Saturday night we dined on our freeze dried “emergency meals” that we’d carried with us throughout the trip before our final night in the tent. Any somberness about ending the trip was quickly washed away with thougths of reaching our final destination and seeing our Portuguese friends and family in the coming days.

Sunday, the day of the week that all grand tours end, we made great time over the flat land, riding on the 50km wide strip of land between the Tejo and Ribeira rivers. Stops were minimal and we had 70km behind us by 1:00 p.m. There was farming along the floodplain — rice, tomatoes, corn, transitioning into sandier soil and cork trees that you see nearly everywhere in Portugal.

As we neared Setúbal, and therefore the Atlantic Ocean, it became windier and the roads considerably rougher. Many Portuguese villages still had their old cobbles exposed and our chosen route gave us cobblestones for kilometers at a time. The vibration is so intense it makes you wonder if the fillings in your teeth are going to shake loose.

Susana had a vague idea of where we were, with former classmates from villages like Lau, Lagameças, and Poceirão, passing a picnic area her family dined when she was a child, and other forgotten places as we got closer, with the mountains of Arrábida beyond the city now in view. And then the graffitied sign for Setúbal, another kilometer down the boulevard, and we were to the door of her parents’ building. Our odometers read 4650 km (2890 miles). Susana called up to her parents, but there was no answer. Before we decided what to do next, their car pulled into the parking lot next to us.

With our arrival, our trip instantly changed form from two people in the countryside with bikes into reunions with friends and family, city scenes, and chaos. We haven’t had much time to reflect on the trip and what the end means, hence this late posting. But our legs are still twiching and want to get back on the bikes, which we’ll have time to do in the next three weeks.

More thoughts, statistics, and photos will be coming soon.

Not far inside the border the scenery changed a little. There were more trees — olive trees that look withered and dead even when they’re healthy, mighty cork trees that are planted everywhere and stripped of bark every ten years with the year of the last harvest painted on the trunk. And fragrant eucalyptus trees that are planted in groves beside the road offering a nice shady spot to drink some water, and a sweet smell to take your mind off the heat. It’s still extremely dry and Susana has nearly lost her voice from either the dry air or pronouncing too many Portuguese “R”s too quickly.

We’re handling the heat much better than expected, and as long as we have cold water every so often to bring our body temperature back down, we’ve been cycling through the afternoon. Drinking hot water from your water bottles that have been in the sun too long just makes you hotter, and often sick to your stomach. We’ve also been taking Lava Salts, salt pills for endurance athletes who drink huge amounts of water to replenish electrolytes. When you’re drinking and sweating 12 or more bottles of water per day, you need a little replenishing. The apparent wind that you create from moving through the air helps a lot, and when it’s this hot a tailwind is almost a curse. Today one thermometer read 43 (110 F), and I believed it.

In addition to the changing landscape, there are more and more villages, and people have been waving, honking, and giving us thumbs up at a rate approaching the French. At one cafe water stop there was a small crowd watching the Volta a Portugal on TV, a week-long cycling race. Even though I didn’t recognize any riders or teams, it was good to know we’re not the only idiots riding out here in August.

In Nisa we stopped outside a supermarket that had closed for the day, but the owner came out and asked if I needed anything. When I explained that my wife was already getting some water across the street, he offered some “cheaper colder water”, so I flagged Susana and he let us in. He then went around the store with us as we shopped in the dark aisles, making suggestions for the regional cheese, telling us to buy the cheaper yogurt since it tastes the same, and making us buy the spectacular, sweet peaches. As he was ringing up our purchase, he was noting how cheap everything was, “37 cents for these tomatoes!” and then threw in two “souvenirs” which were t-shirts the employees wear that say “Supermercado Amoreiras Nisa” so we could advertise his store in the U.S.

The biggest thorn in our sides, as expected, are the Portuguese drivers. They’re the fastest and most dangerous that we’ve encountered, and will slow down for nothing. We’ve stayed off the busy roads for the most part, but one stretch had several incidents where oncoming traffic passes other oncoming traffic on a narrow road with nowhere for us to go. Why do they go so fast in such a small country, I often wonder. Fortunately today was much more relaxing riding on quiet country roads in Alentejo.

After another long day we’re now outside Montargil, camping on a river with the smell of grilled sardines wafting through the air. Susana asked her parents what they’re having for dinner tomorrow night, so if we complete one more long day we might make it.

Yesterday morning, with the Portuguese border sitting ahead, we hammered onward over hills and down valleys as fast as we could. The riding was hard, constant 100-200 meter climbs in the sun, and as the afternoon wore on, the sun only beat down on us more directly as we pedaled west. Sunglasses weren’t enough, we had to look down at the road it was so bright.

By 8:00 p.m., we were in Valverde del Fresno, the last town in Spain. From here, the mile markers counted down from 17, and we were all alone on this road leading from a small town in Spain to a smaller town in Portugal. This really was a no-man’s-land, just a few olive trees and crumbling 1000-year old towers on distant hills in both countries looking down on our progress, reminders of when crossing the border was more dangerous, but not less difficult.

The anticipation built during this last hour as the kilometers whittled away. We were expecting a hilltop crossing, since we rode beside a ridge from Valverde, but instead the road dipped down with two kilometers to go and continued downhill past 1 km. Finally, at the dry creek bed of Rio Torto, there was the border, with long-abandoned customs houses as we’ve seen across the EU countries. We stopped at the Portugal sign. Susana was happy.

Just inside the border, at the appropriately named Senhora do Bom Sucesso, we found the campground where we collapsed immediately upon arrival. It was our longest day with 148 km (92 miles), and 2200 meters (7217’) of climbing, our second highest of the trip.

Since our arrival, Susana has been talking to everyone about anything at all in her mother tongue. It rained here recently? In August? Oh, August four years ago, wow.

And suddenly everything is nicer.