Seventeen Days of Chaos, Tears, and Unexpected Lessons
I first met Risa when she appeared as a guest for Episode 92 of the Had To Be There Podcast. I knew immediately that this woman was a true force of nature. She’s pedaled across the United States — from Canada to Mexico — down the Pacific coast and she’s tackled an 8-day trek over Peru’s Salkantay Pass. So it did not surprise me in the least to learn she had also participated in a Camino de Santiago pilgrimage.
If you’re the type of traveler who thinks a “pilgrimage” sounds peaceful, scenic, and Instagram-ready, let me stop you right there. Risa, who biked the Camino, is here to set the record straight. This was not a leisurely “sip your café con leche while enjoying the Spanish countryside” ride. This was a 500-mile, hills-from-hell, unexpected-olfactory-surprises kind of ride.
But like I never doubted, this powerhouse took everything the Camino threw at her and came out stronger because of it. But I’ll let her tell you in her own words about the pilgrimage that tried to break her.
Cycling the camino
by Risa August
By the time I rolled my bike up to the sign that read “Santiago de Compostela – 740 km”, I was buzzing with anticipation. This was the start of my pilgrimage, my big Camino moment. I snapped a photo, grinned, and thought, I’m really doing this.
Seconds later, a fellow pilgrim (peregrino) on foot walked by, looked me dead in the eye, and spit on my wheel.
Welcome to the Camino.
But let me back up. I’ve traveled to 26 countries and know my way around a passport stamp. I’ve crisscrossed the U.S. by car, train, plane, and bicycle, slept everywhere from the back of my car to luxury hotel suites. I have an insatiable love for other cultures, and my childhood hero was Indiana Jones, minus the snakes.
After two flights, a train, a bus, a car ride, and some light uphill wandering with too much luggage, I finally landed in Roncesvalles, Spain, at the doorstep of the famed Camino Francés. My lodging for the night? A centuries-old convent that had all the charming ambiance of a haunted antique store. Ghosts? Unconfirmed. Creepy creaks? Absolutely.
And almost instantly, the language barrier hit me like a cold tortilla to the face. I had taken five years of French in school and had been reassured by well-meaning friends, “Don’t worry, everyone speaks English on the Camino!”
Spoiler alert: they do not.
With my phone translator MIA, I still managed to piece together enough Spanish to gather that I was supposed to receive a package upon check-in. Plot twist: no package. Also missing? My bicycle. After a few hours of jet-lagged detective work, it turned up at another inn nearby. I got it assembled and ready to ride, then asked where to stash it for the night. The staff pointed me toward a barn used for storing lodge supplies. Perfect. Or . . . not.
There were already two bikes inside, but my arrival seemed to ruffle feathers. The manager made it very clear, with facial expressions that transcended language, that navigating around my bike while prepping breakfast was the literal worst part of her day.
That first day was a beast. The trail was steep, rocky, covered in slippery tree roots and mud. Locals and fellow pilgrims weren’t exactly throwing me welcome parties. Even the cyclists wanted nothing to do with me. Then, somewhere along the mountain, I lost my phone; my maps, my emergency contact info, my sense of safety, my everything…gone.
The food? Let’s just say the Camino’s greatest culinary hits included pork, cheese, seafood, and olives. All foods I either don’t eat or physically can’t tolerate. One day, I ordered what I thought was a simple egg and potato dish. I was so excited… until it arrived piled high with baby eels. Surprise!
Other honorable mentions from the “things that went wrong” list: no refrigeration for my life-saving medication, getting yelled at by an angry Spaniard for losing my phone (as if I misplaced it on purpose), and being unable to escape a fog of second-hand cigarette smoke pretty much anywhere I went.
So yeah, when I finally rolled into Santiago de Compostela 17 days later, I didn’t cry tears of triumph. I bawled out of pure, unfiltered exhaustion and the overwhelming relief that it was finally, finally over.
And still… I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything.
Sometimes living life to the fullest means embracing the whole experience.
Connect with Risa: https://linktr.ee/risaaugust