This is what happens, when you put a writer on the back of your motorcycle! And I just asked for a little testimonial 📷:-D
The Montseny air was sweet, the view majestic. It would be profoundly peaceful, spiritual even, were it not for the shrill growling of the motorbike as we transcended the roads that laced down the valley. The wind buffeted me so forcefully I thought it might tear off my helmet. For a moment I imagined my body tumbling at 130km/h, my head drumming on the tarmac, jeans and skin tearing. I swatted the idea from my mind. My fingers ached from clutching the hand grips, but my blood pounded with exhilaration.
As a mother, sometimes I need to escape the vibrancy of family life, and indulge in some “me” time. I try to align my time off with work conferences. That weekend, I’d had the opportunity to fall in love with Barcelona – a wonderfully eclectic city. But I wanted to discover something wilder than beautiful buildings, magical fountains and kaleidoscopic markets…
A friend of a friend had recommended me Christian’s motorbike tours of the Catalunya countryside. I’d not paid much attention at the time. My father had frequently lectured me about the risks of fatal accidents on a bike, and made me promise never to go on one. My husband, a keen mountain biker had also spoken with dreamy eyes about the dangers of such high speeds, such acceleration. Succumbing to their arguments, I’d postponed my foray into the world of motorbikes until retirement. Once my family was self-sufficient, I could then consider taking risks. I would be a blue-rinse biker chick.
And yet, my inner rebel, silenced for years, nagged me. I didn’t like being told what to do. This weekend was for me, and me alone. I had an empty weekend. My memories jogged by a biker speeding past me on Passeig de Gracia, I searched for the details of Christian’s tour company online. My stomach lurched with fear-tinged thrill at the idea. Many of my travels had coincided with unfortunate events in the past, although for the most part in distinct locations. I was in Turin when 9/11 happened, flying out of Amsterdam airport when Brussels was bombed, in Tokyo when the Tsunami hit Fukushima. The likelihood of something going wrong around the time of my Barcelona trip seemed reasonably high. I opened a new tab, and searched on “risk of motorbike death”, calculating that the odds we just over ten times that of a fatal accident in a plane. I flew all the time. That made me feel a bit more secure. So I sent off an email to book my motorbike adventure.
Christian got back within the hour. He had a slot available on Sunday. He sent me a list of preparations and a map of where we would meet. If I had long hair, I should tie it back. I should wear comfortable trainers or boots and jeans, and bring wrap-around sunglasses and earplugs if I had any. He would supply the biker jacket, helmet and gloves.
We met outside his flat down a narrow street scattered with artisan workshops and independent galleries typical of the Born area of Barcelona. Christian was in his fifties with a kind face and a Danish matter-of-factness to him. My heart pulsed faster as he lifted the shutter to a secret courtyard, revealing a waspy electric blue BMW. He gave me a quick briefing on the route we would follow, what to do if I wanted him to pull in. He encouraged me to ask him to stop whenever I wanted to take in the view (as long as it wasn’t on the motorway). He suggested that I hold on to the hand grips on either side of the saddle with one hand, but that I use the other hand to brace myself off the fuel tank when he was decelerating. When not bracing, I could hold on to him if I was comfortable with that. It occurred to me that even if I was comfortable with it, my husband might not be. But then, this was my weekend, for me.
In turn, I explained to him how nervous I was; scared that I was doing something silly – endangering the life of my children’s mother; how scared I was that I was going to be a rubbish bike passenger – a dead weight that he would have to wrestle around curves. Christian listened patiently and reassured me that he’d take things very easy at first, and we’d take a stop after about twenty minutes to assess how things were going.
Briefing over, it was time to put on our protective gear (which seemed so heavy in the summer heat) and mount the bike – Christian first, then me. I felt exceedingly vulnerable. There was no seatbelt. Just my hands to hold me in place. What if my hands slipped? What if I lost concentration?
A roar of the engine and we were slipping between pedestrians on the narrow streets. They barely blinked as passed. I was surprised they couldn’t tell what a novice I was. I felt so overdressed surrounded by tourists in hot pants, bikinis, surf shorts. Then we were on the road, in the sprawling, profusely traffic-lit streets of Barcelona. Locals on scooters scudded past us, and I realized the Christian was going extra slow to allow me to adjust. It didn’t take long for him to relax though, weaving through unfeasibly small spaces between vehicles to get to the prime position at the front of the traffic lights. I could tell that he was very aware of where every other vehicle was on the road. I just had to put my trust in him, absolutely.
I settled for a position clinging onto the hand grip by my right thigh, with my left arm either bracing off the fuel tank or loosely holding on to Christian. I kept nutting him with my helmet as we stopped and started at lights. My cheeks were squished and my head felt comically large – as though it might pop, especially with my ears plugged to protect me from motorway noise. He’d asked me not to slouch into him as it could get uncomfortable for us both, so I made an effort to keep my back straight. I’d love to be able to describe the beautiful streets we sped through on our exit from Barcelona, but I didn’t see them at all. I existed only in the sensations of my body, adrenalin signalling this was a survival situation. Being a passive passenger was not an option. I held on, because life depended on it, anticipating curves, bracing correctly, trying to get comfortable with the vibration of the bike between my legs, thrusting into Christian at each deceleration, my arm resting around his side.
When we stopped after 20 minutes pain was cycling my spine. My fingers ached from holding on. It occurred to me that I’d tensed my body as though in the same yoga position for the last 20 minutes. I needed to consciously relax or this was going to be a punishing experience. After a quick consultation, a rest and a stretch, we decided to proceed. It hadn’t been as bad as I thought. I was proud of myself for having been so adventurous. A wild woman, rebelling against everyone’s expectations. If I relaxed a little I might even be able to enjoy myself. There was no going back now.
The next part of our journey was the motorway leg. It wasn’t particularly picturesque – we were passing through some pretty industrial areas - but the straightness of the roads allowed me to work on relaxing. Aloe vera and cacti at the side of the road, reminded me how far I was from home. I glanced at nimbus clouds, flowering above against the blue sky. We passed a wall scrawled with the words “Sense por”. Christian explained when I asked him later that it meant “without fear” in Catalan.
Then we hit the higher speeds, and the sights blurred from my awareness again. A large insect splatted on the visor of my screen and I was momentarily reminded of the fragility of my own body at such high speeds. The force of the air ripping around me was awe-inspiring. I wondered if my neck would be able to stand up to the force. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle any more speed. It took my best yoga-strength to brace myself against the fuel tank when we decelerated. But I felt strong.
Leaving the motorway, we buzzed by fields putrid with manure. The curves were tighter again, but we didn’t seem to be going that much slower. I was getting into the rhythm of the coiling road, but prompted by Christian realised that I had forgotten to take in the view around me. I was taken aback by layered valleys of mossy green scattered with sandy terraces that seemed more reminiscent of Indonesia than Spain. It was still July, but Autumn’s first golden leaves swum in our wake and washed amongst the mossy vegetation.
He pulled over. The engine silent, we could hear birdsong. The air was sweetly spiced with summer shoots, pine and burnt leaves. A cyclist whirred by us. We sat on the grassy ledge, breathing in the view. I felt privileged, and proud. Alive, and in awe of my surroundings and myself. I had faced my fears, and found this delicate side of Catalunya that most tourists would miss. I once read that within every woman there exists a force - sharp instinct, passionate creativity, and wisdom. Through taking this journey into the wild, I felt her stirring within me. Would I go back to my life the same person? I wasn’t so sure.
Now for my next challenge – to figure out how to explain to my husband and my father that I’d ignored their warnings, and loved the experience.
As I listened to the tick of the engine cooling and watched a swallow soar overhead, I began to compile a list of the other things people told me I should never do…"
