Amigos en la ruta

“Solo?” most people ask me incredulously. Solo, yes. Which means a lot of time listening to podcasts and music (preferably champeta, vallenata, and Shakira, three cornerstones of Colombian music). Another favorite activity is practicing phrases and words that I struggle with in Spanish. I’ve spent considerable time repeating the word “alrededor,” with which my tongue just doesn’t want to cooperate. But every now and then, I meet people on the road who make the solo hours seem like a fiesta.

I left Medellín southbound on Alto de Minas, a notorious climb for the cycling community. I was a bit nervous, recalling the difficulty of the previous week’s climbs,  so I procrastinated over a long breakfast, lazily pedalled along bike paths, and even lapped a local kid’s pumptrack, before I started up the big climb of the day. Road bikes whizzed past me with blurred thumbs up — until all of a sudden one slowed down next to me.

“Dónde vas?” Argentina, eventually, I explained, and he introduced himself as Jarry. He became so stoked on my adventure that he pulled in front of me and slowed so that I could draft his wheel. I dug in, feeding off his energy, and before I knew it, a breeze greeted us at the top of the pass.

Jarry didn’t say much and couldn’t hang out long since he had to get back to Medellín for work. He turned around with parting words as he biked away: “Felicidad es tu empleo,” happiness is your profession, “Buena suerte!”

Descending the other side of the pass, I caught a familiar yet unfamiliar sight. Against the panoramic backdrop of the valley and mountains below, somebody was inching toward me on a bike weighted down with way too much stuff. I swerved across the road to say hola — my first encounter with fellow cicloturistas! Jerome, from Argentina, and Naomi, from France, had biked from Patagonia and were heading for Alaska. I explained sheepishly that I was a slacker and would only be riding the southern half of the Americas.

They recommended a campsite in La Pintada, the town awaiting me at the bottom of the mountain. “Isn’t it hot down there?” I asked. Truth be told, I had already booked a room at a resort with two pools and meals included. But I didn’t want to admit that, in spite of all the camping gear hanging from my handlebars, I hadn’t once yet strayed from the comfort of air conditioned hotels. I asked them how they were planning to cross the US, but they didn’t have a clue, so I proudly pushed for California or Colorado. The mutual stoke for our journeys was high as we bid adiós, au revoir, and goodbye, and cycled off slowly toward our respective poles.

Traveling solo, yes, but not always feeling alone.

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