I'D MADE IT!!!

As I rode the seacoast of Portugal, I couldn't help but reflect backwards on the journey. Since beginning the trip, I had covered much of Continental Europe. I'd been to Berlin, I'd been to Athens. I ridden in Romania and now... I'd touched the Atlantic Ocean.

Somehow I had even gone back in time, I had visited 1973, the model year of my Green BMW. This ride had been one of the present... and the past.

I was 18 again in many ways. Little in the way of cares, woes or crushing responsibilities. There was no wife waiting for me at home, there were no kids, no angry Boss. I had money in the Bank just as I had then, I had a vision of seeing unusual and strange places, eating foods I'd never eaten before. I was meeting people that spoke different languages, had different customs, looked different. I was on my own. Free to ride my 600 in any direction I pleased.

Heading back over the Spanish border, I thought of those riders on horseback on the Great Plains of North America. A bed roll, some chew, maybe a flask of gut wrenching whiskey. More likely a canteen of stale water. Then I laughed... that vision quickly popped from my head like a water baloon sucked by gravity onto the pavement, surely they didn't have a horse named Kis Piroska (Little Red)

I DID!

With a smile, I gave her a pat on the flank of the fuel tank, smiling into my helmet. Well, there were some differences from my riding a Yamaha in Europe, and a dust bitten cowhand on the Chisholm Trail.

Sarria was a good stopover for a couple of nights. I had a room for 12 Euro's with shared bath in a brand new building, a chance to wander around a bit, see the sights. I was on the Camione de Santiago. My friend Barb and her friend, Allana were walking a portion of the trail that begins in various parts of Europe and ends in Santiago de Compostela. That was to prove a grueling journey for them in more ways than one!

The Spanish broadcast on the little TV hinted with foreboding at the days to come. A Major Atlantic storm, the size of the Eastern USA, was swirling off the North African coast and heading North East, directly across my path... fast!

By 9:30 the next morning barely 20km from Sarria heading Norte, I was pulled over and pulling on my clothes. I'd woke to an overcast gloom, dull metal gray skies, threatening rain. 60 degree temperature would be the high for the day. Even before I'd reached the Biscay Coast, the rain had begun. It was the first rain since HU. I rode the entire day in varying degrees of downpour.

Slashing winds blew in off the Atlantic and pushed my Divvie across lanes. Sometimes the rains came so hard, torrents were running diagonally across the roadway. There was nothing for it but to hunker down and ride as best as I could. At least the temps were still in the 50's and the vest was plugged in so I wasn't particularly cold. Nothing worse than being cold and soaked riding long distances. My raingear worked reasonably well, but after awhile... the wet snuck past my collar, down my back, into my hands and the worst, soaking my drenched boots. My feet were in puddles. By the time I had reached Cabo Pieto Llanes, I was so tired I rode in circles for what seemed like an hour trying to find a gas station and then a place I could pull off and get the buzz out of my head.

Very little local traffic, pedestrians were hunkered under umbrellas or in the cafes. At the marina, the heavens eased up for awhile and I could dismount and wander a little bit in only slight drizzle, even that was a welcome relief. My knees were so cramped from gripping the red gas tank, my arms from clutching the bars against the battering of the wind. Bilbao was perhaps a couple of hours away, I would try to find a place to sleep there and take in the Guggenheim.


The bright, sunny warm days of Italy were gone... and I wouldn't see them again until a week had passed, and then only again... in Italy!