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Friday, March 22 – Sagres to Albufeira, 745 km
After five days in Sagres, our first long lay-over, it is time to move on and put my diarrhea behind me. Mike and I made the executive decision to leave yesterday, regardless of my health, so I gave my body strict orders to shape up because we are shipping out. And sure enough, this morning it has its shit together. Thankfully.
I am ready early and as usual Mike keeps me waiting until 10:30 while he returns bottles, etc. Everyone’s leaving. Nick and the girls leave town on the 10am bus, after we say our tearful goodbyes. Nick is full of affection and makes plans to meet up with us at Tourist Information in Tavira. In case that doesn’t work out, we arrange to meet at Tourist Information in Seville.
The only road out of Sagres is the one we came in on. It leads north-east to Vila do Bispa, then east just north of the cities of Lagos and Portimao. This route avoids much of the seaside traffic congestion in tourist land. It is along this stretch, not far past Logoa, that Mike and I have our first real spat. 
Mike has super-powers, you see. He can save money like a super squirrel. From the monies he saved from age 8 to 20 delivering newspapers door-to-door, he bought himself a three level condo with three rental units in downtown Toronto at age 26. He now works in top end international money trading, taking calls from banks and stock and bond traders. He has to know how to change marks into dollars into yens faster than a calculator. He can determine the best exchange rates amongst competitive banks as we glide into a new town, while looking for a place to stay and trying to negotiate unknown streets and unpredictable traffic hazards. He can spot a bargain in a grocery store half an hour after the price tag has fallen off. He is scary sometimes.
But too often the art of making the best choice can become an obsession, as it is with Mike. For instance, he is too cheap to buy his own maps, which I have paid a lot for, so he takes my map with the justification that he is “leading”. That would be fine, except that he doesn’t care to wait for me and is soon out of sight. And so it is today. It had never been a problem when he rode further ahead before, because we were often on the same road for long stretches or else he would wait for me when there was a fork in the road.
At 1:30 in the afternoon, around the 60 km mark, it begins to rain steadily, and fairly hard. I can see Mike in the distance. He continues on as though the sun was still shining, but I pull off to the side under a bus shelter. I put on my sweater and waited 10 minutes for the shower to pass. There is no let up in sight, so I throw my leg over the saddle and push off. I don’t want Mike to get too far away. A couple km later I come to a Wizard of Oz-type fork in the road. Mike isn’t waiting there for me and I cannot determine which one to take without my map. Of course, I choose the wrong one. It leads me 8 km under dripping trees to the sea, to a circus like beach town with many blocks of colourful, weirdly-designed medium-density condos that cater to elderly sun worshiping Brits. It is a creepy human horror show compared to the relaxed architecture and marvelous setting of Sagres. Thank gawd for the winds of Sagres that blow middle class tourists away.
The road is a dead end and I return the way I came. I meet Mike at the fork in the road, but only because he happens to be passing at just that moment. ‘I guess we got separated,” he surmises, as he circles around to pull up beside me. “I guess you decided not to wait for me at the fork in the road,” I hiss.
“Well, I thought the choice was obvious…” he says.
“THIS choice is obvious,” I pull my map out of the clear plastic map case on the top of his handlebar bag. “Now if you want to ride ahead out of sight you had better have your own map because you’re never using one of mine again.”
He takes it all in a very relaxed manner. It’s inspiring and relaxes me a bit too, but the whole thing is too unsettling. What if we hadn’t been able to find another after being separated? If he had passed the fork a minute before I returned I would not have seen him and would have probably taken the other fork in the opposite direction. This whole arrangement feels suddenly too frail. Then there is his performance when I was sick in Sagres. One of the biggest advantages of having a cycling partner is so that he will be there to help you if anything bad happens. That obviously does not describe Mike.
Travel is like marriage. Other than perhaps being trapped in a coal mine tunnel with a stranger for a couple weeks, those are best two ways to really get to know someone, good side and bad. Even better than being roommates. And especially when the travel involves a lot of physical effort, like backpacking, canoeing, rock climbing or cycling. Having the right partner is as important as choosing the right gear.
Mike stays with me from that point. Not far along from there I have a problem with my bike’s front derailleur. Neither he or I can figure out why my it is seizing up and messing up my gears. We spend half an hour trying to make it work, and in the end only manage a temporary adjustment to keep it running until I reach a bike shop.
The rain begins to fall steadily again as the afternoon wanes. We are an hour past Logos. The next town is Albufeira, still an hour away. We are relieved once we reach it. The accommodation costs more here, 3000 esc. My bowels are still behaving so we share a restaurant meal. The rain has stopped for now. I often spend this time after dinner alone in the room catching up on my journaling while Mike takes a walk around the town. I ask to walk with him tonight and he welcomes me. After today’s spat this is healing, even though the dampness from the rain is chilling and there’s a brisk north wind. PHOTO 1: church in Villa do Bispo
PHOTO 2: near Lagos
PHOTO 3: the wrong road
PHOTO 4: seaside condos on the dead end road
PHOTO 5: Albufeira
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