Beached on Barcelona

30.11.10

Barthelona, Espana

We have made it, at long last, to the fabled Mediterranean Sea. It seems like only yesterday that we were in the central mountains of Spain riding through a snowstorm and trying to find a bank that would turn some Benjamins into Jean Jaures. Yes, it did snow quite a bit yesterday, prompting our Argentinian friend Miguel to say that it was the coldest day of his life (right at freezing). Today was much better, only raining in the morning and warming back up to 10. In order to ensure that we make it to Rome in time for Sean's flight, we had decided to take a bus last night from Madrid to Barcelona and a ferry tomorrow from here to Genoa, Italia (a whopping 18 hours! I wonder what the average man overboard rate is on such a long seafaring journey). Now, I had to work quite a bit in order to convince myself that this was an acceptable (and even desirable, considering our schedule) choice of transportation. However, now that we've actually bused 600 km in Spain to the very coast of the sea, I feel as though we are missing out. For one, we cannot nearly appreciate the drastic changes that have taken place between Madrid, one of the coldest cities in Spain, and Barcelona, where palm trees grow with reckless abandon. I love the way that cycling makes clear the intimate connection between places through the gradual changes you witness and the continuation of one road into the next. Falling asleep on a night bus and waking up groggy in a new land is like a magician's trick that is too flashy to feel right.
Secondly, taking a bus breaks the normal flow of biking every day. While I acknowledge the power of properly timed breaks from the constant wear and tear of biking, busing removes the mental edge for a while by completely switching your focus. We are still traveling, but no longer do we need to do anything to get anywhere. This brings me to the final point, which is that we are not doing anything to deserve the free mileage, and so the progress made feels false. Biking is not at all an obsession with me, for I can easily take breaks from the daily grind without any feelings of guilt or the like. Nevertheless, I certainly derive a strong sense of pride at having conquered mountains, the elements, and whatever other challenges have come my way, all without succumbing to the forces that be or seeking the help of passing motorists. I know this is a necessary course of action at this point, but I can't help but reflect on the bruised pride that comes with throwing my bike in the boot of a bus and sleeping while I "see the world" 600 km at a time. This way of doing things, thankfully, is not in my future for long.

Peculiarly, I like the idea of taking a ferry to another land. Perhaps it is because the sea has always drawn me, or perchance due to the foreign medium that is the water, but I love hopping on a boat and watching the green ocean flow by in amazing frothy waves. Of course, it is infinitely more significant that we will be embarking on a journey across the Mediterranean Sea tomorrow, a treacherous and legendary sea that has claimed more lives than I can claim to have met. On the other side of that pond is Italia, the final country for Sean and I together (I would love some input on where to go after, by the way). Sean and I will be wearing our rain jackets aboard the ferry, for our powers will certainly manifest themselves at the worst time possible...

Madriding high

26.11.10


Madrid, Espana


T-1000, advanced prototype, liquid metal; living in Madrid


Well well well, I am now on the other side of my 23rd Thanksgiving and looking back. It is always a bit bittersweet to be reviewing an event you were fiercely anticipating, regarding it now as a memory instead of a heavily circled calendar date, heavy with so much promise. The good news, however, is that Sean and I will be celebrating the holiday twice more this weekend. I reckon there is at least one benefit to being out of the US for Thanksgiving, which would be the multitude of parties/dinners that expatriates throw on the only days they can: the weekend. Saturday and Sunday will be our unofficial Thanksgivings, complete with turkey, stuffing, and pies galore. Further, the camaraderie and general cheer is amplified by the fact that, for many of us, this is our first Thanksgiving on our own in a completely foreign place, and so we redouble our efforts to capture the magic that we took for granted back home. While finding a pigskin or sweet potato is rather difficult here, the gusto with which we search for them is phenomenal. As of this moment, all this is pure conjecture, for the first dinner is tomorrow night with Melissa Ward, Holly Vanderwal, and some other American/Spanish celebrants (how peculiar to have 4 LTHS grads


The changing landscape, the hunched-o'er-bike maneuver


celebrating Thanksgiving together 4-6 years post-graduation in Madrid?). What I anticipate is plenny o' good cheer, but what I fear is an overenthusiastic production in the form of painted smiles and a few too many sips of champagne (when have I ever had champagne for Thanksgiving?). I sit here today and wonder whether tomorrow will be genuine and delicious, or simply a stage for us exported Americans to allow our common foreignness and manufactured spirit-o'-th'-season to resonate to dangerous levels and bring about the destruction of a tradition we are trying to preserve. But mostly I'm wondering what will be on the table.

There is much to update and so very little time. Allow me to abbreviate the last week with a few of the finer points. We have discovered a website known as warmshowers.org, which provides hospitality to touring cyclists such as ourselves. So far, we have used it successfully four times: in Moustey and Bayonne, France; and in Elizando


Elizandoooo!!! A Basque Country fan favorite



and Guadalajara, Spain. These hosts have been some of the nicest and most accommodating people we have met, and they do it out of a keen interest in cycling and an appreciation for what we do, occasionally having a nice round-the-world trek under their belts. Although we at first rejected this way of meeting people, as we felt it was too artificial and relied on forced or staged kindness, we are beginning to realize that it is merely a way to meet those who share a common interest as we do.


Thumbs up for warmshowers! And the Pyrenees!


The going from Bayonne to Madrid was not what I was expecting, although hindsight tells me I should have seen it coming. I knew there would be mountains, and many of them, but I had no feel for the sheer magnitude of desolation in this Spanish countryside. Not only are the towns separated by dozens of kilometers, with some not



The changing landscape, changed once more



having any servicios, but along the road we have encountered fourscore or more destroyed or otherwise abandoned stone huts or houses with no obvious purpose. OK, this exists in America, too, no? But I have never seen American villages boasting a 50% decimated building rate, as we saw in Barahona the night we camped in the middle of town on the hill next to the church. That night, the wind was perfectly calm, and we heard not a single sound. Course, this was not half as unsettling as the previous night, where the town of Agreda put us up in la parrochia - a free room run by the church and set up for pilgrims or


Wild parties abound at Castle Hilltop


travelers - where we had to change multiple heavily bloodied sheets before sleeping (I got the bloody bed!). Why we did not get a picture of this was purely out of concern for the law.

Other highlights? I have never before received so many intense gawks and stares, at least not since I got that fifth arm removed. Spaniards are not at all afraid to let you know via gaze that they are dumbfounded or at least interested in what


Palacio de Algo/Here is a key



you are doing in their town. Also, cities are extremely painful to navigate, but we rode from Guadalajara to Madrid without a map, something we chalked up as a rip-roaring success. Finally, speaking Spanish has never been more relevant, which is a major road block in any learning program. I'd say put the kids in the middle of a market without any food or water and have them find their way into a van with no windows for the promise of a "sweet sweet." That'll teach 'em.

Hace frio

22/11/10

Gomara, Espana

It's oh so cold, and the wind is relentless. There are many mountains in this part of the world, and each of them makes its own weather. These mountains have seemed to have swallowed up all the internets. Please give them back, along with our warmth. Snow-capped mountains.

Thanksgiving in three days. We are riding to Madrid to enjoy a break with a friend. The food will suffer. Canned yams are universal, right?

Wish us luck as we cross another mountain pass today, which will be the fourth in as many days. Good gravy!

Over Yonder Mountaintops!

17/11/10


Biarritz, near Bayonne, France (30 km from the border)


Yesterday, we got our act together, seized the day, and put another 150 km of North behind us. It was glad to go, even gifting us with beautiful weather! The skies were clear, the sun was shining, and the wind was at bay, a rare and welcomed occurrence. What's even better is that the day began in a surreal, misty haze that chilled us despite our best attempts to stay warm. The fog hid the pines that have been surrounding us this side of Bordeaux so that we were flying through a white tunnel and into a far-off white wall. But the fog only hung around the ground leaving the tunnel ceilingless, and the blue skies we glimpsed told us we were in for a treat.

We caught our first glimpse of French ocean today (well, it's everyone's ocean, I hear). Sitting on a sandy ledge watching some magnificent waves crashing 100m ahead with the sun beating down on us is something I wish I could do every day. And if I lived in Southern France, I certainly could, from 13:30 till 15:30, as entire towns shut down for lunch during these vaguely defined hours. Let me explain: We had in our possession some muesli that we were craving hardcore. The only thing missing from the scene was, other than the Jack of Hearts, a nice jug o' lait, (aka Vitamin R Malk). The first town we passed through had four shops, including a chain supermarket, that would normally sell milk, but at 1pm it was all closed, with the shades drawn for good measure. The next two towns we visited had the same story, with some stores not opening until 4:30pm! The other striking characteristic of this part of the world is that the towns thrive on tourists that come during the summer to catch some rays and waves. November renders these towns deserted, with every other storefront, selling surfboards or renting bikes, being shut down for the season.
However, when we finally came to that last town in our search for milk, we understood the purpose of these prolonged lunch breaks as we sat with our feet in the sand watching the waves erode the beach. A combination of already having ridden 100km, feeling the sun on our faces, and watching a stray cat rub up against everything around told us that this was the right way to spend life, even if it was a "working" day.
The rest of the ride brought us at last to Bayonne, the last major French city before the border. Coming over a rise, we caught a glimpse of some mountains off in the distance, our first concrete sign that we would actually be in Spain the next day. After checking out the cathedral, we set about reaching a very nice woman's house who offered to put us up last night. Ah, but rush hour traffic had other ideas than us continuing the pleasant ride till the very end. Riding with cars is fine in general but becomes exponentially less fun as the amount of traffic and the percentage of commuters increases. But we made it and had a very relaxing night, thanks to Alex. But more on her and the program she is involved with soon. For now, we have a job to do, which involves crossing some mountains (I hope we don't make them cross...). Take care, and the best best best wishes to all!

Being Sean Gosewisch

11.11.10 (Happy Armistice Day, where all shops close in France)


Chaaambourd!



Civray, France


Lesson #1: Hurricanes never disappear; they merely rush on to Europe.
Lesson #2: Sunglasses are of no use in Central France during November.
Lesson #3: "Waterproof" means nothing.

As you can tell, we are simply having a ball riding through the most rural part of France during monsoon season. If it weren't for the nifty neoprene booties I purchased, my feet would not allow me to continue in this weather. Ah, but who doesn't like hours of riding at half speed into a driving wind that makes the rain feel like flechettes? That's right. I don't.

One other man who does not care for flechettes except for their appropriate and controlled use in certain combat situations would be Sean Gosewisch. I had the unique pleasure of getting to know the man behind the iron mask, as it were, in this exclusive CycloQuest-only interview. Check it out! For your health.

“An Interview with Sean Dylan Gosewisch: Directeur Extraordinaire”

Conducted by: Robert J. Kenney, Esq.

BK: Hello Sean. Or should I say: Bonjour?

SD: You probably shouldn't.

BK: Yes, very good. Let me begin by asking thee these questions trois: Vhat, is your name?

SD: Sir Goose to some.

BK: Vhat, is your quest?

SD: To Cycle to Rome!

BK: Vhat, would be an appropriate third question?

SD: Blue, no, wait... (Explosion, followed by a scuffle, followed by the sound of a single hand clapping)

BK: Now, let us begin in earnest. Sean, it has been said by many a passerby and acquaintance on “the road” that you have a certain “knack” for whistling. In fact, you are whistling right now. Why do you whistle? If you had a whistle, would you blow it constantly? How about a pink dog whistle?

SD: I whistle because it makes me forget my terrible childhood. But really just because it sounds better than my voice, and who doesn't like a well-known tune every now and then? Or constantly in my case. We both know it's only socially acceptable to blow whistles at demonstrations and sporting events. You don't remember buying me a pink dog whistle to mark our 2^nd month on the road together? I'm hurt.

BK: As well you should be, after eating all those razorblade cookies! On the subject of “Sound, Motion, and Aesthetics,” what song is in your head RIGHT NOW? Are there any songs that keep you going​? Any that make you yearn for home?

SD: Right now it's Journey's “Only the Young”; previously, it was “Hotel California” for days on end. I wouldn't say that there's a certain song or two to hum on those dark days – I don't really operate like that. Music does not have the power to motivate or demotivate me; it rather serves to make me reminisce. Oddly, music does have the power to make me think of home, that's funny in't it? Simon and Garfunkel tend to take me back home.

BK: So we've breached the topic of home. What do you miss most about that far-off place? Have any of our travels or experiences thus far reminded you of Illinois or your own home?

SD: I'm pretty sure I'm going through deep-dish and peanut butter withdrawals, and I miss the people I've left behind (making it sound like I'm never coming back). Having a home was nice. The occasional – and I stress “occasional” - flat farmland reminds me briefly of the old Ill, but I never really lose sight of where I am. I'll have plenty of time in Illinois. I try to enjoy this as much as possible: I'm making the most of a great

opportunity.

BK: Food: Everyone eats it, no one sings songs about it, and a few people use their straws to blow bubbles in their soup. What have been some of your favorite dishes we've sampled, creations we've made, desserts we've devoured, and (culinary) experiences we've had?

SD: That is one hell of a question. We've sampled so much it's hard to remember, and we still have 2 very food-friendly countries to go. It would be too early to make a definite call, but I dug the Irish stew, the English Toad in the Hole, the BK stir fry, roast duck and Bouchee a la Reine from France, and the damn good Belgian chocolate.

BK: And the damn good salty licorice?

SD: Ooh yeah, add that in! Groin grabbingly good! Dutch salty licorice and its sweet counterpart.

BK: A word on Fox's, s'il vous plais.

SD: Scrum-diddly-umptious. Seriously, the English have perfected their “Biscuits.”

BK: On three separate occasions, we have tried cheesecake in Ireland & England, and it sucked. What the hell?

SD: For whatever reason, they think cheesecake means “tasteless cream on soggy graham,” and that somehow passes with the masses. For shame, England and Ireland, stick with your cookies. Let the pros handle the cheesecake.

BK: If you could be any one cheese, which would you be & why?

SD: Hmm, I would have to say Amsterdam cheese. It was a pleasant surprise to find, and who doesn't like pleasant tasty surprises? Pleasant, tasty, creamy, yellow cheesy surprises are my favorite.

BK: Other than those involving billions of Euros, I'm sure. More importantly, if you could be any British lake sounding like a foghorn, which English lake sounding like a foghorn would you be & why?

SD: There can only be one... BLAGDOOON!

BK: Speaking of Non-Mainland Europe, can you briefly describe the fateful Ring of Kerry crash? How much fear was in my scream, 1-10?

SD: Everyone can see the pictures, no one can replay the events over and over again in their nightmares, NO ONE. But it was god-awful from my perspective. Hearing that terrified and somewhat angry yell (a 10 on your scale), looking back and seeing you tumble over your 3 pieces of bike and hit the pavement hard... it was scary for me, too, just a little less painful. I was very relieved to see you get up quickly.

BK: Yeah, my bounce-up-and-continue-moving-forward reflex kicked in immediately. By now, we've seen a fair bit of Europe: Ireland, Northern Ireland, Wales, England, Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg, and France. Which country boasts the best scenery? Which the friendliest folk? Which the crappiest weather? And which the prettiest women?

SD: The best scenery thus far has to go to Ireland, Luxembourg, and bits of France. Ireland easily has the friendliest. Not that people in the others are dicks or anything. Ireland just has an over-abundance of welcoming folk. Each country has all had their bright sunny days and the dark stormy rains, and winter/late fall isn't the best benchmarker. The prettiest women? Well, some countries have a lot more to choose from... and better genes... and they picked up on braces... and hygiene. Toothbrushes help, ladies.

BK: Is “Leffe” synonymous with “drink of the gods” or “God of the drinks?”

SD: If you've tried Leffe, then you don't need me to explain it. If you haven't tried it, I still won't explain it. Just go try it.

BK: On the subject of beer, how do you feel about the switch from multiple pubs in every town to multiple bakeries? (Church is a constant.)

SD: I like having bakeries on every corner more than pubs, mostly because it's easier to eat a ton of bread and bike than down a few (dozen) and head on out. But the pubs had their charm, and the bakeries their delicious goodness. Somewhere there must be a happy middle with pubs and bakeries. I could live in that place.

BK: I noticed you were growing out a little something-something there on your face. Hobovember?

SD: I'm going for the Gillespie Look. I think I have about 10 years to go.

BK: Few can master that technique. Now, a toughie: of all the friends we've made, which have been the most meaningful and which the most enjoyable?

SD: Wow, that's incredibly tough to answer. We've met so many people, and been taken in by the kindest and most generous folks this hard world has to offer. I honestly cannot choose one person or family over the other. From planned stops with people we know, to the strangers and saviors that take in two ragged and weary lads, we have many to tank and none to forget. They were all enjoyable, and they've easily made this trip for me. If they read this, I want to say thank you again; your kindness shall not be forgotten but rather passed on.

BK: Truer words ne'er been spake. Just a passing thought: Have you ever ballroom danced to an Irish folk song with another man of the same gender? Why did you not later “Rock the Boat?”

SD: Funny you should ask, I was just telling a random stranger how one night in Ireland, a little town called Listowel, I suddenly found myself without a partner for a song. What's a lad to do when everyone else is twirling around, and there's narry a lass to be seen? Why, you throw social acceptability into the wind and link arms with the nearest man, who happened to have the same idea and also happened to be the owner of a certain blog. And I didn't rock the boat because that would have been a little too homoerotic for this long fellow.

BK: Who is Mark Gewurtz?

SD: I have yet to figure that out, but he makes one hell of a dessert. I'd like to thank him the next time he comes and eats Kougelhopf with me.

Loire Valley: The Cradle of the French Language

6/11/10

Orleans, France


At Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris; look closely



Pitter-patter pitter-patter pitter-patter... As it has done all day, the rain continues to fall outside (and, due to a rather major leak in the ceiling, which appeared to be merely a skylight that was wide open, inside as well) the hostel in which we have holed up for the night. What followed our arrival to the city of Orleans was little more than a fiasco of lodging in a deluge of precipitation followed by the fine art of using an entire dorm room for drying out clothing, bags, tents, and shoes. But to tell the story of today, I should back up a bit.

We awoke early but, as it turns out, not early enough, at 07:30, which is right around sunrise in these here parts. It takes us almost an hour and a half to get on the road following Sean's watch alarm, depending on what type of breakfast we have for ourselves. With the skies darkening dangerously around 17:30, that gives us 8.5 hours of riding/eating/resting time to eventually reach our destination. With an average riding speed of 25 km/h (this is to make the calculation easy; with hills and wind, which seems to be blowing steadily out of the south in this part of France, the actual average is a bit less), we have a possible range of ~200 km, assuming we do not eat or rest. For reference, we rode 147 km today and dedicated a little more than an hour to getting lost, seeing the Chartres Cathedral, snacking on bread and cheese, and keeping dry. As you can see, we are mainly limited by the amount of daylight as opposed to our energy or will to continue; this is a painful and pressing fact, one that we are running into quite a bit.

Getting back to the day's events, after we took off, we found ourselves in what I believe might be my favorite setting: in a forest with trees already turned fall colors and under a gray sky. Even better is that after we passed through the woods, we encountered half a dozen tiny, ancient villages that retained their stone walls from the days of yore. I wonder how many "outsiders" have been on these roads, as they are in the middle of nowhere, far from the major highways, and do not lead to any particularly interesting places. These facts made our stumbling find all the more exciting and profound and heightened the authenticity in my eyes. In some of the towns, we found ourselves riding alongside a 3 meter high stone wall for the entire length of the town, passing houses made from the same old, mossy stones. Nothing like this exists in America.


Do the French love the Bulls or just DRose?


Throughout the remainder of our ride, we fought the good fight of staying warm and staying dry while the elements had other plans for us, spraying us with mist and rain and blasting us with a constant, fierce headwind. However, our one blessing of the day was the flatness of the land. The fields stretched on for miles devoid of hills, highly reminiscent of any area in the Midwest. It was eerie to be riding on a small country road where the view is limited by the mist and the only thing in sight is farmland; for a second, I thought I was riding home from Indiana (as I am wont to do).

We did pass a number of hunting parties and heard some unsettling though far-off gunshots. I'm not quite sure what they were hunting, but birds and deer alike were seen fleeing these groups en masse. A bit further down the road, an army of windmills materialized out of the mist, spinning with


Say, that's a nice bike.



conviction but also much more silently than those we encountered east of Paris. The only other notable occurrence, other than a signpost that was off by 15 km (this all but crushed our spirits), was the four cars that gave us a (friendly?) double-honk and wave. As this is the first outright sign of encouragement from motorists, this area of France must be very pro-velo. Well the better for us!

Finally, following a full 125 km, we arrived in Orleans, looking for a place to eat and rest our dogs. Ah, but things are never easy, are they? The tourist office was closed but conveniently had some pamphlets outside for our perusal, one of which contained a single auberge de jeunesse. Although it was not in the city center, it claimed to be "15 minutes south." Being on bikes, we thought it was no problema, we'd be there in ten at the most. At this point, it began to rain. We should have seen this as a warning from God or at least an unfortunate coincidence and perhaps sought other lodgings for the night, but we were determined to get some bang for our buck by staying in a hostel. The map we picked up made it seem like an easy and short enough ride, but tourist maps, in my experience, are never to scale (they always draw large, colorful buildings and giant families stomping all around the city). Furthermore, the only road listed exiting the city was a good ol' motorway, which would have been disastrous if not for the bike path running alongside it but hidden from view and devoid of any signage. Again, we figured that the path would be a simple, short stretch to the University and its hostel, but, again, we were entirely wrong. (Another entry, I'll touch on our favorite realization: Everything is another thing's polar opposite). Finding the hostel - in the pouring rain, mind you - added on another 10 km, and getting to a grocery store an extra 5 km, bringing today's total to 147 km. But we're alive and dry! And tomorrow should be an easy, short ride into Blois...

From Paris, with Louvre

1/11/10


Paris


Dear dedicated reader,

Greetings from Paris! Comment allez vous? I heard there was a terrible windstorm back home; please let me know that all the cows are alright. Say hello to Bessie for me, but don't linger - she's a real talker, that one! She'll talk your ears numb if you let her.

In the coming days, I'll be sending out a few tasty morsels (or morels, if you prefer les champignons) for your literary digestion, which are as follows: a recap of what we will have seen, done, eaten, and sipped in Paris; a recap of the trip's beginning, the beautiful and wet Emerald Isle; and a very special interview with one long fella (as Colm would say) - that is, of course, Sean.

So if Bessie or her made-of-honor maid of honor asks (never told a lie, she hain't), let them know that we have reached Paris intact following a series of successful but challenging rides that brought us through the scenic and hilly vineyards of Champagne and that we plan to rest here for a few days, taking in the sights and sounds of the City of Lights (or was it blights? mites? e-vites?).

Remain in light,
Bobby