765 Kilometers to go!

As my clattering low-cost coach leaves Italy, I start thinking about my difficult relationship with cars. I don't have one, I don't even have a driver's license.
I'm starting to believe that when it comes to private transport I am paralyzed by a mysterious dominant gene that has seen all the women in my family as fabulous - almost pathological - free riders. My grandmother's beauty was her winning ticket, comfortably nestled in the passenger's seat for most of her life. My mother's exquisite knowledge of hitchhiking techniques saved her from the steering wheel until she was 30, stranded in the middle of California with 3 kids.
My backpack clunks softly in the overhead compartment. When I finally arrive at the tiny station of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, I decide to spend the night in the Pyrenean foothills, walking on the riverbanks of the Nive stream, exploring the sandstone city walls and trying out my new trekking shoes. In the hostel's courtyard, the clothes lines twang like guitar strings under the dark Aquitaine sky, lulling me to sleep. The Way of St.James awaits.

Break of dawn, I'm on my feet. My backpack seems heavier than what I remembered. Once I reach the mountain's foot I'm already out of breath. The steep road seems to mount under my dwindling feet. I should've exercised. I should've got my driver's license. I should be driving and running over all these sweaty pilgrims.
As my mind frantically experiences moments of hate, panic and anguish, something else is happening in the lower regions of my body. My legs are moving, faster and faster, warming up, accepting the challenge. Green pastures unfold before my eyes as I munch on dried fruit. People with walking poles and lotion streaked cheeks pass me by, light as the fresh air and morning dew that inhabit these lush landscapes. The Napoleon Route is known to be the hardest part of the whole Camino, a nice slap in the face for presumptuous walkers such as myself. Cows stare at me as they chew on grass, all I want to do is head back downhill and hide for the remaining month. I'll spend my time eating croque monsieusr and sending invented postcards.
A gust of wind throws me off balance, the narrow stone pathway sways under my feet. I am 1400 meters above sea level. Once I regain stability, I look up. My body bursts in pinpricks of energy and awe. In front of my eyes, a carved stone marker. I am now crossing the border between France and Spain. This is my treasure: I am my ride. The adventure begins.