The Road to Porto: A Story of Punctured Plans and Portuguese Kindness
What a day. It started out so perfectly. After an amazing dinner the night before, I slept like a log and woke up feeling truly rested, a feeling I had been missing for a while. Following a simple breakfast, I packed up my motorcycle, made a quick stop to fill the nearly empty tank, and set off on my route to Porto.
I had set myself an ambitious goal. The plan was to take the scenic route, heading north first, even dipping into Spain for a short while. From there, I’d ride west towards Cavado and then follow the coast down to Viana do Castelo. The final leg would be an eastward turn to Ponte de Lima before hopping on the highway south to Porto.
The ride was pure bliss. Cruising through the mountains, the Lima river delta, and around the Alto Lindoso Dam was incredible. The landscape was beautiful, and the roads were perfectly curvy, making for a fantastic motorcycle adventure. But then, everything changed. I was just north of Arcos de Valdevez, not even halfway through my trip, when I decided to pull over for a break. The day was getting quite warm, and a cold drink sounded perfect. I stopped at a random gas station, grabbed some drinks and an ice cream. As I was enjoying my treat, I noticed a group of locals in a heated discussion, pointing in my direction, or more specifically, at my bike.
I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable, especially since I don’t speak Portuguese. Then, one of them approached me and, in perfect English, asked if I had seen that my rear tire looked a bit flat. With my mouth full of ice cream, I told him I had just checked the pressure about half an hour ago because it felt a little off, but everything was fine. “But thank you,” I added, “I’ll check again.”
After finishing up, I got out my battery-powered air pump to check the pressure. It read 0.1 Bar. I was baffled. For context, I normally run that tire at around 2.9 Bar. Surely the device was broken. I double checked with my manual gauge, and nope, the pressure really was that low. I touched the tire and almost burned my hand; it was incredibly hot. I quickly pumped it back up to spec, searched for obvious punctures, and found nothing. The valve seemed fine, too. Since it was holding air, I chalked it up to a weird fluke, maybe I had bumped the valve earlier. Not too worried, I thanked the guys and continued on my way.
About ten minutes up the hill, that “off” feeling returned. I pulled over. The pressure was low again. My mind, still resisting the obvious, tried to rationalize it. The tire has cooled down, so the pressure dropped. I have no idea if that makes any scientific sense, but it felt plausible. I added more air and kept going. Five minutes later, it happened again. Okay, something was seriously wrong. The tire held air when I was still, but lost it fast the moment I started moving.
A brief moment of panic set in. I was stuck in the middle of nowhere, didn’t know the language, and had a failing motorcycle. But that feeling passed quickly as I switched into problem-solving mode. A quick Google search for a motorcycle repair shop came up empty. For some reason, Maps wasn’t using the local terms. Once I searched with the translated category, I found a shop less than 5 km away.
Time was running out. My air pump battery was draining, now at 20%, and the tire was losing air even when stationary. I briefly got angry at myself for getting rid of my old pump that plugged into the bike, but I had no time for unproductive thoughts. I started making my way down the mountain, stopping every few minutes when the bike became unsafe to maneuver, pumping air, and continuing. After what felt like an eternity, I finally spotted the repair shop.
I asked the two men working there if they spoke English. The younger one did. I explained the problem, and they immediately got to work, spraying soapy water to find the leak while I helped steady the bike. Eventually, the older mechanic found it, a tiny puncture from a small, dagger-shaped stone. We tried a roadside patch kit, but it still leaked. The wheel had to come off.
The younger guy, whose name I regrettably didn’t ask for in my stressed state, explained he would take the tire to a specialist in the next city. We drove for 25 minutes, waited another 45, and returned with a perfectly repaired tire. They remounted it, triple-checked everything, and I was ready to go. When it came time to pay, he quoted me an amount so low I just said, “No!” Seeing his confusion, I explained it was far too little for all the time and help he’d given me. He insisted, so I paid by card and then gave him double the amount in cash as a tip. He was hesitant, but I might have used a little friendly pressure, telling him I wouldn’t be able to sleep if he didn’t take it. What an incredibly kind, generous, and helpful person.
I thanked them both profusely and plotted the most direct route to Porto. My ambitious scenic tour was off the table; it was getting late, and I was just done. Exhausted, overheated, hungry, and mentally drained, I rode the uneventful hour on the highway, checked into my accommodation, showered, and practically fell into bed.
All in all, the day turned out okay. It feels like I cashed in on a lot of good karma with that string of happy coincidences. I guess it’s time to start rebuilding the karma pool. What a day.
Impressions
