bicicletaloca

DAY 11

Le Tourmalet

Woke to a 5am alarm after carousing with our friends the night before. It was still dark and starry when we loaded everything into our rental Peugeot and drove the 50 kilometers or so to the beginning of Le Tourmalet. The roads were windey as the sunrise turned the tips of the mountains pink, then peach, then gold. As we got close, we were driving the same road that The Tour would be cycling 2 days later. RVs and campers lined the route ahead making it look from a distance like it was strung with white Christmas lights. More clusters of RVs and tents as we got closer. Many with their national flag flying–France, Germany, Italy, etc. Some campers were up making coffee over their fires, but most were still asleep as we drove by. It was impossible not to feel the anticipation and excitement for the Tour, especially now that I have a whole new appreciation for the athleticism of those guys.

Our plan was to drive to the top first and set up Gabriel’s tent. He was bound and determined to spend the night on top of the mountain to watch the tour pass. (Despite the raised eyebrows from other cyclists: “You don’t have a sleeping bag? It’s gonna be cold.”). But no of course we couldn’t carry the extra weight of a sleeping bag with us on this whole journey. Gabriel just had a practically weightless single person tent. His down jacket would keep him warm enough, according to him. I would not be sleeping up there with him: no room in the tent even for a cozy married couple, I believe I’ve mentioned I hate the cold, and–I quickly accessed as we arrived–absolutely nowhere to go to the bathroom. All open green mountain. Not even a tree to squat behind. So we set up his tent, left a baguette, some cheese, a baggie of instant coffee (don’t know where he’s going to get hot water or even a cup, but if I know Gabriel he will make friends with some better-prepared campers within a few hours) inside, along with his down jacket and a few other provisions, and he asked a nearby camper to keep an eye his things. Although you’d really have to be king of the A-Holes to rip anything off from this pathetic set up. It would be like stealing from a homeless guy’s cart.

His scrawny little tent looked comical set between 2 giant white RV’s, and we had to navigate around the roaming llamas on the top of the mountain as we set it up. We got back in the car and drove to the bottom where we parked and pulled out the bikes. (Stopped on the way down at the one cafe that was open that early–thank God–for cafe au lait, orange juice, and warm baguettes slathered with butter and jam.) When we parked, we left the paneers locked in the car so we were free of the weight for the climb. It was just about 8:30 am when we started and already we had to strip off jackets and extra layers. It was going to be hot. Gabriel had warned me: “Don’t try to be a big shot at the beginning where it’s flatter and it feels easy. Set a slow, easy pace. Conserve your energy.” It did feel easy at first. But again the altitude took some adjusting to. I had to concentrate on breathing deep and regular. That took about 20 minutes til I could stop thinking about it. But the good news was I was so used to carrying the paneers and now it was just me and the bike. (And my money, my passport, my malodextrin, my pepper spray, my whistle, my sunscreen, my iPhone for pictures, my Swiss army knife, and 2 bottles of water).

There were signs all along the way for the percentages of incline: 7%, 9.5%, 8%. Hour one was hard but I was ok. Gabriel out of sight, other bikers passing sometimes, we all called greetings to each other. Some French guy tried to start a conversation. Leave it to the French to flirt under any circumstances. I passed herds of cattle, then sheep. I had seen a lone dishevelled donkey on the drive up and knew when I saw him again I’d be more than halfway there. Hour 1 and 1/2 I started talking to my ass. What I said was (in a low but out-loud voice): “Come on Glutes.” I was trying to isolate them because my knees were really starting to ache. Then out of nowhere I hear this cheery “Bonjour!” from directly behind me as a guy pulls around to pass. So he heard that. Ok.

I passed the donkey, some more cows, and now it was goats. And more people riding. Some going up, some coming down. But hardly any women and no Americans at all, at least that I saw. I got inspired, decided in my mind I was representing both. My knees were killing. My goal was to get at least halfway up, but after the donkey I knew I would go all the way. People were starting to emerge from their campers and wave or shout encouragement. I think I got alot of it cos there were so few women going up. (Gabriel said later he was totally ignored). I pulled over once to switch water bottles and the French guy passed me. (He was faster than me but had stopped a few times to take pictures and whatever. He probably does this ride all the time). “Don’t quit USA!”. He yelled in his French accent. Oh I ain’t quitting you French Muther Fu&#%*! I thought. I got my water and kept going. Gabriel had said the last few kilometers were the hardest. They were, they just wound up and up and up. Where we’re the llamas? Not there yet. My knees were screaming “Is it really worth possible permanent damage, Ranj? Really?”. I was getting truly worried but I was so close. I turned the gear up, created slightly more tension, and for some reason that helped. Maybe that was what my hamstrings needed to wake up and realize— oh we’re supposed to be helping too, oops, sorry! Something kicked in, I don’t know what, and my knees got relief. By the way, it would have been a really bright idea to have taken the time before I left to study up on proper cycling technique. Just a 5 minute YouTube video or something…but no.

I could see the llamas getting closer, and as I approached the top, more people lined the road. One French woman ran behind me and pushed my seat the way the trainers push off the Tour riders after they’ve changed their tire. “Merci!” I called out. I was beaming. I hit the top. I saw Gabriel raising his arms in the air and smiling. (One note here: at the beginning of our trip he had said “I’m so impressed with you baby, you’ve gotten really strong. But the Tourmalet…maybe not this year.” And then in the last day or two he had studied me and said: “I think you’re going to do it. You’re going to do the Tourmalet.”)

There were lots of other riders up there taking pictures next to the signs, all nationalities, bike tours and clubs, and now some women too. (Some had ridden up from the other side). The llamas had hightailed it cos it was getting crowded with bike geeks and bike enthusiasts. There was one small restaurant doing major business and a table of Aussie riders drinking beer. Gabriel was sick though. He’s really sensitive to altitude and said he was ok on the ride but now he kinda wanted to puke. He sat down for a while, I got him an orange juice and he recovered. “Are you sure you want to stay up here tonight?”. “Yes.” We moved his tent to a better spot. I spotted one other restaurant a quarter mile away that looked quieter and away from the cars and people. He hadn’t eaten much breakfast. We hiked to it. The llamas were back. We sat outside with a million dollar view and the food was atrocious. It was one of those “we know we’re the only game in town so we’ll serve absolute shit and you’ll pay up and eat it and thank us on your way out” deals. Although I had thought that could never happen in France. I was wrong.

We ate what we could. What we didn’t eat was a horrible stew that was supposed to be lamb but as we walked back to the tent I couldn’t help thinking “Llama…?”. We moved Gabriel’s tent to a better spot one more time, said goodbye and I took off back to the car. “Don’t get cocky on the way down!”. I didn’t, I was very careful. I got to the car, heaved my bike into the back, and drove to our little hotel in Bagneres-De-Bigorre…

Wednesday, July 18th, 2012

DAY 10

In short:

With friends in Bagneres De Luchon, France. Resting today. Sun is out again. Croissants, cafe-au-lait, and thermal “spa bath” fiascos. We do not follow directions well.

I’ve developed something of a girl-crush on my friend Liz watching her gesticulate and makes faces and speak some rapid, rockin’ French. She is the ambassador to 7 of us from LA who speak barely a word. Thank God she’s here and it’s so fun to be with friends and swap stories. After Gabriel getting up at 6 to take a bus 200 kilometers and basically spend a planes, trains and automobiles morning getting hold of a rental car (big enough for the bikes) that we can return in Barcelona, he and Steve sat and drank beer and bought new cycling jerseys while the rest of us mortified the local employees at the natural thermal baths.

Then we all had a big rowdy dinner together and I went to bed way too late for the 5am wake up that was coming.

DAY 9

Vielha, Spain to Bagneres De Luchon, France. (40 kilometers)

8am start under misty cloud cover and cold air. The first 20 kilometers to Bossost were flat and easy. It was so chilly though that I pulled over to slip on my wool bikers’ leg warmers that had been stuffed in my jacket pocket all these days. I also put on a thin cap that goes under your helmet to add an extra layer of warmth– had bought them both at REI half wondering if I was wasting my money on gimmicky biker accessories but no, as it turned out they were priceless. When we reached the bottom of the hill that leads up and over into France, the sun was still hiding but we stripped off our extra layers in preparation for the uphill climb. A sign with a picture of a bicycle on it warned of 8, 9, and 10% inclines on this stretch. Gabriel, on a mission, shot ahead of me and was soon out of sight. I lowered my gear and stood out of my seat, pumping and panting and thought: “Shit, what did he have for breakfast?” The road wound up and up with few reprieves. I was alone except for an occasional car or other rider. As the next hour passed the panting “Buenos Dias”es of passing cyclists turned more and more to “Bonjour”s and I knew I was getting close, so close to France. An hour and a half going up and it’s hard, really hard, but we had rested yesterday and I felt (or believed, and maybe it’s the same thing) that I was stronger than a week ago. My mind wondered and I thought about my cat, Lola,–yeah I know–and how much I can’t wait to lie in my own bed with her in the crook of my arm when I get back home if she’s not too mad at me for leaving for so long. Where was Gabriel? Usually when he’s out of sight for a while he pulls over and waits for me to catch up. 2 days ago on our little joy-ride he was going fast and turned his head back to look for me, lost his balance and fell. It wasn’t too bad or anything but it was a little scary. “You don’t have to do that, Baby” I had said, “that’s why I have the whistle.” So maybe he had taken that to heart. Another half hour of effort and ache and sweat and then 3 good-looking British guys rode by from the other direction–smiling and speeding downhill. “Hey! We just saw your husband!”. They called out. It was suddenly so nice to hear people speaking English after all this time and their accents were so cute and their voices were so encouraging I just wanted us all to jump off our bikes and hug. “You’re almost there!” They yelled as they disappeared. And I was. A few minutes later I could see the top off the hill and the French border and Gabriel standing there smiling with the camera ready as I rode across. “Did you have to stop?” He asked. “No, just to take off my jacket.” “Wow, that was hard. I though you would have to stop.” “Nope.” And yesterday was Bastille Day. Viva La France!

The top of the hill was a mini-international convention of about a dozen cyclists. Some traveling from the French side, some the opposite. Everyone chatting and guzzling water and checking out each other’s gear. (Cycling gear I mean of course). I noticed I was the only chick. Cold air and still no sun and so I had a feeling the 10 kilometer descent was going to be chilly so I put my cap and my leg warmers back on. On the speedy ride down I did see some women bikers on their way up and it was obvious that coming from the French side was much steeper and harder than the way we had come. Go my sisters! And it was freezing-ass-cold. You won’t ever catch me trying something stupid like trying to climb Everest because I DO NOT DO NOT DO NOT like to be cold. My bones were rattling and I didn’t care about the downhill scenery and the fun of it cos I just wanted the ride to be over and be in a scalding hot bathtub.

We finally reached the bottom, Bagneres De Luchon and rode right in to kind of a little neighborhood. It was instantly different than Spain. Cute little rowhouses lined the streets with pots of flowers everywhere. An old couple walked together on the sidewalk and I smiled cos the man actually carried a baguette under his arm. France! An official-type car drove thru the streets making a PA announcement (I think about the main rode closing for the Tour coming through). We checked into our hotel, I took my burning hot bath, we found a restaurant to eat. I keep accidentally speaking Spanish to waiters and such which as you can imagine is not appreciated here. Unfortunately, I shamefully speak not a word of French beyond a terribly American accented “Mer-see.” Gabriel is better than me but he ain’t great either. Tonight though, our friends Liz, Steve, and Kelly arrive here to meet and play for the next 2 days and Liz at least speaks French. We’re so excited to see friends!! We have another day off from riding tomorrow and then we tackle the piece de resistance (had to use the cliche French phrase), Le Tourmalet.

DAYS 7 and 8
Sunday July 15th, 2012
Resting at The Parador de Vielha:

Poolside (windy but warm enough)
Cocktails at the bar with panoramic views
All clothes washed in the bathtub and dried on the windowsill
Creme de Catalan
A morning reading my mystery novel followed by a big fancy lunch and then a nap
Walks around the village of Vielha, finding cute little restaurants, chatting with the owners
Tapas and wine
Lying in the hotel bed watching Silence Of The Lambs dubbed into Spanish
One bike ride–just for fun– to the village of Bossost and back. No paneers, no weight! It was like being carried.
Sleeping in
More naps

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…

DAY 5

La Seu D’ Urgell to Sort – 54 Kilometers

Today was the hardest day yet. We set off early, as usual, under cloud cover. Our GPS uncharacteristically lead us astray for a few minutes but we got back on course. Last year, I had nicknamed our GPS lady-voice “The Bitch”, but this year our girl rocks–I haven’t given her a name, but we love her and couldn’t do a thing without her. I kind of think of her as Gabriel’s young mistress, but it’s a relationship I totally support. She’s kind of like my sister-wife. We also got held up by some mechanical difficulty with my bike, which Gabriel managed to fix (thank you Jaime, the Helen’s Cycles employee who Gabriel paid 30 bucks to come to our house and give him a rudimentary bicycle mechanics lesson). Half an hour back on the road we hit the first hill, pretty short but incredibly steep. And after that, Gabriel turned to me and said “That was it. The worst part is over, Baby.” And then we kept climbing–and climbing, and climbing, and puffing and sweating. The cloud cover was gone and the sun was out in full force. The worst was absolutely not over, the worst hadn’t even started yet. After a couple more hills he said: “Ok, now the worst is over.” He ended up saying it a total of 3 times until I finally said: “SHUT UP! You don’t know! All you know is what Google Maps says!” Him: “You can’t get mad at me today Baby, its my birthday.” Me: “BULLSHIT.” Him: “Are you in a bad mood or something?”

Hours went by. We kept climbing. Gabriel ahead of me, me pumping slower and slower… 2 1/2 hours. (I was looking at my little digital timer on my bike). I thought: I wonder how slowly I can turn these pedals and still keep this bicycle upright. We pulled over for a break. Gabriel forced me to eat malodextrin. I squatted and peed. A car drove by and saw me. Like I cared. We kept going. I looked down at my timer thing– 2.8 miles per hour…3 1/2 hours. My knees were rebelling–pain. I tried to focus on using my hamstrings and glutes to take the pressure off my quads and knees. The sun poking in and out of the clouds were making shadows on the mountains, changing the shades of green of the pine trees. I had read somewhere that a famous photographer said that the light in Spain is the most beautiful in the world. Its true, I thought. Did I really read that or did I make it up? Those purple flowers remind me of a collage I made in kindergarten. The sun is back out again. There’s a gnat buzzing around my face and a big drop of sweat running down my cheek but I can’t take my hand of the handlebars to swat it when I’m going this slowly. I really should stop and re-apply sunscreen. What was that Catalonian song Gabriel taught me last year? How did it go? What is that bird called? A flush? A crush? What the hell is it? A Thrush. That’s it… and on and on goes my stream of consciousness…

Now its my lower back that’s hurting. 3 British guys ride by us: “Where are you headed?” We ask. “Sort.” They say. “Us too!” “See you there!” They call out and then they pass us and are gone. I really hope we do see you there, I think. I really hope that very soon we are all sitting around an outdoor table drinking a pint of beer and swapping biking stories. Cos at this rate I’m really not sure that we will see you there, or see anyone anywhere, ever again.

At one point we puff and pant to the top of another hill — silent and empty and beautiful– except for a workman on the hillside repairing I don’t know what. Gabriel is a few feet ahead of me and says “Hold on, Baby” as he pulls over to the side of the road. But sometimes when you’ve been on the bike for so many hours your body is just not responding quickly to your brain’s commands and he slowed down but couldn’t kick his feet out of the clips before his bike stopped. So when that happens you fall down. Just totally violently on your side because your feet are clipped in to the bike and you can’t break your fall. So he falls and I go: “Oh baby, are you okay?!” and I stop to help him but the same thing happens to me– I can’t tell my feet to get out of the clips fast enough and I fall too. I call it a sympathy fall. It happened to us once in LA. I fell and then when he tried to help me he fell too. Anyway, we were both lying on our sides, clipped in to our bikes on the side of the road and I burst out laughing, cos it was just so funny. And of course the workman had seen the whole thing–mouth agape watching us. He walked over to see if we were okay and I just lay there and laughed harder and harder, imagining what it must have looked like from his point of view: working alone up at the top of that mountain, nothing happening for hours except for the occasional car passing. And then out of nowhere this clown-colored bicyclist with big yellow packs and a Spanish flag flying comes puffing up over the crest, wobbles, and falls down. And then right after him, another one–his wife–rides up and she falls over too. And now there they are just splayed out in the road. Oh God, I wished my friends could have seen it. “It looks like you have a cut on your leg” the man said, pointing to Gabriel. Gabriel: “No, no its okay.”. Little did he know we were far beyond the pain of a scraped leg, far behind embarrassment. We told him we had come from Seu D’ Urgell and he nodded, eyes wide. “Are you sure you’re okay?”. “Si, gracias.” We got back on the bikes and wobbled off down the road.

Finally we reached the real top of the mountain and now the worst really was over. Now it was downhill–16 winding kilometers of pure exhilaration and views that I can’t even describe. It really felt almost like flying. And I kept chuckling to myself thinking about our fall and the poor workman. In total, the ride lasted 5 hours and even Gabriel was totally beat at the end. We got to Sort, found the hotel, showered, ate, napped, walked a little (not much), ate more. Its Gabriel’s birthday but neither one of us had any energy to do anything about it. We will tomorrow, maybe. Anyway it doesn’t matter. For him the flight down the mountain was the best birthday present ever.

DAY 4
Wednesday, July 11th 2012
La Molina to Seu D’ Urgell

2 hours in. I pant and grunt and pedal up to Gabriel. “How are you doing?” I sputter. “Ok,” he says, “but my ass is screaming.” Yeah that about sums it up.

Actually that was on day 3. Day 4 was relatively easy. Lots of flat, plenty of downhills. We got to Seu D’ Urgell in under 3 hours. I almost feel guilty now when the ride is flat– but then I remind myself that I am carrying 20 pounds of weight with me. (I estimate 20, I don’t know how much it really is). Definitely more than 10, that I would swear to. My body has changed in some way. When I get on the bike it feels like an extension of me. I’m more confident. I no longer go into a semi-panicked wobble when I hear a car baring down behind me. I’m wearing my superhero shirt and the bike is my Batmobile.

Our hotel was pretty, decorated with antiques, quaint. We washed our clothes in the sink and hung them on the balcony to dry, as we do every day… We had lunch at a Farmer’s Market in town. Mint chocolate chip gelato in the little park across from the hotel. Dinner in their garden. Pretty and lovely and almost like an actual vacation that normal people take… But we knew the next day would be a doozie.

DAY 3

Tuesday, July 10th 2012

Ripoll, Spain to La Molina, Spain (42 kilometers-ish)If Day 2 was hell, Day 3 was pure beauty. We woke up early again and started out in crisp, cool air. We had our super-sized yellow ponchos at the ready because the forecast called for rain but none ever came. We climbed another mountain, this climb was slow and steady and I think I must have been better adjusted to the altitude because it seemed easier than the day before. The scenery was absolutely magnificent–mountains covered in pine trees, dizzyingly breathtaking views. And the further we climbed, the more silent and peaceful it got, except for the occasional sound of a cow bell. The sun was out and warm but the mountain air was cool so together they were the perfect combination. Occasionally, other cyclists (professional-types, stick skinny and bent over their bikes like praying mantises) would pass us and shout out greetings, or a car would drive by, see our packs and our flags and give us a friendly honk. One guy leaned out of a van to take a picture of us. I was wearing what I call my superhero shirt. Its a skin-tight white long-sleeve compression thing that has SPF, pulls away the sweat and maintains your skin temperature. It was worth every penny cos it seems to do all that and also eliminates any worry about sunburning my arms. Also when we go down hill, it feels like we’re flying and in it I really do kind of feel like a superhero. There were jagged rock faces and waterfalls and one long winding road that we were riding on. Butterflies, birds, lizards, and occasionally a herd of cattle would wander by. I kept expecting to see Julie Andrews twirling on top of a mountain in a field of grass. I thought, “this is what I had hoped this trip would be: challenging but not too hard, and magically beautiful.” Gabriel and I barely talk when we ride, but when he’s behind me and we’re making a difficult climb, I can hear his regular, meditative, zen breathing. I admire him, because when I’m in a rough patch, I’m more the type to gasp and snort and swivel my head around at the scenery for distraction while my mind free-associates.

It was about 4 full hours of steady climb until we got to the top, the road leveled, and we sped the rest of the way to our hotel. This one had a “spa” which we headed to immediately. Most of the villages in these areas are ski destinations in the winter, so during the summer they’re pretty much empty. We had the “spa pool” to ourselves, which was this kind of bizarre gigantic pool that should have been jacuzzi-hot, but was really just kind of like a tepid swimming pool temperature. But it had all these water jets in odd places and you could swim to any side and push a button and a blast of water would come out and hit you somewhere on your body. The jets were so strong that they had these metal bars for you to hold onto because if you didn’t you’d get blasted across the pool. So we held onto the bars and gave ourselves super jet massages in our backs and butts and legs and it was kind of awesome. After that we had lunch (not good but edible) and hung out and watched the sunset over the mountains (we had to wait for the bar to open because even though its a giant hotel they seemed to have cut their staff down to about 3 people for the summer. So we kept having these Fawlty Towers moments where the same guy who worked at the front desk would have to run upstairs to make you your drink and then run back down to the desk, etc.) Anyway, we drank wine, watched the light change over the mountains, had dinner and crashed. Ready to be up the next day early again…

Tuesday, July 10th 2012

RIDE Day 2

Day 2: Besalu, Spain to Ripoll, Spain.

Our alarm went off at a brutal 7am. The hotel owner had (grudgingly) put breakfast out for us and then I assume gone back to bed since no one in Spain is up at that hour under any circumstances. Croissants, hard boiled eggs, orange juice, and a thermos of stunningly strong coffee–perfect. The streets were silent and the air was cool and overcast, also perfect. Soon we were in farmlands again, no more diesel exhaust just the welcome scents of grass and horse manure. It was Sunday morning so there was hardly a car passing, just the occasional cow looking up from its grazing. There were a few hills but the first 2 1/2 hours were relatively flat, until we arrived at what Gabriel had warned me about: “the big hill at the end.” Really it was kind of a mountain and actually it wasn’t the end and as it started it reminded me of Latigo Canyon in Malibu where I’d been training. But it was like facing Latigo after riding decently hard for 2 1/2 hours– something I hadn’t trained for. Let’s just say it was slow going. And now the terrain turned to deep green forest on either side, no sun at all and the air mercifully cool and damp. I had my bike on the lowest possible gear. Then in the road ahead of me I saw this piece of tree bark but it looked like it was moving and I thought that’s it, I’m hallucinating now… As we got closer I saw what it was: the biggest beetle I’ve ever seen–I swear to God– crossing the road. Like as big as my hand. “What the fuck is THAT?” They were the first words I’d said in over an hour as my bike swerved around it. I would have stopped to take a picture of it but I thought if I get off the bike now and lose whatever feeble momentum I’ve got going I’ll never get back on. “Its that type of beetle that Leonardo Da Vinci drew” Gabriel looked over his shoulder and informed me. Whatever. It was a big M-Fing beetle.

At some point we stopped to take a break. I peed in the woods (handy pocket kleenex!) and Gabriel made me suck down one of his energy packets. I don’t normally go in for those but I was dying. The packet claimed it was chocolate flavored and boasted “2 x Caffeine!” but the first ingredient was malodextrin (whatever that is exactly). I really didn’t want it but Gabriel made me. It was a carmel-textured goo that was so sweet I could hardly get it down, but man, you do feel the instant sugar charge. In retrospect, without it I probably wouldn’t have gotten up that mountain. A half hour later we took another break and as I stumbled drunkenly off my bike and lay down on the side of the road I thought: “why am I so dizzy?” Later of course I realized: ah yes, the altitude. Didn’t train for that either. Oops. The mountain kept going up and up I don’t know for how long but just at the point where I really thought I couldn’t go anymore, the road miraculously flattened and we got some relief, even a little downhill. A few minutes of whizzing under the damp green canopy and then suddenly, without any warning, the road opened up into a beautiful grassy valley. The sun was shining through the clouds and coloring the landscape and everything was sparkling. The change was so drastic and full of light that I actually had one tiny second of thinking: “Did I just die on that mountain and now I’m in heaven?” The next hour or so was valleys of farmlands dotted with tiny villages and the ride was flat and fast with the wind in our faces. I was tired though, I knew I was, but the scenery was a wonderful distraction. At one point we rode by some little boys playing soccer in a field and when they saw the Spanish flags on our bikes they pumped their fists in the air: “ESPANA!” Their encouragement inspired me through the next few miles. Finally we saw a sign for Ripoll: 13 Kilometers. What’s that? 6-7 miles? That’s nothing, I thought. I used to run 6 miles back when my knees were up to it. Piece of cake, we’re almost there. And then it never, ever ended. It was the longest 6 miles in history. And then finally it did end and we were at the hotel. I could barely speak to check in. This hotel was nicer than the last one, we could tell already, and a pretty young lady with a mole on her eyelid took us up to our room and explained all the amenities in Spanish as Gabriel spoke to her and I nodded blankly. When she was done she offered her hand and introduced herself. I shook her hand and excused myself, I don’t know why: “Perdona, estoy cansada.” “Puedo ver.” She answered. (“I can see.”) She held my hand, looked me in the eyes, and said it so sweetly that I started to cry a little bit and had to suck it back in. When she left the room I sat on the bed and I did cry a little, and then I laughed a little, and Gabriel helped me pull off my sweaty clothes. At that point, I think it was more than understood between us that I would be taking the first shower. And guess what? It was HOT! With lots of pressure. And it had one of the hand held things so you could go back and forth between that and the overhead. I scrubbed off the bicycle grease and the sweat and the sunscreen and finally washed my hair which had been feeling like the bottom of a deep fryer for days until it squeaked clean. Best shower I’ve ever had.

We had lunch at the hotel: gazpacho and filet mignon. Food also had never tasted better to me. Flan covered in honey for dessert and then Gabriel who previously had said: “Honestly, the ride wasn’t that hard for me, Baby” suddenly had an overwhelming urge to take a nap, which he did while I polished off his dessert. Later we got on the bikes again, just in street clothes, and rode into Ripoll which was a couple miles from the hotel. That village was not as cute as Besalu, the weather was getting cold and windy, and my body was screaming at me for getting back on the bike so soon. It wasn’t my legs that were aching so much, it was everything else: my back, my arms, my wrists that had gone tingly and numb during the ride. That night I told Gabriel I was worried about tomorrow. I was aching all over. On top of that the weather forecast said 81% chance of rain, and Gabriel bit his lip and mumbled that the next day’s ride was also a hard one. We were both worried. We popped Advils, lay in bed watching the news, and went to sleep early again.