Kellen Smetana
When we left Madrid all that remained was a six-day ride to Lisbon.  To Lisbon!... To the Atlantic!... To THE END!  Had we really arrived at the final week of riding?  Throughout the trip, we always planned for the next destination:  8 days to Urumqi, 2 days to Bishkek, 3 days to Samarqand, 3 days to Zaragoza.  This was the final destination.  It was a strange feeling to know that there would be no other afterwards.  No more cycling, no more traveling; only salt water, big smiles, and a cold beer.

It took three long days to speed ourselves out of Spain.  The tail end of Spain included our longest riding day of Europe, yet more glorious sun-drenched Spanish weather, endless fields of olive trees, and enough cured meats to inspire fantasies about future grocery lists.

Crossing the border to Portugal, one of the first conversations Bill and I had started something like this, “So, what is the deal with Portugal?  I mean, what are they known for?  Is it just a mini-Spain?”  After a quick brainstorm, Bill contributed cork trees and I Port wine, and with that, we had ourselves a nice little stereotype for the country, removing its potential mini-Spain status.  We had a good laugh at our naïve labeling but soon found the stereotypes to be strikingly true.

Not even an hour into the country, we began to see fields of odd-looking, numbered trees stretching to the horizon.  Upon closer inspection, we realized that these trees had all been stripped of their bark and that this bark was actually an inch-thick layer of cork.  We later discovered that the painted numbers coincided with how long ago the trees were stripped and that Portugal is very much known for their cork products: they hold 50% of the world’s cork trees and are responsible for 90% of cork processing.

On the second to last day, it was not so much cork that interested us, it was wine.  All through Europe we passed vineyard after vineyard after vineyard: we photographed them and slept in them, sampled grapes and restaurant “vino de casa,” debated wine production, wine types, and wine psychology.  But never did we stop in one to chat with the experts and tour the production facility to settle these discussions once and for all.  For weeks it had been on our “to-do list” and it was certainly a lot to hope for, but we thought there was a chance we may get lucky.

Following a funny mix-up at an exclusive spa resort we thought was a vineyard, we did get lucky.  We found a vineyard with a reception and small shop and after we explained our story, it turned out they were thrilled to show us around.  Alberto, the master wine engineer for Vale do Chafariz vineyard, spent three hours with us touring the production, ageing, and packaging facilities, answering our incessant inquiries (at one point he even busted out hydrocarbon atomic formulas), and leading a private wine tasting that left us drunk into the evening.  It was an absolute blast and a perfect cap to all of our wonderful “vinho” and vineyard experiences of the trip.

The next day we awoke with jittery anticipation.  This was the day we would reach Lisbon and the Atlantic; this was the day all riding would come to an end.  We planned it to be an easy, short ride into the city, but – as was a more appropriate end to the trip – it turned out to be much more of an adventure than we expected.

After fixing a final flat in the morning, we made it to one of the two bridges across the Tagus River into the city of Lisbon.  As was always the case over the last seven months, we blew through the toll booth without batting an eye.  This time, however, alarms rang and we thought we heard people shouting.  Bill and I looked at each other questioningly: “Ahh, let’s just keep going,” we decided.  “We’ll be in Lisbon before they even care.”  Wrong.  Not one kilometer later we were being escorted off the road by a tow-truck and police car.  Apparently they didn’t want bicycles crossing the bridge.  We played dumb and they were actually very nice while delivering the bad news that we had to ride 60km out of our way to a smaller bridge north of the city that would allow bicycles.  Our easy day just got a lot harder.

We had to haul and haul we did: flying to the bridge, wolfing down lunch, and churning back towards Lisbon.  Bill had a Skype date scheduled that evening, and we still had to make it to the city, swim in the ocean, and find the apartment of friends with whom we were staying.  Late afternoon, we cut right across the heart of Lisbon and kept pedaling to the Atlantic.  Fifteen kilometers later, we stopped at the edge of the sea.

October 21, 2011.  203 days, 16,497 kilometers, 3 bouts of food poisoning, 32 flat tires, and 53 dog chases after setting forth from Hong Kong (4,979km from Istanbul) we finally reached the Atlantic Ocean.  It was the symbolic end to possibly the greatest adventure of my life.  We both wore huge smiles and ran out into the water like little kids.  I felt very proud for actually making it from sea to shining sea – Portugal certainly seems far when you’re navigating the jungles of Southeastern China.  Standing on the rocks, watching the sun drop in a hazy sky out over the Atlantic is an image that will be forever burned in my mind as one of accomplishment.  This was a moment I knew was coming and one I had thought about in one sense or another nearly every day for the last year; now it was one I will never forget.  The bikes survived, we survived, and we had a little fun along the way.  And the icing on the cake, as you may have seen in his comments to the Pyrenees blog post, is that we just “pipped” Central Asian partner and dear friend Theo, who cycled into his home in Norfolk, England on October 22 (beat you by one day, Mr. Brun… haha).

After an ocean-size photo shoot, we turned from the Atlantic back into Lisbon.  In one hour we procured a map, ripped the map, borrowed cell phones, lost cycling gloves, crisscrossed Lisbon, and found our friend’s apartment with 15 minutes to spare for Bill’s scheduled call.  (We're getting pretty good at this)

After his Skype chat it was finally time to decompress.  We were staying with a couple of girls Bill had met at the hostel in Istanbul while waiting for Cory and me to arrive.  Bill and one of our hosts Alexandra had challenged each other to a race from Istanbul to Lisbon; she took a plane, we took our bikes.  We lost, but it seemed to work out well because she was there waiting for us to arrive.  Continuing the tradition of the Iberian Peninsula, they were absolutely wonderful hosts.  We had our own room in the apartment and the first evening they invited us to a delicious Portuguese dinner they were hosting.  We shared stories with this jovial, funny crew and celebrated the end to our trip late into the night.

The next day we boxed up the bike, packed away the gear, and prepared for the arrival of Bill’s dad and brother.  Sunday morning, Mr. Conry and Mike landed in Lisbon for a week vacation in the city.  We quickly had them out and about, soaking in Lisbon’s sights under our first rainy sky since Italy.  We toured the old castle, the main city squares, continually tested Mike on his impressive Portuguese skills, and even practiced the age-old wisdom of ordering another bottle of wine to outlast the storm.  We had a great time together and though there was much more to do in this underrated city, we left it for Mr. Conry and Mike to tackle alone.  It was time to head home.

Monday I flew home to the US, followed two days later by Bill.  It was really over.  The day I departed for Hong Kong I wrote that I was surprised to not be bouncing with excitement for the journey – we all know that changed quickly.  But now that I was coming home I was not surprised at my melancholic mindset towards the fact that all that cycling was done.  Even one week after touching the Atlantic it has not yet truly sunk in.  It is weird not having to open a Michelin map and compass to navigate to my parent’s house, to wear shoes without metal cleats in the soles, and to have conversations over some fancy device called a cell phone.  I’m sure it will take some adjusting.

The ride is over, but don’t worry, this is not the end of the blog, website, or anything!  (We have plenty more to show and tell).  Stay tuned in the coming weeks as we post thousands of photos, stats, videos, and other fun, relevant materials.  And as the magnitude of the adventure we have just finished does begin to sink in, we will have plenty more to reflect upon and share (don’t you want to know which was my favorite country…?)

For now the simple mission statement Hong Kong to Lisbon.  On a bike. has become past tense.  And I am proud to say, it feels good.

Bill Conry
Still elevated from our Pyrenees climb, Kellen and I enjoyed a swift downhill into Spain ready to take on yet another country.  To my astonishment, the country did not appear the way I had envisioned it based on my prior knowledge and one past trip to Barcelona.  I thought somehow we had teleported to Arizona based upon the flat, arid geography and general openness of the region.  The copious amounts of space in between towns gave us little option but to plan our meals based on our arrival in said towns.

Our first night in Spain we pedaled into a tiny village and asked a man on the street where we could find a restaurant.  When the directions became complex and he grew sick of answering our questions he decided to have his eight year old son lead us there by bike.  Although Megan the child magnet was not present, in an instant five additional neighborhood kids appeared ready to ride with us to the establishment.  For ten minutes I was in 2nd grade again, riding bikes with a bunch of youngsters as the sun went down.  Unfortunately, our destination turned out to be closed upon our arrival, so once we parted ways with our tour guides Kellen and I followed the noise to a nearby bar/restaurant to inquire about dining there.

The language baton had been passed to me for Spain, and this was my first real skills test.  I studied Spanish throughout high school and in my first semester at Michigan, however outside of ordering at Chipotle I had not spoken the language in eight years, so I anticipated my communicative abilities would be a bit lacking.  And lacking they were – it took twelve townspeople and a combination of broken Spanish, French, and English for Kellen and I to explain that we would like to eat dinner there if possible.  Part of the confusion was based on the timing of our conversation – 6:30 PM, which suddenly occurred to me is several hours before the traditional dinner time in Spain.  With a combination of charm and what I could only imagine was the humor in the owner encountering the worst Spanish accent in his lifetime, we were able to have the kitchen open a bit early to fix us some tasty ham and cheese sandwiches before finding a nearby campsite for the night.

After a couple days in the hot, desert-like conditions we arrived in our first major city of the Iberian Peninsula, Zaragoza, where for the first time since Istanbul we were staying with locals.  My Chicago friend Joe lived in Zaragoza for a few years growing up due to his father’s job in the automotive industry, and he was gracious enough to put me in touch with his friend Marcos, who was willing to take the risk in putting up some dirty American cyclists for a few days.  The newlyweds Marcos and Patri welcomed us with open arms to their city by preparing a phenomenal meal of tortilla de patata, filling us in on the history and culture of the city, and even assisting me with my improving yet far from fluent Spanish.

Embracing the Spanish schedule the following day, Kellen and I went to a late lunch at a restaurant owned by Joe’s friend Eli and her family, which had come highly recommended.  Eli’s uncle Oscar served us plate after plate of his personal tapas selections – lomo, fois gras, salmon tartar, prosciutto stuffed artichokes – it was all phenomenal.  When Eli arrived at the restaurant we chatted for hours over regional wine and Hierbas liqueur about the skyrocketing popularity of gin and tonics in Spain across the past for years, how only tourists drink Sangria, and Oscar’s affinity with Michael Jordan.   Once we finished our coffees and walked towards the tram I realized it was already 8pm and commented to Kellen that hands down this is the latest I’ve ever left lunch in my life.

We lucked out with our timing because we happened to be there on the eve of Pilar, a holiday honoring the female patron saint of Spain.  Pilar is the biggest day of the year in Zaragoza and the whole town shuts down for the parades, music, and flower tossing in the main square.  Although it was a Tuesday night, nobody had work on Wednesday and therefore it was a popular night to hit the town.  When we arrived back at the apartment Marcos told us we were going to make a batch of sangria and head to his neighbor Marta’s apartment for dinner and drinks before going out to a nearby carnival.  Kellen and I cracked up because we engaged in a similar sangria conversation with Marcos the previous night and we assumed the sangria was being prepared to entertain us American tourists.  He insisted that that was not the case, sangria was a great call given the context of the night.  Either way the sweet, fruity red wine he prepared was delicious and authentic.

Keeping up with Spanish time we went out well after my Chicago bedtime to a nearby carnival where we met up with thousands of other young people at the music tents.  Despite missing Bob Sinclair’s performance earlier in the evening, Love Generation was out in full force for a fun night!

As multiple people predicted, our Spanish schedule delayed our departure the next day as we headed towards Madrid after receiving some helpful route guidance from Marcos.  The Arizona-type conditions continued as we pedaled southwest and the land grew even more desolate than what we experienced at the start of the country.  It was imperative to strategically plan out our mealtimes and water acquisitions given that we were only passing through a handful of towns a day.  One day we were starving around 2pm and decided to see what lunch options were available in the small village of Embid.  Throughout both Eastern and Western Europe, Kellen and I have encountered countless “ghost towns” as we call them – small cities that appear abandoned: no people, no cars, and no open stores, almost like an eerie film set.  On the surface, Embid had ghost town written all over it, but our stomachs urged us to check it out anyway.

We rolled up to a bar where we came across three gentlemen drinking Estrellas.   I asked about food and they informed me that not only did they not have a kitchen, but there were no restaurants or grocery stores in the little town of 26 denizens and that we needed to travel 8km down the road to the next town.   As we walked towards the exit with our heads down and stomachs growling, one of the patrons said “queires una cerveza?”  My Spanish might not be perfect, but no matter the language I know when somebody is offering me a beer.  We joined our new friend Manuel for a round as we discussed our trip, the hot weather, and how dinner time in France is insanely early.  English is not an option in these small towns, so the exchange was exclusively in Spanish and my listening comprehension is not 100% accurate, so Manuel might have a different account of the chat but that’s at least what I think we were talking about.

Eight kilometers down the road in the next village we encountered a very similar scenario and were informed by an elderly couple that we needed to travel another 15km to find food.  All in all we had to cover 60km from the town at which we ate breakfast to where we ate lunch.  Can you imagine having to travel that far to find food of any sort?  This really put things in perspective coming from a guy who was devastated to learn that there are no Outback Steakhouses within the city limits of Chicago.

With the drop of a hat the terrain transitioned from open and barren to mountainous and green.  We welcomed the new scenery and the close encounters with wildlife that came with it.  We braved some of the steepest grades we have seen all trip as we continued towards Madrid.  One morning I woke up shivering to frost on my panniers and checked my thermometer to discover it was 38 degrees.  Kellen and I bundled up as much as we could but threw in the towel and warmed up with coffee and toast in a nearby lodge after a few kilometers – the wind chill was that bad.  Throughout the day I peeled down my layers and by the time the clock struck 4pm I was as dripping in sweat under the hot sun.  The thermometer this time read 82 degrees –a 44 degree temperature swing in one day!

I had an ace up my sleeve to combat the extreme temperatures and challenging terrain: custom made trail mix.  Unsatisfied with the packaged trail mix offerings in grocery stores, I decided to hand craft my own using a proprietary blend of nuts, dried fruit, chocolate, and the kicker: gummy bears.  The novel concept was met by skepticism from Kellen, however he came around after just one handful of my creation.

Fueled by our trail mix energy we arrived in Madrid after some marathon days and 60km on a major highway excited to tour the capital city.  Joe put me in touch with his friend Paula who was kind enough to allow us to crash at her apartment in the center of town for the night.  Paula and her boyfriend Carlos gave Marcos and Patri a run for their money for the “best host” award by guiding us on a lovely and efficient walking tour of the city upon our arrival.  We toured Plaza Mayor and Palacio Real and even passed through thousands of protestors marching in Puerta del Sol before heading over to her friend Bea’s apartment for a wine tasting birthday party.

The wine was delectable, the cheese was delicious, but what made the night was the jamon iberico.  The cured pork product native to Spain instantly shot to the top of my new favorite foods list (which has seen constant movement throughout this trip) as I indulged in the thin slices throughout the night.  Bea went all out and purchased a full leg, which she deftly carved with a sharp knife.  Enamored by everything related to jamon iberico, Bea graciously offered to teach me how to cut it.  Carving a piece of meat of this nature is more of an art than anything, and it certainly takes practice, but after a few misshaped slices I found my rhythm and churned out some of impeccable slivers.

We could have hung around Madrid for days eating ham, but sadly after just one night in the city it was time to move on as we had more ghost towns to scour and more favorite foods to uncover as we continued our push across the Iberian Penninsula.

BEARD WATCH

Welcome to the jungle.  The scruff has become scruffier and even more fiery since the last update.  It just occured to me that the red beard makes perfect sense.  My younger brother Mikey, who has similar head hair to me, has exclusively grown big reds across his beard career.  Beard geneticists maintain that the beard genes come from your younger brother, so that explains everything!  Is it possible to alter the gene pool?  We'll see...