British pounds, sharing it with three Danes got me  one heck of a thorough look see of the rock, monkies included.  Chris, from three generations of taxi drivers on the Rock, wounds us up the narrow road to the top, stopping along the way. He told us not to use our seatbelts because we would be getting in and out if the van so much. Sitting in the passenger seat I figured if he drove off the edge, a seat belt would be useless by the time we hit the bottom.  First stop were the tunnels, both man made and natural.  The nature ones would rival Carlsbad caverns, with a light show to enhance the experience. Next stop, the top where the monkies were everywhere and views absolutely dazzling.  The Straits of Gibraltar, Africa, the surrounding cities, shear drop offs looking down at beaches and resorts, the huge tankers anchored everywhere...it was sensational.  Coming down our final stop was a moorish castle fortification built in the eighth century.  It was still very high up above the city and had majestic presence.  My iPhone was clicking pictures the whole time.  Once at sea level, I headed over to the Gibraltar museum, located on top of Moorish and Spanish subterranean ruins.  Not much this museum didn’t cover, humans having been here for thousands of years.  Neolithic period, Moors, Spanish and now the British.  There are seventy-five hundred British families on the peninsula and the rest are a mixture of Italians, Spanish and whoever. Many of the non British are full blooded Gibraltans.  After four hours of absorbing the history and scenery of this rock, I threaded myself over to the watèrfront for a first class lunch, red wine included.  Back to the Hostel after a grocery stop for road food, I took a nap, read and headed out around seven for another culinary delight.  Coming out of the restaurant, the skies had opened again. Tomorrow is more of the same.  Nevertheless, I am off to Estepona in the morning rain or shine. All I want is the wind to my back, light traffic and nothing more than light rain... god willing!

A delight to be bicycling down the road again

     I rallied early, having organized my gear and route the night before. Left Tarifa at 9:00 and climbed for over an hour. The rain spared me for all but for all but an hour and the wind was pushing me the whole way. Navigating through Algeciras was a bit tricky but I finessed it. As I  passed out of the city limits on a quite country road, I came across three huge storks nests with the parents in residence.  Each nest had been built on concrete power line poles. They posed for me as a took several pictures.  Denmark was the last time I had seen these guy.  They are endangered.
      Finally, as I created a hill, there off in the distance was Gibraltar, what a site. Thinking I was closing in on it, my gps caught me off guarded and sent me on a circuitous hilly loop around a small city. You can not trust the damn devices.  These hair brain routes are a constant problem when on the road.  If you don’t have an intuitive sense of where you are going, these navigational apps will, screw you up “bad”.  Siri said I was not being very nice when I told her what I thought of the Google pukie  geeks who designed the system.  Finally, after an really aggravating flier over hill and dale, I got back on track.  The rock being so big, it took several miles longer to get to the border crossing.  The traffic intensified and the roads narrowed but the cars gave me plenty of space.  Four and half hours after departing Tarifa, I arrived at the Emile Hostel. Hard to believe but is the only hostel in town, the hotel prices are wildly expensive. The place is not any great shakes but it is clean, the shower hot and the bed comfortable. After cleaning up, I hoofed into the old town, across the street no less.  Fun place and very British.  I found a place to lay back and have a tall English draft, a small snack, ending up with a glass of Port.  Tomorrow I will assault the rock via a taxi tour. It is the most efficient way to see the tunnels and anything else up there worth seeing.  Down in town, I will try to take in the British War Museum among a few other sites, time permitting.  It is funny how Spain wants to take possession of the Rock. The Bristish have been there since around 1705.  Can you see the British trying to lay claim to the United States!  Spain, get a life!

On the road again, rain or not

      Up early, loaded up, and weaved my way through the labyrinth of cobble stone roads of Cadez to the bus station.  10.5 euros got me on board to Tarifa.  The road to Tarifa, particular the narrows out of Cadez, was no place for a bicycle; a four foot breakdown lane with fast moving traffic.  For the day the sun decided to show itself giving me a chance to up warm and mentally dry out. I arrived in Tarifa, meet some travelers my age who had experienced Tanger and warned me of the constant hustlers, lousy food and no alcohol.  Several blocks down, I arrived at my booked Hostel, The Melting Pot.  Everyone from everywhere, mostly young travels in their late twenties and early thirties with a few close to my age.
Down toward the water, I found a takeout with great and inexpensive food.  Some good food combined with the sunshine gave me hope that this horrendous wind and rain is nearing an end.  I have mapped out a route to Gibraltar by passing Algeciras.  I have been warned to stay clear of this city, the drugs and crime makes it no place for a bicyclist.  Well, with the evening,  the skies opened up again, all night into the morning.  Time to get tough, rain or not,  the wind should be at my back for my ride tomorrow. I will ride to Gibralta where I have booked a hostel. Now, to see Tarifa in the rain.

Hanging out in Cadiz

   With the increment weather, the three nights in Cadiz allowed me the time to experience this facinating city.  The vino tintos, delicious tapas in numerous restaurants, array of beautiful plazas, the Cadiz cathedral, old market place, a very informative walking tour, subterranean Phenecian(sp)-Roman ruins and the tumultuous  seas all made for a interesting stay.  Yesterday, the rain was constant but that didn’t stop me from exploring the city. Accept for the waterfront avenues,  all the roads are cobble stone barely wide enough to accommodate cars.  Motor bikes and scooters are everywhere. With little if any sidewalk space, I was always on guard, listening for on coming traffic. The narrow roads are border by four story buildings all with decorative balconies.  With no sun light and all the roads looking the same, getting disoriented and lost was always the case. My gps
both saved me and frustrated me. Now that I am leaving, I am getting somewhat familiar with the maze of  roads and alleys.  Most of the stores are oriented towards woman, as fashion is everything among the women of Cadiz. However, I did find a tiny hardware store shoehorned into a near invisible storefront when searching for a small brush to clean my mud caked bike.  Eating out is a pastime where one can find any number of cozy places to dine. Yet between 4:00 and 7:30/8:00 the restaurants shut down, a tough sell for most northern tourists including yours truly.  Napping has taken a good hour out of every late afternoon.  Everyone is out at night, the laughing and general party atmosphere is pervasive.  The stormy weather put a crimp on the outdoor dining but this only packed the inside dining spaces. And if you like seafood, this town is the place to enjoy it.  The old city market square displays a vast array of freshly caught seafood.  Tapas stalls and various other food offerings are adjoining the fresh seafood and fruit stalls. It is a scene to behold.
   Scoping out my options as to my next destination, given the lousy weather, I am taking a bus to Tarifa. It is south east on the coast. The battle of Trafalgar took place off shore in 1805 when Lord Nelson vanquished the French and Spanish fleets. The bus allows me to avoid the treacherous road out of Cadiz which I have heard nothing good about. Constantly checking the weather, it appears I may enjoy slightly better weather as I progress southeast. My thought of visiting Tanger was dashed because the ferries are not running due to rough seas.  Although the biking has been less than enjoyable, both Seville and Cadiz have more than made up for this disappointment.

Not your typical day

    Today was no ordinary day.  Woke up to wind and rain; should I hold over for another day in Jerez?  On the edge,  my guts prevailed, go for it. If I have to I could always turn back.  Had a hearty breakfast realizing this could be a struggle given the ferocity of the wind, gusting to thirty mph.  Buttoned down and braced for the worst.  Trying to avoid A4, the free way which I am prohibited from using, the gps sent me down a dirt mud hole paralleling the highway.  Half washed out followed by a flooded stretch I turned back and braved A4.  The wind was simply to intense, especially with cars flying by. About a kilometer down the road I exited and contempted my next move. Hitchhike? Sure, but where?  I rested my bike on a guard rail on an entrance ramp and walked ahead to give the passing freeway vehicles enough time to see me but enough room to safely pull over.  Twenty minutes and a van miraculously pulled over.  A Spanish couple helped me load my bike aboard. Off we drove to the next town where they dropped me off at the train station. Grateful was an understatement.  The bike covered with mud, I bought a ticket and hustled over to track two. A thirty minute ride brought me to Cadiz. The sea was raging and the wind blowing stink. Along the way, a couple on board, the French husband who spoke English, struck up a conversation.  A good time was had by all. What a relief to make it to Cadiz.  Having made reservations at a nice hostel for three nights, I navigated my bike through the narrow cobblestone streets to my destination. Checked in, Sophie at the front desked marked out the city map where everything was located. Clean up took

a while and the hot shower was like heaven.  Finished my food provisions and sacked out for a hour.

What a neat town Cadiz is, very narrow street, beautiful plazas and a monster of a cathedral which I did the tour of for a hour.  A month here in the winter works for me, rent is cheap.  I ended the day with a delicious dinner off a nearby plaza, brandy to top it off.  Now the question is, should I take the ferry over to Moracco for a few days when I reach Gibraltar? 

30 miles of driving wind and rain

    Half way between Sevilla (Sa-vee-aa) and Jerez, I headed south at 9:24.  With wind assaulting me from side to side and head on, compounded by unrelenting rain, I pedaled along in low gear for  thirty miles, five hours.  New cover for my helmet, glove covers and a ventilated rained jacket modified by yours truly helped me stay warm and modestly comfortable for the ride.  Kilometer after kilometer creeping along, I reflected how I am one of the few Americans my age that has the stamina and guts to take on such challenges.  When my generation is packing up, I revel at my drive and determination to not let age dictate my pursuits.
      Finding my way into Jerez was a maddening affair.  N4 turned into A4 (bikes prohibited) and there were no clearly marked signs leading the way.  Politely asking for directions several times eventually led me into the city center. The tourist information set me up with a nice hotel for only forty euros. No hostel as I had planned but I figured I had earned a nicer place.  High ceilings, marble stairs and trim, the Nuevo Hotel was a pleasant surprise.  I may have stayed warm but my trapped body sweat soaked me to the bone.  I jacked up the room heat and hung out all my riding gear with the hope that it will dry by morning.  A luxurious long hot show and a nap followed, whereupon I went out for a sumptuous dinner. Strategically placed for privacy, I ate like a god.  An after dinner Liqueur and desert has been my pleasure for the last several nights of dining out.  Now for a solid nights sleep. Tomorrow, Cadiz is my destination where I have booked three nights.  Cool place to stay plus I need a break from the rain.

Finally on the pedals

  8:50 I was on my way out of Sevilla but wasted a good hour before finding  a route to escape the city’s gravitational pull.  Locating back roads is a challenge given the emphasis on the high speed freeways. A4 south toward Cadez thinned out with each kilometer but as the hours clicked by, the wind accelerated.  I took refuge in the village of Quinteros, finessed a baguette sandwich from the market owner. Chilled for a short time and off I off I pedaled south into the wind. Thirty miles to Jerez became an unrealistic option as the afternoon progressed and the rain clouds moved overhead.  Alas a hotel truck stop in the middle of nowhere. Farmland on all four sides, not a town in site, as if the gods had put the hotel there as my salvation from the deteriorating weather.  I checked in to a modest room, shower and civilized Cena.  My new translation app has proved invaluable in the back country where speaking English is not an option.  This oasis is essential a truck stop but a much classier version than our operations.  I ate like it was my last supper and now for some Spanish televising and a good nights sleep. Thirty miles today, with wind and rain for the next several days, my progress will be slow, wet and challenging. Jerez tomorrow, Cadiz the day after.  God willing.

A day on the town

  Brevity is the key to a good blog, least I bore anyone. Last night was lights out at 1:15. The major problem with hanging out with people half my age is tolerating their excess..  Youth is wasted on the young.  Nevertheless, I rallied this morning and took the walking tour of the city lasting four hours.  Sevilla has a rich history spanning the Romans, Northern European tribes, the Arabs, Moors and finally the Spanish Christians who expelled the Moors in in the thirteenth century long before 1492 when the Moors were pushed out of Spain altogether..  The architecture reflects all these cultures.  Sevilla is a city filled with parks, a stunning cathedral, plazas everywhere.  There is a nice unhurried way about the place. The city was laid out by the Romans but the small streets cobble stone streets meander so as to lose your sense of direction. There are many restaurants and outdoor cafes to choose from for lunch or dinner. However, don’t count on eating diner anytime before 7:30.  I could easily spend a month here every winter.  The summer is a furnace.
     Nick and I dined at a small restaurant where we shared three small entrees topped off by desert and a local grappa.  Before diner, in the late afternoon, I laid out my route tomorrow, south to Cadiz.  125 K so I will stop off somewhere in between.  The trick will be navigating out of the city onto the small secondary roads.

Assembled the bike, saw the town

    8:00 and there was light.  Assembled the bike and cruised town; what a beautiful place. A big marathon had the streets closed for a day which made for riding down the center of the central avenues.  Checked in out and the cathedral along with all the surrounding side streets, this place is ancient.  Stopped for a casual lunch at a nice outdoor restaurant. The weather was perfect. A little red win, goat cheese salad followed by a crawfish dish which dazzled my plebeian taste buds.  Home for a much needed two hour nap followed by the free dinner at the hostel. The evening activities commence around 20:00 but I am adjusting.  A dozen of us traversed the narrow cobblestone road to see a flamenco show.  The beer and sangria flowed but I used restraint knowing a three hour city walking tour awaits me tomorrow, followed by some Roman ruins.  With rain forecast, I am hanging out another day.  Riding in the rain is a drag, anyways.

Boston to Sevilla

     With ever bicycle adventure comes with the strenuous task of transporting my bike and gear.  Two large cases and a heavy carry-on, despite the wheels, requires all my strength and a wide berth.  The looks are all telling, “hey, look at that grey haired guy dragging all that gear....”.  A car rental, two airports, two trains(one high speed AV.E.), one packed rush hour bus and a taxi brought me to the Black Swan Hostel on a small side road, center of Sevilla.  24 Hours with limited sleep does not leave much fuel in the tank. Bed #5, room 203, unpacked, showered, fish tapas for dinner and ten hours of rack time. My limited Spanish vocabulary is kicking in, met a a 28 year old American (on holiday from teaching English in China) to hang with later in the day. Looks like rain for the next few days so it could be a wet ride to Cadiz (Cod-ez).

Waiting for British Air liftoff

     Amazing how one plane reservation can galvanize my resolve to organize and prepare for another bicycle journey.  Shy of two months, the funds have been raised, equipment upgraded, gear packed and off to the airport loaded up with two ginormous bags.  My focus has been intense. After seven previous sojourns, I have refined process down to a near science.  Yet, it is never easy.  My battle with pretrip anxiety is daunting.  One side saying, “are you out of your mind....”, the other side saying “suck it up, show some guts and get moving.”  On my death bed I want to know that I took some daring adventures.  Most people stay frozen with fear, never daring to venture belong their sphere of comfort.  I am working up to some bigger challenges, perhaps China and South America.  Finding a traveling buddy has been the major stumbling blocks. Going it alone is an option but there is considerably more risk.
      Shortly, I will board a British Airways 380 jet, fly to London, switch planes and fly to Madrid.  tThe final leg will be a train south to Seville. Let’s get on with it!

T minus 5 before I lift off for southern Spain

   The worst part of any of my trips is the preparation.  The check list has not changed but it still takes a herculean effort to pull the whole deal together.  Buying the ticket is the catalyst for everything else that follows.  My mind set is the most difficult part.  Breaking out of my comfort zone torments me. The two forces within me battle it out. “Are you crazy” from one side, while the other side fires back, “get a grip, show some guts, the trip is on so get moving”.  I gave you the sanitized version.  Five days to liftoff and the lights are green.