Last days in Greece, a final circuitous up over crossing arc back west to Heraklion, then the ferry.
Beauty and hills, water blue horizons. Mountains with clouds and weather up top. Home of the Homeric gods.
Ascend a small road from Paleochora into the mountainous interior, away from the sunny beach, away from the Libyan sea.
In Greece I toured on my Bike Friday Pocket Rocket Pro.
The islands of Paros and Santorini, and Meteora in Thessaly.
Almost seeable enough to shut the lamp so I do, the kind of road with constant curves and the gentlest of ups and downs. Timecheck and it’s precarious at this pace, looking at the contour of the track I’ve loaded into my GPS, maybe, maybe with five minutes to find the dock and get my bearings.
Crackle along the farm machinery double track, all to myself this time of the year—the gusts roiling off of the Mediterranean as if desperate for sure footing on land, even this island, relatively small in the expanse but made of the dense stable rock of its high mountains.
In these places the implication of ascent, lift limitward. The shard that cracks the cryptography of Ancient Greece, that we leap, maybe in a protestful denial that we’re fragile, maybe in a realization of an authentic transcendence.
For the tour itself: fenders, custom rear rack, two small Ortlieb panniers, a Revelate front sling with tent and bedroll.