Roughing It

Am I a faker? A poseur? Admittedly, not a very nice thing to ask yourself. But sometimes, when the old soul-searching fails to get you anywhere, questions such as these can add a bit of oomph. Do away with the frills. Cut to the chase, so to say.

My most recent experience with this type of gritty introspection wasn't something I was actively looking for. Rather, it hit me like something blunt and heavy—not unlike the big parasol that toppled over in a gust of wind the other day and nearly split my skull in two while I was quietly enjoying some pescado frito.

The thing is, I ran into a colleague of mine. Not someone from the old job but a fellow cyclist. Now, I don't know whether you've ever seen me in full 3D action, with my semicustomised touring bicycle and ultratight outfit, but this guy was the complete opposite. In every sense. I spotted him from afar, while he was working the pedals to get to the top of a particularly steep hill. As is common usage among cycle tourists, we both grinded to a halt for a bit of practical chitchat. Usually talk about weight, gear, destination and road condition.

This time it was different. For a few seconds I just stood there and gaped at this big hulk of a guy on his rickety racing bicycle. The thing he rode looked like a classic, but not in the good sense of the word. In fact, it reminded me of the thing they fished out of a ravine after Dutch cycling crack Wim van Est had missed a curve in the Tour de France of 1951. (They managed to pull the poor sod out by tying together a bunch of bicycle tubes. Badly shaken of course, but not a scratch on his body.)

He told me he was from Austria. Left home in November, spent two months in Marseille, now on his way to a mountain lake for a bit of climbing. After that maybe to Morocco and push south, or catch a boat to Latin America.

I nodded and tried to produce a coherent sentence. 'On this bike?' I asked. 'Without front panniers?' I examined his outfit. Cotton shirt. Baggy shorts. Sneakers. And, very unorthodox, a backpack. All of a sudden I found myself asking the same questions worried friends had asked me before I left. Are you prepared for different types of weather? Where do you keep your water? Where do you sleep at night? When I mentioned that I sometimes stay in a pension or hostal—generally very affordable here in Spain—he winced. 'I never pay for accommodation,' he said, in the same way you might say 'I never have sex with minors'. Just like me he tries to couchsurf as frequently as possible. When that doesn't work out he pitches his tent in a field. 'And I'm thinking of getting rid of that tent. I don't need more than a bivy.'

I lowered my gaze from his longish beard to his tyres. Frightfully thin. Next to his my tyres looked like the things you see on monstertrucks. I started to feel embarrassed. I like to think of myself as someone who doesn't care much about luxury. Sure, I know how to appreciate the good things in life—a comfy bed, a fine meal, those sexy gadgets Apple churns out every so often—but I'm not much of a materialist. I could just as well do without all of that. But why then am I carrying so many high-quality items with me? Do I really need a windstopper jacket? Hydraulic brakes? Three pairs of gloves? Or even padded tights? Would my progress be hampered if I didn't have them? Am I, in short, afraid to rough it?

Possibly. But there was also something about this bloke that didn't quite agree with me. The frantic look in his eyes, perhaps. Or a certain sense of self-righteousness. Maybe I could rough it a bit more, I thought as we both went our separate ways. Maybe I should learn to let go and embrace the unexpected. But roughing it is one thing. Getting chafed is another.