My Hands, Suriana, Spain and Nashville, Tennessee

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

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

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

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

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

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

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