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Gembloux. 08/17/2021
After recharging for a day in Druivenland and making frequent stops at the local Proxy, we set out for our second day of cycling. With the rain hot on our tails, we had to move at a quicker pace this time. The weight felt as exaggerated as before, and we took a good long while packing everything up, so that by the time we set out it was past noon again. But we were out of the big city, entering the realm of endless plains, farmlands, and forests, dotted with stone villages that were quiet and still, as if they were held in a perpetual slumber–at least, that’s what I had imagined. And the day started promisingly. We followed a flat, red paved path that took us straight into a tall forest. But soon, the path spit us out on the highway, and we had to continue down the shoulder of the road. Worse, the rain seemed to grow nearer and nearer. The sky darkened, the wind chilled, and with every passing car we grew ever more weary of the busy highway. Occasionally the forest opened up, and I could see fields of wheat and corn, tractors, and bails of hay, and I wondered where I had gone wrong to end up on the other side of the fence. Then it started to rain. That’s when things got intense. There was no nearby camping, so we had to keep going. My map marked a path down the highway, and there seemed to be no exit onto other quieter paths, so we stayed on the shoulder and hoped for the best. However, as the rain thickened, the road grew slippery, the puddles wider, the shoulder narrower, and the cars and trucks closer, I started to worry. All of us did. Actually, I was pretty frightened. I hate the sensation of a car zooming past me, only a foot away from my elbow, so close and so fast that I have to be careful not to get thrown off balance, checking that my luggage and cello are ok. But worst of all is the noise–loud, almost piercing, like how I’d imagine a blade slicing through the air. It’s awful. And it was worse on the second day, when instead of gradually easing into riding on the road we plunged right into the bustle of an interstate, just to save us a few kilometers. Most of the time, it’s been the little details of the path that have made all the difference for us. And it’s those details that are harder to account for when planning a route on an app, and we went through a big learning curve the first week as we figured out how to plan realistic routes that would be enjoyable instead of torturous. Here’s an example of what I mean: By about 5 PM that day, we had only done about 25 kms, were exhausted, cold, wet, and still following the highway because that’s where the map led. At one point, we had to turn left, meaning the end of the little shoulder/cycleway we’d been following, and had to cross over to another highway. The crossing itself was very stressful, and became even more so when my mother disagreed on which side of the road to ride on, and stubbornly crossed over to the opposite side which seemed to have a slightly wider shoulder (cyclists and drivers are the same in that sense–we always stick to the right, but she went over to the left). The other three of us had already crossed, and we were bunched up on the white line marking the edge of the road, to the right of which was a dip to collect and channel the rain water and a lot of grass, and to the left of which were constantly zooming automobiles. Plus, we were at a turn in the road, which is the most dangerous since it can be a blindspot for drivers not paying a lot of attention. The safest thing to do was keep cycling forward, and maybe find a spot where we could wait for my mother to cross back. So I slowly cycled down the highway, evading the brown puddles and looking in my mirror to see if I was being followed. Predictably, the shoulder my mother was riding on ran out after a few meters, and since there wasn’t enough space to run around and go back to the cross-walk, she chose to cross where she was, in the middle of a four-lane highway, in the pouring rain with terrible visibility. She somehow stopped the traffic, and made it across safely. The guitar made it across too. I couldn’t believe she’d put herself in jeopardy like that, when the most important thing in that moment was to keep our heads and stick together, and keep the risk as low as possible. Thankfully, nothing like that has happened again since. But the trouble didn’t stop there. For some reason, there were a handful of cars stopped along our side of the highway, effectively blocking the only safe passage through. The first one was being driven by two old men, one of whom climbed out looking rather grumpy, checked on his car, completely ignored us when we asked what was wrong, got back in and drove away. But farther down we weren’t so lucky. The cars we found were empty and turned off, and their drivers were nowhere in sight. My dad took a gamble and went around on the highway during a brief moment of no cars. I decided not to risk it., especially with my cello. I barely managed to squeeze around through the other side, through the puddle that had formed in the gutter, and watched with agony as my cello splashed through behind me. I hoped in vain that the mattress it had beneath it might absorb most of the water, and the rain cover would repel the rest. The others followed suit, and we kept going. But soon we reached the next crossroads, and had to choose whether to keep going forward or turn right. Going right would take us into the fields on a quiet path of packed gravel, and would rejoin us with a nearby Eurovelo. We unanimously opted for that one. But to catch that path, we had to cross onto a middle concrete triangle first, at the curve. Though there was a crosswalk and we were standing with our bikes in front of it, no one would stop to let us cross. We started raising our hands, sometimes waving our arms, but no reaction from any driver. I think people thought we were trying to hitchhike, and didn’t want anything to do with that (we had cycled past a hitchhiker, who had climbed out of a car with a cardboard sign reading Bruxelles, and the poor guy immediately got soaked). Eventually someone stopped to let us cross, and we scrambled across the road and caught the path inland. As the noise of the highway disappeared behind me and my tires felt the welcome dampness of packed gravel, I felt a flood of relief. We’d made it out, and we were safe. The rain didn’t lighten up, and the sky continued to darken and my hands continued to numb, but it didn’t matter as much now that the path had transformed before our eyes. We did eventually have to take refuge beneath a tree to figure out where we were going to stop for the night, and had to settle for a hotel about 10 kms away, just past a town called Gembloux. We cycled through more villages, all quiet, with humans and animals alike waiting out the storm beneath their dry roofs, perhaps in the coziness of a stone cabin or grand old house, with their tea-kettle on and a plate of frites in front of the TV… No use wishing for that, I thought, and pushed onward. A few killer hills awaited us and a constant downpour of course. At that point in time, my mother was still in the habit of halting the caravan no matter how questionable the place and, might I say, the reasons. One time, my brother and I were a little ways ahead, mid-climb, chugging up a monster hill in granny gear, when we heard her shouting “Stop! Stop! Camilo! Sol! Wait up!” We stopped, worried, hoping nothing terrible had happened, but when she reached us she didn’t even stop, informing us as she cycled right past that the hotel was still a few kilometers ahead, and we should keep going up the hill. Well, thanks for that, I thought. That was right before we cycled past a small red zone by the highway. I’ll never forget passing by a window that glowed red, and seeing a skimpily-dressed manikin in the window suddenly move to strike a different pose–it was a woman standing on display by the highway! The shock came a second later, after I’d processed what I’d just seen. Yikes! Fortunately the hotel was still a few kilometers ahead, past the sketchy zone, standing all alone at the top of what felt like an endless climb, with a fancy-looking restaurant attached to the lobby. I gave a celebratory whoop as I pulled into the driveway, and all the diners turned my way. Laughing even as I felt their eyes burn their way through my helmet, I parked my bike and stood to wait for my family. When we showed up at the side entrance (the lobby was closed) all muddy, soaked to the bone, hauling mountains of also-soggy-and-muddy luggage and bicycles with us, I think the receptionist almost had a heart-attack. Fortunately, we’d made a reservation a couple hours before. No one could turn us away now. One of the workers actually turned out to be quite friendly, and spoke great Spanish. She helped us find a place for the bikes, and carry all our stuff up to our room. We got the floor so wet and muddy that they had to bring us extra towels to mop. Then came the moment of truth: the instruments. I opened mine tentatively. And… It was wet! The clothes and towels I’d lined the inside of the case with were soaked, and the bottom of the cello was humid. I used what dry cloth I could find to dry it, and then tried blow-drying my case. The guitar had suffered the same fate, if not worse. But fortunately, they weren’t soggy. Just humid. I think the clothes we used saved them. My cello was even in tune. We had to leave them out to dry, along with the cases, so we laid them out gently on the cheap sofa-bed (it sank right in when my dad tested it out, and was left with a rather pathetic indent for the rest of our stay) and hoped they’d be alright my the morning. We all enjoyed hot showers, and the restaurant sent up three enormous platters of Belgian frites with whole bowls of sauce, and the most delicious salad I’d ever tasted. After downing all but the last platter of frites, we all squeezed into the remaining bed horizontally like sardines in a can, and had one of the worst night’s sleep I can remember, since I couldn’t find earplugs to drown out the earth-rattling snores next to me. And that was Day 2 of cycling. Comments are closed.
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