Day 6: Padrón to Santiago de Compostela

This morning began brilliantly. The rain from the previous day had stopped and though the sun was dancing with the clouds, it never really rained where I was.

Remember how yesterday afternoon I was worried that I couldn’t stop and had a bike shop mechanic work on them? Although he tightened and removed the slack in the pistons and it felt better at the time, evidently it wasn’t enough. Twice during this morning’s ride I had to do a sneaker stop… remember as a kid when you’d have to drop your foot to the ground to slow down your bike? That was me today, but with a loaded bike and a heavier body.

When I got to Santiago, the brakes had pretty much become worthless on anything more than a 1% declination.

I found a bike shop and went in to ask them to look it over. It felt to me like the brake pads were completely fouled, but the mechanic said that they were a combo of mechanical and hydraulic, and that all of the fluid was drained from the chamber. Long story short: he swapped out the brakes with some Shimano Deore that he had. Two hundred euro later, I rode away with a bike that could stop on a centavo. They were crazy powerful. It made me wonder whether there was ever any fluid in the chamber, because the brakes always felt weak. Even before I left Folsom and brought the bike into REI, I asked them to check the brake pads because it felt like they needed to be replaced.

I rode through town towards the cathedral. It was anticlimactic. I thought I might experience some joy, satisfaction, or relief at finally reaching the end of this specific journey. All I felt was was sad that I couldn’t continue onwards, that’d my bike ride had come to an end and I’d be confined to feet, rails, and tires for the remainder of the trip. And that I’d be re-injected back into society.

I’ve always had a solitary streak. I don’t mind being alone and I find myself avoiding chatter whenever I find it. So many of the words we use are unnecessary.

Some years back I remember deciding that I would only speak words that I knew to be true. Words from experiences. Not those I had read or heard, but those with whom I had a direct experience of truth.

Turns out I couldn’t say much. I think I may have been a hermit in a previous life.

I’ll often joke that I don’t really like “people” in the general sense, but I know that isn’t true. I’m no fan of big groups and I do enjoy one-on-ones and small groups where the talk can be real. I really like hosting dinner soirées and small parties. I like to make others feel comfortable, to feed them nourishing meals, and to connect with them on a personal level.

So it was with those feelings tumbling around in my knobby head that I rode into the central square of the Cathedral at Santiago de Compostela. What I was looking for wasn’t here, not in the rain-soaked, windy square or in a document saying that I had completed this pilgrimage. And I wasn’t quite sure that I had reached the realization that it wasn’t a lack to be added to my experience or growth.

It wasn’t a Dorothy from the wizard of Oz moment where I find out that I had it all along. It was simply the releasing of so many layers I had added to protect or shield myself from the world. I shed several, but I cling to many more. Still such work to do!

I was a bit bone-tired, though, and so after getting my Compostela and distance certificate, I rode down to the train station to arrange the next phase of my travel. I needed to return to Porto to retrieve my luggage and then get to Barcelona by the 8th to catch the train to Paris to meet up with the family.

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