Barn Sour Finish
#GameOn!
I once rode a horse that surprised me by breaking into a gallop when we turned back towards her barn. It scared the daylights out of me as an inexperienced rider. I was told she was “barn sour”—country slang for being overanxious to get home.
I now empathize with that horse.
The longer I walk, the more my body hurts. But the closer I get to Santiago, the less inclined I am to stop. On a cellular level, I feel bound and bent to finish this pilgrimage, come hell or high water!
Especially since I know my friends are engaging in their own arrival celebrations.
George made it to Santiago yesterday, and Rainer, Aine, and Andrew are arriving today (June 4). My “sensible” plan to not overdo it on my shins was to walk a modest 18 kms today to get within shooting distance of Santiago, then try to arrive around lunchtime the next day without a big rush.
Conditions aren’t great. It’s spitting rain, and my attempt at using KT tape for my shin splints is backfiring. Even after shipping my pack ahead today, they’re barking worse than ever. At times, I groan audibly, attracting the morbid attention of curious onlookers.
A brusque “I’m fine” is all I can muster. Then I finally just rip the tape off! That helps a bit. I eventually find a way to shuffle that keeps the pain to a dull background noise.
I try to savor what I can. Passing a town and an albergue named after Saint Irene (my late mother’s first name) puts a smile on my face, reminding me of how much she would enjoy the scenery and culture of the Camino–but not all the walking! Then a poster for a tattoo parlor called “Sorry Mum” makes me grin even more. That’s truly the LAST souvenir she would want from me on this trip.
But who knows what might happen in Santiago? She’s not around to protest anymore. And my wife does already have her own tattoo after all…
Stopping for lunch, I sit down next to Tommy, the Episcopal priest from Georgia whom Emily introduced me to back in Sarria. He’s got quite the story. A former businessman whose life was completely derailed by alcoholism, he found his way to sobriety via AA and the grace of God. Then he later channeled his life lessons into ministry as a parish priest.
Tommy has since fallen in love with walking the Camino. Now he’s, dare we say, a “Camino junkie?!” But his walking partner this year had to leave early due to injury. Tommy’s since happily fallen in with a group of young, mostly secular 20-somethings and has been having a blast. But they slept in this morning, and he’s waiting for them to catch up. We exchange contact information and hope to reconnect in Santiago.
The next several kilometers are a blur, but I finally arrive at my albergue in Lavacolla around 2:15. It’s a really nice place, and I’d normally be more than happy to rest up and spend the night there. But I feel restless. I’m just 10 kms away from my destination, the endpoint of this month-long sacred odyssey. And the weather—which could be dismal tomorrow—has temporarily cleared.
Throwing caution to the wind, I pick up my full pack and decide to go for it. I don’t have a reservation, but…since when has that stopped me?! I send out an excited heads up on WhatsApp to my Camino friends.
The hashtag? #GameOn!
There’s one final hill on this route, traditionally known as Monte de Gozo (“Mount Joy”) because it’s where the spires of the cathedral in Santiago can first be spotted by incoming pilgrims. Just as I cross over the peak, my text thread lights up, and encouragements start to flow in. Joy like this is truly best when it’s shared!
After a couple of short pit stops, I find myself approaching the outskirts of town. Channeling our old friend Thomas, I stop at a cafe to order one final cerveza to “oil” my joints for the final push and make a call to my wife to inform her of the unfolding drama.
As I enter the city of Santiago, the Camino signage is surprisingly scant. I almost get lost! How weird to walk nearly 500 miles and then lose yourself in what feels like an ordinary Spanish city. My spidey sense kick in, though, and I eventually navigate my way through the suburban sprawl towards the Cathedral Plaza of the Old City.
At 5 pm I finally arrive. It feels weirdly anticlimactic at first. A lone bagpiper is playing welcome music. But other than that, it’s just another day in the plaza, relatively empty except for some tourists and pilgrims milling about.
But wait a second. I recognize some of those pilgrims. Cheers and waving arms soon direct me towards my friends Rainer, Aine, and Andrew for a celebratory hug! So many pilgrims finish this month-plus marathon with nary a familiar face in sight. Having friends at the finish is a special touch that makes all the difference.
It feels surreal. So many hours and miles. So many hopes and fears. So many pains and doubts. So many faces. So many places. All I can do is fall flat on my own face! Is it exhaustion? Or a symbolic nod to the pilgrims of yore who crawled in on their knees? Perhaps a little of both.
Needless to say, it takes me a looong time to get up.
The rest of the evening is a joyful blur: A hotel room is secured. An official Compostela procured. A celebratory dinner with friends convened. A surprise band performance on the plaza enjoyed. Then sleep, sleep, blessed sleep.
It hurt like hell, but it sure is good to be in Saint James’ barn!