Yesterday (Sunday) I pulled a Plan B, rather unexpectedly, in the middle of a train ride. It’s strange how one phone call can affect me…I thought about the experience on my ride back to my home-base this evening. Melancholia filled my airwaves becoming louder and louder with each passing kilometer. Finally back at HQ, I feel purged yet full of static electricity at the same time. In the ensuing hours, I realize that sometimes words are needed to replace silence. Silence can occasionally be so deafening- the cacophony of discord.
I decided on my ride today that I am ready to go back to Morocco, to work. I am ready to fill the spaces of silence I usually so desire with work. It is a melancholic day indeed. I intended on arriving back to Ílhavo much earlier, but the lure of the ocean… I cannot deny myself this pleasure— as with most pleasures.
Speaking of work, today I’ve been in contact with so many departing friends leaving Morocco for greener pastures— well, maybe not greener in environment, but greener in monetary denomination…We are all lamenting in some way and culminating on this collision course of collective consciousness. There is such sorrow in my heart right now, but with it comes beauty that we are all expanding our horizons. It feels strange because I am left behind. I remain in Morocco. I’m usually the one departing, and I cannot help but brace myself for the eventual shock upon returning.
So I keep writing, so I keep emotions tamped down, somewhat. I’ll be leaving Portugal in a few days. There is so much to say, still, but it can wait. I was telling a friend today that, overall, it’s been a super sweet summer. The past few summers I’ve been consumed with trying to find a region to put down roots in, and I’ve been coming up empty— for over ten years…
The Serra left me in such a reflective mood. So much time cycling and thinking about everything and nothing simultaneously during steep ascensions, downhill runs, and a lot of rolling hills. All my senses were overstimulated; I had this consciousness of peace during the occasional faint breezes caressing my skin, the smells of the sweet grasses swaying on the side of the roads, taking in the beauty of the landscape, enjoying the taste of roadside fruit ripe ready for the picking- especially apples, pears, and passion-fruit, the sound of the cicadas in the heat of the day, the river flowing- always, the birds, the static of the air…
Parallel to this were thoughts floating in and out regarding the universe, life in general, and my life in particular regarding writing (as I would edit works in my head during the ride), work (thinking of a random lesson plan and if I should stop for a bit to write it down- I generally didn’t), family, friends, lovers, Morocco, Portugal, Hawaii, music (favorite band of all time: Rolling Stones or Fleetwood Mac), politics, etc.
And then, competing for attention were more immediate needs:
· where will I camp?
· am I hungry?
· do I have enough water? sodium?
· is Bigfoot real?
· what was that sound?
· why are my muscles cramping in the middle of the night?
· please don’t rain!
All these things set the pace as I meandered alongside the Mondego, the Alva, the Ceira. Occasionally I’d see other cyclists and we’d do the unspoken greetings to one another or stop to share some stories from the road; this happened quite frequently, actually.
The heat… nearly unbearable at times. At other times, welcoming. Akin to a purification ritual, I am fully cleansed by the end of this odyssey… I am a blank slate. I return to the sea immediately. Unexpectedly. Pleasantly…
Poseidon can be very cheeky in that way.
I’ve exhausted my capacity to string together words, so the pictures will finish off the odyssey. I didn't take a lot of pictures as it seemed excessive almost- to try to convey what I was experiencing.
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