My Cycling Diary

The Bread

2011-01-23T10:16:00.000-08:00

I remember thinking, “Wow, I feel like I am in trouble or something”. The village “hobbit” judge stood before us as we were seated side-by-side. His smile was warm and familiar; he spoke slow, clear, and in the language I most of the time understand, castellan Spanish and not in the native language of the village. I had plenty of time during my interview last month to make him accustom to my Spanglish. An interview with the sole purpose of determining if me, the immigrant, has other alternative motives for wanting to marry this Spaniard. Luckily, Ruben and my answers matched perfectly---We both know that we met on a train about 4 years ago (check), I was an American traveling with a bike and he was Sir Sebastian, smiley train mechanic (check); He likes the mountains and I like them too (check); One father specializes in paella and the other Bar-B-Q (check); and no other husbands or wives (check). Just to make sure on that last one, the old Spanish law mandates that our engagement is posted for two weeks in the town hall, just encase any unaccounted husbands or wives object (Don’t worry grandma, I have a copy for you). After two weeks, no other wives of Ruben came forward, but what did happen was that the news spread quickly through-out the village -that were getting married, something we did not share with many, not even all of our family.

The room was large for Spanish standards; walls were bare and there was plenty of light. No flowers; no corny music; no rings; and absolutely no white dress, or any special clothes for that matter (Yes, I did take a shower for all of you that are wondering); and no family, just the required two witnesses. Christbol and Karol, our two special friends and my top two favorite hobbits, besides Ruben. They know how dirty Ruben is, and they know that I am a little sleepy, and sometimes grouchy, in the morning; something you would only know if you lived in the same house.

The judge started with a joke. He announced that because I do not understand Catalan (I know about 10 words)and Ruben has trouble understanding Catalan at times, that it is best that he proceeds the wedding in Catalan and not in the language we both understand. Silly hobbit.

Luckily, he did proceed in the language that we both understand. He started with our story and said it was like a movie (and one day it will be a novel-one that I am starting). Then we were read the Spanish law and our human rights; we are free to marry and have a family, the basic ideas that animated the movement developed in the aftermath of Second World War). What followed was different, nothing like my first wedding ceremony. No biblical reference to what is love, no expectations said about what a husband or wife should be or do, no becoming one yoke, or any mention of obedience. What was said was Pan, yes- bread. Funny because the Spanish love their crusty white bread and always find a way to talk about food and ironic because this is my number one “lesson learned” from my first marriage. “Eat from the same bread but not the same piece”. Love works with life only if you can first love and stay true to yourself (your own slice) and find someone that is aligned with you (likes the same type of bead, i.e Ruben I and both prefer whole grain with nuts and seeds).

So after a kiss…..

two signatures…..

We now have a little blue family book that says we are married and can have up to six little American/hobbits….

There are moments I regret not having another traditional wedding-friends-family-party-beautiful dress-decorating, but this moment passes fast. The action of Ruben and I getting married simply means that we can be together to love, regardless of visa laws or citizenship. No special day, kiss, ring, or a piece of paper will guarantee forever, it will be our daily actions that will dictate our future. To love is easy, what is hard is remembering the “bread”.

Love, Katelyn Wells (AKA Dr. Hobbit)

I little poem about bread:From Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet
Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

Home Again

2009-01-07T12:10:00.000-08:00

It has been a while since I have taken the time to write you. The benefits of working and going to school via the internet sometimes results in the negative aspects of "being sick of the computer"; thus, the BLOGing gets put to the back burner.

But I am back.

For the past few months I have been living between Spain and Nashville Tennessee; traveling to Kentucky, New Orleans, Colorado, Wyoming; continuing school in Colorado; working via the internet for a job that I love. Many things have happen, my thoughts are evolving, I am experiencing new things, and the best thing is that I have discovered how good it is to be home............

I remember a BLOG that I wrote about a year and a half ago. I shared about the awkward feeling of not feeling “at home” anywhere, except when I was riding my bike. The familiar seat, the ache of my leg muscles, the same sound of my lungs searching for breath, the feeling of air chilling the sweat of my effort was the only familiar I had when floating between Wyoming, Tennessee, Italy, Spain, Portugal, and Scotland. All that I previously associated with home, I had given up. A husband, a job, a home, my pets, my friends, most of my things...all except for my bicycle. So you see, the only “thing” I thought I had left, that felt familiar, was me on my bicycle.

Two years have past and I have not accumulated “things” that make me feel at home at one place over another. When I am in one place I do not wish to be in another. I am never sad to leave or good to be home. I am lucky to be where I am, at the moment, never wishing things any other way. I have come to realize a bicycle, having things in one place, or doing any one thing will never make me feel at home.

Because I can do all these things anywhere….
Like finding beautiful places to climb in Kentucky.

Playing tourist with my family and Ruben in Tennessee.

Having a dinner party with friends in Chattanooga.

Being goofy in Wartburg, Kentucky

or at the Hillbilly Lounge in Swannee Tennessee.

Riding up mountains with Mary in Mt Evans Colorado.

Seeing snow in Spain.

Mountain biking with friends in Nashville Tennessee
Having Thai food with Andrea in Colorado

Seeing a sunset in Slade Kentucky

.
Going for a hike with Jodi in Laramie Wyoming.

Going for a walk with Michelle and Camden in Golden Colorado.

I am different now because what makes me feel at home is when I am with the people that "I do all these things with".
My “home is where my heart is” and my heart is with all of you.

So it is good to finally feel at home..again.

I forgot...again, Monistroll to Mura to Tarrassa 50 miles & Bisaurin, Pirineos

2008-08-23T01:04:00.001-07:00

If you go back and read though some of my BLOGS, you may notice a common theme. I have a tendency to lose, forget, or break things. My bike in Scotland, prescription sun glasses in Portugal, helmet at the Philadelphia airport, shoes on the train in Italy, another pair of shoes at a seafood restaurant in Spain, etc.

When I was a little girl, I always just blamed it (losing things) on the little leporcons that lived in my room and seemed to take my socks. Now, the leaporcons have followed me to Spain and now like Ruben’s socks.

Ruben’s mother makes it a point to now ask me if I have everything, because I seem to leave something behind every time we visit her.

A pair of pants last December, my Spanish book in May, and now my hiking tennis shoes that maybe have had their last adventure up a mountain, that is until I hopefully return again some day and find them again.

But if this time never comes, my tennis shoes made a great last assent up one of the highest peaks in the Pirineos, Bisaurin

with great company.

Accompanied by Ruben’s mother and Amador,

I found a earth heaven that was most vibrant because of the piercing blue of the Spanish sky.

The rock and dirt camino starting at the refuge,

extended well beyond what the eye could actually see,

winding up through scarce forest and past the breath taking lilly scattered valleys,

which actually inspired me to try a Katelyn version of the Sound of Music, “Hills Are Alive” that then lead to a grinning Spanish man.

We walk for over two hours up towards the white, until it was time, insisted by Slyvia, to leave her and Amadore at the base of the mountain.

They watched us through binoculars walk another 1.5 hrs on sometimes unstable rock that was no problem for the Spanish mountain goats,

and well, not really any problem for my favorite Spanish mountain goat.

We past memorials to the dead that must have died there from the hard winters in the past, overlooking a horizon of colors

continuing toward what is atop all mountains in Spain.

A reminder to me that all this beauty must of came from someone that has a different name to all the people of this world.

So my story continues, because now I have no shoes, and there is nothing I like more than an excuse and a mission that includes my bicycle. I could of waited until Ruben returned from work and was able to drive me 20 minutes to the sports store, however all was aligned that day. The arriving fall dulled the heat of the sun, my projects for work were complete, all my friends in the village were on Holiday, and the mural of my favorite rock “elephant” of Montserratt)

needed to dry.

Also, I wanted to accomplish my goal of exploring all the “little” beautiful roads in the Bages region. http://www.property-net-spain.com/provinces/barcelona/bages.html. Moreover, I wanted to explore the roads of Sant Llorenç i l'Obac Natural Park.

http://www.diba.es/parcsn/parcs/plana.asp?parc=4&m=198&o=2 that are situated approximately 15-20 miles from Monistrol de Montserratt

and around-about on the way to a major city, Tarrassa, where I could purchase some new shoes.

My adventure began with a plan to get shoes, and shortly evolved into also purchasing a new helmet, because I realized “I forgot” my helmet in the car of Ruben that was now parked at the train station. Hesitantly, I borrowed the 1980’s fast looking helmet of Ruben

and began the 50 mile journey through Spanish forest that was more dense than Montserratt, because the fires of the past left the land how God intended it to be. Winding up and down the mountains

passing cobbled villages of Rockafort and Mura

on roads that for a moment I pretended were made just for me and my bicycle.

Reaching the rock of Sant Llorenç i l'Obac Natural Park, similar in form and substance to the conglomerate rock of my now home, I was positive, and it was later confirmed, this was also a great place to climb.

Finally reaching the city, I now had the task to find the sports store that could be described as a “Wal-mart” of sporting goods. It seemed that two young policia had there eye on me as I was braving the traffic and stopping every 5 minutes to ask for directions while utilizing my spanglish. Yes, I was “lost”, but not for long, because they then insisted I follow them.

My 10 minute police escort lead me to my final destination to purchase my new shoes that would make it home by bicycle

Moreover, I had a more safe return with a new helmet that will now become Ruben’s new helmet, because I cannot bare to see him wear that thing again in any more countries.

Spanish Sun

2008-07-22T15:52:00.000-07:00

I now understand where the Spanish Siesta comes from….. before, I just assumed “taking naps” after lunch was an expression of their laid back culture; however as I now live in Spain, in July, I fully appreciate and absolutely agree with the need for a Spanish siesta…the product of a cultures adaptation.

It actually took me a “long while” to get use to the fact that in the small villages almost all closes down from 1pm-5pm. No post office, no grocery store..or any store, most tourist information centers- closed, no pharmacy or doctors appointments, the streets become barren, the crowds leave the beach-(well except for the tourists)…all seemingly frozen in time-except for the local bar and maybe a restaurant serving a cooling coffee with ice; Spanish cold gazpacho soup made from tomatoes, peppers, onion; or my favorite “Clara” , a lemonade soda/ beer combo that is more lemon than beer and tastes even better if served in a perron, a traditional, yet messy way to share a beer.

I made my first mistake the other day, when planning an afternoon bike ride. I remember the rational behind my timing.. “I will go after lunch when everyone is at home eating lunch and taking a siesta…less cars on the road.” I planned on 60km, within 15 minutes my plans changed and it became 40km.

Another hour and a half later, I still had not made the first 20km to my first destination city, both of my water bottles were empty, and you can say I was not enjoying my bicycle. Two hours after I first started, I found myself only cycling 25k in two hours (did I mention it was up and down a mountain), a route previously done in almost half the time. I then found myself on the train not on my bicycle, returning to the village.

Did I mention the climbers of this village do not even attempt a climb in the sun? Well..that is unless you count the other day.

Ruben and I’s dilly dallying/ poor planning resulted in a 3 ½ climb up a 120 meter wall,

in the sun, that resulted in unwanted obstacles such as sweating slippery rocks, my burning feet due to black climbing shoes absorbing the rays of the sun, lack of water leaving me with pickled looking lips, and I got to see a“real Spanish drama” about how hot it actually was.

Actually, I am told this summer is unusual. Rain brings a fresh breeze and keeps the land near the mountains of Montesrratt a green hugh

that is always re-realized as I reach another top

and the vallys of the Peryness are full of spring flours.

The river fed pozas or swimming-holes are filled with running water that pools to cool the local inhabitants that would rather not pay to enter the village swimming pool.

Then there is the other extreme of "fresh" snow melt rivers that bring pain to the body

and besides my feet, out of all ruben's family and friends; he was the only one "brave" enough after a hike to try a swim at the destination waterfall. This place is where we visit his father and brother;

at the same summer camp in the Peryness where Ruben as a child spent weeks out of a summer forming a love of the mountains.

Then, there are times it even seems I could be living in a jungle,

or living in a film about some northern european country that was more about yodoling and not flamingo.

The same rain that brings Spain color, almost spoiled an afternoon walk with Ruben’s mother, Slyvia and Amadore.

Neverthless, even with the unusually fresh and wet summer; there are always moments you need to escape the Spanish sun and enjoy a fresh glass of Gazpacho or clara, or a after lunch siesta when you want to do nothing else... but lay around in front of a fan.

Amor xoxoxoxo

2008-06-29T11:38:00.000-07:00

My grandmother recently said that she was surprised I have not written many BLOGS since my departure two months ago. I look back and it seems I write when inspired, and usually this is brought on by a new landscape, unique food, unpredictability of people, or just the fact my eyes are more open and looking..

I can look up and see remains of roman aquaducts before my gaze focuses on the distant horizon of rock formations that were once spiritual grounds of pagans.

Cobbled narrow paths wind as a puzzle through my “now’ home.
Yes, as I walk down the streets of Monistrol de Montserratt, to pick up groceries at all four separate tiendas of fruit, bread, meat, and a special store for fresh eggs; I am still amazed at the ancient beauty of this village, yet not surprised anymore.

But I guess this association of “home” is the reason for my lack of inspiration. A home; for most takes on a form of comfort and predictability, perhaps the same with the regular routine of work, or possible relationships with friends and family. With this, I think we forget to see what we have, because we already “know” what we have, and we know what to expect; thus our eyes, our minds, and our spirit becomes dull and perhaps not inspired anymore.

Kafka says it best, “Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old”.

I think this is true and the easiest during Holiday or Vacation, but I think most importantly the ability to live this in our normal, comfort-filled, predictable grind of everyday life, is most important…being if it is in Spain, Nashville, in a office, on a mountain, with family, or a stranger.

So as I am led by my guide

up multi-pitch peaks of Montserratt National Forest, my "now" home,

climbing for hours, and resting just a little as we dangle or crouch

struggling to overcome my fear and make it to the top

to only turn around and climb down, seemingly a more dangerous route

I am reminded that all in life should be just as beautuful and inspiring as the first time you see it.
Amor,
Katelyn

Language:Brittany/Bretagne France

2008-06-06T01:00:00.000-07:00

Obviously, by now you think I have come to fully appreciate the importance of language. I thought my last trip to Spain was enough motivation to start to learning Spanish…but after one-on- one tutoring, hours of self study, and getting up the nerve to locate any Spanish speaking people in Nashville to practice with, I find myself in Spain speaking English. Yes, there are times where I get on a Spanish speaking kick; Ruben giggles and everyone else still does not know what I am talking about. It was not until I found myself at another dinner…. going back and forth from forcing myself to be involved in the conversation, to daydreaming…again; that it hit me when remembering a comment of Ruben..the importance of language.

I looked at this loving family, friends of Rubens, have welcomed me into their house for 5 days as Ruben and I Holiday in the Brittany/Bretagne France http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brittany

This land famous for crepes and cider has beautiful seaside land for bike rides and hikes.

Reaching from the south near Lorient,

to the villages of Carnac and Quiberton where Neolithic prehistoric (2000 bc) dolmen http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dolmen can be explored

to the Northern pink granite cost of Perros-Guirec

and the western tip of Crozon where the beautiful sea side cliffs hide Natzi War bunkers.

Lou, a Spanish women,

met and fell in love with Tom, a French man,

moved from Africa, where they met, to raise their son Joyulie.

Tom, a true Bretagne in view, with his striking features and spirit, is proud of his celtic costal land that still displays their ancient language on all signs.

Able to communicate with Ruben, because Ruben is fluent in French, but unable to communicate with me; Tom does not speak English and understands Spanish as much as I do. Lou, speaks Catalan (a dialect of Spanish), Spanish, French, and a little English. Their son, ( 2 years old) understands French, Catalan, Spanish, and now because of me says a perfect “American” HI!

So many languages at one time, at one table, in one moment, in 5 days; were being communicated repeatedly in all languages so everyone knew what was being said. For what I could not say; I tried to make up by showing my appreciation for their hospitality with a smile, a thank you with my eyes, an attempt to commuicate, and by making food and cleaning the kitchen.

On one of out bike rides, Rueben the master translator wisely said…. “You are lucky that in your country that you can travel to visit friends.. you know, you can go to another state where the food and cluture is different like in Europe; but you are lucky that you all speak english. I never thought of it this way; the “knowledge” of the importance of language was always there, but I took for granted what in America is so common- a common Language.

Amor,
Katelyn

I love when the French strike: Manorca, Spain

2008-05-29T06:49:00.000-07:00

The words just popped out of my mouth, “Today we need to “do” like an American”. What I was communicating to Ruben, that yes, it is allot to plan a 5 day Holiday in a 12 hrs period, find and purchase flight tickets, pack our bags and bicycles, go to the bike shop, clean the house, and finish running the errands…. but this is what was needed if we were going to take advantage of the French transportation strike that has resulted is Ruben’s work train being stuck in France… and Ruben “forced” not to go to work.

I am pro- and I think our culture is gifted at doing too much in a short period of time. I think of all that we accomplish and I am amazed. Honestly I think most of what we strive for is unimportant and just leads to stress, always wanting more, and being unable to enjoy the moment. I have tried to stray away from this habit, but today it paid off; because doing to much in a short period of time lead me to Manorca, a breathtaking Mediterranean Balearic island http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Minorca that is only a 30 minute flight from Barcelona.

45km in length, once a British territory, now Spanish possession, land where mayonnaises was invented, and for some reason has the highest suicide rate in Spain; this island is a ecological heaven that has only slightly been touched by the tourism industry.

Yes, the Brits Holiday here, buy up land and build massive houses with in ground swimming pools. Hotels are situated on natural crystal blue pools with rock carved steps.

You can have an English breakfast here, pizza, hamburgers, and of course the traditional fish and chips; but with very little effort you can find yourself far away from commercialism.

Luckly for us, Ruben has a childhood friend that lives on the island. Cookie, that is honestly one of my favorite of Ruben’s friends, was our tour guide and host during another one of our adventures. We spent the days seeing the many different beaches with Rubens childhood friends and my new found friends….or as Cookie would say “family”.

Other days were spend walking the vastly different beaches

as Ruben seemed to prefer to take on his mountain goat characteristic

and scale the rock formations.

I followed when I felt comfortable, but most of the time found alternate routes.

We traveled by bicycle when the Mediterranean weather was agreeable. Perfect little bicycle friendly roads

lined with stone walls

in every direction that lead to dozens of beaches that were never alike,

stone so different that made if feel you were not even in the same part of the world.

We past typical Mediterranean modern houses

the houses of the past

and the protection from past blood shed.

We rode to beautiful sea side villages, each with culture from far off lands,

and comfort of the typical regional beauty.

So today, as I write this I am thankful for what the French strike has brought, the kindness of friends, and yes even my nature to "do" to much...for all this is worth one day of a little stress......

Amor

Happy Birthday to Me

2008-05-16T11:58:00.000-07:00

I like to label these days of my life as… the good ol days of acne and wrinkles. I do not know wich is worse, but nevertheless I would rather do without both.

Doing without… I think most would say that approaching the age of 30-leaving the youth of the 20’s is something one would prefer to do without. However, as I was having one of those realization moments last night…with the feeling of the base trembling my insides, the unfamiliar scent of sweat mixed with cigarettes and alcohol, lights giving glimpses of colored shadows of Spanish smiles, and yes two kisses, one on each cheek followed by feliz cumpleanous….. a moment of awwwww… came over me. I had a complete awareness that nothing bad comes with getting older-well anything that reall matters.

Actually the exact opposite is true.

With age..time has brought me to a place where I have the job, financial security, the education to make a life that is based on freedom. Freedom that allows me to implement excellent project management skills, utilize my growing knowledge of the latest telecommunication technology; so I can take a four hour hike in the Les Agulles area of the Montserratt National Forest. All before my 8-5 central time zone office hours that I keep everyday as my mind and body convert to the Spanish way of life.

Age also has brought me the best friends. My eyes became filled with moisture, my nose started to sting, as I tried to hold back the tears. I looked around my mothers’s garden and living room.

Everything perfect, vases full of irises, the most delicate china, bite size deserts that were made from the loving hands of my mother and grandmother;

but the people staring back at me is what touched me the most. Almost all the special women in my life, the women that have been there for me when life seemed unbearable, women who have shared their wisdom, women to emulate, to respect, women that give me life; where there in all their beauty to celebrate a early birthday tea party.

So today, as I am reminded of what time has brought me, there is nothing I fear of what the next 10 years may bring

Here I am- Blue Ridge Georgia

2008-04-16T18:20:00.000-07:00

Blue. No, a blue gray with light flicks of white that appears to give this wintering tree trunk more character than the other dozens that are scattered through the valley. They really do look different than I remember thinking them to be. Many almost taking character of human form, others form layered geometric patterns as you gaze pass towards the horizon that can now only be seen because the leaves are just starting to bud. Not one cloud in the sky and the richness of the blue is a color that I would want to bottle and replicate inside on walls if I ever decide to own a home again. I actually decide to take my ear phones out of my ears and begin to listen. To actually listen. The hum of my Chris king hubs are only heard when I decide not to peddle. Leaves crunch beneath my wheels and squirrels become spooked by a girl flying down single track that winds up and down raccoon mountain in Chattanooga Tennessee……

This is as far as I got with this one,…. For the past couple months, all effort has been towards preparing for my comprehensive examinations and working. (My BLOGS have moved to the bottom of the priority of life)Three weeks ago, I received my questions that will require sixty pages of type to determine if 11 years of University can come together in a comprehensive form to 1) prove I know what I am “talking about” and 2) make me earn the letters P-H-D; for the second try around…….

Up until receiving my comprehensive examination questions three weeks ago; I was taking the time to live a balanced life that I have began to briefly mention in my writings. All this- every day- 6 days a week. Six hours of work- two hours of school-one hour of practicing Spanish- time for friends and family

(Mom took this of me at our pottery class- (see the I-Pod I am learning spanish)

and lastly ...feeding my spiritual side, and finding a balanced amount of exercise.

(NOT ON MY BICYCLE..FOR ONCE)

The last day of the week -a free day, to do what I feel. My new balance, up to this point, has also consisted of listening and learning about my BEING. Funny concept when I write it, but remembering to respond and not react; learning to really know when I am hungry, thirsty, tired; and place why I feel happy or sad. I guess I have been living thoughtfully. I have realized in this time of living thoughtfully, that living without old thought is just as important. Buddha says (I am paraphrasing here) that you cannot see yourself in moving water, but only in still water can you truly see your self-reflection. Not thinking that you know how something is; but truly letting go (still water) of the thoughts, old reflections, past labels and, and strive to feel and see for the first time again without the thoughts (or running water).

The past….. seven years ago, I was a new bride,and just moved cross-county to begin my dream. A dream of attending doctorate school, weekend bicycle rides in the Colorado Rocky Mountains, and beginning a wonderful marriage. However, life was more difficult than I expected; distracting me from why I was in Colorado for the first place. I wanted to be a college professor. Mostly.. so I could have a life that would allow me to make the money to live a comfortable life and have the time to raise a family without a complete stranger actually raising my one-day children….but I failed. It actually took one year of therapy to realize that practically being “encouraged” to not resume a second year of doctorate school; did not define me as a personal failure.
So now I am trying to remember this balance, but my mind is running to the past that is somehow triggering this unhealthy unbalanced dive. I realize what I am doing, moving away from the balance, and it is making me miserable. I have sunk back into the old habbits of Katelyn. In result I have dreadful back problems because I am obsessing about these tests, not wanting to fail again. This has resulted in me not being able to leave the computer nor take the time to even stretch or go to the bathroom. Some days I sit here for 10-12 hours writing, hunched backed, with this wrinkled look on my face. I feel guilty for taking time to write a BLOG, something I have come to love. I have also managed to lose my temper with my poor little grandma that is 2x bubblier than me on my bubbliest day ever. She actually hums and seems to float around the house, Grandma name is Cathy, but more like a chatty Cathy (now you know where I get it from). I have not practiced Spanish, I am not able to clear my mind and focus on one thing, I am task conquering, I sense a slight panic buzzing in my mind, nor have I laughed very much.

So as I write this- I remember a few special days recently where the panic subsided..free of all anxiety and fear…
A Nashville Urban Cycling Scavenger Hunt-and being silly as we searched fro 30 location around my city

Having nothing better to do in Rural Tennessee than play on tractors with my best gal Sarah

Finding Little people while mountain biking with my best buddy Mark

and Now I am having the most amazing view as I look up from taking my examinations..

I am a guest at my friend Van's riveside cabin in Blue Ridge Georgia where I write, ride, and remember still water as I am reminded by the sounds of the running river.

My anxiety is subsiding becuase now I remember the new katelyn..

My Hands, Suriana, Spain and Nashville, Tennessee

2008-02-07T20:42:00.000-08:00

Hands, my hands; they looked like my legs after I have failed to stay “rubber side down” on my mountain bike ride. I was missing skin from my fingertips and the calices previously formed from gripping my bicycle handlebars seemed a little worn down from three days of contact with Conglomerate rock. Little cuts…I did not even notice until the scabs formed. As I bent my fingers to grip anything, they were unusually stiff. My fingernails, or lack thereof, had dirt caked underneath, and it seems my only hope was a manicure; if I were to spend money on these types of things these days. I kept looking down at these hands, they looked different than before; they took me to a familiar place within myself, reminded me of something I just recently learned about myself. As I reflect back as I write this today, I did not realize it at this time. Then… I looked down at my hands and was reminded of three wonderful days in Siurana located in Terragona, Senders de Cornudella, Spain.

I did not even know of this place. I guess if my experience with rock climbing over the past 8 yrs consisted more than sporadic sport climbing or sessions at the climbing gym; I would have been more involved with the sport to know how special this place is…

I guess it is better this way because I had no expectations really when Ruben said we were going to go climb about 1.5 hrs from his home in Montserratt. “Perfect”, he said as he described his “set-up”.

Suriana is a place where Muslim castles (one of Catalunya's last to fall to the Christians during the 12th-century's religious wars) overlook gorge-side cliffs that bottom to the Panta de Siurana, or the dam-created lake. The old village of Suriana looks down a deep gorge that is sliced by the Siurana River, a tributary of Spain's great Rio Ebro.

Rich with history of the past, the present Suriana is a sport climbers heaven.

(the famous La Rambla 9a+"britich tech scale")

With over 700 sport routes http://www.rockclimbing.com/routes/Europe/Spain/Catalunya/Siurana/ beginners like myself and the more advance like Ruben could find there self never touching the same route twice.

Ruben and two other friends have a camper

that permanently stays at a campground that can be usually populated by climbers, armatures and the famous from all over the world. http://campingsiurana.com/toni_eng.html

Showers-internet-heat-a real bed-restaurant with really good food; a better “homey” setup than climbing at San Bennet in Montserratt. I prefer to sleep outside on the dirt floor in the summer time, not winter; and showers are nice after a few days.

My Hands, I look down at my hands ….. The red fingernail polish has chipped away. By looking at them, you would of never thought I spent a hour on them yesterday. Only 3 weeks ago they had spanish soil that was caked underneath the nails. More skin is missing from my fingers from the textured plastic holds that have become my nighttime workout. My arms ache and my veins rise to the surface to give an appearance of streaking blue down my forearms.

In this time, my city in this time is rainy and cold….

Bicycles in the wet and cold are not as fun. I need to keep active!!!

Besides, my two best gal pals that I usually ride bikes with- also climb and frequent the indoor climbing gym. We come to climb-talk-gossip- I call it Ruben boot camp-practice spanish and climbing.

Sarah and I actually practice Spanish while we talk about all kinds of things…..

The same for Michelle and I..without the Spanish talking…we talk about everyday things and sometimes deeper topics, thoughts, and reflections, are expressed as we dangle from the roof.

This is where I realized how my hands took me to a familiar place within myself a few weeks ago in Spain. Unknowingly at the time, they reminded me of something I just recently learned about myself. Climbing with my hands is teaching me what I have been trying to practice in my personal life. For me, unlike mountain biking, kayaking, snowboarding, and climbing is about “responding” not “reacting”. For me these sports come naturally without thinking, I follow my instinct-fast-adrenalin-my mind is present but then at the same time absent, and tell you the truth most of the time I am out of control and can sometimes be pretty dangerous to myself and others. I “react” or leave my head out of it-emotional.

Climbing for me is about finding a calculated balance-patience- reaching the top not by just giving all your power to the effort- thinking ahead and having a present mind-it is about being so in tune with your body that you can tell your brain to use more of your legs than more than your arms- something that goes against all my nature.

I can tell you that I am not a good climber-it does not come natural to me, and this is why I love it. Just as in life, nor am I good about responding or using my head- I react. However, with time, patience, and practice; I hope to find myself being a better climber, and going through life responding not reacting in most situations.

So as I type this, I can barely bend my fingers to reach the bottom row of keys, I look down at my chaliced hands, and am thankful that little things in life like chipped fingernail polish, missing skin,remind me of little life’s lessons.

As always,

Amor

Meet the Parents, and not the Fockers. Aragon Region, Spain

2008-01-16T09:29:00.001-08:00

When all was said and done, Ruben looked at me and said, “You know I usually do not take friends to the house of my family”.

Now that I think about it, how a stranger (me) was welcomed into their home-both of his grandparents home-his mothers boyfriends home- and last but not least, the home of his mother….. it did not seem to be a normal occurrence- to have Ruben bring company home. The preparation of multiple Spanish feasts, their attentiveness to make me feel welcome even though I did not speak their language, how it seemed they knew all about me, they knew what to ask in the minimal english spoken in the five days Ruben took me 3 hrs west of Barcelona to see his land, where he was raised, in the land of Aragon, down the mountain to the high desert plains, to his home.

I can tell you that I was kinda nervous. I usually do not get like this, I am usually pretty confident that if I just am myself..friendly, approachable, attentive then things would go smoothly- a comfort will be found. However, me not speaking Spanish very well and the family of Ruben not speaking English, kinda makes things difficult or at least interesting and comical at times.

Our first stop was Ruben’s Mother’s parents home in Luna, a little village north of Zarragoza, the city where his mother lives and where Ruben was raised.

As I enter the newly constructed village two story home, I am welcomed with smiles from his grandmother and grandfather.

The grandmother instantly takes me to see her home, all of her pictures. Speaking only in Spanish and French, she takes me to every room, shows me all her pictures- she is so proud of her family and this becomes more evident at dinner as we eat and she keeps looking at Ruben, with all smiles, and keeps telling him what a good man he is. I become tickled, and very impressed when I learn that Ruben’s grandfather was a shoe designer. I am taken to the cabinet that displays the models of mini shoes, 2 models for each season, at one time were used to showcase the design, and if chosen for the line, were made into normal scale shoes. Of course I had to get pictures.

Next stop, Grandparents home number two where I go to meet his grandparents, father, and little brother. I am told they farm.

Instantly I visioned vast lands, surrounding a stone Spanish style home with barns and farm equipment scattered throughout the land. You know similar to the us…. but not a stone home but wood. We arrive to the village,

pass a village washtub that still is used to wash clothes, and then approach a home in the village.

I soon observe that this is typical as I see the first level of the home is actually the barn/garage/wine cellar/and place where produce is kept and soap is made.

I instantly think my father would envy all the room, as I see how mush space there is for john deer tractors and farm trucks. It seems the Spanish are not into urban sprawl and keep to living in the villages. You enter the home by scaling steps to the second level where you can get a glimps of the amazing garden

where Rubens father will make the most amazing and biggest Paella that I have ever seen,

and where Ruben and I will do yoga one afternoon. His family welcomes me. I get to meet his little brother and his grandmother, just as his other grandmother, continues to feed me the most amazing food, and yes I ate meat- pig-cow-rabbit. You see I do not think I could bare not to eat either of his grandmother’s food that they spent hours preparing. To sum things up, if I cannot speak their language, the least I can do is eat their food. So I spent a few days being forced fed by the Spanish elderly, no worries I tell myself… it is nothing a few more hours on the bike will not fix.

I say, last but not least, when I begin to think of Ruben’s mother. I kick myself now because I do not have one picture of her. I had only one evening to visit and we spent this time visiting. I came with gifts, chocolate (Ruben told me her favorite) that my mother made and a framed picture of her son. What mother would not like that? The evening was perfect. She is learning English and I am learning Spanish. I think we did pretty well, and if we had problems we called for Ruben to translate. Sylvia, a very beautiful woman, a traditional Spanish beauty, a young mother that loves her only son very much. As we sit in the living room, I since a familiarity about her. I cannot place it initially or really describe it, but I can say a comfort found me. I begin to think and realize she reminds me of my mother, and the relationship I have with my mother. How she looks and relates to her son, a mother, but then best friend. The evening goes by fast and the morning approaches even faster. We must return to Barcelona for Ruben to go to work and a s we leave I found that Ruben's mother left present for me.. a beautiful necklace.

Phone calls follow our visit, and I see a smile appear on Ruben’s face. He looks at me and says, “I passed the test”; then he giggles. It seems to win over the grandmothers of Ruben, all you have to do is help with the dishes and act like you know what they are talking about when they speak in Spanish and French.

A unplanned suprise. San Juan Pena mountain 4 hours, 900m

2008-01-16T09:17:00.001-08:00

I can honestly say that I was not too upset to find the Perenaos Mountains with lack of snow. Well..there was enough snow to make it absolutely beautiful; but not enough to justify paying 100 euros for a lift ticket and snow board rental for manufactured snow.
We had a back up plan…. bicycles- mountains-switchbacks-13^th century churches-and road side snack breaks on a bicycle ride. On borrowed heavy steal mountain bikes with flat peddles, no suspension, and the biggest seat that my rear has felt in a long time; we left Amador’s village later in the afternoon than we planned.

We head to “make sport” or ride, not necessarily up a mountain, but in this land you really have no choice. The Perenaos mountains boarders France, surprisingly the foliage in this region feels like the Appalachian Mountains in the south US.

Still green even in January, a light dusting of snow melts to make the roads slippery and the green of the land shimmer. Streams and rivers are flowing with snowmelt from the mountains above.

It is just cold enough that I wear gloves; yet warm enough that I do not need a jacket as we start our 900 meter climb up to the top of San Juan Pena mountain. The Spanish sun shines and brings a light pink color to my pale cheeks. After 45 minutes of climbing, we approach the most amazing monastery in the rock. San Juan Pena monastery makes for a wonderful place to rest and get another history lesson.

13^th century, I cannot even comprehend how old this is. Constructed in traditional Romanic style, it is far different from the Moorish architecture that is common in the lands situated just south.

We are in the land of Aragon, the region just left of Catalonia, the region where Ruben now lives; has a different language, the people speak with an escalating infection of tone at the end of phrases, and in the past was home to the Catholics, Jews, and Arabic people. You see the influence of these cultures when you begin to look; even the food is different. I hear stories of Ruben as a child, visiting Amador in the village; this land is where he found his love of the mountains.

As we approach another monastery, after another 45 minutes of climbing, we decide to chance running out of light so we can continue to the top.

I find myself on beautiful roads that overlook the most amazing horizon. I look down to see the monastery that we just passed.

It looks so small and gives me prospective, just how much we have climbed on our bicycles. We continue to climb until the road stops. Having mountain bikes, we can continue up to the very top as we find a dirt trail that lines the ridge

We only have a brief moment to catch our breaths and turn 360 degrees to see all the mountains before we must return and head down the mountain because we are running out of sunlight. Four hours, and 900 meters of climbing, we return back to the village a little score, cold, and tired as the sun sets…and it was a perfect day.

Amore,

All possibilities....Montserratt and Santa Cicillia Spain

2008-01-16T08:16:00.000-08:00

Rose marry bushes- Imagine looking out to this. Perfectly formed rock formations in the distance are rich brown in contrast to the blue of the sky.
Climbers can be seen in the distance dangling-gripping like insects on a massive form.. El Ferro, rock on the sunny south face of Montserratt in Spain was my playground that afternoon and we walk to reach the rock.......

As usual Ruben and I were chatting about all kinds of stuff as he patiently continued my climbing lesson that had begun 8 months ago. I was trying to explain the American reality TV show “The Amazing Race”. Teams of friends or lovers race around the world to reach the goal of winning one million dollars. Cameras are there, so we Americans can sit on our couches and watch the dynamics of relationships and maybe get a little culture in. None of you, well besides Ruben’s family and friends, have seen our dynamic when we are together; which I think would make great television. Our language barrier, how we relate, solve problems is pure comedy at times, and in this… we manage to get along perfectly. After much confusion about the concept of this type of American prime time entertainment, I finally jokingly communicate effectively to Ruben how fun it would be to do this show. He looks at me, in all seriousness and says, “I do not like television”. I said, “yes I know, but to win a million dollars to travel and see the world…would be worth it”. “I do not need money…and besides we can sell cheese for money, he said with a big grin”. (I laugh because his comment follows a conversation we had earlier in a Milan grocery store in Italy. I was filling the grocery basket with good cheese to bring home to you..I mean the cheese from Italian sheep, goats and cows…..the same cheese that you would pay 5 or 6 times more in the American store. I converted the euro to dollar and shared with Ruben about the vast difference in price.)

After our conversation I had a brief moment where I thought about this..the thought of exploiting yourself to get rich fast. A few days later, I had another brief moment where I though about “our tendency” to get things done fast.

The way Amador, Ruben’s mother’s boyfriend, has lived part of his life is unfathomable to me. The first thing that came out of my mouth was, “I wish my mother could see this”. A stone house, in a mountain village,Santa Cicillia ,

nestled in the outskirts of the Perenaos Mountains in Northern Spain;
was something that could be showcased in any American Home decorating magazine.

As you walk down the narrow streets, you feel old cobble stones underneath your feet.. Stone walls support three stories of modern day homes or street level bakeries, fruit markets, or café’with apartments above. Solid wood doors weighing hundreds of pounds are fashioned with iron rods for support. Behind larger wood door openings, modern day automobiles can be found; however, in the past served as the place for farm animals.

As we approach the house of Amador, Ruben continues with telling me the history of his land, people, and family. To give me a little time perspective; he shares with me the French troops of Napoleon house their horses in the ground level of Amador’s house. Ruben approaches a wood stable door, jokingly uses the old iron door knocker to let Amador know we have arrived. As I am received with a smile and 2 kisses, one on each cheek, my eyes are drawn in-word to what I see. A stone cobble room, houses decorative antiques; even an old bicycle.

I can imagine the livestock living here, but this day it serves as the garage. I climb the wood stairs in a stairwell with lively colored paint. I enter into the most amazing kitchen, a Spanish kitchen, complete with pig leg.

Antique furniture and light fixtures are mixed with modern day appliances and bright paint colors. The living room and dining area also showcases the new and old. A grand stone fireplace is used to warm the house and cook the meat for dinner. I look up to see old wood beams that support the floor of four bedrooms, second living area, and garden roof top terrace. Tasteful art, antique ski equipment

and every adorable nick-knack makes this house a home. Opera music, Amador’s favorite, plays as I continue to see each room-of each one of the four floors. The amazing craftsmanship of this house, the beauty of every detail becomes even more special when I learn that this home took over 20 years to build. No bank, no mortgage, no construction crew with a deadline, and no hired decorator. This man with his family paid for four stonewalls. All inside and above had to be rebuilt. Over 20 years from working in the mountains

taking money from each paycheck, favors from friends, presents from relatives made Armador his home. Little by little, each year something new-something built. First the roof, then the floors, lights, plumbing, walls, wood floors, hand made doors, and all in this house-not fast-not now-no instant-but in time, with patience, a masterpiece was formed.

I am taken back with this. The mentality one must have to live a patient life, not an instant life, not about what you have; but how you get there. Different way of life, maybe better for some, not possible for others; however this has opened my eyes to all possibilities nonetheless……

Amore,
Katelyn

Sesenta besicos, New Years Montserratt

2008-01-05T07:44:00.000-08:00

Wow my new years....San Bennet, the church in the sky was to become our new year's headquarters-with a little preparation first.

I actually did nothing all day to help. By now I have told Ruben many times that I must work 30 hrs a week-6 hours a day on the computer if I am to visit him in Spain. So today like everyday he asks, “what do you make today, you need work this day?”, and so my response, “yes I should stay and work”. So today I stay in the apartment so I can get work done as he drives all over Barcelona running errands.

About 7pm he arrived with a handful of friends to make the initial climb by car 10K up the mountain where we will park and continue the trek about another hour by foot. I was handed a backpack and a speaker. I joke and say that I am the American pack mule. After about 2 minutes of confusion and translation errors...they finally get my joke. A speaker....hmmmmm. I recall no electricity the last time I made it to San Bennet.

When I arrive an hour later, all sweaty and completely worn out, I hear the hum of a generator that will power our new years celebration. I arrive to a dozen familiar faces and another dozen strangers’ faces. A 20-foot table with a couple of dozen chairs centers the room.

Old wine bottles with candles line the table to illuminate the room. The smell of something wonderful cooking in the kitchen makes me smile in the anticipation of a Spanish New Years feast. A wood-burning stove heats the church turned climbing refuge. I am instantly welcomed as I arrive. The speakers that I carry on my back are also welcomed. Ruben and a few of his friends put together our entertainment for the night. I am thinking to myself, thank goodness these guys mix cd’s and not records. I do not think I could be talked into carrying1 records up the mountain.

Grapes ….I look down in my plastic cup to see grapes. If I counted-12 exactly. I look around and all have plastic cups gripped in their hands. We migrate around the radio that is playing celebration music in the anticipation of the Spanish New Years count down. I look over at Ruben and take a grape and begin to eat it. He yells no- and then grabs my hand, smiles and says, “No, you wait till midnight and then eat one grape at the sound of each bells”. “This is the tradition from the old Spanish king to wish good luck in the next year for grape harvest.” I am instantly pleased to find that I just unknowingly came across a total foreign custom.

(ya first new years wearing workout clothes, with no makeup and a shower)

No cork popping-champaign fizzing all over on the floor- maneuvering of the plastic puzzle champaign glasses-I am not fighting confetti-covering my ears due to the ear piercing horns and whistles-my breath is not taken away by a new years kiss……… I am frantically trying to shove 12 grapes in my mounth, I am hunched over with laughter and try not to choke on sweet Mediterranean grapes. I stand, slobber/grape juice is streaming down my cheek; as I resume my composure, I am attacked with grapes. I find my attack position and retaliate with the few grapes that remain in my cup because they did not make it in my mouth.

Sesenta besicos or 60 little kisses follow. One on each cheek. Two from each person. They make their rounds, kissing grape juice covered cheeks and wishing their friends a happy new year.

Spainsh like kisses and throwing food. My kind of place.

Feliz ano nuevo
Happy new years

Dos besicos,
Katelyn

Please, no more tenticles or eyeballs, Granada Spain

2008-01-03T04:49:00.000-08:00

So ya.....the Spanish sun is perfect in the south. Granda, I arrived here by train this morning. I am tagging along with Ruben as he works. Now we are sitting outside about to have tapas and beer at a cafe in the town square. I do not even have a jacket on. As usual, I have no idea what is being said at the table. So I kinda tune everyone out and opt for people watching. There are two young Spanish men playing traditional flamingo songs. Kinda cool, like what u would imagine.

My wish is...no tapas with eye balls or tentacles. The last place we went...I was looking at my dinner watch me...I ate nothing. I must be a spoiled American that I wish someone would behead my food before they give it to me. As I write this the server puts the biggest plate of …ummmm..yep you guessed it. Eye balls and tentacles right in the center of the table.

I find myself in Spain again. I write as if it were an accident; no this was planned. Most of you have figured out that I have a fondness for Spain. The culture, food, roads, mountains, the sun, and well the people have won my heart. How could I not visit Rueben in Montserratt for the New Year? He made it sound so great. “The perfect Rock climbing in the Spanish sun on the south face”. “Snow boarding in the Spanish mountains where his mother’s boyfriend works. He even added…that he was getting a computer router for his apartment and a land line phone; so it would be perfect for my work. I must add that finding a $600 dollar round trip ticket was also a plus.

So, here I am sitting in Ruben’s apartment, he is away for the next couple of days working on the train.

This is the perfect opportunity for me to get alot of work done. I have my laptop, cellphone, a teleconference in 3 hours, the Spanish sun is shinning in through the window, the weekly village market has just finished, and I am about to take a 15 minute coffee break and run down to Café La Rocha that sits below Ruben’s apartment.
What a great new year.

Life Intensions-Mountain Bike Boot Camp, 2 days 80 miles, 8.5 hours,Pinhoti, Bear Creek. North Georgia

2007-12-12T21:59:00.000-08:00

It is funny how a simple thing like a bicycle can teach me so much about life. My bicycle experiences remind me of life stories and sometimes I never realize it until I am on my bicycle. I take the time to stop….stop all that mindless thinking, planning, worrying and DOING… that consumes most. Hours peddling and spinning life out on the pavement, flying around trees; leaves only a blank mind canvas to begin the composition of my life music, I draft in my mind a melody that will harmonize all these awkward notes that get thrown at me.

Lately, I started to think about intensions; what this word means to me, how the word is used so loosely, how intensions as a concept has been defined in my past, and why I have just began to realize how important our life intensions are.

Intension… an action with a specific purpose in doing something- a end or goal is aimed at, or intended to be accomplish.

I intend to do a lot on my bicyle. Like this past week, I intended to do a mountain bike boot camp, ride single track with my friend Mark, scour the trails of Fort Mountain in Northern Georgia.

So happy to see me dear friend and have the opportunity to laugh, snort, snot, cuss, and partake in other non-lady like behaviors… all in two days as I rode with a handful of men that came to hurt and feel what endurance training was all about.

An expectation was formed in my mind. I had visions of smooth single track winding up and down the blue ridge mountains, crossing reeks, spooking deer- blazing downhill and riding around trees.

This is what drove me to make the 5 hour drive and mentally prepaire for over 80 miles of mountain bike riding in two days. I soon found that I needed to shift my expectations and alter my intension of mountain bike riding on single track. Yes I was on a mountain bike, like I intended, but found myelf riding more on pavement, gravel roads, and even grass-not what I expected.

Attitude shift, Is what had to happen or I was going to have a miserable time. My focus shifted from what I was missing to what I had-what I was doing. I had Mark- right there besides me, the first man in a long time that is truly my friend.

I met Van, Mark's friend that an amazing man that I have a feeling will also beome a good friend.

I was able to hear the inspiring story of Mike, the ex-pro BMX racer, firefighter, owner of http://www.cartecaybikes.com/rides/trails.htm Cartecay Bike Shop, president of the local club, care taker of miles and miles of trails, bicycle frame designer, and one of the biggest bicycle advocates I have met in a long time. He put this event on for free, he made no money, he did it becuase he loves his bicycle and what this love brings-good friends-and good times.

And I cannot forget....

I had the opportunity to play in a fire truck...thanks to Mike's connections.

I was able to look up at the beautiful mountain streams as I rode gravel roads-not really possible all the time when you are on single track. I had the opportunity to be a guest at a beautiful mountain haven for mountain bikers with the best home cookin food (the best berry cobler ever}. Most Importantly, all this remineded me that in real life, off the bicycle, intensions and expectations come the same way.

We intend alot in life. Some intend more than others. Some float through life and others intend to live it -to its fullest. What matters if we try to take the chance to even intend- to intend a life boot camp. If we have to-be open to changing expecations, and not expecting “too” much of our selves and others. If we can only grasp the idea that even with having to change or alter our expectaions, we can still meet our intensions. This has been the biggest life lesson that I have learned and I hope my bicyle continues to remind me..when I forget it again.

Amore,

Katelyn

Life’s little hiccups Tour De Nantahala, North Carolina 45 miles 3.5 hours

2007-11-20T19:35:00.000-08:00

I see a familiar sparkle in her eyes, brown beautiful eyes that smile as she looks at Romeo. Ahh Romeo, not an Italian lover, but an American man made machine of carbon fiber. It grows every time I see her, the passion, the excitement of possibilities where her bicycle can and will take her.

Debbie Sue, my fellow Ohio beauty queen, has her rag top down and ready for life, a new life and I feel honored she has invited me this day to join her on her first bike ride over 25 miles. We go to scale the beautiful mountains, North Carolina heaven.

The land of the Cherokee Indians, land of the mid-day rising sun, screams color this day. So bright; red, orange, yellow takes my breath away. Colors bleed together as we fly down the mountainside.

My Arms ache as I try to grip the handlebars with frozen hands because of the 34F degree morning and lack of the gorge-hidden sun. I forgot my pants and socks, wear arm warmers and a light windbreaker over my short sleeve jersey. I feel bad..really bad as I look over at Debbie Sue and she is trying to smile as her body shivers and maybe appears to convulse at times. A lean petite woman that has a far greater less percent of body fat then I do, needs more clothes then what she has on when it is 90% humidity, 34degrees, with no sun shine. She had exactly on what I told her to wear….. Calling me for my advise for what she should buy and wear for this ride….her first big ride on a bicycle-ever.

I am ashamed to tell you that all my 6 years education in exercise physiology, body temperature regulation, studies on hydration, years of cycling all over the world in all temperatures; did not aid in my decision to tell her that arm and leg warmers with gloves, and a thin hat with my medium weight vest would be just fine.

A hiccup

I remember looking down at my bicycle as I unpacked it in Ruben’s living room. I almost cried. My beautiful bike..the paint… blue….gone…missing…scratches…carbon fiber. Come to find the scratches extended well beyond that paint and made it into the carbon fiber, wreaking my machine, and basically becoming a death trap on wheels. A hiccup, my decision to pack my bicycle without the normal 3 inch foam surrounding the chain-ring facing away from the frame. I remember the very instant, recall telling myself saying it will be ok like this….. It was not and this is why for 6 weeks I have been a girl without her road bike and forced to replace a $1400 carbon frame with a stronger frame made of titanium.

A hiccup

Hiccups, this is what I call bad decisions- or just bad things all together. Hiccups, we all get em, have em. They come at the wrong time. Sometimes they hurt, hurt so bad that they make our stomach in knots and at times bring a little throw-up to our mouths. Sometimes they are a little unpleasant but still make us giggle. At times they only happen a few times in a row or can last for the feeling of eternity.

I think of this as I realize that we as humans give our selves a hard time about life’s hiccups. We expect other not to hiccup or not hiccup as much as ourselves. We do not forgive others and we do not forgive our self for what just happens naturally…

Hiccups are part of life, part of being human, part of have a digestive system. Without them we would not be human….

I just hope that my hiccups, like I hope all your hiccups, come less often, make me giggle, and allow meto be reminded, just how valuable and precious life is….

Amor,
Katelyn

Our Nations Capital. Rockville Maryland to and around Washington DC to Odenton Maryland 45 miles, too long to notice

2007-11-11T08:45:00.001-08:00

I never thought I would actually hear anyone say this to me. “I would not ride your bike there..unless you want to get shot!” He actually said this, not laughing, or jokingly; but seriously.

Now usually, when someone tells me to not “go somewhere” on my bicycle it is because they think it is not interesting, too much traffic or too far in the country; not because I could actually be shot.

This day, as I pick up a rental road bike from a local shop in Maryland, a suburb of Washington DC; I decide to listen to the advise that was given from the young man that worked at the shop. My plans changed…now to formulate a new plan.

How was I going to ride to Washington DC, see the city, then to the nature preserve located North East of DC? Hmmm…Green way was the obvious answer.

Impressive actually, the city has greenways or bike paths linked from Maryland and Virginia to the City. Once arriving, the city has greenways along the Potomac,

passing our Nations monuments.

Within 5 minutes I decided that I do not like these bike paths of Washington and surrounding suburbs.

Everything with wheels and everybody was on the bike path. Kids with roller blades, moms pushing strollers, owners being dragged by their dogs, toddlers running out of control, tri cycles, big wheels, cruisers, mountain bikes, and road bikes. Like the city, this place was crowded.

Usually, when I ride my bike, a peace comes over me. It is hard to explain…. I feel control as I can push the pedals accelerating to speeds that would make most tense and ride their breaks. Forty-50 miles per hour at times, if I have gravity on my side; I still feel no hint of intimidation. I get lost in how my body feels as I cut through the air. How the breeze feels on my skin. If brisk air, I welcome goose bumps as the feeling is intensified as the hair on my arms and legs stand straight up. I can feel every bump and turn underneath my 20-pound machine that consists of some of the best materials available for cycling. I get lost in the moment, but then find my mind wandering to the future.

Today, none of this was possible-no feeling of controll. The only thing possible was to remain “on guard” at all times. This instinct, was followed by my bodies natural release of endorphins. I needed to react today. I was right to be prepared, as all of a sudden I was reacting to a cyclist coming straight towards me, she was blindly swerving around a group of walkers, and slammed right into me as I rode on the far right edge of the cycling path. I reacted correctly as I kept my line, placed my front tire right besides hers, kept my shoulders square, and fell over to the right on nice fluffy bushes that broke my fall. An obvious novice, with her brand new Treck T-mobile pink bike with matching helmet, glasses and shoes; she was maybe one hundred pounds. I actually felt sorry for her knowing that she just slammed into me; a woman that almost has 50 pounds on her, was taught combat cycling while training at the Olympic training center, was trained to tackle other women while playing rugby in college, and from practice has mastered the technique for slamming into trees and falling off her bicycle on pavement and down mountainsides alike. I instantly got up and kinda laughed and just looked at her laying on the ground. The first thing I thought, I said sarcastically was…. “Wow, I guess the road through the getto is safer then this”.

I did finally make it to the city, around the ghetto, at one point through the getto, through the nature reserve, and back on the metro as the night found me this day as I attempted and succeeded to see my Nation’s Capitol on a bicycle.

I must say, I do not have any part of me that would ever repeat this bicycle ride in the future, I will just stick to the country side.

Amore,Katelyn

Back to Normal .....

2007-10-20T08:00:00.000-07:00

(Cumberland River, Tennessee)

Back to Normal? My friend, Michelle’s Husband Torry actually asked me this. We were standing at a live venue in Nashville, listening to my new favorite band the Avett Brothers. http://www.theavettbrothers.com/site.php Banjos and stand up bases being whaled on like a electric guitar, their body language was of a rock band not a progressive blue grass band. The crowd was a mix of Vandy plucked frat boys and southern new age hippies….a unique breed commonly characterized my scraggly hair and natural clothing, river sandals, the ability to make a good home brew, usually seen munching on gorp, and of course a thick southern accent that rings in your ears as they say “dude”.

I paused and kinda giggled. I actually have no idea what normal is anymore. I did not know what to say or know what to think… I just said I guess…well not really.

Normalcy, something I had too much of in my past life. Monday –Friday…Get up at 5:30am-sharp, work out-a bike ride if I was lucky, go to work for 9 hours and stare at a computer screen and try not to get too stressed out that I have to run and hide in the bathroom- if I was lucky, come home and make dinner- if my ex-husband was lucky, my evening excitement was looking forward to my favorite reality show-if it was my turn to pick the show, and well going to bed early so I could study-that always put me to sleep. Weekends were not much better. Saturday- clean the house, go to the grocery, do my homework, brush the cat, go the gym. Sunday…study, and wait around till my ex-husband woke up from working the swing shift as a police officer, then yes…..the highlight of my week was a bike ride, maybe a mountain bike ride if I was lucky, with my ex-husband. This was Normal, my normal and I was happy with it. Because I can be happy with anything.

This life that I lead now is not normal to me, but the longer I live in my new skin, see with my widened eyes; I begin to feel that I will get use to this new normal. Ever day is different, my office moves as I do, I ride in wonderful places with different people everyday, scale beautiful rock walls,

(Kings Gap in Tennessee)
eat dinner at trendy restaurants with friends, make 3 course Spanish meals for my family,

attend cultural festivals on weekends,

see live music during the week days, commute to yoga class on my bicycle 4 days a week, rummage at local flea markets,

have tea parties with my grandmother, get all dressed up to go see the new art exhibit at the museum, spend the afternoon taking a cat nap with my cat calvin, I take my dogs for walks, I plan road trips to see old friends, and plan with new friends adventures to explore foreign lands.

Yes I do get overwhelm. If you know me personally, you know I am a goal setter, and I tend to set too many goals that eventually consume me. I have learned allot about balance, something I struggle with every day. I actually follow a list, I drive to follow a life list of 5 things to do everyday to bring life balance to my new world. No matter if I am in Nashville, Spain, Washington, Atlanta, Italy or in my car driving to the next destination on a road trip; I plan my day with 5 things “to do” in order to bring normalcy, routine to my life. With this way of life, anxiety is minimal, I appreciate all that I have now, I have reached a happiness that I never knew was possible

With living my life this way I focus on the day, live in the now, but am still conscious of the future. Five simple things having to do with work/school, my family/friends, my spirit, what I put in my body and well.. my bike; all brings balance and a normalcy to this life that I lead….I will maybe share more about them with you in the future.

So ya... now that I think about it... back to Normal...... I guess I never actaully left it.

Amor,

katelyn

Little that I learned, a bicycle ride too..Tour de Wiskey, Isle of Islay 20 miles

2007-10-02T07:29:00.000-07:00

When you travel on a budget, you spend time in hostels. Budget housing, a bunk bed in a room with dozens of other people, no towels or little soaps provided, sharing a toilet and shower with dozens of other men and women, but free internet, a lounge to get to know other travelers, and a kitchen to prepare food with people from all different countries makes up for disparities of hostel living. With this, you begin to see similarities or little quirks of people depending on the country they are from. I hate to generalize or be stereotypical, but tell you the truth you can almost tell where someone is from before they even say a word..just by little things.

I find it funny, the generalizations of Americans that have been shared with me by people I have met while traveling. Ruben even shared some with me; what he learned with his time spend in the train with travelers from all over the world. I was told you can spot Americans by their shorts. A kiwi (Australian) told be that American men wear those “God Awful” long cargo shorts with all those pockets. Ruben said he knows American girls by the short-shorts and big-big pack packs. I was told Americans can also be spotted by our perfect white teeth and out habit of chewing gum. You can spot an American at a club by the way they dance. Ruben says the girls move like snakes and talk really loud with a high pitch voice. So enough bout Americans I want to share what I have learned about Scotland; about the people and the land.. and yes I am guilty of all of these things that are “typical” American traits…

So the first thing about the Scottish is the “Scottish Face”. I do not know if it because of the cold or rainy weather, but a lot seem to have a certain facial expression. Squinty eyes, no smile, and look not very happy at all. Ruben and I have tried to replicate it, but I think he does a lot better job then I do.

Admittedly a Scottish women told me that Scottish do not smile and the women tend to be mengie (not attractive). Ruben said Scotland is the perfect place to go on holiday with your significant other, you do not have to worry much about them going off with anyone…I have to disagree about the minginess sterotype, because you know I have a high percentage of Scottish blood. heheheheh
I cannot forget the sheep. Yes the scottish love their sheep. They take great care that you do not run any of them over. They constantly remind you and I find this kinda funny...

Liz told me that a Scott’s life expectancy is in the low 60’s because of all the drinking and smoking. Wiskey..I guess keeps them warm from the cold and may help with overlooking the minginess of their date? I had the opportunity to see where this wiskey comes from. Ruben and I took a day on the Isle if Islay and did the Tour de Wiskey, however we only made it to one distillery because of the rain and cold. Ruben and I visited one of the most popular and left with 6 bottles that we carried in a backpack.and I visit the smallest in Scottland with only 3 employees.

Fascinating really, how the Barley is smoked,

fermineted into a beer, and then distilled in to wiskey.

Interestingly enough, at the Bilmore Distillery, the wiskey it is placed for years in bourbon barrels from Tennessee and Sherry barrels from Spain.

I must say my favorite thing about Scotland is the concrete. Ya funny I say this, but with out concrete roads, I would not be able to cycle and see all the beauty that the rain brings. The areas of Scotland that I have visited and cycled have single lane roads with passing pull offs. There seems to be minimal cars that travel on the roads, especially compared to the Italian and Spanish country roads that are frequented by speeding mini cars and motorcycles.

When you go to Scotland, be prepared and bring calamine lotion. For 3 days, Ruben thought he had fleas. After camping he ended up with hundreds of little bites, and I only had a few. The bites continued for days, we went through all the clothes and sleeping gear but no fleas were spotted. When asking Liz, she started to laugh because we had not found fleas, but the typical Scottish flying mini nat that has plagued this land for centuries, forces children to wear head nets when they play outside, and I was told actually drove the Romans out of the land when they tried to invade and almost made a moden day Spaniard go insane.

No not all of the Scottish talk like the Scottish guy from the Simpsons, but allot do.-especially in the north. So be prepared to listen really hard and say excuse me, can you repeat that. At one point I asked a bar tender at the bar if she spoke Spanish; I thought I would understand her more if If we talked in Spainsh.

And the young…where is the youth.. They are in the cities. I found it funny that I did not see one “children at play sign”, how we have in the states, but “beware the elderly”! I must say a frisky elderly couple..that is grandma appears to be if you use your imagination>>>>

love always, Katelyn

Search For Family, Dunoon, Scotland 24 miles

2007-09-23T09:38:00.000-07:00

If you have read some of my previous BLOGS, I speak of my 104 year old great-grandmother that was born and raised in scotland.. I was raised hearing stories of her childhood, living in Dunoon Scotland, having a wealthy father that owned a shipping company that transported spices from India to Britian. During time spent in America, she met my great grandfather, a blue collar working man from Michigan, fell inl love and married in her 30's. She left all that she had in Scotland, for a new life. That herritage, still lies here in Scotland, but has become a distant reality to all of her children and children's children.. I have no knowlegde of relatives that hold her Shank or Muir name. I do not know where she went to school, have no idea where to find the house that she grew up in; the only thing I know is a town called Dunoon. We go here today. I giggle becuae I had another miscommunication with Ruben. I told him that we were going to the place of my family. Little did I know he actaully thought we were visiting family, as he asked what he should wear, thinking we were going to supper. He said he was hoping my family lived in a castle...as this became the joke for the days as we rode past amazing houses, even castles, and Ruben would point and yelled, "There is the house of your family, let's go". As we ride near Dunoon in the Agrile Forest, up and down the most amazing roads, face steep leg and lung burning hills, and pass Scotish farms; I reflect on a conversation about family that Ruben and I had. I asked Ruben about his heritage. I felt guilty becuase in the past he sent me a 30 page typed document (in Spanish) about his family's history and I have not been able to get through it all. Spainsh, from my limited interaction with the people, are family orientated. Family, the past, and present are who they are, of value, very important. I can say that americanas have lost a since of heritage. The melting pot has been mixed up for so many generations, that many have no idea of their past and truthfully many do not care to even know. Since hearing ruben's passion about his people and herritage of nothing but 100 percent spanish blood; I have become more interested is finding mine. So today we wonder around the village of dunoon, and stop at the visitors center. I ride, pass the old churches, town hall, village shops, and imagine my grandmother being here taking a walk as a child with her nanny or walking down the street as a young woman with her first love. That day I did not find anything really about my family, nevertheless I did find a since of where I came from...something I never knew I wanted.
Amore, Katelyn

Isle of Arran, 32 miles

2007-09-22T09:00:00.000-07:00

I was a bit disappointed that my first scheduled Tour did not book. However, I am giving myself a big break because I cannot expect much with only advertising a little..little bit only starting two months ago. This is why I am here, in europe. I purchased my plane ticket so I could lead the first tour in Scotland, but with it not booking left me time to really explore the route in SW Scotland and scope out Tuscany again for next year. So all is good..... When I arrived to Brodick on the Isle of Arran, I already felt like I had been there.
I planned the tour with Liz, she had already told me so much about it. I have read books, surfed the net, and studied maps about this place so I could put it on the website and plan a detailed agenda...

Port Brodick is about a 45 minute ferry ride from the mainland. I must say this was an exciting point of the trip for Ruben and I. I do not think you get that many ferries in Tennessee or Spain; so the 70 pound fee to take 2 passengers and a car over and back, was worth it. Brodick, the metropolis of the Island is not really much at all. It is a small Village really, no movie theater, a few hotels, loads of bed and breakfasts, a grocery, and a row of bars and little shops. This place is absolutely beautiful with the sea side views and quaint little village. I have found that the best part of the villages of Scotland is all the bed and beaskfasts. Chain hotels, or hotels at all are non existent here. The way to do it here is to stay at a small farmhouse or little stone cottage on the beach with a family that welcomes you to their home.

You may luck upon a B&B that is not booked, but most of the time stopping by the visitors center to get assistance with booking, is the best way to go. This night we ended in a beautiful stone farm house, complete with garden and chickens.

Upon arrival we were greated by our house master, kelt and real knife stuck in his sock..

I only know this because he whipped it out--the knife that is.... A character if I can say that. Friendly and polite, yes all scottish are, but also talked your ear off-half of what I could not understand. I can tell you it took a hour to talk about breakfast. I knew everything you wanted to ever know about a scottish breakfast and what all the other guest were having and even at what time. Ruben would just look at me about every 5 minutes and mouth the words.."What is he talking about". Normally, Ruben says this because he cannot really understand the scottish english (most of the time I do not either) so he is roaming around this place how I do in Spain. So I just looked at him and said, I have no idea...I really did not. I just looked and smiled and nodded as I noticed this character with a Scottish style mulet also had a necked lady necklace wrapped around his neck next to his traditional decorative pins and chains. Besides the strange meeting, I can say the stay in this quaint b&b was what you think it should be, warm, full o charm and a since of history and family, complete with a scottish breakfast.

A scottish breakfast....... Fried Eggs, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, potatoes cakes, sausage, haggas, bacon, ham, and if you are lucky..beans. Ahhhh ya......I found myself dumping all my meat on Rubens plate, of wich 3/4 of the plate consists of. He would always shake his head no, but then would always eat it because he told me he was raised not to waste.

The first few days, I thought he was going to have problems....spanish do not eat this much meat in a week, nor consume over 500 calories before 2pm. Ruben was always wanting olive oil and not butter; butter, something not existent in a Spanard's diet. However, after the 3rd scottish breakfast, I think he was looking forward to it, because if he had a choice of anything else, he always wanted the scottish breakfast. A big breakfast is always good before a good ride. A perfect ride is what we got this day.

I choose the top half loop of the Isle of Arran. Only 32 miles winding along the coast and through the breathtaking island mountains adorned with sheep, but a hard ride fighting the strong sea head wind and climbing up at times for 30+ minutes on single paved roads only big enough for one car. And a few cars is what we saw as we rode. I began to be amazed how fast Ruben's fitness improved on a bicycle. Ruben was always there right besides me talking away or right behind me on my wheel working his flat peddles to the max...well until I stopped for a phone call and told him to go on...as I took a wrong turn..the only wrong turn on the island. Luckily I rode pass a cyclist that sent me in the correct direction toward the "scantily dresses lad".At this time I was about 4 miles ahead with all possible layers on to keep warm from the chilling head win. When I finally caught him, at the end of the ride, Ruben was smiling because he knew I was going to take a wrong turn. Something he picked up on after me being the co captain driving through Glascow.

At the end the day I am thankful that this will not be the last time I will be here... I will return, hopefully with a van full of customers.

Amore,

Katelyn

Little Trooper, Isle of Skye, Scotland 54 miles

2007-09-20T08:35:00.000-07:00

I am always relieved to be in the company of someone that is layed back as much as myself. Layed back I mean not letting little bumps, ripples in life get you down. Not sweating the small stuff, the glass is half full and not half empty. You can usually tell a layed back person by a phrase they say when things get a little tense. I say' "It is all good", and Ruben says, "no problem". After this you can feel any stress dissipate. I have not always been this way. The exact opposite actually. I was a worried that only found relief if I planned for the worst. This characteristic made me a excellent multitasker, a excellent employee, a sucesfull student; but a miserable person. I though every possible direction, good or bad in life, could be planned. I learned the hard way that not all things in life can be planned. All the energy put into woring would do no good. Your reality can become a nightmare that spirals downward leaving you grasping for stability, normality.

Traveling, you learn that planning can be a pain and most of the time is better to go with the flow. I am glad Ruben is a "No problem" kinda guy. It has made my travels with him some of the best days with a companion that I have ever had. I think half of it is my new outlook on life, and of course, his way of life. This was evident as we started the Day in the Isle of Skye. At this point we had been on one very short bicycle ride. I looked at him, pointed to the map, and said, "well how many miles to you want to do". He pointed to the road that lead up the Northern pensula and then back round to Portman. I kinda giggled and said, I think that is about 54 miles and very hilly. He said,"no problem". Hmmmm....... I thought. Ruben admitted said he has not exercised much this summer except for an occasional run, has not ever spent much time on a bike. I compare this to someone asking me if I wanted to run a marathon without any training. Yes I could do it, only because I am that stubborn, but the event would be absolutely miserable. Ruben was cheerfully volunteering to go through possible misery. He just said," if I cannot do it, I wait and you go and get the car, No problem". So we did it with no problem. I must say that the pace was a leisure one, stopping for highland cow kisses, Stopping for a snack on the side of the road Stopping at every possible vision of beauty for a picture. I saw things differently this day. Saw things I do not think I would of seen if Ruben was not with me. Usually, I would of had my head down for a majority of the time, moving in and out of la-la land, and focusing on my breath as I pushed myself until my legs burnt. The mind set of a racer getting a rush off of what a bicycle can do for you; now that is beginning to learn to love her bicycle for the places it can take you. Only if you remember to look up..... Ruben's best quality, always looking up at life, seeing, being open, absorbing, reflecting, analyzing, and always learning. So this day me teacher reminded me of how to look up at life and always believe that nothing in life is impossible.
Amor, Katelyn

Rain Rain go Away, not so bad after all. Fort William and Isle of Skye

2007-09-20T08:01:00.000-07:00

Marco sent me a email speaking of how he apologized for not getting me to the airport in time to make my flight to Scotland. Truthfully, it did not phase me; I have accepted the fact that missed flights, being stranded in the middle of no where, getting on the wrong train, being completely lost, losing most of your belongings, and paying too much for a hotel because it is the only one available… is all apart of traveling. Even so, not even Marco can control the traffic of Pisa. He said one thing..”Non tutti I mali vengono per nuocere” or “Not all the Evils come to Harm”.

It is funny how all important things heard in life, do not actually include listening until you are ready. Victor, my old councilor and friend, once told me that the “ the teacher does not appear until the student is ready”. This lesson has begun to show its self to me as I progress through my recent past and as I continue my journey this day not on my bicycle how I want, but soaked in the cold Scottish rain, and my Italian Friend reminded me of this.

I awoke this morning, wet and cold; no appropriate camping grear such as a sleeping pad or sleeping bag due to a miscommunication between Ruben and I. Humorous actually, as the sun set last night we began to put up the tent in the Highlands of Glencoe,and Ruben looked at me and said where is your pad and bag? I said, I thought you were bringing it, I only have one. He smiled as said, “no problem, well at least you have a pillow”. I just laughted because it was true, at least I had a pillow, and a padded bike bag that worked perfect for a sleeping pad, I also had a sheet that we used for the bicycles, and I also had many layers of clothes and Ruben’s down coat (on a Spaniard would think he needed a down jacket in the Scottish summer-and come to find we did). So this morning as we planned our escape from the tent when the rain stopped, I had a thought only for a moment, that I was upset that today again I would not get a bicycle ride in because of the rain. .

”Non tutti I mali vengono per nuocere” replaced this thought as we began to drive and I actually looked up. The sun, only visible for moments in time, would beam pushing the light with a force through the gray and blue clouds. Florescent green land, highlighted the shadowed forest. The bald mountain tops glistened from the rain with a twinkle.

The fog moved with the wind almost evolving from he land of my distant family. Red, blue, green fishing boat popped with vibrant color with the haze of the day. All would not been seen on my bicycle. Yes my head would be down a lot, hiding from the rain.

Staying out of the rain at a hotel or a café would of not given opportunity to wonder through a castle. Seeing Ruben’s reaction at his first castle, the castle from the movie “Highlander”, would of not been possible.
With the rain and not being able to ride, we took time to visit the Village of Fort William. A village adorned with bicycles, because the Mountain Bike World Championships were the week before.

Arriving late to our city of choice on the Isle of Sky, only to realize all rooms were booked…well except for a room, of a old woman that offers her home to tourist, would of not been experienced. We got a real taste of Scottish culture with a real Scottish breakfast, staying in a room with real Scottish decor, and laughs were brought on by being offered tea and home made pastries at midnight.

We were lost in Portman, a village on Skye, and happened upon a Scottish marching band. Following with the other tourists, we were maybe a little too excited. I was armed with camera and tried to capture the moment as we all got a fill of kilts and bag pipes.

All of this ….”Non tutti I mali vengono per nuocere”

(Scottish Face with Jimmie Hats- Pita's I may have spoiled your suprise)

Big Car Little Roads 007, Glencoe, Scotland 16 miles just cruzin

2007-09-12T12:29:00.000-07:00

I asked Ruben to name this Blog, and it fits perfect.

I have come to learn that I enjoy seeing him respond to unusual-alties of his new world. I guess it is the same for him when he sees me discover the Spanish world. Seeing the excitement on my face, the discovery; like a child experiencing a new thing; such as a first roller coater ride, going to the zoo and seeing a real lion, or a first movie in a big theater. Things we take for granted, normal, no-big deal, usual; elements in our world, can be a realm to discovery for another. This discovery can spark imagination, revelation, and re-route the mind map. What matters most is… if as human beings we are willing to make the effort to truly see, feel, share, and experience. My world has become this and I have enjoyed every moment of it, and the people I have met have lead me this way..only because now for the first time in my life my eyes are open.

My arrival at the airport was what I expected…..seeing my two friends, Liz and Ruben with the biggest smiles. Liz, says…. Hi-Yaaaaa with that cheery Scottish accent and gives me the most perfect little giggle; Ruben, smiles and says….hellllooo….as he annunciates the l’s and extends the o’s to unknowingly replicate a “American Hello”. He always adds a tad bit of a Spanish greeting seemingly to remind me that he is Spanish and I need to try to understand him…just a little. They are late, as they had a flat tire and picked up a stray dog that wandered on the motorway. I am over 24 hours late because I missed my plane, but had a geat day and night in Pisa. Ruben said it perfectly,we have a present for you, Lizaaaa, being the social worker that she is, picked up a stray dog on the motorway. No stress, it is all ok, it is time to start our adventure, and it begins with renting a car.

I actually thought it would be good to rent a mid size car, big enough to put two bicycles with the wheels off into the back. Being thrifty that I am, I was tempted to get the euro version of the economy vehicle, and I can tell you that some golf carts seem bigger. Being the American I am, I thought we need something bigger = more safe = in additon to being able to haul more crap than we really need. At first glance, the car was a midsize vehicle, Similar but a little larger than a Honda accord. If you would of seen Rubens reaction, you would of thought he was about to drive a racing school bus. “Wowww, wow, wowwwww, wow, wow”….then something in Spanish. He walked up and down the car, and kept pointing to it and saying, this is a good car. It got better. As he entered the driver’s side, (on the second try only because for some reason the drivers side is where the passenger side is in Europe and the US) sat down, started to play with all the buttons, his eyes were big, he was giggling, kept-on and-on- in Spanish. This car, not practical or necessary for a man like Ruben, was a treat on his holiday and he made me take lots of pictures so he could show his friends back home. He was happy with something so simple in my mind…It made me happy.
I volunteered not to drive at all. #1. I have not driven a stick shift in a few years #2 I still have not mastered the round-about 3# I do not think I could get over my instinct to drive on the right side of the road (this was evident as I rode my bicycle and could not stay off the right side of the road) #4. I need to get work done and driving in the car is the perfect time to read and work on the lap top. #5. I am a pretty scary driver when there is traffic, because I have lived out of a city for too long.

We head back to Liz’s house for the night, to eat her homemade curry, drink, get the bikes ready, and visit. Yes, getting the bikes ready was an adventure. You see Liz has clip peddles and Ruban has no bike shoes, so we opted to place flat peddles on the bike. Try..to place the flat peddles on the bike. One was stuck. We all tried to get it off with evey tool imaginable. Liz suggested we take it to the bike shop; so we did. As we entered this little village bike shop, a old Scotish man…old hand shaking, hunch back man greeted us. I looked at Ruben, I smiled, he smiled and the both started to laugh, We both knew that this man was not going to be able to get the peddle off. He did not, and I felt guilty even watching him fumble around looking like he was goging to have a heart attach any momenet if he exerted any more effort into getting the peddle off. Luckily the old man had a extra crank; so Ruben’s ride got a new crank and peddle.
As we head north to the Isle of Skye, we both became accustomed with Scottish roads. Little, little roads. At some pint they even become one lane with areas to pull over to let the upcoming car pass. I decided that due to my nerves while being a passenger, I should look down, and stay distracted as we wind up and down the highlands, around the most beautiful scenery. I was only aware of the beauty when Ruben began to speak in Spanish how beautiful everything was, or he yelled and pointed, “Take a Picture…It is the most Beauty!”. He went on an on about the beauty.. It almost seemed that his excitement to be in this foreign land, was double more than mine. I smile because I know this excitement extends partly from the Spanish culture to be expressive, and partly Ruben and his ability to know what to say at the moment….how he feels, even if it is in broken English. So I was alerted when we came upon the green rock mountains, bare of all trees, land christened with the most vibrant colorful flora, and surrounded by locks. All of this, with typical Scottish cottages, fishing boats docked at the ports is what I saw if I dared to look up. The bicycle ride that evening before the sun disappeared behind the highlands, just to get on our bikes for the first time, was the ample opportunity to absorb all that I missed because my face was in the computer.
So Look up sometimes with open eyes and you will be amazed.

Cheers,
Katelyn

Off to Scotland

2007-09-12T12:08:00.000-07:00

I leave italy today. I hate to leave, I really love it here. I try to decided if I love Italy better than spain. I stop after a few minutes, I will never have a resolution. Different beauty, different food, different people, different attitude...similar compared to many other european countries, but different enough to love different aspects of each one.

I am nervous... Nervous is the word. I cannot believe I am saying this. I am off to scotland to visit Liz and plan cycling tours for next year. I have placed alot of pressure on myself, and I should. Without pressure, I would not get anything done. I do not want to fail, this is my dream.

I am also nervous because it is the first time in my life I will have a traveling companion for about 2 weeks. Not even my ex-husband and I traveled this long together. Not only a traveling companion, but one that does not speak very good english, a person that I have really only spent about 3 weeks of my life with, and one that does not really ride bicycles; yet is comming along for the long haul as I scale the mountains of the highlands. Yep Ruben has holidays in September and always wanted to see scotland, so why not. He is truly a beautiful person that brings a calm to me, always happy, positive, and has a spirit that is pure. His perspective on life is one of the Mediterranean lifestyle. Opposite of the US set of mind that consumed me at one point of my life, truly made me miserable and engulfed me that I did not even know I was unhappy. He is truly my teacher, I do not think he even knows it. He talks a lot and I listen to his views of life. I told him he is a very intelligent man, he looked at me and laughed.

(Scotish Face)

Yes, not by the traditional since we are accustomed to, no higher education, or high powered job, not a master of the arts, a scholar; he is a man that is a conisour of the spanish hip hop culture, gets paid to work with his hands, but yet is so in tune with his self that the words that come out of his mouth has changed me and made this soon to be doctor become more educated and aware about her life as a human being. I am learning to have a special awareness of myself as a person in the game of life. Yes Ruben will be my friend forever, we promised that one day our children. will play. together. So as I land in scotland, I will have 2 of my most favorite people waiting for me and yes definitely I am in store for an adventure.

My two Italian Friends, Mirandola Spain, Emilia 45k

2007-09-08T08:48:00.001-07:00

I am sitting in a overpriced Hotel in Pisa room getting some work done. The space is about a 5x20 room, bathroom down the hall, and my window overlooks the wall of the building next to where I will stay until early tomorrow morning when I try to catch the plane… this time. This time. I have not had very good luck with the inter-European flight system. The first flight to italy was cancelled and rebooked the next morning, and my flight out of Italy was unfortunately on time…and I was not. The joys of city traffic, interstate construction, and accidents are common in Pisa too. Thank goodness for good friends, perfect strangers really, but nevertheless, have treated me like I was an old pal from elementary school.

Actually Serena and Marco are childhood friends from elementary school. They grew up together in Montiroso, Italy. If you remember my BLOG from the Chicqueterre, Italy; Montiroso is the last village, a beautiful village on the sea-and Marco calls it his sea. This is where I met Marco, this past April, only the first week and a half into my 2-month journey. I must be honest. I actually scoped Marco out as he sat on the beach. Blond hair, light eyes, kacky shorts, nike shoes- I thought American. At this point during my travels, I found comfort in being around other travelers; not the hoards of early 20 something foreign exchange student action obnoxious, but “older” single travelers. So I sat down, on my beach towel within a good distance from him. After a while, I asked him if he knew where the restrooms were. As he spoke, I knew he was not American. After chatting a bit I found that Marco is actually a local, well- was a local until he moved to a small city named Mirandola north of Bologna. We spent the evening chatting about normal everyday life in our countries. A mechanical engineer who spends his week days perfecting dialysis machines, and his weekends are spent returning home to his family’s summer home on the sea. At this time at his job, he was responsible for translating English documents to Italian. He told me it was nice to actually speak English and work on his pronunciation. He invited me to dinner, so I had dinner that evening. He taught me about the local food, wine, and lemon liquor that originated the south and if you remember is in that movie “Under the Tuscon Sun.”. That evening we departed, exchanged emails, and of course I gave him my BLOG. Over the past few months after I left Montorosso, Marco continued to read my BLOG and we began to send email messages ever so often. So when I knew I was going to Italy, I knew that I should only ask if I cold take him out to dinner this time; if he was close to Florence.

He was not in Florence, but offered to meet me in Bologna, about 45 minutes from his home. He then invited me to come to is home for a couple days to ride my bicycle while he was at work; then we could visit in the evening, and he could take me to Pisa in the morning to catch my flight. I met Marco in Bologna and got the pleasure of meeting Serena. I natural beautiful Itallian, stong,smart, motivated, warm spirited, and so happens has the best smile on a woman that I have seen in a long time. SelenaShe made us dinner, a unique pasta (well to me, was not tomotoe based) , with a tomotoe, tuna, and montzerella salad. She and Marco were not so impressed, but I told then that this was absolutly wonderful. In america, when one makes pasta, it usually includes opening up a can or jar of "something". All fresh ingrediance, with time; all is good.

Mirandola located in the Italian planes, reminds me a lot of the planes of Wyoming and Colorado. It even smells like it; however this place smells of pig, not cow. If you can get past the smell, this is a perfect place to spin out your legs after 6 days straight of riding up Spanish mountains or tuscun hills. Flat and Straight. Marco warned me “that his home did not have the beauty Tuscany or the cost”. I told him it was perfect and I see beauty in all lands. The barns are made of stone..

The towers show the wealth of the ancient families ....
The green still continues here in the north...

On my way on the Emilia, the old ancient road to Rome.. Beautiful.

Amore Katelyn

My Tuscany.. 60k 3.5 hrs Florence

2007-09-08T01:00:00.000-07:00

I finally made it to my Tuscany. Twenty four hours of traveling, one cancelled plain, a reseched flight the next day, 4-one hour bus rides, a two hour nights rest in a over priced hotel room, 5 taxi rides, 4 train rides, a awesome dinner at "4 cats" a resurant in Barcelona where Picasso frequented, Increments of sleep for maybe a total of 4 hours.. All of this seems bad, but I could not imagine where and how things would of turned out if I had not met a US Army Captain that is stationed in Pisa and happened to be on the same flight. Captain D., took care of it all with his fluent Italian and specialty in transportation. He says..no problem when I thank him for helping me. He says..he does things to bring good Karma... He needs it when he goes south, and this does not mean southern italy... But Iraq.

I am here, loaded on caffeine. All I want to do is get on my bike before the sun leaves tuscany. I find a hostel last minute in a area close to florence, about 30k....a perfect bike ride. Travonellie, a pituresk village, tuesday night festival in the town square, Thursday market, quaint cafe's and hustling bars...Yes, Perfect. I almost feel guilty because I have realized I am close to the Fasoritta Bassetto, I should be there, a place that I said at one time...a place I could in the future call home. However, I need to cycle new roads if I want to plan a cycling tour of wine country. I have covered all the tiny paved roads that wind up and down the tuscany county side in the vicinity of the Bassetto. I have seen the southern region, around Siena. I need to go north now, there is more beauty to see.

Yes, ride I did. I got a taste of my tuscany last night and today. The crisp cold air cools my warm skin perfectly. I can feel fall comming here, not like back in Tennessee. I am spoiled this time, in the Chanti wine region, I see grapes. The real grapes. Miles and miles of rows that sprawl as far as the eye can see. Castles, Farms, and villages are scattered among the green. My legs burn as I head to Firenze, or Florence we Americans call it, Last night's ride got to me. Florence is directly north on a small highway- with traffic. I plan my route with a local Italian man that works at the hostel. I tell him I want to go on little roads. I tell him I want to add about 25-30k to the direct route to florence, for a total of 60k. He keeps steering me away from this and only says, "there is nothing to see there, except for the country side". "Yes, good I say, this is what I want." "But it is very steep and you will be in the middle of no where", he continues. Yes, Perfect I say. For some reason I do not think people get me. I have made it a general rule, if someone tells me not to go somewhere, then this is exactly where I should go.... This took me to a village called IMPRULA.... I arrive at about 2 and find a village in fiesta. I am hungy and find a little returaunt called OSTERIA DEL pESCE lO zIRO with people sitting on the patio. I ask for a pastry and find they are closed. The owner looks at me and smiles, and waves for me to come in. She points at the case and I see two pies. As always I ask her what is her favorite. A giggle, this is what I always get. Generally people are happy that I would even ask, but my friend does not know what I am saying. She looks at me again, takes her bare hands, and takes one piece of each pie, puts them on a plate, and gives me a water. I smile and think, "she does not actually think I need all this". I reach in my bag a pay her, but she refuses and motions me to sit. She returns with a business card, smiles, and then says ciao as she leaves. I know when I do my tour of Tuscany, this will be a stop where we will have pie. I find Firenze, a beautiful city, a river, plenty to see and buy. I coast on my bicycle, one foot clipped in, the other dangles and pushes as if I am on a scooter. I wind around people as I window shop. My way is much faster, but can be kinda tricky balancing on the cobbles and dodging spastic walking people.. People...so many people. Yes a city and I am here only 3 hours before I have had enough and take the bus back to the village.

, Kateyn

A spanish Girl Friend, Montserratt to Terrassa Spain 50k 2.5 hrs

2007-09-06T09:11:00.000-07:00

I squeeze in one more bike ride and found myself above the clouds a ride to the east of Montserratt to a town call TArrassa. I also get to see more of my favorite cute spanish cow signs.

I also got to spend last night with Caroll, rubens room mate. We had a girls night because ruben left to go work on the train. Caroll, a traditional spanish beauty, petite, brown lovely eyes, and long wavy hair speaks better english than she thinks. Raised in a resort town in the south of spain, she has become more familiar with english than most spanish people. We decide to make a light dinner and begin to get to know each other.I tell her that I am glad Ruben went to work so we may get to know each other. I tell her that I have not met many local girls. It seems that they travel in packs and are not as friendly as the men. Obviously the men have another agenda. They also get straight to the point... Are you married, do you have boyfriend,-even ask if I have kids.. So many times I have heard this- I can recognize these questions in spaish and itallian.. I stick out like a score thumb here, a blondie, different. I was even told I look exotic by 2 drop dead gorgious spanish women on the bus...exotic is different..so I guess here I am something I lever considered myself as even close to.. Caroll seems pleased that I shared with her that I enjoy her company. She begins to tell me how she came to be ruben's roomate..Two months ago she decided to leave her long term boyfriend. She is learning to become herself again, finding what she likes, and persuring her dream of finding a job that uses her eduction. We are siilar in many ways, even how we thinks. Culture does not define a strong woman. She reminds me Of people..how different we are, but how similar we can become when it comes to finding what makes one happy. It is simple really. Maybe slightly different depending on the time of ones life,culture, or environment. You take it away..all the layers and I think most people want acceptance of ones self, to love and to be loved. Yes I think it is that simple. The question is....how do you find it, or is it to be found....

The real life..or what I know it to be... Monseratt Spain 50k...to long to know the time

2007-09-04T13:21:00.000-07:00

I cannot believe this is the first day that I have ridden my bicycle. I have been here 7 days and I finally took off this evening to explore the beautiful mountains and spanish country side. I have spend more time on the beach laying around then I have actually being on my bicycle.I find new small routs that pass stone farm houses that are covered in Ivy. I catch glimpses of the stone mountain of Montserrattt in the horizon. I pass local people on the street, I smile as they gaze at this white girl on her bicycle....a 39k warm up. All of this getting my legs and lungs ready before I tackle the 10K climb up the Montserrattt mountain. Yes more switch backs. This would not be europe if I did not FIND switch backs at least a few times a week.

On my ride I keep thinking to my self that it feels different this time. I cannot place it. It is not that the excitement has worn off, or that I do not appreciate this experience. I guess a feeling of reality and responsibility has found its way back into my life. I giggle, but do not laugh so hard that I snort..a recient usual occurance of mine....I wonder why...My days consist of waking up early, getting work done before everyone else starts to stir. I do some sort of exercise- a jog, hiking, a bike ride or climbing; then I live life.....a Kinda normal life.

Like going to the grocery store. Last time I went to the grocery store, Ruben escorted me around making sure I had everything figured out. I got it this time..... Weigh the fruit before you check out or you will piss off a spanish cashier(normally a she..and she will huff, roll her eyes and take off to weigh the produce mumbling something not pleasant); eggs, milk, and cheese are not necessary in the same location, agua con gas has carbonation and agua sin gas does not have carbonation; and canned meat has it own isle... if I liked canned meat- I would know where to find it....
Laundry..something I DID NOT DO ON A NORMAL BASIS my last trip (UNLESS YOU CONSIDER WASHING YOUR UNDERwear in the sink). I did laundry. Different..... You hang your clothes to dry outside the balcony. I learned that it is best to put two clothes pins on your underwear or you will find your undies 4 stories down on the street.

I make dinner for Ruben and 6 of his friends. It is my turn to cook and I decide on a vegetable lasagna with rocotta and a tomatoe sauce, something the spanish are not accustomed to. Nevertheless, I think they liked it, along with a katelyn style peach cobbler cake with a hard cream spread in between the biscuits made from french crepe mix..not bisquick.

So..I guess I feel like I am living not traveling this time, a weird feeling nonthe less. I find myself working on my laptop on trains, not staring at the foreign beauty. My goal for the day is to get 5 hours of work done, not getting a 5 hour ride in. I choose this... To bring work into my life as I travel to places where most people do not check their email every hour, or stop at a cafe to finish up meeting notes, or write a research proposal. Before the sun rises,I think about work nd work.... What I should be thinking about, because this is what pays the bills, not wondering around europe. Reality..I guess I love my new reality. It beats spending 10 hours a day in a cubicle, in a stuffy office, drinking stale coffee, counting the minutes till lunch. Now I Sit at a cafe with the background of spanish people talking, the music at the cafe is a mixture of "american top 40" and traditional spanish flamingo. I drink the best cafe con leche with real sugar, not splenda. Snack on home make tapas, not snack packs and granola bars.

Yes..this is my office and I love it...
Amor,
Katleyn

Another trecking adventure, Calmontgo Beach in Las Cala Spain

2007-08-29T08:26:00.000-07:00

August29
I knew I was in trouble when Ruben asked if I had good shoes. The last time he asked me this, I found myself climbing on all 4s without any gear, up the mountain of Montseratt, dangling over thousands of feet of exposure…..With him saying “caution” over and over again…

This day he wants to take me to a beautiful beach that is about 2 hrs from his home. Calmontgo’ beach in Las Cala, Spain is the destination for the night and the next day until we leave for Barcelona to catch the train to Switzerland where I will be his guest as he works the night train. I ask if I should bring my bicycle and he said no….we take the hiking route to the beach. Ok..so I really knew I was about to embark on another adventure.

Like most places on the cost of the Mediterranean, it is developed for tourist. American food, trinkets, snorkeling, paddle boats, disco tecka’s, fru-fru drinks with little umbrella’s, and too many tourists… Ruben gets enough of tourists on the train; he prefers places with no people. So if you can imagine you must go where a car or train will take you, a place that most people would not find because it is not meant to be found.

Caution…Caution… the fimilar words with the Spanish accent is what I heard as we begin the hike (with my good shoes)- to only look at a possible camping spot. 30 minutes this way, we go to investigate if we can camp at the “house on the beach”, then we will return by hiking back 30 minutes, eat dinner, and get the gear, and then return by hiking another 30 minutes to the camping place that may be available…all in the dark…. Up and down a rocky path, that narrows along the cliff to expose a 600 ft drop. I am on 4’s again, balancing grasping for dear life on portions of the trail. Occasionally, Ruben looks back and says,”Are you ok?”. I just say, “bien”…what else could I say? I look up and Ruben is walking perfectly erect, arms crossed, not even out to balance. I just giggle because I termed him the Spanish Mountain Goat during our last hiking adventure and it remains true this night as we walk in the dark with light from our headlamps and the full moon..

We reach the house on the beach… Well not what I expected, but much cooler. It is actually an old war bunker from the Spanish War. A perfect and appropriate location for what Ruben termed the “War of the Mosquitoes”-and can I say Spanish mosquitoes apparently prefer Spanish blood compared to American. Nonetheless, a perfect place to remain dry, and awake early the next day, close to a favorite swimming place of Ruben’s.

I just thought I was going to lay around on the rock beach and occasionally take a dip in the sea to cool myself, but I was surprised with flippers and a snorkel. He actually told me the night before, but I guess I did not understand until he whipped them out of his bag. I just thought he wanted to swim. You see most of our conversations is in broken English with charades and sound effects mingled in place of the “missing” words…so sometimes we get things a little mixed up. Anyways… Looks like when I was on the computer in the village he went to the store so I could see the “little fish”.

So another day of getting my work done while sunning myself in the sun; seeing the Mediterranean; swimming with little fish; hiking along a gorgeous cliff edge; and learning more about life from my Spanish friend. I guess the only bad part is the mosquitoe bites that continue to itch. I guess..no… I know I am a lucky girl….

Different this time, Montseratt, Spain. Swim and a River Run

2007-08-29T08:11:00.000-07:00

August 28th-

It is different this time.. When I arrive I will have familiar faces waiting for me at the airport, I have a plan, a goal. I will not wonder this time, bike bag and bicycle with me at all times. Spontaneous, go as I feel, eat when I am hungy, sleep when I am tired, move when I have had enough; was the way I lived for two months when I was here before. This time, I have work to do, 25 hours a week, projects to be completed, email’s to answer and teleconferences to dial into. I have friends with an itinerary, a mission to plan routes for next year’s cycling tours. So I find myself with a little more stress that all this will not go as smoothly as I planned. I have prepaired..of course. Finding the latest technology for communication and remote work has become a kind of hobby of mine. Gadgets.. I amaze people when I pull them out at café’s and on the train’s bar car. It is fun to try to explain to them what I am doing…interesting actually because they do not speak very good English and it has not changed that I do not speak anything but good English….well that really depends of who you ask. I think, “I am lucky that Europe is even more “connected” than the states”.

As I go to take a morning jog by the river, in the mountains, at the place I called Heaven. I wind up and down the familiar narrowed cobbled streets of monissori de montseratte, look towards the breathtaking mountains. I remember where the bank is, where I can get on the internet, where I can get my café con leche, and where to buy the fresh produce. I pass familiar faces that smile, I stop and they greet me with the typical Spanish greetings and besicos (little kisses) on each cheek. I am the American girl, with her bicycle, the sport woman of Ruben.

Today, I have awaken early with the sun to begin work; writing policy, populating spreadsheets, and analyzing data. After a few hours,Ruben’s roommate Caroll has joined me at the kitchen table for morning tea, tostada, and apple spread that she has made herself. She comments that she loves the apple mint leaves that my grandmother grew and dried for Ruben. We drink them in our morning tea as I speak of my country and show her pictures of the Smokey mountains.

It is hot here in Spain, but not as hot as the southern Tennessee hot humid climate. Actaully, it feels perfect. Cool breeze, sun that warms the skin, and the smell of fresh air that is brought by the mountains. I should get back my Spanish tan in no time, especially since I am told by Ruben that his favorite summer activity is swimming. Today, this afternoon, he takes me to a remote swimming hole that is fed by a brisk mountains stream.

We scale down a small rocky cliff. Difficult enough that he must go before me, place my feet, and spot me as I maneuver to stability. I find a beautiful place, he even mentions that it is not as beautiful as most..but I think this is more than beautiful of what I have seen in all my life. Purple flowers accent the tiered shelved rock layers of the stream; green algae creates padding if you fancy a slide down to the pool that is deep enough to jump into from the cliff ledge. We swim, sun, eat a picnic lunch, and I work a little. I catch him sleeping, on his towel, working on his Spanish tan….something he can care less about, he is just exhausted from working on the train during tourist season. He told me that last month he had to work 320 hours; sleeping for a few hours, for days at a time. He apologizes because he is tired and falls asleep, but then I remind him that it is ok, because I need time to work.

So I can tell this time, these memories of Europe will be different, a slower pace, my priorties are different, not my bicycle this time, but getting my work done so I can enjoy my friends and bicycle. The real life…. If I dare to even call it this with out you all rolling your eyes at me. I guess my life is what I have made it..and this is it. Perfect....

Amor

Life that takes your Breath Away, Off to Europe

2007-08-29T08:02:00.000-07:00

August 26,2007

I never thought I would be ecstatic that my flight was delayed. Usually, once you hear the announcement you have an instantaneous overwhelming feeling of panic… Will I make my connection? Will I have to spend the night in the airport sleeping on the floor, eating a 15 dollar sandwich, and consuming 7 dollar beers at the bar with other stranded travelers. However, as I walked through the airport doors, back pack strapped full with the weight bearing heavy on my hips, mobile office strapped around one shoulder positioned in the front of me, and bicycle perfectly situated in Grandma and I’s home made bike bag… I saw him and so being delayed was the best thing that could happen.

Grin on his face… I did a triple take…… disbelief really. You see I am not really accustomed to surprises. I am the first one to surprise, but the last one to receive. Farmer, Jeff, or nick name Pita…(well one half of pita, our buddy Mark is the other half of pita and I am the hummus, they call me Chick Pea which originated on our trip to Ashville, North Carolina..a long story in its self ) had driven from his home in Knoxville, Tennessee, about 2 ½ hours away, to see me off on my trip.

A man, in some ways that has a spirit that is allot like mine. So when I found out that my flight was delayed even longer, I smiled because that meant more time to with him.

After a two-hour delay, I finally board the plane. I begin to reflect on why I am sad to leave but then happy to leave. I can tell you that I am happy, happy with my new life, happy with my new job, happy to be with my family, happy that I get to ride my bicycle almost every day, happy that the people that have been brought into my life are good, beautiful people. Beautiful people that take my breath away because of their sincere hearts. There was a time in my recent past when all this was shadowed. Shadowed by a feeling because of a bad time in my life that was brought on by actions of people or a person that was not beautiful. I felt that I could never trust, believe, live a happy life. Now this is fading.

Why leave this? But then I remember what Farmer told me, a quote that he felt I needed to hear. He said, “Life is not about the breaths you take, but the moments that take your breath away”. In this next month I go to have my breath taken away. I go to feel, see, and live things that most people will never get the opportunity to experience. I get to continue a dream of making my bicycle and traveling part of my life…and I will share it with you as best as I can.

My River, Ocoee River, Benton Tennessee, Cherokee National Forest- I do it all here

2007-08-16T14:22:00.000-07:00

Why is it that a place, a mere location on a map, a patch of land that is traveled to by familiar roads, can make ones stomach all tied up in knots? How can a smell of a lost scent reawaken memories that were hidden deep in you mind and lost in your heart? Even the feel of a breeze against your skin can stimulate memories of a touch.

Memories… some good and some bad. Some stay and some run from them. The question is are you actually running away completely, will “it” reemerge in a different form, years down the road? I question this because of conversations with two close friends, both contemplating running or hiding, contemplating not going, or going far away, all in attempts to remove any pain, suppress any memory of times lived in the past.

I think it is very “human” to do this. Self perseverance- a state of emotional homeostasis is what we seek. I too have struggled with this all my life, however have decided not to let this reaction to life, rule my life. I plan to face head on what ever my body is telling me to avoid.

My River, is this. A place that was thought to bring so much happiness in my past; but come to find is also tied to a lot of “heart ache”. I did not even realize it until I was doing the drive to the Ocoee River that is nestled in the Cherokee National forest, http://www.fs.fed.us/r8/ocoee/that Friday night a couple of months ago. Stomach in knots for no present reason….well until I started to ponder why my body would react this way. I realize I came that weekend and many other weekends after that, to face my past, create new memories and return to a place that stole my heart that summer of my sophomore year of college when I was a young woman only 19 years old.

Ironically, I found this place because I was running. I wanted to start fresh, go where no one knew me, start over. I decided to pack my little ford escort with camping equipment, summer clothes, and a bathing suit. Not knowing what was ahead of me, not knowing much about the out doors, what it was like to live in a tent outside, never knowing the pain of chiggers and mosquitoes bites, poison ivy, and river rot all at the same time, and having no clue about whitewater and how to steer a raft down the river. A river guide is what I became, I lived in a tent behind a outpost that housed a dozen of others. People from all walks of life, who for some reason kept finding themselves back here at this place every summer.

As I drove up the Gorge, I smelled the pine mixed with fumes from chop busses hauling rafters to the put in.
My mind wanders back to that moment when I remember that day, a hazy day, in the evening, cool breeze, with the view of canyon on all sides of me. Forest and river is all that I saw. I felt as if I was the only one there, my river. A warmth, a genuine love of nature put its mark on me. This was the moment, the distinct point in time that I can find that changed me. Made that city girl into this country girl that likes the simple life; that needs to be outside. A women that prefers a dirt trail, a raging river, or open field, wildflowers; not the mall, a museum, a fancy restaurant, a dozen roses. This woman can now be found riding her mountain bike on miles of trails at the White Water Center that was once the location of the 96 Olympics for white water events.

I can also be found riding up the 7-mile climb of Chilhowee mountain pass on my road bike, a place the Cherokee Indians named as the “Place for King Fisher” and was also the high look out point for the confederate army during the civil war.

I can be found in my kayak, hiking trails to trout fed streams, and snoozing on a blanket under a tree as good as I would in my own bed. I make new friends and run into old ones. I pass the place where I kissed my first love. I sit at the picnic table where my ex-husband and I had a picnic lunch after a bike race. I returned and sleep at the place where I thought I found my sole mate.
So over the past couple months each time I returned, I have created new memories, remember old ones, some good and some bad…but what matter most is- I did not let the bad ones stop me from finding my River again.

Road Trip Destination Appalachia- Ocoee River- Middle section& Tsali North Carolina 16 miles 2.5 hours

2007-08-14T17:20:00.000-07:00

Have you had that thought as you go to the carwash when you think..”I wonder if I have enough quarters to get this clean and get the soap off”. Should I go to the ATM and get more cash, or wonder if the guy next to me can change a 20? You think..”well I guess I will try it and figure out later what to do if I have soap left on the car. I have had this conversation with myself many times, because a majority of the time car washing for me is spontaneous -not planned.

I actually went through this conversation today with myself, but not about washing my car…it was about washing myself.

A shower, something that I take for granted and tell you the truth I could not really care if I have one every day or even every other day. I guess you can call me a closet hippy. Mom told me I was always a dirty kid. I would go to the beach, sand box, grass area and throw myself down and roll around till I was absolutely covered in filth. She said I took great pride in my food art creations that I molded with my hands and that usually made it to the floor to feed my childhood dog Clancy. As a adult I know better then to buy white clothes, and I have learned that most of the time I have a collection of food on my face and remnants stashed on my clothes; majority of the time food can actually be found down my shirt and in my hair. When I go biking I come back looking the filthiest. Mud on my face, energy gel smeared on my jersey, chain ring grease all over my legs, some type of bodily fluid dried and crusted on my face because I have not mastered the snot rocket or loggie spit.

Today is not different I need a shower, really need one for multiple reason. One being that I am on a 10 day adventure of the Appalachian mountains range

and so far half way through my road trip, my days have consisted of me traveling around to the Ocoee river

and Nantahala river. Me, Cleo, and Snickers have been car camping, crashing on friends couches and raft outposts; our days are filled with kayaking, biking, going for runs, doing yoga, working on my laptop, all in 100 degree hot humid weather. They hang out on their leashes in the shade as I play and work hard for a living.

One other reason for needing a shower is the fact that I have somehow acquired poison IVY that has made its self from my hand- to forearm- to leg- and who know what next? Maybe face tomorrow? I am told I need to take a shower to get the oil off.

So as I looked at the shower at the Nantahla Outdoor Center’s Outpost, there is actually a little box, a change machine, and a sign that states one minute of water for one quarter. I have 2 quarters this means 1 minute for washing and one minute for rinsing. “ What will I do if I do not get all the soap off. Ohhhh welll. I would not change a thing being here covered in poison ivy, filthy from the mud, dirt, and sweat for the 100 degree weather, and about to take my first 2 minute shower ever…. all good because If not -I would not of had all these awesome days like being….

On the Ocoee river with Dub, a graduate student that summers as a raft guide; graciously offered to be my Kayak buddy down the class IV Ocoee River that was home for me 8 years ago.

Now it scares me….really scares me. I actually shake, my stomach gets in knots, and multiple times I considered taking my kayak up the gorge and just say “forget this!” I do not know if it is because I have not been here for the last 8 years, or if it is because I am getting older and wiser and I can see my life flash before my eyes alot easier. However that day on the river was a good day. I made one combat roll (this means I flipped over, not on purpose, and flipped upright on purpose) only swam one time (this means I flipped over, not on purpose, tried and failed to flip upright, and then ejected myself out of my boat to swim the rapids while trying to hold onto my kayak and paddle all while tring to swallow as little water as possible), and did a boof move (I have no idea how to describe it, but gave myself definite style points). So I was so happy to make it down the 5 mile stretch of river.. without bloodying my face, losing a shoe or paddle, with limited cussing, and most importantly having such a good time that I may have refound my passion for white water.

I would also not of had such a wonderful day with Debbie Sue and Mark as we rode Tsali Mountain Bike Train System http://www.mtbikewnc.com/trailheads/tsali.html, one of my top 5 trails of all time.
This place has alot of good memories, my hunny-moon was actually at this place. I can remember the excitement of a beginning with my husband, doing what we both loved to do, riding fast on the single track that covers about 40 miles of trails around Fontana Lake.

So being back here brings a since of sadness that he is not here with me to enjoy a place we both loved so much, but instead my new life has brought meeting a wonderful friend like Debbie Sue. She would not be in my life- this day would not of come unless he was not my husband anymore. Giving, thoughtful, strong, genuine woman that has been brought into my life under ironic circumstances.

So I reflect on this; how I came to find my new friend. I find myself imagining my ex-husband peddling in front of me, determined to no be passed by me, becoming irritated that I was on his wheel, and remind myself that things are better this way, remind myself I am happy this way.

This way….. Remind myself that I am happy this way. I am happy to be a girl that is a little dirty, does not plan simple common sence everyday things, seems to find herself being in the wrong places that end up making her itchy, a women that is not phased because she locked her keys in the ignition of her running car that was parked in the Walmart parking lot with her dogs trapped inside (yes did this yesterday and two wonderful women helped me),

a person that is hooked on a adrenalin rush from going too fast on her bicycle or kayaking rivers that she probably should not be on, a adult that can act like an "adult" or behave like a child...but no matter what knows how to have fun. I am learning to not appologize for me anymore... becuase this is me.

amore

Katelyn

4. I found my laugh again, Bent Creek Trail, Pisgah National Forest, North Carolina: miles: who knows time: no idea either

2007-08-09T13:38:00.000-07:00

I guess I could be considered a Tom Boy. What does this really mean anyway? As a kid I remembered I liked to play sports, get dirty, and race the boys. I was the only girl on a all boy’s select soccer team; likewise made a lot of people question and laugh at why “the bull” would want to be a football cheer leader her senior year. On the other hand, as a kid I loved to play house, apply makeup to my little brother, and remember how excited I was to wear my first pair of pantyhose. As an adult, I still struggle with a balance of tom boy vs. girly girl. I go through phases where I am really into having nice clothes, perfect nails, highlighted hair; and throw myself into domestic activities like knitting, cooking food, an gossiping with the girls. A month later, my nails will be ripped off, I could care less with what I have on, my hair never leaves a pony tail, and I find myself in the company of men usually with a saddle between my legs.

Not by preference really, but I realize as I get older women that play outside are hard to find, especially for multi day adventures. I guess women are still the ones to stay home with the kids why the dad goes and play.

This time in my life, I am in the tomboy phase. I feel like one of the boys this weekend as I find myself riding mountain bikes covered in mud,

joking around,

and drinking beer with the boys.

No deep conversations, no talk of how hot Justin Timerlake is, no hugging, I am not getting advise on what I should wear to dinner and I have not even looked in the mirror. Just riding and laughing.

As I ride with my friends, mark and Farmer, we are laughing. As we eat and drink we are laughing, When we are in the car, we are laughing, Dancing-laughing. Listening to music-laughing. Walking through crowds- laughing. Lauging so much that my face hurts.. my abs feel like I have done a million sit-ups.

I reflect on all this laughing I am doing, as I ride through the lush forest of the Pisgah National Forest. http://ncnatural.com/NCUSFS/Pisgah/So green, drafts of cool air chill my wet skin, mud splatters on my face and legs and I smile because I like it.

Laughing is something for a long time that I was unable to do. I remember the first time that I caught myself laughing during a sad point in my life. My grandmother had come to Cheyenne to visit me. We were taking a walk around the lake and I just had asked her that if I left my husband would she come and stay with me. In the middle of this it seems a family of birds did not like that we were walking by. They started dive bombing our heads, we both started running, covering our heads, dogs in tow, laughing, the birds continue to follow us, dive bombing, squawking…. It lasted for minutes. As this event settled, I distinctly remember being happy that she was there with me, that I was laughing; but then sadden that I could not recall in a long time when I had laughed at all…….

So this weekend, filled with laughing, I am reminded how better my life is..now that I am laughing.

2007-08-08T08:38:00.000-07:00

Bellchere Music Festival, Ashville North Carolina

2007-08-07T15:37:00.000-07:00

I look at things differently now; my life is different now….. no life is the same but the way I view life is different and people have taught me this...

People watching, I have always been a fan of the sport, but was never so attentive until my trip to Europe. I had a mere mission to understand things differently, change my paradigm of life, and create more options. A quest to find what story could be told, what puzzle would be put together by immersing myself in the music, language, food, and art of a culture.. the people. As I stepped off the plane onto Tennessee concrete, that afternoon after traveling 20 straight hours, I made a promise that my new found passion would not disappear but evolve as I emerge into a new life in the south east. I knew I did not have to travel half way across the world to learn from foreign people, I had a wealth of unique culture at my finger tips.

I find myself this weekend in good company …. Two southern born and raised, home grown fellas, Mark and Jeff, have invited me to join them for weekend days full of mountain bike riding and evenings filled with a music festival that is taking place in Ashville, North Carolina http://www.exploreasheville.com/index.aspx in the heart of the Appalachian mountains. I ask my friends to define the Appalachian culture as they see it, growing up on the outskirts of this way of life Mark answered instantly…”It means starting everything with …” momma says”……I can see it. I sense this in the southern culture, and maybe especially the Appalachian culture as it seems to be deep rooted in family. So I guess what mamma says is best. That is.... what my momma says is always best.....
I have more to learn from Bellchere, the festival located downtown Ashville that has given reason to close the streets of this small city that is nestled in the Appalachian Mountains. Temporary stages, beer stands, food vendors, and artist selling their creations take over the streets that would normally give passage to the “city” life.
Ashville, or what I remember from a previous visit, is defined by the artist community, blue grass music, and vegetarian food. A unique culture defined by mountain life, a movement of people searching for the natural life; their ancestry is spanning back to Scottish immigrants that were pushed to the mountains. Poor people that adapted to their environment; these people have a very unique culture

Music is an obvious defining component of any culture, and is especially evident at a music festival. Belchere, has a venue of all music from folk and bluegrass to techno, southern rock and blues. What I find interesting is the prominent feel of blue grass; this music is rooted in the young. I am almost taken back by two young ladies, with an outward appearance of what could be unfairly defined as “Hippies”, embracing the traditional bluegrass instrument that for me is normally associated with older mountain men finessing the stands. However, their petite hands gracefully manipulate the instrument to accompany their perfect harmony.

I assume the traditional Scottish dance was taken, manipulated, and adapted to fit the needs of the people hundreds of years ago. I see hints of the traditional dance as I watch a child and her mother “clog” dance in perfect accord to a bluegrass band that is performing on a small stage.

You can tell a lot about people by the food they eat and prepare. It is evident in grocery stores as you scan the carts of what people plan to purchase and can also be discovered at local festivals. Apple pie pilled high smothered in what appears to be camel sauce. I do not think you can get any more southern then this. My mouth begins to water as I stop and hesitate ..hmmm…. it would surely spoil my dinner.

One other thing distinctly southern is Church. Yes there are such things as snake handling churches around these parts. With any festival, a group of people, a gathering of the saved or unsaved; here in the south, the Bible belt, we have those extreme Christian groups that believe the forceful hand of God is the most effective. Crowds gather, protest against what this extreme Christian is saying. Condemning these people, not knowing their hearts, judging, slandering what Jesus was all about. I am instantly sadden, because being a Christian myself I know that this mere person with his forceful antics is turning all that is good about Christianity into a circus.
People amuses me, I could stay here all day a learn, absorb life, learn about myself, and reflect of the world as I see it through my new eyes.

Girls Best Friend,Hamilton Creek, 11 miles 1hr 20 min

2007-07-27T13:57:00.000-07:00

Today I am taking an adventure at a place that has been considered “home” since I started to ride mountain bikes. I started riding the trails at Hamilton Creek when I was in junior high school. My basket ball coach thought I need to lose weight so “the bull ,as I was called back then, would be a little quicker on her toes…. So he talked me into riding for exercise thus-this is when the monster was created. Just for information sake, I did not end up losing any weight..I just ate more. Anyway, now 14 years later I have returned to live very close to the trail where it all began…….

As I ride my mountain bike, I am by myself; no other person around. However I am not alone. I actually feel like I have all that I will ever need in life. I have my bike, a smile, and cleo running in front of me. She is been there with me, riding, cross county skiing, rock climbing, running, swimming, kayaking, riding in the car, playing ball in the yard, and giving me kisses when I did not want them. I think back when snickers, her mother would have been with us. Going for a ride, always slower and behind…but there with us. Today I left snickers to sit in the Air Conditioning, because a 14-year-old dog would not make the 11-mile mountain bike ride, in the summer, in the south. I begin to think about my girls and how they have always been with me.

Snickers was originally my little brother’s dog. We got her when I was 15. A little short for an “American” Jack Russel, I assure you she is the master mouse catcher that has ever claimed the name of the breed. I went from being snicker’s sister to her momma when I was 21. She came to live with me in my apartment in Bowling Green Kentucky. It seemed that she tried to beat up my brother’s 1 year old pit bull…and the pit bull won. So this is how the many years of friendship and vet bills came to pass. I think we are a lot alike, me and snickers. She is a funny little dog that likes to play and make you happy. She is an emotional creature, with a heart of gold, very intune with people’s feelings. We both make funny little faces and interesting sound effects… and we both love chocolate. Like me, she takes up too much space in the bed, due to her pattern of sleeping horizontal with her little paws stretched out. Sometime we both get too excited and yet can both relax to the point where we can sleep pretty much anywhere. I have a backpack that is actually a front pack that I can carry her in. This has come in handy during our roller blading and cross-country ski trips. After 3 miles or so she gets a little tired and asks to be picked up for maybe a 15 minute break . I slam her in and off we go until she gets squirmy…put her down again and she is good to go for a few more miles until the next rest break. As you can imagine we get lots of triple takes.

Cleo, a eight year old Jack Russel, has been on many adventures. The dog with 9 lives has jumped out the car window while driving ( because she had to go pee) she has been hit my a car, she electrocuted herself by chewing on a lamp cord, her foot has been slammed in the trunk door and, she has fallen down a 15 foot ravine while we were hiking and well… you can say she has had many other incidents that have resulted in many more vet bills. She is “ball crazy”, loves to swim, likes to sleep under the blankets, needs attention, is jealous of her mother, like to have her belly scratched, loves to drink the bath tub water, thinks she is a big dog, and is an absolute beauty with those droppy brown puppy-dog eyes.
Both can sense when I am sad.. they come and comfort me and kiss me on the hand. Snickers will scratch at my leg so I would but her in my lap. They have been there when I was all alone. When I was 1200 miles from my family and when my ex-husband left- left to go live somewhere else, I was alone in our big house. I would be scared and put the girls in the bed with me. With them I did not feel alone. I had family with me. It broke my heart to but them on the airplane last October to go live with me family in Tennessee. I was afraid that my ex-husband would insist on taking one of them, a right he had, but I knew I could never separate a mother and daughter. So now I have my girls back, we are on a new adventure. Me and the girls will have a good time and I will have them with me everywhere possible.

A beautiful Woman, Robin Munis

2007-07-27T13:46:00.000-07:00

http://www.wyomingnews.com/articles/2007/07/15/featured_story/01top_07-15-07.txt

Writers block… never had a problem is my life knowing what to say. If anything, I have too much to say never taking he time to listen. For weeks I had something I wanted to say, to share, to write, but could not make myself sit down and actually do it. Something in my life was causing me to keep so absolutely busy or distracted that I was not taking the time to do the one thing in my life that has reunited me with a long lost gift of creativity. But today I have the familiar overwhelming need to write you- to share what I have to say. Not about my bicycle- but share about a woman- a woman that is now gone.

I went numb. I felt as I was floating on the ceiling and looking down at my self sitting on a couch- at a rafting outpost- located in the Cherokee National Forest. My mind was stripped from my body searching for a sense of reality. Am I imagining this? Am I high? Am I dreaming? Did I read this right? I read again, a email that was sent from a friend in Wyoming. Yes, I read this right. Instantly every orifice on my body that could release moisture was stimulated. Tears from my eyes-sweat from my brow-my mouth watered- and my nose began to run. I read the first line of the email that read… Katelyn I hate to give you this news.. but Robin Munis was shot be her husband, she is gone.

She had a smile that lit up the room. Gorgeous brown yes, dark brown flowing hair that was always full of body, maybe from a curling iron or rollers..but only a southern girl would go through this much trouble- no mistake. I was instantly drawn to this southern beauty. She had a familiar Tennessee ascent that reminded me of home. A voice of an angle, a grin of a gal that liked to have fun, and a heart of gold that you could see in her eyes. She took the time to ask how you were doing, to truly want to know how things were. We became close very fast. We had a lot in common. One being we were both Tennessee girls. We both had a spirit of adventure. We both loved our husbands but could not figure out why things were not better. Her husband, was a lot like my husband. They treated us the same, said the same things, did the same things, liked the same things…. good and well not so good. We were there to support each other, to provide encouragement that things would get better, that if we tried harder, did things different, lost the weight that they complained about, we would make them happy…things would be different. Many nights at the bar, time shared at work, days hanging out; we were there for each other.

The last time I say her, was a time in my life where I was selfish. Trying to get the guts to get out of bed, go to work, make it through the day. As we spoke in the parking lot, I asked her how she and her husband was doing. She paused and said…OK were doing OK. She looked at me, cracked a smile, shook her head as she gazed at me, and in her own way let me know she was not telling the truth. She asked if I wanted to go to lunch. I told her ya sure..give me a call. As I said this I knew that this was not going to happen. I was moving home next week, because I finally left my husband. I did not have the “time” to take one hour of my day to see a old friend that was there for me when I needed her.

Guilt, has overcome me. Why did I not go to lunch! Could something I would of said resulted in something different? Is it silly to think this? I question how could a man-lose it? Completely go insane to end the life of his child’s mother. How was this man, that seemed so similar to my ex-husband, have gotten to this breaking point. She said she needed to stay, this was her 3rd marriage, she had 4 kids, she could not give up, and I agreed with her. I gave up. I ended mine. I got out. Out of something un known, but only known was the direction it was headed. A direction that was not good. Hers ended her life. Did she get out too early, too late, not the right way?

So ya…. Today as I read the email from my ex-husband asking if I would ever take him back if he gave 100%. I thought to myself what Robin would of said, what advise would she of given? She would of said, “NO girrrrrl, you deserve better!”. She would of said this with the most intense passion, from knowing what I felt like, from being through what I have been through, from crying the same tears, fearing the same fears, and having her heart break in a million pieces…just like mine
So that sweet southern voice is still heard in my ears, I can see her smile, imagine her dancing, imagine her laughing as she would throw her head back and make those silly little kissy faces. I will miss my friend, but she will always be with me

Ironic Bike Ride, Cold water lake Michigan to Shipshewana Indiana 55 miles

2007-07-06T08:18:00.000-07:00

Ironic, Latin for ironia, is the use of a word to express something other than and especially the opposite of the literal meaning. Today is filled with this…..

This is the word that popped in my head as I approach the cross roads of a small town in Michigan. Saddle between my legs, and delighted as I looked down main street to see quaint little shops adorned with American flags. Pizza joints, art studios, and café’s now replace what was once a hundred years ago hardware stores, butchers, and pharmacies. Today, the Walmart down the street has taken any need for these services from the old heart of this once metropolis.

Incongruity between what is expected and what occurs; Ironic. Again this comes to mind as I read the town history marker that reads “This township was first establish centuries ago….only first- after the local Indian tribe was removed”. This is the first line stated before anything was mentioned about the first mayor, the train, and how many people lived here “that were obviously not Indians”.

I pass black covered buggies that are pulled by horses. “American’s”, Amish Americans choosing not to change, evolve, with society, the American society. Not wanting to do so anything to place them above God. Their faith brings the community together, but ironically will divide a family apart if one chooses not to follow “the way”. A decision each is given on their 16th birthday. A decision that will determine if they will ever speak to their family again, drive a car, go to college, eat at Mc Donalds, watch MTV, or see the world. A decision that will be made at a time where most 16 year olds most difficult decision is wither they are going to the movies or the mall.

Women in bonnets, simple hand made clothes adorned with nothing; no patterns, not buttons, no zippers. Men with straw hats, white shirts, black pants, always a beard. Children with no sponge bob tennis shoes, they are not screaming for ice cream, and not running off. I see this as I go to the Amish market and buy Amish baked goods from teenage girls with no makeup-high lights- finger nail polish. Raw- Simple- beautiful in a way. No very beautiful, but Ironic. They try so hard to not be different, to stick out, or bring attention away from God; but they do this very thing as people come from all over to see this unique culture, get a ride on their buggy, take their picture, and buy their baked goods and produce.

They live here in this community to live a independent life from society, a life they choose, a life that is free, but not free… Ironic.

Again, I think to my self…would I have seen this, thought this, if I was not on my bicycle… probable not. Maybe a little simpler is better.
Amore, Katelyn

Life and Death in a Day, Michigan

2007-06-27T09:18:00.000-07:00

6/20/2007

I laid last night in Bed. I can sense that my mother is beginning to sleep as we are sharing our sleeping arrangements in the guest bedroom of my Grandfather's home. A beautiful Swedish log cabin with large portions cut and removed for the placement of large angled windows so you can see the lake where were my granfather will catch our supper.

I have that feeling in my chest where you feel like someone is sitting right on your sternum. As you take a breath in; it is slow, drawn in, deep, but seems not to satisfy the need for oxygen. At the same time my throat feels like it is about to cave in. If I had tonsils they would be joining together to inhibit any relief of what one complete breath will bring. As I exhale, quietly, I feel like screaming, as loud as I can. Instead one small tear releases and makes it way down to my pillow. I am careful to be quiet, as much as I can, as the many more tears seem to follow, my nose instantly become filled with snot, thus worsening my ability to breath at all. I am quiet, because I do not want to worry my mother any more than what she has had to in the past year for me. I would call each night, crying every day for months as I sat in the bath for hours a night, naked, stripped, laterally and emotionally. Knowing her, I am sure she has cried enough tears for all the sadness and happiness in the world; but being strong for me, she never let me see one tear, because of me. I am staying strong for her now.

Overwhelmed really. I cannot explain it, but of course in my own way I will try. A great sense of life and death has overcome me.

I see her and touch her brittle skin. I hold her hand, it is soft, but stiff at the same time as the bones pertrude. Any fat padding that was there in her younger years has been taken away with time. She then reaches out and wraps her arms around my neck; I reach out and embrace what is left of my Great Grandmother at 103 years old.

She says quietly in her Scottish accent, “I love you Katie”. She then remembers, with all clarity to ask me how my Doctorate degree is coming along; she use to ask me about my ex-husband but they told her, and she can remember he is no longer part of the family anymore. Amazing really, I think to myself what strong will she must have to keep her mind, her memory, but her body is not as stubborn as her wit. I take off her floppy hat to expose her face so I can see my grandmother maybe for the last time. I have had this moment for years and years, a sense that I must absorb as much as I can because you never know if she will be there for her next birthday, a 104th birthday. I can tell the strokes have left their mark on the left side of her face, I know in my heart that this will be the last time I will see her. I have a feeling of deep loss, but then a comfort that this is part of life, natural, normal, and beautiful.

I felt this again this day, but different and just or even more confusing. I had a feeling of great loss, but then a small feeling of happiness, a hint of something beautiful; a baby did all this. Not my baby, I have no children, but the son that was born to my ex-husband, a child that was conceived while he was still my husband, and at the same time he was telling me he loved me. A child that was conceived with another woman the same time he would look me in the eyes and tell me he could see the face of our children with my green eyes and smile. I do not know what color eyes this child has, or if he has red hair like his father. He has the child that he always wanted, a son, that he even swares to this day that he wishes I was the mother. A son that I would not give him until I was done with school, or things felt right, when things were different. This day never came for us. Now I am grateful, because I know a child would have not stopped him from doing what he did with another. The breaking of a promise.

He let me know of his son, this night, through a simple email. Telling me he was confused. All I said, all I felt is that I wanted him to move on, he had a family now. Let him know that I had forgiven him and that he must forgive himself. Something I do not think he will ever be able to do. A man that is never content, always wanting more, the next best thing, never happy. I hope this child changes him… because it has changed me, and I think made me a little better.

So the sense of life and death can be a little overwhelming in one day. I fall asleep eventually to only awake with the same feeling. Maybe this will fade.

Amore, Katelyn

A family I never Knew, Cold Water Lake Michigan 2 days, 60 miles

2007-06-24T09:42:00.000-07:00

6/18/2007

I can hear the cracking of the fire and the slight tickle of water brushing against the lake side sandy beach. Poontoon boats are returning from their evening crews of the spring fed lake that is lined with summer vacation homes and boat docks that ground every water craft imaginable. Fireworks decorate the sky and the waters surface reflect a rainbow palate that fades along with the pops of our dusk time entertainment.

I am vacationing at a summer cabin in Michigan with my mother and her 4 cousins; which are technically my second cousins, and seemingly perfect strangers to me up until four days ago. I am a guest at the annual cousin’s retreat, where these childhood friends that happend to be cousins come together and talk about old times, eat every bake good imaginable, drink a few “adult beverages” and go on mini day adventures. I also took an oath that what is ever done or said at the cabin stays at the cabin. I am sworn to secrecy.......I am surprised with other things, besides the beautifl country side, that I have come to find on my trip to the cousin’ s retreat weekend. Unlike many cultures, the American culture seems to be disconnected with extended family. We do not stay in one place anymore. You grow up and move away, sometime never returning for more than a holiday. The American house hold seems to be shrinking, and extended family becomes a once a year potluck or a 5 year reunion at a camp ground in the middle of nowhere. The week I have come to know a part of my family, my grandfathers side of the family. I have always known I was alot like my mother. Now I see these other women with similar traits, and I find a sence of belonging in all of this.

At first I really kept my distance. Not that I did not feel welcome, but I did not want to intrude on something special these women look forward to each year. So I did my own thing that usually consisted of working on the computer, doing Yoga on the dock, and taking bike rides through the countryside, different than the Spanish countryside…..

Corn as far as the eye can see, sections of flat farmland splashed with beautiful barns

and broken down farm equipment, single enormous oak trees stand along the roadway or bunched together to create a bridge in which I ride my bike through.

Horses and colts graze in the wildflower laden fields.

But this distance faded as I began to warm up to these women that were my blood. I participated in story telling, listened as they shared what lessons they learned from life, I shared my photos of europe, lounged in the sun and chatted, made smores by the fire, began to belch out loud to only "try" to out do them, I started to laugh so hard that I snortted and well we ate.....we ate alot at the cabin. I now can see maybe where my sweet tooth came from.

After four days I have to leave, I was sad that I had to leave such a relaxing place with the best company. However, I have other family that I must see and appreciate. Something that you can forget to do if you are not careful, but this week of learning about a family that I never knew reminded me of what I had and how much yet I have to learn.

Amore Katelyn

It now makes sense, Nashville Tennessee

2007-06-19T05:12:00.000-07:00

May 30th
As I sit in my bed at my new home drinking a diet soda, a giggle because I swore I would give up caffeine once again when I returned back to the United States. It is 3:30am, 9:30am in Spain, and I write because I was awaken from a dream-a nightmare, because now things make sense…..

My dear friend, Arturo, gave me good advice when I left for Europe. A world traveler himself, he said very simply, “When you get back from Europe, your problems, your life will be there, leaving is not going to solve anything”. I took this and seeded it deep into my spirit as I traveled, because part of me knew this is exactly what I was searching to do.

You can see it in other’s eyes as you travel. For some, the pain begins to dull and you can begin to see a hint of life coming back. Story of life, good or bad, that is evident as their eyes smile, when the whites glimmer, and the deepest dark of their eyes reflect your face as you gaze into the stranger’s soul. I am not talking about the hoards of early 20- something year old that are more interested in getting high and drunk, but the lone travelers with all that they own at this point in their life strapped to their back. Most, no all, have a story; and they are all open to share portions. As they tell their story, you can begin to understand why they would come to this place; sometimes I hear a story similar to my own.

So as I traveled, I remembered that no matter how far away I was from my problems, life’s struggles; I took time each day to remember what I came from-what lessons God was teaching me- what I had-what I loss-and now what I wanted. I reflected on where I was one year before and the pain that I felt. I remembered how I have grown, and how I want to continue to grow as I am in Europe getting as far away as I can from the memory of the gut wrenching pain.

So instead of stopping time in the two months I was gone, I learned to live again. I learned to like myself again, to love myself again, and begin to trust again. I learned to look in the mirror and see what others saw. This is what Europe meant for me, the best souvenir that I brought back was myself with portions mended, a soul, a spirit starting to be put back together again.

Yes, this is what makes sense as it is only 36 hours as I stepped off the plane and about 12yrs from the moment I read the heart stinging email that told me that my ex-husband is going to be a father. Only short of 9 months, and the same 9 months that will be the laps in time from the day last fall that I picked up the telephone and called a phone number with her on the other line. It will be about 9 months from the Sunday morning that I asked him who she was, and the same morning that he denied the existence of her. It will be about 9 months from the moment I stepped into the lawyers office because I refused to be another one of those police officers wife’s that I have seen at social gatherings who seem unhappy. The light drained from their eyes, my instinct is because they, and everyone else knows that their husbands are taking advantage of being a man in uniform. It will be nine months from the day I made myself get out of bed, put my business suit on that Monday morning, and made it to the 8am meeting that I had to keep leaving because I was unable to hold any liquids or solids in my body. My body still in shock, numb, shut down from knowing that 24 hours ago was the end of a marriage that no matter what I did in the past or could ever do in the future, would rebuild the trust that the past eight months of lies tore down.

So as I sit writing for the first time since I have returned from Europe, it is now 5am in the morning and 11am in Spain. I am ok. I am ok with the fact that the man that I wanted with all my being to have my children resemble, will now have children with the face of another mother.

It now makes sense what the mountains of Spain brought me, what the Tuscan Country side taught me, what the dozens of people that I met on my journey did for me. It all brought me life, my life, that I hold in my hands; a life with what I can make a choice to feel sorry for my self, or a life that I can make better.
So no Arturo, I did not run from my problems and heart ache continues to revel its self even the day I return, but I think what ever happened in Europe….made me better.

Spanish cooking lesson

2007-06-16T21:14:00.000-07:00

5-27-2007

I must say that one of my favorite parts of traveling is the opportunity to try new foods. However, at times, I would be the first one to say in the same breath that I do not like to try new foods. Countless times on my holiday, I did not remember my translation book and it so happens the restaurants did not have a menu in English. Therefore, I found myself looking at a big bowl of fish heads, eyeballs, and little tentacles of some squid type creature or a feast of all the imaginable editable remains of a cow or pig. Not my favorite thing to eat…well I did not eat any of it, but elected to eat more bread and hide the uneaten food with a napkin so I did not offend anyone. I had more room for dessert and more wine anyway. I guess this may be a factor in how I could of gained 10 pounds in 2 months on a cycling holiday. The tour de pastry in Portugal, the tour de tiramisu in Italy, and the tour de Tapa in Spain resulted in what Americans would call putting more “junk in the trunk”.

My previous regiment of oatmeal, peanut butter, eggs, protein shakes, veggie burgers, pudding snacks, salad, and splenda was replaced with the most wonderful cuisine; my favorite is the Spanish. I guess I enjoy the Spanish food because of the Mediterranean influence. Fish, vegetables, rice, dates, and nuts is a great portion of their diet. However, like in American there is also a world influence, food from many cultures.

I did have the opportunity to learn many of these traditional Spanish dishes from Ruben. He was very happy to give me my very own cooking lessons. He guided me through making my very first Spanish omelet that consists of potatoes, eggs, onions, and a lot of olive oil. The Spanish omelet is not traditionally eaten at breakfast, as in America, but on bread for lunch, in little slices for tapas, or in big pieces for dinner. He also whipped up some fresh gazpacho, usually served as a cold soup, but Ruben drinks it like it is tomato juice practically at every meal.

Paella, a traditional rice dish that is cooked and served in a special frying pan, is a wonderful combination of fish and vegetables, if you can waite long enough in order to actually get to eat it. The name paella is the word for "frying pan" in Valencian (from Latin patella). The pan is similar to how we southerners take pride in our old iron skillet that has never been placed in the dishwasher, and get its very own oil bath after a good scrub. Paella, mimics the Mediterranean mind set; slower is better. Good paella takes time, but it is worth the wait. Ruben made it for me and we had this along with the Spanish omelet, gazpacho, and a “un-traditional” spinage, walnut, and strawberry salad, dressed with a sweet balsamic vinaigrette that I introduced to Ruben. This is very different from the Spanish mixed salad that consists of lettuce, canned corn, carrots, tuna, and dressed with…ah…. you got it… more olive oil. It was so pretty that I had to take a picture of it. I actually have all the recipes, but have not translated them in English yet, one on my first homework assignments form my tour guide/cooking instructor.

In return, I wanted to fix ruben some American dishes. I soon realized that many of the food that I know how to cook is world food and not traditional; or for that matter from scratch, like all the things ruben made. I did not know how to make greens, fried chicken, biscuits and gravy from scratch (I do not think canned biscuits exist in spain) and well…could not think of anything besides hamburgers that would be distinctly “American”. There is peanut butter, something that I had been eating everyday on toast for breakfast and ruben did not understand how I could stand the stuff. (I actually would search hours for the it and seemed to consume 4 jars in a 2 month time frame). However, I had been craving pancakes and a vegetable omelet with lots of cheese, and strawberry shortcake. So we went to a large grocery store and I scored some Canadian maple syrup and some French crepe mix that worked just as good as bisquick. I added a little katelyn twist and mixed in some oatmeal, berries, nuts, and cinnamon. I think ruben liked it, he said it was like dessert and mentioned it would be good with chocolate, a chocolate crème that is similar to nutella without the hazelnut. I agreed that chocolate would make it much better, but chocolate makes all better. I made the omelet and strawberry shortcake over the next few days. He liked it so much that he said I should move to spain and cook for him. hhhmmmm…. I disagree, he was a much better cook than what I was, but I liked the compliment. He could move to America and cook for me.

I guess what made the cooking lesson so great, in addition to the company, is the view from Ruben’s Kitchen Window…the mountains.

Amore, Katelyn

I just Remembered What Today is, Montserrat, Spain

2007-06-13T17:32:00.001-07:00

May, 26th, 2007

Today is my Anniversary. It is late in the evening and it just hit me that 6 years ago today I married my ex-husband on Kentucky blue grass. I saw my father cry for the first time as he walked me down isle that was lined with cloth and daisy peddles. I walked between a row of 100 year old oak trees to the man that I promised to love forever, through sickness, and health, till death do we part. I promised, I do. I meant it at that time, but to love a man that could not truly love back, that gave his love to someone else… I had to break my promise-well part of it. I will always love him, but death did not part us, something that I will never understand did. I search my soul, remember, and reflect on what it was that caused that hell that became my reality. I do not think even after reading dozens of books and a year of therapy would give me an answer. I have stopped the search, well for now. I look forward to what the next day brings. I guess this is why, I just remembered what today is.

I shout out to Ruben as he walked ahead of me.. “Hey! It is my anniversary, wish me a anniversary”. He looks back with the loveliest brown eyes and smiled. I try to explain to him that today 6 years ago, I was married; now I am not. I guess he did not understand because I was up beat about it. I smile because I went all day with Ruben in a magical place that wiped all the sad memories that would have crossed my mind if I were anywhere else in the world. I deserve at least this; one day without the haunting memories of what I lost. Instead my thought was of what I had.

Today I had a wonderful morning as I awoke under a rock shelter, on the dirt floor, huddled against a smiling Spaniard. Actually, I recall that this last night’s sleep was the best I have ever had out side in all my years of sleeping in tents, on the ground under the stars, or on rafts that were stacked on chop busses. Ruben even commented that he never-never slept till 11 in all his time sleeping outside.

Outside is where we both like to be. I ride; he climbs. We both love the mountains and it so happens that we both like to not stay still very long and enjoy a challenge. Today, he guides me on his mountains. Keeping me safe as I scale the rock walls on Montserrat. He poses for me, being silly, as I take his picture as he adjusts the climbing ropes.

I must say that Ruben has a knack for teaching and is the most kind and patient man, besides my father, that I have ever interacted with. I guess, this must be because of his culture, or his nature, or his tremendous effort to communicate with me on a level that most men that speak English have never even attempted. For some reason, I know exactly what he is tring to tell me… from the simplest thing of what music he likes, to how to adjust my weight as I climb, to the most intimate details of what he wants from life. Always apologizing for his broken English, I always shake my head no, I understand.

So today, was a good day. I find that I am finding myself again. Losing the person that I became to try to keep my husband. Returning to the person that has always been there. This is what I tell myself is why that on my first anniversary away from not being married, I am happy again.

Amore.Katelyn

Steps toward the sky, Montserrat, Spain.

2007-06-07T12:13:00.000-07:00

I am eating chocolate and cherries, drinking a glass of Tinto Vino and a café con leche over candlelight; sitting in a climbing refuge that is nestled in the trees amongst the rocks of Montserrat. To reach this haven, we climbed over 1,000 vertical steps that reached toward the clouds.

I am told that Santa Benet was first a church that was constructed in the early 1900’s, and now serves as a shelter for climbers that come from all over the world to scale the conglomerate rock walls. The priests of the Monastery manage all of the refuges that are scattered on the mountain. Each refuge is unique and may only be a overhanging rock with twigs fastened to form a wind block or a shelter carved in the rock with a propane stove, candles for light, and left over sleeping pads that lay on the rock and dirt floors. Santa Benet has some luxuries of home; relatively thick mattresses are laid out on the floor that was once where the congregation worshiped, a back room has a kitchen with no running water, only natural or candle light, table and chairs. A little stereo plays FM radio, climbing books and maps line the bookshelf, and a old ham leg hangs from the rafters. I ask the volunteer that works during the weekends, collecting the four-euro fee to use the facility, about the ham. He laughs and says the ham is no good, but it is decoration…. typical Spanish decorations.

Today, I followed Ruben for about 4 hours as we climbed and hiked up and down the peaks of Montserrat. Well… I crawled on all fours half of the time as we were not doing “dangerous climbing” that required gear. Ruben had no problem and I think maybe part mountain goat due to the gracefulness he maneuvered with ease. If any of you know me, you know that I am a cluts when it comes to walking, but put be on a bicycle and I can balance and ride most things people cold not walk on. So yes…dangerous for me; especially in my puma tennis shoes that are not really meant for hiking and climbing, but was the best Ruben and I could find at the “similar to Walmart” shopping center the day before. Like most of my things, my hiking shoes are in the locker…. in Madrid.

We left in the morning. My pack was loaded with the light items as my guide, being the gentlemen he is, carried most of the weight. We are spending a couple of days exploring the National Forest of Montserrat. Lush Spanish forest hug stunning rock formations that have names such as elephant rock (on the left) and momma and baby mummy (the two peaks to the right)

This is also the center of Catholicism for the region of Catalonia Spain. Tourist Busses scale the winding roads brining thousands of people each year to see the village and the “school for the singing children”, as Ruben puts it simply. According to history that I found on the internet, the Black Virgin of Montserrat was carved by St. Luke around 50 AD and was and brought to Spain. It was later hidden from the Moors in a cave (Santa Cova, the Holy Grotto), where it was rediscovered in 880 AD.By the 9th century, there were four chapels on Montserrat, of which only one remains - St. Aciscolo's, which is in the monastery's garden. In the 11th century, the abbot-bishop Oliba founded a monastery on the mountain of Montserrat, next to one of the chapels. Many miracles were reported through the intercession of the Virgin Mary at Montserrat. According to the legend of the discovery, which was first recorded in the 13th century, the statue was discovered by shepherds. They saw a bright light and heard heavenly music that eventually led them to the grotto and the statue. Due to the great numbers of pilgrims that flocked to Montserrat throughout the Middle Ages, the monastery was enlarged from its original humble size. In 1592, the grand basilica of Montserrat was consecrated. Today the Monastery of Montserrat, located near the top of the 4,000-foot mountain, is home to about 80 monks. The monks welcome visitors and invite them to participate in their daily celebrations of Mass and recitations of the Liturgy of the Hour.

am not sure if it is becuase what is housed in these building, the tale of a wooden statue, or visions of Marry; what ever it is...this land is spiritual and I have only felt this one other time in my life. This was in North Carolina, on top of Max Patch were rainbow Indians were honoring the summer solstice. Silent, still, fasting for days; these men covered in tarps looking to the east had pine limbs stuck in the ground circling their body. Torn colored fabric was tied to each limb and waved in the wind. The backdrop of the bald mountain that was covered with wild strawberries and black berries is a 360 degree view of pristine Appalachian forest. Max patch was my favorite place…. I think Montseratt is tied for first place.

Amore,
Katelyn

2007-06-05T12:13:00.000-07:00

It still boggles my mind to think that one can hop on a night train and wake up to a totally new culture. So many countries, so tightly situated together. As you cross one boarder and enter into another; the romantic sing-song sounds of Spanish become a hard mix of Dutch, German, Swedish, French, and a few other combined dialects. The majority of people with dark hair, eyes, olive skin and generally a lean small stature become replaced with a crowd similarly appearing with light hair and skin with extra inches or even feet added to their vertical height. The look of the city fades from a vivid palate to shades of pastel without the presence of an Arab influence. The architecture becomes more similar to what I think of what a ginger bread house would look like or the extreme opposite of clean sharp modern designs. The buses are not powered with gas, but a eco friendly electric line that hoovers above your head. Bicycles overcome the roads and sidewalks. Instantly, I like it here.

I am only here in Zurich for a day, but a day that I am grateful for. Ruben, my European tour guide gets perks sometimes for working on the train; he can usually bring friends and family along. Today this friend is me and that means that I arrived on the train in the evening, enjoyed another wonderful meal prepared by my Spanish friend, slept in a first class cabin complete with a full bathroom, and the best part having more time to visit…that is when he was not fixing something on the train…. and then awoke to a whole new country. Ruben has me figured out by now, I must say much faster than most man that I have been in the company of. He rented bicycles so we could crews the city winding up and down narrow streets, on bridges hovering over pristine rivers, and around the most beautiful lake that is hugged by lush green foothills.

We arrived to this stunning lake where had a picnic sitting on our towels, dressed in our bathing suits ready for a post meal swim. After a few hours of sun bathing and more talk about everything you could think about, we headed back to the train, but first stopped at a village market to buy supplies for dinner on the train. He then proceeded to buy me about 10 sweedish chocolate bars so I could take them home with me. I think, “Yep he has me out figured out!”

The next day we arrived back in Barcelona, only to return that evening to attend a NAS concert. On a whim after seeing a poster slapped on a light post, Ruben made a few phone calls and within a half hour we had two tickets. We also had lots of company when we arrived that evening. Friends from his home town in Zaragoza, Spain all piled in a van to come see the American Hip Hop group that was most popular when I was in undergraduate school. I found myself feeling at home with fimilar music, and everyone of his friends greated me with kisses, one on each cheek, and gave me a smile that made me know I was welcome.

I spent the night speaking little English or speaking anything at all, I just danced. You cannot hear much at concerts anyway. After the show, we made it to one of his friends high rise apartments in Barcelona. We all sat on the patio overlooking the city and I listened to the conversations in Spanish as Ruben would stop every once in a while to fill me in…in English. Most of them speaking a little English, I caught that they were making fun of NAS and his gold chains or “bling” and lack of a six pack, of which they call a chocolate tablet. I told them that in American that we call this a 6 pack and they thought this was the funniest thing. If you think about it….the less chocolate tablets and 6 packs of beer you consume; it is more likely you will have a chocolate tablet or a 6 pack, NAS did not, but his bling made up for it; maybe not if you are Spanish. They really do not get the bling bling commercial materialistic getto hip hop that is prominent in the US. I guess this is why one of Ruben’s best friends that own his own record company ALTEREGO-records (http://www.alterego-records.com/) sent me home with 3 spanish Hip Hop CD, stickers, and a T-shirt; because maybe he wanted me to understand the Hip Hop of Spain. It is a different world. I only know this because I am learning my Spanish by listening to this music; no aggression, with a good message, and a flow that is beautiful, because of the language.

So… two different worlds. One different than Spain, and the other a unique culture fighting to not by inspired by the US.

My eyes continue to become widened, my thought process are changing, priorities are re evaluated, and I have only been away for 7 weeks. Time is funny this way.

Amore, Kateyn

Barcelona Bound

2007-06-02T17:31:00.000-07:00

I must leave Portugal today. I do not have to, but want to. I am going to meet Ruben Sebastian Garcia, a 100% Spanish man that I met the 3rd week of my holiday. Ironically he was working both night trains that I took from Milan to Barcelona and then Barcelona to Granada.

A traditional Spanish beauty; his dark hair, olive skin, smiling eyes, and warm spirit made a great first impression as he sat down beside me and tried to start up a conversation as I read and drank café con leche in the train’s bar car. Content with keeping to myself, hiding from reality with the help of my ipod ear phones shoved in my ears; his persistence with speaking the little English he had learned over the past few months was just enough for me to put down the book and take my earphones out of my ears. Hours later I found myself knowing a lot about Ruben, his culture, his family, and what he likes to do for fun. I listened … I had to listen very carefully due to his limited English. I too shared about my culture, my family, and what I liked to do for fun. He too had to listen carefully because of my inability to speak any Spanish, my tendency to use slang, and habit of speak very fast…you know how I ramble. At times he would look at me puzzled and would say, “I do not understand”. I replied back, “That is ok, most American men have no idea what I am saying either”. Again this puzzled him; I just giggled because I thought I was funny. Surprisingly, we had a lot in common. Graciously, he volunteered to be my tour guide in Barcelona the day we arrived. I took him up on his offer and was taken to the best lookout points of the city, the best beach, and a great traditional Spanish restaurant. The next day continued with Ruben as I was headed on the night train to Granada. This night we continued our conversation at the train’s bar café, and over dinner in the train’s dinning room eating a traditional Spanish meal that he prepared before arriving to work that evening. Being a lucky girl that I am, I got another Ruben style tour of Granda the next day we arrived.
So this is how I met Ruben and why I have taken him up on his offer for him to be my tour guide at his home in Monistrol de Montesserat (http://www.barcelona-tourist-guide.com/montserrat-spain.html) , a beautiful village that sits below an amazing National Park that surrounds Montesserat. He has planned a week of camping, climbing, and a little trip to Switzerland…oh and of course a promise of the most amazing mountain roads so I can ride my bike.

However, I must spend the day first in Barcelona getting my bicycle wheel fixed. The cursed cobble stone roads of Lisbon have beat up my bicycle leaving me with a wobbly wheel. Luckily, my old travel companion Jon was also in town and had given me a call to see if I wanted to see the city. Obviously, I am glad to spend a day with Jon catching up on our travels of the past 10 days, and it is also a bonus because Jon speaks Spanish and this comes in handy when you need to run errands. For some reason my Spanish-English dictionary does not have the word nipple translated. So asking for your spoke nipple to fished out of your rim and replaced could get interesting.

Barcelona, I must say, is my favorite metropolis city ever visited by myself in the short 29 years I have been alive. Situated on the cost,

30 minutes from mountains, funky modern architecture and art of Dali and Gaudi,

laid back atmosphere, and warm people make you never want to leave.
Decorative symbols of modernism that are imbedded in sidewalks guide you to the next city attraction.

Gaudi gems (http://www.gaudiclub.com/) are the closest man made beauty that can come close to the splendor of what God had given us in the forest, mountains, and sea. Design that moves like water makes you almost think you are looking to the horizon above the Mediterranean Sea. The colors of each tile, similar to the color palate of the Tuscan countryside, dance together to form a manmade landscape that is breathtaking. Each design masterpiece strikes me similar to the way I felt as I cycled the Almaphie cost and gazed to the terraced lemon and orange laden farmland.

I will spend the last 10 days being surrounded by beauty. I may not want to leave…again.

Amore,
Katelyn

Tour De Pastry, Sintra to Ericeria Portugal 64k 4.5 hrs

2007-06-01T05:55:00.000-07:00

I thought I was never going to get out of Lisbon today. I got stuck shopping. Yes, I got in the mood to buy some clothes. You see….. I have most of my things in a locker in Madrid and I have been wearing the same 2 outfits for the past 6 days, and washing my 2 pairs of underwear in the sink. Now that I do not plan to cycle with all my things on my back, I figure buying a pair of pants, a shirt and maybe a dress would be a great b-day present to myself…oh yes and the best part is new underwear!!

I finally arrive to my seaside destination after a quick train ride from Lisbon. I plan to ride up to the cost North and visit Portuguese Villages and see the countryside. As I step off the train in Sintra, I am grateful for the drop in temperature and the beauty of this place. I start to try to compare the winding roads that pass through tiled colored buildings, gardens and lush landscape that accent perfectly this unique place.

It is different that Italy or Spain, but equally in its own way just as beautiful. I am instantly saddened when I remember that I left my things in Lisbon. A night in this lovely village, getting dressed up in a flowing sundress, sitting outside at a little bistro table, watching the people interact; feeling the fresh air of the countryside would be ideal compared to the busy city that I must return to tonight. Fighting traffic, waking up to noise of sirens, and sleeping in the most questionable pension that I have stayed in, is my fait for this night.

I continue north and reach seaside villages that hug the cliffs. They are breathtaking. The Atlantic is angry, bringing the tide slamming against the rocks. The wind follows making a challenging crosswind, that requires me to increase my effort to move forward. I am thirsty today, and the heat is intense. This results in me filling up my water bottles at a more frequent rate, in addition to finding a toilet.

I feel awkward hobbling into each bar or café with my bike shoes making the loud tap-tap- taping noise, sweat dripping off my face, my eyes blood read, and you cannot forget the outfit of spandex. Everyone turns in exact synchronization, and looks at me. They generally stare with an expressionless face, but some smile. I can almost hear a swoosh as their heads turn, then ending with a silence that fills the room as they all have their attention on me. It makes it allot harder for me to sneak off to the bathroom without being noticed that I am “not a customer”. Sooo…. I decide that I will be a customer at each stop as I progress through out the day. About each 1½ hour, I find a little café in a little quaint village, enter, have everyone stare at me as I eat the most delicious mini tarts, crème filled pastries, and fruit and chocolate cakes. Then I go to the bathroom. I am thankful that Portugal makes very small deserts, sometimes maybe a couple of bites; because I would of gained 5 pounds on this ride and made it back to Lisbon with a very sour stomach.

It is now 6pm and I have been riding for about 4 hours and have just consumed pastries, water and coffee. I decide that I better eat real food, so the port town of Ericera will be the place I will eat my supper for tonight. As I wind up and down the narrow cobbled streets that look to the sea, I realize that most restaurants are closed until 6. I go deeper into the village and find a restaurant with fresh fish in the windows. When you go to Portugal, you eat fish…fresh fish. So fresh that when you sit down in this restaurant, you order the fresh live, by weight, then they kill it, cook it…and then you eat it. It cannot get fresher than this. I choose shrimp as my table neighbors choose lobster.

I soon realize that time is passing quickly, and I have one hour to make it about 20k to the train station to make it back to Lisbon. As I wind up and down the hilly landscape, peddle into the wind, ask for direction about 5 times because the train station is not in a populated area, but a remote village about 10k outside a larger village; I miss the second to last train that goes to Lisbon, by about 5 minutes. As I explore the small village so I can pass the 3 hours that I must wait until the last train departs, I realize that this is a very very small village. No market, no round about, no hotel, no people…really. However, I do find a one-room shop with a few tables, an espresso machine, more pastries, beer, and random items that one may need such as cans of corn and laundry soap. This will be the place that I will reside until I hopefully catch the train that leaves at midnight back to Lisbon…that is if I am reading the train schedule right. So I sit with my non-English speaking elderly bartender/grocery store clerk in a small room and pretend to read the Portuguese paper as locals come and go and stare at me, say something in Portuguese, get a coffee or beer, and then leave.

It is about time to catch the train and by now I have realized that I have left my flip-flops back at the fish restaurant, and somehow my prescription sunglasses have disappeared during the time that I have been waiting for the train. It does not faze me, because I am really only worried about getting back to Lisbon. Finding a place to stay without my passport and without a hotel or pension within cycling in the dark safe distance, and my ability to speak Portuguese would make for an interesting night in Portugal.

I stand on the tracks and can hear the train approaching. I am tired, exhausted, and cold. The train is coming but not stopping. It is 2 platforms away and I instinctively start to run (remember in my bike shoes because I have no flip flops) after the train, throw my bike over my shoulder, and jump down to the tracks to make it to the other platform. Then I hear the breaks. I look up and people are pressing their faces against the windows staring and laughing. The conductor hangs out the door and says something in Portuguese. He giggles as I approach. I think maybe this is Portuguese humor. They torment tourists.

One hour later my comedian conductor is shaking me. I have fallen asleep and we are in Lisbon. Seems I made it into little ball shape perfectly wedged on the train seat, and crusted drool is on my cheek.
I think….I have never been so happy to be returning to my Indian run pension that has holes in the walls and one toilet that I share with about 30 other people.

Portugal is interesting.
Amore, Katelyn

I am still around, i Spain

2007-05-28T03:51:00.000-07:00

Wanted to let you all know I am still here. I have not posted lately becuase of the lack of access to a computer...and well.. having too much fun! I am on my way home on Tuesday and have about 6 days I would like to post about my time in Portugal, Switzerland, and Montserrat. Check back in a few days and I will have the BLOG updated with more photos and more adveture stories.

I addition, I wanted to let you all know that I am going to continue this BLOG at home in Tennessee. I have decided I am going to travel my home by bicycle to begin to understand and appreciate the unique culture that I have taken for granted. I will tell of my adventures on my BOLG. The first stop will be this comming weekend in Tellehoma, Tennessee...home of Jack Daniells Wiskey. This is the only thing of Tennessee that many of my friends that I have met in Spain and Italy know about Tennessee (well some know elvis-that will be another trip)... so why ot give them a tour-Katelyn style.

Well be back soon...look on Wednesday for more about me.

Amore,
Katelyn

Happy Birthday to me... On a train, somewhere in Portugal

2007-05-22T05:28:00.000-07:00

I have not been sad one moment to be by my self on my birthday. I can remember in the past, I was sad at times on my birthday when I was away from my family or my ex-husband. However, this year it is different.

I guess it is becasue I am in a wonderful place and could not ask for a better 6 weeks of my life. It could also be that I was sung to in spanish last night by a big group of spanish locals out side a bar; being escorted around all night by a fellow pilgrim, Christian from Germany; having the happy birthday song typed to me in spanish by Jon my travel companion; my mom doing the same in english; or the phone call I received from Fernando and Peblo, 2 brothers I met on the Camino. Not only was their call a birthday wish but a birthday song, but a 3 piece band of a saxiphone, drums, and piano. And... all the the other email wishes from my friends and family. Thank you..

So on my birthday I am alone, I have not gotten one gift, no candles, no cake, spending the day on the trains, and posing with portugal cows on train lay-overs.... and it has been the best birthday ever becuase I feel alive again.

Amore, kATELYN

I finally made it. Portman to Santiago Spain 110l 6.5 hours

2007-05-20T12:28:00.000-07:00

I actaully got a good start today. My goal is to get to Sandiago before 5 so I can go to the train station and figure out how to get to Portugal tomorrow, get a place to stay, get cleaned up, and go out for my birthday that will officially start at midnight...early in the night by Spainish time.

Looking at the map, I thought today was going to be remotely easy. No big mountains, no rain, and one straight shot all the way..with hardly any chances of detours-that is if I do not repeat what happened yesterday. About 50k into the ride I changed my mind. I guess I did not factor in the past 3 days I have spent 15 hours and 155 miles on my bicycle. Not only this, I have done it with 2o pounds strapped to my back, in the rain, winding up a mountain passes and foot hills, in a headwind, with my 2 smallest gears "not existent" because of a bent derailer hanger that I dare not touch in fear I would break it right off. Ya I am a stubborn optomist when it comes to most things, a Tarus. I just say I am dumb and tough. Dumb comes first.

However, if you think about it this the whole point of a pilgrimage-is to suffer a little, to have a drive to finish the goal, in attempts to slightly feel a very very small taste of what the ones that have come before you have done to make things better. In this case Christ and Saint James.

So when you are suffering and you cannot determine if your butt, knee, or back hurts more, you got tons of weight strapped to your back, you keep going in the wrong direction, your derailer is broken, and you are fighting every thought of hopping on a bus or hailing a taxi; go back to why you are doing what ever it is in your life that is uncomfortable,and remember the goal....do not give up. I try to live my life always like this, but it is usually not my body physically screaming at me. It can be my spirit, my ego, or my heart. This is much harder to overcome. Something I work to improve everyday.
So reaching Santiago what not only a physical challenge, but it has represented for me the struggles of my spirit, my heart, and my ego; I have had to overcome in the recient past..... It is only a small step of the journey I will continue to live everyday. My hope is it will become easier as time passes, I hope to become the stong woman that I want to be, I hope to inspire others, I hope to do it on my bicycle as much as possible.
Amore Always.
Katelyn

The lost Pilgrim Vega de Valcarce-Portmarin 95k 6.5 hours

2007-05-17T13:53:00.000-07:00

I knew within the first 15 minutes I got on my bike that my day was going to be intersting. I started late beacuse of th rain. I was hoping it would pass, so I just hung out with the owners of the Albergue, and played on the internet until the rain stopped. It finally did and I headed out of town. About 10 minutes, I thought to myself, "I cannot see anything"! So I stopped on the side of the road and searched for my glasses. No where to be found.. so I headed back up the hill to the Albergue. After the owner and I searched the entire place, I realized that they were actaully on my head under my helmet. I just started to laugh and my Brazillian friend also found it amuzing.

It did not stop there...

It started to rain...again (now I know why this country is so green). Not sprinkle, but hurt my face and sting my lips hard. I had to make a decision. Stop and sit in a cafe and be wet and cold, or keep on going and be wet and cold, but not as cold if I was sitting in a cafe. So I kept on climbing the 1,200 ft climb that spanded about 10 miles..then went down the mountain pass that expended about 15 miles or so. With all the rain, I did not want to stop and ceck out the map...I mean what is so hard with following little shells? Right? Wrong....

I did not even know I had made a wrong turn about 15 miles back up the mountain pass until I stopped for lunch and took out the map to see how far and what elevation I needed to cycle to get to the sleeping destination for the night. I soon found, that the cafe I am eating my 15th tuna sandwich in the past 3 weeks, is not listed in the towns that follows the Cameno. Luckly, I found a teenager that spoke a little english. She just looked at me and said, "you in wrong place...go pack up mountain". I then proceed to say many engish cuss words.. I sounded like a drunkin sailor. I do not think she knew what I was saying, just looked and smiled. After consulting a map with my teenage navigator, we found a alternate route that was not "so much up the mountain" but scaling the ridge of the mountain then over and down...about 30k out of the way. So this lost pilgrim hopped back on the bike to find the correct "The Way" to Santiago.

You know how I said how things always work out for the best? Well this is no exception. My alternate route was exactly with Pepe was talking about..... goose bumps beautiful. Tingles all over-beautiful.

It was so beautifulk that I did not even mind when I stepped off the side of the road to adjust my back pack for the 20th time that day and landed right in a mud pit that was calf deep. So this wet, lost, muddy pilgrim just laughed it off again and headed down the road again.

BTW... I did make it....with only a 30k detour.

Amore, K

I am grumpy Guappa, Rabanual-Vega Valcarce Spain 76km 4.5 hrs

2007-05-16T13:31:00.000-07:00

I am tired and exausted. I have only gone 55k in the past 3.5 hours but climbed about 2,500 feet into a head wind. Not only wind, but wyoming like wind..where you have to peddle to go down the hill.. and wet...did I mention rain..yes wet. I am cold. I have found a resturant out of the rain. As the other Pilgrims huddle under a big tree outside, I sit inside eating trout complete with head, eyeballs, and bones; as slow as I can so I can sit till the rain stops. It may not be a problem because the waiter has a crush on me. He keeps smiling really big, touches my face, and keeps calling my guappa. Guappa is a term in enderment that is similar to the southern darling or hunny. It can be used for a little girl or someone you are hot for. Anyway I hope this guappa can stay in a dry place for a while. I need to do another 20k or so, so I can stay on schedule. I am headed up a 1,600 foot climb and want to start my day with fresh legs for the climb. So the closer the better.

I am so amazed with beauty of this place. Today I have been riding on beautiful roads that parellel the cameno foot path. The beauty of the flowers accent all the monuments to Christ. Crosses are everywhere. There are formal crosses made from medel and stone or pilgrim made crosses that are made with twigs and pebbles.

The people are also amazing, as you pass you are greated with "bien camino" or good camino. If for some reason I am off my bicycle sitting on the side of the road, messing with my camera, doing downward dog to streatch my back, adjusting my bag, or putting on or off my rain gear for the 10 time in the day; it never fails someone stops to see if I am ok. Well I think this is what they are asking, because usually most of them do not speak english. As far as I can tell, there are alot of spanish, german, dutch, french, and itallians on the Pilgrimage.

This "welcomed" feeling is also felt in the Albergues. Tonight I found a Brazillian ran place calledAlbergue N.SRAN Aparecida DO BRASILthat what started by the owners in 2004 .It was shared that the main purpose was to expose others to the Brazilian cultures. The moment you walk in the doors, you see Brazilian decorations, hear Brazilian music, and even get to experience Brazilian food for a few bucks. We, the pilgrims, sit around a table set for 20, speak in our native languae why we are here. Our host, the owners of Albergue translate in english portugese french and spanish a wonderful toast.

Besides the obvious of why I enjoyed this experience, It was nice to have something different than spanish food for at least one meal.

Amore, Katelyn

BTW..CHECK OU TTHE LINK FOR INFO ON THE CAMINO AND ALBERGUE´S I STAYED AT

I am now a Pilgrim, Leon to Rabanal, Spain 76k 5hrs

2007-05-14T12:57:00.001-07:00

Once I heard about the Santiago Cameno Pilgrimage, I knew I had to go and experience what millions have done over the past 2,000 years...well at least a portion of it. The pathway consisting of packed dirt, concete, gravel, and mud roads spans from France and southern Spain to end in Santiago Compostella. The entire pathway is marked with brass shells that are inlayed in city side walks, stone pillers with tiled sea shells, or paint that marks walls and roads.

After the crusifiction of Chris, Saint James came to Spain to share the gospel, King Herod did not like it...so James lost his head. After a series of events and your normal biblical miricles, Jame's body seem to find its way to Santiago, Spain. After the pilgrimages to Rome and Mecca, Santiago Cameno Pilgrimage is the 3rd largest traveled. Many come for different reason, some religious, others not. I come for many, I cannot figure it out yet, put I am drawned to this place.

Over 70,000 people a year have registered with the church to complete all or portions of this pilgrimage. Peopel come by foot, bike, and even horse back. Registering is a benefit, due to the tremendious savings that occur when you are on your way. "The Way" it is called by all, is lined with Albergues and hostels that cater to pilgrims. For about 5-8 euros, you can find a bunk bed in a dry room with a pillow and blanket, hot water,sometimes breakfast, a washing machine and computer if you are lucky. If you can learn to sleep with 12-50 people making noise, especially with all the snoring, and turning on the lights at 5am for some reason, you will find youself with a pretty inexpensive vacation. On top of this, ther are set menu´s for pilgrims. This is usually a 3 course meal with wine and bread for anywhere from 5-8 euros. Alll you have to do is show your pilgrim passport or Credencidal de Peregrino. This then will become full of stamps, documenting all the places you have stopped.

Others will also have a visible sign of their pilgrimage, besides the obvious sign of people walking or riding with a backpack full of crap, you can usually tell a pilgrim by the shell they wear on around their neck, or hanging from their pack, or mounted on their walking staff. I choose a leather version that I purchased at the monistary in Leon. When you get to Santiago, you submitt your passport then you receive a Certificate of Completion.

I am starting my Pilgrimage in Leon. This is about 350km from Santiago and should only take me 4 days to complete if I stick to 75-90k a day. My goal is to be done by my Birthday on Wednesday. So far I am on track and have completed my first day ad a Pilgrim.

Beautiful beaches and a inspiring story, Tarifa Spain

2007-05-14T00:13:00.000-07:00

I heard the ocean again. I heard it all night from my opened window. Hypnotic rhythm as one wave collides with the sandy beach, another quiets and pulls back to the sea. Pillows propped behind my back, I am laying in a wicker canopy lounge bed that is placed in front of a beach front Hotel in Tarife, Spain; one of the number one destinations for kite boarding and wind surfing in europe. Tarife is absolutly gorgeous with its sandy beaches that look to Africa. It is a town that feels young, populated with tourists and beach bumbs. The beach at times is almost deserted except for the occasional topless sunbather or horse back riders. However, when the wind is high you will see flipped flopped, shaggy haired, tanned bodies in wet suits pilot rainbow color kites and sails as they glide on their boards across the almost perfect tide.

After a relaxing morning on the beach and the sad news that wind surfing lessons were out of the question, due to the lack of wind, Jon my travel buddy and I dedided to head up to Granada for the evening before we make the drive to Madrid.

By this time we have spend many hours chatting about all kinds of things. It suprises me what complete strangers will talk about.I guess it is becasue you let your guard down a little. You know that more than likely this person will only be in your life a short time. Maybe it is becuase you become lonely traveling in a foreign county with really no "deep" conversations (especially in my case when you do not speak the language and you are lucky if you get what you asked for when ordering food) for weeks, that you open up faster? It is refreshing and sad at the same time. You meet wonderful people that you can imagine regularly meeting for dinner, a coffee, or maybe a bike ride. You can make strong connections in a short period of time with people from all over the world. You can become inspired.

This is Jon`s inspiring story....

At first glance I thought he was local spanish man having his morning breakfast with Pepe. As I was tring to explain to Pepe about my BLOG, Jon healped translate a little, then spoke a few words in "American" english. I smiled, because one becomes a little home sick when the past 4 days have been filled with talking very slooowly...and using half english...half spainsh...and really not knowing if the person you are communicating with knows what you are saying. We started to talk about the normal things. Like where we were from, how long we have been here, where we have been , where we want to go, etc... This conversation lasted until the afternoon and Jon invited me to go with him for the next couple of days. I learned that he is actaully half mexican and half caucasian, not spanish, but lived in Spain until he was 2 years old. He is here in Spain to document where he lived in spain, find places that are pictured in childhood photographs, and find some connection with his biological parents that passesd away in a car accident when he was 2. He still has a scar under his left cheek and I can guess must be a reminder of a family unknown. The family he calls now are actually his aunt, uncle, and cousins. He shared with me that his parents do not really talk about his biological parents and a few months ago he came to a point in his life where he was able and ready to know more. So armed with a camera, a laptop with scanned letters and photographs, and video camera and tripod, this Berkeley trained former reporter in Pakistan, uses all his training and experience to find pieces to his life puzzle.

He has been interviewing old friends of his parents, finding places in photographs from his childhood and documenting the whole experience. I was there for a very small portion, to snap the photo smilar to the one he has scanned in his laptop, but now he is not a cute little boy but a 34 year old man.

I feel lucky that I got to be a small portion of this experience. It make me feel lucky for what I have and all the knowledge my parents have passed down to me...from there own mounths.

Maybe one day I will see the end of Jon´s story or maybe we will get to go wind surfing...if not I am happy knowing that my travel buddy has touched me and reminded me of what a lucky girl I am.

Amore,

Katelyn

Never know what the day will bring, Straight of Gibraltar

2007-05-13T10:58:00.000-07:00

It still suprises me at times when you travel how you can wake up in the morning-have a plan- a goal-and then at the end of the day find yourself doing something completely different then what you expected. This has been on of those days.

My plan was to wake up, go the beach for a few hours, take the bus back up to Granada, meet up with a spanard that I met who mountain bikes-and go for a ride, then take the train to Madrid so I can head up to north of Spain for the Santiago Camino pilgrimage trail. As I was headed out of my pension in my bathing suit and cover-up, peanut butter in hand so I can have a partially balanced breakfast with toast, fruit, and coffee; Jose M Perez the pension´s owner, chased me down so he could get me some coffee and tostada. Again, this is a great offer for a girl on a budget. I sit alone with Jose (or Pepe) in the Bar section of his ocean front pension with balcony views, questionable bed linens, and lack of hot water. He begins to ask me about my travels in very...very... broken english. I try to answer in my very...very broken spanish. I tell him that I am riding my bicycle and I am going to santiageo. His aged eyes became wide, his face all smiles, the excitement was overcomming him. He wanted to tell me all about it...well in spanish..but could not find the words in english. He only was picking at his forarm and saying "muchas buento-mushas buento". I get that he was tring to tell me that it is so beautiful that it will give me goose bumps. He then began to point at him self and say that he did santiago camino on the bicycle.

He then took me over to a case on the wall that had dozens of books incased behind the glass. All had his name on them with his picture. It looks like my friend Pepe was a author. I come to find out that Pepe the Pension owner, retired ship engeneer, world travel, has written 20 books and has 5 that he is working on, he lifes on a boat in the winter, and has riden over 1200 km on his bicycle when he was 50 years old from the very bottom of spain up to santiago that is located in the far north West. Amazing man. I showed him my BLOG, and he said he wants to write a story about me.

During my breakfast with Pepe, I met a man from California that was also eating the breakfast of spanish champions, toast and coffee. He invited me to travel with him to the striaght of Gibralter. It was a easy decision, so I called my friend in Granada and told him I had a change of plans and headed west with Jon my new travel companion.

Traveling by car for the first time in 5 weeks was a welcomed change. No crowded train stations, sticky train seats, little bathrooms with no toilet paper, no confusion. I just sat there prentending to be the co-pilot. As we headed toward Gibraltar, I see now why they call it the rock of Gibralter. Yep..it is a big rock.

A british colony, as you walk through the boarder controll, the language become english, the food becomes fish and chips, and the people are white-really white. Well I will get to the good part,the monkies!!!! WE TOOK A VAN TOUR UP TO THE TOP TO SEE THE MONKIES, I thought I was goign to see a zoo type building with caged monkies...I was wrong. These little suckers that were brought over from Africa (which I can see) have taken over the place. They are everywhere. They are use to people. If you bring food they will sit on your head and put ther little monky butts on your face and clean your hair.

One actaully took my pearl earing and broke my necklace off my neck. I got it back with tempting the little theif with bubble gum.

and yes mom , I was tring to figure out a way to bring one home with me.

Amore, Katelyn

Sea Side reflection, Almuncer Spain

2007-05-12T13:13:00.000-07:00

Today I find myself on the beach again. I say my bach because I have come to realize that no matter where you are in your life it is good to make every place and every day feel like home. Without this, I would be constantly searching for my home. A feeling normally only subsided when I ride my bike. A comfort of home no matter if I am scaling down the mountain of spain, winding through the tuscan country side, braving the winds of Wyoming with Chris and Susan and Jen, or taking my little dog cleo for a mountain bike ride around the lake in Tennessee. So now, I am here in Almuncer laying on a basically remote beach gazing at the monumnet to Del Cruz de Santo and listening to the waves crashing against the black rock beach.

For the past couple of days I have been reflecting on my life and the direction I want to go. Many opportunities, many doors, many paths, all posibilities are before me. Lost in confusion at times, feeling I should have a plan, a direction, a goal, all figured out...exactly what comes next. Again, this is my nature. Generally a good characteristic, but sometimes can become a negative attribute. I guess it came together for me when I was descending through the montain forest yesterday on my way to Almuncer. A song by blue grass/folk singer, Gilian Welch came on the ipod. I have heard the same song many times before, but as she sang the chorus line with a whinning tempo and picking in the background; I wanna do right, but not right now", it clicked for me. I associate with this..this is how I feel.

Generally, Most Americans want the American Dream. Get married in their early 20's after dating a year or hopefully a couple of years-have 2.5 kids before they are 30-have a big house with all new appliances-a SUV and a car that gets good gas mileage- a boat if you live by the water- work a 10 hours day do you can enjoy your kids and boat-if you are luck have enough annual leave left after not having to use annual leave for sick time due to stress...so you can take a two week vacation to Disney land with the Kids. I wanted this at one time. I tried so hard to get this, but it is not part of my life anymore. For some reason, I have had a anxiety to get this again. A feeling like this is how I should be, what I should want. However, this has changed. It may be what I want-portions of it, what is right...but not right now.

Being exposed to different cultures has got me thinking about what is right. For example, the Itallian (of course there are exceptions) do not get married until their mid or late 30´s. The birth rate is only 1.5 kids. They find it important to get a education, become financially stable, travel, etc. I am told the Spanish will date for many years live apart and both work to purchase a home and all the things for the home such as towels, silverware, and baby furniture. Then once this is accomplish, they will get married and have one life together... The spanish live in very small homes. This is why the tapas and night life is so important in their culture. Their homes are not big enough for dinner parties. Everyone lives and socializes at the bars and cafe´s. I have had many conversations with locals and they inform me that their culture is becomming more "American" and they ask me why. They ask me why Americans are they way they are, as if all of this was negative. I do nto know if they get their ideals from watching american soap operas, MTV or the simpsons, but if you see how these peole live their lifes, it is different and maybe better at times.

So this is all I have to say about this one...for now.

Amore, K

To the Sea I go, Alhama Granada to Almunecar Spain 88k 15k by car 5 hours

2007-05-10T03:21:00.000-07:00

I am sitting at a bar, drinking my third coca-cola, waiting for the rain to stop. It has taken me 3.5 hours to get this far. Much slower than I thought, but this can be expected when you have 25 pounds strapped to your back. I am kicking myself for bringing all this crap- I never wanted so much in my life to leave any shoes behind until now...but Italian and spanish leather...you know what I mean ladies!!!

Add to this that I have ridden over 200 k in the past 3 days and have climed many thousands of feet. At times I am only going 10kph on flats.I am tired and look forward to getting to the beach so I can lay around and be lazy. I will deserve it when I get there. I now only have 3 hours of sun light left. I cannot brave the wet roads with the dangerous descent I have comming up. It makes it even more dangerous with the added weight I have strapped to my back...so I waite. I have already figured out how to ask in Spainish where a pension is located in the village whereI am keeping dry on my adventure to the sea.

Luckly, the weather passes and it looks like I can continue my adventure safely to the sea. However, I am concerned with the time. I soon find that I am glad that I decided to continue. The beauty is amazing. I went from farm land with rolling hills..

to mountain passes that look and smell like colorado. The pine trees and mountain roads curving and winding along the cliffs, gorges cut into the stone from water that still travels to the sea, reminds me of a place I once called home. Vertigo oversomes me again. I squeeze my breaks for dozens of minutes... my veins come to the surface of my skin...ahhhh...arm pump. I then hear a honk from a small white pick-up truck that held two gentelmen that were in the bar were I was hiding from the rain. They asked if I needed a ride. Sure!! Why not. It is better being stuck out in the middle of no where in the dark. So my bike and my carrier bag gets thrown in the back and I sit between two middle aged spanish men tring to make small talk as we wind down the most dangerous roads I have ever seen. Both BEE Keepers in a tiny village perched on the mountain side about 15k from my sea side destination, they give me a ride up to this point.

I make it to my sea side village, just at dawn, in time to take a few pictures, and find a cheep hotel right on the ocean.

So, I think..this is why I love Spain. You can ride your bike about 60 miles and ride through farm land, ride down mountain passes, and ride by the ocean. Perfect!

Amore,Katelyn

This is why I am her, Veleta, Siera Nevadas Spain 32 k 2:35 ,minutes

2007-05-09T02:21:00.000-07:00

I am ready to ride today. I have had the last two days off from riding. I feel like a horses ass, because I have been laying around. hehehee.Days off, not by choice, but rain has followed me to Spain again. Of course, it was not bad to have two days off in Granada with my buddy liz. We got into different types of culture; flamengo dancing-shopping-dancing-tapas-discoteca-more tapas.....

So today my legs should be rested when I do the climb that brought me to spain. The snow capped mountain in the clouds-The Veleta. My tour guide was very reluctant for us to do the climb today. He was worried about the chance of rain and snow and his inability to be van support for me and liz with our difference of speed. He meant well. However, we both refused to stay another day without riding. This climb is why we both came here. I was going to the top no matter what and Liz was happy with just making it half way to the visitor´s center. A huge accomplishment in its self. You go girl!!!

We started off together in a little village outside granada. We had 7k before we started climbing up the 28k climb into the clouds and snow. You can see it the picture above looking down from the visitor's center.

I could see where I was going to end my climb, into the clouds on the snow capped moutain peaks that seem so far away. I am supprised to find that the climb was not hard compaired to theMulhacem climb that I did 3 days ago. It is differnt type of climbing. What was hard was the elements and the distance.It is different today becuase it is rainy and snowing and I know I cannot stop or it will be over for me. This means that I cannot stop for anything-no pictures-no stopping to get water-no bathroom-do hot drink at the visitor center....If I stop I will get too cold.

I soon became irritated with my tour guide and his inability to have water ready for me. He was really into taking pictures, retrospectively I am greatful. He seemed to be getting on my nerves with all the shouting in his mumbeled brittish accent from the van about how I was goign to die. He was also continously complaining about how Liz and I were too far apart. Negative energy that I try to seperate myself from. I would just tell him to piss off.. Do not worry he could not here me..because he has 80% hearing loss due to a antibiotic reaction when he was hit by a car...cycling. This makes riding with him very interesting and a adventure in its self. He does not hear cars and he seems to travel in the middle of the road, he cannot hear when I make group comands, he also has problems with his balance; making a straight line impossible. So telling him off just really makes me feel better, did not help anything and would be against my nature. I do not like to hurt anyone´s feelings. Actually, he has my blog address and will be reading this more than likely. I think he knew I was irritated. So sorry Paul :( You are a talented athlete that is continuing to make cycling your life even with barriers. Props to you.

You see, I am a grown woman that knows herself, knows her body, has cycled in all kinds of weather from extreme cold and hot temperatures, cycled at all altitudes from sea level to 12,000 ft, knows when I am putting myself in danger, knows how cold I can get, knows how hard I can push myself, on top of this I have 2 degrees in exercise science, trained at the olympic training center, raced at a high level for over 5 years, I have 5 National Championship, and one state championship. So I feel I have the knowledge plus the experience to know what I am doing. It boils down to the fact that I do not need a tour guide. I have cycled the past month by my self, If anything people should pay me to take them cycling. That may soon one day become a reality in my life. If Liz has anything to do with it :)

So yes- through the rain and snow I made it as far a I could go. All the way to the snow barriers. I decided to take the van down with the heater on full blast. 40-50 miles per hours screaming down the wet and snow covered mountain roads with my clothes soaking wet...would not be smart. But ohhhhhh the descent on a dry day... I get excited thinking about it...arm bump....one other day...I will be back.

Amore, Katelyn

Mulhacem Climb, Sierra Nevadas, Spain 106k 6.5 hrs

2007-05-07T06:42:00.000-07:00

Yes, I was correct as expected. Vino and 4 hours of sleep do not help start a day off right when one is even struggling to put on her spandex...let alone go for a ride up a mountain. I have reminded myself that I deserve any agony that I feel today. I will not complain one time to myself or any other one. I will smile as I climb as Jim would always tell me to do.

I sit at breakfast and forcefeed myself to eat a hard boild egg, tostada "toasted bread", raisins, cheese, and a pear. I am not hungy due to my hangover and the amount of calories I consumed from Tapas and Vino. I must eat today because this may be the hardest bike ride for me up to this time in my life.

Mulhacem mountain is 3,482 meters (around 6,000 ft or so) and the seceond hardes peak in the Siera Nevada mountain range. The road up to the peak of Mulhacem is only 9k but increases 2,500 feet with sections of 17% grade and a average 8% grade. The climb is part of the Tour of Spain, a pro cycling race. Today I will ride 70k to get to the base of the mountain, my torture, the tourture I crave.

The roads are coverd with painted names of cycling pros. Actaully, a buddy from college racing days Tom Danielson, he is now a pro on Discovery(Lance Armstrong´s old team), won a race on this climb I am doing today. My tour guide thought it was pretty cool that we had similar pictures climbing up the same mountain. He gave me a copy of Tom.

Again I am greeted with switch backs that wind up the most spectacular views. I look behind and see the land that I came acrossed to get to this point where I ride. Vertigo at times overcomes me.

I pass the most interesting home that is carved in the rocks. I continue to wind up the hardest road yet to date for a ride. I am climbing a category 1 climb. Just as rivers and rock climbing have classes based on difficuilty, roads for cycling have the same system; however category 1 is the hardest. I am kicking myself that I did not put a more realistic chain ring combination on for my trip. I do not know if this is stubborness or something that was ingraved in me from my ex-husband. I would not want to be wimp. I am told by my cycling guide that most pros would not do this climb with the combination I am riding.

I stand, lean from side to side, pushing down on every stroke as hard as if I were digging a whole in Tennessee rock and clay laden dirt. I pull up on the peddles with a force that at times feels I may cause my foot to detach from my leg. I continue hoping to reach the top soon. I look up and it continues to not appear any closer.

Yes I reach to top and am shaking from my sugar dropping. I need a ice cream and sit and look at the beautiful land I just scaled on my bicycle.

Amore, Always

Do as the locals, Alhama Granada 56k 3hours

2007-05-06T05:55:00.000-07:00

Liz and I decide that today after our majical ride up and down the foot hills, past the most amazing lake, through orchards of olive trees; a bike ride to the local Hot baths would be great for our legs. I am told that Alhama, the town were we are staying, means hot baths in Moslen.

As we wind through the gorge, I begin to feel a instant rush of hot air. As i look to my right, i can see and hear the orgin of the heat. Pooring out of the rock, hot water finds its was down that creek that will supply the hot baths for our muscle aches. Hesistant at first, due to the amount of locals in the pools, people bathing with soap, children screaming,teenagers smoking hash, and just the sheer attention 2 white girls are getting from the crowd. I wonder if we are welcome. As we enter the pools we are greated with smiles. Liz and I are welcome.

After a long soak and great conversation, we head back to the town in hopes to find a good night in the village. Similar to Itallian culture, the spanish live very late in the night. They typically do not even start dinner till 10pm. The beauty of this is that Tapas, the small plates of feed, are served from 4pm-late in the night. Even better, in south spain they are free witha drink. The most wonderful mini-food is unique at every pub. That in its self is a unique sight for the eyes. Hams hang from the cealing, waxed circles of aged chees are kept on the shelf with the glasses, tapas are displayed behind class. I have found my favorite tapas bar in Alhama and the owners really like Liz and I. Ahhhhh Tapas....... I must mention that each place usually has a speciality. Generally, they consist of little roasted potatoes, with or with out a sauce; skewered shell fish, ham, chicken, and vegetables;vegetables or fish fried, bread topped with tomotoes, cheese, ham, olive spread, fish, egss, and always soaked with the best olive oil. A night on the town consists of hopping from tapas bar to tapas bar. With water and soda priced higher than alcohol, rojo vino or a lemon beer "shanty" is the drink of choice at 1.50 euro for this girl that is on a budget. The only problem is that you continue to eat and dring through out the night and with out warning you are becomming a little too happy to be at the Tapas Bar till the weeeeee.... hours in the morning. The problem can be compounded with the fact that you have a 106 k bike ride planned up one of the hardest climbs in Spain, or Western Europe if this sounds any worse.