I had been driving for seven hours straight, pretty much since we crossed the Spanish border from France. We had planned to do the drive over two days but, just after Barcelona, I drank a cherry Coke. Coke isn’t really a beverage to me, it’s rocket fuel and, as 1am approached and our trip mileage surpassed 1300km, we arrived in Mojácar.
It was pitch black as we left the highway and the road was anything but straight. The mess of spare bike wheels threatened to emerge from their wedged positions above our heads with every hairpin twist. It was raining too and beyond the lines on the road, it was only the voice of the GPS guiding us. Edward was dozing off in the passenger seat and I could only think that we would look back and think how crazy we were, not just for driving so far in one day but for packing up for the seventh time this year and moving somewhere unknown.
“You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS calmly announced as I turned onto a gated steep driveway. I pulled the handbrake and stared wide-eyed out the window looking for reassurance. Two men approached from the shadows. The driveway gate opened and, through and open window, I could hear a familiar voice from one of the approaching figures. The British accent of Ed’s former teammate confirmed we had arrived.
In the morning, the whole world was different. It was sunny. There were palm tress. I could see the ocean! Over breakfast with our new housemates the conversation revolved around training routes and, maybe I was still under the influence of my cherry Coke, but by the time I had finished my pancakes I was dying to get out the door to explore my new playground. Twisty climbs, spicy hairpins, cliff trails, beach promenades, prickly cactuses, and, best of all, warmer weather. So far, so fun.