I’d spent three days in the mountains, I was going to the seaside, and I wasn’t expecting to get lonely. At least not here, on top of the last mountain, in plain view of my goal.
The whole story started three months earlier, when plans were being made for our family get-together. I decided it was high time I did that trek through Montenegro, across those famous mountains that drivers hate, and only “serious” cyclists attempt. I was supposed to go with a G, but he backed out a few weeks before the beginning.
I studied the maps, made my plan, and made sure that I was physically and mentally prepared for hours of pedaling.
I’d been to the coast already twice this year, and I would spend time laying in the water in the bay in front of my mother’s house, looking up at the rocky mountains surrounding it. You can’t spend that much time seeing the geography around you without feeling it challenging you. My last confrontation with one of the mountains is a legendary tale in itself, but that’s another story. So I spent days on end, looking at the point I knew I would come out of the wasteland and where I would see the sea. I patiently prepared everything in my power to get there: I worked out, I trained for dehydration, I made and rechecked my baggage lists, I bought the ticket to the border, made sure my gear was in order, and I meditated.
And then I started off. From my home the first stop was my favorite cocktail bar, where I met with a friend to talk about where we’d been traveling, since both of us were about to travel more. Good things start when you leave the house, not when you arrive at your destination – so might as well start the good stuff immediately. And bad things happen whenever. In this case – I couldn’t sleep in the bus. I spent the entire night trying to be comfortable and not to be annoyed, just to breath steadily and to relax my body – having completely given up the idea that I would sleep. At dawn I got off in the second-smallest bus station in world, had a quick coffee in the local bar, and set off. It was gray and drizzling, later I would learn that it was 10 degrees. The only thing I could wear was my new bike shirt which I had bough to keep me from burning in the August sun – not to keep me from freezing in the rain. And the cold crept into my bones. The fact that I had to make a 800-meter climb did not help either. Meditation stepped in. I tried to focus on the surrounding view and take pictures when I stopped to rest. Adrenaline was high – it was only the first 15 out of 100 kilometers I had to make that day. I did my first work in front of a store whose keeper I got out of bed to buy water and candy bars. The border guards were too gray to even ask any stupid or interesting questions.
By the time I reached the first town my body had had enough, even though my brain was sending adrenaline orders. The long downhill ride had cooled me too much and I needed energy and shelter – a pastry shop, of course! Two hours I shivered in the corner. The owner was very pleasant and she chatter with all the patrons. I wanted a little of that local experience, but all I could do was focus on stopping the trembling. Thirty down, seventy to go, and I couldn’t even ponder getting on my bike.
It’s this situation that is what is one of my favorite situations – I have to cross this huge obstacle, I can barely fall on it, let alone fight it, so I shift into first gear, take a deep breath and start etching at it. Patience. I’m not sure where I picked that lesson up, but I learned it well.
Writing this story is one of those situations. I’ve been running around too much, not stopping and thinking, just getting up and going, maybe thinking about the next mountain or the next milestone, but not about the Big Road. I’ve had nothing to write about. Two weeks, thousands of kilometers of travel, people, nations, friends and family, and I’m left speechless. I started out in order to get to a single moment, one that was specific, one that I’d been working towards for months, and it lasted a matter of seconds. And it was gone. And I was no better a person, no more experienced. I had done what I always hated – fulfilled expectations (mine, in this case). Planned being. Filling in (previously created) voids instead of building mountains, reaching for the sky.
The road rose steadily up the next mountain, and I was looking forward to the view from the top – it opens up on a large canyon, with an elegant bridge leading across it. And there’s a long fast descent to it. The last thing I expected to see in this desolate part of the world was two kids sharing a single bike, bursting out into the road right where I had stopped to take some pictures, and challenging me to keep up with them. They were out for a ride, and going down into this big hole, only to make their way back up. Caution (and the sheer weight of my saddlebags) kept me from accepting the dare. There was many more kilometers and mountains to cross. I wasn’t about to risk that over a fast mile.
The bridge below me was one of the points that I had known for many years. It is one of those points where busses stop for breaks, and people like to have their picture taken, with the turquoise river running far below. Kilometers of pedaling are cashed in for seconds of riding over these bridges, through villages, next to narrow-gauge railroad tracks… And there’s also the spicy lamb soup with a view the arches.
(continuing the paragraph a month later, on a rainy day, remembering the summer)
this is where i first encountered lady loneliness. her gown concealed me from the other people in the restaurant, and i sat alone sipping hot soup. i was there in disguise, a foreigner but not, looking the part but only taking advantage of it to the extent of opening new windows into the world. a family of french tourists at one table and croatian bikers at the closer one. stories and tales of the previous days, and plans for the following ones. routes crisscrossing the region, intersecting in this moment in time, in this one traditional place - the bridge across the gorge.
i was away a bit later. i wasn't as rested as i would have liked to be, but i didn't care. only one more of the three big hills remained, and i would be at my destination. one hill, but unfortunately i forgot that each of these hills were as big as a good whole-day climb.
patience had come over me. many miles were behind me and but a handful separated me from a bed (the first one in three days). the end was in sight, i felt secure.
the road is not for writing. the road is for traveling - paper and blogs are for writing.
