In my early twenties, sick of my job and desperate for a fling, I plotted with a buddy to do a cycling trip of epic scale. We bought bikes, terminated our leases, quit our jobs, and bought one way tickets for London. All we knew at this point was that we wanted to bike through as many countries as possible while our money lasted. To that end, we resolved to spend only $5.00 per day.
It was mid-April when we set out from London. An unrelentingly soggy chill dogged us all through England, Ireland, Northern Ireland, Scotland and back down to London. We developed terrible coughs, tried to quell our constant hunger with bread and canned meats, and slept night after night in sheep pastures.
Things got better when we crossed over to the continent. It was May, and we had left the British chill behind. France was like a mellow dream, but cruelly tempted us with delicacies we couldn’t afford. Still there was coffee and cheap wine, fruit and better bread. This was a sweet month, and one that altered the course of my life, but that’s a different story.
Spain, by contrast, was one trial after another. Vast, arid, unpopulated plains, heat, clouds of mosquitoes, tortuous roads, poor food, and plagues of flat tires took a heavy toll on our spirits. The only bright respite from the Spanish ordeal was Portugal, where we briefly rediscovered our humanity before plunging back into Spain.
Late July found us in Italy, which was a chaotic riot of experience. That leg of the trip seems the least coherent of all in my memory. The fatigue of so many bad nights on hard ground, the grueling physical exertion fueled by inadequate food and the dehumanizing effect of such a disconnected life were beginning to show their damage by this time. By Rome and mid-August, we both just kind of wanted it to be over. We wanted showers, roofs, soft things, caloric things, clean things.
We calculated that we had covered about 4000 miles over our 4 months. There are so many stories within this story that will have to remain untold for now.