A Brothers’ Tale Gone South

There’s no better time to write about a difficult subject from the past than when holed up in a little pueblo somewhere in Spain’s interior, while the rain outside the foggy window frames covers the tiles of an already aging hostal in deep, cold puddles. Since last year, I wondered if there was any sensible reason to share a story of a bikepacking anniversary ride that ended up in tatters. But, the way in which it did taught me enough to convince myself to write something about it on this most gloomy day. Perhaps it even helps some of you when making the choice to ride somewhere alone or with someone else. 

When spring came around last year, I’d officially been traveling by bike for a decade. An impressive moment, which I felt had to be celebrated accordingly. Throughout those ten long years, I’ve become particularly fond of Spain because of its bikepacking-friendly atmosphere, open natural spaces, and vast opportunities for every kind of ride. Want to ride asphalt without any traffic, sleep in small hotels, and eat out three times a day? Spain’s got you covered. Perhaps you’re more like me and fancy yourself an off-road adventure through rural pastures and not too disconnected backcountry, spending your days wild camping and feasting on whatever your bags hold at any particular moment. Or maybe you feel like touring the coast, staying with Warmshowers hosts, and practicing your Spanish. Spain offers it all. 

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My first long journey by bike wasn’t in Spain, though. I’d traversed the US from east to west, coast to coast, on a shitty bicycle wearing a big backpack. My brother was the one who got me into the idea of riding a bicycle then, and he joined me in the effort. However, after a few days of sweaty cycling through the outer suburbs of New York and foothills of the Pennsylvanian Appalachians in a dense summer heat, he pulled a muscle in his lower back and suffered a physical collapse by the side of the road due to dehydration. 

Neither of us had any idea of what we were doing, and the consequences were obvious. A hospital visit and several logistical nightmares later, he was on a plane home, and I continued alone, eventually making it to the Santa Monica pier on the shores of Los Angeles, where the Pacific is the only thing left to see. What had started as a joint effort became a solo venture, with a rather empty ending, standing on that pier at dusk. 

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But this time, it was going to be different. Late spring last year, I had 10 years of experience under my belt, and with that, it seemed obvious to me that if I planned it right, got the best gear together, and chose a different place to conduct my celebration, I could invite my brother once more to try again what had failed all those years ago. I proposed the idea to him over the phone and was rewarded with his enthusiasm; this seemed feasible and fun! He’d done a few of his own bicycle tours in Norway and Spain, neither of which came without challenges, so he was familiar with how bicycle travel works. 

It’s not just blindly pedaling your way up and down mountains. Instead, I wanted to show him everything that makes traveling by bicycle such a pleasure. Building up your appetite, relishing a menu del dia, finding the perfect camp spot, and sleeping in your own little cocoon in a place you’ve never been before. Seeing the landscapes unfold hill after hill, turn by turn, and traversing that which seems non-traversable by the locals you later chat with. Chasing that fulfilling feeling of a descent after a long and tiring climb or cold water nourishing your body on a hot day. 

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Of course, Spain had all of the prospects for us to be able to live just that, and it just so turned out there was even a route matching its rhythm: the Altravesur. A route just under 10 years of age, made by the same guy who created this very website, connecting the kind of villages and natural parks few Spanish people have ever driven through themselves. It offers a bit of everything, which is exactly what I was looking for at the time. 

When Oliver landed in Valencia in mid-April, we loaded two Tout Terrain Outbacks on our car and drove west for a quick start in Cadiz. But the torrential winds at the time forced us to change the starting location, so we could ride up into the mountains where, hopefully, the wind would be less obtrusive. After all, my brother had just ridden his daily bicycle commutes in the Netherlands and would need a bit of a build-up. Let’s not argue about the fact that headwinds are any Dutchie’s forté!

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Instead, we drove to Tarifa, put together our bicycles and luggage by the beachfront, and set off into the hills from there. This time around, we would make it to Valencia unscathed. West to east, coast to coast, in a smaller country, with far more experience in wild camping, finding the right tracks and acknowledging our physical limits. No more shitty bikes either; we rode top of the line, unfathomably-low-granny-gear Pinion gearboxes on steel mountain bike frames, used no heavy backpacks and, most of all, had the budget to cope with all kinds of necessary changes. And if we did have any sort of accident, at least we wouldn’t have to deal with US healthcare pricing. In short, nothing could stop us in our tracks.

Seeing my brother riding beside me, committing to an idea like this, turned every minute of my days with him into pure joy. Just the fact that he was such a rookie yet clever with his adaptations to the new environment made it incredibly amusing to watch his progression. He’s always been meticulous about hygiene, with a persistent hint of humor emerging from trying to do so on the bike. Smearing sunscreen all over without knowing whether or not you’ll be able to shower in the evening does pose some minor issues. Instead of warm water, wet wipes will have to suffice. Let’s not speak of his opinions on wild pooping. 

He’s also a mechanical thinker, which means he observes details of all kinds of things and knows how to fix seemingly anything with whatever tools are available to him. This translated into a few comments about the bike, such as the position it put him in and the way the bags worked, but he generally liked the way things functioned. I love my brother for his honesty, clarity, and what some might perceive as austere Dutch brutality when it comes to pointing out his feelings and opinions, even without words. It meant I could navigate our route and how much he was actually enjoying the ride. As silly as it may sound to some of you solo riders out there, all I wanted from this ride was for him to have the most fun, putting my own interests aside so I could thrive on his enthusiasm. 

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Springtime turned the grasslands and forests of Parque Natural de Los Alcornocales and La Sierra de Grazalema quite lush, with colorful flowers growing in droves by the gravel tracks. We passed through thick oak forests on asphalt roads and dirt tracks mostly lined by barbed wire fencing, ferns in abundance all around us, and a variety of mosses lining each tree along the way. I had no idea the southernmost edge of Spain was this green, but perhaps that was the time of year or a particularly wet winter’s fault. 

We wild camped the first and second night, shrouded by a dense layer of gray clouds. Temperatures weren’t so low, making it easier for Oliver to adjust to what I consider one of bikepacking’s finest perks: your own little nylon shelter—a thin yet highly weather-resistant layer protecting you from the elements and allowing you to sleep pretty much wherever you desire. I’d packed my two-person tent for us to share, knowing it may potentially be filled with undesirable and inescapable gases, but I figured it’d be fun since being brothers ultimately leads you to do wacky things and laugh about it afterward. By some miracle, with a length of almost two meters, he still fit on his mat, his head just about touching the inner mesh, with little room to move around in his sleeping bag. Crammed, we giggled about the relative discomfort compared to something like a normal bed, and through the cracks, I noticed a little dissatisfaction appearing after our second night spent like that.

When we’d covered about two-thirds of the route between Tarifa and Ronda, this lack of contentment slowly seeped out further like resin from a pine tree. It was a little sticky and inescapable, since he withdrew more from conversation and struggled with the ongoing increase of gradients. I could see something wasn’t quite right. At the time, he’d been driving a motorcycle in the Netherlands for a while, which he loved. And between Jimena de la Frontera and Ubrique, he recounted how wonderful it would be to simply rotate the throttle up these roads, savoring each bend and the traction swiftly, to pull up in town without exerting much effort. My reply that motorcycles produce about the most obnoxious noise a cyclist can wish for didn’t leave much of an impression in the wake of his growing realizations.

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To avoid making this part of the story melodramatic, I have to take a short break from the more romantic dialogue and say this clearly: of all the things that could’ve stopped this attempt at another journey, I’d never once considered that not everyone likes traveling by bike. For some reason, that simply never crossed my mind. Unfortunately for me, and the goal of my entire anniversary ride, Oliver came clean to me just a few switchbacks later: he just wasn’t enjoying the ride. He was physically not in the right place, didn’t enjoy sleeping in a tent, and just… wasn’t aware he would hit such a high mental wall. It was a bit of a bombshell and not something I could fix. Both feeling gutted, we decided to ride to Ronda on a main road and finalize our decision there. No accidents, no hospital visit, no plane back home. 

I’ve been wanting to give shape to this simple yet emotionally complicated story for the last 11 months, as I still feel like I owe some of those who followed along some kind of explanation for what happened. And, in general, to anybody who may read this, as a cautionary tale for shared rides. Not in a negative connotation but simply something you may consider when a loved one doesn’t want to ride alongside you or, possibly, things just don’t work out with the person you’re riding with at any particular moment.

We arrived in Ronda in far better spirits than I’d hoped for, and as we scoured its historic streets, plazas, and viewpoints, the blow slowly softened. We’d actually had a marvelous time together, but the mold wasn’t shaped for both of us. Looking up at the surrealist Dali painting in the courtyard of our hotel, it seemed a little like living a strange dream and deja vu. Only this time, I decided to go along with the ending instead of challenging the outcome and continuing alone. This time, we started and ended together, no matter what. 

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The next morning, after boarding a train in the direction of Antequera, we sat down at a cafe just outside of town for the last morning coffee of our shared ride. The bar was quiet, and our coffee was served hot, accompanied by small sachets of sugar. While Oliver looked at his phone and a passerby chugged his morning spirit, I noticed something was written on the sugar sachet. Translated, it read a quote from Mother Teresa:

“Sometimes we feel that what we do is just a drop in the ocean, but the ocean would be less if it were missing a drop.”

I don’t know whether or not our trip was that drop in the ocean that connects us, but then and there, I considered it a win that we’d managed to overcome our differences. Having dismantled our bikes into the back of our rental car, we turned on the radio and drove east. With every kilometer passing quicker than you could ever ride a bicycle, my brother returned to his former self. We joked endlessly and laughed like nothing ever happened.

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