Only two countries before have left such a profound imprint on our being. Something inside changes and always at the back of everyday conscious thought is the hope that someday soon you can make your way back. The first was Scotland; from the opposite city vibes of Edinburgh and Glasgow, to the genuine wilds of the highlands and islands. We get back North whenever time allows.
America followed and after that strange and brilliant land everything back in Old Blighty seemed to lack that full-on-Technicolour vigour. Friends for life were made and I rode my late beloved Kona at the other end of the world.
A very full on near first year of trading at Morley’s best* bike shop and the need for a break only just outweighing my total and utter blind panic at leaving the shop in the more than capable hands of others. My sister was getting married abroad and we agreed that, if we really had to, the hardship of going for a fortnight to Cuba could be endured. Only in the interests of family peace you understand.
Cuba is a land written about many times by authors far more brilliant than I. For a people with genuinely bugger all they demonstrated a generosity that was immensely humbling. The countryside transitioned from near desert to not-quite-mediterranean to caribbean in scant few miles travelling. As a crusty old lefty I wanted it to be a socialist paradise and yet it was a land of crumbling communism that had an awful right with a fairly large amount wrong.
Upon arriving at our all-inclusive-bubble (not our choice, though it was very lovely) I spied the rental bikes and whispered to Mrs Fat Lad: “I’m gonna bunny hop one of those before we go”. Our very short ride to a small roadside bar where I ordered drinks in my terrible Spanish cemented two facts for us both. 1) More Spanish lessons for us both and 2) We’re going back. With Bikes.
Cuba Panda
Our trusty steeds
Wifey on Bikey
You got like three feet of air that time.
Fat Lad
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