Yellow Tent Adventures » Uncategorized

Countdown in Portugal

Willie Weir — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 00:00:16 +0000

When traveling through a country there is so much to take in — sights, sounds, culture, language. It can be overwhelming.

Sometimes I choose certain specific things to focus on as I’m pedaling. Trees or birds, or the hats people are wearing. The signs on the side of the road. Or I’ll pick a color. It is amazing how your perspective changes if you focus on the color red, and later on the color blue. What your eye takes in doesn’t change, but how your brain processes it does.

While we were pedaling in Portugal, I started noticing house numbers. In the small villages, most weren’t generic, but often obviously fashioned by the home owner. I began taking photos of them. Then I got obsessed. I started collecting house numbers like you would try to fill out a bingo card. Could I find and photograph all the numbers from 1 to 100?

This was rather entertaining for me, and rather annoying for my partner, Kat, who constantly had to stop and wait as I dismounted my bike to search for the perfect angle to photograph a house number I hadn’t captured yet.

I didn’t make it to my goal of 100. Somewhere along the way my obsession began to annoy even me. My vision was so zeroed in on house numbers that I was literally missing the big picture.

The video is a shortened version of my countdown to Portugal … as entertaining or annoying as it may be.

Originally posted on the Adventure Cycling Association’s blog.

A taste of Portugal wine country

Kat Marriner — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 08:40:22 +0000

Wine Connection

Willie Weir — Fri, 08 Oct 2010 18:28:35 +0000

A bottle of wine.

We go to the store. We peruse the shelves. Check out the variety, the vintage, the price. We buy it. We open it. We drink it.

Our time in northern Portugal has changed that. There is a connection to the contents of that bottle that will ever change how we experience it.

Late one evening high above the Douro River a voice called out. It was hard to find the person attached to that voice amongst the vast rows of grapes. But a cap and a smile and a wave drew our attention to an old man and a little black dog.

Within minutes he had clipped off bunches of no less than seven varieties of grapes and displayed them for us to try. He was giddy with excitement over sharing his harvest with two cycling strangers. Tiny almost clear grapes. Light green grapes the size of your thumb. Others the color of a rose pedal. They were all sweet and delicious, but one dark blue/purple grape was the single best grape I’ve ever tasted. It was earthy and robust and complex. It didn’t need to be made into wine. It had already achieved greatness.

We camped next to those grape vines and watched the sunrise light up thousands of acres of vineyards in the Douro valley.

Most of the grapes have been harvested in the lower elevations, but higher up, two to three thousand feet, the harvest has been in full swing.

One of our first encounters was west of the city of Braganca.. It was a small field. The owner, we assumed, a young man with frosted hair and clean hands was overseeing the picking. He seemed uninterested in the traveling cyclists. But the moment we asked him about his land he came to life and was delighted to answer our questions.

The workers, a group of twenty men and women, ranging in age from 18 to 50, were hunched over with hand pruners, chatting and laughing as they clipped the grapes. They filled smaller plastic baskets that were dumped into larger baskets, where burly men then hoisted and dumped them into the metal containers on an old tractor trailer.

The owner filled one of our water bottles with last years wine. These grapes wouldn’t make it into a bottle with a label at the market or wine store. This was wine of the people. Stored in huge glass bottles protected by a woven plastic mesh.

Do you want to try? The owner asked. He handed me a pair of clippers.

Why not. For the next fifteen minutes I clipped away. He said I was very good. Very fast. Of course, everyone around me had already been working for seven hours.

They would be paid 14 Euro for a full days work.

The tractor driver, a ruddy-faced, barrel-chested man with a beaming smile, pointed to a crate of grapes and insisted that we take them all. I’m not sure how he expected us to pack 25 pounds of grapes on to our bikes.

We thanked the land owner and the workers for their time and gifts. I reached up to shake the hand of one of the men on top of the large metal containers heaped with grapes. His hands being dirty, he offered me his elbow.

I shook my head and grabbed his hand. It was sticky with the mixture of soil and sweat and grape juice. He laughed and squeezed hard. .

The wine of the people that we drank from our water bottle was not subtle or refined or worthy of a rating.

It was tangy and bit sour.

But it was wine with a story and a handshake.

And we loved it.

Salamanca

Willie Weir — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 18:00:54 +0000

Salamanca rises out of the high Spanish plains like a dream. We pedaled across one of the may stone bridges into the city center. The narrow streets are a maze, winding their way amongst architectural wonders. Towering cathedrals, plazas, fountains, parks and a grand university founded in 1218.

The downtown hostals were full, but we found a room only a ten minute walk away.

Later that evening we walked back to the city center. Salamanca has several pedestrian boulevards. I’m drawn to them no matter where on earth we are.

It is a people watcher’s paradise. Families out for a stroll, shoppers, groups of teenagers, tourists from every corner of the world. And there are always old men in suit jackets and caps sitting on benches watching the world go by. I think I’m gong to be one of those old men some day, because I already love to just sit down and watch life stroll by.

We were walking down one of the side streets and I could see the boulevard below us. Streams of humanity. But something caught my eye. It was a kid, alone, in the middle of the boulevard, sitting stone still. He was gazing up at something. As we got closer, I realized that there was music playing. A violinist. But the musician was around the corner, so I couldn’t see him.

I only saw the kid’s face. He wasn’t amused or entertained … he was transfixed. I was closer now and grabbed my camera to take his photo. He didn’t see me. I was invisible. The music had erased everything else from his view.

It was now my turn to be entranced. I was experiencing this music through the mirror of this child’s eyes. It was moving, unsettling and wonderful all at the same time.

I finally peeked around the corner and saw the violinist. A tall young man with in blue jeans, sandals and a checkered shirt. His dog was lying on a blanket at his feet.

The violinist finished the piece and I watched as the young kids father, who had been standing several feet behind his son, bent down and grabbed his hand and they walked away. The little boy stole a few more glances back at the musician before the crowd swallowed them up.

The more I travel, the more I understand how valuable the little discoveries and experiences are. They are travel’s essence.

Some day in the future, when I AM one of those old men, sitting on a bench with my cane, watching the world go by … and all of cathedrals and monuments I’ve seen have blended together into a fog of memory. one vivid memory that will remain from Salamanca … the violinist …and his dog … and that kid.

Originally posted on the Adventure Cycling Association’s blog.

The Big and the Small

Willie Weir — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 17:56:04 +0000

Salamanca

Salamanca, Spain is big in every way–cathedrals, plazas, universities. I was snapping photos as we walked the streets. This little guy was swallowed up by the enormity of the city. You´ll have to click on the photo to get a closer look.

Gone in a Flash

Willie Weir — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 21:43:41 +0000

Racers in the Tour de Spain fly by on the streets of Salamanca

Thirty seconds max. That’s all it took from the time we saw the peloton approaching till the time it had whizzed by.

We found a room in a hostal in Salamanca, Spain. After we hauled our bikes and gear upstairs, the woman behind the checkout desk excitedly explained to us that a bike race was coming through town … in 90 minutes.

Further discussion in broken Spanish led us to discover that we had happened upon this insanely gorgeous city on the same day that a stage of the Tour de Spain was passing though, just five blocks away.

We gathered with a thousand spectators. The police were busy closing down and diverting traffic while also trying to keep the eager onlookers from pushing beyond the yellow tape. Fans gathered with signs, kids squirmed their way to the front of the line, photographers trampled flowers surrounding a fountain.

A crowd gathers to catch a glimpse of the Tour de Spain

Everyone one waited with anticipation. The police barked at locals who tried crossing the street that was closed off. A series of civil guard and police vehicles came screaming past. Then more motorcycles and some team vehicles. All eyes searched for a glimpse of the first bicycle.

The leaders, a small pack of six or seven riders, became visible and the crowd lurched forward. There was barely time for me to raise my camera … and they were gone, taking the corner faster than I’d imagined was possible.

Wow.

Then 90 seconds later a large mass of muscles and bicycles appeared. The peloton. What an experience. Like watching a swarm of bees go by.

As a touring cyclist who has never raced, never even considered racing, I was in awe of the grace and speed. From someone who is traveling on a loaded touring bike whose weight tops 100 pounds–it was the lumbering elephant watching the gazelles.

Mark Cavendish won the stage. As traveler’s, we felt like we’d won the lottery.

Originally posted on the Adventure Cycling Association’s blog.

Smooth Sailing

Kat Marriner — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 18:17:50 +0000

Bicycling is marvelous journey, a “pinch me” kind of way to experience a place intimately, until that pinch becomes a pinch in the knee. The mild twinge on the first day of pedaling, was still present on day two and growing stronger. The rolling hills dotted with pines, junipers, and roadside hazelnut trees took my mind off the knee, until the midday sun intensified everything. I reached a boiling point 3 or 4 kilometers outside of Las Navas, a small village 35 k outside of our destination for the night. After a water break, the push on the pedal and a shooting pain went from knee to belly. It shot again, and again, and again. Every revolution of the pedal was a hot flash of pain igniting fear.

Slowly I pedaled looking for different muscles to use until eventually the best solution seemed to be letting my left leg do all the work. The right leg went around and a pinch of pain with each deep bend. Eventually I pedaled to Willie where he waited at a cross roads, and I imagine it was just a look on my face that told him the story.

On every journey, something goes wrong. Someone gets sick, a back seizes up, knees give out. These are not our proudest times, but integral to the story of real life on the road. When things go wrong are perhaps the most emotionally challenging times. But for things to go wrong on day two!!

It was clear after a rest and ibuprofen that continuing to Avila, our destination for the night, would risk much more serious injury. As luck would have it, we were near a gas station, which was near the small village. Our minds went into overdrive as we explored our options until each one hit a dead end. The dam inside holding back tears that the trip might be over just as it begins, crumbles just a little and I step outside the gas station for a moment alone. Sensing the need for help, the station attendant mentions we could take “el tren”. Really? Could I take my bicycle? Was the station far? Yes, yes, and 2 kilometers down hill. We coasted to a small station, found only the bar open but, yes indeed the train comes in half an hour, you can take your bicycles, so now enjoy a refreshing beer. Smile a little to ease the worried eyes.

The train was a three-car commuter train from Madrid to Avila and points beyond. Fortunate for us, we were there in the middle of the afternoon. We hurriedly boarded our bicycles followed by the 7 bags of luggage. Smoothly sailing as the conductor came by to issue our ticket for 2 people, 2 bikes and a mountain of baggage for 5euro. A half an hour in air-conditioned bliss we watched the scenery pass by. The land of spaghetti-westerns– barren, dry, beautiful in it’s starkness. And just like that, we arrived in Avila. An historic town with a world-heritage center and just one room left at the only hostal we could afford.

Deposited on the bed to rest, Willie went in search of a magic cure. He came home with a topical tube of ibuprofen gel, ice, and Johnnie Walker. The first two did wonders in relieving the pain, the third did wonders in lifting the spirits as we sat on our balcony watching life go by.

That evening we strolled through 12^th century streets and embraced our good fortune for all we can do.

Today, I continue with the ice and ointment and the pain of bending the knee this morning has all but disappeared by dinner time. We stroll the walled city and lively town, refresh our provisions, and fingers-crossed, we pedal out of town in the morning on the next stage of our trip.

Embraced

Willie Weir — Sun, 12 Sep 2010 19:48:29 +0000

After three days in Madrid, it was finally time to get on the bikes. It is hard to sleep the night before new beginnings … new school, new job, new adventure. So much emotionally is riding on that first day.

We got lost within the first 10 minutes trying to find our way out of the city. Too many turns. My eyes now need reading classes to read a map.

Then Kat’s back rack comes loose and rocks back toward the street. Obviously her mechanics fault (that’s me). Forgot to tighten those bolts.

We pedal along a large park and it is obvious that we are not going to be able to follow the directions we have.

Pedro comes to the rescue. He’s out on his Sunday bike ride and offers to guide us through the maze of turns.

We are now out to the highway and lost again. Some young men on racing bikes give us directions through a neighborhood near the college. It is a group of mountain bikers next, sending us in the right direction.

We pedal into our first town, Boadilla del Monte, the entrance road is paved in brick and lined with a quarter mile of lavender. Will every town be this beautiful?

Less than 15 kilometers later we run into a festival in Brunete. It is the running of the bulls–the kids version. The town square is filed with families. The bulls are built around a water barrel on a bicycle wheel, covered with hide and a fake bulls head. Real horns though, but they are covered with black tennis balls.

Young men push these bulls around to the delight and horror of the kids in the square. Each bull is equipped with water jets, and no one escapes the spray of bulls. A band plays all the while the kids run laughing and screaming.

In the town of Valldemorrio, a young man named Jason approaches us. He’s bicycle toured before and wants to know our story. We are invited to join his family for a drink at one of the outdoor restaurants. His parents run a language school which account for his perfect English. We laugh and chat and are introduced to Spanish hard cider.

We are less than 60 kilometers into our journey and already Spain has given us a warm embrace.

Little Yellow Tent

Willie Weir — Fri, 10 Sep 2010 17:00:59 +0000

You might have gathered from my bicycle camping series that a tent is on the top of my “essentials list” for bicycle travel.

I know that I am far from alone in this thought. But I bet there are few bicycle travelers out there who have had a song about a tent sung at their wedding.

I proposed to my girlfriend, Kat Marriner, on our first bicycle trip together. It was a four month-journey through the Balkans.

It wasn’t easy by any stretch of the imagination. It was often far from romantic. But that journey was the rock-solid foundation of our relationship.

I wrote letters home to my brother (as I often have) from my travels. My brother happens to be a song writer.

What I didn’t know is that he took the words from my letters and fashioned a song from them. A song that I didn’t know he had written until the moment he sang it to Kat and me at our wedding.

We cried then (1997) … and we cry every year on our anniversary when I sing it to Kat. It doesn’t sound as good as when my brother sings it … but the words always ring true.

Little Yellow Tent

And to think my brother could have purchased us a set of silverware instead.

Dream. Pedal. Travel. Repeat.

Originally posted on the Adventure Cycling Association’s blog.

Where is my carrot?

Kat Marriner — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 06:56:38 +0000

I just received an invitation to a meet-up with the makers of Pandora (the Music Genome Project) held at Seattle’s downtown public library, and it was all well and good until I got to this:

Parking: Pandora will provide complimentary parking for attendees at the Seattle Public Library parking garage on Spring Street between 4th and 5th Ave. The entrance is mid-block on the south side of Spring St. Please bring the ticket from the machine to the meeting and you will be given a coupon that you can present to the parking lot attendant after the event.

Really? Pandora is going to pay people for driving to downtown Seattle? That just strikes me as an old, tired way of thinking which I didn’t expect from such an exciting new company and our über modern library.

So this was my response to their invitation:

Hi Tim,
It would be wonderfully progressive if Pandora gave an incentive for arriving by public transportation, foot or bicycle instead of rewarding people for driving a vehicle to a downtown urban center. You want to change the way we listen to music. I want to change the way we live in our communities.

Does the Seattle Public Library and Pandora really want people to drive to the event? They offered drivers a carrot…