Dag 80: Seville na Madrid (Die einde...)

(English Translation Below)

Dag 80: Seville na Madrid (Die einde...)
 
Dit reën. En dis koud. Ons het 530km om te ry Madrid toe. Die laaste dag van ons toer gaan nie maklik wees nie. Ons motorfietsklere is gemaak vir Afrika-somer en ewenaarshitte, nie vir die Europese winter nie.
 
Ons trek elkeen vyf lae klere aan: T-hemp, dun dons-baadjie, motorfietsbaadjie, nog 'n dun wind-afkeer tipe baadjie, reenjas. Reënbroeke hierdie keer ook van die begin af aan. Ons eet die laaste ontbyt van ons toer. Stop by die winkel om die nuwe interkomstelletjie te kry.
 
Dan ry ons. Eers die eeue-oue klippaadjies wat seepglad deur die ou stad kronkel. Dan die oggendverkeer. En dan uiteindelik die oop pad Noord. Madrid toe. Die temperatuurlesing sê dis 9 grade Celcius. En dit réén. Vandag is dit mind over matter. Daar is geen manier om teen 100km/h, in die nat koue, met ons klere aan, nié te bibber nie. Die geheim is om nie teen die koue te veg nie. Nie eers daaraan te dink nie. Te let op die pad. Mens se eie gedagtes te dink soos altyd. Vir jouself te sing in jou valhelm.
 
Ons stop ná twee ure se vasbyt. Lywe styf. Tone dood. Hande blou. Die garage waar ons gestop het, het nie koffie nie. Ook nie 'n warm, droë binneruimte waar mens kan ontdooi nie. Aan die oorkant staan 'n leë hotel. Ons gaan sit op die trappies onder die afdak. Dis duidelik dat hierdie 'n skuilplek vir randfigure is. Ons eet sjokolade en drink koeldrank.
 
Dan ry ons verder. Word weer een met die koue. Onthou grepe uit ons reis. Word bewus van 'n stemmetjie wat fluister: Ry nóg Noord. Ry deur die hele Europa. Die hele wêreld. Maar eindes is goed. Anders sal beginne sinloos wees.
 
Madrid se snelweë en oor-weë swenk ons heen en weer tot in die buurt waar Martin vir ons wag. Martin is 'n kollega van Fransie en werk by die Suid-Afrikaanse ambassade hier. Sy hond Spotty is glad nie beïndruk met die twee druppende motorfietsryers hier op sy jaart nie.
 
Ons reis is verby. Sonder musiek en balonne en skares en 'n lint. Slegs die onthou van plekke wat ons nooit weer gaan sien nie. Mense wat ons deurgehelp het. Ons parkeer die motorfietse. Haal ons sakke af. Tagtig dae en 18200km agter ons. 'n Miljoen gewaarwordinge binne ons. Die res van ons reis voor ons.
 
Dan stap ons die trappies op. Trap-trap met ons stewels om die ergste water af te skud. Spotty gaan beserk. Hierdie twee randfigure is te veel vir hom.

Day 80: Seville to Madrid (The end...)
 
It's raining. And it's cold. We have 530km to ride to Madrid. The last day of our tour won't be easy. Our motorcycle gear is made for the African summer and equatorial heat, not for winter in Europe.
 
We layer up: T-shirt, thin down jacket, motorcycle jacket, another thin wind-resistant jacket, raincoat. Rain pants from the start this time. We have our last breakfast of the tour. Stop at the store to pick up the new intercom unit.
 
Then we ride. First, the centuries-old cobblestone path winding its slippery way through the old city. Then the morning traffic. And finally, the open road North. To Madrid. The temperature reading says it's 9 degrees Celsius. And it's raining. Today is about mind over matter. There's no way to ride at 100km/h, in the wet cold, with these clothes on, without shivering. The secret is not to fight the cold. Not even to think about it. Pay attention to the road. Think your own thoughts. Sing to yourself in your helmet.
 
We stop after two hours of hanging in there. Bodies stiff. Toes numb. Hands blue. The garage where we stopped doesn't have coffee. Also not a warm, dry indoor space to defrost. Next to the garage is an empty hotel. We sit on the steps under the awning. It's clear that this is a shelter for the fringe figures of society. We eat chocolate and drink soda.
 
Then we ride on. Become one with the cold again. Recall snippets from our journey. Become aware of a little voice whispering: Ride further North. Ride through all of Europe. The entire world. But endings are good. Otherwise, beginnings would be meaningless.
 
Madrid's highways and overpasses swerve us to and fro towards the neighbourhood where Martin awaits us. Martin is a colleague of Fransie who works at the South African embassy here. His dog Spotty is not impressed with the two dripping motorcyclists on his turf.
 
Our journey is over. No music, balloons, crowds, or ribbon. Only the memories of places we'll never see again. People who have helped us along. We park the motorcycles. Take off our bags. Eighty days and 18,200km behind us. A million realisations within us. The rest of our journey ahead of us.
 
Then we climb the stairs. Stomp with our boots to shake off the worst of the water. Spotty goes berserk. These two fringe figures are too much for him.

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