Barcelona

Barcelona has big boulevards. And bike lanes. And lots of Gaudi.

The Sagrada Familia basilica (started 1886, with construction to finish sometime in the next 50 years) is a modern wonder. It is also a wonder that the catholic church let Gaudi build the SFB, because the whole thing seems like a drug-fueled fever dream. Faceted pillars start with 8 faces, then double to 16, 32, 64 in geometric progression as they reach nave-ward, and explode into branches of a tree. The staircases of the belfries dive to the floor of the sanctuary in tortuous, logarithmic spirals. From the outside, rows of slender towers are topped with the "fruits of the spirit." Or are they giant stalks of grass, laden with grains? Gaudi seemed to find God in nature, and used his architecture to convey this. I have rarely seen this so centrally featured in Catholic imagery, but it is a school of thought that I can relate with, and probably why I enjoyed Gaudi so much. Needless to say, admission into the cathedral and a ride up the elevators was worth the 15€ pp.


nautilus mimicking winding staircase


shadows cast on the streets below by the Sagrada Familia towers


intricate stained glass


tree sprouting branches of columns inside the Basilica

We tested the bike lanes riding across town to the bus station later that evening. Those worked pretty well: wide, off-street lanes and bike-shaped stop lights all the way to the station. We arrived with 20 minutes to spare. However, Mordor conspired against us to the very end. We nearly had to wrestled the bus conductor to let us take the bikes on board, despite our duly purchased additional fare for the beasts. We finally placated him by buying 10€ "bike bags" that did nothing but make the bus late. Oh well.

After the usual nightbus antics, we were unceremoniously dumped at dawn at the "Avenida de Americas" in Madrid, wherever that is. Ando had slightly learned his lesson from Barcelona and this time had the name and address of the hotel (correctly?) memorized. Somehow, that was enough to deduce a sensible metro stop, navigate our bikes through a couple of transfers, then find our way under/over two (count 'em) limited access freeways and bike to the hotel, feeling certain that we were the first people in the history of Madrid to have arrived on bicycle at that particular hotel. All this transpired without the benefit of Internet. Yeah, we are two badass hobbits. We gave each other a high-five once the bikes were ensconced in the luggage room of the hotel, then proceeded to shop 'til we dropped at the Plenilunia Centro Comercial, which really did have some excellent ofertas. Ando plans to fill his bags with discount euro-tailored clothing when he returns.

Orcs!

Although spectacular, the gorges and causses of the Cevannes had left Erwise and Andoo saddlesore, aerobically spent, and carpal-tunnel afflicted. They were then eager to stop for the night in Millau, a city of men, but on an old road leading Mordor. From there, they would cross back into the Dark Land, and cast their Great Burdens into the fires of Mount Doom (also known as the left luggage of the Madrid Aeroporter Hotel). They had been warned about spies from the Dark Land roaming about Millau, but the city seemed benign, even inviting in the afternoon sun. Ando and Erwise ate a meal fit for two hungry hobbits, retired to their biouvac next to the gurgling River Tarn, and quickly fell into a dreamless sleep.


after slaying a 16€ buffet

Some hours later, Ando awoke to a soft blue glow filling the Megamid. At first he thought it was the moon. But no, there was but a sliver of moon, and it was setting when they retired. He looked down and realized Stang, his faithful headlamp, was aglow. That meant only one thing...orcs! He snuck a peak from under Megamid and saw three dark figures stooped over their trusty steeds/great burdens. There was no time to think. He sprang from the tent and charged at the bike thieves without uttering a word. The thieves never had a chance, for a enraged shirtless hobbit is a sight to see, and nothing angers a hobbit more than orcs preying on defenseless bicycles. They gave a surprised yelp and sprinted into the Tarn, splashing into its icy clutches.

Ando and Erwise moved camp away from the river, and took turns in watch for the thieves. The dark figures did not reappear. Nevertheless, a restless few hours passed in jumpy anticipation, then light began to dawn. They mounted their steeds, and glided through the still sleepy town, and got on the 5:45 train to Mordor.


bike ride back over the France - Spain border after an early train

Parc National Cevennes

We found open road.


We stayed at a winery that overlooked a valley.


There was Titou. He finished the destruction of our pillow.


We found smooth asphalt. I saw 4 cars over the course of an hour.


There were gorges.


And villages carved into the gorges.


There were causses: utterly desolate, depopulated limestone plateaus. We might have seen an orc.


There were flowers.



And then there was Millau.

Escape from Provence

Without a plan besides seeing more Provençal cities that were supposedly neat, we headed west out of Orange. We quickly felt the pull of the Rhone as the land flattened and the traffic turned more industrial. We crossed a bridge, a long, slender island between channels, and some locks and were suddenly west of the Rhone.

Some wrong turns and some kilometers later, we arrived at the city of Uzes, an obviously European city, since the entire, plus-beaux village is one giant roundabout. We were under-inspired. However, that night an rogue wifi connection in the camping showed that we could bid adieu to Provence and keep heading west into a Parc National. On the far side of Parc National Cevennes was Millau, a town with a train station that looked a couple of days of riding away. On the map were lots of green-underlined small roads, which mean scenic and untrafficked. Which is normally a good bet.


I < 3 poppies

The next morning, despite our best efforts in Orange and Uzes, we were still out of stove fuel, and therefore, coffee. We headed back into town for caffeine so that our brains would function. We held council over a map and cafe. The synchronicity of the prior night continued. As it came to pass, beside us was a Frenchman who lived in Uzes and built bikes and when he saw that we were avec velo and pondering a map, he offered to advise us on a route. We left with several circles scribbled on our map, and feeling a little pleased, since our gibberfrench seemed more intelligible than normal.


Heading into the hills


Roadside attractions


The going was going to be good.

Polar opposites

Gravity dropped us in Malaucene mid-afternoon on a Saturday, a bizarrely disagreeable town. Its centreville featured a boulevarded parking lot, choked with traffic trying to enter. Calvacades of motorcycles, RVs and the occasional tractor (driven by, no lie, a leering frenchman wearing a beret and flying a tricolor) rumbled through the streets. We fled for the outskirts of town, and found a campground, which at first glance appeared delightful. The camping, Le Bosquette, is on an orchard perched above town. It has a swimming pool. It has spotless bathrooms. Great.


Grapes all over the place

Oh, I forgot to mention that the orchard was subsequently covered in a uniform layer of sharp gravel, with nary a patch of grass for the beleagured tent camper to patch her/his tent; tractors are roaring from dawn-dusk in the field below in some sort of exhibition; the swimming pool is just a dry pit; and the toilets, while clean enough for the Virgin Mary to eat out of, have neither seats nor TP. So yes, bizarrely disagreeable.


Highlight of Malaucene centreville

We got as quick of a start as we could manage the following morning, feeling sapped and slightly demented from the angry rays of the sun that hit our camp as soon as it had risen. The tractors, too, had already began their combative droning, while vaguely militaristic symphony music echoed up to Le Bosquette. We had hatched a plan to shorten our day to Orange by taking a little penalty climb at the start, then cutting through the Dentelles de Montmirail, a range of limestone teeth that formed in the wake of the orogeny that lifted Ventoux.


Dentelles from a Col

We crossed the ridge and our outlooked improved immediately as we caught a minor breeze and left the tractors behind. The penalty climb was quickly dispatched and we began a 10k descent on banked roads with clean, smooth asphalt and kickass views that dropped us on the edge of the Rhone's alluvial plain. Some more quiet, smooth roads led to a narrow, more trafficked road that we conquered with our new technique of the flying wedge. (In which Erin takes shotgun and rides near the fogline. Andrew rides a bikelength in front, and rides far enough into the lane to force a lane change in passing cars. Cars can tell how many bikes they are going to pass, and both Andrew and Erin can see approaching cars in their mirrors. It also works well in roundabouts, which while are great traffic engineering for cars, hover between frightening and unnavigable on bikes, depending on diameter and traffic volume.)



Looking back at Ventoux and the Dentelles

We quickly arrived in Orange, a dusty, medium-sized city with some Roman ruins 'n' stuff and a poorly signed, but very helpful tourist office. We stayed there for a bit and ate pizzas and nutella.


We carried this pizza about 50 km from Malaucene in 80 degree sun. It miraculously didn't make us poop our pants when we ate it.

Le Mt Ventoux

200m: Leave from Jouncas, head up the valley towards and past Murs Coll, past the wall that gives Mur it's name. The wall extends the length of the Provencal countryside. It was erected from dry stone by citizens after a governmental decree in reaction to the bubonic plague overwhelming the streets of Marsailles. It was coined the mur de la peste and was guarded along its length 24 hours a day by sentinels. To be able to cross, one must have a clean bill of health in hand. A lasting representation of panic surrounding the outbreak.


(Picture egregiously stolen from wikipedia)

900 m: Views of Mt Ventoux begin to show in the distance as we reach the peak of our climb for the day and head down to Sault.



810 m: We stop for eau potable and watch goats cross the road at a busy rural intersection.



740 m: The road switchbacks up 100 meters and dumps us into Sault, perched airily above the valley. Feels like finishing a Tour de France stage. We enjoy beers and look out at the valley as the sun sets.





680 m: We drop to the valley floor before starting our climb to the top of Ventoux. The road is gently graded and in the trees at first. Scattered Tour graffiti spray painted on the road makes for interesting reading as we climb.

1440 m: We triumphantly emerge above tree line. After a picnic break we begin the exposed climb over white, tumbling talus, which gives the mountain its snow-covered appearance from far away. The climb steepens to over 10% grade and the temperature begins to drop slightly as the wind picks up. I am passed seven times on the way to the summit by others in race kit. He who finishes last still finishes, right?  Andrew passes one man dressed in head to toe spandex and on an ultralight bike...and then won't quit talking about how he now owns this man's soul forever.



1850 m: Only one kilometer to go, the observatory on top of the mountain gets closer in view.



1912 m: Summit time! Excited to be done with the climb, and feeling self-accomplished for completing an HC climb with full touring gear. Battered by the wind, we do not stay long to revel in our accomplishment.



1700 m: Rim-boiling steep, airy descent with amazing views to the north.



440 m: We arrive at Maulacene, among many old men playing bocce ball, a strange beauty pageant, and a noisy tractor demonstration. We work on consuming as many calories as we burnt during the day in pizza and salad.

The anti-spectacle of the Plateau de Valensole

The Verdon Gorge had been full of mighty towering limestone cliffs, sinuous downhills, and dramatic views from canyon walls into the depths of the river below. The beauty of the Verdon was definitely in-your-face, middle-of-the-magazine-pin-up type of spectacular. Monday's beauty proved to be a bit less sublime, but equally enjoyable.

At some point during our bike past the Lac St Croix we entered France's Alpes-Haute-a more pastoral, curvy, girl-next-door type of spectacular. For five hours we pedaled our beasts through hilly countryside full of pre-bloomed lavender, feral poppies, and grazing cattle. We stopped for goats crossing the road. We whizzed past rapeseed in blossom. We stopped for lunch and enjoyed the quiet landscape, disturbed only by frogs, ants, and crickets.

From Verdon

hand painted goat crossing sign

From Verdon

rapeseed in bloom

From Verdon

speak your language

From Verdon

empty roads in a bike mirror

We dropped to the river valley, biked our finishing touches on the Verdon circuit, and crossed the river towards Forcalquier where we would pick up the Luberon bike trail.

From Verdon

view of the river valley near Forcalquier

Costa Brava

After some bike fixing, food buying, late sleeping, internet using, and being kicked out of a nicer restaurant for trying to change into biking gear in their bathroom, we headed out of Toroella and promptly got lost. After an hour of repeatedly asking directions from randos on the side of the street, we ultimately ended up on the wrong road in the right direction. It was one of those roads that was too wide and straight for cars to want to slow down in anticipation of obstacles in their path, but not quite wide enough for one bike + two cars. We quickly tired of the rapid traffic buzzing our shoulders, and took a detour on more quiet roads.

Happy to find a less busy road (with goofy glasses)

From bikinggirona

The coastal winds on the Costa Brava kicked up. Pedaling our loaded bikes against walls of headwinds coupled with more than a few detours due to not having sufficient maps landed us near Empuria Brava in late afternoon. We found ourselves blocked by a newly formed river over the road. The wet ford looking unappetizing, we headed to the signed camping to ask directions, and decided to stay the night. I am beginning to think that wrong turns in the Mediterranean only bring unexpected delights.

"Dangerous Currents" blocking our passage

From bikinggirona

The view from our beach side campsite. Note the Rosé in the water cage.

From bikinggirona

Wednesday we began our climb into the Cap de Creus on the easternmost part of Spain's Mediterranean coast. I soon remembered how different meters are from feet, as the 400 m climb to the pass with a loaded 50 lb bike quickly dropped me to my lowest gear. I was passed by several Frenchmen yelling "Bonjour" and "keep up" as they blew past me in race kit. I was barely able to mutter a hurried salutation before they were out of view.

When I caught up to Andrew near the top, he had a huge smile, and said proudly "I passed two racers and was complemented by a French man." Which, yes, is a pretty big deal in this land overrun with bikers training for great races.

View from the Top, road to Cadaques

From bikinggirona

We topped out to amazing views and the scenery kept coming all afternoon as we dropped from the road to Cadaques into a line of tiny towns linked by fun, banked turns. I could have ridden those roads forever.

Self portrait attempts on fast and fun roads through northern spain

From bikinggirona

The riding was so fun, it was tempting to continue on into France, but being advised of the type of roads past Llança into France by several bikers, we decided to take a quick local train across the border.

By early evening we were wandering the deserted streets of Cerbere, searching for a place to spend the night. In the window of the closed tourist office, we saw a flyer for municipal camping. Using our very minimal French with much hand gesturing, we were able to find out that the camping was a few kilometers out of town on the right...so we headed off in the direction we had been pointed.

Arriving to a closed appearing registration station, we were bummed. But hadn't we seen campers in the distance across the water? We continued down in good faith, and sure enough, hidden on the cliffs, we found a city of squatters/campers. Again using our jibberspanishfrench we found out that the camping was free for however long we would like to call it home. We pitched our tent and cooked dinner with a mindblowing view of the sea. Free squatting privileges with such a view...France you've got my heart.

feral flowers at camp

From bikingFrance

not too bad for a free campsite

From bikingFrance

Chapter 4, in which your heroes discover their great power

Ando and Erwise were bummed. Their burdens had been weighing heavily on them since they entered the land of the Euros. Even the smallest staircase, which the lithe Eurofolk bounded up, required great toil. And while their shoulders were heavy, their purses were becoming distressingly light, for their Shire coins were worth very little.

Dusk was fast approaching as they wandered another unfamiliar town, understanding none of the strange tongue spoken. A sign, mercifully legible, indicated they might make camp for the night someplace outside the town. But their legs were weary, and the sign said nothing about the distance to camp. Erwise sat and contemplated the deepening shadows the headlands cast over the immense, blue Meditteranean, when suddenly she was struck by a vision so vivid it was as if Gandalf himself had returned with his wizardry. They would mount their burdens, and pedal them to camp! In fact, they could really pedal them anywhere in Middle Earth! They were not burdened at all. Instead, they possessed a great power.

"Ando! Alack! Grab the reins of your stead and let us flee this town, for the wind is at our back and the world is ours!"

Ando mounted his stead with a hearty yell, and started up the sinuous highway. As soon as his foot hit the stirrup, the world seemed to shift. The azure Meditteranean appeared an even deeper blue. He charged up the steep hill that lead out of town, not feeling the grade at all, as though he was being pushed by an invisible hand.

Your heroes banked through turns and raced the birds, and soon, too soon, camp appeared on a headland across a cove. Provisions, they had not, but they now understood that it didn't matter. On their faithful steeds, the immense world had become a little smaller.

Vías verdes (and not so verdes)

Girona is known to be a center of competitive cycling in Spain. The US team trained here, Lance had a house, etcetera. Which is all well and good, however we are operating on an entirely different plane than 17 lb bikes and 80 liters/kilogram VO2 maxes. Fortunately for us, it is also a center of anti-competitive cycling, with lots of rail-trails and rural cycling routes. We took one such rail-trail from Girona to Platja d'Aro, on the coast.




After very pleasant 42 km through small towns and alongside fields of poppies and rapeseed, we arrived in Platja d'Aro. La platja was a raging shitshow of traffic and vacationing Madrileños. Whoops, we forgot it was Semana Santa, which means Spring Break! for all of Spain. And just like Spring Break! in the US, everybody goes to the beach. We found our camping, where they assured us that it wasn't really all that crowded, which although incredible, might have been true. We were camped in site 5207, and an entire half of the campground wasn't open yet. God help us if we had arrived mid-summer.



The roar of traffic on the carretera throughout the night assured us that we should find a route that didn't involve the highway. The next morning, traffic through town had calmed substantially, and we rode next to the water through fancy-smancy beach towns and steady, but not terrifying traffic, before finding another rail trail that led inland. A propicious wrong turn lead us up a couple hundred meters of climbing to a pleasant viewpoint. If only all wrong turns were so scenic.

From bikinggirona

Some fast kilometers downhill and a wrong turn onto the carretera (which was actually not too bad, and far less terrifying than "smaller" roads we rode on) lead us to more routefinding through beautiful, medieval towns, and eventually the town of Torroella de Montgrí. We were bushed from pedaling our distressingly-heavy bikes into the wind all day, and couldn't convince ourselves to look for the camping outside of town. So we settled for an over-priced hotel in the city and a underpriced, and very delicious Catalan supper of sausage, salad and lasagna.