Thursday 24 February 2011

Km. 0

If my guidebook hadn't told me where to look, I'd never have found it. Kilómetro Cero. The heart of car-loving Spain, a slab of stone from which the six rutas nacionales radiate like spokes from the hub of a bicycle tyre. It is from this point that all distances are measured.

Madrid's most photographed piece of pavement is located in Puerta del Sol, or simply Sol, as the madrileños affectionately call the bustling square that lies at the heart of the city. Ironically, Puerta del Sol—Spanish for Gate of the Sun—is shaped like a half-moon. Sun or moon, it's always a busy place, full of people rushing to or emerging from one of the square's five entrances to the underground, queueing up to buy lottery tickets, waiting for a friend at the statue of a bear pawing at a strawberry tree (the heraldic symbol of the city) or simply sitting at the base of one of the fountains to watch the tourists, the street performers and, unfailingly, the square-jawed Latin-American migrants wearing bright safety jackets that read COMPRO ORO ('I buy gold').

Standing there at Kilómetro Cero, head bowed, hand in pocket, I feel like an idiot looking for a lost penny. I scrutinise the thing as if it's Bosch's The Garden of Earthly Delights, one of the main attractions of the nearby Prado. The copper 0 stares back blankly. Here, at the very heart of the country, my feet hugging the extremes of the peninsula, it feels as though this trip hasn't really started yet. My bike computer tells me I've nearly rounded the 3000 km mark. My inner voice tells me I haven't moved an inch.

It seems like a half-remembered dream now, that autumnal ride from Holland to Andalusia. Almost four months have passed since I set up camp in Spain—first in Seville, then, just after Christmas, in Madrid. I've grown accustomed to the fast-paced rhythm of the language and the slow-paced rhythm of life. I don't mind having lunch at three and supper at ten. I no longer think evil thoughts when the cashier at the supermarket takes her time to have a good gossip with one of the customers. And, most importantly, I've learnt not to frown at the size of a caña (think: a beer in a whisky tumbler). Actually, I wouldn't mind sticking around for a bit.

But, as the sun sets over Sol, I realise I can't allow myself to be swallowed up by that cipher at my feet. With the mild Spanish winter drawing to a close, so my hibernation must come to an end. Endless roads radiate from this place, waiting to be cycled upon. I think of my bike, gathering dust in a draughty eigth-floor apartment in the outskirts of Seville. I look up. Exit tapas y cañas, I think. Enter asphalt and lycra.