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Milwaukee To Spain, Milwaukee, WI (2026)

10/03/2022

Your morning moment of Zen.

Coming out of the clouds and fog on our Portuguese mountain ride, we were rewarded with this peaceful view of the clouds rolling into the valley and town below.

10/02/2022

Green Squiggly Lines
Riano to Braga – Monday, 9/26
A post by Ken

Our route planning was a daily affair, typically done during breakfast and aided by strong Spanish coffee. The process rarely began with a specific destination in mind, but rather just a general direction we wanted to go. Then, using Jerry's Iberian Mapsco, we would look for any green squiggly roads along our intended course of travel. The greenies were scenic routes. And they were good.

Having looked at the extended forecast for Spain's northern coast, cold rain was in our future. Therefore we decided to head south toward Portugal where the weather gods were more motorcycle friendly. So we set our GPS' to Braga, Portugal - where sunshine and warm weather awaited. But getting there would require making the longest riding day of our trip.

Leaving Riano, we rolled downhill thru the southern foothills of the Picos de Europa and into the central plains of Spain. Taking advantage of Spain's excellent highways, we chewed through the kilometers (one km = 0.6 miles).

Watching the landscape go by, we began acting like kids on a long road trip and started playing the travel game, “What does this area remind you of in the US?” We consistently suggested arid, western states, with low rolling hills – Texas, Utah, Nebraska, Kansas, Arizona, or New Mexico. Not very picturesque.

That changed when we hit Portugal's eastern border. It was essentially a mountain range. As we would discover, most of Portugal is mountains or hills.

The only track to Braga from the border was a green squiggly road built atop a mountain ridge . It was here we discovered Portuguese drivers were not quite as courteous as Spanish drivers.

The road twisted, and rolled, and turned, and arced, and did somersaults, and twisted and turned some more. And did all this through countless small hilltop hamlets and villages. Which were all populated by people who owned cars. Impatient people. People who drove as if they were perpetually late for an urgent appointment.

Throttling westward into the setting sun, we looked down into the river valley far below and anticipated a visually satisfying ride. Portuguese driver's had other ideas. Several drivers tailgated us before zooming by, passing in “no passing” zones. Or even scarier, passing at blind curves. We finally took to pulling over or slowing down to let Portuguese drivers go by us.

It was the following day when we spoke with a Portuguese native who described Portugal's drivers as, “atrocious”. She also claimed Portugal had a very high traffic fatality rate.

From what we witnessed, we didn't doubt her.

After riding 500 kms, we finally reached Braga just in time for rush hour; We were frazzled and had sore bums. After settling into our hotel we walked to a nearby restaurant where we soothed our frayed nerves with a giant pitcher of Sangia. Jerry was happy.

10/01/2022

A post from Jerry.
Saturday, 9/24/22

After spending the night in Galdakao (near the NE corner of Spain if you're not familiar with the area) we discovered that the rain in Spain does NOT stay mainly in the plain. It wasn't quite raining when we started out, but you could tell that it wasn't going to be long, so we all dressed accordingly and waddled out to our bikes like little yellow Michelin men. About 10 minutes into the trip it started to rain a little bit, which apparently spooked some deer onto the highway. At least I think that's what happened as I heard Ken yelling something like “Buck! Buck! Buck!” as he drove past our turn-off point and stopped his bike next to the exit. Kyle, our resident navigator, made the exit while I sped on by looking for the next off ramp.

Hopefully you can see the problem here. We 're all separated with heavy traffic doing it's best to keep us that way, and the intercoms have a range of maybe 600 feet or so. Like all good riders, we had a plan for something like this, although I couldn't remember what exactly it was at the time. I figured Kyle would find a place to pull over on the freeway once he noticed he was flying solo, so I gave him a few minutes and gave him a call – which went to his voicemail. Apparently he wasn't accepting calls from a 214 area code. There went Plan A. Plan B involved trusting the GPS to guide me back onto the freeway where hopefully something good would happen. It did get me to the freeway eventually, after first attempting to kill me by suggesting that I go the wrong way down the entrance ramp, but I was too smart to fall for that. Then it suggested that I should drive around a traffic circle, which I kept doing for lack of a better idea. The local juvenile delinquents were very supportive, and kept encouraging me with shouts of “El Retardo!” as I circled and circled. Tiring of this abuse, I made a command decision to drive down a 7 foot wide street between some apartments and hope that the GPS would come up with a better idea. Long story short, I was finally able to get back on the freeway where Ken and Kyle had pulled over and were waiting in the rain for me to catch up.

We made it along the northern coast line nearly to Santander before a torrential rain hit us. Strange how I managed to miss that rip in my rain pants when I packed for the trip. I was really impressed with how much water could get in through such a small tear. Steadfast in the face of adversity, we decided to take the hint from Mother Nature and ducked into a bar/cafe off of the freeway. Kudos to our faithful navigator, Kyle, for spotting that one. After the rain lifted, we turned south and started south down highway 621 which runs along the eastern edge of the Picos de Europa national park. Fortunately for us we managed to outrun the rain, because we were getting ready to hit some seriously twisty roads. And seriously gorgeous scenery, I might add.

Sorry. I hate to leave you hanging at the beginning of the part of the trip that all three of us unhesitatingly declared the best part, but you'll have to read that either later or in one of Ken's or Kyle's posts. The journey for the rest of the trip southbound along the eastern edge of the Picos de Europa state park deserves its own section – and your visit at the first chance you get.

09/29/2022

Unless you're outfitted with a GoPro camera, it's difficult to take photos from a moving motorcycle. As such, we have only memories of witnessing many interesting scenes or events.

What follows is a random recollection of things the three of us saw, thought or experienced during our eight day, 1,326 mile ride through Spain and Portugal that we couldn't capture on camera:

The old man dressed in humble, earth-tone work clothes, a cap on his head, a walking stick in his hand, standing on the hillside amid his flock of sheep.

Seeing the hundreds...no, thousands of ruler straight, ancient, thigh high stone walls crisscrossing the countryside, demarking the boundaries of ownership past.

Old people were the only people visible in most small Spanish towns and villages during the day.

Old Spanish men like to walk with their hands clasped behind their back.

There are still visible remnants of calzada romano - ancient roman roads in some areas.

Spanish drivers are less aggressive than Portuguese drivers.

There are thousands of very old, dilapidated, crumbling houses and out-buildings dotting the countryside in rural Spain.

We didn't see any living structure built using wood frame construction. All houses/buildings were stone, block, brick, concrete.

While riding during a heavy downpour, a passing car drove through a deep rivulet of water, causing a cascade of water spray up and outward, thoroughly soaking Ken who was riding alongside the car. Ken looked as if he was riding within the curl of a Hawaiian surfing wave.

There are few, if any, SUVs or full sized pick-up trucks or cars in Spain. The vast majority of vehicles are compact cars. Of course with gas at $7+/gal, small cars make sense.

Bicyclists peddling hard creeping uphill.

One way stone bridges, wide enough for donkey carts (or motorcycles).

Bees/wasps/bugs taking aim at open collars and stinging Jerry and Ken in their necks.

Turning a corner on a windy road after dropping down out of the fog and coming face to face with a shepherd driving his flock down the hill. Ably assisted by about 5 or more dogs, none of which appeared to be of the pedigreed variety. The one I remember best was a black mama dog at the rear of the flock who went to battle station as we drove carefully past. That lady was not going to tolerate anyone messing with her flock!

Walking down a street in Madrid one evening and seeing two elderly ladies supporting each other, walking shoulder to shoulder, each of them using their canes. Made me realize how important friendship is, and how much we should cherish our friends. Would have loved to have had a picture, but that would have been just rude, and I ain't no ugly American...at least not that kind of ugly, anyway!

09/29/2022

Sometimes you see things that you need to ask Google what they are. In this case -

Quercus suber, commonly called the cork oak, is a medium-sized, evergreen oak tree in the section Quercus sect. Cerris. It is the primary source of cork for wine bottle stoppers and other uses, such as cork flooring and as the cores of cricket balls. It is native to southwest Europe and northwest Africa.

09/29/2022

Motorcycling by IFR

Although yesterday's ride (9/28) ended with a gorgeous sunset in El Barco de Ávila, Spain, it began quite differently in Portugal.

We spent Wednesday night in Seia, Portugal, a town on the western edge of Parque Natural de Serra da Estrela - home to the highest peak in mainland Portugal. Our plan was to ride to the top of the mountain the next morning and feast our eyes on what we hoped would be an unobstructed, sunrise lit, panoramic view of the Portuguese countryside. We would then head downhill on the opposite side and continue eastward toward Spain.

Well, as you can imagine, things didn't go quite according to plan.

When we awoke, we were greeted by an overcast sky. OK, so we might not have the morning sun illuminating the countryside. But as least we'll still get to have a 360 degree view of Portugal. So we loaded up the BMWs and up the mountain we rode.

Driving through hillside neighborhoods, we climbed out of town and onto the steep western flank of the mountain, the switchback road keeping us pointed ever upward. As we ascended, we began to see a cloud layer above us, shrouding the mountain. Before we knew it, we were soon inside of that cloud and totally enveloped by it.

Climbing a couple hundred meters more, the road flattened slightly, easing our concerns about going over a cliff edge. But the cold, damp whiteness surrounding us seemed to only grow thicker. Faint, cottony wisps of cloud/fog blew past our helmets and instrument panels. The moisture fogging and beading on our visors and glasses. Driving under trees, we would be pelted by water drops falling from the pine needles above, a phenomena which Jerry dubbed, "tree rain".

Visibility was next to nil. Maybe 40 feet at best? Certainly not enough to go faster than 30 kph - and at times even that felt like we were over driving our visibility.

In pilot jargon, this would have been IFR conditions: Instrument Flight Rules.

Inching along, we passed a road crew laying asphalt in the fog. Their outlines and vehicles only coming into view at the last moment.

If it weren't for our intercoms, we'd have no idea where each of us were. It wouldn't be an exaggeration for me to say this was one of the "foggiest/cloudiest?" conditions I've ever driven in.

We rode like this for about 10 km (six miles) until we crested the mountain and reached the eastern slope. Dropping in elevation, we exited the clouds and were greeted by a beautiful view of the valley below.

Stopping in Covilha on the floor of the valley, we found an open bar. Ordering three (non-alcoholic) hot chocolates, we thawed out and dried off. We also unanimously agreed that the view from atop the mountain this morning really sucked.

09/28/2022

As the sun sets on our Spanish adventures, we get to enjoy one last night on the road. Barco de Avíla is the perfect place to rest before the final ride to Madrid in the morning!

But don't worry, we still have a few days worth of ride reports to write and post for your enjoyment! We appreciate all of you for following along as we've shared our ride.

09/26/2022

Rocky Mountain Highs, and Lows

An unscheduled maintenance stop is par for the course in every motorcycle trip. Lost time, lost money, sometimes even a lost bike. Thankfully the delay in Logroño was minimal in the grand scheme of things, and gave us a little extra time to focus our anxieties on something even more out of our control: the weather. The forces of nature like to tease travelers with forecasts of sun and warmth before opening the heavens on the unprepared and flooding a weekend's worth of plans. As we eyed the weather reports across the northern coast of Spain one thing became very clear, we'd be getting rained on. A few drops baptised us on our way out of Logroño, an ominous foreshadowing for the road ahead.

Our route for the day was to take a scenic ride northeast of town and into the mountains, before turning westward and calling it a day in Bilbao on the northern coast. It started simply enough, with an enjoyable ride towards Estella, and the foothills dotted with "pelegrinos" taking the famous Camino de Santiago walk across the country. This pilgrimage is done by religious followers and lovers of the outdoors, of all ages and sizes, and can be anywhere from 100km to 1000km of walking! Passing north of Estella, we began our first proper mountain climb of the trip. The first of many! But as we were about to tackle the bulk of the ascent, the sporadic raindrops started to become a bit more insistent. We pulled over and decided to give our rain gear a field test. Donning our chosen weather proof outfits, we again forged ahead up the mountain. Two wheels and wet curvy roads do not make for fast times, and we were careful to not test the limits of ourselves or our machines.

The rain came down heavy, and we rolled over the peak of the mountain pass into a dense fog on the northern slopes. Creeping down slowly around soaking wet hairpin turns, our helmets fogged over, we finally started to see glimpses of the new countryside beyond the road. The rain slowly lifted, as did the fog, revealing the farmland and hamlets dotting the valley ahead of us. With the weather and the view, it would have been easy to mistake our surroundings for the highlands of Scotland! Instead we were entering the heart of Basque country, the semi-autonomous area of northeastern Spain known for its unique language and its long struggle for independence from the Spanish government. We took a beautiful route through the forested hills, lined with stone walls and rivers running next to us. The entire ride we lamented to each other about the lack of scenic pullover locations, as the roads were so narrow and winding that it would be dangerous to stop despite our desire to capture the surrounding landscape on camera.

Our stomachs signaled that it might be a good time to stop, and luck would place us directly in the path of a restaurant on the outskirts of Ataun. Our arrival coincided with that of a fellow hungry soul, a native of Madrid named Diego who had been living in the Basque region for a few years. Thankfully Diego was kind enough to translate our desire to eat, and suggested the local hearty meal of choice. I couldn't tell you what the name of the dish was, but based on what arrived at our table shortly afterwards, I believe the loose translation was "giant hunk of meat, with a giant salad". And somehow Diego talked us into getting two of these! Needless to say, our hunger was more than satisfied. We managed to roll our bodies over to our motorcycles, and plotted the final leg of the day's journey.

As we neared Bilbao, we started seeing the remnants of the industrial sector in the river valley: abandoned factories and warehouses telling the stories of economic hardships that had hit the area for years. And the roundabouts. So many roundabouts! While these had been welcome throughout the trip, removing the need to stop at intersections and keeping an orderly flow of traffic, we were growing a little tired of the speed up-slow down-go in a half circle rhythm that was being established on this final hour of riding. So I decided to take matters into my own hands by mixing things up and having the bike slide out from under me during one of the few remaining roundabouts.

Thankfully the only thing hurt in the crash was my pride and a bruised hip, as the bike's roll cage and pannier prevented it from landing on me as we fell together. Jerry and my dad quickly pulled over, as they had both been directly behind me when it happened, and helped assess myself and the bike. And in a testament to the response time of the Spanish policia, I turned and saw an officer walking down to the intersection, having just witnessed the accident from up the road. The bike was lifted and moved out of the road, I patted myself down and found only a small rip in my rain pants, and I gave the "all good" sign to the officers that had shown up. Thankfully we only had another 30 minutes to go for the day, but I proceeded with a lot more caution and gave wide berth to anything that even resembled wet pavement for the duration of the ride.

A day that saw drastically different weather and terrain, as well as mechanical and operator issues to bookend the ride, was the kind of complete package of a day that would only prepare us for the routes ahead!

- Kyle

09/26/2022

Hurry up and wait...

While checking into the hotel In Logroño Friday evening, Kyle went to fetch my passport from inside my bike's pannier. When he returned, he said, "Dad, you have a problem."

Hmm, that statement could be interpreted in many different ways, I thought.

Kyle had discovered that one of the two mounting brackets on my pannier was on the verge of breaking off. That would not be good as the pannier would be at risk of fully detaching from the bike.

The next morning, we contacted our rental company and told them of the problem. They made some calls and located a car repair shop just across the plaza from our hotel and instructed us to take the bike there for repairs. The shop was just a few storefronts away from the sushi restaurant we visited the night before.

Pulling up in front of the shop, we were greeted by Abdul, the friendly owner. Taking the pannier off the bike, he took it into his shop. Looking and studying the broken bracket for a minute, he launched into a lengthy explanation - in Spanish of course - of his intended solution.

"Good", I replied, not understanding 98% of what he said.

Recognizing we were in a hurry, Abdul dropped everything and focused on fixing the pannier.

Over the next two hours, he dissembled and reassembled the pannier, walked to a nearby hardware store for parts, cut and bent three small metal El brackets, drilled holes, then riveted the metal El brackets onto the pannier.

It looked rather Frankensteinish when he finished, but it fixed the problem. No more worries about the pannier falling off my bike and skittering down the road.

I paid him $30 Euros and also gave him a tip for having interrupted his mechanic work.

Three hours behind schedule - but with new memories - we launched from Logroño and headed to Bilbao.

09/25/2022

The daily route planning session over breakfast. Where old school and new technology merge.

09/25/2022

Picking up from where Jerry left off on Friday's ride....

As Jerry noted, the town of Salas de los Infantes refused to share its food with us. We walked around the town for 30 minutes futility looking for somewhere to eat. All we found were three bars with snack foods, two out-of- business restaurantes and two others which were scheduled to open later in the day.

We were even assisted in our quest by a local couple who assured us there was an open restaurant just minutes away. Escorting us there, they were stunned to find that it too was closed.

Admitting failure, we returned to our parked bikes and broke into our stash of peanut/raisin/m&m trail mix to stop the stomach growling.

Gearing up, we resumed our ride to Logroño, hoping to get there in two hours and find a hot meal. The route there took us on LR-113 which followed a river valley through the heart of the mountain range. Twisty roads and beautiful scenic vistas abounded. (While fun for motorcycle riding, twisty roads rarely offer places to safely pull over and take pictures. So you, dear reader, will just have to accept our word for it).

By now we were really hungry, but not quite at the "Donner Party" level of desperation. We reached the outskirts of Logroño around 6:00 and were surprised by how large of a city it was. It looked like a promising destination to find food. After checking into our hotel, Kyle and Jerry fired up their small, rectangular handheld electronic devices and summoned the Google machine to search for nearby restaurants.

Multiple food establishments immediately popped up on the map. Jerry selected one and away we went. Walking four blocks, we reached the restaurant only to find it closed and out of business! This can't be happening! Have we been jinxed? This is worse than a Las Vegas losing streak.

It was now Kyle's turn. He suggested a Sushi restaurant just across the square from our hotel. Backtracking five blocks we reached the restaurant. It's doors are open, a chalkboard menu standing outside, the lights are on, a young man bustling behind the sushi bar. We go inside.

"Are you open?" We ask in broken Spanish and hand gestures.

"No", came his reply

Somehow we were not surprised. We've seen this play before and know how it ends.

We're beginning to resign ourselves to the fact that we will starve to death in Spain. We begin to consider writing farewell letters to our loved ones back home letting them know of our cursed fate.

Dejected and desperate, we set off again, walking the streets looking for anything that resembles an open restaurant. Turning a corner, we find a street lined from end to end with outdoor tables. Evidence of el fresco dining! Halfway down, a shimmering light beckons from a storefront. Nearing it, we see wait staff alive and moving inside.

Jerry wastes no time and approaches one of the young men.

"Are you open? Can we order some food? , Jerry beseeched.

"Si", came the reply. "But not until 8:30"

Spanish dining traditions refused to be broken, or violated by three hungry Americans.

"But you can have pinchos until then', the waiter added. (Pinchos being a small, single serving appetizer)

" Give us one of everything ", Jerry commanded. "And do you have Dr. Pepper?"

We were saved. Our farewell letters never sent.

Ken

09/24/2022

This is Ken offering a prequel to Jerry's and Kyle's stories…

After consuming our Daily Adult Requirement of highly processed sugars at the café in Cuéllar, we loaded up the bikes and started Friday's ride. Now understand, Cuéllar is a rather small town, laid out in a random, non-geometric pattern, built atop a hill, with narrow streets all seemingly running uphill in both directions. Within a minute of exiting the hotel parking lot, our GPS' had us driving the wrong way on a skinny, uphill, one-way street, with on-coming traffic. Our error did not go unnoticed by the locals, one of whom loudly offered me his unsolicited advice – in Spanish of course – to not go that way.

In our scramble to change course and avoid head on collisions, we inadvertently took different turns and quickly lost contact with each other - me going in one direction and Kyle and Jerry in another. The last contact I heard from Kyle was a faint, inaudible garbled message on our bike-to-bike intercom system. I immediately thought of the David Bowie song lyrics, “Ground control to Major Tom. Can you hear me Major Tom? Can you hear me Major Tom?” Fortunately, instead of floating off into space or getting permanently lost in Cuéllar, my GPS recalculated and pointed me to a new route out of town – this time without the one-way jousting match. Within minutes, I found Kyle and Jerry patiently waiting for me at the eastern edge of town.

Our first daily mini-crisis was over and we survived - body and ego intact. We just hoped the GPS gods won't keep messing with us that way.

Milwaukee To Spain

10/03/2022

10/02/2022

10/01/2022

09/29/2022

09/29/2022

09/29/2022

09/28/2022

09/26/2022

09/26/2022

09/25/2022

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09/24/2022

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