Milwaukee To Spain

Green Squiggly Lines
Riano to Braga – Monday, 9/26
A post by Ken

Our route planning was a daily affair, typically done during breakfast and aided by strong Spanish coffee. The process rarely began with a specific destination in mind, but rather just a general direction we wanted to go. Then, using Jerry's Iberian Mapsco, we would look for any green squiggly roads along our intended course of travel. The greenies were scenic routes. And they were good.

Having looked at the extended forecast for Spain's northern coast, cold rain was in our future. Therefore we decided to head south toward Portugal where the weather gods were more motorcycle friendly. So we set our GPS' to Braga, Portugal - where sunshine and warm weather awaited. But getting there would require making the longest riding day of our trip.

Leaving Riano, we rolled downhill thru the southern foothills of the Picos de Europa and into the central plains of Spain. Taking advantage of Spain's excellent highways, we chewed through the kilometers (one km = 0.6 miles).

Watching the landscape go by, we began acting like kids on a long road trip and started playing the travel game, “What does this area remind you of in the US?” We consistently suggested arid, western states, with low rolling hills – Texas, Utah, Nebraska, Kansas, Arizona, or New Mexico. Not very picturesque.

That changed when we hit Portugal's eastern border. It was essentially a mountain range. As we would discover, most of Portugal is mountains or hills.

The only track to Braga from the border was a green squiggly road built atop a mountain ridge . It was here we discovered Portuguese drivers were not quite as courteous as Spanish drivers.

The road twisted, and rolled, and turned, and arced, and did somersaults, and twisted and turned some more. And did all this through countless small hilltop hamlets and villages. Which were all populated by people who owned cars. Impatient people. People who drove as if they were perpetually late for an urgent appointment.

Throttling westward into the setting sun, we looked down into the river valley far below and anticipated a visually satisfying ride. Portuguese driver's had other ideas. Several drivers tailgated us before zooming by, passing in “no passing” zones. Or even scarier, passing at blind curves. We finally took to pulling over or slowing down to let Portuguese drivers go by us.

It was the following day when we spoke with a Portuguese native who described Portugal's drivers as, “atrocious”. She also claimed Portugal had a very high traffic fatality rate.

From what we witnessed, we didn't doubt her.

After riding 500 kms, we finally reached Braga just in time for rush hour; We were frazzled and had sore bums. After settling into our hotel we walked to a nearby restaurant where we soothed our frayed nerves with a giant pitcher of Sangia. Jerry was happy.

A post from Jerry.
Saturday, 9/24/22

After spending the night in Galdakao (near the NE corner of Spain if you're not familiar with the area) we discovered that the rain in Spain does NOT stay mainly in the plain. It wasn't quite raining when we started out, but you could tell that it wasn't going to be long, so we all dressed accordingly and waddled out to our bikes like little yellow Michelin men. About 10 minutes into the trip it started to rain a little bit, which apparently spooked some deer onto the highway. At least I think that's what happened as I heard Ken yelling something like “Buck! Buck! Buck!” as he drove past our turn-off point and stopped his bike next to the exit. Kyle, our resident navigator, made the exit while I sped on by looking for the next off ramp.

Hopefully you can see the problem here. We 're all separated with heavy traffic doing it's best to keep us that way, and the intercoms have a range of maybe 600 feet or so. Like all good riders, we had a plan for something like this, although I couldn't remember what exactly it was at the time. I figured Kyle would find a place to pull over on the freeway once he noticed he was flying solo, so I gave him a few minutes and gave him a call – which went to his voicemail. Apparently he wasn't accepting calls from a 214 area code. There went Plan A. Plan B involved trusting the GPS to guide me back onto the freeway where hopefully something good would happen. It did get me to the freeway eventually, after first attempting to kill me by suggesting that I go the wrong way down the entrance ramp, but I was too smart to fall for that. Then it suggested that I should drive around a traffic circle, which I kept doing for lack of a better idea. The local juvenile delinquents were very supportive, and kept encouraging me with shouts of “El Retardo!” as I circled and circled. Tiring of this abuse, I made a command decision to drive down a 7 foot wide street between some apartments and hope that the GPS would come up with a better idea. Long story short, I was finally able to get back on the freeway where Ken and Kyle had pulled over and were waiting in the rain for me to catch up.

We made it along the northern coast line nearly to Santander before a torrential rain hit us. Strange how I managed to miss that rip in my rain pants when I packed for the trip. I was really impressed with how much water could get in through such a small tear. Steadfast in the face of adversity, we decided to take the hint from Mother Nature and ducked into a bar/cafe off of the freeway. Kudos to our faithful navigator, Kyle, for spotting that one. After the rain lifted, we turned south and started south down highway 621 which runs along the eastern edge of the Picos de Europa national park. Fortunately for us we managed to outrun the rain, because we were getting ready to hit some seriously twisty roads. And seriously gorgeous scenery, I might add.

Sorry. I hate to leave you hanging at the beginning of the part of the trip that all three of us unhesitatingly declared the best part, but you'll have to read that either later or in one of Ken's or Kyle's posts. The journey for the rest of the trip southbound along the eastern edge of the Picos de Europa state park deserves its own section – and your visit at the first chance you get.

Unless you're outfitted with a GoPro camera, it's difficult to take photos from a moving motorcycle. As such, we have only memories of witnessing many interesting scenes or events.

What follows is a random recollection of things the three of us saw, thought or experienced during our eight day, 1,326 mile ride through Spain and Portugal that we couldn't capture on camera:


The old man dressed in humble, earth-tone work clothes, a cap on his head, a walking stick in his hand, standing on the hillside amid his flock of sheep.

Seeing the hundreds...no, thousands of ruler straight, ancient, thigh high stone walls crisscrossing the countryside, demarking the boundaries of ownership past.

Old people were the only people visible in most small Spanish towns and villages during the day.

Old Spanish men like to walk with their hands clasped behind their back.

There are still visible remnants of calzada romano - ancient roman roads in some areas.

Spanish drivers are less aggressive than Portuguese drivers.

There are thousands of very old, dilapidated, crumbling houses and out-buildings dotting the countryside in rural Spain.

We didn't see any living structure built using wood frame construction. All houses/buildings were stone, block, brick, concrete.

While riding during a heavy downpour, a passing car drove through a deep rivulet of water, causing a cascade of water spray up and outward, thoroughly soaking Ken who was riding alongside the car. Ken looked as if he was riding within the curl of a Hawaiian surfing wave.

There are few, if any, SUVs or full sized pick-up trucks or cars in Spain. The vast majority of vehicles are compact cars. Of course with gas at $7+/gal, small cars make sense.

Bicyclists peddling hard creeping uphill.

One way stone bridges, wide enough for donkey carts (or motorcycles).

Bees/wasps/bugs taking aim at open collars and stinging Jerry and Ken in their necks.

Turning a corner on a windy road after dropping down out of the fog and coming face to face with a shepherd driving his flock down the hill. Ably assisted by about 5 or more dogs, none of which appeared to be of the pedigreed variety. The one I remember best was a black mama dog at the rear of the flock who went to battle station as we drove carefully past. That lady was not going to tolerate anyone messing with her flock!

Walking down a street in Madrid one evening and seeing two elderly ladies supporting each other, walking shoulder to shoulder, each of them using their canes. Made me realize how important friendship is, and how much we should cherish our friends. Would have loved to have had a picture, but that would have been just rude, and I ain't no ugly American...at least not that kind of ugly, anyway!

Motorcycling by IFR

Although yesterday's ride (9/28) ended with a gorgeous sunset in El Barco de Ávila, Spain, it began quite differently in Portugal.

We spent Wednesday night in Seia, Portugal, a town on the western edge of Parque Natural de Serra da Estrela - home to the highest peak in mainland Portugal. Our plan was to ride to the top of the mountain the next morning and feast our eyes on what we hoped would be an unobstructed, sunrise lit, panoramic view of the Portuguese countryside. We would then head downhill on the opposite side and continue eastward toward Spain.

Well, as you can imagine, things didn't go quite according to plan.

When we awoke, we were greeted by an overcast sky. OK, so we might not have the morning sun illuminating the countryside. But as least we'll still get to have a 360 degree view of Portugal. So we loaded up the BMWs and up the mountain we rode.

Driving through hillside neighborhoods, we climbed out of town and onto the steep western flank of the mountain, the switchback road keeping us pointed ever upward. As we ascended, we began to see a cloud layer above us, shrouding the mountain. Before we knew it, we were soon inside of that cloud and totally enveloped by it.

Climbing a couple hundred meters more, the road flattened slightly, easing our concerns about going over a cliff edge. But the cold, damp whiteness surrounding us seemed to only grow thicker. Faint, cottony wisps of cloud/fog blew past our helmets and instrument panels. The moisture fogging and beading on our visors and glasses. Driving under trees, we would be pelted by water drops falling from the pine needles above, a phenomena which Jerry dubbed, "tree rain".

Visibility was next to nil. Maybe 40 feet at best? Certainly not enough to go faster than 30 kph - and at times even that felt like we were over driving our visibility.

In pilot jargon, this would have been IFR conditions: Instrument Flight Rules.

Inching along, we passed a road crew laying asphalt in the fog. Their outlines and vehicles only coming into view at the last moment.

If it weren't for our intercoms, we'd have no idea where each of us were. It wouldn't be an exaggeration for me to say this was one of the "foggiest/cloudiest?" conditions I've ever driven in.

We rode like this for about 10 km (six miles) until we crested the mountain and reached the eastern slope. Dropping in elevation, we exited the clouds and were greeted by a beautiful view of the valley below.

Stopping in Covilha on the floor of the valley, we found an open bar. Ordering three (non-alcoholic) hot chocolates, we thawed out and dried off. We also unanimously agreed that the view from atop the mountain this morning really sucked.

Hurry up and wait...

While checking into the hotel In Logroño Friday evening, Kyle went to fetch my passport from inside my bike's pannier. When he returned, he said, "Dad, you have a problem."

Hmm, that statement could be interpreted in many different ways, I thought.

Kyle had discovered that one of the two mounting brackets on my pannier was on the verge of breaking off. That would not be good as the pannier would be at risk of fully detaching from the bike.

The next morning, we contacted our rental company and told them of the problem. They made some calls and located a car repair shop just across the plaza from our hotel and instructed us to take the bike there for repairs. The shop was just a few storefronts away from the sushi restaurant we visited the night before.

Pulling up in front of the shop, we were greeted by Abdul, the friendly owner. Taking the pannier off the bike, he took it into his shop. Looking and studying the broken bracket for a minute, he launched into a lengthy explanation - in Spanish of course - of his intended solution.

"Good", I replied, not understanding 98% of what he said.

Recognizing we were in a hurry, Abdul dropped everything and focused on fixing the pannier.

Over the next two hours, he dissembled and reassembled the pannier, walked to a nearby hardware store for parts, cut and bent three small metal El brackets, drilled holes, then riveted the metal El brackets onto the pannier.

It looked rather Frankensteinish when he finished, but it fixed the problem. No more worries about the pannier falling off my bike and skittering down the road.

I paid him $30 Euros and also gave him a tip for having interrupted his mechanic work.

Three hours behind schedule - but with new memories - we launched from Logroño and headed to Bilbao.

The daily route planning session over breakfast. Where old school and new technology merge.