Cycling 2750km from Belgium to Spain (Ep. 16)

All Music by “Under the Skin”: https://open.spotify.com/artist/0AvLxd0MOteC026aTgu8KX
Intro music by NRA lab, Audio File ID: 119647
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The morning begins with quiet resistance—unspoken rules tested by small rebellions. We pack our bags, click the panniers into place, and roll into a landscape that still pretends to be gentle. The hills rise slowly at first, stretching upward like a breath held too long, until the softness gives way to something more serious.

The climb deepens with each turn, and then, without warning, the mountains reveal themselves. They stand silent and immense on the horizon, ancient sentinels watching over the borderlands. A few cowbells echo somewhere in the distance, and Wim greets the Pyrenees aloud—as if naming them makes our arrival real.

It feels like crossing a threshold. Not a dramatic one, but the kind you only notice once you’ve already stepped through.

The road begins to demand more. Pedals turn slower, lungs search harder, silence grows thicker. There is no race here, only the steady conversation between willpower and terrain. I climb until I can’t, then walk where the road insists, letting my breath catch up with my body. Somewhere along the way, I realise I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

Pilgrims pass us, one by one—carrying not only their packs but something invisible and weighty. A flicker of memory stirs, a trace of a journey I once made on foot. Familiar names drift by on village signs, but the places themselves have forgotten me—or perhaps I have forgotten them. Still, something in me remembers. Especially when we reach that narrow alley, that wooden door. A moment I thought long buried rises and lands quietly behind my eyes.

The final climb waits, already known to our legs from the day’s elevation profile. Wim lets me lead, and I set the rhythm—one I can hold, one that feels like mine. I bite into the incline, stubborn and steady.

And somewhere, unnoticed, we cross into Spain. No sign. No border. Just the road unfolding beneath our wheels, as if nothing needed to be marked.
And maybe… it didn’t.