Here’s a combined, standalone story that weaves together both narratives into a cohesive, expanded tale. It maintains the spirit of your original dispatches while adding depth, continuity, and a seamless blend of the two pieces:
“A mis queridos amigos que me acompañaron por los caminos de España. No los olvidaré.”
“To my dear friends who accompanied me along the roads of Spain. I will not forget you.”
INTRODUCTION: Dispatches from the Edge
Welcome to the first of several dispatches from a motorcycle odyssey through Spain—a land of ancient trails, roaring engines, and unbreakable bonds. Webster defines “dispatch” as a message sent with urgency: a report, an email, a cry from the road. This one was pecked out on my iPhone, a modern-day scroll, and flung into the ether whenever Wi-Fi permits. Grammar bends, truths stretch, and the story unfolds raw and unfiltered. If that intrigues you, read on—or better yet, subscribe at Trawlercat.com to catch the next installment hot off the press.
Today, March 26, 2025, marks a zero day—a pause to breathe, connect, and reflect. Our group of intrepid travelers from the USA hasn’t yet confessed to any exploits worth shouting about. No one’s toppled a dictator or unearthed buried treasure. But the road has a way of coaxing stories out of silence, so if you’re curious, stick around.
Yesterday, a package from gpskevin arrived like a lifeline for our Spain Motorcycle Ride. Inside: a micro SD chip for my Zumo Garmin GPS, preloaded with routes and wisdom—where to ride, where to rest, who to ride with. The hardest part’s done, I thought, grinning. It’s a cruise on two wheels, minus the buffets, plus the thrill of the throttle.
THE JOURNEY BEGINS: Chaos at the Gate
Our adventure kicked off with a stumble. Lisbon’s airport was less a terminal and more an obstacle course. We’d flown in from the States, bleary-eyed and eager, only to face a delayed flight to Madrid. Hours ticked by. Finally, a new gate flashed on the screen. We bolted, bags swinging, adrenaline pumping. Group C lined up, and I handed my boarding pass to the attendant.
“This is a flight to Hamburg, Germany,” he said, deadpan.
“Really?” I blinked.
“Yes. Your new gate is 17.”
We sprinted again, waited two more hours, and boarded—cautiously this time. Then, strapped in, we sat for another two hours on the tarmac, no explanation offered. Tempers frayed. Air travel, I mused, could sour anyone on the idea of crossing borders. Two planes and a rental car later, we collapsed into a Madrid hotel, the late evening flurry from Portugal a distant blur.
But Spain awaited. Our first ride brought us to Úbeda, a gem of Renaissance beauty—think ornate facades and cobblestone streets, a far cry from the strip malls of home. “Renaissance” means “rebirth,” a revival of classical wisdom that swept Europe centuries ago. Italy felt it first in the 14th century; England caught up by the 16th. Me? I grew up with none of it—unless you count binge-watching Downton Abbey. (Yes, I’ll admit it: I devoured every episode. The pomp, the class drama, the Northern accents—guilty as charged.)
Úbeda’s Renaissance isn’t a TV set. It’s real, tangible, a testament to a time when ideas reshaped the world. After that came the Enlightenment—reason, individualism, the seeds of America’s revolution. Now? We’re in the Information Age, powered by tech from smartphones to fuel-injected motorcycles. Thanks, Elon, Bill, Steve—and gpskevin, our ride’s own tech wizard.
THOUGHTS ON SPAIN: A Universe Unraveled
Spain isn’t a country—it’s a cosmos. Once the world’s first superpower, it split the globe with Portugal while my ancestors sailed to Havana. I’ve walked its breadth, from France to Finisterre, where Romans once thought the world ended. That westernmost point, kissed by the Atlantic, lingers in my memory—a place of raw edges and whispered legends.
Spain shifts with every mile. In Galicia, locals praised my “excellent Galician” Spanish; in Castile, it was “perfect Castilian.” The “Z” lisps into a “th”—“Espana” becomes “Eth-panya”—and the “C” follows before an “E” or “I.” It’s a linguistic kaleidoscope reflecting a land of fierce independence, vibrant cultures, and food worth crossing oceans for. Anthony Bourdain (RIP, my hero) called Spain a place that “never made sense, but in the best possible way”—a collision of Inquisition and anarchy, faith and surrealism, tapas and molecular gastronomy.
THE CAMINO AND THE ROAD: Paths of Purpose
Years ago, I walked the Camino de Santiago’s French Way—790 kilometers in size 12 shoes, a pilgrimage to honor my late mother. Today, my boots are 11.5, and I ride to honor another: Tom Lake, a friend stolen too soon. The Camino taught me that walking—or riding—changes you. Americans average two miles a month, their feet shrinking from disuse. But take on Spain’s paths, and you grow—physically, spiritually, whatever you seek.
A thousand years ago, pilgrims trudged for miracles or mercy. Now, the Camino’s dirt trails, medieval villages, and wild vistas draw all kinds. “The adventure becomes the destination,” someone told me. This motorcycle ride mirrors that truth. Transformation doesn’t demand grandiosity—just motion.
THE CREW: Bonds Forged in Motion
Our group’s a motley bunch, assembled by Master Yoda (Roberto), our sage and ringleader. Ducati Chris and I rode Portugal together; Todd, Roberto, and I tackled Alaska. New faces—Jim and Steve—joined us at breakfast in Madrid. Don, Debbie, and Todd round out the roster. No one’s claimed epic deeds yet, but the road’s young.
We nearly lost Todd before we began. His lack of an International Driver’s Permit threatened to derail him—money forfeited, ride abandoned. A tense moment, but he pulled through. More on that later.
This morning, Yoda Roberto pinged us via WhatsApp: “Royal Palace tour, anyone?” Why not? The King’s surely heard the Yodas are back. The palace, built by Muhammad I in the 9th century, loomed like a museum—rebuilt by Spain after the Moors’ 11th-century ousting, expanded by Emperor Charles V and Philip II with plundered Aztec gold. Impressive, sure, but the real highlight? A tuk-tuk tour with Todd, followed by a Spanish lunch—aceitunas, octopus, pork, potatoes, washed down with Santa Ana pale ale. I forgot to snap a photo, but the flavors linger.
ROADS: The Pulse of the Ride
Spain’s roads are our lifeblood. Autopistas (AP highways) hum at 120 km/h, tolls in tow—no extra 20 mph like back home. Lane splitting’s legal, expected even, unlike most U.S. states. Autovías offer free, slower stretches—80 km/h at times. Carreteras Nacionales (N roads) weave through villages, while Carreteras Autonómicas (C roads) snake into rural wilds. Each mile tells a story—of history, of freedom, of us.
TOM: A Tribute in Motion
This ride’s heart beats for Tom Lake. In Alaska, he was our spark—lovable, flawed, a man of integrity and joy. A moose collision stole him fast, the news a gut punch. Time heals, they say, but not yet. Tears still come. He’s with the fallen riders now, watching from above. Tom lived loud, a journey to cherish. This ride’s for you, friend. RIP Tom Lake.
THE REST OF THE STORY: Life Unscripted
Like Mission: Impossible, this tale thrives on loose ends. Motorcycle travel—and retirement—should be so. My crew vanishes and reappears, superheroes in leather. I check gpskevin’s site: Yoda, Chris, Todd, Roberto, and more—tied by rides past and present.
In Úbeda, security guards swapped kitchen staff tales as they watched our bikes—our castles, our Downton Abbeys. They draw us together, these machines, forging a tribe I’m proud to call mine. Here’s to keeping the shiny side up and the rubber down, a rider’s prayer for the road ahead.
Ralph (aka Trawlercat)
Trawlercat Chronicles 