Editor’s note: Sedgwick native Levi Bridges and friend Ellery Althaus of North Truro, Mass., have embarked on a 10,000-mile cycling trip across Asia and Europe. Bridges is filing weekly updates for the BDN.
It is a rare day when my bicycle’s small speedometer shows that I am riding faster than the posted speed limit for vehicles. Today is one of those days. I clutch my bike’s handlebars and race down mountains at thrilling speeds. Before my eyes are the frosty peaks of the Pyrenees mountains in southern France.
The Pyrenees are a towering mountain range that straddles the border between France and Spain. For more than a month, my friend Ellery and I have ridden nearly every day in foul weather against brutal headwinds. But during the last few days, rising hillsides and valleys, the first signs of nearby mountains, have finally miti-gated the unmerciful French winds.
For months I have anticipated arriving in the Pyrenees with a mix of unbridled excitement and a tinge of anxiety. The Pyrenees are an amazing landmark in our trip. Over the mountains is the last stretch of our journey toward the Atlantic Ocean. But we are unsure what sort of weather we may encounter crossing these mountains. Weather reports have shown snow falling in this region for weeks.
This morning, we departed from a small French town on a winding road leading up our first big ascent into the mountains. A month has passed since we traversed our last big stretch of mountains in the Czech Republic. Riding up many steep hills on a bicycle requires using slightly different muscles while pedaling. I feel very fa-tigued after ascending the first hill. But I know that in a day my legs will adjust to climbing again and this will feel normal.
For now, I slowly go up each climb lost in fierce concentration. As I ride, a group of men on road bikes in full cycling gear suddenly pass me on the left. They speed by and yell hello. I am focusing so intently on moving the heavy bike up the next hill, I nearly scream in surprise.
In recent days, everything around me has changed. In the backyards of French homes we pass, palm and even banana trees are common sights. Trees with glossy evergreen leaves that do not fall in autumn and holly grows wild by the roadside. The changing plant life is evidence that we have finally ridden far enough south into a more temperate climate. But climbing up the Pyrenees, this new ecological zone disappears before me eyes. At the crest of the first mountain, a deep valley of pine trees extends below and rises in the distance toward jagged snow capped peaks. The palm trees and holly now lay behind us.
Coming down the mountain I arrive in a small town. Here I observe that all road signs are written in both French and Euskara, the ancient language of the Basque people. This section of the northern Pyrenees is a gateway into the Basque Country, a group of small provinces in southwestern France and northeastern Spain consid-ered the home of the Basque people.
Basques are an ethnic group often considered to be some of Europe’s most early inhabitants. Today, the Basque Country is an area of contention and rich cultural importance. The Basque language is considered the oldest remaining language still spoken in Western Europe; its roots cannot be traced back to any other language. But the Basque country is also known for the terrorist acts of the separatist group ETA, which has long fought to create an independent Basque state apart from France and Spain. But despite ETA’s distant presence, the pace of life here seems pacifistic and mellow.
Much of the Basque country is an expanse of stunning mountains and clear streams flowing between small hamlets. On green hillsides, flocks of horned goats and sheep graze freely. In the distance, they appear like bunches of white and black marbles carelessly abandoned on the floor of a child’s playroom. I frequently stop to admire the view and enjoy the mountain silence. The Basque country feels peaceful beyond words.
I visited the Basque country several times during college while studying in Spain for a semester. Now, after traveling 8,900 miles on a bicycle from Asia, this is the first time I have been anywhere on this trip that seems familiar. It is a strange and comforting feeling.
I have fond memories near here of meeting fun-loving Basques proud of their unique cultural heritage. Once, in the Spanish city of Pamplona, a group of Basques invited a friend and I to drink wine with them at a restaurant. They proceeded to merrily entertain us by singing traditional Basque songs in Euskara.
Interactions with strangers are one of the most rewarding aspects of travel. The past month has been a laborious journey across France in bad weather. Oftentimes, meeting new people is the only thing which keeps me pedaling.
Just yesterday, I stopped for lunch alone in a small town. While sitting on the sidewalk outside a bakery and making a gigantic sandwich, a jovial man rode past me on a rickety, old bicycle. He did a double-take when he saw me.
Moments later, my sandwich was half-eaten and he returned. He excitedly pointed toward my bicycle, then asked me where I was from.
“You’re American,” he began, “sorry, I do not speak English … Spanish?” he asked.
“Yes, I speak Spanish,” I replied, smiling and surprised.
Quickly, he began speaking to me in broken Spanish, asking the typical questions of where I am coming from and going to.
“Where are you from?” I asked interjecting.
“Poland,” he said smiling brightly.
“Poland! I rode through Poland,” I replied, “it is a wonderful country. Do you live in France now?” I asked.
“I am a mason,” he answered, speaking in a jumbled mixture of French and Spanish as the conversation became more complex. “Before I work long time in Madrid, in Spain. But I go wherever I can find work, France, Spain anywhere.”
For a moment, we just stared at each other, unable to continue the conversation because we could not speak a common language well together. Then his eyes moved to my bicycle. The same look of excited jealousy overtook him that I have seen in so many others when they see my bike and imagine the freedom of the vagabond life.
“I want to give you something before I go,” the Polish man said in French. Then, despite my protests, he handed me one Euro, the currency used throughout the European Union, and rode away.
“Remember Poland!” he yelled as he left, smiling and sticking his fingers up in the form of a peace sign. His good natured personality and the gesture of giving a gift to a stranger reminded me of how many great experiences I have briefly shared with strangers traveling in Eastern Europe.
Sometimes, while riding my bike, I try to recall as many faces of the people I have met and ridden by on this trip as I can. This afternoon, the image of an old indigenous Buryat man on horseback I rode by in Siberia, just north of Mongolia, morphs with a group of Turkish immigrants working on a road in Ukraine, then melts into the scene of Dutch school children on bicycles riding by my side in Holland. The faces of the unaccountable people I have interacted with over time swirl around my head like fall leaves in a blustery wind.
Near the end of our first afternoon through the Pyrenees, I pass a small Basque man by the roadside. He nods and smiles as I pass by. It is a simple acknowledgement between two strangers of each other’s presence. The courteous act of wordlessly saying hello that I have repeated thousands of times on this trip.
I nod back and smile to this lone stranger on the horizon. The mountains before me are beautiful and the feeling of riding a bike down them electrifying. But these fleeting interactions between strangers are the moments I treasure most.