By Jorge Hauser

nyvelocity travel correspondent

A good friend once told me, “It’s of good nature to always be planning a trip somewhere.” A certain Scottish rock group had a stronger take: “It’s always better on holiday. That’s why we only work when we need the money.” Either way, what both statements omit is that a vacation is infinitely more enjoyable with a bicycle. Put simply, bikes afford travelers a reach beyond what other tourists take in.

@##=#<3,L>@##=#So when my older brother-of-the-velo Joe Christian (I met Joe and his wife on a tour while I was a senior in high school on an AIDS Ride and have had the opportunity to be a part of tours to Italy, France, and Mexico with him since) phoned me in early March asking me to scout out a new ‘exotic place’ for future Mello Velo Bike Tours, I immediately began to imagine narrow winding rural roads surrounded by spring wildflowers and hear roosters and cow bells, with a total lack of New Jersey car horns. But where to find this untapped roadie haven? There is always the quaint rolling Tuscan hillside, or parts of France I’d yet to explore. The pros were already tanning themselves in Arabia, but the thought of cleaning my drivetrain of sand (ooh)… I needed to get in touch with the Old World – the area that first made the New World ‘New’: the massive, 16th century global superpower Portugal. And where in Portugal should we spend our precious 12 days of riding? The southern region called the Algarve, of course. Not only does it host pro stage races (proof of adequate terrain), but I’d also read that most locals don’t have cars, and the ones they have look something like a 3-wheeled mini-Cooper.

From the moment my fellow scout Peter Belkey and I left the States luck was on our side. First we got upgraded to business class on United. Then the British flight attendant accidentally spilled a drop or two of port on my pants and quickly apologized with a complimentary bottle of red wine. Upon arrival in Faro (note: avoid Lisboa!), we experienced the only rainfall of the entire holiday while in a taxi on the way to our lodging. Our hotel welcome was a typical Euro-strange look from the staff when we arrived with big rolling bike boxes. Most hotels flinch when you ask if you can bring your bike into your room, so hopefully there’s a locked room somewhere in the hotel – if not you might as well move on.

On to the riding! The only guide we had was a flimsy road map and the names of towns that cyclingnews and Graham Watson had mentioned in their Tour de Algarve coverage. But to be honest, nothing more was needed to sample the exquisite countryside and looming mountains in the distance. A wrong turn couldn’t be taken. But there was that pack of rabid dogs chasing us down a gravel road, and me with my broken finger.

At the end of the first day, Peter asked if we should consider moving to a different area. “What are we chasing after that isn’t under our feet already? Why leave an area when you only rode west one day? What about north, south, and east?” A good tour is spent on the bike, not repacking and moving your bed 60 miles down the road. Travel should be relaxing. Just because you have a bicycle doesn’t change that. Even if your bicycle is only equipped with PowerCranks.

@##=#<2,R>@##=#Yes, though I’ve ridden and raced for almost a decade now, I made a very rookie mistake when packing for the trip. Days before leaving, I decided to ‘up’ my training level by starting on PowerCranks (if you’re unfamiliar with PCs, let’s just say they take the fun out of bike riding). I wasn’t dumb enough to bring only the PCs for what turned out to be 600 miles of riding – I packed a regular crankset as well. However, to conserve space in the bike box, I took the rings off the crank, and somehow switched the small ring for a ring with a different bolt pattern. Upon unpacking in Portugal, it hit me hard: this will be a total ‘PowerCranker’ tour. Yeah, ouch. I never knew some of these muscles even existed, let alone could produce so much lactic acid.

But when you’re on holiday in a place as beautiful as the Algarve, what can really bother you? No one knew where we were, but we were witnessing once-in-a-lifetime sights like a minutes-old calf trying to stand, fisherman casting off of 300 ft cliffs, in areas that put Marin County to shame. Each ancient Moorish town we passed had its quota of old men with skin as red as the earth they farmed and its raging canine sprint points. Some days were round trip adventures, others were something like go-as-far-as-you-can-and-train-it-back-at-dusk, and there was one day when we were caught so far from home that we decided to stay at an old brothel for 25 euros… but that’s another story.

Bottom line: the only thing we could do was put the camera away and keep an even cadence.

@##=#<1,L>@##=#There was one shot, however, which will always lead the list of ‘Zen Photographs’ – pictures that cannot be taken because the beauty cannot be captured. The real reason we couldn’t take the shot was that we were chasing too hard to reach for the camera. Let me explain. After a 5 hour plus day in the saddle including a cat.1 climb with pro rider’s names sprayed on the road, we were dragging our sore hides back into town when a flash of pink caught my eye behind me. “Looks like we got a crazy pro coming up,” I told my partner. Our jaws dropped when the rider came by: she was an Iberian muse of the highest quality. Black hair pulled back in a pony tail, cute star earrings, listening to some crazy Euro beat. I only saw here eyes once, but they were focused little almonds glancing over her Rudy Projects. In one instant we went from cool down pace to the hardest pedaling, yet the strain was almost effortless. Luckily or not, our hotel took us from the road and all that passed between the three of us was ‘ciao’ and a smile. I secretly wished that a German autobus tour would end it all for me then and there. The fantasy would’ve been my final thought.

Upon re-entry to the good old New World York, feelings were not as sad as they could’ve been. I entered cyclist nirvana when Joe asked me if I would like to come on as a guide on his next tour in Provence, France this September. I guess I’ll have to brush up on my navigational skills before then.

Until the next time, always leave something to be desired and always keep the rubber side down!

-Jorge