DAY 6
Friday July 13th, 2012
Sort to Vielha

Gabriel insisted that we have to take a bus. At least part of the way. We could ride the first 40 Kilometers but then, no, we can’t do it. I’m like “Really? Are you sure? We could ride what we can and then walk the bikes the rest of the way…? Or stop and take a bus then?” (Jesus, what am I turning into?) “Yes Baby, I’m sure. Some of it is at 15%.” That’s cyclist lingo for the percentage of incline. 7% is good and hard, even without carrying weight. “Trust me.” He said. “And we can only get on a bus in a place where there’s a bus stop.” (Him and his details). He had been on the internet researching this plan the night before. But I know he was a little bummed as I was to make that decision, cos it did kind of feel like a cheat, but he was right of course. We rode to just outside Aiugestortes National Park where last year it had hailed all night on our tent. No hail this year though, the weather so far has been pure perfect summer.

We waited in the little town there for the bus to come. He had been assured by the metro authority people on the phone that the bikes would be allowed, although we might have to take the front wheels off. Gabriel was tense as we waited, hoping the bus would show up, that they would let us on with all of our stuff and gear, and that we wouldn’t have to implement Plan B. Plan B was hatched back in LA and applies to most unforeseen contingencies–mechanical breakdown, one of us gets injured, untenable weather conditions, etc: Find The Guy With The Van. Every little village has one, Gabriel assured me. The Guy With The Van (for a price of course) would drive us and our bikes and our paneers to wherever it is we need to go. His name will be Diego, I keep thinking–I don’t know why–and he won’t be an ax murderer or a human trafficker. He will be a kindly farmer or a local shop owner…

Anyway the bus came and it was a giant, air conditioned tourist type bus with long windows and plush seats and we could easily store our bikes in the baggage area underneath cos there was no one else on it. The bus driver was friendly and complimented Gabriel on the wisdom of his decision not to try to ride this section. I got to sit back and stare mesmerized out the window as we wound up and up a single lane mountain road. A waterfall rushed down the mountain…the endless pine trees that went on and on forever. I looked back at the road and thought: could we have done it? It’s so hard to tell from the vantage point of the bus. But my God it was nice to just sit and marvel and make no effort…so nice. Gabriel asked him to let us off at the top of the mountain instead of taking us all the way to Vielha. “We’re gonna ride down.” He said. We emptied out on a clearing shared by a ski lift and a herd of cattle braying and grazing. The wind blew hard in our ears and the cowbells rang. We prepped our bikes. A pro-looking cyclist appeared from the direction of Vielha and asked if by any chance we had a tissue. I did! (Handy pocket Kleenex again). He used it to wipe the sweat off his sunglasses and told us it would be 18 kilometers down. We went. But this time we stopped here and there to take pictures because the views were so stunningly, otherworldly gorgeous. Riding down fast, the sun was warm on by back and the wind was icy on my cheeks I was just drinking the beauty around me. I felt totally high (but not in a dangerous way), just like: thank God we did this. Sunny, windy, happy flying high.

We got to Vielha at the bottom and had lunch. And now it was time to celebrate Gabriel’s birthday a little bit. So we had croquetas which are these deep fried balls of something–sometimes cheese, sometimes fish, you don’t always know when you’re ordering them but they’re always delicious. And we had red wine and bread and salad. Our hotel for the next 3 nights would be a Parador which are the most beautiful hotels in Spain, usually converted from old monasteries. We are not at our final destination–Bagneres-de-Luchon–yet, but we are close and because of the Tour De France the hotels in the surrounding towns have been booked forever. So we have to slum it here at the Parador for 3 nights. The only hitch was we had to ride 6 kilometers uphill (of course uphill, of course) to get there. And we’d just almost finished a bottle of wine. But we straddled the bikes and climbed. There wasn’t much shade, Gabriel was ahead of me, I was reasonably buzzed from the wine and I thought: I really should hydrate now. But the bottle of water I can reach easily was empty so I fumbled for the other one, got it, swerved, and then dropped it. It went rolling down the hill. So I got off the bike to chase it and this park ranger (“Conservacion”) car also stopped and picked it up for me. As he handed it to me I kept myself at arm’s distance thinking: Oh God, don’t smell my breath and peg me for the clumsy, not-really-a-cyclist, wine-swilling-American-poser that I am. I mean you really shouldn’t cycle uphill in the heat under the influence, right? As I huffed and puffed onward I thought my epitaph will have to be: “Finally, it was the Rioja that did her in…”

But I made it. And the Parador is luxurious, as promised. Has a pool, a spa, a restaurant with a panoramic view, breakfast buffet with fresh squeezed orange juice…and after dinner Crema Catalana which is kind of creme brulee but better and is the best dessert in the world and they give you like a giant soup bowl full of it with the burnt crust on top and a tiny scoop of something– maybe lemon gelato–that melts on top and adds just a touch of citrusy refreshment and this makes it all worth it…