Bearded Cyclopath

Arrival

2009-08-31T13:02:00.005+02:00

Sunday, August 30.

On the last day of the trip, I fitted new brake pads and and set off down the Gorge de L'Alagnon between Massiac and Lempdes. It was past 9.30am but the road was quiet.The cycling was beautiful, down a winding, well-surfaced road. I saw a buzzard from about six feet away, standing on a fence post.

Yesterday's sense of despair had lifted. The answer to the question, "why make the trip?" wasn't important. It was enough that I was coasting along through fine countryside and, by evening, I would be enjoying dinner in the company of family with a feeling of satisfaction. It wasn't why I had made the trip but it was all that mattered.

In Lempdes, I ate a custard Mille Feuilles and a croissant by the river for breakfast. I bought supplies and went indecisively from cafe to cafe trying to establish the best. I settled on the fullest and sat down for a coffee. A friend called to ask how I was getting on and suggested another reason for doing the trip: it would be a good story to tell.

I cycled for another couple of hours and stopped by a river for the final picnic lunch. I lingered longer than I had planned and it was past 4pm when I set off again.

I was now very close and as I cycled through the final few villages - Auxelles, Cunlhat, Les Gouttes - my pace picked up. From Tours-sur-Maymont, I followed a route I had ridden before on a day trip. At the top of a long, steady descent, I sat back in the saddle, tucked my body low out of the wind, shifted into the highest gear and wound my legs up until I was racing down the hill. I felt exuberant with the success, relief and achievement of reaching the end.

The final section was a two-kilometre climb up a steady, winding hill through conifers. My legs were tired but I was too excited to notice and stood on the pedals to charge up the hill in a high gear. I felt the end of two weeks of effort, the relief at success, the comfort of knowing the road and the anticipation of arrival.

The small village of Augerolles was empty but I was afraid, briefly, of a car knocking me off my bike and forcing me to walk the last 500 metres. Breaking a limb would have been OK so long as I could coast the short stretch to my Dad's house; buckling a wheel would have been terrible.

I rode down the short stretch from the village and round the side of the house, leaned my bike against a bench, walked in through the open back door and, in the kitchen I found Dad and Anthea and warm congratulations.

I've done it.

Why did I do it?

2009-08-30T16:17:00.003+02:00

Morning on the lake at St Etienne-Cantales

Today, for the first time since I began planning this trip, I asked myself, what was the point of this odd endeavour?

It was in the late afternoon. Long after I had stopped for a morning coffee in Jussac and watched the terrace fill with locals. Some drank beer, some drank coffee; some brought children, one brought a bike, one brought a child and a bike. It was after this.

It was after I had finished the second big climb of the trip, over the 1588m Puy Mary. I climbed the 11km without stopping, then went back a kilometre to photograph the climb.

Looking back down the second big climb of the trip

It was after I had sat in the grass in a wide valley eating lunch and wondering at how similar the landscape was to the Peak District in England, where I was brought up. It was after I fell asleep in the grass with the sun on me and after I woke up groggy.

I had pulled up onto a wide, high, barren stretch of moorland. Dry-stone walls divided large sections of tussocked grass. A cold headwind blew. The question came to me first as a sense of despair, of utter pointlessness.

The objective of this trip - a farm house in the countryside above Clermont Ferrand where my Dad and his wife, Anthea have lived for five years - has always been abstract. Each day had it's own objective. Day 1: reach Cogolludo; day 2: reach Almazan. Now that I was within a day's ride of the end, it was tangible and the pointlessness of the endeavour was thrown into relief. After all, why NOT just hop on a plane?

The despair ebbed away. I was pleased I had made the trip. But I couldn't answer the question, why had I done it? Neither, in fact, could I answer the question, why was I pleased to have done it? What would I get out of it? What, in the end, was the point of the whole endeavour?

A sense of achievement, yes. But it is hard to say what I have achieved. The Guinness Book of Records is full of people with a sense of achievement. A man holds the record for the longest time spent standing in a tree; his record is measured in years. Among the tree-standers of the world he is the Gold Standard and I have little doubt that he feels a huge sense of achievement.

No, not a sense of achievement. I do feel I have achieved something, but that's not the answer.

I have seen France and Spain, I have had an adventure, I have enjoyed it. I like the idea of leaving my house in Madrid on a bike and arriving at my Dad's in France. I like that the route almost links the geographical centres of the two countries. I like that it has been a physical and mental test of stamina.

All these are part of the answer but not the answer. None of them, alone or combined, seem to justify the effort.

I spent three hours searching for a satisfactory answer. I dropped down off the moor into the cold and unwelcoming town of Allanche. I watched men play boules in the square. I pulled up onto another high moorland and coasted for 20km into Massiac. All the while I mulled this question and all the while the answer eluded me. It still does.

In the end, if anyone asks me why did I cycle 1,250 km from Madrid to Augerolles, I will just have to say,

"I'm not sure, really."

Coasting off the moorland into Massiac, not sure why I had set off in the first place.

One day to go.

BC

Getting closer

2009-08-29T09:31:00.002+02:00

Friday 28

I started the day early with a dip in the river at 7.30 and was on the road by 8.00. I had a long day ahead of me and wanted to arrive at my destination, a lake, in good time.

I made satisfactory progress along quiet roads, still following the river. I stopped in a village around 9 and bought a few supplies for lunch and a slice - more of a slab - of apple tart for breakfast, which I ate by the river in the morning calm. The sun hadn't yet reached this deep in the gorge and only a few people went about their morning business. Two young boys arrived, running, and played quietly on a nearby seesaw.

I left to get a coffee. I passed two cafes in the village but both were closed so I carried on to the next village. This village didn't have a cafe at all, nor did the next. I spent the morning hoping for, but not finding, an open cafe.

Just before 12, nearly three hours after my search had begun, I rolled into the town of Figeac and found a restaurant which would serve me a coffee by the river.

I stayed for a second coffee. I'd had an early start and made reasonable progress so I needn't hurry.

After Figeac, I carried on to the town of Maur where I'd planned to have lunch but I couldn't find a pleasant square to sit in so I headed out of town.

I found a spot with a small rock to sit on where a small river fed into a larger one. I unpacked my picnic then cooled off in the river. I climbed out of the river but the water had been so nice that I got back in again.

As I was sitting on the rock eating my lunch three boys turned up. Two were the same age, ten or eleven and one was younger. Maybe eight.

They had been fishing for freshwater crabs and were taking their catch back home to eat. They wondered where I'd come from when I told them, Madrid, it didn't really register with them. They knew it was in Spain but didn't have a sense of the distance. The boys identified more clearly with the 60 km I had cycled this morning and the 14 days I had been cycling for in total. They were astonished to the point of disbelief that I hadn't needed to change a tire. When I think about it, this comes as a surprise to me too.

After lunch the road rose steadily through thick woodland for close to an hour. As I was climbing the hill I noticed something familiar about the landscape. At the top, I passed a sign advertising produce from the Auvergne, the region where my Dad lives. I am two days' cycling away.

I ended the day with a swim in a lake, dinner on the hotel terrace and a hot bath.

BC

[edit: I changed the title of this post because I realised that the original title could have been read to mean this was the last post, which it isn't. I had meant "close" as in near, not "close" as in shut.]

Casting judgement

2009-08-28T12:55:00.002+02:00

Thursday 27

After lunch, I cycled along the river Lot.

The Lot is about the width of the Thames at Barnes and cuts a tightly winding furrow through limestone. The road clings to a limestone cliff and in places is cut into the cliff side. The cycling was good with pleasant and changing views.

Fine cycling along the River Cele.

In fact, throughout the day I had enjoyed very good cycling.

The cliff-side road along the Cele

In Cabrarets I found a campsite by the river Cele - a tributary of the Lot - and took a long time to find a space. Eventually I settled on one, stripped to my shorts and cooled off in the river.

The village of Cabrarets

An elderly couple was sitting outside their motorhome watching a gameshow on television with a portable satelite dish.

I marvelled at the logic of driving such a cumbersome vehicle out to a campsite only to sit and watch television. It would be cheaper and more relaxing to stay in a hotel.

As I climbed up the bank, the wife asked if the water was cold. I replied that it was fresh and the husband laughed and explained that the river is shaded from the sun all day. In fact, the water had been very pleasant.

Later, as I crawled into my open-air sleeping quarters, beside a bike on which I had ridden close to 1,000 kms over the past two weeks, I reflected that this wasn't everybody's idea of fun either and that I was in no position to judge how other people spend their holidays.

BC

Wine country

2009-08-27T16:07:00.001+02:00

Thursday 27

Yesterday was a rest day in Valence-en-Agen.

Valence is a nice enough place but has no obvious attractions and I spent the day wondering whether to be pleased to have found the "real" France or disappointed that there was not more to see. In the end it didn't matter much - I was too tired to have made much of the sights, had there been any.

Getting into bed last night I felt the same nervousness about leaving that I had felt in Sadaba. My day in Valence hadn't been remarkable in any way at all, but it was unnerving to be striking into the unknown again.

The feeling didn't last this morning and within a few minutes of leaving Valence I was enjoying myself and making steady progress, although my legs were stiff from the day off.

I wanted to make ground quickly this morning so opted for an A-road with plenty of get-outs in case it was too busy. It wasn't busy and meandered attractively through fields of apple trees arranged in rows, like vines.

The sun was shining in a clear blue sky and I enjoyed being on the road again. It took about an hour and a half to make the medieval town of Lauzerte, which sits on a rise above the shallow valley, where I'd promised myself a coffee.

I sat for nearly an hour in a well-kept square eating pastries, drinking coffee and listening to the holiday conversations of the English middle classes. A girl had a year to go before her law degree; a woman in her forties had lived in New York when she was younger but grew tired of it; a family wanted a more substantial lunch than they served here, so they left.

I chose a minor road for the next section to Cahors. It was a good choice as the surface was good and there wasn't much traffic.

After twenty minutes the green, rolling farmland abruptly became harsher and soon I was climbing the side of a limestone plateau through small oak trees. At the top I was in wine country. Neat rows of vines stretched across white, limestone soil.

I dropped into Cahors and had lunch overlooking the river Lot, by a monument to the Army of the Rhine.

BC

Another detour

2009-08-26T23:11:00.004+02:00

[Tuesday 25th]

The day dawned grey and I was tired when I woke. I wanted to get some time under my belt before stopped for a coffee so I headed off on secondary roads through a series of pleasant towns. After about an hour I reached a small village with a cafe so I pulled over.

From the outside, The Cafe de l'Union was the very picture of Frenchness. The interior was very dark and deserted. I said "bonjour" a few times to see if I could attract the attention of anyone.

The very French Cafe de L'Union

A woman appeared with hair that was cropped and dyed dark red. She seemed surprised, a little offended, and I felt I was imposing. I asked if the cafe was open and she replied, "Yes, it is open," as if stating the obvious. I asked for a coffee and a croissant. They had no croissants but I could have a coffee.

The dark, deserted interior

She served my coffee and I asked how much it would be. A smile flickered across her face and she told me, 2.20. When I produced 2.20 in coins the smile returned, larger, happier and revealing a gold filling. She asked if I would drink my coffee on the terrace. I said I would and she offered to carry the sugar and milk for me.

Later, when re-emerging from her back room to see me sitting inside because it had begun to rain, she exclaimed "Oh mon ami, I'll pleu!" (Oh my friend, it's raining!).

My bike had developed a worrying squeak - louder than a squeak, in fact - when I pressed hard on the pedals, especially the left pedal.

My total dependence on the good health of my bike has made me alert to any sound which might indicate something which needs attention. I have heard many such sounds but all so far been false alarms. In fact I have developed a sort of bike hypochondria.

A car behind me, a bird tweeting, a flock of geese and a man tapping his walking stick on the tarmac as he walked, have all made me slow down and cock my head to one side to identify the trouble.

But this new squeak was genuine. It had started towards the end of the day before and been with me ever since. It would go away when I pedalled more lightly but would always return when I pressed hard on the pedals.

So over coffee, I looked at my map for towns where I might find a bike shop. I would have to go to Auch, the largest town in the area. It meant a bit of back-tracking but not too much.

In Auch I saw a cyclist carrying no luggage and asked if he was local. He explained he was English but suggested I try Decathlon. He'd been there earlier in the day and they had a reasonable-looking workshop. We chatted for a few minutes: he had brought his bike with him to fit in a few rides while on holiday with his wife.

I wasn't fully convinced by his suggestion and rolled round the streets of Auch, looking for a local bike shop for a while. I was getting sick of the traffic and noise of this fair-sized town so, when I saw a sign for Decathlon, I followed it.

I explained the symptoms to the mechanic who looked over the bike, tried to shake a few pieces and said it must be the metal cleat on the sole of my shoe rubbing against the pedal. This sounded simplistic.

I looked at him uncertainly and thought, "Nonsense!" to myself.

But he was insistent and squirted oil on the pedal and take a test-run round the carpark and up a nearby hill to check.

I did the test, and had to admit that the squeaking, while it hadn't disappeared, had been reduced a lot. It was a little embarrassing. As a teenager, I had dismantled and rebuilt pretty much everything on a bike and considered myself reasonably competent, yet such a simple diagnosis had eluded me.

Leaving Decathlon, I bumped into the English cyclist from earlier and we talked about the weather. It was ironic, he said, that he'd left his mudguards at home expecting good weather in France.

That afternoon I had a lot of ground to cover to reach my destination of Valence-en-Agen. I was growing tired of the rolling countryside of Gascony.

Eventually, the road flattened out and I was able to make good progress.

I arrived in Valence as the sun was setting and checked into a hotel for two nights. Tomorrow would be a rest day.

BC

Things that go bump in the night

2009-08-26T19:01:00.002+02:00

[This post happened on Monday night.]

The Dutch father of the family was concerned that I didn't have a proper tent and suggested a number of places I could retreat to if the rain got too bad. The covered balcony of an elaborate shed he rented to holiday makers, a family tent made of marquee material.

I thought I'd be fine and in any case wanted to test my shelter.

I didn't want the weight of a tent on the trip but did want a degree of independence from guest houses. My compromise was a gore-tex cover for my sleeping bag and an army-issue poncho which could be used as a tarpaulin to keep the worst of the weather off my face and equipment.

I tied one corner to a tree, another corner to an adjacent tree, about two feet (~65cm) from the ground and pegged the other two corners to the ground so that, viewed from the side, the tarp, the trees and the ground formed a triangle. I ran a piece of tensioned string down the length of the tarp to form a pitched roof which the rain would run off.
Providing shelter to me, my luggage, a kitten and a toad.

Underneath this, I had my equipment, sleeping bag and roll mat. My bike had to brave the elements, locked to a tree.

The set up was cosy and had the added advantage of affording a breeze across my face and a feeling that I was actually outside. I like tents but I can't help thinking it slightly defeats to object to tramp out into some unspoilt wilderness only to zip yourself into a canvas bag for the night.

So I lay under my tarpaulin listening to the thunder and the crickets and watching the flashes of lightening. A kitten came to visit but scampered away when I tried to pull an arm out of my bivi bag to make friends. I could see how the big, red, writhing Jabba-the-Hut I had become could give a kitten quite a fright. Later, I felt something warm sitting on my feet, which I imagined to be the kitten, or one of its siblings. I drifted off to sleep with the sound of crickets in my ears.

I woke in the night with the storm in full spate and a large toad on my head. I could hear the rain on my tarp, but I was dry. My head was on one side and I felt a weight on my crown, just above my right ear.

I moved my head slowly and the weight disappeared. I reached for my torch and saw a toad making a slow getaway. It froze in the beam of my torch with its shoulders hunched, its elbows out and apparently crawling on tip-toes. It looked like an attempt at stealth.

I listened to the rain for a while before nodding off again.

BC

More photos

2009-08-26T17:49:00.003+02:00

I have been able to post some more photos so have a look back through the previous posts. The photos start at '1/3 of the way there'.

BC

Like a new man

2009-08-26T12:47:00.004+02:00

[This post happened on Monday 24th]

I woke up early and reorganised my luggage. It had become disorganised during the camping and no longer fitted the panniers so well.

I enjoyed a long breakfast talking - in terrible French - to Jacqueline.
She had told me the evening before that they kept a smallholding along with the chambres d'hotes; they had pigs, ducks and a field of corn. Her hands were thick-set from work and her back was slightly hunched. She was industrious and it seemed that she was making something of a success of the chambres d'hotes and the smallholding. She would have a full house this evening and would visit the town of Auch on Tuesday with her husband to view a Saffron "culture".

Eventually, after a large bowl of coffee I got going.

A decent shower, a hot meal, and a proper bed made me like new and I set off on good roads through flat farmland at a tremendous pace. I reached Vic-en-Bigorre twenty kilometres away in 40 minutes.

I wanted to pick up supplies and rode past a supermarket on the way in (Intermarche Les Mousquetaires! - I was in musketeer country) but preferred to buy from local shops. Supermarkets are soulless places compared with a local butcher or grocer where you are far more likely to enjoy a good-natured chat with the proprietor.

I rolled round town but all the charcuteries were closed. I asked a passer-by and was told, of course, that all the butchers close on Mondays. So, Intermarche Les Mousquetaires it was, then.

As I was locking my bike up and, an old gent on a shopping bike with leather panniers rolled up. He said something I didn't understand so I smiled and nodded dumbly. He was keen to chat and I was in no hurry so we eventually found some terms to communicate on.

I told him about my trip and that I am English but live in Spain and he suggested, generously, that made me trilingual. I protested that my French is poor, which he didn't accept.

As we were talking, three teenage girls arrived and locked their bikes. The old boy said to all of us, "Ah look! Perhaps these nice girls could accompany you on your trip!"

I could comfortably have been their father. The girls were embarrassed and so was I, so I smiled awkwardly, not knowing what to do.

My French was not up to the situation so I looked down at my bike and fiddled with it unnecessarily, wishing the old man, "Bon journee." ("good day").

Eventually, in a gesture which surprised me with its warmth, he put one arm round my back and shook my hand with the other, wishing me, "Bon route!"

I said it had been a pleasure to meet him and he replied the same.

I headed out of Vic-en-Bigorre on minor, single-track roads through more farmland. The sky, for the first time during the trip, was grey and overcast that morning and would continue to be so for the rest of the day. It made very pleasant riding weather and I had already seen plenty of sun.

I rolled into the charming town of Marciac for a picnic lunch in the square. After so much time in rural tranquillity, the unexpected noise of the small town of Marciac took me by surprise and grated my nerves. I considered moving to somewhere quieter but by now was hungry and in any case I got used to it quickly.

I heard many English voices as I ate in the square.

An Englishwoman said, "Look at that hotel [hotel de ville, to those of us in the know], it says Republic of France! France isn't a Republic."

"It is," replied from a member of her family.

I wondered if it mattered much either way whether France was a republic. Life in the town square would carry on pretty much the same. History lessons would be duller; less gruesome, certainly.

I didn't have far to go after lunch so I took my time, exploring the impossibly quaint villages of Gascony. I stopped to take photos in Castelnau d'Angles, a watching me from the front door of her cottage. I felt she required some sort of explanation so I said the village was very pretty. She replied, "C'est vrai." ("It's true.")

The pretty village of Castelnau d'Angles. C'est vrai.

I found a campsite for the evening run by a friendly Dutch family who gave me some tent pegs to secure my eccentric shelter against an impending thunderstorm.

BC

Montee Impossible!

2009-08-25T23:38:00.003+02:00

[This post happened on Sunday 23rd]

I got up before seven and packed my things away, hoping to catch the sunrise on the other side of the mountain.

I missed the sunrise but had a fine view into France, nevertheless. With such an early start, I had plenty of time to stop off and see what this hillclimbing was all about.

Looking down into France

The road swooped steeply down through a series of switchbacks to a ski station. I stopped to take a photo of the view by a hand-made sign for the event, "Montee Impossible!" (Impossible climb!)

The Americans' "hillclimbing" was uncharacteristically understated next to this hyperbole, which sounded like the name of a children's toy advertised on Saturday morning television with a breathless, usually American, voice over.

A car with English plates parked nearby. I heard the husband - in his fifties wearing glasses and a shaggy, greying beard - say in answer to a question which I missed, "Some cycling thing."

The mountain was still relatively sparse up here: grass and bare rock.

I quickly passed the tree line and was now dropping through fast, straight sections of road linking slow, steep switchbacks. I felt occasional pockets of colder air and the atmosphere was damp, much damper than the Spanish side. I noticed dew on the grass and remembered that I hadn't seen morning dew in Spain for a long time. It is simply too dry.

I was enjoying the fast descent, working the brakes hard before the turns and pointing my inside knee into the corner to pull the bike round. Even fully loaded, the bike felt very steady in the corners.

Soon I came to a road block - the entrance to Montee Impossible! - where I was told it would cost 12 euros to watch the hillclimbing. I hesitated at this dent in my budget but I could not pass without paying and the only alternative was to climb nearly to the top and take another road down. Besides, by now I wanted to see the show.

I confirmed, redundantly, that my 12 euros would give me access to the event all day. I would have to leave after a couple of hours anyway but wanted to feel like I was driving some kind of bargain.

The steward remarked that I was carrying a lot of equipment and I explained I had come from Madrid. His face lit up and he asked if I had come all that way just for this event. I disappointed him and later regretted my honesty: it would have been a fun fiction. Word might have got around and I imagined myself being called up on stage and interviewed about my dedication to this sport which I knew nothing about.

The objective of hillclimbing, or montee impossible, is to ride a motorbike as far up an appallingly steep and treacherous hill as you can before the engine cuts out. He who reaches highest wins. (It usually is a he, although one woman did compete. After a big build-up, she didn't acquit her sex well.)

The grassy slope was close to three hundred metres high and very steep. It would have been very heavy going to walk up and the French name was probably the more accurate. During the few hours I watched, no-one made it to the top.

To climb this slope, the riders use machines which look like a child's drawing of a motorbike. Longer than standard bikes, with large engines and huge rear tires with an exaggerated tread which, in some cases, looked more like the business end of a paddle steamer than anything you'd find on a motorbike. Some of the bikes had car tires with long metal studs to give extra grip.

A child's approximation of a motorcycle, except real

The owner of this bike took the rear tire from a 4x4, added studs to it and fitted it to a home-made wheel.

A rider sat at the bottom revving his engine. Most of the bikes had over 1,000cc engines, the largest were 1,250 and all had nitrous injections - used by drag racers and tuning enthusiasts to squeeze and extra dollop of power from an already mighty engine.
The bikes had huge engines

As a master of ceremonies wound up the smallish, early morning crowd, rock music played over a PA system.

The rider started slower than I'd expected and navigated an early obstacle cautiously before taking off up the slope leaving a trail of blue smoke and flying earth behind him. He made it to about 150m before his engine gave out and the master of ceremonies hollered, "Im-pecc-able!" excitedly over the PA.

Another rider, from Norway, revved his engine much more aggressively before taking off up the slope much more quickly. He flew over the first obstacle, jumping a distance of five or six metres up the slope and ploughed on up scattering earth in a large, high arc behind him. He eventually made it to over 200 metres and the crowd gave up a loud cheer for his achievement and showmanship.

The riders carried on like this for much of the morning and despite the seemingly repetitive entertainment, I never got bored.

A rider makes a bold start up the Impossible Climb

The crowd enjoys the show

I decided to look for the Americans. There was a row of flags along what passed for the "pits", where teams tuned their bikes. I thought I might find the Americans near their flag and walked along the line of English, German, Norwegian, French. The American flagpole held two flags: the Stars and Stripes and The Republic of California flag. This odd recognition of an independence which doesn't officially exist must have been a request from my friends from the previous evening.

One of the Americans noticed me and shouted over and waved. He called the rest over and we chatted. They were behind a makeshift wire fence tinkering with their bikes. While we were talking a Frenchman came over and asked to borrow some nitrous. the eldest of the Americans took a white can and passed it the Frenchman saying, "Sure, that's the last we've got it's only about a litre but you can take it."

The one who had taken my photo a day earlier, he was young, still in his teens I guessed, was Brett Peterson of Team Peterson and was apparently something of a celebrity in this small circle. A crowd had formed about him and earlier he had been interview by the MC.

He was wearing his arm in a sling which, he explained, was from a previous injury. His doctor had told him it would heal better out of the sling but he didn't want people to wonder why he wasn't riding today.

One of his team mates had already ridden the hill. I had seen him make it a decent way up until his bike pirouetted sideways in the middle of a jump, which was the end of his run. The bike was too long and the team mechanics were going to shorten it before having another go.

Brett gave me a signed poster of himself and I explained I had to go. It was now 11.30 and I would have to ride through the heat of the afternoon if I was to arrive at my guest house in good time.

My signed poster of Brett Peterson, a big name in these parts

The rest of the day was gruelling. Very hot, oppressively humid and with a number of surprisingly tough climbs.

I stopped for a rest in the town of Nay, which has a lovely view up a river towards the Pyrenees and seemed to be enjoying a village fete.

I finally made it to the hamlet of Aast where my guest house was booked. It was a rural idyll set in farmland.

When I pushed my bike into the small courtyard in front of the house a dalmatian ("Ramses") lifted his head but didn't bark and an old lady on a zimmer frame got up to meet me. I shook her hand gently and explained who I was and that I had a reservation.

Ramses, a docile Dalmatian

She moved to do something; my French wasn't good enough to tell her not to put herself out so I fussed dumbly by the door, not sure what to do. Eventually the old lady shouted through an open door, "Jaqueline!" who appeared some minutes later.

After I had settled in, Jaqueline gave me some dinner and sat with me and we talked while I ate. It took me no more than thirty minutes to eat a tomato and boiled egg salad, half a baguette, 1/4 pound of pork pate, two duck legs, green beans, a litre-and-a-half of water, an ice cream and a glass of wine.

All except the last three items had been prepared and / or grown on the small-holding owned and managed by Jaqueline, as had the delicious jam I would have for breakfast the next morning.

"It's a lot of work," I told Jaqueline, impressed.

"Yes but it's better that way, more natural."

I nodded agreement as I hoovered up the fruits of her toil.

BC

Starry night

2009-08-25T08:09:00.003+02:00

[This post describes Saturday evening.]

I leaned my bike against a stone to get a picture of it in front of the view.

A car pulled up and I heard American voices get out and start taking pictures. They were loud and spoiling my moment. I cursed inwardly.

As I was taking my photo I heard one of them say, "Ask this guy if he wants us to take his photo," then I heard, "Photo? Monsieur?"

I could have just told him I was English but it seemed more fun to say, in my most English accent, "Oh that's awfully kind."

The American didn't understand at first and continued to mime taking a photo. I said it again and he twigged and his body performed a writhe of embarrassment.

Me and my bike in front of a majestic view, thanks to a kindly group of Americans

They took my photo and already I felt a bit guilty for my trick. It was actually very thoughtful of them to offer and it was nice to have a photo of me and my bike at the top. We got chatting and they had an easy charm, and seemed open to the world, almost innocent. I told them about my trip and they were impressed. They were in France - I was two feet inside France - representing the US at the European hillclimbing* championships and suggested I come along to watch ("Come along, they've got one of your guys, and English guy there. Oh you'll love it!"). It was nearby and started early tomorrow.

I shook their hands and wished them luck for tomorrow and they got back in their car and drove off.

A Spanish father was taking a picture of his family. Inspired by the Americans, I offered to take their photo so they could have all the family in the picture. We got chatting and they were also impressed by my trip. ("Que merito!")

A good spot for a picnic dinner

After all the photos were done, I walked over to a flat piece of grass overlooking the clouds, which would get a good view of the sunset. I changed out of my cycling clothes and sat down to a picnic dinner as the sun went down.

Watching the sun go down

Just before it got too dark to see, I laid out my bed for the night: a rollmat, gore-tex bivi bag, sleeping bag, cotton liner and an army-issue tarpaulin spread over the top, pinned down with big stones. I wriggled into my sleeping bag trying not to mess up the tarp and arranged some clothes as a pillow. It was surprisingly cosy and I lay on my back watching a thin sliver of moon sink behind the horizon as the stars came out.

I tried to read but was too tired so I dozed off.

I woke in the night and spent nearly an hour watching the stars. Up here, away from the city lights, the stars were magnificent. You could clearly see the thick band of the milky way stretch across the sky and I watched countless shooting stars. I took a number of slower-moving objects to be satellites.

It was the man-made satellites orbiting high above that gave me an eery feeling.

BC

*more on this later

The Big Climb

2009-08-24T22:00:00.003+02:00

[This post describes Saturday afternoon.]

After a swim in the river, a snooze in the sun and a picnic lunch, I got going at around 5pm.

The road wound along the valley floor between steep, wooded mountain sides for 9 kms, rising slowly. Ahead of me, I saw a scar cut across the mountain side about two-thirds of the way up ahead of me. That must be my climb. It wasn't steep but it was already high up.

The road climbing gently along the valley floor. You can see the climb cutting qcross the mountside in the distance.

My gears had started to skip so I did some fine tuning before the road got too steep and I wouldn't have the chance.

With 16 kms to go, the road crossed a river and abruptly hit the mountain side. I filled up with water and crossed the river at exactly 6pm.

The road took a long, straight tack up and to the left, cutting across the steep, wooded mountain side. The surface was very poor but I made a good start, sitting down, still in my middle chain ring and pushing hard with my legs. After less than five minutes I was standing on the pedals, heaving the bike up the steep road. A wire of a man cruised past me and gave a greeting. I said something in return and kept on heaving at the handlebars and pushing the pedals. Less than ten minutes into the 16km climb, I had changed down to the smallest chain ring. My body temperature shot up and when there was no shade, the heat of the six-o'clock sun was unbearable. Sweat was now pouring off me and had formed patches on my clothes. I was already thirsty but parts of the climb were to steep to grab a water bottle. A cycle tourist coming down the hill must have seen my sweat-drenched grimace and gave an enthusiastic shout of encouragement. He had felt the same pain coming up the French side and the companionship of this stranger gave me a boost.

At the end of the long tack left, the road went through a series of hairpins. I was, by now, alternating between sitting and standing. At first I would change up a gear to stand and change back down to sit, unweighting the drive train by taking my weight off the pedals and turning one slow revolution to avoid a slow, graunching gear change which could put me off balance. After a time I even gave that up: I was at the limit of my ability to keep going. Any steeper and I would just grind to a halt. I had no momentum.

Where the direction of the bend and traffic allowed, I picked a line round the very outer edge of the hairpins where the camber of the road makes the incline less steep. Just before the top of the bend I would turn back into the road, down the camber, to snatch a rest. Just enough time to take a drink.

The traffic came in batches but was not heavy. The way each of the drivers passed became irrationally personal. One man, a cool dude in sunglasses driving a citroen jeep in the opposite direction, made a face at me and wagged his finger, which made me inexplicably angry. Another, waited patiently behind me as I rounded another hairpin. Seeing the road was clear, and thankful for his patience, I waived him past. He tooted his horn in encouragement as he passed and I gave him a thumbs up and my legs felt momentarily stronger.

The road climbed higher until eventually I was on the long scar across the hillside that I had seen from the valley floor.

There was an impressive view down to the lilliputian houses in the valley below but I had promised myself to complete the climb without resting so couldn't stop to take a photo.

The gradient eased a little and I changed up a gear. I had a chance to look at the mountain scenery around me: isolated peaks, stripped bare of vegetation by altitude and weather.

It felt like I was near the top but a kilometre marker told me I was precisely half way. It had taken an hour to do 8kms.

I could see a bank of cloud coming over the ridge from the French side. I remembered that the French side of the Pyrenees were much wetter than the Spanish and wondered if it would be raining. As the road climbed higher, I entered the cloud.

I had a dilemma. With poor visibility I should stop to put my lights on but I had wanted to do the whole climb without stopping. I had done the hardest part and it was now just a question of staying the distance. I told myself the visibility wasn't that bad after all; that I was going so slowly that a car might just as well drive into a wall as drive into me.

The road slipped over the other side of the ridge and I wondered if I was near the top but it kept on ascending. I was now deep in cloud and having second thoughts about my plan to sleep out in the open, under the stars, on the border between France and Spain. There would be no stars, that was for sure.

I saw a km marker and my heart jumped and I punched the air. I had celebrated too early: another 4km to go.

I was now soaked to the skin with sweat and cloud water. As I climbed further, the cloud seemed to get thinner; I missed fantastic photo of a weak sun shining through thin cloud behind the leafless branches of a weather beaten tree. I was now absolutely committed to reaching the top without stopping.

I rounded a bend and saw the road wind round to the left and then up and over a crest. There were people at the top taking photos. This must be the top; I stood on the pedals and pushed up the last few metres. Anticipation had chased the pain from my legs and my pace picked up.

I reached the top and saw no marker, no trig point, no border maker. I had called the top early twice already on the climb and I didn't want to dismount only to find I had another hundred metres to go.

I rolled down the hill a short way and saw the road drop down to France. I turned round and rode back up to the top and met a majestic view, in my dogged pursuit of the top I had missed on my way up.

My bike in front of a majestic view

I had ridden through the clouds and as I looked back to Spain I saw Pyreneen peaks emerge from a cloudy quilt.

I dismounted, walked my bike, with shaky legs, to the edge of the hillside, to the exact point where Spain meets France, and looked out, open-mouthed.

BC

Approaching France

2009-08-23T20:31:00.002+02:00

I got up with the sun. You have little choice when you sleep out in the open but it was good to get an early start. The first 10km would be winding A-road and I wanted to do it early before it got too busy.

After I had packed, it was just before 9am when I got going and there was already traffic on the road. I have been surprised at how considerate drivers have been on this trip, pulling right onto the other side of the road to overtake me, even when I have ridden close to the edge to let them past. This road was different; the cars barely pulled out at all and when they did, it was usually, perversely, on a blind corner.

I read recently about a study in which people in hospital with injuries from a car crash that they had caused were asked to rate their driving ability. 85 per cent claimed to be above average. I'd like to have been present at some of those interviews. I imagine a man with his arms, legs and head in plaster explaining, "yeah well, see, there was this old dear dawdling along at 40 in a 50 zone and I'm like 'time is money sweetheart!' so I pull out to overtake and there's this truck coming and the truck driver's like 'haaaaw, haaaaw' with the horn, flashing his lights and that but there's plenty of room - I drive a lot so I'm good with distances - then all of a sudden, wham! Next thing I know, I'm in here! Funny how things turn out."

"Hmm, I see. And tell me Mr Thomas, how would you rate you driving ability overall?"

"Oh above average, definitely above average."

I pull off the main road and through the small village of Sigues where I'd asked for directions to the campsite. My legs were taking a lot longer to warm up today. Maybe they are feeling the pace after all.

The road climbed gently alongside a river through a series of steep, high-sided limestone gorges, thick with trees. The landscape had become much greener and I enjoyed the change of scene. I hadn't had any breakfast and planned to stop at Salvatieri de Esca but when I got there the cafe wouldn't open for another 15 minutes and the bread shop half an hour after that. So I ate some date bread and pushed on to Burgui.

Steep-sided gorge

I hadn't had any breakfast and planned to stop at Salvatieri de Esca but when I got there the cafe wouldn't open for another 15 minutes and the bread shop half an hour after that. So I ate some date bread and pushed on to Burgui.

The bread shop in Burgui is a delight. A baker slaves over a cast-iron oven while his wife rolls out dough and a girl, I presume their daughter, serves at the counter. In the corner a bucket of dough is kneaded by what looks like and industrial sized blender. I dashed back out to grab my camera.

The bakery in Burgui

Permission to take photos sometimes takes a bit of charm so I sprung back to the counter trying to be my most boyishly enthusiastic and, apologising for being such a tourist, I asked if they would mind my taking a photo?

"Tu tranquilo," ("Suit yourself") the counter girl replied, in an expressionless monotone.

I later asked if she could cut the bread for me and she replied "Tu tranquilo" this time pointedly dropping a bread knife on the counter. I could cut my own bread.

I imagine if I asked to strip naked and perform unsteady cartwheels by the freshly-baked croissants, the response would be similar.

I took my photos and asked about a tasty-looking thing cooling on the counter. "Bread with oil and sugar." This sounded like some kind of witchcraft to my hungry ears so I added it to my order.

Further up the village I stocked up with fruit, chorizo and cheese and had a coffee in the bar on the square.

After Burqui, the road followed the river Esca through more gorges. I was climbing steadily and really enjoying the cycling. The views were fantastic and I felt I had finally got into mountain country.

I have started waving at every cyclist I pass and mostly get a cheerful wave in return, most of all from other cycle tourists.

By 12.30 I was beginning to look for picnic spots. I wanted to make sure I was within easy distance of the top but didn't want to ride in the mid-afternoon sun. I saw an ideal spot by the river but it was too early to stop so I passed it up and carried on. Just before one o'clock I saw a spot which would do the trick. A small shingle beach by the river, just off the road. I took off my socks shoes and the padded liner to my shorts but was otherwise fully clothed when I walked into the river and bathed in the cold water.

I am 25km from France.

BC

Ps. I may not be able to update tonight or tomorrow lunchtime.

I should be back up and running by tomorrow evening, though.

Budgets

2009-08-21T22:50:00.003+02:00

After lunch I pulled up another, shorter, climb over a pine-covered ridge and dropped down, past a deserted village, to the edge of a large reservoir.

Deserted village

The water was impossibly blue. Not the clear, crystalline blue of a mountain lake but a pastel, opaque blue suggesting some kind of mineral deposit.

I rode round the lake and wondered if I was bored of the trip yet. The cycling hasn't been so enjoyable today and I felt a little lethargic and began to notice a few aches and pains.

I tried thinking about the blog - which has kept my mind well entertained so far - but lacked inspiration. Perhaps I was tired, perhaps I didn't sleep well. Perhaps the novelty is wearing off. Perhaps I was getting over my rest day. Sometimes, it takes a day to get back into the swing of things after a day off. Maybe that was it.

Getting bored. The Pyrenees in the background.

By now it was getting close to 8pm. I had planned to camp by the lake tonight and couldn't find the camp site so I cycled up to the village of Sigues intending to eat dinner there before rolling back down the hill to camp wild by the lake.

The quiet, smooth road up to Sigues brightened me up a bit. This is what I would climb tomorrow and it was a nice, well-surfaced road with not much traffic.

When I reached the village, the first thing I found was a tourist information centre. This is perhaps a grand name for what was, in fact, a lady sitting on a bench playing with her infant daughter. I asked for the camp site and was told it was 13km back the way I had come.

I have stopped thinking of distances as distance and now think of them as time. 13km is about 40 minutes. I also felt no irritation at having to turn back the way I'd come. Cycling has become transport; it's just the way I get about now.

I arrived at the camp site and the owner's teenage son told me it would be 4.25 for the tent and 4.25 for me. I had decided not to carry a tent - just a sleeping bag and a tarp - to save weight. For some reason I felt embarrassed about admitting this.

But four euros is four euros so, sheepishly, I told the teenager that in fact, it's not really a tent. "You don't have a tent?" He said, matter-of-factly, "Oh, then it's just 4.25 for you."

Evening on the lake: the view from my campsite

I felt inward joy. Since my bank card stopped working, I have been operating on a fixed sum of cash which has forced me to keep to a daily budget. I have begun to enjoy the discipline. Adding up my expenses has become another exercise to occupy my mind while cycling and beating my daily budget gives me a feeling of triumph and a little boost.

Such a cheap night's accommodation will help me beat my budget by 50 euros today.

BC

On the road, again.

2009-08-21T16:33:00.003+02:00

Getting into bed last night I felt reticent about leaving Sadaba. It had been the briefest of stays but, against the constant motion of the previous days it had felt settled.

The feeling returned again this morning as I pulled out of the village and onto a long, straight, flat, single-track road across golden farmland.

I felt a slowness in my legs. They weren't spinning as well as previous days and I was having to drop down a gear more often. The tops of my thighs objected with a light ache when I pushed a too hard.

I wondered whether the lack of exercise yesterday had allowed my legs to grow stiff. Or perhaps it was the extra food I had was carrying, for a picnic lunch.

After twenty minutes my legs began to warm up and I could spin again.

The road climbed very gently past farmland to the village of Un Castillo (A Castle), a name which overlooked the other interesting buildings in the village: a Romanesque church once under the Order of the Knights Templars and a magnificent sandstone country house were just two. The castle itself looked quite dull, although maybe it has a deeper historical significance.

The road climbed out of Un Castillo, more steeply than before but still a gentle incline, alongside a river. I was in a shallow valley and the morning sun was very hot without a breeze.

The road continued to wind its way up, now through fields of lavender. I watched small birds swoop low over the lavender, catching insects.

Climbing through lavendar fields

An intermittent ache started in my right knee and I dropped a gear.

The road climbed higher and steeper now, and switched back on itself. This was the first proper climb of the ride. I checked the map and it would be 500m (1550ft) bottom to top. It had taken me by surprise but it was good to have a dummy run for tomorrow.

Before long I was pushing my lowest gear and couldn't decide whether to be worried about tomorrow. There was no reason to believe that the climb over the Pyrenees would be any steeper than this, just longer.

After a few false summits, I pulled onto the top of the wide, rolling ridge and caught my first glimpse of the Pyrenees. It is an odd strip of mountains, little more than one mountain deep but hundreds of miles from left to right. I was glad not to be crossing the Alps which stretch five countries across and three deep.

Coasting down the other side of the ridge, to Sos del Rey Catolico, I was pleased I had taken the time yesterday to tighten up my brakes. The road dropped through two or three tight switchbacks before straightening out and joining the main road to Sos.

I walked round the narrow Medieval streets of Sos, bought some bread and stopped for a coffee. The town was also in fiesta and planning to let bulls into the streets this evening. It occurred to me that there was no happy coincidence in having chosen to have a rest day in Sadaba just when they happened to be having a fiesta. I could have chosen any one of hundreds of villages in the region on any day this week and been treated to the same show. Still, I felt an affection for Sadaba now and was glad I'd spent my day there.

After Sos, I rolled down a steepish hill and then along an undulating, single-track road to Navardun, where I found a picnic spot shaded by poplar trees.

Picnic lunch

After a lunch of bread, chorizo, avocado, tomato, mushroom spread and a custard-filled croissant, I dozed in the shade listening to the wind in the trees and water from a spring falling into a long, low trough.

BC

The rogue!

2009-08-21T08:50:00.002+02:00

I've just found the bottle opener from the butcher in Tudela. He must have slipped it into my bag when I wasn't looking.

Clearly he couldn't bear to see a young man cycle off into the yonder with no obvious means of opening a bottle of wine.

I don't have the heart to chuck it away.

Fiesta - fin

2009-08-20T21:43:00.002+02:00

A dull boom, a puff of smoke and there is tension in the air.

My doorway is in front of a side street and protected by a waist-high iron panel with just enough room to slip out either side. The panel is topped by two bars which take the total structure to chin-height.

After five or ten, minutes - it's hard to say - there is a commotion and shouting, and a bull, smaller than I expected, trots unthreateningly down the side-street towards me and turns right onto the road my doorway is on. When standing proud, it's horns reach about to my head and it's back would reach about to my belly-button. A man chases the bull beating a stick on the floor.

Two bulls charge up the street

After 5 more minutes, another, similarly-sized, bull follows. A gate on the side-road is closed so the two bulls are now trapped in the main street.

A bull weighs its options

A bull charges up to the end of the street, and people goad it from behind protective panels or bars. A particular goad or cat-call catches the bull's attention and it stops.

The crowd goads a bull

One man gets a rise from the animal from safely behind a wooden gate

The bull stands for a while, sometimes turning, apparently weighing the situation. All around it people are banging the iron panels, stamping the floor, wavings their hands and shouting. The objective is to get the bull to come as close as possible without getting gored.

A young man jumps out to the middle of the street, waving his hands. When the bull sees him and prepares to charge, those nearest the man get nervous and look for escape routes. Those further away bang and shout harder, trying to attract it.

Eventually, the bull charges and the man will leave it to the last moment before leaping behind, or over, a barrier.

At one stage a highland terrier breaks loose and for ten minutes there is a stand-off between bull and terrier. The bull tries a few charges but the terrier is too fast. Eventually the little dog rushes off down a side street and is chased, yapping, by both bulls round the village a full circuit of the village.

Down at my end of the street, two protagonists emerge. One is a smooth-looking young man in sunglasses. I guess he is in his early twenties. His timing is good and he inspires confidence.

The more agile of the protagonists gets away safely

The other, a taller man with a toothy grin and wearing a large black wig, inspires no such confidence.

People say that bulls are sometimes drugged before a bullfight, but this man has clearly been drinking all day and probably for most of last night too.

He can barely stand and I will see him order two tumblers of whiskey and a beer over the next hour and a half. At one point, he turns to speak to a friend, knocks his own drink out his hand and, with a deft manoeuvre that I couldn't properly follow, rescues his drink from himself. Realising his success, he smiles triumphantly and toothily at the crowd.

I have taken a lot of photos by now and have become known as "El fotografo". I have also seen the bulls charge and butt the barriers half a dozen times and my respect for them has grown. Sensing I was getting a feel for the bull's movement I have even, cautiously, stepped out from the barrier a few times to get a better shot.

A bull heads in the direction of your correspondent

Cesar, the drunk man, has grown bolder. What he lacks in the panache of the smoother man, he makes up for in bravado.

Not for him, the balletic darting out, arm outstretched to touch a horn, preferred by his more agile colleague.

No, Cesar stands square in the middle of the road, wig on head, cigarette and tumbler of whiskey in his hands. He turns occasionally to wink at the crowd. As the bull approaches, his eyes widen and the corners of his mouth turn down in a rictus of drunk fear as he leaps - cigarette and whiskey still in hand - onto a barrier as the bull's horns scrape past a loose corner of his t-shirt.

Cesar tries his luck (his whiskey now safely inside him)

With the bull safely past he drops off the barrier, swaggers to the middle of the road and lifts his arms in a victory salute.

I thought about the time I went to a bullfight in Ventas, Madrid's bull ring. It was a "recorrido"
in which the bull fighter only ever uses a horse. First came the picadores, men on horseback with javelins. Then the bullfighter himself, who guided his horse cleverly around the ring, getting the bull to chase him without ever getting close enough to gore the horse. When the bullfighter's horse grew tired, he would change it for a new one, which he did three times before finally sliding his sword between the bull's shoulder blades.

Although the principle was the same, the ceremony and skill I saw at Ventas was a different world from the improvised danger of Cesar's drunken risks.

There was no death this afternoon but nevertheless I feel I understand bull flighting in a way that I haven't before, and that maybe the professional bullfight had lost some of the spirit of its very amateur genesis.

BC

Fiesta (cont'd)

2009-08-20T17:58:00.002+02:00

The band and dancers ran out of steam and for a while all were milling around, hooting or bashing tunelessly. A group of young men dressed as marching girls looked like they hadn't had as much to drink as the rest and stood self-consciously, a little apart from the main crowd.

The band takes a rest

On no discernible cue the band started up again and the merry gang made its way off down the street.

A senorita in procession

I've been to other fiestas in bigger towns and they have all felt much more full. Today, as jolly as they are, the party-goers could do with a smaller venue, one that they would fill up a little better. There can be no more than about 20 of them.

There are others, lining the streets and, like me, enjoying the show.

The sun is still hot and kids are playing in the street to my left and on my right someone is singing "cumpleanos feliz", happy birthday. A man dressed as a majorette is squirting people with water.

BC

Fiesta

2009-08-20T17:42:00.002+02:00

In about 20 minutes the bulls will charge down the main street of Sadaba, where I am standing. There is a large iron barrier in front of the door to my hotel. A band of merrymakers is winding through the streets playing "alegre" marching music.

A band of merry-makers

Most of the men in the band are in drag. All are in high spirits, or drunk. Probably both.

Men dressed as women. And women dressed as women.

1/3 of the way there

2009-08-20T08:33:00.002+02:00

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

Photos

2009-08-19T17:36:00.000+02:00

Just a quick one to say, I have finally found a locutorio and been able to upload some photos from my trip. So scroll back through previous posts to have a look at what I have seen.

BC

Comments: thanks!

2009-08-19T17:23:00.004+02:00

I just wanted to say, to all those who have left comments, thanks! The way I am updating the blog makes it difficult to reply to comments, unless I find an internet cafe like today. So please don´t take my failure to reply as any indication that your comments aren´t appreciated. They really are, I check them over lunch or in the evening after a long day and it´s a realy boost to see your comments.

So, thanks.

BC

Ps some of you have said you´ve had trouble posting comments. There should be an option to post comments regardless of whether you have a Google account or not.

There should be a drop-down menu next to where it says, "comment as". Click on the little arrow to drop the menu and you have a number of options. One of them allows you to type in you name and another to comment anonymously.

Oooh heaven is a bike shop on Earth

2009-08-19T16:38:00.003+02:00

I woke up still weary from yesterday and, conscious that I had a relatively shorter day ahead of me - 75km - I took it easy. I got up at ten and went for a big, sugary breakfasts. It was a 2-coffee morning. Then I ambled round town and stopped off at the butcher´s for some lunch equipment. I turned down the free bottle opener which came with the chorizo on the grounds that "I´m on a bike trip and I don´t want to have to carry it with me." This made no sense at all to the butcher who warned me of a catastrophe he experienced once while cycling - he had taken a bottle of wine but no opener! I comiserated but demurred on the bottle opener and he chatted good-naturedly for a while about my trip.

I had planned to check my bike in to a shop in Ejea but that looked like a detour that I was in no mood to take so I asked at the hostel if the was a shop in town. There was so I stopped off for a few minutes on my way out. The place was a revelation! My local bike shop in Madrid (Calmera on c/Atocha) is very patchy. The service depends very much on who you get. There´s a nice lady in her forties who really knows her stuff and goes out of her way to help you find what you´re looking for or decide what you need but most of the staff feel like they couldn´t really give a damn what you buy.

Typically, the question, "And what is the difference between this product and that product," is met with, "Well you have this one which is 40Euros and the other one which is 50euros. It´s also red." They all look like they cycle but they have no enthusiasm for helping others.

Bikes Moncayo is in a different league altogether. The owner is clearly a real enthusiast for the sport. He seems to enjoy not just his own cycling but everyone else´s too. I picked up an extra rear light (I now have two) and some spare break pads just in case. I explained I was a bit concerned about the back wheel and he trued it for me, there and then, and refused to charge.

Then he zipped off to serve someone else. It occurred to me just as I was leaving that it might be an idea to get a spare tire in case I get a dramatic failure which can´t be fixed with a new inner tube. I was just paying the owener´s son for it, when the owner himself dropped what he was doing, leapt over to me, snatched the tire out of my hand and gave me my money back: the tire I was about to buy was no good for what I wanted - too narrow. He was right, I thought I´d read 32mm width but it was actually 23mm. Instead, he gave me a short roll of plastic from his workshop which would keep me going to the next bike shop in case of a big tire failure.

It is unclear whether Berlinda Carlisle was thinking of Bikes Moncayo - a bike shop in Tarazona - when she sang that "heaven is a place on earth" but I suppose that´s the thing about great pop songs, they hold a universal truth which speaks to all of us.

It was a brief, easy roll down to the town of Tudela, where I´m writing this. I was directed to the Locutorio (shop with internet access and cheap calls abroad) by an Algerian in his fifties who claimed to have cycled on Algeria´s national team when he was younger and fitter. He walked me to the Locutorio and as we walked we talked about cycling. His conversation leapt suddenly to the "crisis".

He was feeling it hard but it is better in France than in Spain, he said. The Spaniards don´t know how to run an economy he told me, with an air of authority. When everything is good, "bueno, bueno, bueno," but they don´t think that it might go bad. And when it does go bad it goes very bad, the worst in the European Union. I asked my what does he do?

He replied with a question, "In what sense?"
"For work, what do you do for work?"
"Work! I don´t work! None of the foreigners here work, except for the Ecuadoreans."

He then launched into a solliloquoy, which I couldn´t really follow, about human nature and that some Spaniards have white hearts and others black hearts. "It´s the same in Algeria, of course," he allowed.

I wasnm´t sure where he was going with this and, as we seemed to wind away into the backstreets of Tudela, I wondered whether I was being spun a line. There was something about the specific blend of philosophy and morality in his conversation which reminded me of the patter of the fishermen in Senegal who will accost you with speeches on life´s hardships and the brotherhood of the black man and the white man (we bleed the same blood*), the beauty of the human spirit and the honour in giving, before asking you to spot them a tenner.

Becming a little nervous now, I asked where the locutorio is and he replied, with a vague wave of the hand towards a narrow street, "Up here." I was just beginning to plan my get-out (In my view it´s much better to politely back out of these situations than to let them roll; if it gets to a confrontation there´s no saying how it will end up) when we arrived at the locutorio.

"Here you are, the Ecuadorian is here," my guide announced and with a cheery wave, he was off down the street.

I felt guilty for having misjudged him.

BC

*This is a genuine line given to me in a fishing town in northern Senegal.

Caption competition

2009-08-19T16:30:00.003+02:00

I couldn´t decide which was the better caption for this photo:

1. The Red-Bearded Cyclopath, seen here in his natural habitat

2. Red and hot but not Dutch

Votes and better suggestions in the comments section, please.

The Longest Day

2009-08-19T15:32:00.006+02:00

I pulled out of Soria at around 3pm and straight onto a reasonable climb up onto the Mancha (Soria is by a river in a valley which cuts through higher ground). Once up on the rolling plateau, the cycling was excellent, through rolling arable land. The roads were beautifully smooth and swooped through nice big turns.

Fine cycling above Soria

I rolled down the high farmland and followed a small river for a while which had a few small villages along it, where I took this picture.

Picturesque church just before a coffee stop

I was feeling weary. The heat of the 3-o´clock sun, the morning´s worries about what to do if, for some reason, the bank couldn´t help me and the poor night´s sleep were taking their toll. So I stopped off for a an aquarius and an iced coffee after about an hour. This combination is probably banned to professional cyclists because it had a revolutionary effect on my mood.

I set off again across golden but featureless farmland, climbing steadily. Near the top of a small pass I cycled into my first rain shower. A storm had been brewing to my right and for the next 45 minutes to an hour I had intermittent spots of rain and a great view of the storm over the plains.

Storm brewing over the plains

Storm and barn

From Soria I had followed a winding route over the hills to avoid the A-road which took a more direct route. Shortly after the sotrm I picked up the route again at Olvega and took a fairly uneventful road to Agreda. From Agreda, again avoiding A-roads, I took a diversion over a hillside to get to my final destination, Tarazona.

It was getting late and I´d probably arrive at night so I was glad to be on minor roads. One of the nice things about riding into the evening is that you get the full benefit of the "golden hour" which photographers talk about. This is about an hour either side of sunset when the light is low, which extends shadows and throws landscapes into dramatic relief, and golden. This photo below doesn´t really do it justice but it was lovely to watch the shadows lengthen as the sun dropped below the horizon.

Golden hour

I was still more than an hour away but didn´t have it in me to push on at anything close to a fast pace and, besides, was quite enjoying the rolling landscape. So long as I´m on minor roads, I have no problem cycling in the dark so I figured, best to take my time. This zen tranquility was shattered by a phone call from the hostal owner wanting to know when I´d arrive so she could go home. I´d rather assumed there´d be no problem rolling up at around ten so I tried my best to get moving. Not easy after 11 hours, 8 of which actually cycling, and in reality I must have cut no more than 5 minutes off my arrival time at best. Nevertheless I made a big show of running up the steps to the hostel when I arrived.

The hostal owner apologised, unconvincingly, for asking me to hurry and her husband was kind enough to help me with my bags as I lifted my bike up the steps to the hostel.

I was absolutely shattered when I arrived. The day had turned out to be the longest so far. I set off from Almazán at around 9.30 and finally rolled into Tarazona at 21.45, after a little over 12 hours on the road. This includes two and a half hours in Soria sorting out cash for the rest of the trip and having lunch, and a few refueling stops along the way. Along the way, I applied a brutish form of geometry to work out that my diversion* must be somewhere in the region of 140 - 150km. According to Google Maps, it was 139km. I put the accuracy of my estimate down to dumb luck; even a stopped clock is right twice a day (is that Woody Allen? I forget).

I don´t think anything could have stopped me from sleepingn last night and, sure enough, despite a sweltering room and noise from the town, I slept like a log.

*I´ve updated my route to show my diversion through Soria for those who are following the detail.

UPDATE 2: Sautee with El Cid

2009-08-19T14:50:00.006+02:00

It turns out that El Cid has been honoured with a range of kitchenware.

Long day

2009-08-18T23:07:00.001+02:00

Arrived safe and sound. But dog tired. I'll have more to say tomorrow.

Diversion to Soria

2009-08-18T14:50:00.004+02:00

I had a fitful night's sleep last night, haunted by worries about money. What if my credit card gets wiped? What if this cash wire service never works? What if I get robbed? Etc etc.

Planning the trip, I hadn't considered access to money would be a problem. I made sure I had plenty in my account and didn't even consider card failure (Rumsfeld scholars will recognise this as an "unknown unknown").

I suppose, in the early hours of the morning, I felt a bit blind-sided by potentially the biggest impediment to my trip coming out of the left field like that.

Plus, I know from experience that cancelling a good adventure because of cash flow problems is frustrating and, more than that, humiliating.

So I was gloomy when I woke. A shower lifted my spirits a few notches to grimly determined, then the kindness of the hotel cleaner who helped me with my panniers and flattered me by asking if I was a professional cyclist or an "aficionado" tipped me over the edge into enjoying myself. Even the lower-status "aficionado" sounded impressive so, ego restored, I set off for Soria to get some readies, greenbacks, pelas, efectivo. I was damned if I was going to spend the rest of the holiday a slave to the capricious whim of the electromagnetic spectrum.

Almazán - Town of Furniture! - where I spent a fitful night worrying about a new category of disasters that might beset my trip. Pretty little place.

I toyed - for about a second - with the idea of taking the more direct route up the N111 but quickly thought better of it and hit the b-roads. I had a very pleasant ride up a minor road through sunflower fields and pine forest and past some mouthwatering public swimming pools. Another day perhaps.

A picturesque cemetary

I passed a fellow cycle tourist - the first so far - going the other direction and we exchanged enthusiastic waves and greetings.

On the way I mused at the effects of two and a half days in the saddle. My legs are actually fine. They're tired at the end of the day but it's not the pain you get from impact sports like ski-ing or mountain biking. It's a weariness and the next day they're good as new. I have been deliberately finding a gear which feels natural then dropping down a gear to spin faster but putting less pressure on the legs. This helps you keep going longer and is better for the knees.

I expected to get - and have got- numbness on the balls of my feet. My pedals are small and fixed to my shoes so the constant pressure all day in the same place makes my feet numb. Oddly, it only ever seems to happen to one foot at a time.

Another, really unexpected physical effect of so much cycling is the grip when I touch my fingers and thumb together on my left hand has become utterly feeble. And pushing buttons is difficult. I've tried making a fist and that's fine. And it doesn't hurt, it's just weak. I think it is from changing gear so often. The good news is that I can still grab a handful of brakes if I want to.

I've got a longish afternoon today so I'd better hit the road.

BC

Money

2009-08-17T22:31:00.002+02:00

Gah! I went to the cash machine for a top up but the magnetic strip on my card has stopped working. The most probable theory is that the magnetic panel on the case of my blackberry wiped the card.

This is a well-known design flaw from the people at Research In Motion.

Product designer 1: "Hey, what aboot [RIM is Canadian] if we put a magnetic strip in the case so you can have one ring tone when the phone's in the case and ANOTHER ring tone for out of the case!"

Product designer 2: "Ossome!""

Product designer 3: "Rad"

Chief of design: "Any downsides?"

Sceptic: "I guess it will render useless our customers' bank cards, leaving people stranded without cash, forced to wash dishes, beg for food and sleep rough."

PD 1: "Hey, what's with the negative vibes dude? TWO RING TONES! Hellooo!"

Chief: "You're right PD1. Make it so."

Well-known design flaw or not, the magnetic-blackberry-case theory would in any case leave two simultaneous electrical disturbances unexplained: my bike computer conked out and I got a weird error on my phone which I could only solve by taking the battery out and putting it back in again (have you tried rebooting yet?).

So my money's on some form of electromagnetic force-field created by the high-velocity whirring of my thighs as I zipped across La Mancha this afternoon. Occam's razor and all that.

Arrow-straight road across La Mancha

The money thing ought to be easy enough to resolve. My credit card is still working and I've ordered some money to be wired to a cash machine which I can pick up without a card.

Of course, when I got to the cash machine to pick up the money, the service was "temporarily unavailable" - electromagnetic thighs again - but there's a network of cash points where I can pick the money up.

This points to a probable detour to Soria tomorrow. My bank has a branch there so I can make sure I'm covered for the rest of the trip. Plus, it's supposed to be a very pleasant town.

I'm spending the evening in Almazan - town of furniture! it proudly declares - which is a nice little place on the Rio Duero.

UPDATE!

2009-08-17T16:38:00.001+02:00

I've just surprised the bar owner, her hands full of chorizo, ham and cheese. She mustn't have seen me coming.

I'm now on the outside of a chorizo and cheese sandwich.

BC

El Cid

2009-08-17T16:13:00.004+02:00

Cogolludo was in full fiesta last night which meant I was treated to a medley of Sting, Bryan Adams, flamenco and - incongruously - Amy Winehouse. This went on till about 4.30 so I didn't get going this morning until 10:15. Still late, but a lot better than yesterday.

Looking back to Cogolludo at around 10:15

Nevertheless, I enjoyed a magnificent morning's cycling. The roads are deserted and surfaced like billiard tables, and the terrain is wind surprisingly varied. I passed pine forests, a reservoir and sunflower and wheat fields of Spain's high central plateau. I have spent most of the day above 1,000m, which is about as high as England's highest mountain (hill?).

Embalse (Reservoir) de Alcorlo

For some of the morning I have been following the El Cid way (Camino del Cid) which is marked with road signs written in faux-Arabic script. The choice of font seemed inappropriate, given his reputation. I don't know much about El Cid but from what I remember (I learned most of my medieval history from the drunken ravings of a history student I shared a flat with at university) he was a fearsome slayer of moors. I recently listened to a radio programme about the chivalric age where a history professor made the point that most knights were - far from the honour-bound gentlemen of arthurian legend - wide-o thugs who lorded it about in their suits of armour running what amounted to protection rackets. "Nice little hovel you have here, would be a terrible shame if anything were to happen to it..."

In fact, the chivalric legends were apparently put about by knights in an attempt to counter any misgivings the peasantry might have had about submitting to this brutal order. An early PR campaign, if you like.

The deal would go something like this, "I say, yoo-hoo! You in the rags, yes you! My what a lovely tooth you have! How would you Iike the honour of working for me? I'm a very chivalrous fellow and have personally saved three princesses from dragons. If you accept a position on my estate you could tell your bubonic drunking buddies down the tavern that you represent one of the most honourable Knights in Christendom.

In return for this indubitable honour, all I ask is your relentless, grinding toil... and a small tax. And perhaps your daughters. Or free access to your daughters anyway, I don't want them rambling about the castle. Look, we can figure out the details later - what do you say?

Oh, what the hell, because I like you I'm willing to offer a bit extra. If you work for me I will personally guarantee your absolute safety from me hacking you to death and burning down your hovel. (Exceptions to this safety may include, but not be limited to, acts of God, force majure, and the odd drunken rampage during holidays.)"

800 years later, you are honoured by road signs in faux arabic script.

/back to reality. The picture (if it comes out - bit of an experiment) is my lunch spot. I was keen to push on past the half-way point before stopping for lunch so I cycled past Atienza with it's church, fort and restaurants, to Paredes de Siguenza which has a church but no fort and, crucially, no restaurant. In fact, apart from this fly-blown bar and a big, vicious dog, it doesn't have very much. So on the menu for lunch today is Sprite, peanuts, a Magnum and a coffee. Lance Armstrong swears by it.

Technical update: I checked the wheel again this morning and it's nothing like as bad as I thought. It'll be fine until I get to the rest day.

My bike computer has given up the ghost completely and is now only good enough for the time. Since I accidentally reset it yesterday at about 6pm (see previous post) and my watch packed in 5 minutes before leaving on Sunday, I now have a new mental exercise to pass the time: working out the time of day by subtracting 6pm from whatever time is displayed on my bike computer.

BC

Ps. My spell-check has just highlighted "honour-bound" and suggested I should change it to "ho nor-bound". Eh?

110 down, 1100 to go

2009-08-16T23:34:00.001+02:00

By keeping up a good pace, riding through the heat of the day and limiting myself to one stop of 45 minutes I made up nearly all the time I lost by setting off late. I arrived in Cogolludo just before nine, only about an hour after I'd planned.

I didn't want to stop and take many pictures today because I was trying to crack on but I was taken by the beauty of the landscape.

I spent most of the afternoon looking at the Sierra de Guadarrama, turned blue in the afternoon haze, floating on a foreground of golden fields. The dull brown scrub land that you see from the air is actually bright gold when seen up close. The central plain of Madrid (La Mancha) is unfairly maligned.

The cycling has been very good. I've hardly seen a car all day, even in Madrid (an unexpected benefit of leaving in the heat of an August Sunday afternoon).

Having done the first day I now have absolutely no worries about the rest of the trip. Barring mechanical failure or some unexpected event like a bear attack, I think my schedule is more than doable. In 8 hours today I did what I had planned to do in 10 or 11 hours.

For the bike geeks among you:
I had a couple of minor technical glitches:

- It turns out that if I put my bike computer into its fitting shoe while the bike is moving it resets everything. So I've lost the first 62 km of the trip.

- about 30 mins from the end of the day, the cable to the front derailleur popped out of its clamp screw. Easy to fix but worth a mention because this has never, ever happened to me before. I guess the screw shook loose.

- slightly more concerning, I noticed a ding in the back wheel which has the rim almost rubbing one of the brake pads. This could just be coincidence or it could be a symptom of the amount of weight on the back wheel. My panniers are surprisingly heavy. I hope I don't have more trouble with this - wheels are an absolute swine to fix. I'm going to true the wheel tomorrow morning and hope it gets me to my rest day when I can check it in to a bike shop and see if they can look at it the same day.

Finally, to file under "slice of life":

After checking in, I asked the hotel owner, in my most polite English tourist's Spanish, if she could recommend a restaurant in the village.

"Recommend?!" She replied, "Not in the sense that I understand the word, no. They're all the same."

Can't argue with that.

BC

5% there

2009-08-16T18:21:00.001+02:00

After an inauspicious start - 5 hours late, with a hangover - things picked up pretty quickly today. I've been making good ground, averaging about 18 km/h when I'm riding.

I'm writing this from a kebab bar in El Casar. Lunch of champions.

Earlier today I asked an old lady at a bus stop for directions to a village called La Cueva, The Cave. She gave me directions; I thanked her and turned to go.

"There's no cave," She shouted after me, "I don't know why they call it that, there's no cave." By this time I was a good 100yards away and she was bellowing down the deserted street. Still trying to be polite, I found it hard to shout "Huh!" back with the right mixture of interest and just a little surprise.

I later imagined a b-movie whose plot would turn on the absence of a cave at La Cueva. When I passed the village without incident, I imagined an Almodovar film in which there WAS a cave at La Cueva and it hid some terrible secret that this innocent but talkative old lady was trying to keep from prying cyclists.

I'd better get going. Still another 60km to go before Cogolludo and bed.

Bearded Cyclopath

Bearded Cyclopath

2009-08-12T23:11:00.000+02:00

Hi,

This blog is for friends and family to keep track of me while I make the 1,268.9 km bicycle trip from my house, in Madrid, to my Dad's house in Central France.

On hearing that I will cycle from Madrid to France in mid-summer, many thought I was insane. Hearing that I will do it alone has provoked a few to glance about for escape routes. Even a self-confessed cycling geek compared the plan to solitary confinement.

For my part, I think it will be a fantastic way to get to know my adopted home, Spain, and that of my Dad, France, with an intimacy that few achieve. Cycling is a pleasant mode of transport - fast enough to cover reasonable ground yet slow enough to appreciate the scenery and people unfolding around you. I actually don't expect to spend the two weeks alone - I expect to spend a good deal of time speaking to locals and fellow migrants along the way. Well, that's the plan at least.

I'll be updating the blog from internet cafes so updates may be sporadic.

I hope you enjoy following the journey as much as I expect to enjoy making it.