The majority religion here in Spain is Catholicism. I would argue that cycling was the second. Wherever you go you will see cyclists on sleek road bikes or hunky mountain bikes. All being ridden by Lycra clad, fit, trim people of both sexes and all ages. Seeing a cyclist out of his seat, pedalling away determinedly up a steep hill, his wonderfully firm bottom smoothly covered by his cycling shorts and his thighs pumping away, muscles giving him the power to ascend the gradient is a sight enough to gladden the heart of any red-blooded woman!
I enjoy cycling. I love the challenges it gives me. I do not have an expensive road bike, but I still have my trusty mountain bike that I gave myself on my 30th birthday. I use my bike not only to explore the landscape of Andalucía both off and on the road, but as a means of getting to work without the need to find an ever-diminishing number of parking places. I get excited as I'm attaching my bike rack to the back of my car and mounting my bike on it. Knowing that on this outing I will discover new places and/or new sights. Or even just going back, covering a trail I have cycled before. I so enjoy the freedom, the challenge and yes, the self-satisfied smugness of another ride completed, challenges met!
There are many organised events throughout the area, both road and off road. One event that had always caught my eye was an off road one that used campo (field or country) tracks, dried riverbeds, old drovers roads and of course hills and more hills. On this route the downhill sections were as demanding as the uphill. I had been to see the start of the event a couple of times and was determined to one day enter the event. Then one year, with gritted determination I filled out my entry form. I knew I was never going to win, that was not the idea. To complete the course, even if I came last was the goal. To meet my own challenge, achieve the goal I set myself. Imagine my disappointment when I learned that the event was full.
Dismayed, but not broken I promised myself that the weekend after the event I would ride the course on my own. The course would be very clearly marked and knowing the lack of speed with which the markers would be removed I would have no trouble following the route. As it happened, I broke my promise to myself, and did not do it the following weekend due to other commitments. However, three weekends later I was taking my bike off the rack in a car park on the edge of the town near the start of the course. It was then that another car pulled up beside me. A bike attached to the rear carrier rack. Out gets a man of about my age, perhaps a little older dressed in the compulsory Lycra, as indeed was I. We exchanged a greeting of good morning as is also compulsory here in Spain. I recognised an English accent behind the Spanish greeting of Buenos días.
"Ah! You're English, aren't you?" I asked.
"Yes, I am. Although with your accent you aren't, are you? You're Welsh if I'm not mistaken."
We talked about the weather being perfect for a ride and other pleasantries. It did, however, turn out that he was here to do exactly what I was doing, and for the exact same reason, too late an entry form.
"Look, please feel free to say no of course, but shouldn't we really at least set off together? I'm thinking of safety here. I'm a slow horse really so I'm sure I'll be eating your dust very soon. But if we set off together, perhaps you might wait for me at the end, just to make sure I get back safely. And of course, if any mishap occurred to you, I would find you when I eventually caught you up."
He was right of course. It would make sense. Although I felt that he had overestimated my abilities, and judging by his rather svelte bodyline it would be me eating his dust! This course I knew had many physical challenges and plenty of mental ones too. It was a difficult course where at some places it required the rider to overcome that bottom clenching fear as they were descending a very steep, precipitous section.
"Yes, OK, that makes sense."
"I'm Frank by the way." he said as he offered out his hand.
"Tessa or just Tess." I replied taking what was a very firm handshake.
We set off along the course which followed a dirt road. Slight uphill but nothing challenging, a good warm-up. As we rode we exchanged a few sentences of conversation. The fact that I was having difficulty riding and talking without getting slightly breathless and he was not, reinforced my theory that it was I who would find keeping up with him a tad difficult! I was 50 and he about the same or maybe a little older. But there was no doubt that he was fitter, stronger and much more confident about his abilities. As he pulled ahead a little I determined to keep up. As he stood out of the saddle to put more power into the pedals, I could not help but admire his very firm bottom and what about those...... thrusting (the only descriptive I could think of) thighs. But very quickly I had to focus my attention on my riding. I did get the feeling that he was holding back, not ploughing on as he might normally have done. I was about to tell him to go on ahead if he wished but discovered that I had not got the breath to do so. We did make a few blessed stops along the route to drink water, and for me at least, to get my breath back!
Eventually we got back to our cars. I was gladdened and more than a little elated to have finished what was a much more challenging ride than I had thought it would be. Thanks in no small part to Frank and his somewhat more energetic pace. I was drenched with sweat and my thighs were trembling from the sheer effort. But I was buzzing and on a very high high! I did it! And did it at a pace!
After we had attached our bikes to our cars I was thinking about asking him if he fancied a celebratory drink. But just then he said:
"Look that bar across there is open, would you like a quick drink or a coffee?"
Looking to where he was pointing I saw the bar he was referring to. It was just a simple, no nonsense, typical Spanish bar. But right then it looked like the very best bar in the whole world! I said yes before the echo of his invitation had died.
We sat outside the bar drinking a can of iced tea for me and sparkling water for him. We talked about the ride, and then about life in general here in Spain, our loves and hates about living here. It turned out that he also lived in the same town as I did. I wondered why I had never bumped into him before as the expat Brit community was pretty vibrant there. It turned out that he didn't socialise much in those circles. He lived in an apartment block on the very edge of town.
As Frank stood up from the table to get us another drink I took a good look at him. He was tall, just over 6 feet I would say, around 6' 2" or a little taller. He had a very flat tummy, the Lycra top he was wearing would have shown even an ounce of fat. And I had to wonder about that neatly packed bulge in the front of his cycling shorts. They were padded of course like all cycling shorts, but I did wonder how much was the padding and how much was him. I knew that we had not met in a group of expats before, if we had I would definitely, definitely remembered such a rather tasty man.
As we were having our second drink I asked him if there was anything he missed about the UK. Yes, he told me, he missed his garden. He obviously had no garden here, but he loved gardening. Common ground! I loved my garden. My house was small, but it had a very nice garden. He also said he missed a good old Sunday roast dinner. I did enjoy my Sunday lunches too. Common ground! He was divorced after the initial va va voom! had fled from the marriage, just as I had. Common ground. We both loved hiking as much as mountain biking. Common ground. And we both liked to swim, either in the sea, a pool or in a lake or river. Common ground yet again.
Frank then told me about a hike he was going to do the following Saturday. He then said:
"I don't suppose you would like to join me on that hike, would you?".
"No." I replied. Seeing him a bit crestfallen I carried on "I'd LOVE to join you."
The smile on his handsome face broadened and put very endearing crow's feet at the sides of his eyes. I realised that they were the only wrinkles on his face. His jaw I would say was chiselled and determined. His silver-grey hair was the only concession his body had made to middle age. And what about those vivid blue eyes? As I was admiring this man I heard him talking, but somehow it didn't register what he was saying.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"I was saying perhaps we could go in just one car. Save the hassle."
