a jump (pt.II)

After arriving in Greece, I spent a month working at the vibrant community space, Habibi.works  before getting back in the saddle once again. I wound up through the no mans land mountains of northern Greece and dipped back into Albania before arriving in Macedonia to visit my close friend Nathalie. This was the third time she welcomed me to her home, nestled on the shores of Lake Ohrid in the small fishing village of Pestani. The water there is like velvet and days were long and sun-soaked, adventure intermingling with deep relaxation, saturating in the summer sleepiness around us. We paddled and swam and hiked and explored the mountains, and when it was time for me to go, Nathalie snapped my favorite pics of me and Sereia.

(Proof that this was really happening, because I still wasn’t so sure of it myself.)

I headed west along the shores of the lake and across Albania to the port city of Durrës where I caught an overnight ferry to Bari, Italy. I wanted to get to the Amalfi coast on the west side as fast as possible, so took the highway across the boot, stopping just a few times for an espresso or a refuel at one of the many rest stops. These stations, understated cement boxes on the outside, were grandiose inside. Each had at least three shiny metal spaceship espresso machines and just as many if not more uniformed attendants. In crisp pinstripe shirts and creased white caps, they doled out doses of aromatic goodness for as little as 70 cents. Further down, the glass vitrines of the counter were piled high with paninins and focaccia and innumerable varieties of pizza and along the walls were biscotti, crostini and pasta of all imaginable shapes and sizes. Fuel, it seemed, was but a side offering of these service stations. 

Back on the highway and into my helmet, I pondered this culture of enjoyment. Curving through the golden rolling hills, crowned with exquisite villas and idyllic little villages, I was awed and touched by the space that was carved out for beauty. Romance and artistry wafted through rounded windows and reflected in the warm glows through the night. 

Sketchbook, journal and book (the biography of Frida Kahlo) in hand, I made my way along the coast, stopping for a gelato or fresh fruit when the heat of the September sun scorched too hot or the hairpin turns of the road seeped the energy back out of me. Craning my head as much as was safe, I took in as much as possible, trying to store the scenery into the deep recesses of my mind. While I took many digital snapshots as well, I strove to be in the present and to accept the fleeting moments as even more poignant because they were so quickly gone.

With speed, land and people flashed by. Countless lives, lived and laid out on terraces along the cliff face. A cup in hand and a face turned up to the sun. A day’s memory in the garments drying out on the clothesline, left out in the shoes lined up at the doorway. Someone is cooking and children call to each other across the street. So many stories, spoken, and many more, silent. Left in the crumbling brick facades or spray-painted across alley walls. And there I was, a moving part of it all. A specter in the spectacle of life. Here and then gone again, as the sun moved across the sky. Trying to tread lightly and drive smoothly but unable to disappear entirely. A peach pit lands in a pile of rocks.

From Italy I took another ferry - 20 hours across the Mediterranean sea in a boat buffeted by 10 meter tall waves - to Barcelona. As I was waiting to ride my bike into the hold of the ship, another motorcyclist rode up to me. Paulo had also driven down from Berlin and was the only other older bike in the sea of fancy touring bikes. He also happened to be going to Porto and within a few minutes we decided to cross Spain together.

Serendipitous but not accidental, I felt strongly the significance of our meeting as a signal of support from the universe. Roughly 4,000 kilometers and three cumulative weeks of driving into the journey and I had begun to grow weary. But some good friend filled days in Barcelona and the new travel plans brought wind to my wings again as we plotted the path continuation of the journey together. Both having a rough idea of the timeline, but not having booked anything in advance, allowed us to take it day by day, scouting the next spot as we neared it and changing in accordance with local inputs and advice.

This leg of the journey ended up being my favorite. The equation =  low expectations + feeling finally comfortable with my bike + stunning scenery + no more stress about being getting stranded on the roadside. This final point was something that had been following me throughout. Despite the fact that Sereia was holding up incredibly well, the reality of her 38 years of age and the intensity of the drive was impossible to ignore. I was constantly listening carefully to the sounds of the engine and checking for leakage or burning oil. Thus far I had dealt with a flat tire in Croatia, water in the engine then a little crash leading to replaced handlebars, then leaking gas tube and broken reserve indicator leading to gas-less on the roadside in Greece, and a replaced blinker bulb in Albania. So far relatively good but still some cause for concern.

We drove north from Barcelona up to the Basque country, and then followed the northern coast to Gijón, where we turned back south through the mountainous and majestic beauty of Asturias. From there Paulo was heading directly to Porto and I was meeting a friend in Santiago de Compostella, so we drove the last stretch and then said goodbye, planning to meet in Porto in a few days time. We both got on our bikes and I turned the key and nothing happened. Complet-o dead-o.

In the recent mountain climbs I had felt something was off, but wasn’t sure if I was projecting my own insecurity in the turns onto the functioning of the bike. It was validating to see it wasn’t all in my head but frustrating to be in this bind so close to the end. After a several tries we managed to jump start the engine and drove to a local gas station, where I kept the bike running and filled up the tank. I was hesitant at the thought of driving the additional 200km to Santiago in the impending darkness with no headlight or blinkers, but with some motivating I realized that it was worth it to try to get to my destination and try to find a mechanic there. With a large water bottle filled with gas strapped to the back of my luggage, we said bye again and I hit the road, resolved to make it to Santiago before dark.

My concentration was razor sharp as I sped along the highway road. Careful not to push the bike too hard but also get all I could out of it. The wind was cold and my stomach was growling but I drove without stopping until just outside of the city the engine died again. Relieved to have made it this far but still set on completing the mission, I stopped on the shoulder and refilled the gas tank, and then walked the bike to the top of the next  - and fortunately nearby - hill. The first running start and kicking into gear yielded no result but the second time she sprung back to life, and with a song and a whoop it was back on. The joy and relief was immense as I drove the final kilometers and parked outside my hostel. Disembarking, I stretched out in the grass. 

While Porto was the final destination of the motorcycle trip, the arrival in Santiago was the symbolic end to this cross country journey. While it was not a pilgrimage in the traditional sense, it was a spiritually significant expedition to me in the deepest way of the word. I had captured that dream, illusive and unrealistic, and pulled it, piece by piece, towards me until I was living it. It had felt absurd, especially in the beginning as I first told people of the plan. I was careful not to sound certain, to take into account all the potential hurdles and my vintage vehicle. I will try, I said, and see how far I get. And at the end of the day, that’s all it took. The resolution that came with that decision propelled me forward. The more things went wrong, the easier it got somehow.

Breath, release, and surrender. Cultivating resilience - not out of the naive perspective that nothing will go awry, but out of the trust that when it does, it can be put right again.

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