Guardian Angel

I was leaving France slowly by bicycle, up into the Pyrenees since I was headed for Puente Reina, Spain. That's the place where the official pilgrim's path to Santiago began in the 10th century. All the pilgrim's trails from all over Europe converged on this old bridge but from the bridge only one official path went on, following the southern slope of the mountains, crossing Spain from East to West to Santiago. Santiago is “Saint James” in English and Saint James (The Greater, as he is further known) was supposed to be Jesus' brother, though lots of Christians don't want Jesus to have any brothers because of the “ever virgin” dogma about Jesus' mother, Mary. And who cares about Joseph's love life?

Well, who knows? It was a long time ago, and other than a few religious professionals with invested interests, really, who cares?

I was still on pilgrimage, but I wasn't walking any more. My old friend Trix from Bad Feilnback, Bavaria had given me a bicycle to speed me on my way and this bike was the kind the old ladies in German villages use to fetch the daily bread on—not your high-class touring bike or your heavy-duty mountain bike, but your very basic getting-the-bread bike––one speed, a wire mesh shopping basket and a kickstand for when you go into the village grocery store. Good enough for a pilgrim and a gift much appreciated.

I would also like to mention at this time that I was making this pilgrimage for Trix since she thought she was too old to do it herself, but, according to old pilgrimage tradition, she could get the same good karma for making the pilgrimage if she could get someone else to do it for her, so I was her stand-in.

And besides, I would get some of her leftover karma (if there was any) too!

Anyway I was riding this funky old bike up into the Pyrenees and it was hard going. I was doing the “Jesus prayer” too with one Kyrie per stroke of the pedals. Hard going, like I said, but interesting.

The highway got narrower and narrower as I climbed into the mountains and the traffic was quite heavy. There were no other “push bikers”, as the Brits call us, on the highway, but lots of cars and an occasional truck. The highway had only two lanes and when the trucks went by they almost brushed my sleeve though I was as far to the right edge as I could get. This made my prayer even more interesting since I wasn't sure if I would be alive to repeat it much longer. Highly purposeful and focused prayer, I guess you could call it. Well, that's what pilgrimage is supposed to be anyhow, so it was no particular problem for me.

I had already given myself up for dead so many times since I started traveling years before that living or dying didn't seem to be too important anyway, though I don't consider myself to be suicidal at all.

I heard a different kind of racket behind me and soon was passed by a guy on a motor scooter. I had been passed by every other kind of vehicle you could think of that morning, but this was the first motor scooter I had seen for a long time. They are not common in that part of France and especially not on highways.

I noticed as he passed that he had a long, white beard and long white hair blowing around the edges of his motorcycle helmet. Curious.

He went on ahead of me but then pulled over to the side of the highway and waved for me to stop too.

I was pulling a little yellow cart behind me with my bedding and a box of tools and I had decided to help anyone else I could since I had been helped so often on the road—so, though I didn't much care to stop in that traffic, I did.

The scooter-man was quite old, but looked very fit and happy—and he did have lots of beautiful, white hair as I could see when he took off his helmet.

He greeted me cheerfully. He didn't need help. He wanted to help me! I don't know what language he was speaking, but I had no problem understanding him. The gist of his talk was that I was riding on a very dangerous stretch of highway and that I should go no further on it––but if I would turn back a little I would find a little country road leading off from the highway that would take me down into the valley the highway was following. This country lane also went to the top of the mountain pass—but was safe from the heavy traffic.

I thanked him for his advice and turned back. He also turned around and, waving merrily, went back the way he came.

I soon found the lane that took me first into the valley, and then along a little stream and, through farms and fields, up the mountain until it joined the highway near the top—where the highway was widened for the border crossing into Spain. The detour was delightful—peaceful, lovely and relaxing after such a dangerous morning ride.

I think that happy, helpful old man probably saved my life so I could finish this pilgrimage. I think he was probably my guardian angel. Don't you?

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