Fine day for a ride

I started cycling pretty seriously in 2005. I've had a few bike computers in the past five years, but none for long enough to confirm my estimate of having ridden about 35,000km in that time. Within all that riding, there's a number of specific single-day rides that I can vividly recall as being so enjoyable that I'd call them favourites. In fact, I have a top ten list. For now, just one.


Quite shortly after graduating from Humber College in '07, I made my first solo venture abroad. Whereto? Cuba. Naturally, by bicycle. With a bit of assistance from an Argentinian living in Toronto, I crated up my bike and flew off to a distant, enigmatic island; my backup plan no more thorough than a fistful of currency. With the possible exception of my final exam in tenth grade science, never in my life had I been so grossly unprepared for anything. The Cuban husband of my Argentinian friend picked me up at the Havana airport and after a fairly hysterical public viewing of me assembling my bike, set me aboard a bus bound for the town of Baracoa. Small, isolated, third-world, coastal towns don't come much more charming than Baracoa. I savoured every moment in time and every shot of rum I could in that town, but this is about a ride, not cocktails.


Preceding the ride, there were three major factors that gave me cause for concern. I had had past experience with mountains, but (1) the roads over which we traveled on the inbound bus were dramatically more treacherous than any I'd ever seen before. (2) The novel-to-me, oppressive, tropical heat promised to provide a truly punishing day of riding. I had told some locals in Baracoa of my intentions to ride for two weeks back to Havana. (3) "Eres loco, amigo," they would say. "Well, yes. I [am] a little crazy, but your allegations duly concern me."


Mildly deterred, I braved on for my first day's ride abroad; destination: irrelevant. The coastal nature of Baracoa allowed me about one kilometer of level road on which to warm up. From there, up into the Moa-Sagua-Baracoa mountains we (my bicycle and I) rode. At first, the heat did not disappoint. Quite quickly; however, we pulled into an eerie mountain morning fog, fairly thick in nature. Encouragingly, my fears of heat exhaustion were dispelled. The blessed fog acted as a gently refreshing blanket of mist, subduing the would-be need for sweat for the full breadth of the mountain range. The climbs were winding, steep, unprotected and, to an unacclimatized foreigner [insert:my smiling face], positively terrifying. This is something I've since come to appreciate in a way that few can imagine.


The fog thinned to reveal an overcast sky and despite the seemingness of inevitability, the mist never condensed into rain. The newfound visibility was most welcome at some of the outside turns as it revealed splendid views of vast jungle valleys. Classic cars were few and far between and each one more reassuringly than the last gave us, dear young boy and bike, more than comfortable space on the road. 


The road bumped and wound its way through the junglous mountains (mountainous jungle?) for most of our day, bringing about some interesting charms of a novel culture; roadside tree-ripe banana vendors not excluded. We rolled alongside crashing rivers, tantalizing cliffs, tree-climbing coconut farmers and even, much to the hollering amusement of rural chiquitos, rode right on through the infield of more than one asphalt baseball game. Untrained for mountains and fairly depleted nearing the end of a long day, we made our way up what would be the final significant ascent of the range.


Here and now, we pause for a double side note.
(1) Cuba is a strange land; one where the old and the new collide with unpredictable outcomes. In Havana, for instance, abound modern luxury cars, cosmopolitan youngsters and all other signs and symptoms of progress. Meanwhile, the further you travel from Havana (note Baracoa's position on the map), the further back in time you'll seem to slip. This can inspire confusion, hilarity, pity, enchantment, wonder and a myriad of other emotions to each individual granted the opportunity to witness it.
(2) To a truly passionate cyclist, there is something inexplicably joyous about seeing other people riding their bikes. I think most commuters, racers, couriers, Saturday-in-the-parkers likely don't understand that it gives me great pleasure to see you all out on your bikes. Without attempting to explain how one can too be a passionate hill-climber (a demented sub-caste of the truly passionate cyclist), even more joyous is two truly passionate cyclists crossing paths en ride.


The last climb dragged on like that final exam in tenth grade science. Struggle, we did. To persevere, we swore. And just as it felt as though we could take no more, just as we rolled atop that final crest, just as we started wondering whose stupid idea this whole thing was, we saw the light. Into focus came another young cyclist. A Cuban, entirely clad in vintage (presumably not for the sake of style) racing apparel, riding a vintage roadster, leaving his equally vintage-looking friends in his vintage-looking racer dust. He looked to be 20, but as though he'd just slipped into 2007 for a brief training vacation from 1975. His strength, his speed, his skill were clear. But clearest of all was his passion. Our eyes met and with a chuckle, we traded "hola"s as he promptly began his descent down the climb that consumed the previous hour of my life. His small peloton in tail gave me marvelous stares; the type one might come to expect as a ghastly untanned foreigner in a tight blue outfit riding a high-end, fully loaded bicycle through rural Cuba. "Allez, allez," I shouted, not knowing how to encourage their pursuit in Spanish. A truly magical moment, it was for me.


Refreshed and inspired (and finished climbing for the day), I gleefully began my 600m descent from the mountains. Miraculously, the sun came out to keep me warm for the otherwise chilly, high-speed plummet towards the Caribbean Sea. The final 15kms were pancake-flat along a beautiful stretch of coastline, adorned with dramatic bluffs to the right and a brilliant blue sea opposed. My legs screaming for mercy, we settled for the night at a beach near Imias, dreaming of rides to come.


Wow! Let's go for a ride!