 |
Bill Bikes My bicycling expeditions and jaunts |
 |
Biking Barbados
March 1983
I wrote this when I returned from Barbados in 1983, but didn't see it again until 2021 when my sister discovered a long-forgotten copy while cleaning out our parents' home after our father passed away. My brother drove from Virginia to California last week to hand-deliver the faded dot-matrix hardcopy.
~~~~~~~~~~ Sunday, the first day of spring, brought heavy snow, a cancelled commuter flight out of my hometown airport, a frantic three-hour sprint up an icy interstate highway in a rented car, a missed flight, five and a half torturous hours buckled-in aboard a DC-10 on an O'Hare runway on another flight that never took off, a night napping in a chair in the terminal, and a charter flight from JFK hopelessly missed.
My buddy, Stretch, sat up the night waiting for me in New York and finally boarded the 8:00 AM charter without me.
I re-routed myself in the morning, spent two more hours on the runway watching the snow, missed my best connection out of Miami, and finally touched down on Barbados late Monday—thoroughly exhausted, and fed up with airlines, airports, and airplanes.
Not a propitious beginning for a Caribbean vacation.
But Stretch had a tidy room waiting with clean beds, tropical breezes through open windows, and tinkling island music. Cold beer eased the pain, and a sun-drenched morning suddenly made the whole nightmare worthwhile.
~~~~~~~~~~ Barbados is an island nation in the West Indies, set close to South America and somewhat east of its neighbors so that the wild Atlantic washes one shore and the tepid Caribbean caresses the other. Some quarter million Barbadians, or Bajans, populate an area roughly 21 miles by 15. The largest concentration of population, and tourists, is the Caribbean coast from Speightstown to Holetown to Bridgetown (the capital) to Oisten. English—in a rapid-fire, heavily accented island dialect that can leave a traveler scratching his head in bewilderment—is the universal language, and the people are as universally friendly. With sandy beaches on the west and south rising to flat sugar cane fields in the interior, cliffs above the narrow strip of rocky Atlantic coast, and hilly terrain in the northeast, all laced together by a network of paved roads, Barbados is ideal for a bicycling vacation.
With daytime March temperatures in the mid-80's, how could I resist?
~~~~~~~~~~ Having determined through various guidebooks that rentals would present no problem, I left my trusty bike at home. Stretch and I set out our first morning to find suitable mounts for ourselves. For sixty cents Bajan (the equivalent of thirty cents US), a bus can be taken from any point on the island into Bridgetown or from Bridgetown to any point on the island. We hopped a bus into town and headed up Tudor Street to the bike rental shop listed in the Yellow Pages. Suffice it to say that we came to be on quite familiar terms with the product of the local brewery—Banks—while waiting for the shop to open. Speaking of the proprietor of the bike shop, another patron of the grocery/lunch counter/tavern explained the situation to us: "He make already so much money dat de mon don' open until he feel like it."
After running down every lead and rumor, it turned out that there is only one source of bike rentals remaining on the island. A bus ride up the coast to Speightstown led us finally to that source, Mr. Rodney Roach.
His stable was somewhat depleted, but beggars cannot be choosers.
For a hundred dollar deposit and ten dollars a day (Bajan dollars that is, each worth fifty cents US), I finally had a bike for the week. And what a bike! This Raleigh Stratos had certainly seen better days. The frame was two inches too small for me, the rear tire was separating like delaminated recaps on a '57 Chevy, the rear rim had a ding in it the size of a golf ball, the left pedal was tight on the spindle, the seat adjusting bolt was stripped, only half the ten gears were usable, and the brakes were shot. But what it lacked in mechanical reliability, it made up in character.
With a few adjustments, we started south on the main coastal road from Speightstown, me on my Raleigh and Stretch on an equally dilapidated one-speed. Many islanders use bikes for transportation and, despite the traffic, drivers were unfailingly polite and cautious in their dealings with us. This politeness and caution was much appreciated as we re-adjusted our natural instincts and rode on the lefthand side of the street with the fleets of buses, tiny vans, and subcompacts.
This section of road is the most congested on the island, running as it does along the gentle Caribbean coast and flanked with hotel after hotel. Whenever the afternoon sun or the exhaust fumes got to us, we simply pulled over. Here we discovered one of the best features of Barbados. With so many people on an island so small, there are stores everywhere. Most of them sell little more than cornflakes, soap, and cold beer; it was the latter that proved to be a life saver.
We plunged southward past hotels, tennis courts, soccer fields, restaurants, and pastel Bajan houses. Stretch—unaccustomed to the press of saddle against tender flesh—called for time out at each Banks sign and we guzzled the ubiquitous brew at a half dozen stops on the fourteen mile run back to Rockley. By the outskirts of Bridgetown, I pulled ahead to pace a barefoot marathoner and discuss the relative virtues of running and biking on human knees. Stretch caught up and we dived like kamikaze pilots into the automotive gridlock of Bridgetown's evening rush hour, negotiated the narrow streets and stalled traffic as though we had been doing it all our lives, emerged finally south of the city and coasted down the shoreline to our hotel. Here I found out that, somewhere behind me before we hit Bridgetown, Stretch had taken a tumble. The only thing injured was his dignity, but it was enough to keep him off two wheels for the duration.
I set out Wednesday morning to explore the south coast. My ride took me to the fish market in Oistin: quiet during the day but bustling in the evening as the fishing boats return with the day's catch which is sold from buckets and trays along the street. Road work detoured me from the coast to a sudden steep hill where I discovered I couldn't shift into my lowest gears. I dismounted and joined two other bikers walking on the edge of the road, one a wrinkled old islander pushing a bike even more decrepit than mine. He grinned and allowed how he used to be able to pedal up this particular hill in his younger days, but we agreed there was no shame in walking. Along the ridge beyond Christ Church I rested on a stone wall in the shade of a tree. A flock of youngsters chattered in Bajan too fast for me to understand while they tried on my cap and gloves, fondled the bike—a treasure to them—and stroked my blond ponytail. Fueled by Banks, I cruised past the airport and discovered a little-used lane down to the beach near Shark's Hole. This appeared to be the local nude beach, so I joined in the impromptu skinny dipping, then rested in the surf-hollowed cave beneath an overhanging rock and watched the ocean roll in from the horizon. For lunch I found the staples of flying fish, beans and rice, and Banks at a spot near Sam Lord's Castle. There I sat out of the sun far a couple hours. As I rode off and headed up the coast, the left pedal tightened on the spindle. The dust cap was missing and the bearings were obviously gritty. I worked it free and kept going, but soon enough it was tight again. After wrestling with the pedal for several miles, I turned west when it finally froze up for good. For the next few miles I learned the rhythm of push, lift, push with my left foot as the pedal went around and around on the crank arm without spinning. Back at the hotel, I disassembled the pedal with a bent fork. The grease was completely dried out and the bearings were choked with sand and grit.
So the bike was out of action for a day while Rodney tracked down parts for a pedal overhaul.
The size of Barbados is perfect for a series of day trips. Most of my expeditions went as the one described above. A morning swim in the ocean, a ride for two or three hours, holing up in a handy bar during the heat of the day or visiting one of the island's many places of interest, back on the road until five or so, home to the hotel and straight into the pool. I recommend such a routine to travelers who want to really enjoy Barbados. No need to hire a taxi or rent a car. All of the numerous sights and attractions—Farley Hill, Andromeda Gardens, Ashford Bird Park, the historic churches, Queens Park—are no more than two hours by bike from almost any hotel or guest house. And you're sure to have memorable adventures that those packed into tour buses will never experience.
Some of my highlights bicycling Barbados:
Stopping in the fields to chew the fresh stalks of sugar cane. Drinking Banks with Bajans in the local groceries. Explaining time and again that yes, I'm on a bike ride, and yes, I don't look like an ordinary tourist, but no, I'm not Canadian, I'm American. Sailing down from the national park on Farley Hill. Hearing the locals call to me as I ride past, "Hey, ganja-mon! Hey, Rasta-mon!" Cruising the nearly deserted east coast road and seeing the Atlantic hurl itself against the rocky coast. Climbing the cliffs near Bathsheba, so steep my ponytail nearly drags the road behind me. Getting directions from cane field workers—resting in the shade—who can't believe I'm biking on such a hot afternoon. Being lectured on the fine distinctions among reggae, bluebeat, ska, and calypso music. Watching the uniformed schoolgirls promenade in town, holding hands. Trying to understand the explanations at a cricket match at Codrington College. Late night music at the Bel-Air Jazz Club on Bay Street. Dodging the hordes of tourists at the wheels of rented mokes, those illegitimate offspring of jeeps and golf carts. Discussing the geography of the island with a witty, toothless old man who replies with a wink when his wife offers me a soda, "No, de mon wants some-ting strongah, ya know?"
So the week fled past me much too fast. I was smiling but almost sad as I made my last run up the coast on Sunday. The little groceries with the welcoming Banks signs were closed and the sidewalks were thick with Barbadians in Sunday clothes and hats. The sun gleamed on the Caribbean and the pastel houses, the sixty cent buses beeped before they passed me, and I had a tailwind all the way to Rodney Roach's.
After returning the bike, I clipped the shoulder strap onto my handlebar bag, threw the bag over my shoulder, and caught a bus back to Bridgetown. On the way, a local coolly inspected my cap and riding shorts, and finally nodded.
"You da biker-mon."
~~~~~~~~~~ Postscript: Rodney tells me that he might not be renting bikes much longer. He, Yvonne, and the baby might be taking new jobs on a cruise ship. Although I was told that some of the larger hotels rent bikes—to guests only—I couldn't confirm it. Check ahead of time, or plan to take your own bike with you.
Here's the only surviving photo from Barbados. Stretch at the wheel of the moke while I navigate and brace for impact. No bike photos.
Comments? Questions? Suggestions? I'd like to hear from you.
~ 108 ~
| bstone@sonic.net | ::: Bill Books ::: Bill Bikes ::: Bill Games ::: | Copyright © 1983-2021 Bill Stone |