Three cheers for the suburbs!
Mood:  hug me
Topic: Ruminations
Three cheers for Arroyomolinos!

Okay, if you've never been to Spain, you've probably never heard of Arroyomolinos. It's a suburb-commuter town located about twenty kilometres south-west of Madrid. I don't really know how many people live there - technically, it's probably a part of the city of Mostoles - but I want to give them a quick tip of the helmet for having inaugurated twenty-two kilometres of bike lanes throughout the town.

Given, twenty-two klicks doesn't sounds like a lot, but given that we're talking about a place that doesn't even have ten thousand residents. However, that just might make them the community in Spain with the most kilometres of bike lanes per capita.

Three cheers for small towns!

Madrid, get your act together already!!!!!!

TRUCKIN' WITH TRANSHUMANCE
Mood:  bright
Topic: Ruminations
Sunday's sight of the day: Sight of the Day: The annual transhumance (sheep movin' parade) march took place through the center of Madrid, and not a moment too soon. Shepherds were worried that spending a week in the Casa de Campo, surrounded by Nigerian prostitutes would be detrimental to the health of the flock, as some sheep - wait for it - had taken to eating prophylactics left by the sex trade workers. (And they wonder where Almodovar comes up with his material...I tell you, folks, you cannot make this stuff up....)

Were the sheep cute? Yes, especially when they jumped the police barricades to get at the flower beds. (Spanish to the core, these sheep! Tell 'em not to, and they're THERE!) But the sheep have relatively little to do with the entire merino culture: the pendones, teams of standard-bearers who carry 15-meter high staffs bearing damascene silk banners, were far more interesting and, frankly, were having a lot more fun. Ditto for the Maragatos, descendants of Moorish horse traders from north-west Leon province. True, most of those dressed as Maragatos probably don't still live in the region, and I'm willing to wager that 80% haven't been near a horse in their lives. But it's exciting to see that they're willing to dedicate time to preserving the culture of their region. Other Spaniards may be embarrassed at what they see as provincialism; for a foreigner, it's a singular opportunity to witness a part of Spanish culture that doesn't come to Madrid very often.

And what about the sheep? Odds have it that they'll spend their winter away from the sex trade workers, in a specially enclosed area in the Casa de Campo park; when March comes, they'll start the long march back up to Leon and Asturias.

Sundays are BETTER ON A BIKE
Just in case some of you have come directly to the blog without going through the Spanish Cyclepaths webpage, this is a quick reminder that the MEJOR CONBICI bike ride is this Sunday.

MEJOR CONBICI is a new initiative to promote bicycles as a form of urban transit. Sponsored by ConBici (www.conbici.org) and the Ministry of the Environment (www.mma.es), the initiative (www.mejorconbici.com - website in Spanish only, still under construction) to get people moving on their bikes. The number of participating cities has increased - Santiago de Compostela is finally on board, which only makes sense when you think about how many people are doing the Camino de Santiago on bikes because, let's face, who the hell can afford 35 days of walking in this day and age?

I don't know about other cities, but in Madrid, the ride will get underway about 12ish (this is Spain, after all), in front of or near the Jardin Botanico, to the immediate south of the Prado Museum, just south of the Museo del Prado. Weather forecast is clear but slightly nippy. Enjoy!!

Bikes Belong...and everyone else?
There's a funny debate going on with the Pedalibre group about the use of bikes in the city, and it's brought out some funny alliances.

Jose M., who's a PL member I don't know, went to his local golf club with his son about a month ago and was asked to leave because the golf club didn't feel that bicycle use gave the club the appropriate image. Jose hasn't said how long he's been a particular member of the golf club, but he was offended enough to send a letter off to the governing council of the club, asking them what was up with the anti-bike policy. (Spaniards are great whingers, but not many are willing to take action beyond flapping their gums.)

Then the real controversy started. Several members, almost all of them car owners, started in on Jose for being a golfer. One wrote: "It's hardly consistent that someone who's interested in the environment should take part in a sport that's aiding and abetting the irresponsible use of water." Another took Jose to task for participating in a sport which could be considered elitist at best, and a third – this killed me – said that it was ridiculous for a child to play golf, that a child should be doing better things. (And yes, if you're wondering, Spain does have a problem with child obesity, too.)

OK, first of all, let’s address the fact that Jose, evidently, is one of the few men brave enough to go on a bicycle with his children in this city. That, in itself, is pretty commendable. But I don't get this mentality that says that all behaviour has to be perfectly aligned with one point of view or another. I mean, how many cyclists have drivers' licenses? Exactly. One thing doesn't have to cancel the other out; not every form of behaviour is going to be 100% coherent in the eyes of the other.

Personally, I think Jose wins on more than one point. Not only does he get to take his bicycle with him to the golf club...he's also shown his son that it IS worth fighting, in a civil manner, for what you believe in.

Cue the harps, pack the panniers and ....HELLO FREEDOM!!!
Mood:  flirty
Topic: Ruminations
So I'm sitting at home this morning, doing some proposal letters and generally mucking around on Messenger, and it hits me. Doesn't hit me like a ton of bricks... it was more like a Philadelphia Cream Cheese commercial, with shining lights and harp music...

Hot diggedy double damn!!

I'm totally free!!!

I just got paid....

There is no man hanging around to explain or justify things to....let alone one who would want to come along....

There's no job to report back to...

I could very well jump on my bike and go straight back to Tarifa, if I damn well felt like it!

And for once, that freedom is not daunting...it just feels VERY VERY COOL. To realize that you're free of the normal constraints which keep you from riding is great. It's not likely that I'm going to take off at any point in the next day or two; but knowing that I could do it (the rent is paid, the invoices have been sent, the deadlines have been met for this month....), the temptation to take off next week is enormous. After all, what am I going to do here? Sit here and moan that I'm unemployed and that the G-Man doesn't love me? Yeah, right.

Truth is, the weather has, for the most part, been freakishly good this fall. Daytime temperatures have averaged around 20?C, even in Madrid, and with the exception of last week, with the rain, it's been very dry.

So, where to go? The Camino de Santiago beckons, to be honest. I would really like to do the bit I haven't tried, going between Logro?o and Leon...even over a week, that would work. Almeria would be great, but there are no regional trains going down there and I don't feel like fighting the ALSA bus company to put the bike on the bus (though if I travelled Tuesday at 10AM I would be HIGHLY surprised that anyone would care.)

Oh, the siren call of the open road...if I didn't have to go back to Canada at Christmas, I would love to take the time to go to all around Spain, and really do it by myself this time. And do it RIGHT.

OK, get your digs in....only an hour left.....
Mood:  incredulous
I can't believe this. Yisus just snapped at me because the owner only paid him €30 for the stupid bike repair workshop. "I could sit at home playing with myself for that kind of money," he hissed. Well, why are you bitching at the person who's leaving in an hour? I thought. And then it hit me...the rest of the staff don't know that it's my last day.

OK, for the rest of you who want to have a go: you have sixty minutes to behave like assholes and whine about anything you want. After that, you all have to leave me the hell alone because I'm going biking, not doing power-f***ing-point presentations about it. Are we clear????

Better alone than badly accompanied (I think)
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Ruminations
So it's final. I wrote the G-Man today and said that I needed some space. I un-invited him to my birthday party (the first time in my life that I have had to do that to someone and it felt AWFUL). I told him that I didn't want to see him for at least a month. And right now I have SO much respect for smokers who try to quit smoking because frankly, even though he wasn't my boyfriend, it's like this craving to be in touch with him.

G-Man, do you read this blog? Do you know how much fun it was to go biking with you, that you were the perfect travel companion because you're the same height as me, you kept me calm? Do you know what it means to know that I will definitely be biking by myself next summer if the A-Team don't come along?

Maybe you won't read this and it's all right to confess here that I thought we would grow old together, ride our bikes together not necessarily forever, but that you would come with me to Vietnam in 2008 and that riding with you would be a maybe-forever thing.

I thought that that was my advantage. That your ex didn't ride and I couldn't ride enough.

But the truth is that I know now that all the bike rides in the world, all the sunsets seen from the saddle don't make for love. If you do read this, I want you to know that riding with you was good. And I'm sorry for whatever reason it was why you couldn't love me. I tried. And now I have to go riding into the sunset alone.

Better by yourself?
Mood:  not sure
Topic: Ruminations
I think I have decided to do the Transiberico by myself.

The Transiberico is the bike trip that was supposed to be the big trip for G-Man and I, but after last night (more personal, inter-cultural relationship crapola, nothing that's suitable for this blog because it's neither Spain-specific or has to do with biking) I think I've decided that I want to do this by myself. I don't want to have to spend a month with someone who doesn't love me, living in a tent and biking 100 km a day; I don't want that failure of the relationship rubbed in my face.

Besides, I know what's going to happen. He'll get all involved in some big project or some class or something and even though he'll have known about the dates for a year before, six weeks before we're due to leave, it'll come to pass that oh, he can't go. And I would like to leave this relationship with more than the memories of how I was disappointed.

Priego Tourism Conference....after
Mood:  cool
Topic: Ruminations
One of the Match guys I was seeing, (or, more accurately, I saw once and never saw again) said that he didn’t want to move back from Cordoba, where he was from, because he said that Cordoba ages people prematurely. After this morning’s trip from Priego de Cordoba back into the train station in Cordoba, I believe it.

David, the driver in charge of taking us around, didn’t realize that he was supposed to be taking me back to the city this morning and when Cati, the conference organizer, asked him to do so, he asked if it would be all right to double up on a trip that someone else had booked, an older woman who needed to be taken to the Reina Sofia Medical Centre in the city. And I was like, cool, I don’t have a problem with that...and the nice part was that I got a tour of some of the smaller hamlets in the subbetica, like Zagrilla and places like that which I know that I’ve always thought about travelling through by bike but never did. (Just as well: up until now I sincerely doubt that I would have been able to handle that much hill riding.)

So we went through Carcabuey, which is where David is from, to pick up this woman and her nephew. Nephew is probably a couple of years older than I am, balding, kind of like the actor Javier Camara, but with a big ridge of bone missing from his skull about two inches above his brow line. According to David, the nephew used to be a fireman for the Mancomunidad until a car accidetn laid him low for a couple of months; now he spends most of his time caring for his dowager aunt, who is about seventy and has bone cancer. The aunt is not in good shape, and having to travel to Cordoba for radiotherapy every day for thirty-five days straight is not doing her any good – especially because she’s spent almost all her life in the pueblo and the lack of having moved anywhere by vehicular transit has made her unfortunately prone to car sickness. Which she was, several times in the car before we even hit the highway. But the two men were cool with it – I guess it’s a fairly common occurence – and they came prepared. (The truth of it is, I don’t actually know if she was being sick or not – she just kept making this sound like a frog croaking in a closed jam jar and I tried to think about it as little as possible.)

I love travelling through that area, but I can’t think of many other places, even within Andalucia, where the phrase “an area hobbled by poverty” is as apt. They’re not just poor; in a lot of places there, they don’t even want to give a face to how poor they are because just exposing themselves to outsiders would be a source of shame. It definitely fits the description of being “heartbreakingly beautiful”, and one interesting thing about it is that forest fires aren’t a problem in the area there’s no real one-upmanship to be gained by burning anything. (The area’s sparse population is also a benefit – if any suspicious behaviour took place there, half the residents would know who did it before the fire took hold. Like the old Canadian joke: “Could you identify the bank robber in a police lineup?” “Yeah! It were Joe Jones, from the fifth concession – I recognized him by the cigarette burns in his jacket!”)

The conference itself wasn’t a terribly formal affair – some 25 people, with the odd local senior citizen shuffling in and out, the organizers returning late after lunch, and I had to cut my presentation about ten minutes short. Which wasn’t such a big deal, though I do feel funny that they paid me €300 for 30 minutes of work. It’s almost not fair. But at the same time, it seems like the Mancomunidad has money to throw around: when I checked into the hotel and didn’t know if dinner was included in the deal, the Scottish receptionist said she’d check into it. I said that I didn’t want to rack up expenses for them more than I had to. She just kind of raised an eyebrow in a way that told me that that wasn’t that much of an issue.

I didn’t get to see Priego itself, which was a shame. I really would have liked to have taken a tour of the town, but that’s going to have to wait for next time, it seems...

So it's now 2:15 PM and I'm writing this on the AVE back to the capital. I'm gonna shut this down and write more when I get back to Madrid. I’m tired; I didn’t sleep well and I don’t know if it’s because of the combination of roast lamb for dinner and a gin and tonic in the bath after (note to self: G&Ts do NOT mix well with lamb), the onset of That Time of the Month or how quiet it was. But I woke up about four times during the night, just couldn’t get my eyes to stick as they say in Spanish, and I kept thinking, Damn, it’s sooooo quiet here.... I wonder if I could actually sleep or live happily in a place that’s THAT isolated. Nice biking, but what about the living in a place like that?

Herding Cats 101
Mood:  blue
Topic: Ruminations
Herding Cats 101

So the bike club had its first outing today. And the only thing I can think of is that it was like herding cats. Only half the people came on time. Two people (beginners) got themselves bogged down in half an inch of mud and managed to block their derailleurs. Pablo, who’s a pretty experienced cyclist, lost his cassette twenty miles from the starting point (and, since he’d just had his bike given the once-over the weekend before, never thought about bringing any kind of tools to fix it.) One of the newbies, who hadn’t been on a bike in twenty years, wore really heavy black clothes, roasted in the Indian summer heat...and almost passed out from a superbonk that was only surpassed by being forcefed Arrowroot cookies. Pablo’s wife, Susana, got a fruit fly in the eye and we ended up having to squirt a litre of water in her face before dislodging her contact lens (I don’t know if she ever managed to get the bug out), and my pump decided it had a particular craving for Presta valve tops and chewed up two inner tubes before decapitating a third, which blew six miles before the end. Thank God The Owner drives a Volvo station wagon, and thank God for cell phones because I don’t know how I would have gotten home. A success, all the way around. :-/

And I made an important but not particularly pleasant discovery today, one that at least makes me feel (slightly) more in control: I think that I was in love with G-Man, and might still be. Uck. I cannot think of any other reason why things would still be pissing me off this far down the road. Feelings for a guy who’s just a fling does not hang around you like the smell of camphor, like old sweat on a drunken bum.

You don’t find yourself getting irritated by the small stuff, like when he tells you that he can’t go shopping and then calls your from the sports superstore the very next day, asking you if you need anything. (If you didn’t have time to go, then why are you there??)

You don’t wake up in the morning, touching the pillow and realizing that you remember the constellation of moles on his shoulder, how he grabbed your hand and kissed you on the beach as you were putting sunscreen on his back, how lovely his hands looked on your stomach after lovemaking... And the only way to get over this is going to be cold turkey. Just nothing. Just walking away from it no matter how much it hurts, because at some point you have to realize that all the swapped helmets and bike trips and gagged-on Powerbars will never translate into love. He’s never going to wake up one day and feel this great chunk of something missing in his life....

“One of these mornings / Won’t be very long / You will look for me / And I’ll be gone...”

I don’t usually wear music when I ride, mostly for safety reasons: there aren’t that many car-free areas where you can ride in Madrid, and I don’t trust my own with-it-ness not to start playing air guitar mid-ride. But as I’m sitting here in the bedroom, plunking away on the laptop, thinking about what I could make for dinner that wouldn’t involve actually going into the kitchen where my room-mates are smoking themselves silly, I realize that maybe it would be a better anaesthetic to start heading out with the MP3: I wouldn’t be left alone to start delving deeper into my thoughts and starting to realize that kind of shit. But in a sense, if it’s going to happen, it’s better that it happen on a bike, I suppose: when you’re riding a bike, you can’t focus on the faces of the other people. You go hiking with someone who’s in a bad mood, you can’t get away from it. Someone’s on a bad mood on a bike? Ride thirty yards ahead – problem solved. So while this little revelation dawns on me today and hits me full in the face like a cruel laugh, the one comfort I could take was, at least, no one could see me want to cry.

And riding with beginners is like herding cats is like trying to get over an ex-boyfriend: All you can do is try to get everything together beforehand: once everything is set in motion, there's no other option except breathe deep, hold on and don't read too deeply into what's going on.