I started riding my bike in May, in Boulder, Colorado, and being able to coast through a countryside that I thought I knew, felt like a new beginning every time I left my house. I have been getting that same feeling the second Keagan and I wake up from the constant tapping of rain letting us know it’s another beautiful day to ride 50 miles through an unknown terrain.
The rain has been a sendoff for us every night, as well as our wakeup call every morning. It seems to racing us, taunting us, trying to see if we can get our gear packed together before the pools of water can weigh us down with unnecessary and unwanted weight.
No matter what weather is predicted for the day we have found nothing to be completely on point. Our rain shells will slide on and off until we get tired of playing chicken with the clouds and ride it out. To be honest it rushing our adrenaline as we fight to push through the rain, blowing it out of face, watching every drop slide off my cycling cap.
Through the wet blanket comes the sun and it will stay out for quite a while allowing our sicks to dry and our bodies to warm up, and muscles to gear up towards the upcoming mountain.
Every town and little road changes scenery with every bend, always giving us some to glimpse as we ride past.
Riding through the port town of Figueira da Foz, bike paths grace us with a little bit of clarity and relief from the semi-trucks and unruly drivers inching past us. Starting to glimpse some waves was enough to make us shout and ride even harder because around the mountain ahead of us had to be some unheard of, uncrowded, Portuguese beach break that we have only heard rumors of existing. I felt like I was racing towards treasure that I didn’t know was there or not.
So of course I get a flat.
Keagan fixes and fiddles with it as I help by documenting the moment with photos.
Fisherman are scouring the tide-pools for Octopus and the people were out to enjoy the sunshine along the bike path.
With some help of a kind runner who saw us about to bike down a dirt road leading to know where, he benevolently pointed us in the right direction which happened lead straight up the mountain that I did not want to go straight up.
We did smirking as we saw lines of swell being flawlessly painted along the rocky coast. After a wrong turn, finding the dirt road our friend suggested, we steadily avoided the countless holes through what resembled an old mining quarry, there was our holy land.
Peeling around a bend was a beautiful sight of a flawless barrel running along a sandbar, down the coast until we couldn’t make it out anymore.
Racing through palms and purple morning glories, we grad our fresh Enjoy handplanes and fins, and jump in the water at Praia de Quiaios. Even though our legs burned from the constant cycling, there was enough kick left in them to slide the fins on and swim out into the whitewater. Per usual, the ocean let us underestimate her, and made us fight for our waves, but we were ecstatic to get salty.
After finally succeeding in catching up to some waves, we set up camp, sleeping easy until Porto.