posted by Guest blogger - Kris Goodbody | 0 Comments
From country roads winding their way through rare days of dappled sunshine back home in Ireland, to seemingly endless, barren stretches of highway ploughing through the deserts of north Spain.
From seeing cities slowly rise and build as we coasted through their hinterlands toward grand centers, to gripping tight onto sweaty handlebars as we juggled imminent danger and magnificent views on treacherous mountain passes.
From sleeping on rough ground in pit stops on the edges of motorways, clutching knives for the impression of safety, to drinking all night to the sound of street music in sleepless cities.
A trip of contrasts would fall short of describing what it was. It was more a collection of experiences worlds apart, tied together by the constant roll of wheels towards our goal. That was the goal we had reached as we stood on the deck of a ship pulling out of Pariaus Harbour.
I remember looking fleetingly towards Turkey and imagining the Bospherous and the new continent that lay on the other side with a whole wealth of experiences waiting, waiting for another time as I was headed for the Cyclades islands and a month of kite surfing and drinking with some good friends.
Now as I’m writing this six months later and the beginnings of nostalgia are creeping in. I can guarantee myself that it will only get more and more gold tinted and romantic as the years go on, because very simply, those six weeks of cycling were fucking unbelievable.
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