I wanted to take my heart rate up and feel the burn in my legs. I’ve had my power breakfast after all–maybe I will manage?Īt the last minute, I changed my plans. I am a long way from even contemplating that coast ride but surely Old La Honda, my little hill in the neighborhood, would be okay? Old La Honda is the gateway to a lot of even bigger hill climbs in the area. When I was in better shape this was normal. We live in a big cycling community and most cyclists clock in as many miles–if not more–each week. This statement is not meant to be boastful…more wistful really. We would stop several more times just to savor the clean country air and enjoy the views of the ocean. We would stop for lunch in Pescadero, a small rural town south of Half Moon Bay. On the weekends we would up the mileage and ride one 50-60 mile ride, a fun (and tiring) activity that would take the better part of the day when we opted for the round trip ride to the coast. There was a time when 30-40 mile hill rides 5 days a week was the norm. I fried an egg and made an open-faced sandwich it’s all I would need to get me through the second 30 miles of the weekend. The flats bore me it was only concern for my legs that made me consider the same ride again and I knew that after a 9-month absence from riding a flat ride would be best. My husband and I thought it best for me to avoid the hills for a while and planned to do the flats again but I can never help myself. Two days later, though still a bit sore in some places, I was ready for another ride. It was like starting over again but I made it and it felt wonderful to get that “first” ride out of the way. Mentally I was ready for the long-overdue bike ride but would my legs be up for the challenge? I rode the beginner route that my husband mapped out for me as a new cyclist a dozen years ago a scenic, mostly-flat 30-mile bike ride that would hopefully give me back my cycling legs. I have missed being on the saddle, clipping into my pedals, the wind kissing my face. This is the longest time I’ve spent away from my road bike and the reunion was bittersweet indeed. It’s the closest thing to home I know.I donned my cycling gear for the second time in three days…and 9 months. Two days later, I canceled my trip to Italy. When I hit a little chili pod, hidden in the black-gold sea of ink and yolk, I drank two more glasses to extinguish the fire. I drank long flutes of cava as the rain beat away against the roof of the Boqueria. They talked Messi and Madrid and drank Estrella Damn while I mopped up the squid ink with thick heels of bread. I ate cheek by jowl with a bar full of old Catalan men. In this case, it was a stool at a bar and a plate of eggs fried in olive oil. It doesn’t take much to turn the tide, though. Moments like those, you begin to question why you spend so much time living out of a bag when a perfectly good world is a just plane flight away. If you’ve ever been on the road alone before, you know the feeling: clothes wet, belly empty, a sea of strangers making you feel like the most forgettable organism on the planet. I had come to Barcelona to kick things off, rekindle the magic of my year abroad there eight years before, but the city was having its way with me. I was on a one-way ticket, New York in the rearview, a rough plan to cook and write in Italy before me. It was raining when I arrived in Barcelona, and for four days, it did nothing but. What started out as a lifeline has turned into a routine: squid, eggs, bread, cava.
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