Changing Plans

By Penina

Our host in Lisbon pulled the iron bolt out of the not-often-used passive half of the heavy, double European door. He raised an eyebrow as we tried to three-point-turn our heavily laden bikes in the narrow entryway. I hoisted mine up the three-inch-tall lip to the sidewalk, grunting. Our host chuckled, watching us struggle to lift and maneuver the bikes that we would soon be riding around the world. “You sure are fully loaded,” he said. He and his roommate had graciously let us stay for two nights in their four-room apartment in Lisbon. We had planned to spend a day running errands and exploring the city— but errands had taken longer than expected and we felt as though we’d barely gotten a taste of Lisbon before it was time to leave.

Our bikes wobbled as we mounted them on the steep cobblestone street. I clutched my brakes like a lifeline as I pitched forward on the descent. My hands ached and my panniers shuddered, bouncing over the cobblestones. The street leveled, then began to rise. I flicked my gears down as far as possible but was quickly sweating and panting, and then pushing my bike up the steep ascent.

We cycled for about 25 hot and dusty miles, leaving Lisbon and heading south, past used-car dealerships, outlet stores, and highway interchanges. We wove in and out of traffic, onto and off of suddenly appearing and disappearing bike lanes, and tried to cut across fast lanes of traffic as they merged. We stayed with another host that night, and when we arrived I immediately stumbled into the shower and rubbed gummy layers of sweat and sunscreen off my skin.

When planning this trip, we tried to use our previous experience to estimate an average daily mileage that would feel comfortable, and balance the need to stick to our visas and arrive in Tajikistan before winter with our desire to take our time and explore places along our route. In the past, 50 miles a day on biking days gave us plenty of time off the saddle to run errands, work, and explore.

But in Portugal, I was struggling to even make 40 miles a day. Our route took us onto roads that were — in theory — dirt, but in reality sand. Biking through sand is like running in a dream. When I hit a patch of sand I tried to pedal wildly, but I slowed, slowed, slowed, and my tires slipped and I hopped off my bike and pushed it at barely a mile an hour until I found firmer ground. Pushing a bike uphill in the sand, my shoes slipped, seeking traction, and I clutched my brakes to keep from losing even an inch of ground.

Mornings were generally easier than evenings. We swooped up and down coastal cliffs and through beach towns, past wild indigo orchids, bright red poppies, and, one time, an emu that we randomly saw in an enclosure. I grew up with pebbly sand, gray-water, choppy-waved New England ocean, so was delighted by the deep blue and soft white beaches. During the morning ride, I could enjoy the orange groves and bright purple flowering trees canopying over the streets. But every day, the baking sun wilted my mood by the afternoon, and I popped in headphones to try to urge myself onward until we reached a safe place to camp.

By the end of our fourth day, I felt like a husk, dried out, drained, and brittle. We were camping at a permaculture farm, off of a hilly dirt road. When the hills are short, steep, and constant, it’s hard to get into a cycling rhythm while you’re constantly changing your gears while either braking or grinding uphill. Every time I saw a climb in front of me, I felt like hurling my bike off the side of the road and bursting into tears.

There was another cyclist, a young woman from France, also staying at the farm that night. We ran into her by coincidence at the turnoff from the main dirt road to a smaller dirt road. The smaller road cut down a steep descent, and my heart sank realizing that we’d have to climb right back up the next morning.

“Where are you guys going?” She asked.

“Vietnam!” Jeremy replied.

“Unless there is a single additional hill in our way. If there is, I’m going home,” I said cynically.

That was the night we decided to take things slower. Our host was a former police officer from the Netherlands, who supplied us with hot showers, an outdoor kitchen, and fresh eggs from her chickens. I felt weak and slow. The month before we left was busy with logistical preparations, and left little time for training. I knew it would be a hard transition from couch potato to full-time cyclist, but I was frustrated and discouraged by my pace, and the extent to which I was struggling.

The next morning, I awoke at dawn to the rooster’s crow. I slipped out of my sleeping bag, grabbed a fleece to guard against the morning dew, and made a small cup of coffee in the sparse outdoor kitchen. I carried my coffee to the roof patio of our host’s home, which she had turned into a comfortable communal space, full of colorful pillows, blankets, and carpets over the cool tile and lime-washed adobe walls.

I sat on a bench at the edge of the roof and watched the sun infuse color back into the saturated pre-dawn hillsides. I sipped my coffee and closed my eyes, breathing into my belly. I noticed the smell of sweet straw and morning dew, the sounds of the rooster and the birds, the sensation of cool air on my skin and warm ceramic in my hands. I felt my frazzled nerves as if they were a disobedient pet, my responsibility yet not me. I was not the difficult time I was having.

That morning, we took it easy. We had more coffee on that beautiful rooftop patio. We got our website up and running, and caught up on some life logistics.

“It looked like you two needed a rest,” said our host. We thanked her profusely for opening her little oasis to us, and cycled gently away. We don’t know if we’ll beat winter to Tajikistan, or exactly how we’ll stay within our allotted 90 days in the Schengen area. But we know that if we’re not able to be honest with ourselves about what we need, and pivot accordingly, this will be a very miserable trip indeed, and likely a short one as we burn out and go home. So we’re taking it day-by-day through Europe, and trying as best we can to enjoy ourselves along the way.