Bike Paths

Last summer, my big adventure was a bicycle trip through northern Portugal, where church bells still ring the hours and homeowners value grape arbors more highly than garages. While some people I met grieve the loss of their nation's onetime dominance in the world, others admit that obscurity has its benefits. Terrorist attacks are not likely in Portugal, one nobleman explained to me, since Portugal has no power. I did not have much time to explore history or politics, however, since I spent the better part of each day bent over the handlebars of a touring bike, trying to find my way from point A to point B.

Every morning, two incredibly fit, trilingual guides briefed my seven companions and me on the directions for the day's ride. Depending on our own fitness level, we could choose 20-, 30- or 40-mile options, with the assurance that a support van would come along to rescue those of us who had overrated our abilities. After placing the directions in the plastic holders between our handlebars, we stretched our hamstrings, strapped on our yellow helmets and hit the road, where the pecking order was quickly established.

A septuagenarian named Bill led the pack each day. More accurately, he left the pack behind each day. With a resting pulse rate of 38, he became known as "The Machine," and I saw his yellow jersey only briefly every morning before he vanished into the distance. My own pace put me nearer the middle of the pack with my husband, Ed, although there were long stretches when we saw no one but each other. These are the times I wish to write about, when we pedaled unknown roads in a distant land with no language to ask for help and no security save the sheet of directions in front of us.

"Turn left at stone cross," it read. "Cobblestones end. At traffic circle, go 314-way around and exit to Baiona." Since I am what some therapists call a "damaged truster," I experienced huge resistance at first to doing what the directions told me to do. I felt so fragile on that bicycle, aiming my front tire at the four inches of paved shoulder on my right while trucks roared by me on my left. Laboring uphill, I moved so slowly that I could not ride in a straight line to save my life. Racing downhill, I went rigid looking for patches of gravel that might send me flying. If I missed a turn, I doubted that I would have the strength to retrace my path.

"Cross curved stone bridge and veer left at Y intersection," the directions read. "Easy turn to miss. At top of hill, turn right at T. Exercise caution on busy road."

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