I stand at the track and look around me. Usually i show up about ten to fifteen minutes early, simply to avoid arriving at dusk when traffic is a little heavier, but also so that i have a few moments to think before we head out. The track is called Las Ballenas, otherwise known as "the whales", and the shrine of the track is a stunning statue of two women with voluptuous bodies, though in my head they remind me of the Incredible Hulk. Around the kilometer track are signs or placards with how beneficial exercise is in your life. The track is heavy with traffic early in the morning (not that I'd ever know) and once the sun sets over the palm trees. People run, walk, mosey, sprint, rollerblade, and usually they have a buddy with them to keep them company. On the inside of the track there are soccer pitches, people playing kicking ball (or kick ball), soccer cages, kids flying kites, bars for body mechanics, and a small tienda or store for buying energy drinks and water.
The heart of a city is its sense of community, and this track in Anaco is certainly one of those places. There's the juice guy, or flaco (skinny), who stands in the parking lot without fail nightly from 5:30ish-late, slicing and serving fresh-pressed orange juice; i do not lie, it's the best jugo I've ever had. But I'm getting ahead of myself; juice comes after.
Around 6:03, the guys show up. Sometimes it's only one or two, sometimes we make up our own biker gang with more than ten of us riding. We're lit up like Christmas trees so that we don't get hit by cars, trucks, motorbikes, or pedestrians, and dogs, and despite that we're riding on roads, no one has a road bike. We greet each other like old friends, but that's normal in these parts. I cannot keep all their names straight, but somehow they all know mine. Their bikes make me feel poor, with Specialized and Merida being the main players in this game, with RockShox and the occasional Fox or other brand for parts, but no matter, everyone is welcome for the nightly ride. I am almost always the only woman to ride, which I think they value me for, or at least they put up with me because they know I won't ever respond to most gruesome or sexist remarks because I simply don't understand them. I ride hard and don't give up.
We take off from the track around 6:15, heading out through the PVSD neighborhood, the state-based oil company that essentially founded this town. We cruise into downtown Anaco, and I can smell the shwarma, alcohol, petrol exhaust, and I see the glances of people from their stores. They are not surprised, and we occasionally get hollered at or whistled. We enter into a dangerous intersection, and down Avenida Merida along the airport strip. It's dark, but with all our lights and reflective gear you simply can't miss us. I usually fall a bit behind here, but this crew doesn't drop anyone and they patiently wait. It's a quiet stretch of road, except when the city buses going flying by. The tree cover and empty airport strip make for a nice ride. We cross over to the other side of the airport strip, and are passing restaurants and banks. The banks always have lines of people waiting at the ATMS, without fail. We cut back towards the main highway, my least favorite road to ride simply due to traffic. It's a great way to see the city of Anaco, and pass the circus, many stores, restaurants, grocery stores, banks, pharmacies, and liquorias.
We continue on to do another stretch of road that enters into a neighborhood, and it's a whole different feel. Passing the playground I hear children shrieking, laughing, and parents chatting. We pass the local police or national guard station, I'm still not always sure of the difference, and we finally slow to stop at a cafe, simply to sit for a few moments and chat. I listen quietly, sometimes the conversations of these guys follow politics or money, but often this is their time to relax, so they talk about bikes or other stress-free topics. Most of the guys know that I understand enough Spanish to follow, as I smile and nod along.
We head back out onto the road and back towards the major vein of the city, Avenida Jose Anzoategui. We head down the hill, I swear Anaco only has one. And all the guys fly by me, as my body weight simply doesn't compare-as I didn't grow up eating empenadas, tequenos, or malta daily, they are simply far more sturdy than I. I trail along down the hill, and eventually get to the roundabout where we head of course, back up. Slowly but surely, we make it, though I often get yelled "come on Ms. Morrrrley or vamos teacher!" as I strain my already tired legs to make it back up, legs burning and eyes tired from the dust and exhaust of the cars.
Occasionally we take a ride into the parking lot of the local shopping center, UniCasa. I'm still not sure the interest in this is, but riding up a steep car ramp, flying around the parking lot, and back down again avoiding cars, people, and shopping carts has its own appeal I suppose. We then head back into the darker area towards my school and towards the track, working hard to stay as a group and to not block traffic and avoid getting hit by distracted drivers. We make it back to the track, usually about an hour or so later, happily tired, sucking wind, and all caught up on adrenaline.
We are immediately served orange juice, thick with pulp and glory. We share a few words, and then we all head out, always making sure that everyone has a safe way to get home, and I usually receive an escort from one of the guys in the group, often a parent of one the students at my school who live extremely close to me, and we head off into the dark. Calmer. More clarity. And we go back out again.
It's not perfect, it's not mountain biking, more like extreme urban riding. There have been flat tires, near accidents with cars, many Spanish swear words which I learned quickly, and a lot of simply jackass moves by these guys, but they are safe, they are smart, and they ride hard.
Just outside of Krakow stands to this day the death camps that thousands of victims of the Holocaust were persecuted within, Auschwitz and Birchenauw. There is a face of this city that is running full-speed ahead as a young-person mecca with its many universities and language schools, as well as healthy nightlife of bars, restaurants, clubs, and music. There is another face, with a quiet eeriness to it, that lurks in the cobblestone streets and the synagogues- the Jewish culture of this city was robbed over 70 years ago, along with the lives of many Cracovians. I wish that the Polish language were a bit easier to learn, as I would believe I would be able to have some intriguing conversations with people of an older generation- though I can imagine the history here is something they may not want to make casual conversation about.
As I sit at a pizza restaurant with wines on the walls, an eclectic range of art and techno music playing, I remember that while I am not “from here”, I still find this a good place to be right now. Cracow has offered me an opportunity to further explore the world, and the world of education. I have purchased a bike and have been touring the city and the Wisla river trails and am feeling healthy and happy with my move. Venezuela is still in shambles in its economic downturn, and I find it hard to not think about my close friends who still live there and are struggling with the government, with empty grocery shelves, and with insecurity in their day-to-day lives. I am fortunate for what I have, and the security that I have, even if I am not “from here”.
