1/3 of the way there

I dawdled for too long in Tudela. I'd been feeling lazy all day and arranging the photos took longer than I'd expected. Still, it was worth it to reply to some of the comments, post some pictures and generally get the blog ship-shape. And I was pleased with Viv's tip about sync'ing it with Facebook.

Pretty soon it was 5.30 and I hadn't had lunch so I rolled into the town square and ate a large chorizo sandwich.

A waiter came over to admire my bike and we chatted for a while about cycling and my trip, and then he went back to his work. After I finished my sandwich and got up to go, he shouted after me, "Bon Voyage!"

Later, I wondered about the acceptable ways for two men to strike up conversation. Nice bike = fine; nice shorts = not fine.

On the way out of Tudela I picked up a can of coke and made a decision which could have ruined me. The ride down to Tudela had been easy and mostly downhill through farmland. I assumed the rest would be similar and, since I still had over half the water I could carry and had hardly drank anything on the way, I decided not to fill up.

I crossed the Ebro (river) and spent some time along the wide, flat river valley. Fairly quickly the road climbed onto a plateau.

Parched earth stretched out ahead of me. The map marked a river which, in reality, was a dried scar in the red-brown earth. A headwind blew and I cursed myself.

The next 17km were, psychologically, the most demanding so far. The road wound through bleak semi-desert and the wind blew steadily. Objectively, there was nothing difficult about the riding. It was fairly flat - downhill in parts - and the road was good.

Parched landscape above Tudela.

But the bleakness, being surround by nothingness, the nagging doubt that I might not have enough water, and the consistent head wind (again, not especially strong), seemed to grind me down. It can only have lasted about an hour and a half.

Before the trip I had spoken to my friend Thamia - also a keen cyclist - about the fact that the psychological side of the trip will be by far the hardest. For the most part, the cycling on a trip like this needn't be that physically demanding. I am not under any pressure of time so I can always ease up if I feel like it, drop another gear or coast for a while.

This will, of course, change over the next couple of days when I tackle the Pyrenees but even there I am not expecting real physical pain; rather, the grinding attrition of slowly making my way upwards, trying to put out of my mind any notion of the top and just thinking of the time passing as my legs gnaw away at the incline.

I reached the other side of the plateau and crossed into Zaragoza and Aragon and looked down on green plains.

Aragon, Zaragoza and welcome green plains just visible in the distance.

I rolled down the hill into the small village of Valarenas, stopped to refill my water bottles and call ahead to the hotel to let them know I'd be arriving late (learning from the night before).

I then set off across flat farmland - mostly corn fields - and watched a beautiful sunset. The sun took a while to go down fully and I enjoyed watching the birds and listening to crickets and frogs. I saw a snake on the road and was tempted to stop for a closer look but decided to leave it to its evening's hunting.

Finally I reached a road junction and a sign for Sadaba, 4kms away. "Pah! That's nothing!" I thought to myself. I'd run it in 20 minutes.

But by now it was completely dark and the headwind had returned so it was a surprisingly tough end to the day.

Rolling into Sadaba, I swore I could hear music. Then a crack! like a gunshot. On the calle Mayor I noticed large, iron the doors were each protected by sturdy iron barriers.

It turns out that Sadaba is in fiesta and they've been running bulls down the main street, Pamplona style.

More of that tomorrow which, as luck would have it, is my rest day.

BC